Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
PHIL
LATE NOVEMBER
To the untrained observer, it might look like I’m staring into space.
It might look like I’m standing in the middle of my office in the ridiculously expensive suite of rooms we rent—seriously, real estate prices in Downtown LA are heart-attack-inducingly obscene—not doing anything except maybe daydreaming.
That observer would probably be some kind of finance bro.
Maybe an athlete or an accountant… or one of those management consultant types who likes to squeeze the “value” out of every second.
In other words, a person who doesn’t understand how the creative brain works.
Yeah, I might find a lot of my inspiration while I’m doing or seeing or participating, but some of my best design ideas come to me while I’m dead asleep and my brain is resting.
Not the most convenient thing, and my eyes-half-closed-three-in-the-morning sketches often lack important details, but that’s what times like this are for.
Times when I stand in my office, stare at a sketch or a bolt of fabric or—in this case—a toile and try to work out what’s wrong with it. Because it might technically be what I envisioned when I designed it, but it’s also not. It’s wrong.
Ugh. Why can’t the vision in my head just magically transform into the finished physical manifestation?
I instantly wish I could snatch that thought back.
Sure, it might seem like that would be easier, but it would rob me of the countless hours of joy as I painstakingly sketch and resketch, convert said sketch to an actual pattern, go through a million fabric swatches that aren’t right, cut and construct the garments, then make adjustments and do all the fussy finishes.
I might have to sacrifice the cramped muscles in my hands and back—maybe even the calluses on my fingers from endless hand-beading.
Other people might find those things tedious, painful, and annoying—and yeah, I’ve complained about them a lot myself—but I still love every second of the creative process that takes an image in my brain to a real, wearable piece of art.
Although, to be fair, I don’t always do every step myself anymore.
Calla convinced me a couple of years ago that we needed to hire a pattern cutter and seamstress, and since then we’ve expanded more.
But I still like to keep my hand in, and sometimes I’ll work on parts of a project that should technically be someone else’s job.
Lucky I do, or I might not notice when I’ve somehow fucked up until it’s too late. Like now.
Sighing, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hoping the slightly—very slightly—different angle will give me new perspective. It doesn’t.
Maybe I need a second opinion. Calla’s, to be specific.
It’s not easy to get feedback on something like this when the version I’m comparing it to exists only in my head, but Calla’s the best friend I’ve ever had and knows me better than anyone.
Since we went into business together, we’ve only gotten closer, and if anyone can guess what I’m thinking, it’s her.
Which is just as well, since sometimes when we’re in meetings with others she literally needs to guess what I’m thinking because I can’t say it.
On cue, frustrated shame with a dash of self-hatred jabs at me, but I shove it back into its box.
I’ve had enough support from friends over the past decade to know it’s not my fault I struggle to speak sometimes, and negative thoughts aren’t going to help or change anything.
I’ve heard it from doctors and done the research, and I know my selective mutism is the result of an anxiety disorder, not shyness.
Some of my closer friends, including Calla, have gently suggested seeing a professional, but just thinking about that breaks me out in a cold sweat.
My parents dragged me to a million “experts” when I was a kid, and none of it helped.
Not the talk therapy where I couldn’t talk, not the meds that made my brain fuzzy—none of it.
Maybe it would be different as an adult, but I doubt that paying for a fifty-minute therapy session during which I can’t even explain the situation to the therapist will be productive. Maybe one day.
The knock breaks me from my not-that-great thoughts, and even as I turn toward the door, it opens.
Nobody here waits for me to tell them to come in.
I don’t usually go nonverbal when I’m alone in my office, but it’s been known to happen if I’m having a particularly bad day, so the system is knock-and-enter.
If I really don’t want to be disturbed, I’ll lock the door or make sure everyone knows to send me a message instead.
Calla strolls in, closes the door behind her, and immediately goes to sit on my desk.
I snort. “There’s a chair right there beside you.”
The cheeky grin she shoots me is exactly what I expected. We’ve had this conversation a million times before. “I think better here.”
“Great.” I gesture toward the dress form with the toile of my new design on it. “Think about that and why it’s a disaster.”
She glances at it. “Is this for the McLaren wedding?”
“Yeah. The fitting’s in two weeks, but I can’t show her this.
” I’d die of humiliation. The McLarens are robber-baron-ancestor wealthy and wield a lot of power and influence among their peers.
Pamela McLaren, the mother of the bride, wearing one of my designs in what’s being touted as the wedding of the year would be a huge step forward for us.
We’re already getting noticed in Hollywood circles, thanks to Kane Fortney and Tami Long, but this could boost us in another direction.
The wedding is going to be highly photographed, and the guest list includes several European royals who I’d love to design clothes for.
Calla laughs in fond exasperation. “It’s not worth arguing with you, but…” She purses her lips as she studies the toile. “You’re using the rose silk with the aquamarine floral print, right?”
I nod. “That’s the plan, but I could probably talk her into something else.
” Or Calla could. When it comes to matching fabrics to designs, nobody’s better than Calla.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked her for something specific, and she’s come back from the wholesaler with something completely different, assuring me that it’ll be perfect… and she’s right.
“No, I think that’ll be good…. Hmm, what if you widened that neckline flounce by a quarter inch? Then it would—”
“—drape more softly,” I finish, grinning in relief as the puzzle piece clicks into place. I’ll change the toile, just to be sure, but I know she’s right. “Thanks, Cal. How would I cope without you?”
“Keep thinking that because I’ve got both good and bad news.”
I grab my seam ripper from the worktable and get started pulling off the flounce that needs to be changed.
“Oh? Which am I going to hate more?” The thing with having an anxiety disorder is that sometimes “good” news can feel not so good.
The chance to dress Pamela McLaren for a wedding that’s going to be featured in Vogue?
Amazingly good news. Meeting and convincing her that Phallacy is the designer she wants?
Worst. Thing. Ever. Thankfully, she’s kind of awesome, and our meetings haven’t been too bad for me.
Calla doesn’t answer, and I stop ripping and turn to face her. Her wary expression doesn’t bring me comfort.
“Calla.”
“It’s not that bad,” she assures me.
“Which? The good or bad news?” It’s an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat.
“The bad news is that I didn’t like the green silk/wool blend Kim had, so I got something else for that suit. It’ll look better, trust me.”
Of course she did. “Is it still green, at least?” The stylist specifically asked for green.
“Yeah, I’ll show you,” she promises. “I left it on the cutting table.”
“Okay, so… the good news?” The bad wasn’t so bad, which means I’m truly dreading this next part.
She grimaces. “New client.”
Dread forms a cold, nasty ball in my stomach.
A new client means meeting a stranger who might or might not be kind about me not speaking much.
Calla’s always my champion in these situations, and she’s told more than one potential client that we’re not interested in their business because of the way they treated me, but that doesn’t make me feel better about any of it.
Especially since we’re still trying to get established.
I wish Calla could handle all of the client-facing stuff, and she does do most of it, but the thing about designing custom is that I need to meet the client to know what would work best, and they want to meet the designer.
It’s so much easier working on the seasonal collections…
though the runway shows are a nightmare.
In other words, if I want to keep doing what I love and getting paid for it, there’s no way to avoid people.
It takes me a minute to work up enough spit to speak. “A big client?” I hope so. It doesn’t make it easier, but it makes the effort worthwhile.
She nods. “Margaret Haywood.”
My jaw actually drops. “Margaret Haywood?” There aren’t many people who would have been lower on my list of guesses.
Not because she isn’t iconic and fabulous, but her fashion couldn’t be further from what I design and still fit the Hollywood vibe.
Although, some of the stuff she’s been wearing lately has surprised me.
My mind races through our most recent collection, picking out the options that would suit her best. “Are you sure?”
Calla’s expression lightens at my reaction. “Yeah. Her stylist is—”
“Griff Pevensy.” Another person I never expected to be working with—not anytime soon, anyway.
Damian Ward, the owner of Style Me and Griff’s boss, might have been the first A-list stylist to take a chance on us, but Griff has a different aesthetic for his clientele.
He’s a big believer in clean lines and solid colors, and while I’m not opposed to those, my signature style is usually…
softer. He’s also notorious for playing it safe with designers—nobody new or “risky,” which leaves us out for now.
He does have one or two clients I think he might—one day, when we’ve proven ourselves—dress in one of my designs, but Margaret Haywood isn’t one of them. “That just makes it more unbelievable.”
She shrugs. “I talked to Griff ten minutes ago, and he says Margaret’s open to a gown that’s a little new and different for her. He wants to come meet us both and talk about it.”
My knees feel a little weak. “A gown?” I repeat. She wants a gown… not daywear? Not a few new pieces for her wardrobe from our latest collection?
Calla nods again. “A gown.”
But… didn’t she just finish the tour for her latest movie? Maybe she’s been invited to something else. “Does she have a premiere coming up?”
“No, honey.”
Oh fuck, she wants it for awards season. It’s still early, but the buzz is buzzing, and Margaret’s movie is definitely a top contender in multiple categories—including Best Supporting Actress for her performance. I’ve seen it, and she was amazing.
Oh my god, Hollywood icon Margaret Haywood wants to wear one of my designs when she accepts an award.
“Oh,” I squeak.
“It’s not all good news,” she cautions me. “Griff didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. I got the feeling he’d rather not go with us, even if we do fit the ‘new and different’ criteria, so he might end up being a roadblock.”
My excitement lessens. An unhappy stylist is never fun to work with, even when the client is enthusiastic. “So what happens now?”
“I told him Thursday at two was good for a meeting. There wasn’t anything in your calendar, but I can change it if—”
“No, that’s fine.” It’s as good a time as any.
Cal smiles sympathetically. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll give him the usual tour and spiel, then bring him to meet you. I’m sure he’ll have something in mind, but if it doesn’t work for us, it doesn’t work. Same as always.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod. “Same as always.”