Page 61 of Real Fake Husband

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” she says with a hint of irony, flashing her ring: a golden wedding band with a huge diamond. “Let me see your ring, Josie.” She takes Josie’s hands that have exactly zero rings.

“Well, we—” Josie starts.

“What, no ring?”

“Oh, how avant-garde,” Mr. Osborn says. “There’s no real reason to wear a ring in this time and age. Some might even say it’s an antiquated custom.”

Charlotte shakes her head. “It’s bad luck to not wear a wedding ring.”

“The dining room is just through here,” I tell them, motioning for them to come farther into the apartment, nipping any ring discussions in the bud. “Why don’t I open this wine, and we can enjoy it together.”

“An excellent idea,” Mr. Osborn agrees.

Once they are comfortable in the dining room with their aperitifs, Josie and I duck into the kitchen. Josie makes for the kitchen island and grabs one of the platters. I rummage through the drawer in search of the wine opener.

“The whole ring thing was so awkward. And I can’t believe you kissed me in front of them,” she mutters under her breath.

“You started it. You pinch my cheeks, I kiss you.”

“It’s not fair.”

“All is fair in marriage and war.”

“That’s not how the saying goes—it’s ‘All is fair inloveand war.’ Not marriage and war. It’s also such a cliché line and only used to lame justification for misbehavior used to gain advantage in situations exactly like these.”

“Well, it worked perfectly for me. Now hurry up, smarty pants.”

Her cheeks are still red, but she smirks, carrying two trays into the dining room.

I find the corkscrew and follow close behind.

“Oh, how delightful,” Charlotte says when we enter and Josie sets the trays down in the middle of the table. “But—” Charlotte’s smile falters, and she cranes her neck, trying to see past us into the kitchen. “Oh, I’m so sorry, is there something wrong with your girl?”

Josie frowns. “Girl?”

“You know, your serving girl. The one who made all the food. Is she not feeling well? You two should not be doing this yourself.”

Oh, geez. Here we go. Josie tries to keep her composure, but by the severe arch of her eyebrow, it’s perfectly clear she has a few choice words going through her head. I prevent her from saying what I’m sure is going to be a smartass reply (which, let’s be honest, Charlotte deserves).

“Actually, Josie did make everything herself,” I say with pride, setting about opening the wine. “We don’t have any servants. It’s just me and Josie. We prefer it that way.”

“Oh.” Charlotte sounds disappointed.

“Well, you young ones don’t know what it feels like to have a good staff at your beck and call,” Mr. Osborn says. “I wouldneverlet my wife lift a finger if she didn’t want to.”

“Thank you, dearest,” Charlotte says.

It’s so hard for me to contain my laugh. First off, it’s a stupid asinine way to look at things. Seriously, what year are we in? Osborn is talking like it’s the 1950s. Second, as if I could evenbeginto tellmy wifewhat she can and can’t do. It took a fucking bet to get her to stop leaving her bra lying around.

“I love cooking,” Josie sweeps in coolly. “When Cal told me we were hosting a dinner, I was more than happy to put the time in to help my husband.”

There’s a bite to her words, a second meaning that only I seem to catch. Charlotte gives her an “Aren’t you precious?” look, not realizing that Josie’s words can also be viewed as a thinly veiled insult.

“It looks delicious,” Charlotte says. “Our girl never makes anything this extravagant. Dear, we should hire a new one, don’t you think? Or maybe an in-house cook?”

“Let’s first talk to her, dear. Let’s not jump the gun. I’m sure she’ll be able to make you happy.”

“How’s business, Mr. Osborn?” I ask, steering the conversation to a work-related topic.

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