The Favoured, The Fair and Ms. Vérité Claire

10 The Great Pretenders

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?"