Love By Design, page 1
Yinnie Lin
Love By Design
Copyright © 2024 by Yinnie Lin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Yinnie Lin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Yinnie Lin has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To Mama Nene and Papa Jose
“Fashion is the armour to survive the reality of everyday life.”
— Bill Cunningham
Contents
I. PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
II. PART TWO
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
III. PART THREE
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
IV. EPILOGUE
MAHALIA
About the Author
I
Part One
“Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them.”
— Marc Jacobs
Chapter 1
Dear Mahalia,
I take a deep breath.
We regret to inform you–
And there it is.
Yet another rejection.
I don’t need to read beyond those five words to know what follows is more than likely a copy-and-paste response of a dismissal to a job I applied for.
– that your application for the Studio Assistant position at DEMZARA Designs has been unsuccessful.
But, of course, I read the rest anyway.
Receiving emails of rejections is routine for me at this point but it’s always so jarring to actually go through it. Reasons for ‘not moving forward’ with my applications are often vague and cryptically constructed, the concluding paragraph always alluding to suggestions of applying again and ‘paths realigning in the future’. As if this isn’t the third time I’ve applied to the same company in the last 12 months.
Still, I appreciate the email.
Most of the time, I exist in a state of limbo where I don’t hear back from companies and I wallow in the dreadful abyss of uncertainty for weeks— if not months.
The email is short, a whiplash of a job rejection, but the sting always lingers much longer. Regardless of the countless times I’ve been dismissed and ghosted from the endless list of jobs I’ve applied to in the past, I always feel the aftermath of the dismissal clinging on to me like velcro.
Releasing the breath I’m holding, I straighten myself up.
Note to self. Don’t read emails at work.
I typically avoid going on my phone when I’m working but my shift is due to end soon and the restaurant is quiet. It’s the slow interval in the afternoon, just after lunch and before the transition to dinner when service picks up again.
My hands, restless as ever, were twitching to do something. And, as a result, I found myself browsing through my phone.
Sighing, I close the Mail app and slip my phone back into my pocket.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Time to clock out.”
Intent on not letting the rejection from yet another fashion company get to me, I make a mental note to work on more applications tonight as I head towards the back of the restaurant.
Waitressing at Tito Boy’s, a Filipino restaurant in Kensington, was a part-time job I had when I was studying at the London Institute of Fashion and Textiles. I’m a fashion designer, or aspiring to be one, depending on how you look at it. I graduated from LIFT last July and I’ve been floating around the fashion job market since.
Hence, going full-time at Tito Boy’s.
I’m in the middle of untying the apron around my waist when Alana, one of the waitresses I’m currently working a shift with, walks in through the back doors leading towards the kitchen.
“Table 10 is being difficult.” She rushes in. “And someone at the corner booths just sat himself down without reservation.”
“We take walk-ins, Alana.” I remind her gently, taking note of her frazzled state.
Alana is half-Italian and half-Chinese, a second-year student studying Business at Goldsmiths and she started working at Tito Boy’s last December when we needed extra staff over the Christmas holidays.
“I know but it’s one of the reserved booths.” Her lips begin to quiver as she continues, “He just strolled in, no greeting, not even a glance my way. Literally walked right in, wearing some stupid sunglasses on his face, as if he owned the place. And those guys in Table 10 won’t quit.”
“Still?” I turn towards her as she brings her hands to her face, pressing her palms against her eyes. “What happened?”
“They’re just being…” Alana bites her lip. “Loud.”
My eyebrows furrow. Loud is usually our code for microaggressions.
Alana and I have a system when it comes to the customers dining here at Tito Boy’s. Being a waitress at the restaurant, part-time for three years and full-time for just over 6 months, I’ve come across a lot of individuals who seem to consider themselves above service workers and I’ve been subjected to derogatory remarks and borderline racist insults from less-than-pleasant patrons in the past.
“Hey, don’t worry.” I try to reassure Alana whose eyes are beginning to gloss over. “They look like they’ll be leaving soon. Take a 10-minute break, I’ll get the bill for them.”
Grabbing my apron from the table, I begin retying it around my waist, peering over through the glass divide.
“Aren’t you clocking out soon?” She bites her lip, glancing at the clock on the wall.
“It’s only 10 minutes, Al.” I turn towards her. “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll take care of your other tables as well.”
I offer her an encouraging smile, reaching out to give her a comforting pat on the shoulder.
“Thanks Hallie,” She whispers. “Sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed with uni and deadlines and those assholes outside are being such dickheads.”
“No need to apologise, I’ve been there,” I assure her. “Take 10 and I’ll see you when you’re ready.”
Alana nods, composing herself before heading towards the back office.
Grabbing the plates of food ready to be served from the kitchen window, I step back out on the restaurant floor. I mentally note the empty tables that need cleaning as I serve the plates of food to the rest of the customers, my eyes catching the booth in the corner.
The person currently in the reserved seating is on their phone, messaging someone by the speed their thumbs are tapping across the screen. Oddly enough, they’re still wearing their sunglasses indoors, black aviators glinting under the light as it covers their eyes.
Cautiously, I approach the individual sitting there.
Clearing my throat to make my presence known, the person glances up momentarily before diverting their attention back to their phone.
Please don’t let them be one of those customers.
“Glass of water. With lemon. No ice.” He instructs. “Filtered would be ideal but bottled is fine.”
I blink at him.
Wonderful.
&n
“Sorry for the inconvenience,” I quickly adopt my Customer Service voice. “But this booth is reserved only.”
I assess the stranger wearing the black aviator sunglasses, indoors of all places. He’s dressed head to toe in athleisure; a white t-shirt peeking out of the bottom of an oversized grey hoodie with matching grey sweatpants and white high-top trainers.
A white baseball cap sits on top of their head, a monogrammed emblem ‘AV’ embroidered in tiny, barely noticeable letters on the visor, blending with the white monochrome panels of the fabric.
It wouldn’t be the first time the restaurant is visited by celebrities or influencers who want to be inconspicuous. Famous people often dined at Tito Boy’s and we even have a handful of stars who are regulars. Partly due to the Head Chef’s reputation in the culinary world but I digress.
“Did you make a reservation with us?” I ask.
He looks up but doesn’t say anything and it’s hard to discern his facial features underneath the aviators.
“Can I get your name?” I request instead. “If it’s your table, I’m more than happy to accommodate.”
He pauses before shaking his head.
“No,” He says, bluntly. “Thanks.”
My eyebrows knit together and I squint my eyes in an attempt to see a semblance of emotion under his sunglasses. A longer silence follows as he leans forward and continues to type on his phone, ignoring me completely.
“Well, these booths are for customers who booked in advance.” I motion towards the table with the small metal plaque labelled ‘RESERVED’, trying my hardest not to show the irritation I’m beginning to feel.
“Understood.” The stranger nods.
I stare at him, sharpening imaginary daggers in my head as he continues to disregard me.
Being exposed to customers with an inflated sense of entitlement is a regular occurrence in the restaurant so this is no surprise. Dealing with them, however, is an entirely different challenge.
“I can gladly seat you at a free table in the restaurant, there’s a table by the window—”
“No, thank you.” He interjects. “The lighting bothers my eyes.”
I tilt my head to the side.
The sunglasses make sense. The attitude, however, doesn’t.
“I see.” I nod, forcing my Customer Service voice to stay neutral but I can hear it curling around the edges with agitation. “But, once again, this is a reserved booth—”
“How much do I need to pay to sit at this table?” He interrupts once more and I can’t help but visibly bristle this time.
“You don’t pay to sit at a specific table,” I answer with a slight frown. “But it’s a requirement to call in advance if you want to reserve one, like other customers who—”
“The restaurant is practically empty.” His tone is sharp and I can sense a hint of annoyance in his voice. “What’s the issue with me sitting here?”
My hand twitches against my side.
“The issue is we have a system in place,” I begin. “Yes, the restaurant isn’t busy at the moment but there are customers who reserved the table and if they show up then—”
“Can I speak to the chef?” He cuts me off for the fourth time.
“Pardon?”
“The chef.” He says it in a slow, almost mocking tone and I feel my tolerance for bad behaviour reach maximum capacity, hospitality be damned.
Breathe, Hallie.
Requesting to speak with the manager is one thing, but asking for the chef before even ordering? That’s certainly a new one.
“He’s on a break.” I mirror his tone.
My eyes focus on counting the embroidered monogrammed letters on his cap to subdue my rising frustration.
And not having to deal with difficult customers like you.
The customer turns his head towards me slowly.
“That’s rude.”
Oh shit.
Did I say that out loud?
“Yes, you did.”
He carelessly tosses his phone on the table and it clatters across the granite countertop.
“Sorry,” I blurt out instantly. “I didn’t mean that.”
He crosses his arms to show his displeasure.
“You mean, you didn’t mean to say it out loud?”
I curse inwardly, resenting how the job rejection is causing me to behave completely unlike myself right now.
Underneath the baseball cap, I see a knot form in between his eyebrows and I let out a quiet exhale, opting for honesty.
“I’m really sorry,” I sigh dejectedly. “I’m not having the best of days today. But that’s not an excuse to take it out on you, I apologise.”
He doesn’t say anything but I can feel his eyes assessing me behind his sunglasses.
“I’ll leave when they make an appearance,” He states after a long pause. “Whoever reserved this booth.”
He says it as if he’s doing me a favour and I’m running out of energy to deal with him so I just nod.
“Lemon water, did you say?” I ask.
“Filtered,” He clarifies, then as if suddenly remembering his manners adds, “Please.”
Forcing a smile, I ring out my best Customer Service voice.
“Coming right up.”
Heading back towards the kitchen, the phone at the front desk starts ringing and I quickly divert to answer it.
“Tito Boy’s Restaurant, how can I help?” I pick up on the third ring.
“Hallie?” Questions the voice on the other end and my eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“Marc?” The receiver crackles with static that makes me cringe as it rings in my ears.
“I tried calling the kitchen but no one was answering.”
Marc is a second-year architecture student at Imperial College. Like Alana, he also works part-time at Tito Boy’s. But unlike Alana, he doesn’t take his job as… seriously.
I glance at the digital clock at the front desk.
“Rowan’s still out and Alana’s taking a break. Hero and a couple of people called in sick this morning so we might be short-staffed for dinner.”
A pause settles on the other end of the line and I can sense Marc’s hesitation over the phone. There’s only one plausible reason he’d call the kitchen line before the number at the front desk.
“Please don’t tell me you’re calling because of why I think you’re calling,” I say.
Another long pause.
“Can you please cover my shift tonight?” He pleads. “It’s deadline season, you know how it is. Uni’s been beating my ass and I’m stressed as shit with my coursework.”
I release a heavy sigh. “Aren’t you closing tonight?”
“Yes, exactly why I’m calling.”
“Marcus,” I let out another, overly dramatic sigh over the phone. “If you spent more of your time in the library rather than the club, you might actually get your coursework done.”
“I know,” He groans. “My mum already gave me a bollocking about it.”
“Then listen to your mother.”
“Please, Ate.”
He uses the Filipino honorific for an older sister and I roll my eyes, although he couldn’t see me.
“You genuinely better be doing your coursework,” I warn him. “If you end up clubbing tonight, I’m putting you on closing shifts for the next two weeks.”
“It’s a Wednesday,” He comments. “Who goes on a night out in the middle of the week?”
“Students,” I reply, flatly.
“Okay, fair enough.” He chuckles. “But I swear I’m doing assignments for once. Can you cover?”
“Fine.”
“Thanks Hallie,” He chirps. “You’re a lifesaver!”
“Alright, bye.”
Checking the clock displayed on top of the monitor by the front desk, I hang up the phone and sigh at the time.
5:15 PM.
There goes working on my portfolio and applying for more jobs after work. I note down the shift swap, crossing out Marc’s name and writing my own.
“I think someone tried calling the back office.” Alana approaches the front desk. “I didn’t get to it in time.”
“It was probably Marc. He needed his shift covering tonight.” I reply, processing a bill for another table. “How are you feeling?”
