Chapter 4
In the week that followed, I focused on organising my portfolio and preparing for the interview at Holmes.
The studio headquarters of the British brand is located at Westminster, an ornate-looking building on the outside but modernly refurbished on the inside. With marbled beige floors and warm lighting, the entrance of the studio resembles the lobby of an upscale hotel rather than a typical office space with fluorescent lighting. The ambience differed from what I initially anticipated and I find myself surprisingly at ease, rather than feeling nervous.
“Good morning,” I greet the woman sitting behind the reception counter. “I have an interview today for the Design Intern position?”
“Of course,” She offers me a small smile. “Last name?”
“Hartt,” I reply. “Two ‘T’s and without the ‘E’.”
My feet shuffle, tapping restlessly against the floor as the receptionist types away on her computer. Staying still isn’t exactly my strongest suit, and I find myself drumming my fingers on my portfolio to alleviate my anxiety.
“Ah yes, right here. Half 10, Mahalia Hartt.” She confirms, nodding. “You’re early.”
She glances at the wall clock behind her, which is showing 9:30 on the dot.
“I didn’t want to risk being late,” I explain, gesturing to my A1 folder and the luggage I wheeled in next to me. “I took the tube.”
The receptionist’s gaze briefly flickers to the sizable, vintage-styled suitcase and nods.
“Feel free to sit and wait in the lobby until then,” She signals toward the plush velvet lounge chairs by the entrance. “Our exhibition showroom is also open if you’d like to pass the time.”
I perk up at the mention of the gallery, a recent addition to the London headquarters following Vante’s acquisition of the brand. Newly integrated into the studio, it’s a semi-permanent exhibition set up to showcase the history of Holmes, providing insight into the British fashion house’s past and present as well as the future envisioned by the Parisian atelier since its acquisition.
I nod enthusiastically as she gestures down the hall.
“Thank you.” I beam.
Walking towards the gallery, I step into the showroom, taking in the spacious and elegantly decorated setup. I’m a huge fan of exhibitions and learning about things in fashion, from its inception to completion, is something I enjoy. My eyes scan the space, widening in excitement as I spot a back wall adorned with rows and rows of magazines being displayed behind a glass casing. I guide my suitcase towards the opposite end of the room and gaze in awe at the various publications. The entire back wall is lined with at least 50 or so magazine titles from all over the world.
Certain magazines appear more than once but they all have a common theme– a Holmes garment featured on the model gracing the cover.
I blink at the copy of Elevate, LIFT’s editorial publication.
My jaw nearly drops as I realise it’s the first issue Gigi co-edited and featured interviews with my design cohort.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, quickly snapping a picture to send to Gigi. I’m about to take another picture when a voice, deep and resonant, sounds throughout the room.
“Photos aren’t allowed here.”
Alarmed, I turn around, shoving my phone back into the pocket of my blazer. An apology is ready to leave my mouth but I pause as I take in the sight of the stranger, standing a few meters away from me.
He’s tall, a lot taller than I am. He didn’t need to be standing next to me for me to know that. Well-dressed in a tailored navy suit, a black turtleneck underneath and black oxfords to match.
“Oh, I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”
Silence hangs between us, draping somewhat thickly as he lingers by the entryway of the exhibition space. His expression is nonchalant, almost edged with boredom.
“The gallery isn’t open to the public.” A frown lines his face. “Who let you in here?”
He does very little to mask the contempt in his voice and I try not to look affected by the rudeness of his tone.
“I have an interview today,” I reply politely. “At 10:30.”
He extends his arm to check his watch and I squint my eyes. Of course, his watch is a Windsor, his wrist alone could probably pay for my accumulating six-figure student debt at uni.
“It’s 9:35.” He remarks.
His gaze shifts as he looks me up and down. His eyes, shockingly light, sweep over me and the colour is hard to discern in the lighting of the gallery. I want to say blue but they look almost grey, the blatant staring that he’s currently doing causing a nervous fluttering in my stomach.
“I wanted to be early,” I explain. “I had to bring my portfolio and haul around a huge suitcase in the tube so I didn’t want to be late. Getting a taxi would have been an option but it’s also expensive. Not to mention, rush hour.”
Despite my tendency to overshare when I’m anxious, my voice is surprisingly steady. His eyebrows draw together as he takes in my vintage suitcase and A1 portfolio case I’m carrying.
“Very punctual of you.”
His words are clipped, an iciness around the edges. The stranger continues to study me without another word and I can feel my nerves escalating. Not the most ideal state to be in before an interview.
“I’m Hallie.” I extend an arm. “Mahalia Hartt. I’m here for the Design Intern interview.”
“Mahalia.” He repeats my name slowly, as he begins walking in my direction.
I tilt my head, intrigued.
The drawl in his speech, though very faint, is instantly recognisable to me.
“Just Hallie is fine,” I offer, noting the small folder in his hand as he walks towards me. “Are you here for an interview as well?”
He tilts his head to the side as he reaches me and I squint slightly.
Grey.
His eyes are genuinely grey. The lightest shade, if possible. They’re so desaturated, it’s almost void of colour.
Closer, his features are more distinguishable. Blond hair, so light it’s almost white, frames his symmetrically angled and proportionate face. If a room’s distance makes a person do a double take, an arm’s length away will make them never look away.
“You can say that.” He shrugs.
“Don’t tell me you’re an interviewer,” I say jokingly.
The stranger responds with a look, silent and serious.
“You’re an interviewer?”
My eyes widen as I take a step back, half contemplating to retreat to the lobby. The display behind me shakes as my portfolio hits the glass mirror and bounces against my suitcase. I wince as it reverberates against the glass, quickly checking for any damage and sighing in relief when everything seems to be intact.
“Relax,” The stranger comments, his velvety reply echoing in the empty gallery. “I don’t work for Holmes.”
“Oh.” I blink.
“Yet.” He adds.
“Oh?” My brows knit in confusion. “So you are here for an interview?”
“Sure.” He replies nonchalantly.
How cryptic.
The trepidation I feel neither increases nor decreases at his ambiguous responses.
“What position?” I attempt to make conversation.
His eyebrows furrow, grey eyes flickering up and down, before answering with a wan lilt, “Design Intern.”
I stare at his deadpan expression.
Is he serious?
A long pause settles between us, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he clears his throat.
“I’m kidding.”
A hint of amusement flashes in his eyes before he masks it again with his usual stoicism. He lifts a folder in his hand and swings forward the camera previously out of my eye line.
“Photographer?” I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise Holmes did photography in-house, I thought they outsourced.”
He hums, lifting his shoulders nonchalantly. “They do both.”
“Were you recommended?” I ask curiously.
Whilst I’m still piecing together the inner workings of the industry, I’m not completely clueless about how it operates. I’ve somewhat grasped the surface-level dynamics: it’s 25% what you know, 50% how you know it and 100% who you know in the industry.
The numbers don’t add up, of course.
But then again, nothing in fashion adds up, it flows in the opposite direction— hence, The Trickle-Down Effect.
I wait for the photographer-hopeful to answer but he doesn’t respond to my question, instead opting to dismiss the topic altogether as he motions towards my outfit.
“Is that an original?”
Nervously, I tug on the skirt of the co-ord I’m wearing.
“Yes, but also no,” I respond. “It’s a Holmes Original, one of their blazers from their 1998 Spring/Summer Collection. But I jazzed it up a bit.”
Originally a large, longline double-breasted tweed blazer with contrasted trim lapels, I transformed the item of clothing into a two-piece co-ord in the style of, well, my designs. If I were to create my own line, that is. I figured it would be an ideal talking point during my interview, something to flaunt since every applicant probably has an ace or two up their sleeves.
Mine happens to have heart-stitched patches.
Literally.
He’s eyeing the structurally inaccurate hearts embroidered on the arms of the blazer when he turns to me.
“Do you make a habit of desecrating originals?” He deadpans. “With your little… heart patches.”
I blink at his dismissal. “It’s called upcycling.”
“Right. The current fad.”
“Sustainability isn’t a trend.” I frown, crossing my arms. “It should be common practice.”
“You do realise the field you’re going into is fashion?” He retorts.
I repress the urge to strangle him with the strap of his camera for his obvious mansplaining, feeling my inner environmentalist being summoned.
“Well, I sleep better at night knowing I’m doing my part,” I assert. “Everyone should at least try to make their own conscious choices when it comes to their clothing consumption. Fast fashion’s consumer footprint contributes to so many environmental issues—carbon emissions, deforestation, textile waste, chemical and microplastic pollution. Don’t even get me started on labour exploitation. I think we all need to be a little more mindful and adopt a more sustainable and ethical approach to fashion, designer and wearer alike.”
He blinks.
“Plus, “throwaway” culture is not a cute trend.” I gesture towards the suit he’s wearing.
Fast fashion is a crime.
“Are you insinuating my clothes are cheap?” He questions.
“What?” I tilt my head to the side. “No, I was just generalising—”
“This is a Vante Original from 05.”
Narrowing my eyes, I shuffle closer to him to assess his blazer, blinking at the stitches and inspecting the tiny subtle details of the lapels and the cuffs.
“Oh my god,” I gasp quietly.
“It’s from their—”
“Autumn Solstice Limited Collection,” I gape. “That’s not just an original, that’s an archive piece from the Vante Vault. They’ve only made six others from the original design, one of them belonging to a European royal. One suit is worth tens of thousands of euros.”
I feel a little lightheaded at being a literal arm’s distance from an iconic piece of clothing.
“It’s, uh, not mine…” He reveals, a little apprehensive. “Technically, it belongs to my dad.”
I look up at him, tilting my head to the side. “Using second-hand clothes is sustainable enough.”
He blinks and it’s mesmerising how his grey eyes look, almost changing in shade depending on the light.
“Either way, that’s definitely going to earn you points if you mention it in your interview,” I nod. “Vante recently acquired Holmes, in case you didn’t know.”
He clears his throat, bringing his arms forward to almost shy away from my analysing gaze and my attention shifts to the folder in his hands.
“Is that your portfolio?”
It’s A4-sized, tiny in comparison to my A1 portfolio case strapped across my body.
He stares at me for a moment and I’m expecting him to ignore my question when he unzips the folder and it flicks open to a random page. I catch a glimpse of several portraits and some landscape shots before it settles on a greyscale skyline.
“New York City?” I ask.
Attempting to peer over, I’m even more surprised when he hands his folder over to me. The immovably stoic expression stays on his impossibly handsome face as I flip through the black and white cityscapes, identifying shots of the Rockefeller Center, Times Square and Central Park.
“I studied at MIDAS.” He comments.
Manhattan Institute of Design and Art Studies.
Of course, he would have studied in one of the most prestigious creative arts schools in New York.
No one in this industry is just anybody.
Looking through his photography work, I can genuinely say it’s impressive.
His portfolio is strong— a range of landscapes, portraits and fashion editorials. I marvel at the bold uses of colour, dramatic lighting and meticulously composed scenes, gasping in surprise when I spot a familiar face in a black and white photo.
“Oh my god! That’s Valentina de Hauretto!”
He doesn’t seem the slightest bit phased. “Yes.”
“You’ve photographed New York City’s It Girl?” I gape at the model known for her heterochromia eyes and perfectly balanced facial features.
“I guess?” He responds nonchalantly.
“You guess?” My eyes widen at his blasé attitude. “It’s Valentina de Hauretto. She’s Vincent de Hauretto’s daughter. Not to mention, absolutely gorgeous.”
I blink, awestruck at the black-and-white portrait of the iconic shoe designer’s eldest child.
He pauses for a moment. “Not my type.”
“Beautiful women, who are literal models, aren’t your type?” I ask, unconvinced.
The irony of the statement isn’t lost on me, considering the model-like aura he exudes and the fact that he himself looks like he stepped out of a fashion editorial.
“And models are your type, are they?” His scrutiny carries a note of judgement.
“Everyone’s my type, technically.” I shrug sheepishly. “I don’t discriminate, love is love at the end of the day.”
He tilts his head to the side before narrowing his eyes sportively.
“Are you coming on to me?”
I blink, letting out a small snort.
“Just because everyone’s my type, doesn’t mean not just anyone’s my type…” I trail off, realising I don’t actually know the stranger’s name.
My eyes catch the small logo printed on the corner of his folder: ‘Jean-Luc Photography’.
“Jean-Luc,” I nod, looking up to study his face. “French. That makes sense.”
“Half-French,” He supplies.
“That explains a lot, actually.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’ll try not to take offence at that.”
“I’m not trying to offend you.” I let out a short laugh. “It’s just an observation. You do have a very Parisian aura about you.”
He maintains his stoic expression. “Do elaborate.”
I look up at him before leaning back slightly to fully assess him.
He is beautiful. Intimidatingly, so. Very much giving off the vibe that he knows it too with the way he carries himself, almost commanding the room with his presence.
“I think it’s the turtleneck,” I muse. “Or maybe it’s the arrogance, you wear it well.”
He lets out a short exhale, amused.
“Are you always this talkative before interviews?”
“Honestly? Not really. Or, at least, I don’t know.” I shrug, laughing out of nervousness. “This is my first interview for a job in fashion. So it’s a new experience for me.”
“You don’t apply much?”
“Oh, I apply plenty. Most are rejections, the rest is radio silence.”
His eyes meet mine and at least he has the decency to look somewhat empathetic. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Rejection is redirection.” I shrug, pursing my lips.
When one boutique door closes, another atelier door opens.
“I’ve been hunting for jobs in the industry since finishing uni last year,” I disclose. “Holmes is the first fashion house to actually offer me an interview so I’m grateful.”
“Do you keep up with the news? You do know Holmes is in hot water at the moment?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” I shrug, then catch myself. “Please don’t tell them I said that.”
He lets out an amused huff, akin to a short chuckle. “I’m here too, aren’t I?”
“True,” I blink up at him. “You know, if you don’t get the job, you should consider modelling agencies.”
The corner of his lips quirks slightly. “For my looks?”
“No,” I roll my eyes. “For your photography work.”
I rifle through my bag, bringing out the stacks of different business cards I keep in my purse.
He reads the card. “SELDOM Agency.”
“Anagram for MODELS, cool right?” I gush, tapping on the logo. “I have a friend who works as a talent scout there. They’re a smaller agency than your average, but they’ve cast for fashion publications and they’ve done ads for high-end fashion brands.”
“So you think I won’t get the job.” He looks at me, a teasing lilt to his voice.
“That’s not why I’m offering,” I quickly backtrack. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. I’m sure you’ll get the job, your editorial work is fantastic. I’m just giving options, sorry.”
He flips the card between his fingers, eyeing the information on the back.
“It’s good you’re well connected.” He states.
“I try,” I respond with a shrug. “I mean, we kind of have to be in this industry.”
Networking isn’t my strongest suit when it comes to navigating the world of fashion. As a designer, I spend more time in the studio than out of it so gaining contacts and connecting with people in the industry is an overhaul effort on my part.
“You should definitely try SELDOM though, if it doesn’t work out with Holmes,” I say. “Give me your socials and I’ll send it over to them.”
He looks a little skeptical as he replies, “I’m not on social media.”
“Not even your photography work?” I question.
He pauses, grey eyes debating.
“It’s @jnlc.vnt.” He eventually reveals.
“VNT?”
“Like dot jpg and dot png.”
“Oh cool,” I turn to him quizzically. “I didn’t realise they had a new file format for images.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up but he doesn’t say anything, schooling his expression back to an easygoing nonchalance instead.
“I have a small business for fashion commissions,” I say. “I’ll follow you on there.”
Opening up my socials, I search for his photography account and follow him. I watch as he takes his phone out of the inner pockets of his blazer, the notification of a new follow popping up and he begins to scroll through my account.
“Small businesses have a few thousand followers,” He starts. “You have nearly 50k followers on…”
He blinks at his phone screen, narrowing his eyes to read my handle.
“Mahalia Made,” I reply. “One of my posts went semi-viral a couple of months ago, so I got a sudden influx of followers. Actual conversions from followers to customers and sales are probably 10%, so not really a lot.”
“Still,” he continues scrolling through my account. “That’s impressive.”
We spend the next half an hour or so in conversation about photography and design which was unexpected considering his initially standoffish behaviour. He’s surprisingly knowledgeable about Holmes and fashion in general, something that I also didn’t expect from someone coming from a photography background.
He asked questions about operating a small business, curious about my involvement, and I gave my input on the very little marketing experience I have running Mahalia Made. It was encouraging to talk to someone who was genuinely curious about my work since I can usually tell when people start losing interest when I’m in conversation with them.
I didn’t even realise how quickly time had flown by until he speaks up.
“You should probably head to reception and sign in for your interview.” He says, nodding back towards the entrance. “It’s almost 10:30.”
I quickly check my phone for the time and gasp. “You’re right, thank you so much.”
Handing him back his portfolio, he wheels my suitcase towards me and I smile at him in thanks.
“Good luck.” He nods. “You’ll do well.”
“Thank you, you too.”
I offer him another grateful smile, not feeling as nervous as I thought I would be.
“I’ll see you around, Mahalia.” He calls out to me as I head towards the exit.
“Bye, Jean-Luc.” I wave. “Good luck with your interview!”