Love By Design

Chapter 13

“He despises me.”

I’m not usually one to rant or complain. I’m a generally passive person with a tolerance for people and their less favourable habits. However, facing hostile behaviour on a daily basis is physically and mentally draining.

And August Vante has me venting and vexing nonstop.

Gigi, for the most part, finds it amusing.

“Not possible,” She chimes, linking arms with me as we walk out of High Street Kensington tube station. “You’re Mahalia Hartt.”

Today is one of the rare days that Gigi and I are free to meet up and do something outside of the flat. We’re both so busy with work that it’s been almost impossible to spend time as flatmates, let alone friends, and we live under the same roof.

Our footsteps echo on the pavement as we make our way to Tito Boy’s, our chosen spot for the evening.

“You don’t understand, Gigi.” I continue, exasperated. “He’s always scowling at me.”

Recalling the perpetual frown on his stupidly handsome face, I sigh. Ever since discovering that August is Cedric Vante’s son and that I’d be working under him indefinitely, I’ve been in a constant state of anxiety.

“Plus, he’s so… petty.” I scrunch my nose in displeasure. “I swear he sends me off to do errands knowing they’re unreasonable. Last week, he tasked me to buy this particular type of pomegranate wine. Not for a gift bundle or PR package or anything like that. Just for his own indulgement.”

I recall his ridiculous request when I met him by the lift after my lunch break.

“It took me the entire afternoon to find the wine, Gigi.” I say. “No one sells it in London. It’s made on some tiny island in the Mediterranean.”

I huff, flailing my arms as Gigi laughs.

“I’m not his personal assistant.” I purse my lips. “I’m interning for design. I should be looking at sample silhouettes, not sample spreadsheets. My time should be dedicated to making patterns and sourcing fabrics and creating prototypes, not tracking down outlandishly expensive pomegranate wine from the Mediterranean!”

Gigi blinks at me with an amused expression on her face.

“I feel like there’s a disconnect in my brain,” She muses. “Is this not the same person you were cosying up to and having breakfast together with at Tito Boy’s just a couple of months ago?”

“That was Hero’s doing, not mine.” I shake my head. “And that’s when he was Jean-Luc.”

“Ah yes, your shutterbug sweetheart.” She nods knowingly. “Maybe he’s just trying to spend time with you. Maybe he likes you.”

I blink at her, incredulous. “Oh, sure. The son of the Cedric Vante is utterly in love with me. So much so that he always looks at me like he wants to gut me with a seam ripper.”

Gigi snorts. “I mean, if I happened to meet an incredibly talented designer who ended up gossiping about me and calling me a ‘nepo baby germaphobe’— to my face might I add— I’d honestly be a little miffed too.”

“I was not gossiping! I was relaying office information to a colleague.”

“Rather insulting information involving said colleague,” She giggles.

I jut my lip out. “I thought he was someone else.”

“Have you considered apologising?”

“Yes!” I stress. “I tried, so many times. But he’s so mean about it and he shuts me down every single time. I had his already overpriced jumper expensively dry-cleaned as a peace treaty but he didn’t even spare it a second glance. He took my favourite lint roller, Gigi.”

Gigi blinks. “The fancy one?’

“Yes.”

“I’m sure he’ll give it back to you, if you ask for it.” She reassures me. “What’s a grown man going to do with a vintage lint roller?”

As we approach the restaurant, I notice the long line for walk-in customers outside. It’s understandable, considering it’s a Friday evening and people are eager to unwind after a busy week of work.

I’m pushing past the glass doors of the restaurant when I spot a familiar head of platinum-blond hair by the front desk.

“Gigi,” I walk to an abrupt halt. “Let’s have dinner somewhere else.”

Pausing, she turns to me, her eyebrows knitting together. “You don’t dine anywhere else.”

“Perfect reason to start!” I respond, pasting on a smile, but I can tell she’s not convinced.

“No, you don’t like to dine anywhere else.” She interjects. “You’re very particular when it comes to your taste buds, Hals.”

“Oh, well, I’m feeling adventurous today.” I ramble. “And it’s hardly fair that I’m the one always deciding where we should eat.”

“I’m craving palabok,” She says. “Besides, we’re already here.”

“I know but it looks full,” I reason.

“We made a reservation.” She raises an eyebrow, studying me closely.

“We can cancel and find another place, I’ll just ring them and—”

“What’s the issue?” She interjects, seeing right through my attempt to change plans.

“Issue? There’s no issue.”

Gigi looks at me, unconvinced. “Spill.”

“Nepo Baby Germaphobe at 10 o’clock,” I whisper, signalling as discreetly as I can. “I don’t–”

“Ate Hallie!”

Marc’s voice rings loudly inside the restaurant floor despite the already noisy chatter inside.

Ahead, I catch the light, wavy blond locks turning towards my direction and I quickly avert my gaze to avoid eye contact.

Marc is walking over to Gigi and I, menus at hand. “Are you dining in?”

“We made a reservation,” Gigi replies as Marc greets her in acknowledgement. “Half six.”

“We’re a bit busy,” He comments, scanning the restaurant floor of all the occupied tables. “Do you guys mind waiting for a table to clear?”

Warily, I glance at Gigi who seems to understand my discomfort.

“We can dine somewhere else,” She responds.

“Thank you anyway.” I nod towards Marc.

We turn to leave when, out of nowhere, Hero appears next to Gigi and I.

“Ladies!” He nods in our direction. “Dining with us tonight?”

August is beside him, a nonchalant expression on his face, as they stand by the front desk.

“We were just leaving,” Gigi says, shaking her head.

“The restaurant is full,” I reply. “Gigi and I are thinking of eating somewhere else.”

Hero pauses, scanning the restaurant floor before looking down at the seating plan at the front desk.

“Sit with us,” He suggests. “We have a booth reserved.”

August’s grey eyes are fixed on me and I glance over at Gigi, my hesitation evident.

“We wouldn’t want to impose,” She adds. “Thanks for the offer though.”

“I’m sure Snaps doesn’t mind, do you?” Hero turns to August.

I can still feel his gaze towards my direction and I stare at Gigi to avoid eye contact with anyone else.

“Fine with me.” He responds.

I let out a quiet exhale, realising that arguing would only make me seem unreasonable if I decline.

“It’s been a while since I last saw you,” Hero says, addressing me. “You need to tell me what it’s like working for this insufferable prick.”

“Tu es une merde,” August retorts, rolling his eyes.

Hero bats his eyes in reply, “Juste pour toi, joligar?on.”

Next to me, Gigi is watching the entire interaction, clearly intrigued with August and Hero’s dynamic.

Hero leads us to the booth at the back, Gigi and I closely following, but I made sure to maintain a few steps distance behind them.

“Hallie,” Gigi whispers, her voice carrying a tone of amusement. “He’s bloody gorgeous.”

“Gigi.”

“I definitely see the appeal.”

“By all means,” I wince. “He’s all yours.”

“Not for me,” She snorts. “For you.”

“No thanks,” I shake my head firmly. “There’s no appeal. There is absolutely no appealing.”

“He looks so different from his playboy days,” She comments in jest. “He was such a boy, back then. His pictures do not do him justice now.”

“Indoor voice, Gi.”

I notice August looking back a couple of times as we walk behind him, trying to catch snippets of our conversation.

“What happened to your crush on him?” Gigi snickers.

I pull a face. “That was before I found out who he is.”

“Surely that should encourage you?”

“Absolutely not,” I lower my already hushed voice. “More than anything, it’s a deterrent. I know his type.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Not me.”

We finally reach the booth at the back, Hero setting down a few menus on the table before promptly excusing himself to go to the kitchen.

Even on his day off, he’s still running around the restaurant.

August settles into one side of the booth whilst Gigi and I slip into the opposite end. Gigi, well aware of my preference for the outer seat, sits down first leaving me to sit on the outside. I catch the familiar assessing glint in August’s eyes, a look I had grown accustomed to since our first meeting during my interview.

Feeling a bit unsure about how to interact with my pseudo-boss outside of a formal work setting, I glance at Gigi who’s nudging me.

Right, introductions.

“Gigi, this is August.” I clear my throat. “August, Gigi.”

She extends a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” August nods in acknowledgement but doesn’t say anything else, his focus shifting to the menu in front of him.

“So,” She begins. “How do you know Hallie?”

I turn to her questioningly as she plays doltish.

“Through Hero,” He answers, disinterestedly. “We met at the restaurant.”

I frown at his answer, Gigi sending me a similar look.

“We work together,” I clarify, although she already knows this. “He’s, um, my boss, I guess.”

“You guess?” August narrows his eyes at me.

Just as I’m about to explain further, the loud ringing from Gigi’s phone interrupts me.

“Oh no,” She winces.

In all caps, HENRIETTA flashes on the screen.

I turn to her wide-eyed.

“Is that-?”

“The Editor-in-Chief of MODUE Magazine calling me on a Friday evening, yes.” She responds quickly, shuffling out of the booth. “I need to take this, I’ll be right back.”

With Gigi disappearing outside of the restaurant and Hero still in the kitchen, I find myself fidgeting restlessly as I’m left alone in August’s presence.

It’s still a little unsettling to be around him, even more so out of a work setting.

Eyes trained on the menu, I focus my concentration on the words even though I have the entire menu memorised back to front.

“What’s wrong?”

August’s voice prompts me to lift my head and I look around, expecting Hero to be back. I grimace when I realise that no one’s returned to the table and August is, in fact, talking to me.

“Huh?” I turn to him, finding his grey eyes already fixed on me.

He narrows them slightly as he reclines against the cushioned booth, the physical embodiment of cool and composed.

“You’re frowning.” He observes. “What’s wrong?”

I’m the one frowning?

Ironic coming from the man with a permanent scowl on his face.

“This is my natural expression,” He answers.

Inwardly, I wince.

I desperately need to learn to restrain my thoughts and not just blurt them out unknowingly.

“I’m not frowning.” Though I feel the knot sitting between my eyebrows a little more consciously now. “It’s my…”

“Thinking face, so I’ve heard.”

“Is it a crime to concentrate?” I mutter to myself.

August’s assessing eyes continue to linger in my direction and I try not to fidget under his gaze.

“You’d think after nearly 4 years of working here, you’d know the menu by now.” He comments.

I press my lips together, choosing not to say anything. Today had already been jam-packed at Holmes. I hadn’t anticipated social interactions after work and I’m exhausted.

“Are you upset with me?” August probes.

“What?” I stammer, my eyes widening.

“So that’s a yes,” He concludes.

“N-no.” I stutter out my reply. “It’s not…”

Attempting to compose myself, I rack my brain for the most appropriate response. Confrontations have never been my forte and neither is fabricating lies to cover them up.

“It’s not…” August repeats, looking at me expectantly as he waits for me to finish my sentence.

“It’s nothing,” I sigh.

“Your silent treatment says otherwise.”

Feeling cornered, I cast my eyes around, hoping for Gigi, Hero or anyone else to come back to the table and rescue me from the stifling conversation.

“There’s no silent treatment,” I say quietly.

He responds without hesitation, “You usually make conversation.”

“Okay…” I mutter, confused.

“But you haven’t said a single word to me since your friend left,” He adds, studying me.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion. “I updated you with everything at work today.”

“I’m not asking for updates,” He states, straight-faced. “We’re not at work.”

It irks me how impassive he is, even more so how attractive he looks doing it.

“We aren’t at work,” I repeat. “I don’t need to make conversation.”

I cringe at how childish my answer is.

“So you are upset.”

“I didn’t say that,” I argue.

“You didn’t have to,” He counters. “I can read between the lines.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He exhales a mocking breath. “You seem to have no trouble saying whatever gossip-fuelled nonsense you wanted before that meeting.”

The Friday morning prior to the studio meeting to welcome August as the new Director of Communications comes to mind.

“I’ve been trying to apologise for that,” I say, urgently.

He stares at me, unflinching. “Have you, though?”

“Yes.” I stand my ground, albeit nervously. “But you seem to be set on doing everything but accepting my apology and making my work at Comms hard.”

He blinks lazily. “Were you expecting the work to be easy?”

“I’m not naive,” I argue, feeling the frustration seeping into my voice. “I know it’s going to be difficult but you’re not exactly being cooperative.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not being cooperative?”

“It’s just a little…“ I exhale quietly, struggling to articulate my thoughts.

Tough.

“Tough.” He repeats, eyebrows furrowing.

Mentally, I grimace, not realising until a split second later I’ve said my thoughts out loud again.

“If you’re finding it tough then maybe Holmes isn’t for you,” August asserts.

Ouch.

That was like a punch in the gut.

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because you’re new but I know this industry better than the back of my hand,” He states. “This business can be brutal. It can tear you to pieces and you’re expected to make something out of the fabric scraps thrown at your face and wear it.”

I blink at his overly metaphoric explanation and bite my tongue.

“Suddenly finding it difficult to communicate?” He looks pointedly at me. “That’s going to be a problem since you’re now working in Communications.”

My eyebrows knot.

“I was hired for Design,” I remind him, tone firm. “I applied for Design, I was interviewed for Design and I got the job as Design Intern. You’re the one who shifted me to the Communications Assistant role. You’re the one making me run around doing non-Communications Assistant-related responsibilities. A new role, in a new department with a new team. So forgive me for asking for a little bit of breathing room from your suffocating corset of Communications, Director.”

My fists are clenched on my lap and I feel my nails digging into my palms so I splay them out on top of the menu.

But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

“I specialise in Design. That’s what I spent over two-thirds of my life doing. I’ve been sewing fabrics and making clothes since I could loop a thread into a needle. Design is something I’ve been practising for as long as most people have been working in the industry. Since my foot touched the pedal, I haven’t stopped. You might have more years of experience in the business than I do but that doesn’t grant you the authority to disregard my craft and discredit my place in the industry.”

A heavy silence hangs between us, tension thick and smothering in the air. Part of me wishes the ground would open up and swallow me whole right now.

His gaze shifts downwards to the table at my hands. I hastily unclasp my clenched, shaking fists before hiding them back under the table.

“I didn’t say you don’t belong in the industry,” He replies, his voice quieter.

“You didn’t have to.” I throw his words back at him, tucking my hands under my thighs to stop them from trembling. “I can read between the lines.”