Chapter 3: The Thrill of a Phill
Designer Robert Phill got these calls more often than you might expect. A highly respected designer of couture accessories for men and women, Phill had become a household name several years ago when his son brokered a landmark deal with a mass market retailer. 'The Thrill of a Phill' line had exploded worldwide, lauded for its aesthetics as well as its affordability. Semi-retired now, Phill maintained a private couture studio by appointment only, tucked away on a quiet row of stately brownstones.
"Of course," the designer replied to the request. He called his faithful assistant Clotilde, asking her to meet him at the studio a little before 6 AM the next day.
Phill mused about this morning's client. Usually it was some corporate titan's staffer panicking about a forgotten gift, occasionally an errant husband or partner hoping to erase a mistake or indiscretion, and once a suspected bigamist who purchased every item in two colors, sending them to two addresses barely five miles apart. Today, all he had was a first name and the time of his arrival.
The young man – well, young to him anyway – entered the salon precisely at 6 AM. Clotilde touched his hand, then went to the office in the back.
Former military, Phill thought, noting the way his startling gray eyes swept the room, taking in every detail. Phill was struck by his quiet grace - unlike most men who entered his salon, he wasn't nervous or belligerently masculine. The designer knew instinctively that this was a man who wouldn't be taken in by the fanciful tales he usually romanced his clients with, "Normally I'd tell you a tale of windswept hills, wild beasts and long sea voyages, but I don't think you'd be impressed."
"Especially when the hills were strip mined ten years ago, the wild beasts are on a ranch in Montana and the commercial freighters have stopped using those shipping lanes due to Somali pirates," the young man replied.
The designer nodded, "How can I help you?"
"I'd like to purchase one of your scarves for someone – a woman."
"Ah, perhaps you have a tale for me. Tell me about this woman."
"She's smart, brave, beautiful, honest and loyal. A fantastic mother and an excellent colleague." He paused, and with the freedom of confessing to someone you'd never see again, added, "She knows what I am and what I've done, and she's still there."
"You're not worthy of her," Phill's words were sharp, but his voice was soft.
"No," the young man smiled, the designer sensed, for the first time in days, "but I want her anyway."
"And is this woman interested in you?"
"I piss her off several times a day."
"Then she is interested. And the scarf is for…"
"I was the cause of the destruction of one of your, she called it a 'knockoff', scarves."
Phill sighed dramatically, "You expose me as a teller of false tales and a sellout to commercialism. Let me try to redeem myself by showing you my true wares."
He slid open a drawer. The scarves glowed as if they were lit from within against the dark wood. Gold, forest green, royal blue and deep purple, they ranged the spectrum from pale ivory to rich, velvety black. There were twelve in all.
"May I," the young man asked. The designer nodded.
The young man picked up the dark red scarf. "It's exquisite."
Phill nodded, "As you can see and feel, the 'knockoff' version bears absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the real thing."
The young man smiled again, "Indeed."
"The red suits her?"
"Yes, but I don't think there's a color she doesn't look good in...I'll take them all."
Phill called for Clotilde to complete the transaction and place the scarves into one of his signature leather and silk hinged boxes.
He shook the young man's hand. "Come back whenever you wish. Bring her with you," knowing he'd never would.
"You're assuming that I'll be successful."
"If you aren't, she's not the woman you described."
"Now you've exposed yourself as a hopeless romantic." He slipped the box under his arm. "Thanks."
The designer watched the young man walk out into the early morning sunlight. He turned to Clothilde, taking her hand in his. Fifty years ago, blinded by pride and misunderstandings, they'd married other people. After their spouses passed away, they slowly came together. He cherished every day.
"Come," she said, "I've made tea."
"Yes, that was exhilarating and exhausting."
"Love always is, my darling."
TBC