Sharp Dressed Men - a Carl Wilson encounter

The following story is purely fictional and the plot is not to be associated with actual historical events.

1980's

I've been working at Ralph Lauren for, let me see, about 18 months now, in the California office. Once I got my degree in Fashion Design I was torn between wanting to see a bit of the world, and actually getting some work experience in a big fashion house. So when the job of Assistant to the Assistant Designer was offered to me, I jumped at it, as it was a combination of the two! Not that I've had much spare time to sight see, but I'm loving it.

I think they're pretty happy with my work - George, my boss, is now a firm friend. He's given me some really good pointers, and is always interested in critiquing my designs. He's shown Ralph a few, and he liked them, which is really encouraging. I've only met the great man once. He was, predictably, polite but distant - he shook my hand and welcomed me to the firm (I'd been here a year at that point, but anyway, it's the thought that counts).

I've been working on my own project for the last couple of weeks. It's Ralph's first foray into designing stage clothes for bands - this is for the Beach Boys. My idea is using Ralph's classic linen suits in pastel colours, but incorporating a kind of Nudie design on the jackets. But rather than the exotic birds and swirly patterns that Nudie is famous for, something more personalised to the band - their logo, surf and other 'beachy' stuff. I gave my designs in to George last week, and he was showing them to Ralph this morning.

The door bursts open and George bustles into the room, panting and brushing his hair back from his shiny face. He is sweating profusely, a combination of the California heat in the badly air conditioned offices, and the stress of meeting with the big man.

"For Gods sake Cathy, get me some water before I pass out," he announces dramatically, collapsing into a chair and dropping his art folder, sheets of designs sliding out and spilling across the floor. I jump up and run to the water dispenser, unclear whether to give it to him to drink or throw it over him to cool him down.

I pass him the plastic cup of iced water, and wait while he drains it in a second, his eyes closed. He gestures for another, and finishes that in one gulp. I sit patiently, waiting for him to calm down, although I'm dying to know how things went. But you can't hurry George, that's one thing I've learnt over the last 18 months.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, sighs and smiles.

"Well, who's a clever girl?" he crows, "Ralph loved them! So, you and me get to meet the Beach Boys on Friday!"

"Oh, that's grand," I say, beaming. George sits up straighter and gives me a quizzical look.

"Grand?" He echoes, "Just....grand? You British, with your understatements! Girl, that's phenomenal! Dressing America's band - not to mention catching the eye of Ralph in the short time you've been here!"

"Yeah, no, I mean, I'm really chuffed," I say to make up for my lack of reaction. He looks sideways at me.

"So...chuffed is good then?" I smile and nod.

"Yes...chuffed is brill!" I say, and he rolls his eyes.

Friday comes around. George and I are sitting at the huge oval table in the main meeting room waiting for the group. George is nervous; turns out that he is a huge fan of the Beach Boys.

"Their songs are woven into the tapestry of my life!" he gushes earnestly to me.

"Well, don't go all silly and starstruck on them," I warn him, "That'll put 'em right off."

He pulls a disgusted face.

"Cathy - what do you take me for? Of course I won't! When have you ever known me to act anything other than completely professionally?"