Couture (Style Me #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

GRIFF

JUNE

Awards season is finally over, but that doesn’t mean I can take a break.

Not with summer blockbuster movie premiere season fast approaching.

Three of my clients have films releasing in the next few months, with associated press tours and multiple red-carpet appearances around the world.

Only one is giving me headaches, though—the one where my client’s agent failed to negotiate wardrobe control for the tour.

I try to work with studios and producers to ensure their vision for the project’s publicity and my client’s aesthetic are in the same ballpark, but as far as I’m concerned, the final decisions need to be the client’s. .. and mine.

I’m staring at my computer screen, wondering whether replying to the latest ridiculous email with “fuck off” would be worth the shitstorm of trouble it would bring down on me—Damian, my boss, would understand, but he’d also probably still murder me for forcing him to deal with the disaster that followed—when a message pops up from Amina, our receptionist.

Katie for Margaret Haywood on line 3. Yes or no?

Sighing, I swivel my chair toward her desk. She’s looking at me, eyebrows raised, and I nod, reaching for the handset on my desk. Probably better that I take a few minutes to calm down, and Margaret’s one of my easiest clients.

“Hi, Katie. Still enjoying the sunshine?” One of the first things Damian told me when he took me under his wing nearly a decade ago was to be nice to the personal assistants, even if the clients aren’t.

They know everything and they talk to each other and other service providers.

That’s a network nobody can afford to get on the wrong side of.

I don’t normally like small talk—some of the other stylists joke that I’m bilingual, fluent in English and Grunting—so befriending a bunch of strangers was a chore I didn’t want to take on.

Instead, I stick to my Networking Strategy.

I make a point of always saying hi, using their names, and memorizing at least one other thing about them.

In Katie’s case, it’s the fact that she went to college in Seattle and was thrilled to move back to California and its high number of sunny days per year.

“Every day,” she replies with a smile in her voice, and then, proving that my strategy works, she adds, “She didn’t say what this call is about, Griff, but she’s been in a quiet mood lately.”

The hair on my arms stands on end. Margaret isn’t a loud person, but her introspective moods are usually followed by big changes.

That’s only affected me once—when she decided to boycott a designer because of the way he treated his staff, and I suddenly had ten days to find her another red-carpet gown.

Doable, but not how I usually like to work.

Since she’s one of the clients with a publicity tour coming up, I’m suddenly very nervous.

“Thanks for the heads-up. I better see what she wants.”

“Good luck!”

I reach for my coffee while I wait for her to transfer the call, but the cup is empty. Fuck. When did that happen?

The line clicks, and Margaret’s rich, modulated voice says, “Griff?”

“Hello, Margaret. Perfect timing on the call—I’m just putting together the last of your accessories for the tour.” I don’t think she’s calling to fire me, but just in case, better to remind her that there are projects being actively worked on.

“Hm. Yes. I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

Fuck. I glance around and catch Amina’s eye across the office, then hold my cup up with a pathetic grimace. This has all the signs of being a long and not-fun call, and I’m going to need caffeine.

“Oh?” I manage as Amina shoots me a thumbs-up. “Did you change your mind about wearing heels for the press interviews in Sydney? It’s no trouble to swap them out—your black Ferragamo flats will go great with the skirt and blouse we pulled for you.” Please let it be that.

“No, I—well, maybe. That’s not why I’m calling, but I might consider it.”

Great. I’ve just added to my to-do list.

“I want to revisit my image.”

I freeze. “For the tour?”

“Yes, but also… in general.”

I wait, but that seems to be it, leaving me wondering exactly what she means. Is she firing me? Does she want to get a haircut? What?

“Could you be more specific?” I reach for a pen, then brace myself when she sighs. It’s never a good thing when a client sighs like that.

“I’m tired of being ‘stately,’ Griff. I’m tired of always being described as ‘elegant’ or ‘timeless’ or ‘classic.’” She practically spits the last word, and I take the fresh coffee Amina brings me with eager gratitude and gulp the first mouthful.

“I want the press to get excited about what I’m wearing. ”

It’s an effort not to choke. This is unexpected… and potentially could still result in me being fired. “When we started working together, you were very clear about what your aesthetic is,” I remind her. “You said you specifically chose me because—”

“Yes, yes. I remember what I said. I’m seventy, not stupid,” she interrupts.

“Please don’t mistake me, Griff—I’m not unhappy with your work.

My image was already set in stone before I met you, and you’ve done wonders in elevating it.

Since you started dressing me, I’ve only had positive press coverage about my clothing. ”

I resist the urge to grunt. Fuck yeah, she has.

“But I want more than that,” she continues. “I’ve worn a version of the same style of gown on every red carpet I’ve ever walked, and all my public clothing is tailored the same way. It suits my body, I know that, but I’ve never tried to be trendy. I’m seventy years old, and I’ve never been trendy!”

My teeth clamp hard on my lip to keep me from saying anything I might regret. “Hmm.”

“Classic, timeless, and stately are all good, but I want someone to call me pretty or fun. I’ve spent my whole career being the elegant one, from the roles I play to the fashion I wear, and now that I’m getting toward the end of it, I want to be pretty!”

Pretty. That’s not a word I’d use to describe her.

Not because she’s not attractive—she is.

Margaret is one of those women whose good looks matured instead of “aging,” and she’s just as striking now as she was fifty years ago.

But she’s right: Nobody has ever referred to her as being pretty.

She’s tall, with broad shoulders and a solid, square build and even features—what people in the old days might have called a “handsome” woman.

“You need to be more specific,” I tell her.

A lot of stylists coddle their clients, or are at least diplomatic.

That’s not how I work. I built my roster around being no-bullshit, and those are the clients who come to me now that I’m established.

Margaret and I have always been blunt with each other, and I’m not changing that now.

“What do pretty and trendy look like to you? Clothes and style, not people,” I add for clarity.

“In general, or on the red carpet?”

“Start with the red carpet. What did you see this season that got your attention?”

She hesitates. “I liked what Elle Fanning wore at both the Oscars and Cannes. Those dresses were pretty. So was Jennifer Lawrence’s dress at Cannes, and Michelle Yeoh’s at the Golden Globes.”

I scrawl notes. If I’m remembering right, those gowns weren’t at all alike. Some of them won’t work for Margaret, either.

“Cynthia Erivo was very trendy at the Oscars, and so was… I can’t remember her name. She’s a singer, and she wore a tuxedo dress.”

“Lisa,” I murmur. I don’t remember what band she’s in, either, but I remember that gown.

“That’s it. I really liked her dress, and Zoe Saldana’s. Oh—and I thought Tami Long’s dress for the Golden Globes was stunning.”

I agree, but it couldn’t be further from Margaret’s usual style—unlike some of the others she mentioned.

The silhouette on a few of them is almost the same as what she always wears, with the main differences being in fabric type and embellishments.

There are several that are very different from her usual but would still work well for her, if she’s confident that she wants to go through with this change.

“Okay,” I say. “That gives me something to work with. I’ll put a board together and pull a few sample options for you to try on so you can see how you feel wearing something different. Can we meet early next week?” I click into my calendar. “Tuesday at ten? I can come to you.”

“Mm, Tuesday is fine, but I have lunch after, so I’ll come to the studio.”

“I’ll have something ready that you can wear for lunch, if you decide you want to.” I make a note about that too.

“I’m sure I’ll want to,” she says firmly, and I screw up my face to try to relieve the tension headache that’s beginning to form.

“How do you see this going?” I ask. “If my vision board aligns with your goals, do you want to soft launch the new look now, plus mix a few pieces in with what we’ve already planned for the tour, or do you want to scrap everything we’ve got for the tour and start over?” I try not to hold my breath.

“You’re not going to like my answer.”

Yeah, that’s what I thought. “Margaret, I like styling clothes so much that I made it my job, and you’re giving me free rein to style a whole new aesthetic for you. I might hate the timeline, but I’m not mad about the project.”

“It’s possible, then? To start from scratch with my clothes for the tour? Even the red carpets?”

I glance at the date on my screen. Three weeks until the tour kicks off, though I wouldn’t need everything right away. Still tight.

But as one of my ex-boyfriends announced to his friends, I like it tight.

“It’s possible. I think we can probably repurpose one of your existing red-carpet gowns.” The designer had another in a very similar silhouette that was a lot trendier just through use of embellishments. I’m sure she can make adjustments that will transform Margaret’s dress.

“Really?” Margaret doesn’t sound as confident as I feel.

“I’m going to call the designer now, and I’ll have something to show you Tuesday.” Probably only a 3D mockup of a sketch, but it’s enough to convey the vision.

“Thank you, Griff. Oh, one more thing.”

Oh god. “Yeah?”

“If this movie lives up to the hype and I need an Oscars dress next year, I want it to be from that new designer everyone’s talking about.”

I frown, trying to think who she cou—

No.

“Who?” It’s strangled, but thankfully still recognizable as a word.

“You know, the one Tami Long wore for the Golden Globes. Kane Fortney wears them all the time now. Phallic, or something.”

“Phallacy.” Oh, fuck.

“That’s the one. Every one of their gowns that I’ve seen has been pretty.”

“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage. Thanks to Kane and Damian, Phallacy had a strong showing this past awards season, and they earned it. I won’t deny that they’ve got a lot of talent. But Margaret’s right—those gowns were all pretty. Pretty and floaty and ethereal.

I’m a big supporter of people wearing what they feel good in, no matter what some random stranger may think “suits” them.

But in my industry, it’s na?ve to think an actor won’t be ripped to shreds in the media and by the general public for their clothing choices.

The designers at Phallacy are talented, but they’re new, and I’m not convinced they can tailor their designs to suit Margaret.

That’s a problem for the future.

I wrap up the call, finish my coffee in three huge gulps, and mentally rearrange the rest of my week.

Then, with no shits left to give, I open the email that irritated me so much before, hit reply, and type, No.