“Please? Just ask. And if he says yes, we’ll be on our best behavior,” Butch swears. As if I believe that.
But part of me does want to show Griff off, and even if it’s technically only been one date, our relationship has legs already, so I send him a text.
How would you feel about lunch with my friends next weekend? You can say no.
“I’ve asked. Now, let’s talk about—” My phone dings.
I’d love to.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
GRIFF
My callwith Daria to let her know about me and Phil went so well—“Well, duh, Griff. Anyone could see you’re down bad for him.”—that I called Katie to set up a meeting with Margaret too. It’s a weird situation. Normally I would have done a face-to-face with Daria about this, since I was the one who introduced her to the idea of wearing Phallacy. If anyone can claim that I used bias, it’s her. But I knew she wouldn’t care, and the call was a formality more than anything else.
I also think Margaret won’t care, and since she was the one who raised the idea of working with Phallacy, it would be hard for her to say my bias influenced my choices. But my relationship with her isn’t as casual as what I have with Daria, and she might have concerns about me dating the designer who’s working on her gown—namely, that we’ll fight or split up and not be able to remain professional. That’s bullshit, but she’s entitled to raise it for me to address.
Which is why I’m on her doorstep at six thirty on a Friday night for a quick meeting before she goes out for dinner.
Katie opens the door with a warm smile. “Hey, Griff. Come on in—Margaret’s trying to decide what to wear tonight.”
I manage a chuckle. “My area of expertise.”
She leads me back to Margaret’s dressing room, which is bigger than my living room and organized meticulously. We put together a system for her years ago, where I color code pieces according to what purpose they’re suitable for and which pieces and accessories can go together. Margaret’s got a decent sense of style to begin with, but she’s adamant about always going out in public with her “best foot forward.”
“I’ve got a few things left to do before I leave,” Katie’s saying as we walk in, “but if you need privacy, I can do them in another room until you’re done.”
“No, that’s fine. It’s nothing you wouldn’t find out about anyway.”
Margaret turns with a plum-colored skirt in one hand and a dark green cocktail dress in the other. “Griff, thank goodness you’re here. Help.”
I study the two options. “What kind of dinner are we dressing for?”
“Nobu with two co-stars for my next project. The studio wants us to get the buzz started.”
That means the paps will have been tipped off. “The green. There were shoes to match that….” I head over to the shoe racks to find them, mentally cataloguing her accessories.
It takes me three minutes to pull her outfit together. “Who’s doing your makeup?” Margaret’s perfectly capable of doing her own after so many years learning tips from the best in the industry, but when she knows without any doubt that photos will be taken, she prefers to have a pro do it.
“Elise. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”
I nod, satisfied. Elise has a great eye and doesn’t need me to make suggestions. That’s a fine line I walk sometimes—the makeup and hair pros are the experts at what they do, but they don’t always have the overall vision to bring a look together.Some prefer to have stylist notes to work with; some don’t need them; and some need them but get offended when I make suggestions. That’s their problem—my ultimate concern is my client.
“So, Griff…” Margaret gracefully sinks onto the plush sofa in the center of the room, and Katie plops down beside her. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m contractually obliged to advise you of any potential conflicts of interest that arise,” I begin. Damian and the lawyer recommended I start that way, since it gives the impression I don’t consider this a “big deal” but am fulfilling a legal requirement.
She rolls her eyes. “Ah, contracts. Don’t tell me—the lipstick color you want me to wear to the Golden Globes is by a brand that sent you PR.”
I laugh. We get so much PR at Style Me that if I set up a meeting to disclose every item to each of my clients, I’d never do anything else. “Not this time. I’ve started dating Phil Marchand at Phallacy, and since we’re planning for you to wear one of his gowns, there’s a conflict I’m required to disclose.”
Margaret’s mouth dropped open when I said Phil’s name, but Katie’s squeal prompts a big smile. “You’re dating Phil Marchand? Dare I claim the title of matchmaker?”
The tiny fear that she might not be okay with it dissipates, and I relax. “You should. Phil and I only met after you said you wanted a Phallacy design.”
“That’s so cool!” Katie claps her hands. “It’s like a rom-com plot. Can I tell my mom? She loves hearing about ‘real-life fairy tales.’”
I shrug. “Sure.”
