Love By Design, page 13
“Sunnies?” I gape.
“Ah, so you are a little oblivious.”
My eyes widen. “That was you?”
“I was supposed to meet Hero,” He elaborates.
“He called in sick that morning.”
I pause, remembering the chaos of four members of staff taking the day off due to a bug that was going around.
“I apologise for the verbal lashing out,” I say quietly. “Both times.”
He stills for a moment and I take the opportunity to continue my apology.
“And I’m also sorry for implying that you’re, um, incompetent. Blatant nepotism aside, you’re actually really good at your job. I wasn’t trying to be… malicious about you or the situation at all.” I frown, biting my lip. “I thought you were someone else and I was just…”
I pause. There’s nothing more frustrating about not being able to express myself and articulate myself well enough.
“You were just…” he prompts, waiting for me to continue.
“Running my mouth whilst trying to process everything,” I grimace. “All of this is still so new to me. Getting a job at Holmes, working as an intern, moving from Design to Comms. I know it might seem like a graceful strut on the catwalk for you but for me? I’m crawling on my hands and knees here.”
He lets out an amused exhale. “Walking on the runway is not easy.”
“My point still stands,” I nervously fiddle with the film canister on the table. “I’m sorry.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.” He comments. “Apology accepted.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s what you wanted? An apology?”
August shrugs, casual and boyish, as he reaches towards me to retrieve a storage box from overhead. A fresh scent of something woody and citrusy filters through my senses, my nose twitching in appreciation as he continues organising the photos.
“I did try to apologise,” I point out quietly. “Multiple attempts were made on my part.”
“Wasn’t the time nor the place,” He says, expression unchanged.
I gaze up at August, noting the way his pupils have adjusted in the dimly lit room.
“When did you expect me to apologise then?”
“Over lunch, maybe?” He suggests, tilting his head. “Like the one you so graciously abandoned me at.”
“What?”
“A little forewarning would have been nice, by the way.” He states. “I sat in that café for almost an hour expecting you to come back. Ended up running late for the rest of my conference calls. Had to reschedule my meeting with Design.”
My jaw drops.
“You agreed to lunch,” He reminds me.
“Yes, but you— I mean—” I stammer. “You didn’t say anything.”
“You hardly gave me a chance,” He counters. “And you seemed very adamant in avoiding me.”
“Sorry, I was…” I trail off, unsure how to accurately convey my feelings.
Stressed?
Nervous?
Overwhelmed?
Any of those descriptors from a high-strung design intern trying to find her footing in the fast-paced fashion industry isn’t likely to be well-received.
“I mean, you’re…” I hesitate, struggling to find the right words.
“I’m…” He prompts, waiting for me to elaborate.
“Intimidating.”
“I’m intimidating?”
“Well, you’re not exactly sunshine and rainbows,” I mutter, my hands twitching to start fiddling with the canisters on the worktable again.
“Yes, I’m difficult to work with and disproportionately hygienic, I’ve been told.”
His remark makes me visibly wince as I reply, “Sorry.”
“While I’m likely more hygiene-conscious than the average man,” He starts speaking, tone tinged with a hint of humour. “I’m not a full-blown hypochondriac. Despite the rumours swirling around the office.”
I stand there, speechless.
“Your verbal lashing was justified,” He says. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I’m disregarding your work and your place in the industry.”
There’s a shift in August and he suddenly feels like he’s Jean-Luc.
“I’ve seen your portfolio,” He continues. “You’re good at what you do, Mahalia. And other people know it too. So never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
A warmth crawls up my neck at his praise and I’m grateful that the red light in the darkroom is concealing the blush on my cheeks.
“Do you prefer film over digital?” I ask, after a while.
I studied a module in Fashion Photography, spent an entire term behind a camera so I knew a thing or two about the genre and some technicalities of the medium.
“I think most photographers do,” He responds.
“Oh?” I press further. “What’s your reason?”
“My reason?”
“For preferring film over digital,” I reply. “Every photographer has their deep, earth-shatteringly profound rationale behind their choice of style or method. At least, that’s what my lecturer taught me at uni.”
He releases a quiet, almost amused sound.
“Just personal preference,” He answers. “Nothing deep. Or earth-shatteringly profound.”
“Which is also the typical response from photographers who actually do have deep and earth-shatteringly profound reasons but they just don’t want to disclose it,” I remark with a knowing nod. “Another nugget from my lecturer.”
He pauses for a moment, as if contemplating his next words.
“Film is timely.” He settles.
“Timely?”
“Or rather, has a certain timeliness to it. And also timelessness.”
“You sound like the beginning of a public speaking presentation,” I muse, looking around the room and taking everything in. “Do you have a favourite camera?”
I gesture towards the devices hanging on the wall.
“Leica M6,” He replies.
Picking up the rangefinder camera, he hands it to me, almost like a peace offering of sorts. Inspecting the camera and feeling the weight of it between my hands, I realise it’s the same one he had with him on the day of my interview.
I look through the viewfinder even though it was impossible to see anything in the darkroom.
“I’ve never used a film camera before,” I say.
Curiously, I fiddle with the dials on the top plate and on the back of the camera, running my thumbs over. I startle at the clicking noise, promptly handing the camera back to him.
“Sorry.”
“It’s empty, don’t worry.”
August lifts a knob on the side which opens the back cover.
“I know I’m still getting the hang of everything at Comms,” I begin, clearing my throat. “But I’m committed to making sure that preparations for Men’s Fashion Week are smooth sailing. I understand what it means for everyone here at Holmes.”
August turns to me, gaze assessing.
“You’re a glittering ball of tinkering talent.” His mouth quirks up, just slightly. “I have no doubt you’ll do just fine.”
Chapter 15
Working a 9-5 job?
Hard.
Working a 9-5 job in fashion?
Even harder.
Working a 9-5 in fashion whilst simultaneously completing projects on the side?
The hardest.
And only getting four hours of sleep is the result of staying up late to finish the quilt for my grandma’s birthday on a work night.
“I need you to go through the names and organise them accordingly.” August’s voice filters through my sleep-deprived brain. “Saoirse has the list of all the people attending. We need a spreadsheet of seating arrangements for the runway show as well as time slots for the presentations at the flagship store.”
It’s barely even lunchtime and I’m already on my fourth cup of coffee, struggling to keep my eyes open at my desk.
“I’d like it completed today,” He adds. “Seat the guests based on their influence in the industry. There should be notes or highlights on the list differentiating them. Front row is reserved for our brand ambassadors as well as well-known industry figures with substantial social media followings.”
I nod again, my mind drifting distractedly.
“Remember to seat prominent journalists from established publications on the front row for press coverage,” August continues. “Similarly, well-known influencers and high-profile buyers should also be seated at the front.”
Eyeing the cup of coffee August is drinking, I pull a face as he takes a sip. I can never take my coffee black. I need at least half a cup of milk and four teaspoons of sugar.
“Second and third row would be appropriate for lesser-known publications and individuals seeking press coverage– be it under a publication or their personal accounts or blogs.”
Humming to myself, I nod in acknowledgement.
I decided I like August’s voice. It’s grounding and affirming with the ability to cut through mental fog.
“Mahalia,” He addresses me firmly. “Are you even paying attention?”
There’s a crease between his brows as he regards me with a puzzled expression and I have to fight the temptation to reach up and iron it out with my fingers.
“Of course,” I respond with a slow nod. “Mr. August Vante, sir.”
I punctuate my response with an overly exaggerated thumbs up, hoping to convey enough energy in his presence. Our professional rapport has been doing well so far and I’m determined not to ruin it.
August gives me a final onceover before leaving me to focus on the spreadsheets of names and continue with my tasks at hand.
I find myself in a peculiar state of being half-asleep and half-awake, time a seemingly nonexistent concept in my brain.
There’s a nudge on my shoulder as someone calls out my name but my surroundings are a blur, colours fading in and out along with the soft echoes of voices.
Out of nowhere, my sleep-idled brain conjures up two distinct individuals and I frown.
August and Jean-Luc.
They’re sitting side by side in a booth, chatting idly with each other as they have breakfast at Tito Boy’s. My lint roller and his camera are placed in front of both of them and I stare at their figures, perplexed. One is dressed in athleisure whilst the other is dressed in formalwear.
Confusion persists as I blink, consciously aware they are one and the same person.
“Mahalia.”
It’s the same voice. Deep, familiar. But my dream self seems to be struggling to differentiate between them. Even if there shouldn’t be a distinction.
Two pairs of eyes are blinking at me.
A set of steel grey, the other molten silver.
“August?”
“Mahalia.”
The voice sounds nearer this time, less distant.
They turn towards me.
One with a scowl on his face whilst the other smiles softly at me.
“Jean-Luc?”
“Mahalia.”
The scene fades to white and I jolt awake at the sound of my name. There’s a hand on my shoulder, shaking it firmly.
“What— Uh—?”
The familiar sight of the Comms room appears in my line of vision as I push off my desk, jerking out of reflex. My chair wheels backwards, bumping into the body standing behind it and I wince apologetically.
“Why are you still here?” August’s grey eyes are staring down at me and I glance around at the empty office, feeling disoriented.
“August?”
“It’s 11 PM,” He states, checking his watch to confirm the time.
“What?” I gasp, scrambling for my phone. “Oh my god, our daily update.”
My phone displays 23:04 on the screen and I press my fingers to my eyes, realising I’ve fallen asleep.
“Nevermind that,” He says. “I cancelled it anyway since I had a meeting with Grayson.”
The information catches my attention amidst the mental fog. “As in New York Grayson?”
He nods.
“How come?” I yawn.
“Why were you sleeping in the office?”
Slowly, I shrug. Even my shoulders feel heavy.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, groggily. “I don’t even remember falling asleep, if I’m being honest.”
August looks uncharacteristically concerned as he stares at me.
“I finished the spreadsheets,” I detail, now remembering how I opted to stay behind after work. “The seating plan for the runway. Presentation time slots. All done, boss. I’ve emailed it to you and CC’ed Ymir and Saoirse to be sure.”
The weight of sleep is heavy around me and I press a hand to my mouth to stifle another yawn.
“If I didn’t come back to the studio, you would have been locked in,” August informs me sternly. “Security already left.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, as is the case whenever it concerns him.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask.
“I needed to collect something from my office.”
I assess August, two camera bags slung over his shoulder as well as a folder in his hand.
“You’re so hardworking,” I comment sleepily. “Best nepo baby boss ever.”
Gravity pulls my head back down to the desk as my eyelids flutter close.
“Mahalia.”
A steady hand presses against my forehead, preventing me from accidentally smacking my face on the desk.
“Yes?” I respond, voice muffled.
I shift my head, pressing my cheek against his palm subconsciously as my eyes close slowly.
“You’re falling asleep,” He tsks.
His fingers cradle the side of my face gently.
“Come on,” He says, softer this time. “Time to go home.”
“Okay,” I hum, lazily pulling myself up.
August logs me out of the computer as I begin tidying my desk.
In my semi-somnolent state, I follow him out of the Comms room, apologising as I bump into him a few times.
Shifting weight between my feet, my body feels all too sluggish as I wait patiently for August to lock up outside of the building. My eyes droop heavily, watching as August scans his card and types in the security code before finally joining me on the pavement.
“See you tomorrow,” I announce my goodbye as August taps away on his phone.
He raises a hand to stop me from walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To the station?”
“At this hour.” He furrows his brows, lifting his gaze from his phone to meet my eyes.
“The tube’s still running.”
“It’s late,” He frowns, squinting at his phone. “It’s dangerous travelling by yourself late at night.”
I suppress a yawn. “It’s not that late. I used to finish around midnight all the time when I worked at the restaurant.”
“Oh? Were you also half-asleep?”
“Sometimes,” I shrug in reply.
August lets out an exasperated sigh, tucking his phone back into the inside pocket of his blazer. “The taxi’s one minute away. Just wait.”
Blinking up at him, I find his grey eyes assessing me.
“You didn’t have to get me a cab,” I say, spotting a car approaching.
A London black cab stops in front of us and August reaches for the door handle.
“I didn’t get it for you,” He responds, opening the car door. “It’s for us. Get in.”
His tone left no room for argument and I follow his order, ducking inside the cab and sitting on the far side.
“45 Park Lane?” The driver inquires and I blink.
Of course, August would be staying in one of the most expensive hotel apartments in London.
“Umm,” I turn to August, suddenly unsure as he closes the door. “I live on the other side.”
I inwardly wince at the possibility of inconveniencing both August and the driver for making a trip towards the opposite direction then back to Central London again.
“Just give him your address.” He leans over to me to fasten my seatbelt and I’m momentarily struck by the smooth execution of the gesture.
He faces the driver without hesitation. “Just add it to the trip, please. And make it the first drop off.”
“Of course.” The driver nods.
“Leathermarket Court,” I reply. “Near London Bridge station.”
The ride to my flat is silent but I wasn’t really expecting August to be making conversation.
Half-asleep and fully dazed, I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the nighttime scenery. London at night is always pretty. The glow of the street lamps, the bustling city lights, the iconic landmarks illuminating against the night sky. Driving over Lambeth Bridge, I yawn quietly as I take in the stunning views of the city skyline.
“Should I be concerned about your lack of sleep?” August’s voice cuts through the silence in the car.
I turn towards him, shaking my head. “It’s not going to affect work, I promise.”
The skepticism is evident on his face as he continues to watch me.
“I was working on a textile project last night,” I explain.
August blinks.
“For Mahalia Made?”
“No, it was a gift,” I answer, then further elaborate. “I was making a quilt for my grandma’s birthday but I haven’t had the time to put it together since I’ve been busy with work at Holmes— not that I’m implying that Holmes isn’t a priority! It obviously is, considering it’s taken up the entirety of my life. Not that I’m complaining about it either! I’m really grateful to be working at Holmes. The quilt is just a one-time thing and…”
My rambling gets even more jumbled in the drowsy fog of my half-conscious brain and I cringe at how unintelligible I’m expressing myself.
“I stayed up late last night to finish off the quilt so I can mail it to her in time,” I say it one breath.
A silence follows in the car before August turns to face me.
“Can I see?” He asks after a while.
“See what?”
