Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m not worth a style columnist’s time. Ouch.
I mean, I already knew that was true—hence me telling my stylist that we needed to change things up—but hearing it from a man who has a reputation for creating trends gives it a weight it didn’t have before. The kind of weight that hurts like hell when you drop it on your foot.
The critique of my clothes that I agonized over for so long stings too.
He’s not dressed that different from me in jeans and a dress shirt with the sleeves loosely rolled halfway up his deep brown forearms, but even I can admit that he looks like he could be a movie star, while I look…
fine. Ordinary. Forgettable. How did he put it?
Like a guy who bought whatever the department store had out on the rack.
Considering how much this blazer cost, and that it was tailored to fit me, that’s a real kick in the teeth.
Straightening my shoulders, I pull myself together and ask, “Anything else I should know?” If he’s not going to help me, I’m taking as much free advice as I can weasel out of him before I leave.
He smiles, teeth flashing white against his dark skin, and it’s only sheer force of will that keeps me from breaking down. Why is it always the insanely attractive guys who are assholes?
“Too much to cover today, but there’s plenty of time for you to pick up details.” He stands, and I do too, but instead of ushering me toward the door, he goes over to his desk and grabs a tablet. “Do you need anything? A drink, or something to eat? We’ll be here for a while yet.”
I stare in confusion as he comes back toward me. “We will?”
“Yeah.” He sits again, and gestures for me to do the same. “Do you have a schedule of your upcoming events, or do I need to contact your publicist for that?”
My knees must be smarter than my brain, because they catch on first, bending so I can sink somewhat gracefully back into my chair.
“Uh, I have it.” Does this mean…? “You’re going to help me?
” I sound less confident than I’d like, but I’m genuinely shocked.
After what he said, I figured any slim chance I might have had was gone.
Damian looks up from whatever he’s doing on the tablet. “I think so. It’ll depend on whether we agree on what direction to take with your style. I don’t let my clients dictate my job, but there’s no point in me dressing you if you hate my vision for you.”
I can get on board with that. “As you’ve pointed out, I have no idea what I’m doing.
No offense, but I don’t get fashion. Clothes are clothes.
But I know that in my industry, skill is only going to get me so far.
I need attention to get the roles I want—studios need to know that people will show up if my name’s on the marquee.
Because my name’s on the marquee,” I correct.
“That means I have to be popular; people need to know who I am, even if they don’t watch the show.
I need to appear in magazine spreads, and I need to go viral on social media.
And it needs to be for a positive reason.
” I take a breath. “If your vision will get me that, I’m probably not going to hate it. ” I hope.
He studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes expressionless.
“Obviously I can’t make promises on behalf of the studios,” he says at last. “But none of my clients have ever been ignored by photographers and fashion reporters.” He turns the tablet around, displaying a collage of photos of me on red carpets.
Some are from this year, but most are older.
“Your previous style was very classic and blocky, and that was a mistake. You don’t have the body type for that, and the result is awkward.
” He swipes a finger across the screen. “We wouldn’t replicate these looks, of course, but this is more the fit and style I’d put you in. ”
I stare at the pictures on the screen now.
They’re a mix of five different actors, including Timothee Chalamet, Neil Patrick Harris, and Andrew Garfield, and even I can see what message Damian’s aiming for.
My chest tightens with anxiety I’m not sure I can verbalize without sounding like an asshole.
That’s not going to stop me from giving it a shot.
“I’m not sure how much you know about me,” I start, choosing my words carefully, “but I haven’t kept it a secret that I’m gay. I’m publicly out.”
He nods. “Yes, I knew that.”
Of course he did. Fuck.
“I don’t want the statement I make on the red carpet to be ‘gay actor.’”
His brow arches, and I get the distinct impression that I’ve lost points with him. “Clothes can’t make you gay. Only one of these actors”—he gives the tablet a little jostle—“identifies as queer.”
“I know that.” Dammit, how do I make this point?
“But if the openly gay man wears a big drapey scarf or a suit with flowers on it, that’s the connection people are going to make.
” His eyes narrow, so I push on forcefully.
“I’m not ashamed of being gay and I don’t want to keep it secret.
But I’m not someone who loves fashion, and I don’t want to become the fashionista gay actor.
” I stop, frustrated that I can’t find the right words to make him understand.
“Trust me,” he says, a tiny smile quirking his lips, “nobody’s going to call you that.”
I’m so relieved he’s not offended that I don’t even care if he’s mocking me. Though it doesn’t seem as harsh as mocking… maybe teasing? I can live with being teased.
“I don’t want to be typecast,” I say quietly. “I’m already fighting that, and this could make it worse.”
He leans forward, holding the tablet out to me.
“We both agree that fashion isn’t one of your gifts, but try to see what I do in these pictures.
Don’t focus on the pattern of the fabric or the accessories just yet.
Look at the way the clothes fit. The way the colors suit them.
You’ve been sticking to pedestrian, boxy styles, and they dwarf you. You disappear in them.”
I become invisible.
I study the screen again, trying to imagine myself in one of those suits. “So you’re not going to put me in something floral?” I check.
Damian shrugs and pulls the tablet back. “No promises. I don’t know what will come up down the road. But I will promise that if that happens, you’ll have okayed it first.”
I can’t imagine ever doing that, so future me won’t have to worry about it.
“Deal.”