Constance
If the point is to be honest, then I’ll admit this now: I had one good reason for coming to Cannes and one very bad one. Of course, I didn’t see it like that at the time. I was so certain I had everything under control.
Because officially, I was in Cannes for Tyler Charles, who I was on my way to meet at a villa outside of town.
The ride there was idyllic, the stuff of fairy tales.
The beaten-up Uber drove through a medieval village resting atop a hill.
I opened the car window, eager to smell the pine trees lining the road.
I’ve always loved a full sensory experience.
Feeling all of the feelings, life in Technicolor.
The root of my demise, but more on that later.
The afternoon sun cast a stunning glow on the tiled roofs.
Shutters in various shades of pastels framed every window of the sweet little stone houses.
The scenery was dreamy, but it wasn’t enough to drown the nightmarish thoughts in my head.
I was a pervert, a sex maniac, no more mature than a lovelorn teenager having a psychotic breakdown and camping outside her crush’s home.
On my darkest days, I even wondered if I’d chosen this career to satisfy vices I didn’t even know I had.
Part of my job as a stylist consisted of spending time in close quarters with quasi-naked strangers.
I would crawl under a woman’s dress to help remove her underwear because it might show in certain lights.
Or I’d ask a man to bend forward and stick his butt out at me, ensuring the line of his pants was undisturbed.
At first I’d felt weird about that kind of proximity.
Apologized even. I’m so sorry, I’m going to smooth this fabric over your stomach.
But over time, being surrounded by nipples showing through sheer fabric and tight crotches leaving nothing to the imagination had become second nature.
Like I was in my element. See? That’s what a pervert would think.
In fact, being a stylist came with all sorts of dubious assets, like the fact that I knew the routes and schedules of every delivery company well enough to execute the perfect gang robbery. This job had turned me into a pathological liar, too. Or maybe I’d always been one.
But then, how to explain that Tyler Charles had chosen me?
At twenty-four, Tyler had built a solid reputation as an indie darling, earning him SAG Award and Golden Globe nominations.
No wins yet, but at his age, losing was fine.
Expected even. Men could get back in the saddle so quickly.
Next he shot a much-anticipated biopic, and now, among other exciting projects, there were rumors he was being considered for a Marvel movie.
A new stratosphere awaited. And he was taking me with him.
This had the potential to be the best revenge arc ever. If only I really felt that way.
I stood outside the villa where Tyler was staying, my eyes trying to adjust to its grandeur.
The Uber had driven to the outskirts of the village, then down a private paved road, before dropping me off here.
The house was flat roofed, all-white columns and glass walls.
Modern. Blindingly so. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Hollywood Hills, down to the cacti lining the path to the front door.
The bell sounded French at least. Melodic, birdlike.
I took a deep breath.
“My favorite person!” Tyler said as he opened the door.
He was skinny but broad, not very tall and with a sparkling smile. He wore a white tank top, a black cap, and loose gray pants that hung off his hips. Tyler had just come back from filming in Turkey, and his brown skin—inherited from his Moroccan-born parents—was glowing.
I made a mental note to seek out warmer tones for him, perhaps rust or ocher, as I let him hug me. I regretted it immediately; I should have gone for a much more professional handshake. Tyler was five years younger; I should know better.
“What a wild coincidence: My favorite person is here too!”
It was supposed to be witty, but my voice sounded all croaky. Even deeper and huskier than usual. I wasn’t the best at jokes anyway, especially after months of blackhearted depression.
Tyler waved me inside. “I bet you say that to all of your clients.”
I chuckled awkwardly, hoping he wouldn’t notice my lack of response. I was determined not to lie to him.
He was excited about the house and wanted to give me a tour.
Sunlight pierced through every window and bounced off the cream furniture.
The swimming pool, off the living room, was shaded by a row of palm trees.
The house belonged to family friends, who had offered it to him while he was in Cannes.
Tyler didn’t see the point of taking up a room at the Martinez when he could enjoy a reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the festival.
Highly successful people baffled me sometimes. They could afford to carelessly reject things that the rest of us would kill to have.
“Shall I get us something to drink?” Tyler said, leading us back to the living room via the all-white kitchen. My hotel room could have fit in it twice over.
“I’d rather get to work.”
In a panic, I pointed at the garment bags I’d brought with me, which I’d laid down on one of the couches as I walked in.
He looked flustered, but only briefly. “Sure. Down to business.”
I hadn’t meant to sound so cold. What was wrong with me? Aside from, well, everything.
“You should get something; I’ll wait.”
“It’s okay.”
I couldn’t stand the tension and dared a glance toward the kitchen.
“What do you have?”
Tyler headed there to find out. I exhaled, my shoulders releasing ever so slightly. Maybe it was a mistake, working for such a handsome guy. I didn’t know how to be around people like him.
I heard the fridge open and close.
“Everything you can think of,” Tyler said. “And the liquor cabinet is pretty well stocked, too.”
“Coffee?” I said.
Coffee was neutral. Coffee would not get me in trouble.
“Yeah, they have this mean espresso machine. Give me a couple.”
I used the time to breathe. I was the stylist to one of the rising stars of his generation.
That’s why I was here. My other client, Julie Lillie, was on her way to Cannes, though she was—how would you put it—of a different caliber.
While Tyler Charles was an A-list actor in the making who was paying me real money—or at least his movie studio was—Julie Lillie was a middling social media influencer invited by a brand sponsoring the festival.
She had only agreed to a measly fee for my services, swearing the exposure would be the true payment.
I didn’t believe it, but I needed her. One client in Cannes could be construed as a fluke.
Two was a business. It was me, rising from the ashes of a fire I’d lit all by myself.
The coffee was, indeed, mean. I drank it in two greedy gulps, ignoring Tyler’s perplexed look. He’d made one for himself too but was savoring it.
“So good,” I said, a way to excuse my behavior. “What can’t you do?”
He glanced at the garment bags. “Pick an outfit?”
***
In his gigantic bedroom, I unzipped the first bag.
I’d called these pieces over from up-and-coming designers whose names were circling around the fashion world.
Hi, I’m Constance Griffin, Tyler Charles’s stylist. I would love to put him in this suit.
It’s for Cannes. I was still getting used to being able to throw Tyler’s name around, to witnessing the power it yielded.
It made me feel like I was turning my life around, like maybe I hadn’t destroyed everything.
I handed Tyler the pants. They were made in a rich navy velvet, but surprisingly lightweight. He undressed so quickly, without warning, that I forgot to turn around.
“What?” he said.
I was staring. Again, what was wrong with me?
“Nothing.”
I helped him into the black leather vest that came with it and buttoned it up. Tyler smelled like sea salt and hair gel, the luxury kind. I stepped back and studied him from a more appropriate distance.
“It’s kind of funny how you literally dress me. Like I’m a nineteenth-century British gentleman,” he said.
“That’s the job. I’m just doing what I’m being paid to do.”
I’d met Tyler last year, when I hadn’t yet been fired from my job assisting Carly Wolf, the stylist to the stars who was now kind of a star herself. Tyler had come to a fitting of his girlfriend at the time, a pop singer who favored hair extensions in every color of the rainbow.
Then my job mostly consisted of managing elaborate spreadsheets, cataloging items we received, and making sure they’d be shipped back to the designers who’d sent them.
I spent more time tracking shipments online than touching actual clothes.
Still, it was a job a million girls would kill for.
And it was the job that had nearly killed me.
When clients brought guests, I looked after them.
Fetched them drinks, took their lunch order, found a charging cable for their phone.
Tyler and I had ended up talking for a while, discussing everything from our favorite beaches and go-to vegetarian recipes to the best boxing classes we’d tried in Los Angeles.
I only saw him a handful of times, but when I contacted him two months ago, he remembered me.
He didn’t ask a single question when I told him I no longer worked for Carly Wolf.
Him giving me a shot as his stylist had been the sliver of light I’d desperately needed.
A new beginning. A possible future after I’d ruined my career in such a pathetic way. Never again.
I took pictures of Tyler in the outfit, as I always did, so we could keep track of what worked and what didn’t. He made silly faces, the peace sign with his fingers. He was always in a good mood. It made me uneasy.