She was brash but funny, politically incorrect but earnest. Or at least that’s how she’d seemed to me. I had reached out to her a few weeks ago, when she’d mentioned an exciting project that would take her to the South of France this spring. I’d guessed correctly that she meant Cannes. A French soft drink brand was flying her over for a couple of parties. I would love to dress her for those, I’d said. I’d thrown in Carly Wolf’s name—calling her “my mentor”—and explained that I’d already be in Cannes for Tyler Charles, and we were on.
Now Julie was sighing loudly from behind the curtain and my heart sank. Again.
“I don’t know, Connie. This isnotwhat we discussed.”
She came out wearing a metallic purple halter dress that grazed her ankles. The fit was slightly off, but that was a problem with a solution. Julie clenched her fists on her waist and puffed out her cheeks as she studied herself in the mirror.
“No.” That’s all she said. A complete sentence.
“Hold on a second.” I busied myself with pins, showing her how it could look. Julie had disliked every one of the six outfits she’d tried on so far. Outfits she claimed she liked when I showed her pictures last night, when we met after Laila sent me away.
“I look like Ariel fromThe Little Mermaid.”
“It’s—”
I didn’t even know what I was about to say, but Julie cut in.
“Don’t you know my style? I look better in black.”
“You look great in black,” I hastened to agree, though I didn’t.
I’d been interested in Julie because I could see the potential. It was obvious she liked clothes, but so many of her looks were dated, and the colors weren’t always the most suited to her skin tone. I felt like she came with a challenge, one I could rise to.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
“But this is Cannes,” I continued. “I’m going for classy with a twist. We want people to say, ‘Is that really Julie Lillie?’”
“In this outfit, I’d want them to not recognize me at all. It’s psychotic.”
She started taking off the dress as she went back to the dressing room. Conversation over.
“What about the white jumpsuit?”
I tried to sound chipper, but my stamina was taking a beating.
The woman was a lot less funny in person. I remembered what Carly used to say: the stingier the client, the more they costyou. I flicked through the clothes and pulled out a black minidress. It was satin with spaghetti straps. Too nineties for my taste but worth a shot.
I slid it through the gap of the curtain. “Try this!”
Julie exhaled loudly, like I was asking her to solve world peace on her lunch break.
“So simple yet effective,” I said, ignoring the blasé look on her face when she came out in it. “I wish I’d suggested this one first.”
I rummaged through my stash of jewelry, and clasped a bracelet on Julie’s wrist and a pearl choker around her neck from a Danish designer. It was coming together.
Marielle came to the back then, holding a shopping bag with her store’s name on it. She gave it to Julie with a big smile.
“For you, my dear,” she said, with exaggerated reverence.
Julie grabbed the handles with the tip of her fingers, like the bag had been dipped in mud. “Thanks.”
I could tell that Marielle expected her to open it, to show gratitude for the gift, but Julie put it down with a glum expression. Influencers got given so much free stuff that most of it was junk to them now.
Marielle stood there awkwardly. “Pretty,” she said, meaning Julie’s dress.
Julie shook her head. Marielle walked away, eyes wide open with judgment.
“So you havenothingfor me,” Julie said.
