“It’s kind of funny how youliterallydress me. Like I’m a nineteenth-century British gentleman,” he said.
“That’s the job. I’m just doing what I’m being paid to do.”
I’d met Tyler last year, when I hadn’t yet been fired from my job assisting Carly Wolf, the stylist to the stars who was now kind of a star herself. Tyler had come to a fitting of his girlfriend at the time, a pop singer who favored hair extensions in every color of the rainbow.
Then my job mostly consisted of managing elaborate spreadsheets, cataloging items we received, and making sure they’d be shipped back to the designers who’d sent them. I spent more time tracking shipments online than touching actual clothes. Still, it was a job a million girls would kill for. And it was the job that had nearly killed me.
When clients brought guests, I looked after them. Fetched them drinks, took their lunch order, found a charging cable for their phone. Tyler and I had ended up talking for a while, discussing everything from our favorite beaches and go-to vegetarian recipes to the best boxing classes we’d tried in Los Angeles.
I only saw him a handful of times, but when I contacted him two months ago, he remembered me. He didn’t ask a single question when I told him I no longer worked for Carly Wolf. Him giving me a shot as his stylist had been the sliver of light I’d desperately needed. A new beginning. A possible future after I’d ruined my career in such a pathetic way.Neveragain.
I took pictures of Tyler in the outfit, as I always did, so we could keep track of what worked and what didn’t. He made silly faces, the peace sign with his fingers. He was always in a good mood. It made me uneasy.
Next was the oversized lilac linen suit, my favorite of today’s lot. Tyler’s first Cannes event was a photo-call for something called “Talent to Watch.” Instinctively, I edged closer but resisted the urge to feel the fabric between my fingers. It had always been my thing. I needed to touch the clothes, to acquaint myself with them on a physical level. That was how they told me who they were and what they could be. I liked how summery the pastel color looked on Tyler, how youthful, but I kept my thoughts to myself as he studied his reflection in the mirror.
“You know how many girls DM’d me about the floral jumpsuit fromThe Backup Guypress day?” he said.
We both knew that outfit—from our first time working together, a few weeks ago—had been a stroke of, well, I’d never call myself a genius. For a minute, it had been everywhere on social media. The designers were so delighted with the windfall, they sent me flowers to celebrate. It had been my first success as a solo stylist, the reason Tyler’s team had approved of him hiring me going forward. It was the fuel that had powered me all the way to Cannes.
“That was a good outfit,” I said proudly.
Tyler turned around and looked at me, smiling. Ah, that smile.
“Put together by averygood stylist. I’m a lucky guy.”
He was newly single, at least according to the gossip sites. He had charm in spades. And he was probably like that with all the girls.
He tried on the last option we’d preselected for this event. This one was caramel, in a wet-looking vinyl. It was edgy, but I wondered if it was trying too hard for a first Cannes impression. Plus the designer had recently posted statements on social media that had a whiff of racism, to put it nicely. But Tyler had liked it enough in the photos for me to bring it over. His wish, my command.
I took photos again and airdropped them to Tyler’s phone. We sat on the bed, close—tooclose—as we studied them, zooming in on details on our respective devices.
Tyler scrunched up his face.
“I’m thinking the lilac?”
“How are you so perfect?”
I practically slapped my mouth, trying to swallow the words back. Shit. Since getting fired, I’d had plenty of time to think about my relationships with men. The conclusion was obvious: I was the problem.Iwas the reason my ex-boyfriend had cheated on me. It wasmyfaultthat I’d fallen for someone who was so out of my league. My own father didn’t even bother calling me on my birthday. That’s really all you need to know about me. Constance Griffin picks the right clothes and the wrong men.
It sounds so simple, put like that. But it was far from it in my head.
I shot up from the bed, grabbed the lilac suit jacket, and held it against Tyler.
“I mean, it’s a perfect soft entry into Cannes, a blend of masculine and feminine. The designer is under the radar now, but I think he’s going to be huge.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll be the one who wore the label first. Everybody’s in Valentino or Prada or Tom Ford.” I was rambling now, so much I didn’t notice the trap I’d laid for myself.
“So why aren’tIin Valentino or Prada or Tom Ford?”
Again, there was a simple answer: me. A stylist was only as good as her network, and I was starting from nothing. Worse, from ten steps behind. I definitely couldn’t use my ex-boss’s name to get into anyone’s good graces. It still haunted me, the look on her face when she told me she was letting me go—a trifecta of disgust, disappointment, and shock.
But Tyler didn’t know about my bad reputation, or at least he’d never mentioned it.
I had to hang on to that. “Because you’re young, and you’re taking your career in unexpected places. You’re defying expectations. Your looks should match.”
He nodded, pensive.
