by Lila Monroe
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“It was nice meeting you,” Shonda pipes up. “And I’m sorry, we’ll keep the music down.”
“Thank you!” At least one person here has a heart.
I turn on my heel and stalk back across the hall. Zach’s voice follows me. “A pleasure, as always, Emma.”
I flip him the bird over my shoulder.
He chuckles.
I slam my door, feeling like I won that one. Until twenty minutes later, when the music starts up again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yell at the wall.
Although, maybe the music is better than hearing his name yelled out in the throes of passion. For a hairy, rude asshole, the man gets way too many girls. Either he’s right about those big feet, or … I have no idea. Hypnosis?
Either way, I’m going to have to figure out some way to deal with him before I wind up a stumbling zombie. Blackmail, or bribery, or sneaking in while he’s gone to disconnect his surround-sound speakers. Nobody would blame me for a little light sabotage, right? Sleep-deprivation is against the Geneva Convention?
I pull my pillow over my head and try to get to sleep.
2
Gemma
The next morning, I head to work at the Styled office across the bay. We’re based out of a hip loft in an old warehouse down by the water, that we share with a bunch of other start-ups that seem to fold every month. (Turns out, nobody wants an app that sounds an alarm every time you eat carbs.) Despite the constant comings and goings, I love the space: all exposed ductwork, creaky old narrow plank floors, and giant windows. We even have a massive closet that the stylists affectionately call The Runway Room. It’s where we bring in-person clients for consultations and to show what we’ve chosen for them, and today, I’m camped out there with Carol, putting the final touches on her looks.
“Are you sure about the red?” she asks, looking nervously in the full-length mirror. “It isn’t too bold?”
I have her in a chic pantsuit with a red silk blouse that screams ‘hire me now’. She looks amazing—you’d never guess that she’s spent the past ten years cleaning up baby puke and packing lunches—but I want her to be extra-confident, so I pull a couple of shirts in traditional cream and white.
“Why don’t you try these?” I suggest. “And we can keep the bright colors to your accessories. A silk scarf, maybe, or a chunky statement necklace. People remember the details,” I add. “And we want you to be memorable.”
“But not because I’ve forgotten to take my rollers out.”
I laugh. “Move a mirror to beside the door,” I advise her. “It’s the only reason I saw my cardigan was inside out this morning.”
“Late night?” Carol asks.
“Something like that.” Despite not sleeping well—thank you, Bigfoot and Mate of Bigfoot—I’m pushing through thanks to a triple-shot latte and some of Zoey’s famous chocolate-dipped biscotti that I brought in for the occasion.
“I remember the days,” Carol cracks. “Now I’m lucky if I make it through an episode of Heartbreak Hospital before I pass out at eight p.m. Enjoy it while you can.”
She heads into the dressing room, just as James, our head of the digital department, appears beside me. He takes a biscotti and leans in close—so close that if he wasn’t living in a committed relationship with his boyfriend of many years, I might think I’m going to be kissed.
“Serena has some big shots in her office. Did you see?”
Serena Devenue is our boss and general superwoman. She built Styled from scratch and gave me my big break in fashion.
“What kind of big shots?” I ask, brushing crumbs off my outfit.
“Suits. Venture capitalists maybe?” James gossips. “Maybe she’s planning a buyout. I know a bunch of companies have been sniffing around.”
“I hope not,” I say and glance toward Serena’s office. “Buyouts mean layoffs, and it took me long enough to find this job. My student loan repayment guy is not the forgiving kind.”
“You have a guy?” James sighs. “I just get an automated phone message. ‘Your call is important to us. Please enjoy your lifetime of debt.’
There’s movement from the corner office, and James quickly stands. “Gotta go. I’ve got a situation with the app that’s beyond even my extraordinary powers.”
He disappears as Carol emerges from the fitting room, back in her mom clothes. She takes the garment bags with the outfits we’ve picked, then sweeps me into a hug.
“Thank you so much for all your help. Seriously, I don’t know what I would have done without you. Showed up in my power suit with shoulder pads, from 1998.”
I laugh. “It’s my pleasure. I know you’ll knock ‘em dead.”
“Fingers crossed.” Carol looks nervous, but excited, too. “And then when I land the job, I’ll be back for a whole new work wardrobe.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” I check my phone for the time. “OK, you have your haircut and makeup consultation at the salon in forty minutes. I’ll get those pants altered and sent over, and you’ll be good to go.”
I walk her out through reception, then double back to the kitchen area for yet another coffee. Bigfoot didn’t get through with his mating ritual until 3 a.m, and it feels like I should just give up and jack a caffeine IV directly into my veins if I want to make it to the end of the day.
“Oh, hi Arielle.”
I stop. The other main stylist is hanging out there, sipping a noxious-looking green juice. She flickers an eyebrow at me in greeting—perfectly plucked, of course.
If I like to take a fun, practical approach to styling my clients, Arielle is at the other end of the high-fashion scale. Think runway looks that wouldn’t look out of place in one of those scary European magazines they sell for $15 at the newsstand. Like today: she’s wearing a skin-tight fuchsia skirt that looks like it was painted on all the way down to her ankles, with a ripped black sweater that has holes over her chest revealing a lacy black bra underneath. Completing the look is a pair of sky-high black pumps that are stunning, but would surely mean a twisted ankle for me if I even tried a single step. Her dark hair is fixed in complicated braids, and her makeup is flawless.
She only scares me a little.
OK, a lot.
“What are you working on?” I ask, as I set the machine to ‘all the coffee in the world’.
“I have a regular coming in today,” she says with a sigh. “She is seriously such a diva and never likes what I pick for her. Until I remind her I’m the fashion expert.”
No question, Arielle knows a lot about fashion. But I can’t help but wonder if she isn’t listening to her clients if they hate the clothes and have to be convinced to like them. Aren’t we supposed to be giving them what they want?
I stuff another piece of biscotti into my mouth rather than saying anything.
“And don’t get me started on her budget,” Arielle adds, as I chew. “I tried telling her, you can’t get a decent pair of jeans for under $200, but she insisted we go to the GAP. I mean, seriously, did Michelangelo carve a masterpiece out of dog poop? No! What I wouldn’t give to have free rein for once,” she says longingly. “Viktor and Rolf’s new collection is so fabulous, I’m dying to try some pieces out.”
“Didn’t they do something for H&M last year?” I ask.
Arielle gives me a withering stare. “That doesn’t count.”
James arrives, on a mission. “Serena wants both of you in her office,” he announces as he grabs the last cookie, stuffing it into his mouth before I can swipe it away. “Too slow,” he teases.
“What does she want?” Arielle asks, perking up.
“To send you to Paris for Fashion Week.” James replies, then laughs at the brief look of excitement on her face.
“I hate you.” Arielle scowls.
“And I thrive on your hate.”
I ignore their bickering, and smooth down my dress. I don’t know what Serena has planned, but I’m sudde
nly nervous. I already know from our neighbors that there’s nothing stable about this industry, and despite my joking earlier, losing this job would be a 5-alarm emergency for my bank account.
Arielle and I head over to Serena’s office, and she waves us in, a big smile on her face. I exhale in relief. I’m pretty sure Serena would not be smiling like that if she was about to can my ass.
“Have a seat,” she says, and we each take one of the green velvet club chairs facing Serena’s desk. As usual, our boss looks like a walking ad for our services, in stylish black jeans and a bold yellow blouse that highlights her dark skin and bright jewelry. Behind her is a neat row of framed diplomas: Harvard, Stanford MBA, and African American Businesswoman of the Year. She’s even got a photograph of herself smiling at some event with Oprah. Oprah!
She’s basically my role-model when it comes to kicking business ass.
My butt is barely planted before Serena starts. “I want to talk to you both about some really exciting things that will be happening at Styled.”
Exciting job security? Exciting pay raises?
Serena leans forward over her glass-topped desk. “You both know we were launched as an online fashion makeover and personal shopping service. But I’ve been looking at ways to grow the business, and I’m pleased to announce, I’ve secured additional funding. We’re going to be expanding into lifestyle: home décor, culture. Think of Styled as your personal style concierge.”
“Like … an assistant?” Arielle frowns.
“No. Think of it more as a one-stop shop for all your style needs,” Serena explains. “Imagine, a client can fill their wardrobe, but also have us decorate their apartment, source them books and music, and even hire a maid service and meal delivery! Sort of like what you’ve been doing with your clients, Gemma,” she adds approvingly.
I smile. I often go the extra mile and make suggestions on hair and makeup as an informal add-on, just to complete the perfect look. Now, Arielle shoots me a sideways glance.
“That is so smart!” Arielle coos. “What a great idea, Serena!”
“Also,” Serena adds. “I think we’re missing out by not actively marketing to men. Guys make up only about fifteen percent of our clientele. This new project should really appeal to them—men who have the money, but no time to put together a well-styled life.”
“So when is the new service launching?” I ask, pulling out my design book to make notes. “Should we call our existing clients to let them know?”
“Yes, but beyond that, I’m going to need someone to spearhead the project and lead the new lifestyle team,” Serena says. “A management-level role, someone who’ll run the day-to-day, and work with me on marketing, budgets, operations ... It’s a big promotion, and will obviously come with a sizeable raise.”
What’s that sound? Oh yes, the other shoe dropping.
Both Arielle and I realize what she said at the same time. One team leader. One promotion.
And two of us.
“Have you decided who you’re promoting?” Arielle asks with a pretty smile.
Serena sighs. “Obviously, I can only make one of you in charge the project. I’m torn, which is why both of you are in here.” She looks at my coworker. “Arielle, you’ve been here longer, have a more extensive background in fashion, and are known for your bold fashion choices.”
Arielle practically preens at the compliment
“And you, Gemma,” Serena turns. “You have great instincts about clients, and your customer satisfaction scores are through the roof.”
She smiles at each of us in turn. “I was advised to bring in someone from outside for the role. But I want to promote from within, and cultivate my employees to be stars. And I’m sure one of you could really rise to the occasion here.”
Yes, I want to scream. But which one?
“That is, if you both want it?” Serena asks. “Because if one of you would prefer to stick with styling, it would certainly make this easier for me.”
Umm, nope!
A snort escapes Arielle, so she must be thinking the same as me.
“I’d love the job,” I say quickly.
“Me too!” Arielle blurts.
“I thought so,” Serena gives a rueful smile. “I really want to give you a chance to shine, so how about this: we’ll be officially announcing the investment and new program in ten days, and I’d love to include the new team leader’s name in the press release. Why don’t we use this time as your interview period? Think about what you’d bring to the role, put together a portfolio or presentation, whatever you think shows off your vision.”
I make furious notes. Ten days!
Then Serena checks her tablet. “Oh, perfect—it’s the Fashion Institute’s big fundraising gala that night. The perfect crowd to make a splash with. I can announce the winner at the event, make it a real competition. Nothing like a little friendly rivalry to make things interesting.” She winks.
I glance over at Arielle. She’s looking at me. And there’s nothing friendly about her expression.
“Are we all set then?” Serena gets to her feet, and we follow. “I’m excited to hear what you come up with.”
“Me too,” I fake a smile, even as my brain is already working overtime. Ten days to prove I’m the best woman for the job … and blow my ultra-fashionable competition away?
Oh, it’s on.
3
Gemma
James and I escape to our favorite lunch spot, a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place where the food is as good as it is cheap, and the waitress is as smart-mouthed as she is fast.
“Wow, she really wants handbags at dawn,” James widens his eyes at the news of the contest. “Do you think you can take Arielle? That girl fights dirty.”
“I play to win,” the woman herself corrects him. Arielle pulls a chair over and plunks herself down at our table. “So, were you telling James all about how I’m going to be heading up the new project?” she asks smugly.
“You heard Serena,” I say, willing myself not to be intimidated. “We’re both in the running. It’s not yours yet.”
Arielle rolls her eyes. “Serena’s going to be looking for someone to lead. Someone who has experience standing out. Making a splash.”
“Or someone who works well with people, and has clients returning time and time again,” I reply, but still, I’m not feeling so confident. This would be a big jump for me, but could be the break I’ve been waiting for to show that I can do so much more.
“Aww, you want a gold star for effort?” Arielle shoots back. “Because results are the only thing that matter in this game, and I bill higher orders than anyone.”
Thankfully, James isn’t having it. “Turn the bitch down, Ari. Gemma has a great eye. She’s as good a stylist as you.”
“Sure she is,” Arielle says sarcastically.
“Wanna bet?” James asks.
Arielle shrugs. “Why not?”
“Hmmmm …” James gets a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now this could be fun …”
“What could?” I ask. “James?”
“Hush, I’m thinking.” He pauses a moment, and then the glint is joined by a devilish grin. “Oh, that’s good. That’s real good.” He looks at the two of us. “How about making this a real competition? No presentations or interviews. You each makeover a client, and whoever pulls off the biggest, most radical style change, wins the job.”
“You’re hilarious,” I dig into my potstickers, not taking him seriously.
“I’m not joking.” James insists. “This is the perfect way to decide who deserves the job. No schmoozing or sweet-talk, but actual skills. You can even do the whole lifestyle concierge thing: head-to-toe image, home, culture. Show us what you got.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Arielle snorts. “This is a serious promotion, not a game.”
“Why not?” James asks. “Worried you can’t beat Gemma on pure skill? Your connections won’t help you here,” he adds. Arielle flushes. It’s an open secret th
at she got her job because Serena went to college with Arielle’s older sister.
“No,” she glared. “I can style Gemma under the table. No offense,” she adds sweetly.
“None taken.” I narrow my eyes. Now that James mentions it, a contest based on pure skill might be my best shot to getting this job. Arielle can turn on the charm like nobody’s business – when she figures someone is useful to her. It’s why Serena thinks she’s a visionary fashionista…
“If we did do this, how would it work?” I ask. “We’re not in control of who gets the job,” Arielle interrupts. “Serena is.”
“But she said it herself, if one of us bows out, the other gets it,” I say slowly. “So, we could agree that the loser here takes herself out of the running.”
“You mean, you’d just roll over and let me have it?” Arielle pauses, then smiles. “You know, maybe this isn’t such a crazy idea after all.”
“See? I have my moments of brilliance,” James beams. “And you have to be done in ten days, like Serena said. You can both show off your client at the gala.”
“Who judges?” I ask.
“Me.”
“And how do we pick the clients?” Arielle jumps in. “I don’t want you bringing in a ringer – someone who’s just going to do whatever you want. Real clients are difficult.”
“So pick for each other,” James suggests.
“Yes!” Arielle cries.
“No!” I protest. “Are you kidding? She’ll pick me a psychopath. Or a Scientologist!”
James laughs. “Yes, but then you get to pick her someone, too.”
Hmm, good point. I look around the restaurant, and Arielle does the same.
“How about her,” she smirks, nodding toward a table in the back where an older woman with salt and pepper hair is slurping soup from a giant bowl. She’s wearing a bold caftan and no makeup, and looks like she couldn’t care less about fashion.
To be honest, I don’t think she needs a makeover at all.
I swing my gaze around, landing on a paunchy, middle-aged businessman, wrestling with his chopsticks. He drops a dumpling, leaving a greasy red skid mark down his white shirt. “Maybe he’s your Mr. Right.”