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.
“I’m aware,” She nods in understanding. “But that’s no excuse to be breaking your back, Mahalia Hartt.”
The lens of her glasses illuminate with a blue tint as she turns to me pointedly and I pout at her silent reprehension, holding up Calix next to my face for double effect.
Gigi rolls her eyes at me playfully.
“Thank you.” I send her a small smile, grateful nonetheless.
I met Gigi when I studied at LIFT. We were both in the same year but in different courses, Gigi having taken Business whilst I took Design. Our paths crossed during the second semester of first year when Gigi, as part of the editorial society at LIFT, interviewed design students to feature in the university-based fashion magazine, Elevate.
It was a student-led initiative but Gigi’s supervision as co-editor made Elevate flourish over the three years she ran it. The magazine even gained accolades at the end-of-year Graduate Showcase within her collegiate cluster. Gigi is a go-getter and when she goes, she gets. So it’s no surprise that she’s now an editorial assistant, and working her way to becoming a junior editor, at one of the leading fashion magazines in London— MODUE.
“I come bearing sustenance,” I announce, lifting the paper bag as I set it on the kitchen counter. “Courtesy of Rowan Ramos himself.”
“Oh my god,” She pauses her aggressive typing before leaping from her chair and rushing towards me. “I want his hand in marriage.”
Gigi peers over my shoulder as I begin unpacking each plastic container with a different dish. Tinola (green papaya ginger garlic soup), adobo (marinated chicken in soy sauce and vinegar), afritada (braised chicken in tomato sauce with vegetables)— heaven.
“I’m pretty sure he won’t be opposed to it,” I snicker. “Just don’t turn me into a child of divorce and deprive me of food from my home country. Rowan’s the only chef that makes extra food.”
“Better start cosying up to the other chefs then,” She quips, rising from her seat to fetch a bowl and spoon from the kitchen cupboard. “Oooh, sopas.”
Crossing the living room to retrieve my laptop from the media unit under the TV, I place it on the dining table before I start plating my own food, opting for a bowlful of taho.
“Why are you still up?” I ask, curiously.
Gigi sighs loudly. “I’m putting together a presentation for the upcoming print issue.”
“They moved you to print?” I gasp in excitement, sitting down opposite her. “Gigi, that’s huge!”
Gigi initially worked as an intern at the magazine, doing written coverage for shows during Fashion Week but she worked mainly on the digital side of the publication, not print.
“One of the junior editors in Entertainment eloped with some European man she met on Babble,” She reveals. “So I’m stuck with covering her work.”
My mouth twists. “The dating app?”
“She was supposed to do a piece on it but she’s up and left the magazine. We’ve heard nothing from her to confirm whether or not she’s coming back but she’s posting her new and lavish lifestyle everywhere on social media.” She adjusts the rollers on her head before refocusing her attention on the screen. “I don’t mind the work but managing digital and print assignments of two different sectors was not on the agenda nor the pay grade.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
Gigi shakes her head. “Not unless you happen to be well-versed in the world of billionaire bachelors on a bloody matchmaking platform.”
“Wow,” I release a breath. “That’s what you’re covering? Sounds like something Faux would churn out.”
As soon as I mention the tacky celebrity tabloid, Gigi’s expression sours.
“I know,” She frowns prettily. “I honestly don’t understand why they gave it the green light. It’s practically a gossip-fuelled op-ed on the dubious ethics and ambiguous moral compass of plutocrats but whatever. It is what it is. That’s Entertainment’s concern, I won’t question it.”
“At least the assignment will help you eventually write your own cover story, right?” I offer, trying to reassure her. “How’s the 10-page spread feature on Fashion Royals going?”
“Ever the optimist,” Gigi lets out a small smile. “And it’s good, I’ve done all the research for Europe so now I’m moving to the monarchs in the Mediterranean. Thanks for lending me some of your old research notes, by the way.”
“You know me and my love for princes,” I giggle. “Fashionable ones, at that.”
“Me too, I can’t wait to write it.” She nods determinedly. “By the way, Lola rang the landline.”
At the mention of my grandma, I turn towards Gigi.
“She did?”
“I told her you were working overtime at the restaurant,” Gigi replies. “She’d like you to give her a ring when you can, she isn’t too sure whether or not you’ve been receiving her messages.”
I soundlessly shift on the chair, restless.
Ever since leaving uni, my workload has been nonstop. Attempting to balance waitressing at the restaurant, doing commissions, portfolio work and job applications left very little room for communication outside of a ‘working’ environment. I rarely find a moment for myself, let alone other people, especially with such a packed schedule.
“How long was she on the phone for?” I ask.
“Around an hour,” Gigi replies. “I think she was waiting for you to get back from work so she could speak to you.”
I nod again, feeling threads of guilt knot itself around my chest.
My grandparents had been the ones to look after me ever since my parents passed away in a car crash over two decades ago. It happened during a snowstorm in Switzerland and I had been a baby at the time so I had very little memory of the event.
My childhood was spent living with them in Switzerland until I was old enough to attend St. Faustina’s, an all-girls boarding school that my mum also went to. Her side of the family wasn’t particularly interested in my well-being so it became the responsibility of my dad’s side to look after me. Whilst I enjoyed living with my Mama and Papa in Interlaken, my uncles felt it wasn’t ideal for them to raise another child at their age so the only option was to send me to boarding school.
Regardless of being shipped off to England, my grandparents still looked after me and became my surrogate parents in every sense. I would visit them during every school holiday and they made consistent efforts to see me during term time, even though all of my uncles were resistant to the idea.
“I think they’re just really missing you,” Gigi comments. “Lola says it’s been a while since you visited them.”
My mind flashes to my first Christmas back in Switzerland during my first year of uni.
… wasting her time …
… won’t get anywhere …
… such a disappointment …
Reflexively, my hand twitches as fragmented memories of harsh criticisms from members of my family resurface. I shake my head to prevent the thoughts from fully manifesting.
“I’ll give them a call tomorrow,” I say quietly.
Gigi gives me a small smile of reassurance before turning her attention back to her laptop. A comfortable silence settles between us as I check my emails and do the usual backend work to make sure that everything is operating smoothly with my small business.
Mahalia Made is an online store that I launched during my second year of uni to leverage my design portfolio. I sell digital downloads of patterns I created thanks to the Pattern Cutting semester I took at LIFT as well as commissions for glitter garments that I make, a surprisingly well-to-do niche in the market. The store is also a source of additional income. As someone who lives in an extremely expensive city, it’s next to impossible to get by paycheck-to-paycheck with waitressing alone.
I’m scrolling through my personal email when a particular subject line reading ‘Application Status’ catches my attention.
My eyes widen at the sender.
HOLMES London
Sitting up and scrambling to open the email, I drag my finger across the trackpad of my laptop and tap twice.
Dear Mahalia Hartt,
Thank you for submitting your application for the Design Intern position at HOLMES London.
My heart is pounding in my chest and I can hear it echoing in my ears. This is usually the part where I read the copy-and-pasted paragraph of a rejection response.
Twice in a week is manageable but two in one day?
This is going to be tough.
I brace myself, expecting to receive yet another dismissal for a position I applied for when my eyes widen at the next sentence that followed.
Upon reviewing your portfolio, we would like to invite you for a formal interview to further discuss your application at our London Studio.
I let out a loud gasp, “Gigi.”
“What is it?”
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Oh my god!” I turn the screen towards her.
Gigi scans the email, her eyes quickly darting across the screen and soundlessly mouthing the content of it.
“Holy shit, Hallie!”
“Oh my god…”
Her expression is a mix of bewilderment and confusion as she turns to me. “When did you apply for Holmes?”
I try to recall the timeline, my mind jumbled as the email sinks in. I’ve applied to so many jobs over the past few months that it was hard to keep up with them all.
“About two months ago?”
She reads the email a few more times, probably to double-check it wasn’t a skilled attempt at a phishing scam.
“Sorry, let me rephrase that, why did you apply for Holmes?”
My mind draws a blank. Riding the endless rollercoaster of job searches has been so stomach-turning, I’ve resorted to submitting applications for any available positions out of desperation. To be quite honest, I don’t even remember applying to the studio, let alone anticipating an actual reply.
“I’ve heard horror stories there, Hallie.” Gigi continues, an apprehensive look on her face. “Unfair dismissals, workplace harassment. Interns were getting sacked on the spot and executives were being reduced to tears. More than half of their workforce left, just last year. It’s dire.”
I visibly wince.
Holmes’ reputation at the moment is less than stellar. The company had been subjected to tons of controversies over the years and the media reported on every little faux pas that they could, fashion or otherwise. Things became a lot worse after the death of Sterling Holmes, the CEO of the British fashion house, and the company frayed at every overlocked seam.
“You don’t think I can do it?”
Gigi dismisses my doubt immediately.
“You’re capable of anything,” She affirms. “But it’s Holmes. They’re well-known for employees being torn to threadbare tatters in the tight-fitting depths of the brand’s own Herringbone hell.”
I blink.
“Words of a fashion critic, not mine,” Gigi states. “And it’s not the case of whether you can, Hallie. It’s whether you should.”
Threads of insecurity sew themselves into my chest.
“You’re right,” I wrinkle my nose despondently. “It’s too ambitious.”
“No,” She shakes her head, then fixes me a determined look. “You’re not being ambitious enough. You can do so much better than Holmes.”
I sigh quietly.
“I’ve been applying to every design position out there,” I say. “But all I’ve gotten so far are rejections after rejections— if I’m lucky to even receive one.”
Whilst the concept of Holmes is less than ideal, it’s better than nothing.
Gigi pauses, contemplating. She eyes my laptop screen before typing on her own laptop, long nails clicking rhythmically on the keyboard.
“Okay, let’s see what we’re getting ourselves into.”
The collective ‘we’ warms my heart and I turn to Gigi, flashing her a grateful smile. Regardless of circumstance, Gigi has always been a constant in my life, supporting me through thick and thin. The thread to my needle, as cliche as it sounds.
“So, the latest news on Holmes.” She clears her throat, eyes flickering across the screen of her laptop as she reads. “Their acting CEO was taken to court for embezzlement, their Head of Communications is still on probation after a case of sexual harassment and, of course, their Creative Director and Senior Designer is still off the grid.”
I grimace. “God, that is dire.”
“Their actual work isn’t faring any better.” Gigi winces.
Neither of us needs to read any articles about it because it’s common knowledge with everyone in the industry at this point. After the death of Sterling Holmes, the brand was never the same. The British fashion magnate had reputable shoes that nobody could fill, not even his own children. And it showed with every collection that fared poorly under his son’s creative direction.
“Conflicts, controversies and traumatic tales aside,” I attempt lamely. “They were acquired by Vante last month, so.”
I click the link of the latest article showing up online and show Gigi my screen, the French atelier logo displayed alongside the emblem of the British label.
“Now, that is a fashion brand.” Gigi taps her perfectly manicured nail on the screen. “My dream man’s entire closet is filled with Vante.”
“I think every person’s dream man wears Vante.”
“True,” Gigi laughs in agreement before her expression shifts, an idea forming. “Why not give Vante a try?”
I meet her gaze directly. “And move to Paris?”
“Lola and Lolo live in Switzerland.” She mentions my grandparents, studying my reaction. “You’ll be closer to home.”
“I barely speak the language.” I shake my head. “I’m a seven-year-old conversationalist at best.”
If Holmes is barely within arm’s length for me, Vante is completely out of my reach.
“Why don’t you apply?” Gigi persists. “Are they hiring?”
“I can barely get hired here in England. What makes being hired in France, the literal home of Parisian Haute Couture, any easier?”
Gigi studies me before shrugging nonchalantly. “You’re Mahalia Hartt.”
“That name doesn’t mean anything to anyone, Gigi.” I let out a sigh.
“What are you talking about?”
“At least, not in the industry.”
“Not yet,” She counters. “Don’t even think about hosting yourself a pity party right now. I will gatecrash it.”
“I wasn’t planning on throwing a pity party,” I mumble, already anticipating her argument. “It’s actually called a ‘sorrow soirée’.”
“Sad siesta, forlorn function, etcetera etcetera.” She dismisses me with a knowing gaze. “None of that.”
I roll my eyes, unable to suppress a laugh at how well Gigi understands me.
“I wonder what made them choose to interview me.” I ponder out loud.
“Besides your insanely stacked CV and extensive portfolio?” Gigi muses, raising an eyebrow. “Probably your viral Disney Prince collection.”
I think back on the blood, sweat and tears that was my Graduate Collection.
My final major project for uni was a collection of suits that were Disney-inspired. It featured a total of thirty designs, half of which I made into fully-fledged garments. Since I specialised in Menswear, it involved a gender-swap concept where I took the colour palette of each Disney Princess’ outfit and turned it into different suits fit for their Disney Prince counterpart with details and embellishments on the pieces that reference their story.
It was well-received by the public too, becoming moderately popular and accidentally trending on social media.
“Virality does have some influence nowadays.” I nod.
I try not to think about the amount of sleep I lost during the entirety of my third year and, worse, leading up to the showcase. Staying up for nearly 72 hours straight and relying mainly on liquids for sustenance, wasn’t the most ideal of practices but it had to be done.
“Even though I’m not completely sold on the idea of Holmes,” Gigi begins. “It’s still an opportunity to get into the industry.”
I turn towards Gigi, beaming.
Holmes isn’t the goal, but it’s definitely a significant milestone. Getting my platform Mary Janes in the door is difficult enough as it is. Especially when there are plenty of other Hauretto high heel-wearing hopefuls simply strutting their way in.
“I feel like I’m sending my child to the fashion frontlines.” Gigi remarks.
“I’m not in the trenches just yet,” I remind her with a laugh. “I have to pass the interview first.”
“Which you will,” She reassures me. “You’re Mahalia Hartt, after all.”