Chapter 14
After the heated, verbal altercation with August at Tito Boy’s, I was fully anticipating another email from HR regarding the official termination of my employment, this time.
August and I already started Holmes on the wrong foot and he didn’t seem like the type to keep giving people second chances. So I was surprised when I came into work the following Monday to find my inbox devoid of any emails.
Instead, just the usual press inquiries, invitations to fashion week events and numerous ticket requests for the Holmes catwalk show.
As well as a gift bag containing my brass-plated fabric roller on my desk.
And a brand new, electric lint remover.
Part of me thinks it’s a parting gift. Something to soften the blow of being fired from Holmes, ever the catastrophic thinker that I am, but an entire week passes and no such email came.
Despite me compulsively refreshing my inbox.
August ended up cancelling our usual in-person updates for the week due to conflicting conference calls with Grayson. He only allocated one slot at the week’s end for our update— a session I’m running late for due to a meeting that overran with Comms.
5:02 PM.
I’m half an hour late.
Quickly saying goodbye to Ymir and Saoirse, I rush to the fourth floor where August’s office is, just in case he’s still there. Although I did email him ahead of time to let him know about the situation, I’m still anxious about the possibility of being reprimanded.
I knock on the door.
No response.
My fingers tap on the glass wall this time as I attempt to peer through it. The blinds are half drawn but I can see the faintest red light coming from the back of his office. I squint, not recalling the room ever being open during any of our in-person meetings.
Grabbing the handle of the door, I’m surprised to see it glide open.
“August?” I call into the room, stepping into his office. “I’m here for our daily update.”
Turning on the light, it flickers to the lowest setting. His office remains dimly lit, even with the lamps scattered across the room.
“Sorry I’m late, the meeting with Ymir and Saoirse ran over. I just wrapped things up with them five minutes ago.”
Still no response.
I walk towards the back of his office, where the red glow of light is emitting behind the door.
“I can stay if you need me to?” I offer, still unsure of his presence.
I’m half expecting him to be lurking in the shadows but I’m struggling to see anything properly.
Sliding the door open, a room bathed in dim, crimson light comes into view. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust before I realise I stepped into a decently sized photography studio of sorts.
“So there is a darkroom up here,” I mutter to myself.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked with meticulously labelled boxes of photography equipment dedicated to processing film and traditional prints. As expected from someone like August, the room exudes an extraordinary level of organisation— with rolls of film, contact sheets and discarded prints all labelled accordingly.
Stepping further into the room in awe, my eyes land on a large, sturdy table filled with an assortment of old cameras, various lenses and film canisters. Aside from the equipment, there were photographs everywhere. Neatly arranged on the table, clipped onto a wire, framed on the wall, blu-tacked on the cabinets.
I gaze up at the images of London clipped on a metal wiring. From the well-known landmarks to the hidden corners of the city. Market stalls and antique stores of Portobello Road in Notting Hill, trendy cafés, hipster bars and quirky boutiques of Brick Lane in Shoreditch.
Portrait shots of strangers and fashion-styled images are arranged neatly on the table and I approach it, intrigued. Careful not to touch anything, I look down at each photograph, admiring the subtle interplay of light and shadow as well as the intricate subtleties that make each image stand out.
August’s discerning eye for creative detail is undeniable.
“Must be nice being a talented nepo baby,” I whisper to myself.
Shuffling towards the safelight, I find more images, this time of familiar faces. Candid shots of heterochromia-eyed model Valentina de Hauretto and Japanese heiress Sakura Saito are captured, their tall figures juxtaposed against the backdrop of New York City streets. I recognise the latter from the articles I read about August’s close-knit circle at MIDAS.
The next cluster of photos captures an event showcasing London’s social scene with appearances by Alfie Dalton, a prominent British bachelor and who appears to be Romeo Conti, the eldest son of the renowned Casa de Conti fashion house in Italy. The assortment of images extends to include snapshots of various cuisines, some of which I recognise from Tito Boy’s menu. There are even a couple of photos of Hero in his apartment in Chelsea.
A photo taken in a familiar-looking exhibition catches my eye. At first glance, the subject is unrecognisable. The image is slightly blurred and washed out due to the lighting. My eyes narrow at the girl with long wavy hair, standing next to a glass display wearing a distinct tweed suit. I pause for a moment before realising that the girl in the photo is me.
Although the image could have portrayed any visitor at the gallery showroom, specific details confirm its context for me. My large black portfolio and vintage suitcase along with the signature mess of wavy hair and my upcycled blazer co-ord adorned with heart-shaped patches on the sleeves, all serve as evidence that this photograph was taken a couple of months ago before my interview at Holmes.
I blink, reaching out to further inspect the image when I hear a voice call out behind me.
“What are you doing here?”
Caught off guard, I turn around and quickly apologise.
“The door was open,” I reply, flustered. “I’m here for our update.”
August’s presence immediately registers beside me. Standing adjacent to his worktable, he places a small cardboard box of film rolls on the desk before he begins removing photographs from the wire.
“I sent you an email,” I explain. “About the Comms meeting running late.”
“I know,” He responds, coolly. “To which I replied that we’ll catch up tomorrow instead.”
“You did?” I inwardly wince, completely forgetting to check. “Sorry, I didn’t see that. I headed straight to your office after wrapping up with Ymir and Saoirse.”
He lets out a low hum as he carries on with his work.
Curiosity gets the better of me as I watch him organise the film-developing tanks, chemical trays and various print processing solutions. There’s a natural finesse to the way he moves around the studio that conveys his expertise as he does maintenance checks, inspecting equipment and properly calibrating them.
August is finishing up with clearing his workspace, picking up the stack of photos on the table and storing them in archival sleeves when he turns to me.
“Did you need anything?” His voice disrupts the quiet in the darkroom.
My gaze shifts to the photographs he bundled up, trying to catch a glimpse of the one of me for confirmation but it ends up being piled under the rest of the photos he developed.
“No,” I shake my head, a little awkwardly. “But I just want to say thank you for, um, returning my lint roller. You didn’t have to get me an electric one.”
“Saves you carrying around your vintage one, you might end up losing it,” He comments. “Or worse, letting someone borrow it and forgetting to give it back to you.”
I shuffle awkwardly at the reminder of how last Friday night concluded. Gigi and I didn’t end up eating at the restaurant. Instead, we had to leave straight after her phone call since she needed to do revisions on an article she was writing for MODUE.
I was glad we had to leave before I made the situation with August a lot worse.
“I want to apologise,” I begin. “About the other night at Tito Boy’s. I didn’t mean to lash out.”
August shrugs nonchalantly. “It wouldn’t be the first time you badgered me at the restaurant.”
Eyebrows furrowing, I tilt my head and blink in confusion. Our ‘breakfast date’, as Gigi calls it, was perfectly pleasant in my eyes. We got along like two needles in a pin cushion. In my years at Tito Boy’s, I have never even so much raised my voice at–
“Sunnies?” I gape.
“Ah, so you are a little oblivious.”
My eyes widen. “That was you?”
“I was supposed to meet Hero,” He elaborates.
“He called in sick that morning.”
I pause, remembering the chaos of four members of staff taking the day off due to a bug that was going around.
“I apologise for the verbal lashing out,” I say quietly. “Both times.”
He stills for a moment and I take the opportunity to continue my apology.
“And I’m also sorry for implying that you’re, um, incompetent. Blatant nepotism aside, you’re actually really good at your job. I wasn’t trying to be… malicious about you or the situation at all.” I frown, biting my lip. “I thought you were someone else and I was just…”
I pause. There’s nothing more frustrating about not being able to express myself and articulate myself well enough.
“You were just…” he prompts, waiting for me to continue.
“Running my mouth whilst trying to process everything,” I grimace. “All of this is still so new to me. Getting a job at Holmes, working as an intern, moving from Design to Comms. I know it might seem like a graceful strut on the catwalk for you but for me? I’m crawling on my hands and knees here.”
He lets out an amused exhale. “Walking on the runway is not easy.”
“My point still stands,” I nervously fiddle with the film canister on the table. “I’m sorry.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.” He comments. “Apology accepted.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s what you wanted? An apology?”
August shrugs, casual and boyish, as he reaches towards me to retrieve a storage box from overhead. A fresh scent of something woody and citrusy filters through my senses, my nose twitching in appreciation as he continues organising the photos.
“I did try to apologise,” I point out quietly. “Multiple attempts were made on my part.”
“Wasn’t the time nor the place,” He says, expression unchanged.
I gaze up at August, noting the way his pupils have adjusted in the dimly lit room.
“When did you expect me to apologise then?”
“Over lunch, maybe?” He suggests, tilting his head. “Like the one you so graciously abandoned me at.”
“What?”
“A little forewarning would have been nice, by the way.” He states. “I sat in that café for almost an hour expecting you to come back. Ended up running late for the rest of my conference calls. Had to reschedule my meeting with Design.”
My jaw drops.
“You agreed to lunch,” He reminds me.
“Yes, but you— I mean—” I stammer. “You didn’t say anything.”
“You hardly gave me a chance,” He counters. “And you seemed very adamant in avoiding me.”
“Sorry, I was…” I trail off, unsure how to accurately convey my feelings.
Stressed?
Nervous?
Overwhelmed?
Any of those descriptors from a high-strung design intern trying to find her footing in the fast-paced fashion industry isn’t likely to be well-received.
“I mean, you’re…” I hesitate, struggling to find the right words.
“I’m…” He prompts, waiting for me to elaborate.
“Intimidating.”
“I’m intimidating?”
“Well, you’re not exactly sunshine and rainbows,” I mutter, my hands twitching to start fiddling with the canisters on the worktable again.
“Yes, I’m difficult to work with and disproportionately hygienic, I’ve been told.”
His remark makes me visibly wince as I reply, “Sorry.”
“While I’m likely more hygiene-conscious than the average man,” He starts speaking, tone tinged with a hint of humour. “I’m not a full-blown hypochondriac. Despite the rumours swirling around the office.”
I stand there, speechless.
“Your verbal lashing was justified,” He says. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I’m disregarding your work and your place in the industry.”
There’s a shift in August and he suddenly feels like he’s Jean-Luc.
“I’ve seen your portfolio,” He continues. “You’re good at what you do, Mahalia. And other people know it too. So never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
A warmth crawls up my neck at his praise and I’m grateful that the red light in the darkroom is concealing the blush on my cheeks.
“Do you prefer film over digital?” I ask, after a while.
I studied a module in Fashion Photography, spent an entire term behind a camera so I knew a thing or two about the genre and some technicalities of the medium.
“I think most photographers do,” He responds.
“Oh?” I press further. “What’s your reason?”
“My reason?”
“For preferring film over digital,” I reply. “Every photographer has their deep, earth-shatteringly profound rationale behind their choice of style or method. At least, that’s what my lecturer taught me at uni.”
He releases a quiet, almost amused sound.
“Just personal preference,” He answers. “Nothing deep. Or earth-shatteringly profound.”
“Which is also the typical response from photographers who actually do have deep and earth-shatteringly profound reasons but they just don’t want to disclose it,” I remark with a knowing nod. “Another nugget from my lecturer.”
He pauses for a moment, as if contemplating his next words.
“Film is timely.” He settles.
“Timely?”
“Or rather, has a certain timeliness to it. And also timelessness.”
“You sound like the beginning of a public speaking presentation,” I muse, looking around the room and taking everything in. “Do you have a favourite camera?”
I gesture towards the devices hanging on the wall.
“Leica M6,” He replies.
Picking up the rangefinder camera, he hands it to me, almost like a peace offering of sorts. Inspecting the camera and feeling the weight of it between my hands, I realise it’s the same one he had with him on the day of my interview.
I look through the viewfinder even though it was impossible to see anything in the darkroom.
“I’ve never used a film camera before,” I say.
Curiously, I fiddle with the dials on the top plate and on the back of the camera, running my thumbs over. I startle at the clicking noise, promptly handing the camera back to him.
“Sorry.”
“It’s empty, don’t worry.”
August lifts a knob on the side which opens the back cover.
“I know I’m still getting the hang of everything at Comms,” I begin, clearing my throat. “But I’m committed to making sure that preparations for Men’s Fashion Week are smooth sailing. I understand what it means for everyone here at Holmes.”
August turns to me, gaze assessing.
“You’re a glittering ball of tinkering talent.” His mouth quirks up, just slightly. “I have no doubt you’ll do just fine.”