To begin with, Julia Swift was terribly pretty. Perhaps not classically beautiful, but it can be said terribly pretty because it was an unfortunate face to own growing up in a neighbourhood where there weren't enough boys to go around. It was a regrettable figure which stole in one early adolescent night and resulted in an ensuing frenzy of luring and leering from school boys and older men alike. She created uneasiness within the female ranks and as she only grew lovelier with each passing year she often found herself exiled from her peer group for crimes over which she had no control.

There was nothing about her sweet manner and playful nature so provocative as her physical being; the hair like ribbons of amber, dark blue eyes, high cheeks which made her pink lips appear to be blown out as if from bubblegum, not to mention her shapely frame which could be drawn as two valentine hearts opposing one another top and bottom. There was not a covetous bone in that sought after body which could understand others' reactions to it. Julia wanted none of that kind of attention. Maybe someday, if it lead to a good husband and lots of babies, but not in high school, though oh, how they tried!

Her mother and father armed her with self-worth to steel her against the rumours that flew, because despite Julia's frequent and judicious use of the word "no" when it came to the more urgent sex, others saw to it that the word "yes" became associated with her. Therefore she was damned like she did and damned when she didn't, and since she had homework to do she began to withdraw.

Soon enough high school was over.

She had her mother's talent for sewing and her father's gift for tuning naysayers out, so she enrolled in a fashion college and refused to give it up when she was told she was technically proficient but wholly unoriginal. She had neither's love of the ocean even before they drowned in it trying to save one another from a riptide. Her spirit thereafter evaporated like the very foam and mist which had washed her every happiness out into the sea. At twenty, she found herself unbearably inconsolable (and being ogled by some vaguely familiar family associate at the funeral church.) Held fast to the enormous, heaving bosom of her wailing Aunt Helen, Julia decided that life could only be endured if she made herself invisible.

From then on she practised concealment, both in her physical appearance and by dimming the natural light of her presence until she felt nearly undetectable. She dropped out of school and became an independent seamstress, able through word of mouth to assemble a few clients whom she attended in private at-home appointments, thereby limiting the type and number of people she dealt with at any one time. While patience and curiosity were still hers, she had lost all tolerance for disingenuous motives and artifice in character, yet twice in the years that followed she had, against her better judgement, let herself be fooled into thinking she might be in love, both times with men so obscenely egotistical that it amounted to Julia being in love all by herself. After a period of effort on her part, each man found his girlfriend becoming smaller and quieter and less available until suddenly she was all gone. In a cozy bit of circumstance, the first man was a professor of physics, the other, a small-time hood, neither really disturbed by people mysteriously disappearing.

So what could become of a terribly pretty girl who craved in secret the kindness of strangers yet could not bring herself to trust in its intent? Who wanted desperately the comfort of love but refused to seek or reveal herself to it? At twenty-seven, she had become a lonely creature of solitary habit, a wickless candle without hope of ever being lit, or as her Aunt Helen bemoaned, "a criminal waste of hormones," who simply couldn't believe in miracles but wished she could.

Sometimes the wish is enough.

One afternoon, Julia found herself about to lose her highest paying client thanks to being bamboozled into a date with the patron's greasy nephew. "Have you met my Philip?" was how they were introduced, Julia at the woman's feet with a mouth full of pins. "Why don't you two go out sometime? You have so much in common!" Julia, who had never picked her nose while making someone's acquaintance, doubted this very much. Out of gratitude to a loyal customer and perhaps to test her own convictions, Julia relented and accepted the date.

The nephew had a friend at the Royal Centre for the Performing Arts and he claimed he could get them into any show, any time. Now some girls may think nothing of the translation of that promise being one free seat in the nosebleeds for the both of them to share. Depending on how honest the man is about it and what he looks like, some girls wouldn't mind at all. But for Julia, deception was a deal breaker, no matter if it came from a prince of England or the adenoidal, handsy relation of a most generous client. After refusing her date's lap she stormed out into the lounge, seething, as her date surely was, at being cheated out of a good time.

That's when she saw her. A marble goddess carved from when the artists' hands were good and dirty. Stately and glamorous for a woman in her mid-seventies, she was wearing a lavender gown that demanded a geisha's walk; her hair was varnished back into a French twist like a creamy conch shell. She almost seemed to seek Julia out through the small milling crowd. She smiled knowingly, comfortingly, and just as Julia thought this prow of some mystical ship would sail past her, the woman stopped and offered Julia one hundred dollars to spill a glass of wine on a woman of her soon-to-be choosing.

"I know it's last minute," she said, "but the timing couldn't be better.

"Beg your pardon?" Julia asked, stunned.

The lounge's bartender poured a glass of something dark and red and handed it to the woman who smiled graciously before explaining, "In about four minutes the most insufferable woman in the world will walk through those doors and I'd like you to splash her with this." She blinked daintily.

Julia let slip a little laugh of disbelief. "And why would I do that?"

"I can assure you she deserves it. She knows she does! That's why I need someone else to do it. She's on the lookout for me."

"Well, I'm sorry but you're going to have to leave me out of it."

"You're very thoughtful. No wonder you look so unhappy."

Intermission was heralded by soft chimes and a flash of light. A mass audience exodus spilled into the lounge.

"That one," the woman said discreetly behind a more blatant fan of twenty dollar bills.

The intended victim was of similar age, but in contrast to the regal bearing of her would-be assailant's dispatcher, she was all flash. She wore a red sequined turban like a right; a proud cherry above a sundae of white vintage Bob Mackie. It was a surprising choice of target given the woman, who went by Minx McCall, was enjoying some minor celebrity of her own at the moment in 'Of A Certain Age', a play about ageism amongst actresses in which she appeared during the finale in an unforgiving body stocking, centre on a hydraulic fist, in a number called 'Flipping The Old Bird'.

Julia felt a wave of calm soothe her. If she could just get an autograph, she thought, perhaps for Aunt Helen, then the evening would not have been a complete waste of time. She excused herself from her current company and approached the actress nervously. In hindsight, she did notice the well dressed, slender Asian fellow shadow her slightly, but his movements were so stealthy that he slipped quite under her immediate radar. In hindsight, she realized that she had tripped over something jutting out from his direction, but in the moment it felt as though the carpet had reached up and grabbed her by the ankles. Julia fell pen-first into Minx, leaving a long, veiny blue ink streak along the only unbeaded portion of the dress. Minx's entourage recoiled and screeched in horror before regrouping to spirit Minx away to safety. The lady in lavender stood where she was before, smiling still.

"Oh, you're good," she said with admiration.

"I tripped," Julia plead, mortified.

"Of course you did. Small bills or one large?"

Julia clapped her hands to her eyes and shook her head.

"Now I know Bernard helped, but we girls can always use a little taxi money."

"Go away," Julia sighed. Utterly humiliated she dimmed like a light bulb.

"How you fade before my eyes! Please don't wilt, chérie. You did a noble thing just then. Contrary to popular belief, there is no cure for that kind of ham. One can only teach it a lesson, such as a sweet riesling would generally be nicer than pinot with salt pork."

She cracked herself up and cackled like the Good Witch of the Front Loge. Julia surrendered a small smile.

"There you are again!" the woman said. "What's your name?"

"For the police report?"

"Nonsense! Do I look like a rat?" Another smile followed by a balletic hand to her chest made the woman look like the cover of Harper's Bazaar. Julia gave in.

"Julia Swift."

"Might I ask you, Julia, why you were so upset before?"

Julia explained the situation to the woman's continued amusement. "A seamstress, you say? I could certainly use your help in a more legitimate department. Are you free tomorrow evening?"

"Yes."

"Then here's my card."

Ms. Vérité Claire bid Julia a pleasant goodnight and returned to her balcony box with her silent, slim companion and his weaponized walking stick.

******

The Promenade was a section of homes spanning roughly six blocks in the city's greener west end, the most enviable of which snuggled along the curved smirk of road which bordered the lake shore. At promptly six o'clock, Julia was permitted through the white iron gates of number twenty-two. A European style chateau amid the rows of pre-war cottages, it sat like a French puff pastry on a shelf of apple tarts. Sewing kit in hand, Julia rang the front bell.

The door opened and a pixie-faced housekeeper eyeballed Julia like a crown attorney about to crack the witness.

"Julia Swift?" she demanded in an accent which would later be revealed as Brazilian Portuguese.

"Yes, hello. I'm here for an appointment with Ms. Claire."

"I know everything already. My name is Lotte. I am housekeeping. A Senhora says to show you up."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yah, hi. Okay, come on."

Inside the white and green foyer with scattered black tile, Julia inhaled the aromas of almond and orange.

"A-ha!" smiled Lotte, getting to the bottom of things. "Today is lucky for you I make cookies. Not so lucky, here come the crackers."

Two ladies, conservatively dressed with ankles crossed and swept in the same direction waited in the salon with unhappy, envious faces as Julia was ushered by Lotte upstairs.

"You did tell her we were waiting, didn't you?" one called up.

"Sure and I tell you, you wait here until Senhora Claire puts on her clothes."

"But that was twenty minutes ago. How come she gets to go up?"

"Because this woman have the clothes!" Lotte said with an aggressive shoulder shrug.

Up the last of the stairs and down a winding hall Lotte escorted Julia to Vérité's room. She knocked on the door and gave Julia a little wink.

"Get ready, Lady, it's the Swift!" she called out.

Julia opened the door and stepped inside the mauve boudoir.

"Just give me a moment, darling!" Vérité called waving a bejeweled hand above a changing divider. "I'm trying on a new one." She waved some more.

"I see you," Julia said patiently.

"At the moment I'm stuck."

"Can I help?"

"I've got it, haven't I?" a man's impatient voice called out, also from behind the divider.

"That pinches, Bernard!" Vérité snapped. It was followed by the sound of a swat. "There now. Tell me what you think of this."

Vérité emerged from behind her screen in white jacket and long skirt, something akin to a motoring outfit. "Of course, it needs some tweaking."

"It has definite potential for chic-ness," Julia said.

"Well when one is as ill suited to public viewing as I am the best one can hope for is decency," she said with a playful shoulder roll and hip dip.

"The vents in the jacket are poofing," Julia said upon examination. "And it's too tight for some reason at your shoulders. Might be the lining. And I'd like to change these buttons."

"It's such a luxury being surrounded by talent," Vérité sighed, at which point Bernard decided to show himself.

"Julia you remember Bernard? He's my biographer."

Bernard responded to Julia's impressed expression with little interest. Julia remembered all too well the same snarky, superior look on the man's face from the theatre, but considering how his walking stick trick had resulted in work, she decided to forgive and forget. He held tightly to a large notepad and did not offer her his hand.

"Have you written anything I might have read?" she asked.

"You're not really our market."

"And what market is that?" Julia asked, verifying a slight.

"Flea, I'm guessing."

She laughed dryly, winding her measuring tape in preparation to leave. "Ms. Claire, I really didn't come here today to be insulted, or tripped, or whatever else that one has in mind."

"Bernard!" Vérité commanded sternly. "Apologize to Julia this instant!"

Bernard rolled his eyes back and let a lazy tongue droop from the corner of his mouth.

"That's better," Vérité said, satisfied.

"You call that an apology?"

"The nostrils say it all. He has four distinctive flares. But you must forgive him, my dear. He's extremely territorial, that's all. Every time I bring home a stray he threatens to kill it."

"Wherever did you find him?" Julia hummed drolly.

"Standing over Lotte's bed with a pillow. Oh, you mean originally? We were at a darling patisserie. He was taking down the name of someone he wanted fired."

"When I say non-fat latte I'm referring to the coffee and the server."

"Yes and he had the most marvellous penmanship. That's when I knew. Just as I knew when I saw you at the theatre, so radiantly indignant - write that down, Bernard - that you had something special."

"Burnt fly on a fluorescent," Bernard mumbled as he scribbled in his pad. "Got it."

"I'm going to fit him for a collar in a minute," Julia threatened.

"Ha! He'll just wriggle out of it! So you see I'm never wrong about talent and you must stay. A girl like you can't be frightened off that easily, now can she?" Julia relented by once again unravelling her tape. "Wonderful! So, what is your opinion of this title: 'Here And There With Vérité Claire'? Do you like it for my memoirs?"

"Charming."

"Her name means truth and light," Bernard said, gazing at Vérité with some overdone awe. "It couldn't be more apropos."

"Are you French?" asked Julia, measuring Vérité's arms.

"Almost very."

"It's just a drop, but an exquisite one," Bernard praised.

"French King. Venetian courtesan. Diluted by way of Salem." Vérité sighed. "Shall I change into the next outfit?"

"Just about. Or if you'd rather deal with the ladies' downstairs first, I'll wait."

"Not really," she said with a slow, mischievous grin.

"Ugh. The Twig sisters," Bernard said with one of his afore mentioned nostril flares. "Fundraisers."

"You must think me horrible after last night, but honestly, Julia, it's not as if they represent the Red Cross. No, they're trying to get me to decorate an anchor to auction for the yacht club. Why can't they just sell me a year's supply of chocolate almonds like the Liberal Party? No. If I wait long enough they'll go away and then when I have to I'll say, 'I came downstairs and you were gone.'" This she demonstrated with a cute pout and piteous tone. "Now how are you with swimwear?"

"Let's see," Julia said.

Vérité once again stepped behind the screen to change which seemed silly since Bernard followed. While it was quite obvious he adored her he was as straight as a squiggly line. When they walked out again, Vérité was wearing a jade green once piece with decorative gold belt, her lean figure quite stunning for a woman her age.

"Striking, really," Julia said.

"But wait," Vérité said turning her back to Julia. "What about this excess...?" She let her voice trail off to avoid the words 'loose skin' passing her lips. The problem was the suit's too low back.

"I could insert a bandeau," Julia suggested.

"Wouldn't that just scream back-flap bandage? I was thinking something less conspicuous like a matching cape."

Thoughts of Esther Williams and Liberace intersected in Julia's mind. "I could create something extra for the poolside but you should have a choice. Just a discreet little band?"

"Well you're the expert. So long as it doesn't look surgical."

The fashion show continued for another hour or so. In Vérité's sparkling and easily delighted company, Julia found herself quite at ease, and none of Vérité's endless questions seemed as prying as they most definitely were. Of course, some questions were trickier than others. "What do you think of denim as semi-formal?"

"I don't know how it happened, but it's not going anywhere. I guess I don't mind one way or another."

"I think one should always take a side. Write that down, Bernard. Rule number four: Always have an opinion. On occasion, however, have two; one for yourself, and one to express in public. How does that sound?"

"Like cheating."

"Cheating can be an art. Rule number five: Always support the arts."

Once Vérité had dressed for the evening and Julia had a number of garment bags with outfits to take home and work on, Vérité said, "Julia, I think I'm going to find you quite indispensible. What would you say to making me your primary client?"

"I'm flattered but shouldn't you see my work first?"

"I'm one of the few who know rare talent when I see it."

"Well I could make you my priority but there isn't enough work to - "

"Be my personal assistant. Start at one thousand dollars a week?" Bernard gasped and when neither woman took notice, gasped again. "I promise nothing too taxing or embarrassing. What do you think about taking lunch after two o'clock?"

Now Julia was ultra protective of her independence, but for a thousand dollars a week she decided she was willing to try Vérité on for size. She said, "I think anything after three is dinner."

"I agree. Then two o'clock for lunch tomorrow and I'll see whatever you have ready for me then."

As the threesome wound down the main staircase they could see Lotte at the base pruning a flower arrangement of dead leaves. She gave her employer a shoulder shrug and raised her eyebrows using them to point to the salon behind her.

"Ms. Claire! Good evening!" one of the Twig sisters said jumping to attention.

"Oh bugger," Vérité mumbled before putting on a brilliant smile. "Bonjour, ladies. How good of you to wait for me."

******