Chapter Text
“You’re fired.”
Mmmm what?
“Sorry, I must not have heard that right. For a second, I thought you said I was fired.”
Shelby sits across from her boss, Gretchen, the intimidatingly tall, sickeningly gorgeous, and severely unfriendly former model turned editor-in-chief of Rose, the country’s biggest fashion magazine.
It’s really too bad about the stick up her ass.
It’s also really too bad that this literal living legend is telling Shelby that she’s fired from her dream job, with barely a glance up from her desktop screen.
“I’m sorry, but the Holiday shoots are over and the amount of in-house stylists we have on payroll is overkill— we’re budget cutting,” Gretchen says with an air of indifference.
She continues, “By the way, you did a great job with putting those models in Louis Vuitton for that one spread in the November issue. They’re sending over some samples for the spring.”
There’s no fucking way.
Shelby looks at her.
She sits across from her boss in this ridiculously chic office in New York City, which overlooks the entirety of the city’s gorgeous skyline. Shelby’s face is expressionless, her legs stay crossed at the ankle, hands politely clasped together on her lap.
Shelby’s five seconds away from ripping off her Louboutins and pelting them at the surrounding glass windows.
But, she doesn't.
They’re a limited edition Kate pump gifted from her best friend, Fatin, for her most recent birthday.
And that would just be rude.
Straightening her back and taking in a deep breath, Shelby begins to plead her case with, “Oh. That’s great to hear about Vuitton. But, Gretchen I assure you that if given the opportunity to stay, I can solidify more partnerships. I swear I’ve got connections and great relationships with the up-and-coming models,” Shelby says.
She’s desperate and everything about her demeanor screams, “please don’t do this.”
…
An hour later, Shelby’s walking out of the building holding a humiliating box with all her belongings.
Fucking fuck.
...
The next morning, Shelby wakes up naked, still drunk, and with last night’s makeup smeared all over her face. She doesn't particularly remember anything from last night’s endeavors.
God, it’s so hot and muggy in her apartment.
She’s covered in sweat to prove it and it reeks of weed, despite the fact that Shelby hasn’t smoked since college— convinced she’s too grown up to still be getting high.
She throws on her satin robe and goes out to the kitchen to get the coffee machine started. Once she walks out of the bedroom, it’s clear that she definitely threw some kind of party last night: there’s spilled red wine all over her chic as shit coffee table and cigarette butts littering her Persian rug (the rug was a gift from an admirer, a guy she kept running into at parties who’d say her hair was the most gorgeous shade of gold he’d ever seen).
She didn't tell him she was a raging fucking lesbian.
She really wanted the rug, plus he’d already gifted her a vintage, one-of-a-kind Dior saddlebag.
At that point, it’s just rude.
Shelby realizes she’s not always a good person. But, before her brain goes into overdrive and launches an existential crisis, a door slams from the hallway.
“AH!” yelps Shelby as she clutches her heart and jumps two feet into the air.
She thought she was alone— apparently not.
Relief floods through her when a leggy redhead steps out from the bathroom, sporting a big smile on her face as she walks over to Shelby’s side and places a kiss on her cheek.
“Last night was really good,” Miss Redhead with Legs for Days says to Shelby with a hopeful look in her eyes.
Shit.
“Oh. Yeah. It was great. Um, I really have to get ready for work. But, you can see yourself out, right?”
Shelby doesn’t have to get ready for work. Actually, Shelby was very much fired yesterday. A fact that she, unfortunately, cannot forget as easily as she did her night with the woman currently stroking her arm.
The arm stroking stops pretty immediately.
After a very awkward goodbye, Shelby’s left alone in her apartment with a sinking feeling in her stomach. It’s not the hangover… it’s the fact that she was fired from her kickass job as an Assistant Stylist for one of the world’s most respected publications.
Another thing she adds to her mental list called “Shit I’ve Managed to Fuck Up.”
Shelby’s painfully aware that she needs to find another gig quickly or she’ll have no choice but to call her parents for help. And let’s just say Shelby doesn’t have…well… the best relationship with them.
Shelby Goodkind.
Shelby’s originally from Texas; however, she calls herself an L.A. native, due to her fading accent and relative popularity among the West Coast socialite and club scene. See, Shelby’s family moved to Beverly Hills when she was fourteen— a God sent because Shelby was completely miserable in Texas.
She has memories of waking up in cold sweats night after night, riddled with anxiety and feeling so helplessly lonely, loneliness she felt because there was such an obvious disconnect between her and the world she was living in.
Shelby was a rebellious teen, to say the least. She hit the L.A. club scene at a young age and made friends with people much older than her— people who took advantage of her innate kindness and obvious desperation to fit in, to be a “cool girl.” Eventually, Shelby didn't have to pretend to be cool anymore— becoming an It-Girl in her own right.
It really wasn't that hard: she’s beautiful, has that southern charm, making everyone around her feel seen and important, and really really knows how to put a killer outfit together. Ex-lovers and admirers have written songs and poems for and about her.
She had sex with a woman for the first time when she was fifteen and everything clicked. She’d always known, but it was nice to have an answer.
Shelby has a certain sadness to her. It’s part of the reason why she’s inspired art— why others have called her their muse. That tends to happen when you have big green eyes that fail to hide the disappointed little girl that still lives inside.
It stems from the fact that she knows her parents struggle to love her and that nobody has ever really cared about her, besides Fatin. She came out to her family pretty early on, not really bothered by what they thought— filled with the “fuck my parents” teenage attitude that goes hand-in-hand with adolescence.
She’s all grown up now, but those green eyes still show the void of never having felt warmth - the warmth that’s supposed to reach all the way down to your toes when your parents tuck you into bed at night. Shelby’s never felt that because her parents look at her and think of what could have been.
The daughter they could have had, the daughter who would have brought home a respectable Christian man. Not the daughter who’s gay, who came home drunk every Friday and Saturday night from the time she was sixteen, and who ran away to New York, in order to make a name for herself without their judgment breathing down her neck.
These thoughts enter her mind as she stares down at the Persian rug and the existential crisis that she tried to put off earlier slowly comes to a close.
Bored by her own dramatics, she finishes making her coffee and grabs the cigarettes and lighter off her coffee table, heading to the balcony so she can update Fatin on her latest life catastrophe.
Fatin answers on the third ring, once Shelby’s lit and taken the first drag of her cigarette.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s decided to check up on their best friend after WEEKS of forgetting about their existence,” Fatin says into the phone at a volume that worsens Shelby’s already pounding headache.
Fatin is back home in Los Angeles. She has over 600K followers on Instagram— a dedicated audience, which she’s been cultivating since she first started a blog when she and Shelby were teenagers.
They met in sophomore year Geometry class where they’d sit at the back of the class and giggle the hour away. Shelby would try and shut Fatin up, claiming she didn't want to repeat the 10th grade. Then, Fatin would tell her how they’d literally never need to know the Pythagorean Theorem for a single day in their lives. Shelby couldn't disagree with that.
“Oh shut up. Actually don’t shut up because I love and miss you. Pretty please forgive me?”
Fatin laughs into the phone. “You’re forgiven. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Shelby updates Fatin on the past few weeks of work. About how she was finally feeling like she found her footing, how her supervisor gave praise after praise for her work, and how other team members often turned towards her for input— what shoes to pair with the Dolce & Gabbana mini skirt or which blazer should they pair over that dress: black or navy?
She eventually gets to her unfortunate firing.
“She had the audacity to tell me how my work led to a partnership with Louis Vuittton. Louis Vuittton, Fatin. Louis fucking Vuitton,” Shelby seethes into the phone.
“Shelbs, you’re too good for that place and fuck them for not seeing that. Besides, the real money is in freelance, anyway.”
Shelby sits on that. Really thinks about what Fatin has just said. Flirts with the idea in her head. Hhhmm. Freelance?
She finishes her cigarette, puts it out on the ashtray.
“Um. Hello?” Fatin says into the phone after Shelby’s gone mute for a good few minutes.
“Freelance.”
“Yeah, that’s what I just said.”
“Do you think I’d, I don’t know, be any good at freelance?” Shelby questions as she lights another cigarette. “I mean I’ve got the contacts…” Shelby trails off, feeling shy and uncertain.
“YES!” Fatin shrieks into the phone, which has Shelby smiling on the other side of the phone.
Her headache is gone, now fueled with excitement at the possibility of working for herself, as well as the unwavering support from her best friend.
“Shelby. Listen to me.” Shelby’s listening. In fact, she’s hanging onto every word and her coffee has gone cold.
“Anyone with taste can see that you have more vision and talent in your pinky finger than any of these nepotism babies running around L.A. claiming they know how to dress people.”
Shelby can’t help but nod her head.
Fatin continues, “You went to New York not knowing a single soul and interned your ass off— steaming garments and getting coffees day after day. And then networking and making connections once you were off the clock. You earned that position at Rose fucking magazine—”
“Okay, okay. I didn’t realize it was ass kissing hour,” Shelby interrupts with a laugh.
She’s blushing bright red and uncomfortable with the praise, but knows that Fatin knows she’s incredibly grateful for it.
“Fine, don’t let me ramble on about my badass best friend,” Fatin concedes. “But, you might not like what I have to say next.”
“What is it?”
“L.A. is where it’s at when it comes to freelance. New York is all editorial. Do you really want to keep taking orders from an editor your entire career?”
Shelby shakes her head no. Then, realizes Fatin can’t see her, so she voices it aloud.
“Get your ass back home. Take private clients, you said yourself you have the contacts, and work your way up to celebrities. Also, obviously, I live here. Enough said.”
“You’re making it really hard to see a downside to this,” Shelby sighs, and manages to shock herself as soon as the words leave her mouth.
They hang up a few minutes later after Shelby says she’ll think about it, not wanting to promise anything.
But, before they bid their goodbyes, Fatin rushes out, “Oh! I forgot I met this one actress the other day at Leah’s housewarming party. She mentioned to me that she’s looking for a stylist now that she’s getting invited to more events.”
Shelby’s interest instantly peaks.
Having a potential client would definitely sway her decision whether or not to move back to California and revisit the… well, how to put it, complete and utter dumpster fire mess that Shelby created and left back home.
“She just wrapped on the new Greta Gerwig movie coming out next year. There’s rumors she’s Oscar nom worthy in it. Or at least the potential to be,” Fatin rambles on.
“She was in that movie about cancer that won Sundance last year,” Fatin can’t help but continue. “You know the one! God, I can’t watch shit about cancer. Might as well put my eyeballs right up against some onions—”
“Fatin. Who the actual fuck are you talking about?”
“Toni Shalifoe. She’s Hollywood’s newest indie-darling and actually really fucking cool. You’d like her, I was speaking to her for a while at Leah’s,” Fatin finally finishes.
Shelby knows who Toni Shalifoe is.
She did, indeed, watch “that movie about cancer” and immediately looked her up online once the credits rolled. Toni’s talent was obvious from her performance; she has these insanely expressive brown eyes and raspy, gritty voice that hooks you onto every word she says.
“Cool,” Shelby answers.
She says she’ll call Fatin back in a few days
…
Two weeks later, Shelby’s apartment is empty and she’s waiting for the Uber that’s meant to take her to the airport.
She’s spent everyday making phone call after phone call to everyone she knows in L.A. Tells them she’s decided to go freelance after Rose offered her a promotion to Senior Stylist. That as she was signing the paperwork, she thought to herself, “This just doesn't feel right. I’m meant to work for myself. ”
Says it with a straight face every time. Shelby is a scary good liar and it’s gotten her into quite a bit of trouble in the past.
She doesn't tell her parents that she’s moving back home.
She also really, really, really hopes she doesn’t run into certain ghosts from her past that may not exactly wish her all the best. But, Shelby realizes her mistakes and feels truly sorry for the pain she’s caused. Understands that she’ll need to take responsibility and apologize for her dumb, immature, and selfish teenage self.
Fuck.
She’s definitely walking straight back into the shit show she left behind.
…
Until she finds her own place, Shelby’s staying with Fatin, an act that truly reflects the strength of their decade long friendship.
“Please let me thank you one more time,” Shelby begs as she finishes dragging the last of her suitcases through to her new bedroom.
“No, you may not. I can’t physically, mentally, or emotionally handle the words ‘thank you’ leaving your mouth one more time,” Fatin rolls her eyes.
“Besides, I got a sick new rug out of this whole thing.”
Hours later, they’re sitting on the couch eating Chinese takeaway and laughing about the time they managed to finagle their way backstage at The Fonda on a school night— Fatin wanted to fuck the the lead singer of the band playing that night. Shelby wanted to impress the girl she had a crush on, who had nonchalantly mentioned to Shelby how easily The Fonda let girls through backstage.
“Oh!” Fatin screams and nearly spills her food all over the place.
Shelby laughs and reaches her hand out to steady Fatin, who's nearly falling off the couch, “What, you psycho?”
Yes, they’re red in the face and a bit giggly from the bottle of wine they’ve downed fairly quickly (in their defense, it’s a celebratory night: they’re now “roomies,” which they’ve obnoxiously been calling each other all night).
“I texted Toni Shalifoe and mentioned that my freakishly talented stylist best friend is returning to the superior coast after a brief, albeit successful, stint in the big apple.”
Shelby laughs, “Have I told you I love you today? Because I really do fucking love you.”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s still looking for someone to style her, if you’re interested? I can give you her number.”
Toni is the exact kind of client Shelby is looking for. She’ll admit to watching a couple (three, at most) interviews of Toni on YouTube and she has to admit, Toni’s got an attractive confidence to her that’ll make dressing her, well, fun.
Shen can picture Toni head to toe in Saint Laurant— a bit rock ‘n’ roll, loose fitting but at times scandalous, the “I just rolled out of bed, but I still look sexy as hell,” look. Shelby already has ideas, plus a few pieces saved that she’d love to show Toni, if she ever agrees to a meeting.
Scoring a client who’s generating exciting industry buzz would mean everything. A client who everyone’s got their eye on. A client who’ll make anyone want to wear exactly what they’re wearing. Someone who’ll make people say, “God, she always looks so fucking good. Who dresses her?”
Based off of her interviews, Toni seems serious about her craft, keeps a consistent, yet genuine, smile on her face, and listens to each question like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever fucking heard in her life.
She’s going to be a star.
That much is clear to anyone who lays their eyes on the painstakingly beautiful, unmistakingly intelligent, incredibly endearing Toni Shalifoe.
“Yeah, I’ll take her number.”
…
Three days later, after a few texts back and forth, Toni agrees to meet Shelby at a low-key coffee shop in West Hollywood to discuss potentially working together.
Shelby arrives first, would’ve been so embarrassed if she had Toni waiting on her, so she gets to the cafe way too early and orders a drink.
She’s wearing an oversized blazer that’s thrown over a silk mini dress and knee high boots that leave her thighs on display. Hair is pin straight and falls down over her shoulders, almost down to her waist. She’s a tad overdressed for a midday coffee meeting, but really couldn't give less of a fuck.
She knows she looks good. She feels good.
A woman she was previously dating used to make snarky comments about Shelby’s habit of overdressing. “You try too hard. Life’s not a damn runway.”
Shelby thought to herself, this bitch.
“Yeah the thing is, I’m not actually trying all that hard.”
Which was true— Shelby has an effortlessness to her that makes people turn their heads on the sidewalk once she’s passed them by.
But, that doesn't mean she manages to escape the deception which fashion and dressing provides. To avoid the opportunity to cower behind any given persona, which she’s managed to craft for the time being; to escape reality by opening her closet and putting on her mask for the day.
But Shelby is human and can’t escape the nerves she currently feels, which shows in how she fiddles with her cup and picks at her nails. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.
A few minutes later, the cafe’s door swings open, and standing at the entrance is Toni Shalifoe.
Toni’s feet don’t carry her in any direction; instead, she stands at the door whipping her head around and her mouth is hanging a bit open, a questioning look in her eye.
The cafe really isn't that busy, so Shelby’s confused as to why Toni isn't spotting her.
Oh, oh.
It quickly clicks that Toni has no idea what she looks like, and once she realizes, Shelby shoots up out of her seat and awkwardly waves at the brunette from afar.
Toni shoots her a calming smile and waves back, making her way over to the table.
She’s wearing baggy jeans that sit low on her hips and a tight, slightly cropped white t-shirt, which means her stomach just barely peaks through, but the top strip of her underwear is visible, on display just over the top of her jeans. She isn’t wearing a bra.
Her hair is kind of a mess, brown waves cascading down her back in a way that’s obvious they weren’t given an ounce of attention before leaving the house
Shelby just about short circuits and feels a gut punch straight down to the vag.
She’s so fucking gay.
Can you not be horny for like five seconds? Is what Shelby tells herself as Toni reaches her on the other side of the table.
“Hi, Shelby?”
“Yup! That’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Toni.”
They shake hands and Shelby’s once again reminded that she’s really, truly, spectacularly gay.
Once they’re both sat down opposite each other and Toni’s emptying her pockets— placing her phone, keys, and wallet haphazardly on the table— she dawns a mischievous smirk and says, “So Fatin tells me you’re quite the fashionista. That you left your gig over at Rose to go freelance.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Did you want to grab something to drink?”
“I’ll order something in a bit,” Toni assures her, but her confidence fades, as clears her throat and continues, “I’m going to be honest, I have no idea how to interview someone. Is this an interview? I don't even know, but I’d love to just chat and see some of your past work... I guess?”
It’s endearing. Toni’s endearing.
Shelby relaxes into her seat and a small smile spreads across her face, a calmness washing over her as she realizes Toni’s just as new at this as she is.
“Thanks for that,” Shelby giggles. Ew.
“Well, I left styling at Rose after a little over a year. I’d been wanting to work for myself for a while. My portfolio is mostly editorial, but I've steadily been making connections with L.A. and New York designers to, hopefully, pull samples for my clients. I’ve also got relationships with big names from schmoozing my ass off at Rose,” Shelby finishes confidently.
“Sounds good, I don’t really know anything about fashion. Or care. But, my manager, Rachel Reid, is pretty adamant I find someone to make me look somewhat presentable.”
“That must be exciting. Starting to go to fancy events.”
“Eh. That shit doesn't interest me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Where are you originally from? I can’t place your accent,” Toni says as she leans slightly over the table, placing her elbows up on the table with her head cradled between her hands.
“Texas,” Shelby says with a slow nod of her head, “But, I moved out here when I was fourteen. Guess, my accent has faded a bit.”
“Sweet. Are you glad to be back home in L.A.?”
Well, the short answer is no… not really. But, Shelby doesn't feel like getting into that here, with a woman who she’s just met.
“New York was great. It really was. But, the feeling of coming home is always nice. Guess I couldn't stay away from California for too long.”
“Lucky for me,” Toni returns.
They haven't broken eye contact since sitting down.
“Mmm,” hums Shelby, “weren’t you going to grab a coffee,” she finishes with a nod towards the counter, a smirk forming on her face.
Toni doesn't reply; just widens her smile, spares a glance at the barista, and gets up to place her order.
Shelby’s really fucking glad Toni’s back is turned to her, lest she reveals the pretty shade of pink that’s currently spreading across her cheeks.
Stop it.
Taking the opportunity to gather herself, Shelby takes a sip of her now-cold coffee and grabs her laptop from her bag. As she waits for Toni to return to the table, she pulls up the digital portfolio she created for today. It displays her past work, along with dozens and dozens of inspiration pictures for Toni’s looks.
Shelby’s ready to sell the shit out of herself when Toni reclaims her seat, scalding hot coffee in hand.
“I really loved your Sundance look. The Stella McCartney jumpsuit,” Shelby starts.
“Oh, thank you. I felt good that night. Probably my favorite look, so far.”
“Tell me, what makes you feel your absolute best? What's, in your opinion, you at your most beautiful?”
“I don’t care about being beautiful,” Toni retorts with the slightest bit of an attitude.
“Yeah, but you are. Beautiful.”
Ok cool, great. iiiiiiiiii’mmm going to light myself on fire.
The word “beautiful” leaves Shelby’s mouth before she could even think twice about it.
But, the embarrassment Shelby feels from aggressively complimenting her potential client slowly begins to fade when Toni’s face is taken over by a dazzling smile. Then, they're both smiling— Shelby’s smile is a bit shy, Toni’s is kind of teasing like she can’t really believe this is happening right now.
They both choose to ignore the comment and turn their attention towards what's displayed on Shelby’s laptop screen.
Over the course of an hour, they dive into Toni’s vision for future looks, discuss her favorite materials, colors, and patterns, and scroll through Shelby’s archive of work.
Shelby eventually shuts her laptop screen and begins to give her thanks, “It was so nice to meet—,”
“You’re hired, Blondie,” Toni interrupts.
As Shelby’s eyes go wide and her jaw stays hanging open, she can’t help but think to herself, I fucking did it.
The next is: It’s not very ethical to want to fuck my first client.