Love By Design, page 2
Alana gives me a faint thumbs-up, hovering next to me.
“I’m better,” She replies, peering over at the table plan on the monitor. “Are they still here?”
“For now but don’t worry, I’ll cover that table.”
“What about Sunnies?”
I glance over at the reserved booth. “Leave him to me.”
Alana nods, relieved. She sends me a small smile of gratitude before greeting a couple entering the restaurant. Outside, a wave of new customers surge, lining up by the door and waiting to be seated.
Grabbing the electronic tablet on the front desk, I begin walking to the kitchen. I’m re-configuring the menu settings for the evening shift when I accidentally bump into someone.
“Sorry!” I gasp.
A low grunt. “Christ.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, turning towards the customer.
“You’re one hell of a force for someone so slight,” He grunts, a hand instinctively pressing behind my back to steady me.
Blinking at the fabric of grey cotton, I didn’t realise how tall the sunglasses-wearing stranger is until I’m staring at the aglets of his hoodie.
“Sorry.” I tilt my head up and awkwardly step away from him. “I’ll get your drink from the kitchen.”
“No need.” He shakes his head. “I’m leaving now.”
“Is someone at the booth?” I attempt to look over him, checking if new customers claimed the table he was previously occupying. “I can find you another table—”
“Hey, can we get the bill!” A voice echoes in the restaurant.
I jerk towards the noise, a lot louder than the indoor voices of patrons, and my eyes narrow at the rowdy table of four.
“Just a moment!” I call out in reply before turning back to the tall customer, still sporting his sunglasses inside. “I can seat you closer to the kitchen for better lighting, or less in your case, just—”
“Can you hurry it up?” One of them shouts.
The irritation of being interrupted resurfaces and I resist the urge to stitch their mouths shut with an imaginary sewing needle.
“I’ll be with you in a second!” I declare promptly before turning to Sunnies. “Sorry, if you just bear with me, I can—”
“What’s taking so long?” Another voice from the same table exclaims. “The waiting staff here are a joke.”
Loud snickering erupts within the group sitting at the table as someone deliberately knocks over a glass of water, causing it to spill.
I blink in disbelief.
“Was that really necessary?” I question.
“That got her attention.” Another jeer.
I turn to them angrily. “Don’t you have better things to do than be menaces in public spaces?”
The entire table frowns, narrowing their eyes at me as my own reply catches me off guard. I’m about to go into full apologetic mode, again, when a voice calls from the kitchen.
“Is there a problem here?”
The familiar voice belonging to Rowan Ramos, the Head Chef at Tito Boy’s, echoes in the restaurant as he emerges from the kitchen.
“That waitress is getting mouthy.” One of them gestures towards me, their ‘customer is always right’ attitude apparent.
“Hallie?” Rowan frowns, turning to me.
I try not to shrink under his gaze. “It’s not—”
“She’s fine,” Sunnies cuts in and then adds, loudly. “That table over there is a clusterfuck of loud-mouthed idiots.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Alana’s mouth drop as Rowan blinks in surprise.
“Man, what the hell is your problem?” The group bristles.
“My problem?” He directs his attention to the table. “This is a restaurant. If you’re going to behave like clowns, join a circus. I’m sure there’s an act vacant for a group of idiots with god-awful dining etiquette sharing the same half a brain cell between them.”
The air prickles as the 6-foot-something-sunglasses-wearing stranger starts a verbal altercation with the other customers in the middle of a restaurant. There’s something in the way he presents himself, almost intimidating in the way he commands a room with his presence.
Rowan, ever the mediator, steps up.
“This restaurant does not condone harassment of any kind,” He says, directing his attention to the table of four. “Towards staff and customers alike. So I would appreciate it if everyone kindly pay their bill and leave.”
The group rolls their eyes before making a disrespectful show to drop money on the table.
“Keep the change.” They scoff.
Assholes.
“Thanks for dining at Tito Boy’s.” I plaster on a polite smile, strain seeping into my Customer Service voice.
Sunnies doesn’t say anything else, just gives a small nod towards Rowan’s direction before leaving the restaurant shortly after.
“Could someone clean up that table please?” Rowan asks.
Wordlessly, I nod and begin making my way to the back kitchen.
Chapter 2
The rest of my shift went by quickly. Time flies when you’re having the most fun wallowing in a pit of rejections and feeling sorry about yourself, after all.
With cashing up done and Alana already gone home, the only job left to do is one final clean of the restaurant floor before it was time to close. Mop in hand, I wipe the floor lazily, my mind flashing back to the email I received earlier in the day and falling back into the well of my self-pity.
The transitory period of life after university is a disorienting one. ‘Graduate Blues’, they call it. But I don’t think it’s very accurate. Though definitely melancholic in tone, blue is not quite the right colour I would describe it.
It’s a lot of grey areas.
Black and white anxieties blending into varying shades of uncertainties.
I can create an entire swatchbook of the drab and muted and dull and murky areas of my life since leaving uni and going into the overcasting world of work.
The sound of clattering in the kitchen, followed by an even louder curse stops my train of thought.
“Shit!”
My heart jumps to my throat and I instinctively tighten my grip on the mop handle, watching as jet black hair and dark brown eyes come into view.
“Rowan,” I sigh in relief as he emerges from the kitchen, stacks of plastic food containers in his hands. “God, you scared me!”
“Sorry!” He laughs sheepishly, eyes forming into crescent moons. “I dropped a pan. Or four.”
Rowan Ramos, unrelated to Alberto “Boy” Ramos despite sharing the same last name, is the unofficial-official Head Chef at Tito Boy’s. Unofficial since Rowan and Tito Boy both disliked the notion of a rigid kitchen hierarchy and much prefer to treat everyone equally, if not like family. But also kind of official since he’s the person in charge of overseeing everything in the restaurant, second only to Tito Boy himself.
“I swear you’re clumsier than I am,” I mutter. “How are you allowed in the kitchen?”
“Talent,” He retorts with playful arrogance. “What are you still doing here? I thought Marc and Alana were closing.”
“I sent Alana home already. And Marc asked me to cover his shift,” I reply. “Deadline season.”
“Yikes,” He comments. “That’s one aspect of uni I’ll never miss.”
“You went to culinary school,” I snort, levelling a pointed look at him. “Was one of your assignments handing in cottage pie at midnight?”
Rowan attended the Royal School of Culinary Arts, or The Scullery as it’s well-known here in London, and started working at Tito Boy’s shortly after graduating. He had a reputation of being a virtuoso of sorts in the culinary industry, having won a multitude of competitions and earned an abundance of awards in his career.
“Deconstructed cottage pie, actually.” He nods.
I blink, imagining the ingredients of the classic meat and potato savoury dish in all its individually assembled glory.
“Somehow, I believe you,” I reply with a laugh, entirely aware of the culinary school’s eccentric reputation.
“How’s your portfolio coming along?” He inquires and I lift my shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.
It’s not news to Rowan I’m searching for jobs in fashion. Everyone at Tito Boy’s pretty much knows of my harrowing hunt for employment since finishing uni. More than anything, they’re constantly encouraging me here, being a pseudo-family and all.
“It’s coming along,” I answer. “Received another rejection earlier in the afternoon.”
“Oi,” He raises an eyebrow at me. “What are the rules about phone use at work?”
I mirror him in reply, “We have none.”
“Well, maybe we should implement it.” He muses, ruffling my hair in that annoying way that a big brother would to their younger sibling. “Is that why you were moping around all day?”
“I wasn’t moping,” I interject, swatting his hand.
“You received your very first customer complaint,” He says pointedly. “Remarkably out of character for you, Hals.”
Frowning, I continue mopping the floor, a little forcefully this time. “Table 10 were being assholes.”
“I’m referring to the guy in the corner booth,” He tsks.
I blink. “What?”
“Sunnies,” Rowan needles lightly. “Your knight in cosy athleisure.”
My frown knots deeper.
“Yes, well, he was kind of being an asshole too,” I mumble. “Sat himself down in a reserved booth, refused to acknowledge my presence, consistently interrupted me whenever he could and acted like he owned the place so excuse me if I wasn’t going to tolerate his behaviour initially.”
Rowan lets out a low whistle. “That rejection really got under your skin, huh?”
Gloomily, I watch as he reaches under the front desk and begins to pack the containers into a brown paper bag.
“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” I mutter to myself, miserably. “But it’s still so jarring.”
It could be worse, I suppose. I could have gone through an entire interview process only to be rejected in the end. But at least I would have gotten an interview. I’m perpetually stuck at the stage of automated rejection emails with rarely any progression on how to improve and it’s incredibly dispiriting.
“I’ll lock up,” Rowan announces. “It’s getting late.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling myself wither at my own self-pity session.
“It’s fine.” A look of understanding flash across his face. “I’ve been there too, you know.”
“Now that, I find hard to believe.”
Rowan sighs in jest, shaking his head.
“Contrary to popular belief, opportunities were not handed to me on a silver platter.” He remarks. “You’re forgetting I’m from a family of migrant workers. Food was served on a banana leaf.”
Similarly to me, Rowan is also half-Filipino. He comes from a family of foodies, the eldest and only male amongst four siblings, his younger sisters following his footsteps and embracing the passion for culinary arts. He’s become somewhat of an older brother figure to me too which, as an only child, I’m grateful for.
“Since you’re done mopping and moping,” Rowan begins. “Go home. It’s nearly half 11. It takes you nearly an hour to get back to your flat.”
He adopts the authoritative voice he uses when he’s barking out orders in the kitchen.
“Don’t be out any later than you need to be.” He adds.
I sulk sportively. “We don’t all conveniently live a 15-minute walk away in the posh streets of Kensington, chef.”
“Head home, Hals.” Rowan chuckles. “And here.”
He slides the brown paper bag over to me and I blink questioningly before peeking inside, the aroma of Filipino food making my mouth water.
“Rowan, there are at least four large containers worth of dishes here,” I gasp. “And dessert, oh my god. Taho.”
I eye the tub of soft tofu with sago pearls and arnibal sauce and I almost want to cry.
“You’re welcome.” He nods. “Now go, it’s getting late. Eat your rejection away with some homemade sopas.”
My lip quivers as I stare at the plastic container containing creamy chicken macaroni soup.
“Rowan.” I turn to him.
The kind gesture tugs on my chest and I feel my eyes begin to water.
“God, Hallie, don’t cry.” Rowan flusters. “It’s just food. We’re in a restaurant, we have plenty.”
He awkwardly nudges my arm in an attempt to console me and I let out a warbled laugh.
“I really appreciate it, thank you.”
While it might not carry much significance for Rowan, it really means a lot to me.
“Taunts, aside.” He says. “Don’t let rejections get to you, okay? When one closet door shuts, another set of wardrobe doors open.”
I blink blearily at the fashion reference, wrinkling my nose in gratitude.
“Or something like that, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I read it in that damn magazine you keep hoarding at the restaurant.”
“Yes, Kuya.” I sniffle, teasing him with the Filipino honorific for an older brother.
“Alright.” He responds with a playful eye roll. “Get out of my kitchen, Hartt.”
Chapter 3
After grabbing my belongings from the staff cloakroom and clocking out, I say goodbye to Rowan and leave the restaurant.
Clutching the brown paper bag to my chest, I stroll out into the cobblestone streets and tree-lined avenues of Kensington. It’s approaching midnight so it’s already dark out but, thankfully, the underground is only a ten-minute leisurely walk from the restaurant.
(Fourteen minutes strutting in high heels, seven minutes fast-walking in platforms and three and a half minutes sprinting in plimsolls.)
Kensington is one of London’s more upscale neighbourhoods so I felt relatively safe walking at night after work. The journey home after a closing shift tends to be quieter which is something I’ve grown to appreciate over the years of living in the city. Rush hour in London, particularly on the tube, always makes me feel a little claustrophobic so I try to avoid travelling during peak hours as much as possible.
Just finished work! On my way to the flat!!
I quickly text Gigi, my best friend and flatmate, as I reach High Street Kensington station. Tapping my Oyster card on the reader and walking through the barrier, I’m grateful for the calm commute. The journey from the restaurant to my flat near Southwark takes just under an hour, even accounting for the tube transfers.
Both Gigi and I had the most insanely fortunate blessing of securing a reasonably well-priced flat at Leathermarket Court, a residential building within walking distance to The Shard and London Bridge station. Hunting for flats in London is not for the faint of heart and we scoured the property market, fighting tooth and nail with estate agents who were hellbent on renting flats with way above market value prices and extortionate additional fees.
Thanks to Rowan and his connections, we were introduced to Mrs Webb, an eccentric woman in her seventies who owns multiple residential and commercial properties across London. Married four times but now widowed, she spends a lot of her time cruising the Mediterranean with much younger beaus.
It’s way past midnight when I arrive at the iron-wrought gates of the building complex, the courtyard gardens quiet. Entering the code to the gate, I walk to the entrance and towards the communal postal area. Bills, letters, stacks of MODUE magazines addressed to Gigi, and a few packages in my name for my online clothing commissions-based business have accumulated throughout the week. I collect them from our mailing slot before heading towards the lift.
One of the perks of renting our two-bedroom flat is the lift that opens directly into our apartment. Gigi and I are situated on the building’s highest floor so having a lift conveniently accessible by the hallway saves us from trekking seven flights of stairs. While our flat isn’t the most spacious, it’s an open-plan layout with expansive windows that take in a lot of natural light. It accommodates Gigi and I, all at a more affordable price than the standard rate everyone else is paying in such an expensive city.
Considering the lateness of the hour, I’m expecting Gigi to already be fast asleep so it takes me by surprise when the lift doors open and the hallway is lit by a light coming from the living room. Usually, the flat would be engulfed in complete darkness by the time I arrive after a closing shift.
“You’re still up?” I call out as I make my way towards the light source, already aware of her whereabouts.
“Hey doll,” Gigi acknowledges me with a small wave. “How was work?”
Sitting at her usual spot by the dining table, Gigi is poised elegantly in front of her neatly arranged workstation of magazines and journals, her eyes fixed on the screen of her laptop. She’s wearing her matching satin pink pyjamas, her hair up in rollers and her cat-eye glasses over a mud mask covering her entire face.
“Eventful. Dealt with top-tier customers today.” I reply.
A soft meowing catches my attention and I turn to find Calix, Gigi and I’s informally rescued stray, stretching languidly on top of the already done-up sleeper sofa.
I redirect my gaze towards Gigi. “You set up my bed?”
A proper bedroom was one of the small sacrifices I had to make to accommodate the ever-demanding lifestyle of an aspiring fashion designer. Gigi had been a saint, letting me have the bigger room in the flat so I could turn it into a design studio. With space for sewing machines, cutting tables, mannequins and pattern-making tools as well as a built-in wardrobe to store textile materials, the make-shift workshop allowed me to facilitate the commissions for Mahalia Made and other personal projects.
But that ultimately meant slumbering my nights on a pull-out couch in the living room.
“I refuse to see you sprawled out on the floor of your studio for the nth time this week,” Gigi answers, sending me a knowing look.
“Commissions have been chaotic recently,” I comment as I walk over to the sofa bed and give Calix a belly rub.
