No.
“Who?” It’s strangled, but thankfully still recognizable as a word.
“You know, the one Tami Long wore for the Golden Globes. Kane Fortney wears them all the time now. Phallic, or something.”
“Phallacy.” Oh, fuck.
“That’s the one. Every one of their gowns that I’ve seen has been pretty.”
“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage. Thanks to Kane and Damian, Phallacy had a strong showing this past awards season, and they earned it. I won’t deny that they’ve got a lot of talent. But Margaret’s right—those gowns were all pretty. Pretty and floaty and ethereal.
I’m a big supporter of people wearing what they feel good in, no matter what some random stranger may think “suits” them. But in my industry, it’s naïve to think an actor won’t be ripped to shreds in the media and by the general public for their clothing choices. The designers at Phallacy are talented, but they’re new, and I’m not convinced they can tailor their designs to suit Margaret.
That’s a problem for the future.
I wrap up the call, finish my coffee in three huge gulps, and mentally rearrange the rest of my week.
Then, with no shits left to give, I open the email that irritated me so much before, hit reply, and type,No.
CHAPTER TWO
PHIL
LATE NOVEMBER
To the untrained observer,it might look like I’m staring into space. It might look like I’m standing in the middle of my office in the ridiculously expensive suite of rooms we rent—seriously, real estate prices in Downtown LA are heart-attack-inducingly obscene—not doing anything except maybe daydreaming. That observer would probably be some kind of finance bro. Maybe an athlete or an accountant… or one of those management consultant types who likes to squeeze the “value” out of every second.
In other words, a person who doesn’t understand how the creative brain works. Yeah, I might find a lot of my inspiration while I’mdoingorseeingorparticipating, but some of my best design ideas come to me while I’m dead asleep and my brain isresting. Not the most convenient thing, and my eyes-half-closed-three-in-the-morning sketches often lack important details, but that’s what times like this are for.
Times when I stand in my office, stare at a sketch or a bolt of fabric or—in this case—a toile and try to work out what’s wrongwith it. Because it might technically be what I envisioned when I designed it, but it’s also not. It’s wrong.
Ugh. Why can’t the vision in my head just magically transform into the finished physical manifestation?
I instantly wish I could snatch that thought back. Sure, it might seem like that would be easier, but it would rob me of the countless hours of joy as I painstakingly sketch and resketch, convert said sketch to an actual pattern, go through a million fabric swatches that aren’t right, cut and construct the garments, then make adjustments and do all the fussy finishes. I might have to sacrifice the cramped muscles in my hands and back—maybe even the calluses on my fingers from endless hand-beading. Other people might find those things tedious, painful, and annoying—and yeah, I’ve complained about them a lot myself—but I still love every second of the creative process that takes an image in my brain to a real, wearable piece of art.
Although, to be fair, I don’t always do every step myself anymore. Calla convinced me a couple of years ago that we needed to hire a pattern cutter and seamstress, and since then we’ve expanded more. But I still like to keep my hand in, and sometimes I’ll work on parts of a project that should technically be someone else’s job.
Lucky I do, or I might not notice when I’ve somehow fucked up until it’s too late. Like now.
Sighing, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hoping the slightly—veryslightly—different angle will give me new perspective. It doesn’t.
Maybe I need a second opinion. Calla’s, to be specific. It’s not easy to get feedback on something like this when the version I’m comparing it to exists only in my head, but Calla’s the best friend I’ve ever had and knows me better than anyone. Since we went into business together, we’ve only gotten closer, and if anyone can guess what I’m thinking, it’s her. Which is just as well,since sometimes when we’re in meetings with others she literally needs to guess what I’m thinking because I can’t say it.
On cue, frustrated shame with a dash of self-hatred jabs at me, but I shove it back into its box. I’ve had enough support from friends over the past decade to know it’s not my fault I struggle to speak sometimes, and negative thoughts aren’t going to help or change anything. I’ve heard it from doctors and done the research, and I know my selective mutism is the result of an anxiety disorder, not shyness. Some of my closer friends, including Calla, have gently suggested seeing a professional, but just thinking about that breaks me out in a cold sweat. My parents dragged me to a million “experts” when I was a kid, and none of it helped. Not the talk therapy where I couldn’t talk, not the meds that made my brain fuzzy—none of it. Maybe it would be different as an adult, but I doubt that paying for a fifty-minute therapy session during which I can’t even explain the situation to the therapist will be productive. Maybe one day.
The knock breaks me from my not-that-great thoughts, and even as I turn toward the door, it opens. Nobody here waits for me to tell them to come in. I don’t usually go nonverbal when I’m alone in my office, but it’s been known to happen if I’m having a particularly bad day, so the system is knock-and-enter. If I really don’t want to be disturbed, I’ll lock the door or make sure everyone knows to send me a message instead.
Calla strolls in, closes the door behind her, and immediately goes to sit on my desk.
I snort. “There’s a chair right there beside you.”
The cheeky grin she shoots me is exactly what I expected. We’ve had this conversation a million times before. “I think better here.”
“Great.” I gesture toward the dress form with the toile of my new design on it. “Think about that and why it’s a disaster.”
She glances at it. “Is this for the McLaren wedding?”
“Yeah. The fitting’s in two weeks, but I can’t show herthis.” I’d die of humiliation. The McLarens are robber-baron-ancestor wealthy and wield a lot of power and influence among their peers. Pamela McLaren, the mother of the bride, wearing one of my designs in what’s being touted as the wedding of the year would be a huge step forward for us. We’re already getting noticed in Hollywood circles, thanks to Kane Fortney and Tami Long, but this could boost us in another direction. The wedding is going to be highly photographed, and the guest list includes several European royals who I’d love to design clothes for.
