Love By Design

Chapter 5

After my interview, I didn’t hear back from Holmes until an email came in detailing extra forms I had to complete as well as non-disclosure agreements to sign as the next steps of the application process. This was followed by a rigorous month-long process of extensive back-and-forth emails, short turnaround times for multiple design tasks and even shorter interviews with members of the Design Team.

It seems promising, sunk cost fallacy taken into consideration, with how long it’s taking for the entire job process to roll out.

But I know better than to put all of my embroidery threads in one sewing box.

While Holmes would be an ideal opportunity, I’ve learned to manage my expectations. And so to avoid the excessive anticipation of the results of my interview, I distracted myself by working on other job applications and revising my portfolio in the meantime.

This is how I found myself perched in a booth at Tito Boy’s restaurant, design portfolio all over the table, brain frazzled at 8 o’clock on a Monday morning. I needed a change in scenery since I spent the entire weekend cooped up at the flat applying for more jobs but overworking is catching up to me and I’m struggling to stay focused.

“Let me guess, doing portfolio work in restaurants is sustainable practice too?”

A voice brings me out of my already dwindling concentration and I glance up to find a familiar face on a somewhat stranger.

Light grey eyes, platinum blond hair.

“Jean-Luc?”

Staring at patterned fabric swatches all morning is clearly making me hallucinate. I blink repeatedly to confirm he’s actually in front of me and not just a figment of my imagination. He’s angles and edges, standing before me with sharp eyes and an even sharper jawline.

“Morning.” He nods towards me.

He’s inspecting my design portfolio, a scattered mess on the table as I stare at him, still confused.

“Customers aren’t allowed in,” I say, checking the time to make sure I haven’t been completely engrossed in my work. “At least, not yet. The restaurant opens at 11.”

“Hinode let me in.”

I blink. “You know Hero?”

“Unfortunately.” He replies, deadpan.

Just as he mentions the Sous Chef, I hear his loud voice calling out from the back.

“Snaps, did you lock the front door?”

The Sous Chef in question emerges from the kitchen, dressed casually in denim-washed jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt underneath an apron.

“Oh, hey Hallie. I forgot you were here.”

“I literally came in with you and Rowan an hour ago.”

Or really, pestered the Head Chef to let me do work as he opened the restaurant.

Rowan, ever the diligent culinary artist, likes to come in early and do admin work in the office. Hero and I had a habit of taking advantage of that whenever we could. He uses the facilities in the kitchen, and I use the space in the dining area. It’s a nice change of environment from my make-shift studio at the flat and I genuinely like being at the restaurant.

“Does Tito Boy know you’re turning his restaurant into a design studio?” Hero looks at me, mock disapproval in his voice.

“Rowan gave me permission,” I retort. “Does Tito Boy know you’re using his kitchen as a food lab?”

“Rowan gave me permission,” He mirrors my response. “Hals, you do realise this is a restaurant. It makes more sense for food to be here than fabric.”

I cross my arms. “Yes, well, Rowan and Tito Boy both gave me permission.”

“Of course, ever the favourite child.” Hero snorts, flicking my forehead.

I glare at him. “You’re annoying.”

While Rowan plays the role of a supportive older brother, always looking out for me, Hero is the opposite. He’s like the annoying younger brother, despite him being a couple of years older than me, and we had a habit of bickering from time to time.

“Don’t be rude, we have a guest.” Hero looks at me pointedly before gesturing towards the stranger. “Anyways, this is–”

“We’ve already met.” Jean-Luc interrupts him.

Hero looks between us, intrigued. “Oh?”

“At Holmes,” I explain. “Jean-Luc and I were interviewing for jobs at the studio.”

“Jean-Luc?” Hero blinks, his brows furrowing.

Turning towards the head of platinum blond hair, Hero looks him up and down before Jean-Luc narrows his eyes glaringly.

“Ah, yes. That’s right. My man, Jean-Luc.” He nods, a little too playfully. “Haven’t heard that name in a while. Since, you know, I haven’t seen the face that goes with it for some time.”

I blink at Hero’s suspicious drivelling as Jean-Luc responds with a passive-aggressive glare.

“How do you know each other?” I ask.

“We were roommates at MIDAS,” Jean-Luc answers, a little terse.

“Imagine that,” Hero muses. “Four whole years of rooming with this guy and I just now find out that Jean-Luc is interviewing at Holmes.”

“Yes.” Jean-Luc ends the conversation.

My eyes dart between them, curious as to how their friendship formed. I’ve known Hero since working at the restaurant and he’s recognised for his loud and chatty personality. I’ve only met Jean-Luc but he doesn’t strike me as someone who would tolerate, let alone entertain, the company of hyper-energetic individuals like Hero.

“Anyways!” Hero continues. “Nice of you to finally show up in my ends, Snaps. How’s life treating you since your semi-permanent move to London?”

“You recently moved here?” I turn to him, inquisitively.

Jean-Luc nods.

“All the way from Paris.” Hero lets out a whistle. “What happened to New York?”

There’s a pause between the two as Jean-Luc stares at the table, gaze suddenly fixated on my portfolio.

“Mon père,” He finally responds. My ears perk up, vaguely registering the French. “But I’d like to avoid talking about my personal life at the moment.”

The entire statement that followed is in French, my brain working subconsciously to translate it and I didn’t even realise he was speaking it until Hero is responding in the same language.

“You’re making me speak French? Really?” Hero replies, switching like clockwork. “Tout de suite?”

“Would you rather I speak Japanese?” Jean-Luc retorts, still in French.

Hero answers a lengthy response, in Japanese this time, which completely goes over my head. Realising I’m no longer privy to the conversation, I focus on organising the images of my portfolio instead.

“Merde,” Jean-Luc clears his throat. “You speak French?”

He pauses, fixing his attention to me and I look up sheepishly.

“I understand it a little bit,” I reply. “Not Japanese though so, don’t worry.”

Next to us, Hero chuckles.

“Don’t mind him,” He turns towards me. “Snaps here is just a little Polaroid picture of paranoia.”

Hero playfully grabs hold of his cheek and gives it an affectionate squeeze. Jean-Luc stares at him, face completely expressionless, save for the glare in his eyes.

I bite my lip to stop myself from giggling, amused by their exchange.

“Finished?” Jean-Luc questions, tone flat.

Hero shakes his head.

“I’m about to slave away in the kitchen to make your favourite Full English breakfast, as a welcome to London, and this is how you treat me?” He gasps, dramatically. “This friendship is wounding to my soul.”

Hero makes an elaborate show to pierce an invisible knife through his chest and I shake my head at his theatrics.

“Get back in the kitchen, Hinode.” Jean-Luc remarks.

“The disrespect.” Hero lets out another melodramatic gasp before nodding towards me. “What about you Hals? Eggs?”

I brighten at the mention of my favourite breakfast food.

“Yes, please.”

“Benedict or Florentine?”

“Surprise me,” I comment excitedly.

Free food is free food and, despite his tendency to be positively aggravating, Hero is a fantastic cook— almost as good as Rowan.

“Alright,” He adjusts the apron around his waist and nods towards Jean-Luc. “Sit down, Snaps. Make yourself comfortable.”

Jean-Luc hovers awkwardly by the table and I gesture towards the empty side of the booth.

“You’re more than welcome.” I nod.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t worry, our little Hallie is harmless.” Hero winks at me and I shoot him a knowing glare. “Just be careful of the glitter.”

I can’t help but sulk. “They were sequins and that was one time.”

“Sure thing, Sequins.” He snorts. “Play nice, children.”

Hero pats our heads condescendingly and I swat his arm in annoyance. Jean-Luc remains impassive the entire time as Hero heads towards the kitchen, whistling the tune to ‘How Do You Like Your Eggs’ before completely disappearing to the back of the restaurant.

“I can’t believe you know Hero,” I turn towards Jean-Luc.

“Small world.” He acknowledges with a nod.

“So, Snaps?”

“My nickname at MIDAS,” He explains with a shrug as he also adds, “Everyone had one.”

“What was Hero’s?”

“Wasabi,” He answers, prompting a quiet laugh from me.

“That’s definitely one way to describe him.”

“Fitting though.”

“Very.” I nod in agreement.

Hero is British-Japanese and works part-time as the unofficial Sous-Chef at Tito Boy’s. He studied an undergrad culinary course at MIDAS, which explains Jean-Luc’s familiarity with him, and he’s currently doing his master’s degree at The Scullery. Under Rowan’s guidance, he’s also working on a cookbook so he likes to come in early to work on recipes he wants to perfect.

“Sequins?” Jean-Luc queries after some time.

I groan. “As you know, I have a small business. And, in my business, I take commissions. The glitter garments I make are my most requested work.”

He stays quiet, listening attentively as I continue.

“On days when glitter is involved, I’m usually covered in it. I had an order for a dozen matching sparkly corsets for a bridal party…”

“Covered the entire restaurant in glitter for months.” Hero’s voice chimes from the kitchen, head peeking out of the partition window. “It nearly turned into a food safety violation.”

“He’s exaggerating,” I pull a face. “It wasn’t that bad at all. But I kind of have to carry this everywhere now.”

Reaching into my tote bag under the table, I retrieve a vintage, brass-plated lint roller.

“Pretty.” He nods.

“It was a graduation gift from my grandpa,” I disclose. “He made it himself.”

Jean-Luc reaches for the hand-crafted vintage roller, seemingly impressed by the craftsmanship as he admires the engraved patterns of floral motifs and gemstone embellishments. He lightly scratches on the adhesive, rubbing the specks of glitter between his thumb and index finger.

“That explains the glitter I found in my photography folder,” He comments.

I stare at him. “Are you serious? I made sure to be glitter-free during that interview, I used an entire roll of lint remover!”

The familiar glimmer of amusement dances in his eyes.

“Oh,” I blink. “Ha ha, very funny.”

He regards me for a moment. “Any word from Holmes?”

“I’m still back and forth with them,” I answer. “But nothing official yet.”

“Sounds promising,” He remarks, nodding. “They’re investing their time in you.”

“Maybe.” I shrug, uncertain, but I’m grateful for the small spark of reassurance. “I’m really hoping so but I’m also applying for other jobs in the meantime. What about you?”

He’s about to respond when Hero’s voice echoes from the kitchen.

“Ma-ha-lia!” I flinch at the loud noise, my waitressing instincts momentarily triggered. “Order’s up!”

“You don’t need to be so loud, baka,” I complain as I approach the kitchen partition. “We’re the only people in the restaurant.”

At the sight of Jean Luc and I’s breakfast plates, an Eggs Benedict and a Full English, my mouth waters.

“I’ve been calling your name for 10 minutes, tanga,” Hero smirks, teasingly. “But you both seem to be very deep in conversation.”

I feel a warmth creeping up my neck.

“What, pray tell, could you be talking about that you’re both intensely gazing into each other’s eyes?” He questions cheekily.

“You’re annoying,” I retort.

Hero only chuckles. “Please handle model boy with care alright? He’s a little fragile.”

“Model boy?” I blink, tilting my head to where Jean-Luc is sitting.

He’s casually dressed in athleisurewear, a matching dark grey hoodie and gym shorts. He looks like he’d been to the gym, or possibly going to one, if it wasn’t for the white high-top trainers that are most definitely not meant for exercising.

“I fear I’ve revealed too much.” Hero glances over at me. “Don’t mention anything to Snaps.”

Retreating to the booth, I watch as Jean-Luc quietly examines the designs in my sketchbook.

“You can move my things out of the way,” I tell him, setting down his plate of Full English and cutlery in front of him.

“Are these for Mahalia Made?” He gestures towards the different drawings of long dresses and elaborate notes on each design. “They’re not Menswear.”

“Personal sketches,” I confirm. “When I get bored, I like to doodle. Ideas of outfits, garments, imaginary collections. It gives me a break from commissions and portfolio work.”

He lifts a piece of paper with one of my sketches and holds it up in the light, eyes squinting.

“They’re just random doodles so it’s not very good.” I reach out for the single sheet of paper, embarrassed at the rushed and unfinished nature of some of them.

“Just random doodles?” His eyes dart between the different sketches, lining them up. “They’re impressive. I see the vision here, great job.”

A fluttering spreads across my chest at the praise.

“Oh, thank you.”

Falling into conversation with Jean-Luc was relatively easy. We talked about design and photography, our discussions picking up from where we left off back at Holmes, as we begin eating. Since I’m not the most well-versed in the art of conversation, I expected an awkwardness to settle between us on more than one occasion but he’s a surprisingly good conversationalist. He’s pleasant and polite, offering his opinions and leading them into new discussions, very unlike the standoffish stranger I met on the day of my interview.

“Hartt, did you say?” He inquires about my surname, folding his hands together as he finishes his plate.

“Not that heart.” I point to his chest. “As in stag, hart. But with two Ts instead of one.”

“German?” He asks.

I shake my head, wiping my mouth with a napkin once I’m also done eating.

“Swiss. My grandpa was born in Romandy.”

“Explains you understanding French.” He nods.

Just as I’m about to ask him for his last name, the sound of my phone ringing echoes throughout the restaurant floor. I blink at the ‘No Caller ID’ displayed on the screen before picking my phone up from the table.

“Hello?” I answer.

Jean-Luc rises to take his empty plate, extending his hand to collect mine and carrying both to the kitchen before I can protest.

“Hi, is this Mahalia Hartt?”

My eyebrows knot in confusion at the unfamiliar voice on the line. “Yes, speaking.”

“Hi Mahalia, it’s Lois from Holmes London.” The voice on the other end replies and my breath catches in my throat. “We’re calling in regards to your job application for the Design Intern position at our studio.”

For a moment, I freeze, my heart rate increasing as I listen to the peppy-sounding voice of the woman on the phone.

“Yes. I– Yes.”

Jean-Luc looks at me curiously as he sits back down on the table, placing a glass of water in front of me.

“As you know, it’s been an intense couple of months with the design tasks and the team interviews. We’ve been incredibly impressed with how well you’ve managed the workload as well as your performance in the task themselves.”

I bite my lip.

Leading with something positive is often a prelude to less favourable news. My fingers drum nervously on the table as I wait with bated breath for the impending verdict.

“After discussing your application with the team at the studio, we’re thrilled to offer you the position of Design Intern at Holmes.”

Extend my gratitude and inquire about feedback for future improvement. That’s usually how it goes with rejections after an interview, right? Or maybe, they’re not the type of company to provide feedback–

Wait.

I blink.

Hold on.

My mouth hangs open, the words not fully registering yet.

What.

Thrilled to offer me the posi–

“Mahalia.” Jean-Luc’s voice jolts me from my inner monologue.

“Yes!” I squeak, choking on my response. “Sorry, I’m here!”

Across the table, Jean-Luc is looking at me curiously.

“Thank you. This is wonderful news to hear.” I manage to say, a slight tremble in my voice. “Thank you so, so much.”

Frazzled, I barely register Lois’ voice as she continues speaking over the phone.

“Now, I’ve been informed that your notice period is two weeks…”

My hands begin to shake and I nervously drum my fingers on the table to distract myself. Opposite me, Jean-Luc continues to watch me closely, eyes flitting to my restless fidgeting. His own hands skim along the granite counter top but they pause before reaching mine.

“We’ll be sending you all the details via email.”

The rest of Lois’ words fade into the background as the reality of the situation slowly sinks in.

“Of course,” I respond, feeling a little overwhelmed.

“We’re delighted to have you on board, Mahalia.”

A warmth bursts in my chest.

“Thank you,” I reply. “Truly, I’m so grateful.”

The call ends and I find myself gazing at my phone in disbelief. I don’t even know how long I zone out, my eyes fixed on the wallpaper display of Calix on my home screen.

“Everything okay?” Jean-Luc asks.

My heart is still racing in my chest, a sudden wave of lightheadedness washing over me. The past few months have been a cloudy film of uncertainties played on a loop but now, the prospect of finally making progress is a wide, open clearing in my head.

There are no longer grey areas.

For the first time in what feels like the longest time— colour.

“I got the job,” I announce, looking up in awe.

Jean-Luc’s eyes widen before the corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile. “At Holmes?”

“At Holmes,” I repeat with a nod, the words feeling foreign yet so real. “I got the job.”