by kj lewis
“Love it,” he says. “I can’t believe it’s long enough in the back. It looks great.”
I was equally surprised given the hem is sitting an inch higher than what I usually wear.
“I swear your legs look a mile long.”
“Pretty sure it has something to do with the four inch heels I am wearing,” I smirk.
“Thank God I came to pick you up on my way in. I can’t imagine you taking the subway in those.”
“Thank you for the Diet Coke,” I say, getting into the back of his car and greeting his driver.
“You’re welcome. I wanted to make sure you were in one piece after your trip home yesterday. Thought you might need my undivided attention for a few minutes.”
“You’re sweet, but I’m fine. Tired, but fine.” If I say it enough times, will it be true?
“I’ll let you get by with that lie for as long as you want to keep it up. When you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk,” he shrugs. “And since when aren’t you tired? I don’t know how you keep the pace you keep and accomplish all you do. I’m exhausted just thinking about your daily schedule. Today is not going to be any different. I have a full day’s session for you. Blaine Moore is coming in today for a new image. The label wants him to be edgier in his personal style and more confident in his interviews. I want you to take the lead. He was runner up for “Sexiest Man Alive,” and the label wants him on the cover next year. Start with your questionnaire, but don’t let him know you’re rating him. The label wants a read on him by end of day. They’re about to drop millions on him, and they want to know that he has the goods to go the distance.”
“No problem. But I won’t do the questions without him knowing it’s a rating system. That’s the only way my system works. I have to be honest with them so they will be honest with me. If the label wants to know the real deal, they have to let me do it my way.”
Jackson ponders this as we pull up to our building across from Bryant Park.
“Okay, I trust you. Don’t get it wrong. This is a huge account for us.”
“Got it, Boss.”
“You know what it does to me when you call me ‘Boss’.” His wink turns into a smile.
I give him my best “why, I can’t possibly know what you’re talking about” innocent smile that I know tickles him. “Get out of the car, Romeo. We’re here.”
From the car to the elevator, Jackson draws the attention of almost every woman we pass. He is formidable in his stature and appearance. At a muscular six-foot-five, his clothes fit his body like a glove. Jackson is a man who is comfortable in his own skin. Who can blame him when that man is a modern day Frank Sinatra with a slightly edgier style and has the moves of a young Sammy Davis, Jr. He really is beautiful, inside and out.
We exit the elevator on the twenty-first floor. Our receptionist, Amanda, buzzes us through the half-opaque, half-clear glass doors that have “Hollingsworth Imaging” etched out of the frosted area.
Amanda’s simple, black desk is situated in front of a seating area comprised of two white leather chairs with a round table between them. Behind Amanda hangs a large, colorful art piece by a local artist. Like the rest of the office, the area is clean-lined and understated. It reflects the same mix of contemporary chic and mid-century modern that Jackson, himself, conveys in his personal style. After a warm welcome from Amanda. Jackson heads to his office, while I head into the workroom.
The workroom is a large, open space that houses my team, Joy and Henry. Their desks are on opposite sides of the room. My office is across the back. In the center of the room is my team’s worktable surrounded by six chairs. Behind Joy’s desk is a large door that leads to our styling closet. The facing wall, behind Henry’s desk displays our image boards. Next to the boards is a platform surrounded by a five-way wrap-around mirror.
“Good morning, team. Let’s take five and group before we start our day,” I say pulling up a chair to our work table.
“We have Blaine Moore coming in today. Joy, I’d like you to pull three everyday looks, and Henry I would like you to pull three event looks. Make sure to include the Saint Laurent studded boots that I picked up at Barney’s last week. Those will be perfect for him. I’ll work on our image board. You have an hour to put looks together while I get to know him. After that, we’ll do the first run through, then I’ll take him to lunch while you each pull ten looks. The afternoon will finish with the last run-through and the cherry. Sound good?”
“Yes,” they answer in unison.
When I style someone, I’m always looking for the one thing that makes each person unique, or “the cherry.” It’s the “cherry on top”, so to speak. My questionnaire and our “cherry” technique is what sets our team and Jackson’s company apart from any other. Other companies only see dollar signs and mold the person to some pre-fab image that the client—or the client’s company—thinks they want, or need, to sell their product. We mold the image around the person.
“Emme, Blaine Moore is here to see you,” Amanda announces through the speaker.
“Show time,” I say to Joy and Henry. I make my way to the reception area.
“Hi, Blaine. I’m Emme James. Nice to meet you.” My brown eyes meet his grey, and they are congenial and welcoming. How did I get so lucky? I am surrounded by beauty. Smoke and mirrors, I remind myself.
“Nice to meet you,” he shakes my hand. “Sorry I’m running late. Honestly, I’m sorry to be doing this at all. This is the label’s doing, not mine.”
“Well, hopefully we can make this as painless as possible, please come with me.” An edge enters his eyes at my request and a slow, almost wicked, smile sweeps across his face.
“Ladies first,” he says pruriently.
I know then that I am in the presence of a player. I give him my best stern-but-amused look, and he throws his head back and laughs a deep, sexy, throaty laugh. I shake my head, “It’s going to be a long day,” I quip and show him to my office.
My office is in keeping with the look that Jackson has for his company but is also uniquely me. My desk sits to the left. Behind it is a row of floating shelves flanked by two large photos. To the right of the door is a dark purple modern couch and chair with a natural wood coffee table that looks like it was cut straight from the tree.
Above the couch, I have a painting that my grandmother gave me right before she passed away. Other than my father’s watch, it is the only thing of value that I didn’t sell. It’s by a local Memphis artist Paul Edelstein, from his Lost in Love collection. This painting has people standing in a group, composed of mostly bright colors, while black- and brown-tinted greys are layered in. Offset to the right is a dark-haired girl in a white dress holding bright blue flowers. Even though the faces are abstract and not defined, to me each one conveys an emotion. I see happiness and sorrow wrapped in what I imagine is a celebration. I love it.
“Please, have a seat,” I motion to the couch. I sit on the opposite end and relax into the cushions. I have found in the past that a casual stance helps put my clients at ease. Amanda enters and asks what Blaine would like to drink. She brings him water and me a Diet Coke. Standing there a little longer than necessary, my “thank you” brings her back to the present, and she leaves blushing.
“I imagine that’s the effect you have on all women.”
“Apparently, not all women,” he teases.
I give him my best no-nonsense look again, and change the subject back to business.
“So, your label wants to up your image. We are just the people to make that happen. I have a particular way I like to work with a client. I have a set of questions that I would like you to answer so that I can learn a little about you. This will help me not only guide your style, but direct the label in how to best present and represent you. I am being paid by the label for my services, but you are my client. Not them. That’s the only way this works. We’re a team. Got it?”
“I’m intrigued,” he acquiesces.
“Great. Let’s get
started. Tell me a little about your parents?”
“Your first question is about my parents?”
“Yes.”
“Not, how do I see myself, or what is my favorite color?”
“Nope.”
“Hmm. Why not?” he cocks his head to the side. Curious.
“Because you don’t know the answer to that question, so how can I expect you to convey it to me?”
“I know my favorite color is green.”
“As do I. It was in an interview you did as a favor for a teen reporter.”
“My niece”
“Now I’m the one interested. Tell me about her after you talk about your parents.”
An hour later, Joy enters the room to notify me they have their looks pulled together. We enter the workroom, and I introduce him to Joy and Henry. Joy and Henry are seasoned veterans with my processes and take control of making small talk to allow me a minute to review their pulls while making several notes.
“Okay, Joy. Why don’t you walk us through the everyday looks first, then Henry can do the public event looks. Blaine, I would like you to hold all comments until the end.”
My team takes twenty minutes each to introduce their looks and a quick review of their reasoning behind why they made the pull.
The next twenty minutes are really the sum and substance of our meeting. It’s where the client responds to the looks, and then, as a team, we review the notes I made on their pulls before their presentation. The idea is to see how well I am matching up with my client. Can I know their response before I take cues from their facial, behavioral, and verbal feedback? If I missed the mark, I have to go back to the question session and ask different ones. In the four years I have been using my system, I have only had to go back twice. I’ve never had to do a third round, and frankly, if I did, I would release them as a client. I am clearly not the right fit for them.
“Blaine, tell me what you like and dislike about each look and why. Then I want you to tell me your favorite of all six looks and what it reminds you of. Got it?” I cross my legs and his eyes follow.
“Eyes up,” I say with the same no-nonsense look I have given him twice already. He responds with a sly smile and moves into his thoughts on each look. He finishes with his favorite look and what it reminds him of.
Every client’s favorite look evokes a memory that he is tied to. Something that reminds them where they were, who they were with, and how they felt at a special moment, whether it was a sweet or angry moment with someone or a moment of rebellion. Clients always remember what they were wearing. That is the beginning of helping them understand their image, who they want to be. I never know what it’s going to be for that person until I ask my trademark questions. When Blaine finishes, I announce that I am nine-for-nine.
Henry nods, “Let’s get busy then, Joy.”
I smile at Blaine, and he looks perplexed.
“Why don’t we walk over to the grill and get some lunch while they do the next pull. This time it will be twenty looks. You will leave with fifteen today.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“How can you know that you’ll have 15 looks for me today?”
“Because I am nine-for-nine. I wrote down nine comments about the looks when I reviewed them this morning, and they matched your nine responses just now. I know that we are on track. I wrote down the direction I wanted them to take in their next pull based off what I thought you would choose as your favorite look, about which I was right again.”
“You were nine-for-nine,” he says in a supercilious tone.
“Actually, I was ten-for-ten if you count that I matched your favorite look. See for yourself.” I hand him my notepad as I stand.
“Wow.”
“You’re very articulate,” I tease.
“Smart-ass.”
I shrug with a smile that has him laughing, when Amanda enters and brings me a package.
“This just arrived via courier for you. You have to sign for it directly.”
I apply my signature to the line she points me to and hand her back the pen. The package is wrapped in brown craft paper with a string tied around it. “Emelia James” is written on top.
“I wonder what this could be? I didn’t order anything.” I frown and shake it for clues.
Joy’s and Henry’s curiosities pique, and they congregate around me and Blaine at the worktable. I open the package and pull out the telltale Apple box.
“I didn’t think they sold the Classic anymore?” Blaine muses.
“They don’t.”
It is a brand-new 160GB iPod Classic. Speechless, something I am often not, I remove it from its plastic covering. Turning over the iPod, I notice an inscription on the back: Someone told me there’s a girl out there with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.
“Zeppelin,” Blaine says just behind my shoulder.
“Going to California.” I add.
“Why not send the Touch?”
“I don’t like the Touch. It doesn’t have the memory and it has too many other things than just music. I’m a fan of the Classic. Simple.”
I look through the paper it was wrapped in, not really expecting to find a note, but already knowing it is from him. The thought of him makes my pulse jump, as it has done no less than twenty times since our flight last night.
“Who’s it from?” Jackson has entered the workroom.
“An acquaintance. Blaine, I would like to introduce you to Jackson Hollingsworth.” I sidestep the question and find my footing again.
Jackson gives his firm handshake and greetings to Blaine, engaging him in conversation over his experience so far, but not without first giving me a glance that I know means “this conversation is not finished.”
Jackson has a previously scheduled meeting he has to prep for, so he declines the invitation to lunch. He assures us he will be back in the office for our end of day wrap up.
I grab the envelope clutch I’m carrying today. “Ready?”
“Ladies first,” he says with that same sexy, slow smile.
“Really? Is this going to be our thing now?”
“Oh, I hope so,” Blaine smiles, entering the elevator.
The day is sunny and beautiful, but the summer heat has me removing my blazer. We cross 42nd Street, making our way to the upper terrace at the back of the New York Public Library to the Bryant Park Grill. Our office frequents Bryant Park, whether we are eating at the Grill or grabbing some food from one of the kiosks by the fountain. We enter the iconic restaurant and are seated upstairs on the rooftop so that we have a view of the park and the surrounding city. This is one of my most loved areas in the city.
The waiter comes to take our drink order.
“Blaine Moore. I’m a big fan,” says the waiter as he shakes Blaine’s hand. “Sex with You is my favorite.” My laughter cues a redness that rises to his cheeks when he realizes how his statement sounded.
“No worries, man. You’d be surprised how often that happens.” Blaine has the good graces to soothe the waiter’s embarrassment.
“What would you like to drink?” the waiter asks me.
“Iced tea.”
Blaine says, “She’ll have iced tea and I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”
Our waiter leaves, and two young girls come to our table.
`“Can we have our picture made with you?”
“Do you mind?” he asks me.
“Not at all.” Looking up from my menu, I watch his interaction with his fans and catch a glimpse of him as a person. He’s at ease with himself and comfortable talking with the random people who stop him. He’s not short or rude; he doesn’t act like it’s an inconvenience. And he’s thoughtful enough to ask my permission for the interruption.
The waiter returns with our drinks and takes our orders. I order the East Coast Fish and Chips and Blaine orders the Sweet and Spicy Monkfish.
“Also can you bring the bread trio appetizer please?”
/>
“Sure thing.”
Adding the lemon to my tea, I look up to start a conversation and find Blaine staring at me.
“What?”
“You’re not like most girls I meet.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well…” He pauses. “You eat bread.”
I laugh. “I eat a lot of things.”
“Do you, now?”
“Do you always equivocate?”
“Apparently,” he grins.
“I do eat bread. I like food. A lot. I am sure that is very different from the girls you meet.”
“It’s refreshing.”
“It’s going to add another workout is what it is.” In my line of work, I have come across my fair share of hanger girls, who are a size two and eat a cube of cheese for lunch. I am not a hanger girl.
The waiter places a plate on our table. I move into telling Blaine what each appetizer is.
“This one is grilled artichoke and cloumage cheese, this one is crushed vine ripe tomatoes and sea salt, and lastly, sheep milk ricotta with roasted butternut squash, dates, and honey. I suggest you try them all,” I say, handing him half of the one I bit off of.
Lunch flows like two people who have known each other for years, despite the fact that we just met. We swap stories and spend time talking about where he wants to take the next step in his music.
The waiter takes our plates and, before he can offer, I tell him that I would like to order dessert.
“Bananas for Bananas, please.”
“Would you like anything?” he asks Blaine.
“No, thank you.”
“Two spoons, please,” I interject. “Do you like bananas?”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll love this. It’s their twist on banana pudding. Its banana brioche pudding, salty peanut ice cream, peanut butter caramel, hot fudge, and whipped cream.” I hold up a finger each time I announce an ingredient. “Now, tell me why you’re resistant to being styled.”
“How do you know I am?”
“I told you, nine-for-nine.”
“I don’t like pretending I’m something I’m not. It doesn’t feel right.” He’s quiet for a minute. “I want to be seen as an artist, not a sex symbol.”