“Best one I’ve ever had,” he enthuses. “Phil promised to teach me how to use the 3D modelling software.”
I clench my teeth to stop myself from snorting derisively. I doubt that promise is ever going to be kept, not unless Douchebag Phil can work out a way to exploit Kyle by doing so. I’ve met designers like him before. I know exactly how this story goes.
Damian and I stay by the desk, chatting with Kyle, for less than two minutes before one of the doors opens and a brunette woman in ripped relaxed-fit jeans, biker boots, and a wide-necked, slouchy patchwork top comes out. My radar goes on high alert at the sight of that top.
I want it.
“Damian! This is a nice surprise.” The woman holds out her hand and, when Damian takes it, leans up to kiss both his cheeks. Then she turns to me, her smile a tiny bit more reserved and professional. “You must be Griff Pevensy. I’m Calla Gardner.” She offers me her hand, too, but even before I take it, I know I’m not going to get kisses. It’s not that she’s giving me unwelcoming vibes, just that it’s clear Damian has reached a different level of acquaintanceship, and I respect that.
“It’s good to meet you,” I say, and leave it at that. Margaret might want a Phallacy gown, but I’m still not sold on them.
That top, though… The jeans are just from the Gap, though she’s doctored them to fit better, and the boots can be bought at any Harley store, but that top…
“Is that a Phallacy design?” The words escape me before I can stop them, my chin jerking toward her torso.
She glances down, then smiles. “I guess, unofficially.”
I wait for her to explain, but she seems to be done with that topic and is already turning toward the doors. She taps a fob to the security panel. Dammit.
“Did you tag along for funsies, or is there something special I can help you with?” she asks Damian as she holds a door open for us.
“A bit of both,” he admits. “I wanted to check on the shirts you’re doing for Kane—I know you said the bronze would be perfect, but I’m still not convinced. But I’m also nosy about this new direction Griff’s taking Margaret.”
Calla laughs, and I silently thank Damian for saying he’s nosy and not that he’s checking up on me. Although… is he telling the truth? Or did he come because he doesn’t trust me not to upset his boyfriend’s precious favorite designer?
Neither is encouraging for me nor my career.
“The bronze shirt is done, and it looks incredible. You can take it with you today—after you apologize for doubting me,” she teases. “And believe me, we’reallnosy about what Griff’s got planned for Margaret. Her wardrobe for the tour over the summer wasdelicious.” She aims that last word at me with a smile, and I smile back, nodding my thanks. I did do a fucking amazing job, especially given the time constraints.
Damian asks another question about Kane’s wardrobe, and I take advantage of the distraction to look around the main part of the atelier. It’s mostly one massive room, though there are some doors at the far end—probably offices for Calla and Phil, or maybe secure storage for completed designs. Surprisingly, it’s wider than I thought it would be—I guess the reception area is walled in to allow more space here. Two big banks of windows let in plenty of light, and the setup is similar to what I’ve seen a million times before: a big cutting table, a few machine stations, and desks. Not to mention racks with bolts of fabric and trim. There are half a dozen people busy working, though a couple of them glance curiously in our direction. One, a very young woman—an intern, maybe—seems disappointed after looking at us. Maybe she was hoping we’d be someone famous.
“Sorry, Griff,” Calla says, turning to me. “Damian and I have completely hijacked your appointment.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Talking about clothes is one of my favorite things. Plus, now I want to see the bronze shirt.” I really do. Damian styled it a few weeks back based on the design sketches, but he asked me and Adam for opinions because he wasn’t sold on it even then.
“It’s my destiny to be doubted about fabric,” she jokes. “Come on, I’ll show you around, and we can see the shirt.”
She turns to the right, leading us toward a bank of windows, and I see that my guess was correct—there’s another door inthe wall that was behind reception, this one leading to a giant wardrobe of sorts.
“This is where we keep completed garments,” Calla explains, confirming my thoughts. “On the other side of reception is the fitting room for clients, where we take measurements and do fittings. It’s a little fancier than this.” She heads with unerring certainty for a specific rack and flips through the hangers, removing three shirts. One is in a stunning bronze raw silk, one a dark blue linen so fine, it could almost be tissue, and one a white polished cotton. I can see at a glance that they’re all well-made—which I’d expect from a luxury brand—but the bronze one is sensational.
“Damn,” I blurt even as Damian says, “You were right.”
Calla grins. “Music to my ears. I keep telling people I’m never wrong about this stuff, but Phil’s the only one who believes me. And I’m pretty sure even he doubts me sometimes.”
“If he does, he’s wrong.” I mentally slap myself. While I can’t deny she was right about this, I’m pretty sure I mostly said that just to hate on this Phil guy, who I still haven’t met. Which makes me petty and childish.
Though based on everything I’ve heard and learned about him so far, I’m probably right.
“Aw, thank you, Griff. You’re my new favorite stylist. Come on back to the main floor, and I’ll have Deeanne wrap these up while we keep on.”
We obediently follow, and Damian says to me, “I think I need to change styling for that shirt.”
I think about it as Calla talks to the young woman we disappointed. “Cut back the accessories?”
He nods. “Yeah. That fabric doesn’t need any distractions. Maybe just a skinny tie.”
“Did you see the one Adam has on his desk? That would look good.” It’s an earthy dark brown shot through with olive and bronze tones.
