In other rich people news, the value of Vérité's non-Swedish-modern, very antique furniture kept going up and so her insurance company suggested she have her contents reappraised to update her policy. But Vérité had a Vespa lesson she refused to reschedule, so Julia volunteered to wait at home in her stead and make sure the appraisers didn't get into anything they weren't supposed to. It was the reason Orson was sitting in Vérité's kitchen with Julia comparing notes, and why Lotte was fussing needlessly over them both.
She was reading the situation all wrong, sweetly excited for Julia with her thick eyebrows bobbing up and down, jutting her chin in Orson's direction and winking when he wasn't looking. Julia could only imagine what was going through her mind as she hadn't quite seemed to grasp the reason for their current conversation.
"So, we're definitely in love then?"
"Not necessarily." Orson leaned back and rubbed his neck. "We've only been dating for...five months. Could still be casual."
"Only a man would consider five months casual," Julia said with a dainty yawn. "We're in love."
"Maybe you are."
"Too late. I wrote it down. Okay, let's see. How do you take your coffee?"
"You know."
"Oh that's right, with a lot of lumps. Do you have any food allergies?"
"Food allergies? This is some romance we're having."
"Pardon me, Mr. 'Any extra moles or dimples I should know about?'."
"Listen," he said tapping the table emphatically, "someone's gonna ask me about it and for a lot more than what side of the bed you sleep on."
"Why?"
"Because guys, that's why."
Julia had not considered this. "What side do you sleep on?"
"Whatever side you do," he said as though it should've been self-explanatory.
Lotte bobbed and jutted and winked all at the same time.
"Religion?" Julia asked.
"Do I believe in God? Sure. I don't think he's too fond of me but you don't pick your family."
"What about your family?" Julia asked, knowing it was strained.
"I'm allergic to pineapple," Orson said.
"While we're at it, I should have something of yours. If we're really going to sell ourselves as a couple we should carry a token of each other's affections with us, like, maybe I could wear your watch."
Orson's steel black watch looked like a shackle and weighed two pounds.
"I need my watch," he said. "Besides, how would you even lift that bird arm of yours to see the time?"
"Or something?" Julia eyed the braided leather bracelet Orson always wore greedily.
"You can have it on the plane," he said. "What do I get?"
"Want to wear my chain?" she said of the little cross she wore at her neck.
"Around this tree trunk?"
"Vérité said you should have a lock of my hair."
"No," Orson refused flatly.
"Why not?"
"It's gross."
"Is not," she argued, finding his repulsion amusing.
"Where would you cut it from?"
Julia flipped her hair up. "My nape, I guess."
"Where would I keep it?" he sneered.
"If you were a musketeer you would keep it in a hanky next to your heart, but...maybe your wallet?"
"Who's gonna see it in my wallet besides a serial killer who knows where to look? Why don't I just take a picture of you and use it as the screen saver on my phone."
"This relationship will never last," she sighed and posed as Orson quickly snapped a picture.
"Ah, come on! No, no, no!" Lotte objected, shaming them. She waved her fingers for Orson to hand over his phone. "It should be both of you. I'll do it. Get together."
Julia got up and moved towards Orson. He instinctively reached to put his hand at her waist. She flinched and then smiled nervously.
"About that," Orson said. "You're going to have to stop jumping when I touch you or we're not going to fool anybody."
"I wasn't expecting it. Do it again." He shot her a leery eyeball. "Come on, feel me up," she said. A count of two later found her mentally slapping her forehead.
He shook his hands at his wrists and showed her each one in patronizing preparation. "No different than holding hands," he said, slowly grabbing Julia by the waist again and pulling her to him. She sat on his lap with her arms around his neck to take the picture.
"To be fair," she said, looking at him, "if we are going to convince people we're in love then you're going to have to get used to nose boops." She flicked the sharp end of his nose with her index finger and he nearly bucked her off.
"Knock it off!"
"Well?" Julia laughed.
"Give him a kiss," Lotte said.
"Fine," Julia said, rolling silly eyes. "Hold still. I'm coming in."
Julia pressed her lips to his rough cheek, one arm around his shoulders while her hand held his face. Orson felt like a bulldog with a pink ribbon, better than the situation but not unhappy with the attention. It was a warm, soft place to be, with his chin practically resting on her chest, until a fleeting dark thought, like a falling mark in the corner of his eye stole him from it. Beautiful women had fawned over him before, draped themselves around him and kissed him like this. Position and reputation restored, they would do it again, but no amount of money or status in the world could induce someone like Julia to ever sit on his lap and hold him to her uncompromised heart. Only charity or honour, or at most friendship. He gave her a little shove sending her back to her own seat unmolested, though inclination would've dared keep her there a moment longer. He thought about packing it in for the day.
"Look how nice!" Lotte said, showing them the picture. Julia smiled but Orson shook his head.
"Forget it," he said. "Delete it. I'll use the one with just Julia."
Julia squinted an eye. "Out of curiousity, if I was your girlfriend and you were into hair, where would you keep it?"
Orson shrugged, "I dunno. Under my pillow. I guess."
"I knew you were a romantic. I'm writing that down."
"Then for the record, I like hair. On someone's head. I like a lot of it."
"Like how?"
"Well some men are leg men and some are...chest men, but there's nothing like a big head of hair to bury your face in."
"Ah-ha." Julia flashed a harmless smirk. "So you're a caveman too."
"All men is the same," Lotte said wisely.
"A romantic caveman, that's me," Orson said pressing a heavy finger onto her notebook.
"I don't really care if a man has hair or not." Julia said, only to reconsider. "That's a lie. I prefer it."
"And lemme guess," Orson said. "Tall, chiseled features, strong arms?"
"Strong arms," Julia nodded affirmatively. "Especially that muscle between the neck and shoulder," she added, touching her own.
"The trapezius," Orson said.
"Uh-huh. The meat."
"Did you just call it, 'the meat'?" Orson's lip curled. Julia shrugged and smiled unashamedly. "Who's the caveman now?" he said.
The swinging door to the kitchen moved slightly indicating a body pressed up against it, eavesdropping.
"I know you're there, Bernard!" Julia called out.
Bernard gave up and entered. "In my hey day I would've been hiding under the sink, but I just don't have it in me anymore. That's what real love does to you. Not this charade."
"You and Hervé pretending to be mortal enemies is not a charade?"
"Poor Julia. Someday you'll meet a tall, handsome stranger and his less peasant-y wife and you'll understand."
"Does Harv, have any weird moles or birthmarks?" Orson asked.
"Inner thigh. Shaped like a pennant," Bernard said. He turned to Lotte. "Lotte, the girdle?"
"I'll go get it," she said and scampered upstairs.
"What are you making her do now?" Julia asked.
"She's lending me her shapewear."
"I should get going," Orson said.
"Hervé's taking me out for my birthday but the club knows both of us so we're going in disguise. I'm going to stuff my girdle and give myself a pot. That way no one will look at me. Right, Julia?"
Lotte came back down with a tight nude bodysuit.
"Nothing in black?" Bernard pouted.
"Who died?" asked Lotte.
"Why don't you draw a belly button on it and let your shirt ride up?" Julia said.
"Great idea. You should really consider a line of work other than reverse-escorting where someone pays you not to sleep with them."
"I'm not paying her," said Orson.
"And I'd gladly not sleep with you for free," she smiled.
As Bernard took his undies and left, Julia thought about warning him, but loyalty to Vérité stopped her. After all, when the night was over, she might not see Bernard ever again and she really did love her job.
A few days earlier, Julia had discovered Vérité in the kitchen very upset. So upset she was doing the dishes.
"What's wrong, Vérité? You've been washing that same cup for twenty minutes."
"Why should anything be wrong dear? Hmm?"
"I don't know, but I've never seen you like this before."
"You've never seen me fine? Because I'm very fine. In fact I think I'm handling this gross act of betrayal rather well." An open pause lapsed. "Did you know that Bernard had a new boyfriend?"
"Yes," Julia admitted guiltily.
"I see. Did you also know he is one of Minx's spies?"
"Hervé seems very nice, and Bernard is so happy. He called me 'Darling' the other day."
"So now you're his confidante, I suppose?"
"Well, it was, 'I can't see through your big head, Darling,' but it's progress. He wants to tell you, Vérité, he's just afraid you'll make him choose."
"Because he thinks this is the one he's been waiting for? Not to make everything about me, but Minx and her stooges are relentless. She'll stop at nothing to get at me and now she's using poor Bernard to do it."
"How did you find out?"
"Hervé paid me a visit this morning. Wanted to introduce himself and invite me to a surprise birthday party dinner he's throwing for Bernard. If he really loved him, he'd know that Bernard loathes surprises."
"If he was really a spy he'd know you hate them too."
"Oh-ho! But wait! Didn't he finagle his way into getting me to agree to host the dinner here seeing as how I'm so 'understanding'."
"Aren't you though? That's why Bernard adores you so much and would never want to hurt your feelings."
"I know," Vérité said, looking a little troubled. "But he left me no choice."
"Why? What did you do?"
"Something awful and petty, but there's no use in feeling guilty about it now."
"What?"
"Something entirely beneath me that I wish I hadn't done, but I have and so I'm going to trust my instincts and die unpublished but with few other regrets."
"Verite! What?"
"I gave Hervé Bernard's mother's number and suggested he invite her too."
The drain of the sink burped. Bernard had skillfully been evading his mother for years. Julia had heard tales of the reason why, the bullish, naval officer stepfather and the mother who refused to take her son's side. Vérité had done him very wrong.
"He's going to scratch your eyes out," Julia said.
"Why do you think I send him to the groomer's every week?"
"He'll never get over it." Julia shook her head.
"But he will when he sees I'm right about Hervé! I've set a trap. I told Bernard that a substitute hairdresser burnt my hair off yesterday and now I'll have to wear a wig."
"So that's why you wanted me to lay out your turbans!"
"No doubt Hervé will try to expose me at the party somehow. Knock my wig off and try to get a picture for Minx or something. Of course underneath my hair will be beautiful but Hervé will have blown his cover and Bernard will know he's sleeping with the enemy."
"And you'll plead insanity," Julia said.
"This afternoon we go shopping for a wig one size too big. I want Hervé barely able to contain himself."
Orson had heard all about the scheme but somehow seemed wholly uninterested in witnessing it. As they wrapped up their study session, Julia invited him to the party again anyway.
"Do you need me there?" he asked.
"It's not a favour, technically, but it might be good practice."
"Fine," Orson said, "but I'm not jumping up from behind a couch."
"We may have to dive under one."
******
At seven o'clock, Vérité's dinner table was set for eleven guests, which meant four leafs of oak had been added, newly appraised at a value of one hundred and seventy five dollars apiece. The risk to Vérité's security remained far more physical than material.
Hervé had hired the catering company and this gave Lotte time to dress for dinner rather than prepare it. She wore a beaded fringed shimmy dress with false lashes to match. Her hair was half up like the Brazillian Bardot. Julia had lent her a pair of rose quartz earrings in exchange for borrowing Lotte's gold hoops. Julia wore a speckled mauve, a-line vintage ruffle top and a high-waisted pair of burgundy cigarette pants. Her big hair was a testament to her hairspray. Orson, in a suit jacket and jeans, said they looked like background dancers from The Dean Martin Variety Show.
"What is that?" Lotte asked.
"It's Mad Men: The Musical," Orson said.
Vérité was more modern in a dark plum wrap dress that was difficult to look at. Difficult, that is, to tear one's eyes away from the ill-fitting silver-white wig piled into a ludicrous Gibson Girl hairdo on top of her head. It was so shiny Julia was sure they'd woven in the odd piece of tree tinsel in lieu of some strands of hair. It was so loose that what was once, at the start of the evening, the natural far right part was now sitting dead centre. Thank goodness it was upswept into its centre topknot like an absurd tea kettle cozy. She fussed over the catering company servers nervously, waiting for the hour to pass and the doorbell to ring. Umberto, her driver, had declined the invite taking Vérité's only means of escape with him on his night off.
The first guests, and only friends of Bernard and Hervé to arrive, were an excited couple who announced themselves as Gads and O'Neil. Gads, with his Rockwellian boy scout face and O'Neil with his nighttime aviator shades and ironic Garfunkle 'fro, moved together confidently, making straight for the bar and then straight for Orson.
"So what country are you from?" was how Gads opened, munching on a toothpick skewering three olives.
"The one I'm in," Orson said gruffly.
"That's boring. So are we," O'Neil said disappointed. "What about you, gorgeous?"
"What an odd starter question," Julia laughed.
"When are all the embassy people getting here?" Gads asked.
"Ah," Julia said, realizing they thought they were at Hervé's family home. "They're not, unfortunately. This is Vérité Claire's home. She's – "
O'Neil's mouth fell open as he hit Gads in the chest. "Bernard's Vérité?"
"Readjusting enthusiasm levels from dignified to fancy," Gads said, eyes fluttering.
"When do we get to meet her?"
"I believe you already did when she answered the door," Julia said.
"You mean that wasn't an impersonator? Her hair looks like a hand muff!"
"Intriguing," Gads mused. "Instinct tells me crazy has not yet burst a seam here, but something is afoot."
"He has a nose for these things," O'Neil confirmed.
"Is she all right?" Gads asked.
"Of course," Julia said with a little trepidation.
"And this is just an intimate affair then with no implications for world peace?"
"It's all about Bernard," Julia assured them.
"Who else is coming?"
"Well there's us, and you..." Julia said
"Mmm-hmm, got it..." Gads nodded.
"And, uh, Vérité and Lotte over there and Ms. Claire's publisher who'll be here later..."
"M'kay..." O'Neil said tapping his lip.
"And the boys of course. There's just maybe, oh, maybe probably some of Bernard's family."
"His family?" Gads cried in disbelief. "You mean no socialites?!" Crestfallen, his chin wrinkled into a W.
"Well, who could come?" O'Neil reasoned. "Their secret would be out."
"So you know." Julia said.
"Of course," said O'Neil. "Gads and I are in a similar boat."
"He works for Sephora and I work for MAC," Gads said. "It isn't technically in the rulebook but..."
"This relationship is strictly verboten and on the QT."
"What about you two?" Gads asked. "What's it all about?"
"What's your best guest?" Julia asked hopefully.
"If I'm being honest, I'd say one of you owes the other a favour."
Julia sank. "Impossible. How'd you know?"
"Seen it a million times! Who for who?"
"Both, but this time me for Orson. We're supposed to be a couple."
"You should be so lucky." Gads said. To Julia. He and O'Neil both looked at Orson like one might ponder a midnight snack.
Orson's mouth said, "Get outta here," while his eyes said, whaaaaaa?
"What do you do for a living Orson?" O'Neil asked.
"Mechanic," he said at the same time as Julia said, "Advertising."
"Good with those gorilla hands, then?" O'Neil smirked.
"Better get that story straight," said Gads.
"In your opinion," Julia asked, "what could we do to seem more together?"
"That's going to take a little work. It's a little like Red Riding Hood dating the Big Bad."
"Ever wear grandma's pajammies?"
"You're sniffing 'round the wrong leg," Orson said.
"Seriously," said Julia.
Here began a flurry of suggestions and face fluffing.
"She could use a little blush."
"Lip and cheek stain."
"Take care of the eyebrows, his and hers."
"Matching scents?"
"Moisturizer!"
"Got to do something..."
"...about his..."
"pores." They said at the same time. "Jinx!"
"World peace is really missing out," Orson said.
"I meant other than cosmetic," said Julia.
"Commit and believe," O'Neil said simply.
"And don't stand so close to one another. Your bodies are completely leaned in. No one wants to be that close to the person they sleep with all the time," Gads said.
Orson hooked his finger in Julia's front pocket and pulled her closer to him. She hardly resisted this time. He looked at her. "Better," he said.
O'Neil's eyes rolled away while Gads brought his hands slowly to prayer pose under his nostrils. "That's kind of actually the opposite of what we said, but I guess there's no one else here to talk to so..."
As if on cue, Lotte stepped in and offered the boys a tour of the main floor including, much to the surprise of Julia's ears, her trophy room.
"I'm sorry, Lotte. Did you say your trophy room?"
"Yah, you know."
"What trophy room?"
"The room where are my trophies."
"You collect them?"
"Silly Julia," Lotte laughed, "I am the best Latin American ballroom dancer in North America. I win all the titles all over the world!"
"Nobody told me," Julia said, stunned.
"You need to snoop more. You know how many crowns I got?"
"But...but Lotte, why are you working here?"
"Costumes is very expensive and the government don't let you write off feathers."
"I meant why aren't you an instructor or something?"
"I am! Two years ago Vérité say she wants to learn Argentine tango. She's almost got it!"
As she led the boys away, Julia shook her head. "I knew she had to have a talent other than bouncing the door."
The time until Bernard's arrival had to pass somehow so Orson told Julia stories about things he'd found under the seats of his garage customers' cars, specifically of the stray cat which had once crawled into his owner's Ferrari and got stuck. He'd scratched so much of the leather interior trying to get out that the owner told Orson to dump him in an alley. Orson named him Samson and kept him until he passed. Julia told Orson about the Bengal on the leash in Paris and the incident at the museum. She'd never seen him laugh so hard, if she'd really seen him laugh at all.
Lotte returned with Gads and O'Neil just in time for the front doorbell to ring. Vérité licked the corner of her mouth anxiously. The time was 7:40.
"Get down!" Lotte urged in hushed excitement. All crouched but Orson. Vérité opened the front door silently, not to find Bernard and Hervé, but rather, as she announced, Mrs. Liza Fong and Captain Al MacDonald; Bernard's mother and stepfather.