Mostly because I’m going to freak the fuck out.
“What do you mean, they bailed?”
“They said the suit got caught in customs.” I’m on the phone with Mei, pacing in my room. “Something about the silk not being declared? Or it was illegal? Can silk be illegal?”
It’s April 27. Tomorrow is the Day Gala. I’ve worked almost nonstop for the past three weeks to plan Faust’s lookmeticulously. The Garden of the Gods theme ended up being easy, perfect for non-fashion men who wear plain black suits to the gala regardless of the theme. Like, so sorry you have to attend the best night of fashion, held at an actual museum—must be so hard. And yes, Faust’s look had been a black suit, because I know him and he looks good in black. But I’d called in a favor with a small designer I’d met in Milan, an up-and-coming twenty-year-old who specializes in crystal embellishing. One hundred hours later, and we had a suit bedazzled with silver beading along the shoulders, down whereFaust’s spine would be, gathered at the lapels. It almost suggested a skeleton, though it isn’t quite as on the nose as McQueen or Schiaparelli; “I’d been inspired by his name,” the designer had written to me. “A man called Faust has to go as Hades, the god of death.” As if his ego wasn’t already oversized.
And now, it’s gone.
“The tariffs,” Mei hisses.
I have no idea how that comes into play here and I feel really dumb for not knowing. “I’m so sorry, Mei. This is my fault.”
It is. She knows it, I know it. I’ve had weeks. I hear Mei exhale over the phone, static blowing through my speaker. “Okay. Can you just buy him something?”
That idea kicks me while I’m down. “Off the rack?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“It won’t be tailored.”
“Get a tailor.”
Fair. I bite my thumb nail, anxiety transforming my central nervous system into the Drake Passage. I’m in New York City. Stores are open late. I’ll go to Armani—or Thom Browne. Both. Two options, two suits, a backup plan for real. I look at the vintage Cartier cuff links sitting on my dresser, and my heart sinks down to the floor. They’re white gold. I’d been so certain that Faust would be wearing them with the beaded suit—they would’ve looked perfect—
The inspiration.
“Wait,” I tell Mei, and hop over to the tiny closet where I stowed my vintage store spoils. Miu Miu Mary Janes for me, a pair of tortoiseshell Persol sunglasses I thought Faust might like, and two-thirds of a McQueen suit I knew he wouldn’t, but I had to buy anyway. I slip the jacket from the hanger. Black wool, with white-threaded appliques. Birds, flowers, scattered up the arms,flying around the back. It’s very McQueen. It’s a piece of history. There’s no way Faust will wear it.
Unless I ask very, very nicely.
I let out a long, slow breath. “I’ve got it handled.”
“You do?”
“I have two-thirds of a McQueen suit.”
“Pants?”
“Yes, and the jacket.”
“They’re good?”
“Original, pre–Sarah Burton, who I love. Don’t get me wrong.”
“What about a shirt?”
I go quiet. None of those. Though I do have white cotton button-downs of my own. And Faust and I are almost the same height. And it’s McQueen. For the Day Gala. I can get weird.
“I’ll make one.”
“You—”
“Yes.”
“You can make a shirt?”
“I’ve got it.”
