Griff sits back in his chair. “I’ll be blunt; I’m not convinced you’re the right designer for this gown. Margaret wants to freshen her style, yes, but Phallacy is pretty much at the other end of the spectrum from where she is. I think there’s a big chance that wearing a Phallacy gown would get her the kind of backlash we were discussing earlier.”
Damian frowns. “Griff,” he starts, shooting me a concerned glance.
But Calla holds up a hand. “No, he’s right. If we put Margaret in the same kind of gown Tami Long wore at the Golden Globes, she’d probably end up a laughingstock. It’s too big a change.”
“You see my problem, then.” Griff spreads his hands. “Margaret expressed interest in a Phallacy gown, but I’m not sure it’s a good choice.”
I scream at my brain, but it won’t. Let. Me. Speak. My throat wants to close at the very idea, though I know it won’t. My family lost all interest in being supportive once they realized my mutism is because of anxiety, but before that, they took me to a plethora of doctors. There’s no physical reason for me to be mute, and there’s no physical side effect or consequence of an episode of muteness.
It just feels like it.
CHAPTER FIVE
GRIFF
Calla’s smileis distinctly sharklike, for all that she still looks friendly. That’s a special kind of talent.
“You’ve misunderstood me, Griff. I agree that the style we’re most known for wouldn’t be a good match for Margaret, but as you said before, we’re still a young atelier. You haven’t seen everything we’re capable of yet, and I can assure you, we’re capable of dressing Margaret. She needs to stick with a classic silhouette, but there’s no reason why we can’t add some fun to it. Particularly with fabrics. I’m sure she’s tired of solid colors and straight lines.” She smirks. “Haven’t we established that when it comes to fabric, it’s best to trust me?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Phil nod, but he still doesn’t say anything. If this is a schtick, I feel like he’s taking it too far. We’re having a business meeting, after all.
Maybe he’s waiting until we get to the actual design details to share his input? Calla handles the business side, while he does the creative?
“What would you do, then?” I counter. Calla might be right about trusting her with fabric—though, so far, I’ve only seenone example to base that on—but that doesn’t mean the design would be right for Margaret.
She shoots a glance at Phil, who’s already getting up and going back into his office. “We have some preliminary concepts to show you,” she says smoothly. “A few different angles that we’re willing to give you some input on, since this is the first time we’ve worked with Margaret—and you.”
I’m not sure how good a job I do of hiding my surprise. That’s a very generous offer. Since red-carpet gowns are usually just on loan from the designer, we don’t get a lot—or any—input into design. If we want it, we order a custom gown and pay for it like anyone else would have to. A few of my clients have done that in the past, especially when the gown was for a particular milestone and they wanted to keep it, but given the sheer volume of red carpets most successful actors and entertainers have to attend during their careers, it’s more practical not to. After all, it’s not like they can re-wear the clothes without that being a statement in and of itself.
“That’s kind of you,” I say at last as Phil comes back in carrying a manila folder.
He sits, putting it on the coffee table, and we all lean forward as he flips it open and begins laying out the sketches. In the past when I’ve been shown sketches like this, it was done one at a time so all my attention would be on what the designer was saying, but obviously Phil still doesn’t plan to speak.
There are three designs on the table, and any of the three would suit Margaret well. Whatever I might think of Phil personally, I can’t deny that he’s a damn talented designer. Exceptional, even. If he and Calla can keep Phallacy afloat and relevant for long enough to become entrenched, it wouldn’t surprise me to see them become a go-to luxury brand in the future.
Each sketch has a few different fabric swatches pinned to it, presumably to give me an idea of the direction they intend to take.
“Hm,” I murmur, studying the designs. I’d thought—hoped—that they might show me something that would make Margaret a joke, that they’d give me a reason to go back to her and explain why Phallacy aren’t the right choice. Calla said it herself: A dress like the one Tami Long wore earlier this year—the dress Margaret loved so much—would make her a laughingstock in the fashion press. Me, too, since I’m the one who dresses her.
Instead, Phil’s designs have the structure Margaret’s statuesque figure needs while still managing to be… floaty. Pretty, not just elegant. And that’s before I even consider the fabrics.
I want to be mad about it, since this means I’m going to need to work with Phil, but it’s impossible to be mad when my client is going to be a red-carpet sensation. No matter who wins the award, Margaret’s going to go viral.
“We’d be happy for Margaret to come in, meet us, and have a look at the designs herself,” Calla offers, smelling my weakness. She knows they’ve got this in the bag.
I lift my gaze to meet hers, but somehow it catches on Phil’s instead. His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue complemented by the red flush that darkens his cheeks. I’d wonder if his blushes meant anything, but I served with a ginger who’d go red with the slightest change of emotion, including if it rained just when he was leaving work. Phil’s probably excited about the idea of designing for Margaret.
Tearing my gaze away, I say to Calla, “There’s no need. She trusts me… and she wants a Phallacy gown,” I add reluctantly.
To their credit, neither of them leaps up to do a victory dance. They just exchange a look and smile.
“Talk to me about this one.” I tap the design on the right. It’s the one I know Margaret will fall in love with, but it’s far from my usual wheelhouse, with a plethora of flounces and fussy embellishments. “Are those butterflies?”
Calla glances at Phil again, and I get the feeling she’s not prepared for this, giving legs to my theory that he handles the creative stuff. So why isn’t he doing that now? Is it me? Do I need to go through some fucked-up initiation ritual to earn having him talk to me?
“They are,” she says, gesturing to the fabric winged insects scattered over the dress. “If Margaret prefers something else—flowers or foliage or whatever—we can definitely do that. We thought the butterflies were on theme with the character she played.”
That’s clever. Margaret’s character in this movie was the garden-loving aunt the lead visited for wisdom and advice. There’s a widely publicized scene where they’re standing in the garden and a butterfly lands on Margaret’s outstretched hand at precisely the right moment for the lead to have an epiphany about his life.
