“This is special,” I said, with a forced smile. “But after the cerulean ensemble yesterday, it feels like we’re just going for bold colors. If we’re thinking about the slideshow, it’s going to look like a basic rainbow. I’d love to see more range.”
I wasn’t Dorian’s stylist yet. Not officially. This was the perfect time to show off my knowledge. Stylists always thought about the slideshows that would come up in the media:Dorian Fisher’s Ten Best Cannes Looks.We wanted that to be an interesting collection of outfits, not just a display of bright colors.
And of course Tom Ford were going to send their own person to the fitting. They had a brand image to uphold. But Dorian wanted me there. He wanted my opinion. Why else would I have been summoned here?
So I continued. “Let’s see the next look.”
Fred didn’t even look at me. He slipped the ruby jacket off its hanger as if I hadn’t spoken, but Dorian held a hand halfway up, stopping him. Fred swallowed hard but kept his composure as he moved on to the next suit, which was light gray.
“I’mlovingthis one too,” Fred said, pointedly not looking at me.
Instinctively, I edged closer but resisted the urge to feel the woolen fabric between my fingers.
“The detailing is stunning,” I said in awe.
“Of course,” Fred said, the “s” serpentlike. “It’s Tom Ford.”
He was being haughty, but I couldn’t fault him for the pride, the unequivocal statement. We stood in awkward silence as we waited for Dorian to go put on the suit and come back out.
When he did, Fred lit up. “Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.”
In two long strides, he was by Dorian’s side, smoothing the fabric on his shoulders, adjusting each side of the jacket, his hands all over him. I wanted to shove him back, to stop him from picking at what wasmine.
So I did, sort of. I came over and kneeled in front of Dorian, adjusting the hem of the pants.
I looked up, checking everything else.
“We’ll need the waist taken in by an inch,” I said to Fred. “We want a nice slim fit.”
Fred stepped back to take a better look at Dorian.
“The looser fit feels right. It’s what we’re doing these days.” I openedmy mouth to protest, but he continued. “If you styled men—”
I didn’t want to get into a fight with anyone from Tom Ford, and definitely not in front of Dorian. But I couldn’t let him get away with this.
“Idostyle men,” I said.
Fred shot me a look, like how dare I speak to him like this.
“I’m a professional stylist,” I continued. “I style menandwomen.”
“I meantimportantmen,” Fred said, waving the air like I was a fly that had just landed in his soup.
“I’m Tyler Charles’s stylist,” I said sharply.
That made Fred shut up. He turned to Dorian, whose lips were turned down. He was not getting involved in this.
“A slimmer waist seems good to me,” Dorian said neutrally.
Fred straightened up, jaw clenched, a string pulled so taut it might snap.
“We’ll have these ready in an hour.”
“Thank you both for your time,” Dorian said.
He went to take the suit off and never came back out. Instead, his assistant materialized out of nowhere to hand the suit to Fred. The assistant, who never introduced himself, accompanied us both to the door. I kept fixating on the thick carpet, incapable of processing my feelings. Was this it?
Since Dorian had come to find me on that terrace, I’d eaten very little and slept even less, waiting for this moment.
