Constance #2
Next was the oversized lilac linen suit, my favorite of today’s lot.
Tyler’s first Cannes event was a photo-call for something called “Talent to Watch.” Instinctively, I edged closer but resisted the urge to feel the fabric between my fingers.
It had always been my thing. I needed to touch the clothes, to acquaint myself with them on a physical level.
That was how they told me who they were and what they could be.
I liked how summery the pastel color looked on Tyler, how youthful, but I kept my thoughts to myself as he studied his reflection in the mirror.
“You know how many girls DM’d me about the floral jumpsuit from The Backup Guy press day?” he said.
We both knew that outfit—from our first time working together, a few weeks ago—had been a stroke of, well, I’d never call myself a genius.
For a minute, it had been everywhere on social media.
The designers were so delighted with the windfall, they sent me flowers to celebrate.
It had been my first success as a solo stylist, the reason Tyler’s team had approved of him hiring me going forward.
It was the fuel that had powered me all the way to Cannes.
“That was a good outfit,” I said proudly.
Tyler turned around and looked at me, smiling. Ah, that smile.
“Put together by a very good stylist. I’m a lucky guy.”
He was newly single, at least according to the gossip sites. He had charm in spades. And he was probably like that with all the girls.
He tried on the last option we’d preselected for this event.
This one was caramel, in a wet-looking vinyl.
It was edgy, but I wondered if it was trying too hard for a first Cannes impression.
Plus the designer had recently posted statements on social media that had a whiff of racism, to put it nicely.
But Tyler had liked it enough in the photos for me to bring it over. His wish, my command.
I took photos again and airdropped them to Tyler’s phone. We sat on the bed, close—too close—as we studied them, zooming in on details on our respective devices.
Tyler scrunched up his face.
“I’m thinking the lilac?”
“How are you so perfect?”
I practically slapped my mouth, trying to swallow the words back.
Shit. Since getting fired, I’d had plenty of time to think about my relationships with men.
The conclusion was obvious: I was the problem.
I was the reason my ex-boyfriend had cheated on me.
It was my fault that I’d fallen for someone who was so out of my league.
My own father didn’t even bother calling me on my birthday.
That’s really all you need to know about me.
Constance Griffin picks the right clothes and the wrong men.
It sounds so simple, put like that. But it was far from it in my head.
I shot up from the bed, grabbed the lilac suit jacket, and held it against Tyler.
“I mean, it’s a perfect soft entry into Cannes, a blend of masculine and feminine. The designer is under the radar now, but I think he’s going to be huge.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll be the one who wore the label first. Everybody’s in Valentino or Prada or Tom Ford.” I was rambling now, so much I didn’t notice the trap I’d laid for myself.
“So why aren’t I in Valentino or Prada or Tom Ford?”
Again, there was a simple answer: me. A stylist was only as good as her network, and I was starting from nothing.
Worse, from ten steps behind. I definitely couldn’t use my ex-boss’s name to get into anyone’s good graces.
It still haunted me, the look on her face when she told me she was letting me go—a trifecta of disgust, disappointment, and shock.
But Tyler didn’t know about my bad reputation, or at least he’d never mentioned it.
I had to hang on to that. “Because you’re young, and you’re taking your career in unexpected places. You’re defying expectations. Your looks should match.”
He nodded, pensive.
A fire lit inside me. I had to seal this deal. It was such a good look for him.
“You’re not just cool: You’re inventing what cool is going to mean for the new generation.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” Tyler said. “The color is beautiful.”
His smile was a jolt of hope.
While he stripped out of the last outfit, I texted the picture of him in the lilac suit to the designer with three exclamation marks. I should have waited. That’s what a professional would have done, but I couldn’t help myself.
It was early morning in New York, but the designer wrote back almost immediately: For real?
Yes, I typed back, giddy. Get ready for the PR storm!
Omg, thank you, Connie!
I could have cried. I had always known this was what I was meant to do with my life. To dress people so they could look their best in the most important moments of their careers and to help talented designers find the spotlight.
Feeling ten pounds lighter, I packed the discarded outfits away. Tyler and I headed back to the living room to discuss styles for his second event, a lunch hosted by a champagne brand. I was awaiting deliveries, but for now I had pictures to show him.
His phone buzzed.
“Seth says the lilac won’t appeal to the older women demographic. And he thinks it’s washing me out.”
Seth was Tyler’s agent, an old-school guy who didn’t know anything about fashion. Who shouldn’t get a say.
I tried to hide my reaction. “What do you think?”
Tyler pouted. “I don’t know… I like the look.”
“It suits you so well.”
“Um.”
There were a few more texts between Seth and him.
“I’m sorry, Connie,” Tyler said at last, putting his phone face down. “Seth keeps saying I have a lot riding on Cannes. He likes the caramel outfit.”
My own phone beeped now, saving me from having to look him in the eye.
When’s the event again? I want to make sure we share the pictures as soon as they land. Soooo exciting!
I really should have kept my mouth shut.
“You’re the boss,” I said to Tyler, in a way that I hoped sounded light enough.
I should have warned the designer that there would be no pictures, that the PR storm I’d just promised wouldn’t materialize, because I couldn’t even convince my client to wear the best outfit for him.
But obviously, in the grand scheme of horrible things I’d done, and the few more I was about to do, this little bleep barely registered in the end.
Tyler placed his hand on mine, startling me. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
“Tell me you still like me?” he said, with a cute frown. “Or at least, that you don’t hate me?”
“I could never,” I said.
That was the truth. The fact that Tyler Charles had agreed to work with me was beyond luck.
It was salvation. I’d do what I needed to do.
That’s why, when his face hovered over mine, I didn’t move.
I knew what could happen when lines were crossed, when business was mixed with a little too much pleasure.
And you’ve seen him. I mean, what a freaking catch. And maybe this time would be different.
Yes, that’s right. For a moment there, I genuinely thought this time could be different.