“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 thingI 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 inlong 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, Ilove 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 saidno? How could you, Griff?”
“It was easy. I don’t want to be sued. Or fuck Dorian,” I tack on.
