Epilogue
GRIFF
MARCH
“Are you nearly done?” I ask Elise even though I can see that she is. Mostly I say it to prompt everyone else to be ready.
“Sure am,” Elise replies, knowing exactly what I’m doing. She doesn’t take her gaze off Margaret’s mouth, to which she’s painstakingly applying lipstick with a brush. A moment later, she passes Margaret a tissue. “Blot.”
Margaret’s an old hand at this and obeys without smudging anything. Elise sets her lipstick with translucent powder, touches it up, then applies gloss over the top. “Katie, do you have her clutch?”
Katie races forward to take the gloss and lipstick, while Elise sprays Margaret’s whole face with the kind of setting spray that’s used by synchronized swimmers.
It’s basically hairspray, and not really necessary, but Margaret hates touching up anything more than lipstick, and this will ensure that her makeup doesn’t budge.
I never thought I’d learn so much about makeup when I became a stylist, but it’s an important part of a lot of ensembles.
It’s not enough for me to just point to an inspo photo or tell the artist what colors my client is wearing.
The same goes for hair, which Trey comes to touch up while Elise fans the setting spray dry. I can pick a hairstyle to suit what my client is wearing, but it doesn’t mean my client’s hair can do that style. Working collaboratively with the hairstylist and my client gets a better result every time.
Elise steps back, and Trey gives me the nod. I smile at Margaret. “Ready?”
She smiles back, her eyes sparkling. “It’s ridiculous that I’m so excited. I’ve done this a million times.”
“So what?” I offer her a hand, and she accepts it and rises from the makeup chair, then precedes me over to where her gown awaits. Katie and Rose, who does all Margaret’s PR, are hovering, ready to help.
Margaret glances at me anxiously. “Is Phil—”
The knock on the suite door is timed perfectly. “That’ll be him now,” I assure her as Rose goes to answer it. “He needed to take a phone call.”
My boyfriend enters, smiling wide, and crosses to join us. “Hello, Margaret.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I know his anxiety is riding him.
Probably because it’s such a big night for Phallacy—aside from Margaret’s custom gown, two other actors are wearing designs from his last collection.
Neither of them is as big a name as Margaret yet, but one is definitely an up-and-comer.
Phallacy’s had a great run this awards season, but tonight will be the jewel in the crown, and we were expecting that Phil would be anxious at the least and possibly nonverbal.
“Thank you for coming,” Margaret gushes, reaching out to him with both arms. “I know it’s a little unusual.”
“Happy to be here.” He air-kisses both her cheeks, being careful not to muss anything, then steps back and offers his hand to Katie.
She takes it in both of hers and squeezes but doesn’t say anything. It’s been a rough few months for her as she processed what her mom did, helped her prepare for her court appearance, and dealt with the fallout in their family.
After Spears interviewed Mary in Vegas, he came to see us and explained the whole situation.
She’d tied her own self-image and self-esteem to that of celebrities like Margaret—women of a similar age to her who were noted for having a classic, inoffensive style, who the fashion press called “elegant” and “timeless.” She especially idolized Margaret, who not only fit that profile but also hired Katie.
In Mary’s mind, that gave them a connection, made them contemporaries of sorts.
She loved hearing from Katie all about Margaret’s clothes and plans for red-carpet gowns.
So when Katie told her Margaret would be wearing a new designer this year, she looked him up and had the same thoughts that I initially did: Phallacy wouldn’t design a dress in Margaret’s signature style.
Also like me, she wanted to give Phil the chance to prove her wrong and decided to send some encouragement. Hence the email and card.
Then Katie showed her the dress, and, unlike me, she couldn’t see how it was still Margaret’s style, just a new interpretation.
She saw her fashion icon discarding the look they both wore, and it made her feel old and irrelevant.
According to her, she spent two days crying, then saw the photos of me and Phil, with the caption hinting about a collaboration, and that pushed her from depression to anger.
The effigy was a rage-and-hormone fueled impulse that she regretted before she even got home from delivering it, but when she tried to get the box back, it was too late.
She panicked, convinced the police would be after her, and tried to disappear, but after a couple of days, the guilt got to her, so she decided she needed to apologize to Phil and turn herself in.
In a freak coincidence, she arrived to stake out his apartment just as Phil and I were leaving for Vegas, and she followed us there.
It’s the weirdest fucking story I’ve heard in a long time, but it also kind of makes sense.
Phil, being Phil, feels bad for her. I’m less forgiving, but I understand that people can make stupid mistakes.
She was charged with misdemeanor stalking, and Spears said a good lawyer might be able to get those charges dismissed in a jury trial, but Mary insisted on pleading guilty and negotiating a deal.
Apparently, she hadn’t been coping well with menopause and hormonal dysregulation, which the judge took into account.
She’s got twelve months’ probation and community service, mandated therapy and medical assessments, and paid a thousand-dollar fine.
Phil also has a restraining order against her.
It could have been a lot worse, since she crossed state lines to talk to us in Vegas.
Whatever, it’s over now. She’s not our problem anymore.
One thing that came of the whole situation that might not be terrible is that Phil, after a few rough weeks, decided he wanted to try therapy again himself.
We did a lot of research, and eventually he decided on someone who has extensive experience working with adults with selective mutism.
He’s only had a couple of sessions so far, but they were positive.
She told him he’s doing a great job managing his anxiety, suggested a few more things he can add to his “tool kit” for when it gets bad and also gave him a low-dose prescription for anxiety meds—not to “make things better,” but to take the edge off when he’s having a bad day.
Today was the first day he took one, and when he texted earlier, he said he thought it was helping a little—that he didn’t feel as anxious as he’d expected to.
I’m glad about anything that helps, and I’ll keep supporting him however he needs me to.
Together, we get Margaret into her gown, and then Phil and I fuss with the details, making sure the embellishments are all sitting right and deciding which angle will look best for photos.
We almost argue at one point when we disagree, but then he sighs and concedes that I have more experience in this area.
I talk Rose and Katie, who are going with Margaret, through all the details of how her gown should look on the red carpet. They humor me by listening even though they’ve done this dozens of times before and were paying attention while Phil and I worked it out with Margaret.
Then I take both of Margaret’s hands in mine, air-kiss her cheeks, and say, “You’re going to be a sensation. I can’t wait to see the headlines.”
She’s too sensible to get misty-eyed, but I can see the emotion in her face. “Thanks for indulging me, Griff. I feel like a faerie queen, and I never thought I would at my age.”
I laugh. “You’re a faerie queen, but I got prince charming. I should be thanking you.”
Phil flushes, but he’s smiling. He kisses Margaret again, and then we walk her out of the suite and to the elevator that will whisk her down to where a car is waiting to take her to the Dolby Theatre. She can’t be late—red-carpet arrivals are strictly scheduled.
Once they’re gone, I lean against the wall beside the elevator and pull Phil into my arms. “That’s always a rush.”
He leans his head against my shoulder and doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the side of my neck.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask softly. We’re supposed to meet up with the team from Style Me to watch the red-carpet coverage—Damian sprang for a suite here at the Four Seasons, since most of our clients were getting ready here anyway and it would be easier for us. But it won’t upset me to leave.
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to miss it.”
We have missed some of it, of course. Margaret’s a big enough name that her arrival slot is a premium one, so everyone else is already in the suite, glued to both the TV and their socials.
Phil goes to sit with Harold, who started working at Style Me in January just like I thought he would, and Calla, who was invited tonight as Harold’s plus-one.
Though, I’m pretty sure Damian wouldn’t have cared if she’d just come anyway.
I swing past the table that’s set up with drinks and snacks, then join them.
“How’s it going?”
“Good,” Harold tells me. “Lina Heath just went in, and they loved her.” Lina’s a client of Adam, who’s currently got his head together with Damian in front of his laptop, presumably waiting for the first comments from the fashion press.
We watch another two celebrities do their walk—
“Yes!” Adam leaps to his feet, pumping his fist. “Yes, Lina, baby! ‘Stunning’ and ‘mesmerizing’!”
I holler as the others clap and cheer, and then Adam goes back to scouring the internet while we all keep watching.
Some of it’s interesting, seeing what different stylists and designers have opted to do, and by “interesting,” I mean I’m—at different times—jealous and appalled.
Mostly, it’s boring. A lot of the ensembles are straight from designer collections, which means we’ve already seen them and it’s the styling choices that are supposed to set them apart…
but most actors play it safe, so there’s only so many ways you can style a tuxedo or evening gown.
“Everyone still good for the ball game next weekend?” Calla asks. “Blaise said Jordan got us all seats.”
“Can’t wait,” Harold confirms. “I brought forward an appointment with Theo just so I could mention it and watch him writhe with jealousy.” The smug satisfaction in his tone makes me want to roll my eyes.
Theo’s his ex-boss, who, in a turn of events that shocked everyone, is now one of Harold’s clients…
even though they seemingly seethe with mutual disdain.
I’ve cemented my place among Phil’s friends because I keep them updated with every morsel of gossip when Harold has an appointment with Theo.
Though they do also like me because I love Phil. It’s just that gossip makes better currency, and they love being able to tease Harold.
The latest black car in the line pulls up in front of the carpet, and on the side facing away, a familiar form gets out. Katie. I hush everyone. “Shut up, shut up…. Here we go.”
The usher opens the car door, and Margaret slowly emerges. The door is still blocking most of her from the cameras, and I know she’s using that to make sure she’s presentable. Then she steps clear of it, into full view, and my colleagues gasp.
“Well done,” Amina murmurs. “Both of you.”
We watch Margaret traverse the carpet, stopping for photos, then interviews.
“You’ve taken my breath away,” one reporter says. “Who are you wearing, and what brought on this metamorphosis?”
Margaret’s smile is just the right amount of aloof and mysterious. “This role was so special for me, and I knew I needed a special gown to reflect it. Nobody but Phallacy could have done this without forcing me out of my comfort zone.”
“Oh,” Calla says, and when I glance over at Phil, his eyes are misty.
Then, as Margaret disappears into the theater, I join Damian in scouring the fashion and entertainment sites and socials.
It’s Marie Claire that posts first.
Margaret Haywood is romantic and evocative in custom Phallacy.
Then Vogue.
In a departure from her usual style, Haywood’s fashion rebirth is reminiscent of a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis.
More follow, fast and flattering to both Margaret and Phil, and the suite erupts in cheers as I grab his hand and pull him to me for a big, wet kiss.
“Congratulations,” he whispers, his eyes shining with happiness and love. “You did it. You made her dream come true.”
“We did it, sweetheart,” I correct. “You and me, together.”
Together, forever.
Thanks for reading Couture!