Chapter 8
“You did what!?”
The shrill voice on the other end of the line belongs to none other than Gigi who I ended up calling to prevent my thoughts from spiralling catastrophically.
“I know, I know,” I reply.
“You didn’t.”
“It’s bad,” My inclination to repeat myself when I get overly anxious resurfaces. “So bad.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
The anxiety I feel fills me to the brim, spilling at the edges. With everyone talking about the ‘surprisingly charismatic’ and ‘otherworldly gorgeous’ Director of Communications, I couldn’t bring myself to join Pollux and the others during lunch, hurriedly leaving the studio instead to try and clear my head.
“I wish I was.” I bite my lip. “I really wish I was.”
“You called him a nepo baby germaphobe behind his back?” Her shrieks turn into raucous laughter, each high-pitched snicker adding to my anxiety. “And he found out?”
“Technically, I said it to his face.”
Out from the suffocating atmosphere of the studio, I find myself aimlessly roaming the streets of Westminster.
“That’s gutsy.”
“I feel like throwing up my guts,” I heave quietly. “He looked ready to slice me open with rotary cutters.”
My hunger is practically nonexistent at this point but I still found myself wandering into a quaint neighbourhood filled with coffee lounges, tea rooms and bistro bars near the studio.
“Ouch.”
“It was an accident,” I bite my lip, walking mindlessly into a random café. “I didn’t mean anything by it and I thought he was Jean-Luc— I didn’t know he was the son of my boss!”
“Wait, Jean-Luc? Your Jean-Luc?” Her confusion is evident, even through the phone. “Good lord, Sterling Holmes has a secret son?”
“Not Holmes, Vante.” I shake my head violently, although she can’t see me. “The new Director of Communications is Cedric Vante’s son and he’s— oh god.”
I look outside, gasping aloud as I spot the recognisably tall and fair-haired figure heading towards the same café I’m currently in.
“What?”
“He’s here.”
“Who?”
“Jean-Lu– August.” I whisper urgently, wincing as he enters the establishment. “He’s here.”
I turn around frantically, ducking my head down to prevent him from seeing me.
“Hold on, you’re telling me.” Gigi begins. “That the only offspring of fashion mogulCedric Vante, also happens to be your photographer paramour? The literal Peroxide Prince?”
“Genevieve, focus!” I urge.
My anxiety is a thread unwinding from its spool as I fidget nervously inside the café.
“Yes, I’m trying!” She exclaims. “Small world, huh?”
“Two sizes far too small,” I complain. “I’m going to end up blacklisted in fashion.”
Approaching the counter, I can hardly focus as I stare up at the drinks menu, quickly saying a random order instead.
“Okay first of all,” Gigi begins. “Stop catastrophic thinking. All you need to do is apologise, say it was a misunderstanding and maybe kiss ass for a bit.”
I wince.
“He might find it funny,” She quips.
I object instantly. “He looked far from amused.”
“Then you might want to reassess getting back to the good side of your dashing camera enthusiast.”
“I’m going to lose my job,” I groan.
“You are not going to lose your job,” Gigi argues. “They can’t fire you over this, honestly. Granted that you shouldn’t have been talking shit about him to begin with. But it’ll be fine. Just talk to him, clear the air. You already know him, after all. The worst-case scenario is a disciplinary action and a talking-to from HR.”
The thought of immediately losing my job, two weeks in sends me into a tie-dye spiral.
“But I doubt he would be an asshole and do that,” She continues. “Since, you know, he’s practically head over heels in love with you.”
“Gigi,” I groan.
As it stands, her statement could not be further from the truth.
“You’ll be fine, okay?” She reassures me.
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
There’s audible commotion over on Gigi’s end as I hear the rustling of different voices over the phone.
“Hallie, I’m going to love you and leave you. The shoot is running late and it’s eating into my lunch time.”
We exchange goodbyes and I hang up, attempting to blend into the surroundings as inconspicuously as possible. With my head down and eyes trained on my black chunky Mary Jane shoes, I hover nervously around the serving station as I wait for my drink.
“Soy Matcha Latte for Hallie?”
The barista’s call makes me look up, only to jump back in surprise when I find piercing grey eyes staring in my direction. August is standing just a few meters from me as I stare up at him, startled.
I open my mouth, an apology on the tip of my tongue, when he suddenly narrows his eyes at me.
His expression hardens and my words die in my throat.
“Matcha for Hallie?” The barista calls out one more time.
Molten silver turns into steely grey, glancing at my drink before reaching towards it.
“Yes, thank you!”
Lunging forward, I rush to grab the cup, offering the barista a quick smile and nodding towards the head of platinum blond hair in awkward acknowledgement before rushing towards the exit. I push the door open and finally step out into the street, feeling a sense of relief.
Said relief is short-lived when a stranger, hurrying into the café, bumps into me. The force of the collision sends the lid of my drink flying and the hot liquid spills all over the front of my yellow co-ord outfit. It takes a solid five seconds for the incident to register in my mind as I stand outside of the coffee shop, the hot drink burning my skin.
Not the bouclé fabric.
I wince, feeling the scalding liquid seep through the material of my oversized cardigan as well as the white blouse I’m wearing underneath.
Glancing downward, I take a moment to examine my clothes, now adorned with streaks of vibrant green from the spilt matcha.
Inside the coffee shop, I catch a glimpse of August with his back turned, pulling on handfuls of serviettes on the counter. I waste no time as I’m out of his peripheral vision, seizing the opportunity to rush back to the studio.
I spend the rest of my lunch break trying to remove the stain from my clothes and failing.
Vinegar. Baking Soda. Lemons.
As it turns out, removing a distinctly green stain from a thick and incredibly dense fabric is a lot harder to do with the ingredients readily available in the staff kitchen.
In fact, I’ve somehow made it worse.
Observing the unfortunate state of my entire outfit, I wince. My yellow bouclé cardigan and matching mini skirt are now marred with green splotches.
I trudge back towards the main studio defeatedly, Pollux greeting me as I enter.
“That is an astonishingly bright shade of green.”
Standing by the table with a measuring tape around his neck, he scans my appearance.
“Ceremonial grade matcha,” I mumble.
“It’s like Monet’s water lily paintings,” He comments as I frown in confusion. “Inverted colours.”
Resignedly, I groan as I remove my cardigan, noticing my white blouse underneath isn’t faring any better.
In hindsight, lemon juice was probably not the best choice to remove the stain. I don’t know why I thought colour-matching the discolouration would be a good idea.
“By the way, our design meeting got rescheduled for later this afternoon,” Pollux informs me. “Baby Vante dropped by and Estelle went with him for a conference call with HR in Paris.”
The thought of attending the meeting later with streaks and splatters of green matcha all over my white blouse and yellow skirt makes me recoil miserably.
Walking over to the main worktable, I decide to distract myself with the piles of deliveries addressed to the Design team.
“Did these just arrive?” I ask.
“Fabric swatches. Our courier dropped them off during lunch.” He replies. “We’re working on rebuilding material inventory. We’ve had no luck accessing any information regarding future collections since Sebastian’s account was locked.”
I blink. “You shut down his account?”
“Nope,” Pollux shakes his head. “He did.”
“He’s allowed to do that?” I gape.
“Sebastian is Holmes.” He replies, by way of explanation. “He’s allowed to do as he so pleases.”
It’s no secret at the studio that Sebastian operates without consequence but hearing about it is still a little troubling. The fact that Sebastian is able to do anything and get away it really highlights the power imbalance at play in the industry. It’s absolutely derailing but it’s the unfortunate reality that people with less influence are often subjected to the problematic actions of those in positions of power and prominence.
Most notably, name.
Subsequently, reputation.
“Estelle and I are working backwards,” Pollux continues. “Hence gathering material inventory with past manufacturers and suppliers.”
“Isn’t that how fabrics are usually sourced?”
“Usually, yes.” Pollux nods. “But Sebastian is very… selective. He likes manufacturers to create specific fabrics exclusively for Holmes which means materials being produced from scratch. So he switches between suppliers depending on who’s able to meet the turnaround time for every collection.”
My eyes grow in astonishment. “Doesn’t that add weeks to the production process if he’s requesting for fabrics to be created from scratch every time?”
“We don’t question it.” Pollux shrugs.
“Is that even sustainable?” I frown, more so to myself.
“Nope,” He answers. “But like I said, we don’t question it.”
The articles about Sebastian’s unsettling and questionable work protocols are apparent and the studio’s tendency to conform to it, even more so.
Focusing on my tasks at hand, I retrieve the cutter from the worktable and start opening up the parcels for the inventory.
The signature prints of Holmes; tweed and flannel with different variations of plaid and pinstripe dominate the majority of the fabric swatches with handfuls of silk, viscose, nylon and fabrics for the lining of the garments mixed in.
Organising the fabric swatches is a relatively simple task. Normally, I would categorise them by material and colour. The textile weight (lightweight, medium-weight, heavyweight) and texture (smooth, textured, knitted) as well as coordinating them by colour spectrum is a system I had in place for Mahalia Made.
However, it felt more intuitive to organise the textile samples based on seasonal themes and specific design collections for Holmes. Folding the fabrics neatly on the grainline, I arrange the swatches according to the swatch book guidelines created for past and future collections.
I’ve just about finished unboxing all of the parcels on the table when I notice the last package, a designer paper bag with the distinct monogrammed logo of Vante, two angular lines meeting at the apex to form a serif ‘V’.
“What’s this for?” I ask, eyeing the tissue paper peeking out at the top.
Pollux glances up from his desk. “No idea, it was already there when I got here.”
Lifting the bag, the substantial quality of the card stock is weighty— expensive. I blink at the tag attached and tilt my head at the sight of my last name written on the label.
“Hartt?”
The letters are written neatly in cursive, the penmanship unfamiliar to me.
Rifling through the tissue paper, my hand suddenly touches something soft and delicate, woollen fibres tickling my skin.
Definitely cashmere.
Lifting the cloth out of the bag, my eyes widen at the oversized, cream-coloured jumper. Measuring it against my frame, the proportions are closer to a dress for me more than anything, the length falling just above my knee.
It covers my outfit entirely and I blink in realisation.
Sending Gigi a text, I express my gratitude via an onslaught of texts and a bunch of crying emojis.
OH MY GOODNESSTHANK YOUYOU’RE A GODSENDILYSM
Slipping the sweater over my head, the fluffy fabric droops over my frame, concealing the matcha stains on my clothes.
The oversized nature of the jumper meant the sleeves were longer, my hand disappearing under it. As someone who’s surrounded herself with fabrics for more than half of her life, I’ve become particular when it comes to texture. The fabric is soft to the touch, providing me with a sense of comfort.
“At least that’s your wardrobe dilemma sorted,” Pollux remarks as he glances over in my direction.
I nod, feeling a lot better about attending the meeting later.
Being a recent addition to the team, I only had to be present and take notes while Estelle and Pollux delivered a presentation to August. They provided updates on the forthcoming collections for Holmes as well as delving into the current status of the department as I sat in and logged important information.
August is attentive, eyes sharp and focused as he listens.
The look of concentration on his face as he asked questions about design and commented on the logistics of the department only highlighted the sharpness of his facial features. The slant of his brows, the angle of his nose, the definition of his jawline. Under the fluorescent lighting of the main studio, the wisps of his platinum blond hair look even whiter as it curls against his high-set cheekbones, his light grey eyes even more hypnotic.
It’s unfair how devastatingly handsome he is.
“Is this meeting not holding your interest, Mahalia?” August’s voice snaps me back into focus, his piercing gaze fixed on me. “You’ve been zoning out for the past 10 minutes.”
My eyes widen, caught off guard.
“N-No, sir— August,” I apologise quickly. “It’s my thinking face.”
He blinks languidly at me.
“And what are you thinking about?” He asks.
I rack my brain for an appropriate reply, my earlier conversation with Pollux coming to mind.
“It’s nothing Comms related,” I bite my lip. “Just passing thoughts about, um, textile production and consumption.”
August is looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to continue.
Nervously, I glance over at Estelle and Pollux who are staring at me with slightly alarmed expressions on their faces.
“Like ways in which we can be more efficient when it comes to sourcing fabrics and minimising the waste that comes with it,” I swallow. “I was made aware of the current systems in place for Holmes. I, um, didn’t realise that we request fabric to be made from scratch for every collection. I’m just— thinking about the aftermath of that, I guess. Like reusing or re-purposing or donating or selling excess material…”
I fade off, uncertain about the complete scope of the post-production process at Holmes and whether they’ve implemented sustainability measures within it.
August hums.
“Noted,” He nods. “I appreciate your input.”
He doesn’t say anything else as he turns his attention back to the presentation being delivered. The meeting concludes shortly after, August barely paying attention to me as I finish jotting down the minutes of the session.
“Mahalia,” August finally acknowledges me.
I offer a strained smile, feeling like a child being scolded by an adult as he assesses my outfit. His stare lingers a beat too long and I wonder if I’ve violated a dress code of some sort.
“Thank you all for your time.” He nods before leaving.
The room feels less stuffy now that August left and I let out a small sigh of relief.
“Good Lord, Baby Vante is beautiful but he is brutal,” Pollux whispers. “I’d hate to get on his bad side.”
I can only nod in agreement.
“Don’t take it personally,” Estelle assures us with a thin smile. “August is impossible to impress.”
My fingers twitch inside the sleeves of the jumper as I simultaneously play with the garment hem. The softness of the fabric calms me and I’m thankful it’s able to relieve the disquiet I’m feeling. I can only imagine the stress levels in the Communications team, the sector August is directly overseeing.
The workday finishes, my journey back to the flat brief as my thoughts gravitate towards the temporary DOC. My mind was so occupied by the troubling turn of events of the last 12 hours, I didn’t even realise Gigi finished work early and arrived at the flat before me until I found her in the living room.
“Nice sweater paws,” She comments in greeting, sitting in her usual spot at the dining table.
“I really appreciate you sending over the jumper,” I say. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
Her eyebrows knot in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The jumper you let me borrow?”
“What jumper?” She turns to me, quizzically.
“This one I’m wearing right now?”
She pauses before narrowing her eyes. “Hallie, I have never seen that jumper in my life.”
“You didn’t send it to me?”
“I was assisting with a photo shoot all day.”
I blink, glancing down at the cashmere jumper. “I thought this was a freebie?”
“It wasn’t a product-focused shoot,” She asserts, shaking her head. “It was a celebrity shoot for Entertainment.”
“Then who—”
My mind flashes to the café earlier.
Matcha.
August.
There’s absolutely no way.I think. But then again, who else?
Gigi tilts her head in confusion, inspecting the oversized woollen knit. “Plus, this looks fancy. We never keep expensive products unless they’re gifted, we always send them back.”
I quickly pull the jumper over my head, fingers skimming over the garment to locate the tag. My eyes bulge out of their sockets when I see the price printed on the label.
€2,200.
Our jaws drop at the numbers.
Gigi blinks as she checks something on the sleeves, her eyes widening. She holds it up for me to see and I squint at the initials embroidered on the cuff of the jumper.
AJLV.