She smiles back, her eyes sparkling. “It’s ridiculous that I’m so excited. I’ve done this a million times.”
“So what?” I offer her a hand, and she accepts it and rises from the makeup chair, then precedes me over to where her gown awaits. Katie and Rose, who does all Margaret’s PR, are hovering, ready to help.
Margaret glances at me anxiously. “Is Phil?—”
The knock on the suite door is timed perfectly. “That’ll be him now,” I assure her as Rose goes to answer it. “He needed to take a phone call.”
My boyfriend enters, smiling wide, and crosses to join us. “Hello, Margaret.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I know his anxiety is riding him. Probably because it’s such a big night for Phallacy—aside from Margaret’s custom gown, two other actors are wearing designs from his last collection. Neither of them is as big a name as Margaret yet, but one is definitely an up-and-comer. Phallacy’s had a great run this awards season, but tonight will be the jewel in the crown, and we were expecting that Phil would be anxious at the least and possibly nonverbal.
“Thank you for coming,” Margaret gushes, reaching out to him with both arms. “I know it’s a little unusual.”
“Happy to be here.” He air-kisses both her cheeks, being careful not to muss anything, then steps back and offers his hand to Katie.
She takes it in both of hers and squeezes but doesn’t say anything. It’s been a rough few months for her as she processed what her mom did, helped her prepare for her court appearance, and dealt with the fallout in their family.
After Spears interviewed Mary in Vegas, he came to see us and explained the whole situation. She’d tied her own self-image and self-esteem to that of celebrities like Margaret—women of a similar age to her who were noted for having a classic, inoffensive style, who the fashion press called “elegant” and “timeless.” She especially idolized Margaret, who not only fit that profile but also hired Katie. In Mary’s mind, that gave them a connection, made them contemporaries of sorts. She loved hearing from Katie all about Margaret’s clothes and plans for red-carpet gowns.
So when Katie told her Margaret would be wearing a new designer this year, she looked him up and had the same thoughts that I initially did: Phallacy wouldn’t design a dress in Margaret’s signature style.
Also like me, she wanted to give Phil the chance to prove her wrong and decided to send some encouragement. Hence the email and card.
Then Katie showed her the dress, and, unlike me, she couldn’t see how itwasstill Margaret’s style, just a new interpretation. She saw her fashion icon discarding the look they both wore, and it made her feel old and irrelevant. According to her, she spent two days crying, then saw the photos of me and Phil, with the caption hinting about a collaboration, and that pushed her from depression to anger. The effigy was a rage-and-hormone fueled impulse that she regretted before she even gothome from delivering it, but when she tried to get the box back, it was too late.
She panicked, convinced the police would be after her, and tried to disappear, but after a couple of days, the guilt got to her, so she decided she needed to apologize to Phil and turn herself in. In a freak coincidence, she arrived to stake out his apartment just as Phil and I were leaving for Vegas, and she followed us there.
It’s the weirdest fucking story I’ve heard in a long time, but it also kind of makes sense. Phil, being Phil, feels bad for her. I’m less forgiving, but I understand that people can make stupid mistakes. She was charged with misdemeanor stalking, and Spears said a good lawyer might be able to get those charges dismissed in a jury trial, but Mary insisted on pleading guilty and negotiating a deal. Apparently, she hadn’t been coping well with menopause and hormonal dysregulation, which the judge took into account. She’s got twelve months’ probation and community service, mandated therapy and medical assessments, and paid a thousand-dollar fine. Phil also has a restraining order against her. It could have been a lot worse, since she crossed state lines to talk to us in Vegas.
Whatever, it’s over now. She’s not our problem anymore.
One thing that came of the whole situation that might not be terrible is that Phil, after a few rough weeks, decided he wanted to try therapy again himself. We did a lot of research, and eventually he decided on someone who has extensive experience working with adults with selective mutism. He’s only had a couple of sessions so far, but they were positive. She told him he’s doing a great job managing his anxiety, suggested a few more things he can add to his “tool kit” for when it gets bad and also gave him a low-dose prescription for anxiety meds—not to “make things better,” but to take the edge off when he’s having a bad day. Today was the first day he took one, and when he textedearlier, he said he thought it was helping a little—that he didn’t feel as anxious as he’d expected to. I’m glad about anything that helps, and I’ll keep supporting him however he needs me to.
Together, we get Margaret into her gown, and then Phil and I fuss with the details, making sure the embellishments are all sitting right and deciding which angle will look best for photos. Wealmostargue at one point when we disagree, but then he sighs and concedes that I have more experience in this area.
I talk Rose and Katie, who are going with Margaret, through all the details of how her gown should look on the red carpet. They humor me by listening even though they’ve done this dozens of times before and were paying attention while Phil and I worked it out with Margaret.
Then I take both of Margaret’s hands in mine, air-kiss her cheeks, and say, “You’re going to be a sensation. I can’t wait to see the headlines.”
She’s too sensible to get misty-eyed, but I can see the emotion in her face. “Thanks for indulging me, Griff. I feel like a faerie queen, and I never thought I would at my age.”
I laugh. “You’re a faerie queen, but I got prince charming. I should be thanking you.”
Phil flushes, but he’s smiling. He kisses Margaret again, and then we walk her out of the suite and to the elevator that will whisk her down to where a car is waiting to take her to the Dolby Theatre. She can’t be late—red-carpet arrivals are strictly scheduled.
Once they’re gone, I lean against the wall beside the elevator and pull Phil into my arms. “That’s always a rush.”
He leans his head against my shoulder and doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the side of my neck.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask softly. We’re supposed to meet up with the team from Style Me to watch the red-carpet coverage—Damian sprang for a suite here at the Four Seasons,since most of our clients were getting ready here anyway and it would be easier for us. But it won’t upset me to leave.
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t want to miss it.”
We have missedsome of it, of course. Margaret’s a big enough name that her arrival slot is a premium one, so everyone else is already in the suite, glued to both the TV and their socials.
Phil goes to sit with Harold, who started working at Style Me in January just like I thought he would, and Calla, who was invited tonight as Harold’s plus-one. Though, I’m pretty sure Damian wouldn’t have cared if she’d just come anyway. I swing past the table that’s set up with drinks and snacks, then join them.
“How’s it going?”
