The following day's headlines included, "Le Cirque Jerk's Prank Stank!", "RomeOhNo!" and "Society Dame Says Actress to Blame!" But the one that nearly did Vérité in was placed above an under-the-chin shot of Vérité in her molasses mask which read, "Would You Die For This?!" It was too much for any woman to bear.
Minx must have been paying Garrett-Simon a mighty sum because he had refused to give her up to the police for any bribe Vérité could think of. When Vérité herself went to the police and insisted they arrest the performer for mischief they shamed her for wanting to waste the public's money tracking down "the guy on the bag of Robin Hood Flour" who was probably "half way to Portland by now."
"Julia, have you spoken to Orson lately?"
Vérité was standing in the window with her arms crossed wearing a rather severe fitted black faille outfit with velvet trim. She twisted her mouth as her eyes wandered to the creative left pensively, considering something.
"No," Julia said, curious as to why Vérité would think so.
"I was wondering if I couldn't get him to mug me or push me into traffic or something."
Julia sat on the edge of Vérité's bed and sighed patiently. "I'm sure he'd love to, but may I ask why?"
"Oh, I was just thinking about how after Elizabeth Taylor's affair with Richard Burton the church wanted her excommunicated and the public wanted her to wear a scarlet letter, then she nearly died and the Pope forgave her and everybody went on with their lives. Although...now saying it out loud...maybe it was the other way around. Hmm. Well, there's a lesson in there for you anyway, Julia, which is if you can get the Pope to buy it, so will everyone else."
"So cancel the contract?"
"I suppose," Vérité moped.
"This is silly," Julia said lightheartedly. "You did nothing wrong. No one would ever recognize you from that picture in broad daylight and anyone who knows you also knows by now it was a joke."
"And so I am a joke and I am good and mortified. Do you have any idea what it's like to walk into Holt's and have the floor manager pretend he doesn't know you?"
"All the time!"
"Yes, well once upon a time he and I and everyone else at the O'Kane Centre saw the ambassador to Spain's wife fall down two flights of stairs. That means she fell down one flight, rolled over the landing and then continued falling down the second flight! And that same floor manager still offered her champagne on Holiday Preview night!"
"Vérité..."
"No, no. I know you want to cheer me up, but Minx has pulled off her coup. And even though I have always felt she was the reincarnation of a village witch doctor whose last words were, 'Now everybody drink up!' – "
"Vérité..."
"– or 'Everybody into the volcano!' – "
"Vérité!"
" – or 'Follow those shadows over that cliff!', I have to admit she has a flair. She has won this one fair and square."
"That's very grand of you, Vérité."
"Flair will still get you killed in most countries. But not France. We're going to Paris."
"Paris!"
"Don't be so excited. This is not an adventure, it's an escape."
"Oh can't I be a little excited? It's Paris!" Julia, who never thrilled at anything, was practically swooning. She clasped her hands and crossed her legs at the ankles, bouncing on the bed hopefully.
Unable to resist Julia's enthusiasm, Vérité pursed her lips and pinched her thumb and forefinger together. "Un peu," she said with a wink.
******
Once Bernard learned of the trip, he was in an immediate snit. "But it's simply the worst timing! Can't we postpone?!"
"Bernard, I'm a fugitive from scrutiny. There's no time."
"But my passport's expired!"
"We'll expedite it," Vérité said.
"But I'm really getting somewhere with our Dedications Page!"
"It can wait!"
"I have five more pounds to lose and I cannot budge until I do!"
"You're going to miss Paris for five pounds?!" Julia squinted, incredulous.
"Try not to fog up the Louvre with all your mouth-breathing."
Julia smiled, wide and happy. Nothing, not even Bernard's bitter licorice strap of a tongue, could ruin this moment for her. She was going to Paris, City of Love, Mecca of Fashion, Olympia of Butter.
But first there were arrangements to make, reservations to book, luggage to buy and outfits to plan. Julia was out picking up Vérité's prescription sunglasses – the most expensive plastic Julia had ever held in her life – when she tried them out to see if they gave her rose-coloured vision for the cost. Instead, she spotted Bernard on the street at the crosswalk holding hands with a man. And not, as she hurried towards them to get a better look, just any man, but one of Minx's minions.
Ahh, she thought, thrilled for the second time in as many days, leverage! After putting up with all of Bernard's meanness. How sweet! It was too perfect! She removed Vérité's glasses and returned them to their case. Somewhere between speed-walking and running, Julia's feet scurried to get ahead of the couple, cross to their side of the street and then turn around so she could bump right into them. Bernard's horror was genuine and satisfying.
He covered it well.
"Julia, honey! So nice to see you! Where has she got you running today?"
Julia tried not to laugh in his face. He reached out, pinching her arms pleadingly as he brought her close for air-smooches.
"Errands for the trip," Julia said. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"
"Of course!" Bernard said, pausing afterwards awkwardly. "Hervé, this is Julia Swift. She's the indispensible couturier of the woman whose memoirs I'm writing."
"Bernard, you say that as though he hasn't seen me a million times with Vérité."
"Isn't she cute?" Bernard laughed nervously.
Hervé was not so bad himself. Tall, sharp, and handsome with a deep bronze tint to his skin and fine black moustache, he was at least a decade younger than Bernard and one of Minx's favourites to be photographed with.
"It's nice to put a name to the face, Hervé."
"For me too," he gushed. "Can I just say we've had many debates about whether all this..." Here, Hervé waved his hand over Julia like a magician over his assistant. "...is real. Now that I'm up close I can tell them to stop looking for injection sites. Everything moves beautifully."
"Gee, thanks. I guess. So, where are you two off to now?"
"Lunch at the Fountain," Hervé said.
"Yes, and we'd better get going," said Bernard, breaking a sweat.
"Don't let me stop you," Jullia said, waving them off. "Have fun. Don't fall in."
Bernard cracked a crooked smile. It was killing him.
******
The next day, as Julia and Bernard waited alongside Vérité in the lounge of her dermatologist's office, Bernard moaned about Paris and groaned about life not treating him fairly until Vérité was summoned.
"Always a bridesmaid," he sighed dramatically. Vérité pouted sympathetically as the nurse led her away.
"You can knock it off now," Julia said.
"What?"
"We both know the only reason you're sitting Paris out is because you want to stay home so you can sneak around with your new boyfriend."
"You shut up about him. You're not good enough to speak his name."
"His fake name? Hervé? I heard Minx call him Harvey once, you know."
"What do you want to stay quiet? A year's supply of Oreos? Dinner to Medieval Times?"
"I'll tell you what I want."
"Oh, yes. Here it comes." Bernard threw his head back like he was dry swallowing a pill. "I knew it! I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"You're just like all the rest of us. You, Miss Goody-Gumfarts, are just as conniving and scheming and ambitious and morally ambivalent as alllll the rest of us squirrels trying to get nuts around here. Only you're worse because you're pretending to be sweet and nice and helpful but you're an obvious kind of Eve and I know all about you! You're just waiting for a moment to push Vérité down the stairs aren't you? Hmm? See what she leaves you? Probably wondering why that old lady refuses to let you make her toast in the bathtub. Aren't you?"
"Bernard!"
"So I'll negotiate with you, you terrorist, because Hervé and I are star-crossed lovers, just like West Side Story, only I'm Rita Moreno and he's Russ Tamblyn – the way it should have been! What is it you want, Babe Ruthless? Let's see how bottomless your pit really is."
"Bernard, you sad, strange pipecleaner," Julia said calmly. "All I want is for you to stop whining about a vacation you care nothing about. Period."
"And you won't tell Vérité?"
"On you and Russ Tamblyn? Why would I want to ruin your relationship?"
"Because I'd ruin yours."
"This strategy is unwise."
"Don't you want anything for yourself?"
"Sure I do! But why should it cost you?"
"Well I, I don't know what to say to that."
"Your secret's safe. Bernard. I just want you to shut up."
"Right, but what if Vérité - "
"You know there is something I do want."
"I KNEW IT!"
"I only want it of your own free will. I wouldn't dream of forcing you."
"What is it?"
"I want you to tell me something."
"As in confide in you? Like we're proportionately opposite girlfriends?"
"Uh-huh."
"Go on then."
"What's Hervé's real name? It is Harvey, isn't it?"
Bernard held his breath for a moment. "Promise you won't tell?" Julia crossed her heart. "It's worse," he said , chin quivering.
Julia's eyes lit up. "How bad could it be?"
"It's Hervert!" he yelped and almost gagged doing it. "Hervert Rorald Yelken."
"Oh Bernard, I'm sorry," Julia said, struggling to lower her eyebrows to a non-ecstatic level.
"His parents are diplomats. Combined they're from at least nine countries. It's the only way to explain it." His nostrils flared an S.O.S.
Julia burst out laughing at Bernard's overblown distress. Bernard shoved her weakly and began to laugh as well. It looked almost like crying and there were moments during the ensuing giggle fit that Julia paused to be sure. Eventually a tear did form in his eye, but it was laughter which produced it as he pointed at Julia and hoarsely squeezed out, "Your neck looks like a rhino's ankle when you laugh!" Julia let him have his joke because if she tried to speak, doubled over as she was at the high pitch of Bernard's howling, she might have peed her pants.
At long last the doctor walked Vérité back out into the waiting room, her lids a bit stretched so that she had to look out from under them.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said.
Bernard gasped," Vérité is that you? The man's an artist!"
Vérité smiled, her cheeks a bit tight. "And we shall never speak of it again."
*******
Vérité slept the entire flight. Julia doubted she'd ever sleep again. From Orly they hailed a cab and in her impeccable French, Vérité requested L'Hôtel Vert on the Rive Gauche. Because Julia had never been to Paris before, Vérité thought it would be fun to give her the option of selecting their hotel. After Julia's first two picks were shot on sight, she sent Vérité the link to a boutique hotel in St. Germain de Prés. "So not the George V?" Vérité had texted back.
"If you've seen one five star you've seen them all. Haven't you?"
"All right," Vérité had said, "But if there's anything amiss we're calling a Hilton." It was unclear if she meant a hotel or person.
Perhaps small, perhaps overly decorated with draperies, lamps, worn, chic furnishings and a barrage of art, the main entrance of the Hôtel Vert also featured a giant skylight which filtered sunshine through a gem toned coloured chandelier to shower a central spiral staircase in a swirling rainbow of airiness, giving the effect of a stained glass kaleidoscope somewhat like an Alphonse Mucha poster. Julia and Vérité's rooms were just as colourful, richly stuffed in design to make the cramp more comfortable. Julia felt as though she and Vérité were being stored in a jewelry box and she loved every second of it.
They unpacked. Julia changed into something fresh, a lilac sweater dress. Mini, but not too. Vérité rang her room and asked simply, "Shall we eat?" And away they went to a bustling bistro where Vérité commanded the scene and where Julia felt it was her first day invited to the big girls' table.
Of course, lunch of mushroom pâté sandwiches with caramelized onions and radish slaw only served as fuel for shopping and they proceeded to hit up as many boutiques as possible. Vérité bought a fair amount, and Julia took notes of pieces that piqued her employer's interest but were left behind. Exhausted, they retired to dinner at the hotel, and after digestion capped off the night with a swim in the hotel's hammam pool. They slept deeply, late, and even though Julia woke up at noon, she ordered breakfast of café and croissant and ate it overlooking the Seine like she had promised herself she would.
She implored Vérité to go to the Eiffel tower, but she said no just as she had done when the catacombs and Moulin Rouge were suggested. "Like tourists?" Vérité balked, disheartened.
"I am a tourist," Julia begged.
"The Eiffel tower then," Vérité relented. "For lunch. And I'm going to need bigger sunglasses."
On their third day, they visited hallowed ground, Dior on the avenue de Montaigne . A stylist who recognized Vérité from a previous visit set upon her right away, scaring off the other sales girls. Vérité was interested in a winter coat and told Julia to pick one out for herself. "A bonus!" she called it.
As a salesgirl fussed over Julia's preference of a cerise, bell-sleeved, cinched waist coat, Vérité's stylist arched his brow and popped the enormous collar of the black lambswool jacket, perhaps a little put out that it had been Julia's suggestion chosen over his own. He and Vérité spoke quickly and familiarly with one another. Julia had barely noticed their gossiping had ceased when she looked over to find them both staring at her. Then in English, Vérité said, "You know, I don't know. Julia, darling, what is your background?"
"Mom was Austrian and Dad was Italian."
"But 'Swift'?"
"I didn't say how Italian," Julia smiled. The coat just fit. It was ridiculously glamorous, but she ached for it.
Vérité's stylist harrumphed. "On y voit que des gros seins comme Anita Ekberg."*
"What did he say?" Julia asked.
"He says, you look like a movie star, darling." Vérité said.
Julia knew it was not just her taste or influence the salesman found distasteful. He eyed her like he would have an imitation handbag, as something cheap. Clearly from the look of every poster, every mannequin and model in the stores, Julia's broad face and voluptuous figure were seen as too much, and that was vulgar somehow. She blamed Paris, not France. And just as she was tracing the rim of some thought that would make her fade, she heard her sales girl called Sophie, Julia's mother's name. She smiled to herself and remembered life was good.
A few shopping and spa days later, Vérité announced that they were taking the train to Versailles, specifically to visit a museum.
"But I thought you said museums were for tourists?" Julia chastised.
"Ahh, but this is the Osmothèque. A history of fragrances including those long forgotten or extinct. Some houses went out of business, some scents fell out of style, many are simply illegal now because their ingredients are endangered. Have it your way, whales! I just found out one of my very own perfumes has been selected as part of a special exhibit called 'The Last Drop of Genius: Farewell Fragrances of the Greats.' There's going to be a smelling room!"
"What do you mean your perfume? You modelled for it?"
"After my first marriage collapsed, I ran away to Paris with an old classmate of mine and here is where I met and fell in love with René. He was Le Nez for Guerlain but had just left to start his own company when we met."
"Le Nez?"
"A chemist, an olfactory magician! He had the physique of a matador and the nasal cavities of Sherlock Holmes. What a wonderful lover he was! What fun we had! To illicit a laugh from René was better than all the wine and roses in the world. He thought I was pretty cute stuff back then. Called me his Petit Four."
"Were you together long?"
"No, but it couldn't be helped. Unbeknownst to me I was his mistress. I mean, he'd introduce me to people as his mistress but I thought he was being droll. You wouldn't say to someone, this is the accountant who hides my money for me, would you? Anyway I found out it was true. He was married to a Moroccan woman, gorgeous and dark. We must have found out about each other at the same time because the perfume he'd told me he was creating for me and likewise told his wife he was creating for her was meant to be called, My Only but wound up being called, Traîtresse. Shaped the bottle like a dagger through the heart. I don't know what became of him, but the perfume was not a hit, his business suffered and he just disappeared."
"Did you wear it?"
"No. I smelled it once in his lab, then once on a Macy's discount shelf. I couldn't bring myself to buy it. This visit will be a trip though time for me."
"I wonder how the museum got their hands on it after all these years."
"Who knows? Believe it or not, there are perfume hunters who go around to estate sales and scavenge. Perhaps someone died"
"And now we get to sniff the benefits. That didn't come out right."
******
*For anyone curious, the salesman basically says, "She's all boobs like Anita Ekberg."
Also, Traîtresse means a woman who is a traitor.