Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
GRIFF
Calla’s smile is distinctly sharklike, for all that she still looks friendly. That’s a special kind of talent.
“You’ve misunderstood me, Griff. I agree that the style we’re most known for wouldn’t be a good match for Margaret, but as you said before, we’re still a young atelier.
You haven’t seen everything we’re capable of yet, and I can assure you, we’re capable of dressing Margaret.
She needs to stick with a classic silhouette, but there’s no reason why we can’t add some fun to it.
Particularly with fabrics. I’m sure she’s tired of solid colors and straight lines.
” She smirks. “Haven’t we established that when it comes to fabric, it’s best to trust me? ”
From the corner of my eye, I see Phil nod, but he still doesn’t say anything. If this is a schtick, I feel like he’s taking it too far. We’re having a business meeting, after all.
Maybe he’s waiting until we get to the actual design details to share his input? Calla handles the business side, while he does the creative?
“What would you do, then?” I counter. Calla might be right about trusting her with fabric—though, so far, I’ve only seen one example to base that on—but that doesn’t mean the design would be right for Margaret.
She shoots a glance at Phil, who’s already getting up and going back into his office. “We have some preliminary concepts to show you,” she says smoothly. “A few different angles that we’re willing to give you some input on, since this is the first time we’ve worked with Margaret—and you.”
I’m not sure how good a job I do of hiding my surprise.
That’s a very generous offer. Since red-carpet gowns are usually just on loan from the designer, we don’t get a lot—or any—input into design.
If we want it, we order a custom gown and pay for it like anyone else would have to.
A few of my clients have done that in the past, especially when the gown was for a particular milestone and they wanted to keep it, but given the sheer volume of red carpets most successful actors and entertainers have to attend during their careers, it’s more practical not to.
After all, it’s not like they can re-wear the clothes without that being a statement in and of itself.
“That’s kind of you,” I say at last as Phil comes back in carrying a manila folder.
He sits, putting it on the coffee table, and we all lean forward as he flips it open and begins laying out the sketches.
In the past when I’ve been shown sketches like this, it was done one at a time so all my attention would be on what the designer was saying, but obviously Phil still doesn’t plan to speak.
There are three designs on the table, and any of the three would suit Margaret well.
Whatever I might think of Phil personally, I can’t deny that he’s a damn talented designer.
Exceptional, even. If he and Calla can keep Phallacy afloat and relevant for long enough to become entrenched, it wouldn’t surprise me to see them become a go-to luxury brand in the future.
Each sketch has a few different fabric swatches pinned to it, presumably to give me an idea of the direction they intend to take.
“Hm,” I murmur, studying the designs. I’d thought—hoped—that they might show me something that would make Margaret a joke, that they’d give me a reason to go back to her and explain why Phallacy aren’t the right choice.
Calla said it herself: A dress like the one Tami Long wore earlier this year—the dress Margaret loved so much—would make her a laughingstock in the fashion press.
Me, too, since I’m the one who dresses her.
Instead, Phil’s designs have the structure Margaret’s statuesque figure needs while still managing to be… floaty. Pretty, not just elegant. And that’s before I even consider the fabrics.
I want to be mad about it, since this means I’m going to need to work with Phil, but it’s impossible to be mad when my client is going to be a red-carpet sensation. No matter who wins the award, Margaret’s going to go viral.
“We’d be happy for Margaret to come in, meet us, and have a look at the designs herself,” Calla offers, smelling my weakness. She knows they’ve got this in the bag.
I lift my gaze to meet hers, but somehow it catches on Phil’s instead.
His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue complemented by the red flush that darkens his cheeks.
I’d wonder if his blushes meant anything, but I served with a ginger who’d go red with the slightest change of emotion, including if it rained just when he was leaving work.
Phil’s probably excited about the idea of designing for Margaret.
Tearing my gaze away, I say to Calla, “There’s no need. She trusts me… and she wants a Phallacy gown,” I add reluctantly.
To their credit, neither of them leaps up to do a victory dance. They just exchange a look and smile.
“Talk to me about this one.” I tap the design on the right. It’s the one I know Margaret will fall in love with, but it’s far from my usual wheelhouse, with a plethora of flounces and fussy embellishments. “Are those butterflies?”
Calla glances at Phil again, and I get the feeling she’s not prepared for this, giving legs to my theory that he handles the creative stuff. So why isn’t he doing that now? Is it me? Do I need to go through some fucked-up initiation ritual to earn having him talk to me?
“They are,” she says, gesturing to the fabric winged insects scattered over the dress. “If Margaret prefers something else—flowers or foliage or whatever—we can definitely do that. We thought the butterflies were on theme with the character she played.”
That’s clever. Margaret’s character in this movie was the garden-loving aunt the lead visited for wisdom and advice.
There’s a widely publicized scene where they’re standing in the garden and a butterfly lands on Margaret’s outstretched hand at precisely the right moment for the lead to have an epiphany about his life.
“Hm” is all I say. “I don’t love the overskirt.” It’s open at the front to show the flowing column of the dress, and it seems needlessly fussy and extra to me.
“It’s hard to convey in a sketch, but the overskirt is what will make the gown stand out. As you can see, we plan to make it from a much lighter fabric”—she taps on the organza swatch near the bottom of the page—“and it’s going to complete the faerie queen theme.”
I blink, sure I heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
Phil’s mouth pulls into a sheepish grimace, and Calla chuckles.
“I’m sorry—that’s what we’ve been calling it.
We see this gown as being a meeting of our signature style with Margaret’s.
Ethereal, floaty, fun, frivolous vs. authoritative, wise, steady, dependable.
Margaret is the queen of the otherwise flighty faeries, regal and responsible in her leadership, but still part of who they are.
” She looks to Phil again, and he gives the tiniest nod.
I turn my attention back to the sketch, looking at it through the lens Calla painted. Margaret will fucking love that concept—the idea that she can merge her stately outer persona with a fun inner self. And I can kind of see how the overskirt is necessary for that. But…
“Could we do some digital modeling with and without the overskirt?”
“Of course.” Calla beams. “That’s the one you want, then?”
My eyes go back to the other two sketches. “Most likely, but if we can’t agree on the overskirt, this would be my next choice.” I tap the middle one. “Are the fabric options final?”
“They’re not even preliminary,” she says frankly. “We had those swatches here and feel they convey the vibe for each design, but I want to do a proper search with the design you choose in mind. We may end up with something completely different.”
I want to ask for final approval of the fabrics, but I won’t get it.
They’ve already let me choose a design and offered to change the embellishments.
If I want anything more, Margaret’s going to need to commission the gown out of pocket, and I doubt she’ll agree to that.
Not when she was willing to take a design from their collection.
“That’s something to look forward to.” I sit back and nod. “I guess the only thing left for us to do today is the paperwork.”
The first thing I do when I get back to the office is forward the contract to Margaret's email and call Katie to let her know.
Then I call Daria.
“Griffin, please tell me you’ve found me something to wear for this video,” she demands without saying hello. “I’ll die if the label gets its way.”
“Don’t measure the coffin just yet,” I say dryly. She claims to be the sensible sibling, which makes me grateful I don’t work directly with Dorian. “I’ve found something.”
Her squeal almost pierces my eardrum. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s a custom designer piece, so if you decide you want to wear the same style on tour, it’s going to get expensive,” I warn.
Daria has sensory issues with clothing, particularly when she’s playing the drums. Until recently, her go-to onstage has been a sports bra and an oversize tank top—something with a very loose neck and armholes so she doesn’t feel like she’s “in a straitjacket.”
However, some asshat at the label has decided that’s no longer the look they want for her, and they’re flexing hard to have their stylist dress her for anything related to her music.
Their bass player, who’s half in love with her and a hard-ass, managed to convince the paper pushers that Daria’s stylist—that’s me—could handle it and they should hire me to style the whole band for their next album.
They agreed to one music video, with potential for more if they liked the outcome.
I’m not fooling myself here—their in-house style team will have something ready to go for that video if I can’t deliver exactly the vibe the director wants. But I’ve been working closely with her, and I’ve got this.
“I don’t care,” she says wildly. “I’ll pay anything. You saw what they wanted me to wear, Griffin! I can’t play the drums in long sleeves.” I can almost hear her shudder.
“You won’t have to,” I promise, a little recklessly. “This top’s got a nice wide neckline and loose straps. It won’t hug your torso either. I’ve got them making one for the video, and we’ll go from there.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” she declares. “I’d offer sexual favors as thanks, but they’d be wasted on you. Unless… you could have Dorian?”
I snort. “Just pay the invoice on time and tell people I dress you. No need to pimp out your brother.” It didn’t take me long to learn that professionalism was wasted on Daria. Her brand of no-bullshit is completely unfiltered.
She tells me she loves me again and then hangs up before I can say goodbye.
“Did I hear something about a brother being pimped?”
Tossing my phone on the desk, I swivel my chair to face Adam. He’s got his elbow propped on his desk, chin planted in palm, and a look of avid delight in his eyes.
If I’m a “straight-passing” gay man, Adam is the opposite. He once told me that he was swishing with his first steps and never looked back. He’s over-the-top, exhausting, and one of my favorite people… even if we’re complete opposites.
“Daria,” I explain, and he instantly fake swoons.
“She offered to pimp Dorian to you, and you said no? How could you, Griff?”
“It was easy. I don’t want to be sued. Or fuck Dorian,” I tack on.
“But I do. Not get sued, the other part. You should have said yes so I could trade you for the privilege!”
I grimace. “That’s gross, man.” I might not know Dorian well, but he’s a person.
Adam sighs. “Yeah, I heard it and wanted to take it back, but it was already out there. You know words, darling. They can’t be unsaid.” He tilts his head. “Or maybe you don’t know words, since you hardly say them.”
The right response is probably some kind of snappy quip, but as he just pointed out, I’m not great with words.
I grunt instead.