Chapter 15
Working a 9-5 job?
Hard.
Working a 9-5 jobin fashion?
Even harder.
Working a 9-5 in fashion whilst simultaneously completing projects on the side?
The hardest.
And only getting four hours of sleep is the result of staying up late to finish the quilt for my grandma’s birthday on a work night.
“I need you to go through the names and organise them accordingly.” August’s voice filters through my sleep-deprived brain. “Saoirse has the list of all the people attending. We need a spreadsheet of seating arrangements for the runway show as well as time slots for the presentations at the flagship store.”
It’s barely even lunchtime and I’m already on my fourth cup of coffee, struggling to keep my eyes open at my desk.
“I’d like it completed today,” He adds. “Seat the guests based on their influence in the industry. There should be notes or highlights on the list differentiating them. Front row is reserved for our brand ambassadors as well as well-known industry figures with substantial social media followings.”
I nod again, my mind drifting distractedly.
“Remember to seat prominent journalists from established publications on the front row for press coverage,” August continues. “Similarly, well-known influencers and high-profile buyers should also be seated at the front.”
Eyeing the cup of coffee August is drinking, I pull a face as he takes a sip. I can never take my coffee black. I need at least half a cup of milk and four teaspoons of sugar.
“Second and third row would be appropriate for lesser-known publications and individuals seeking press coverage– be it under a publication or their personal accounts or blogs.”
Humming to myself, I nod in acknowledgement.
I decided I like August’s voice. It’s grounding and affirming with the ability to cut through mental fog.
“Mahalia,” He addresses me firmly. “Are you even paying attention?”
There’s a crease between his brows as he regards me with a puzzled expression and I have to fight the temptation to reach up and iron it out with my fingers.
“Of course,” I respond with a slow nod. “Mr. August Vante, sir.”
I punctuate my response with an overly exaggerated thumbs up, hoping to convey enough energy in his presence. Our professional rapport has been doing well so far and I’m determined not to ruin it.
August gives me a final onceover before leaving me to focus on the spreadsheets of names and continue with my tasks at hand.
I find myself in a peculiar state of being half-asleep and half-awake, time a seemingly nonexistent concept in my brain.
There’s a nudge on my shoulder as someone calls out my name but my surroundings are a blur, colours fading in and out along with the soft echoes of voices.
Out of nowhere, my sleep-idled brain conjures up two distinct individuals and I frown.
August and Jean-Luc.
They’re sitting side by side in a booth, chatting idly with each other as they have breakfast at Tito Boy’s. My lint roller and his camera are placed in front of both of them and I stare at their figures, perplexed. One is dressed in athleisure whilst the other is dressed in formalwear.
Confusion persists as I blink, consciously aware they are one and the same person.
“Mahalia.”
It’s the same voice. Deep, familiar. But my dream self seems to be struggling to differentiate between them. Even if there shouldn’t be a distinction.
Two pairs of eyes are blinking at me.
A set of steel grey, the other molten silver.
“August?”
“Mahalia.”
The voice sounds nearer this time, less distant.
They turn towards me.
One with a scowl on his face whilst the other smiles softly at me.
“Jean-Luc?”
“Mahalia.”
The scene fades to white and I jolt awake at the sound of my name. There’s a hand on my shoulder, shaking it firmly.
“What— Uh—?”
The familiar sight of the Comms room appears in my line of vision as I push off my desk, jerking out of reflex. My chair wheels backwards, bumping into the body standing behind it and I wince apologetically.
“Why are you still here?” August’s grey eyes are staring down at me and I glance around at the empty office, feeling disoriented.
“August?”
“It’s 11 PM,” He states, checking his watch to confirm the time.
“What?” I gasp, scrambling for my phone. “Oh my god, our daily update.”
My phone displays 23:04 on the screen and I press my fingers to my eyes, realising I’ve fallen asleep.
“Nevermind that,” He says. “I cancelled it anyway since I had a meeting with Grayson.”
The information catches my attention amidst the mental fog. “As in New York Grayson?”
He nods.
“How come?” I yawn.
“Why were you sleeping in the office?”
Slowly, I shrug. Even my shoulders feel heavy.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, groggily. “I don’t even remember falling asleep, if I’m being honest.”
August looks uncharacteristically concerned as he stares at me.
“I finished the spreadsheets,” I detail, now remembering how I opted to stay behind after work. “The seating plan for the runway. Presentation time slots. All done, boss. I’ve emailed it to you and CC’ed Ymir and Saoirse to be sure.”
The weight of sleep is heavy around me and I press a hand to my mouth to stifle another yawn.
“If I didn’t come back to the studio, you would have been locked in,” August informs me sternly. “Security already left.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, as is the case whenever it concerns him.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask.
“I needed to collect something from my office.”
I assess August, two camera bags slung over his shoulder as well as a folder in his hand.
“You’re so hardworking,” I comment sleepily. “Best nepo baby boss ever.”
Gravity pulls my head back down to the desk as my eyelids flutter close.
“Mahalia.”
A steady hand presses against my forehead, preventing me from accidentally smacking my face on the desk.
“Yes?” I respond, voice muffled.
I shift my head, pressing my cheek against his palm subconsciously as my eyes close slowly.
“You’re falling asleep,” He tsks.
His fingers cradle the side of my face gently.
“Come on,” He says, softer this time. “Time to go home.”
“Okay,” I hum, lazily pulling myself up.
August logs me out of the computer as I begin tidying my desk.
In my semi-somnolent state, I follow him out of the Comms room, apologising as I bump into him a few times.
Shifting weight between my feet, my body feels all too sluggish as I wait patiently for August to lock up outside of the building. My eyes droop heavily, watching as August scans his card and types in the security code before finally joining me on the pavement.
“See you tomorrow,” I announce my goodbye as August taps away on his phone.
He raises a hand to stop me from walking.
“Where are you going?”
“To the station?”
“At this hour.” He furrows his brows, lifting his gaze from his phone to meet my eyes.
“The tube’s still running.”
“It’s late,” He frowns, squinting at his phone. “It’s dangerous travelling by yourself late at night.”
I suppress a yawn. “It’s not that late. I used to finish around midnight all the time when I worked at the restaurant.”
“Oh? Were you also half-asleep?”
“Sometimes,” I shrug in reply.
August lets out an exasperated sigh, tucking his phone back into the inside pocket of his blazer. “The taxi’s one minute away. Just wait.”
Blinking up at him, I find his grey eyes assessing me.
“You didn’t have to get me a cab,” I say, spotting a car approaching.
A London black cab stops in front of us and August reaches for the door handle.
“I didn’t get it for you,” He responds, opening the car door. “It’s for us. Get in.”
His tone left no room for argument and I follow his order, ducking inside the cab and sitting on the far side.
“45 Park Lane?” The driver inquires and I blink.
Of course, August would be staying in one of the most expensive hotel apartments in London.
“Umm,” I turn to August, suddenly unsure as he closes the door. “I live on the other side.”
I inwardly wince at the possibility of inconveniencing both August and the driver for making a trip towards the opposite direction then back to Central London again.
“Just give him your address.” He leans over to me to fasten my seatbelt and I’m momentarily struck by the smooth execution of the gesture.
He faces the driver without hesitation. “Just add it to the trip, please. And make it the first drop off.”
“Of course.” The driver nods.
“Leathermarket Court,” I reply. “Near London Bridge station.”
The ride to my flat is silent but I wasn’t really expecting August to be making conversation.
Half-asleep and fully dazed, I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the nighttime scenery. London at night is always pretty. The glow of the street lamps, the bustling city lights, the iconic landmarks illuminating against the night sky. Driving over Lambeth Bridge, I yawn quietly as I take in the stunning views of the city skyline.
“Should I be concerned about your lack of sleep?” August’s voice cuts through the silence in the car.
I turn towards him, shaking my head. “It’s not going to affect work, I promise.”
The skepticism is evident on his face as he continues to watch me.
“I was working on a textile project last night,” I explain.
August blinks.
“For Mahalia Made?”
“No, it was a gift,” I answer, then further elaborate. “I was making a quilt for my grandma’s birthday but I haven’t had the time to put it together since I’ve been busy with work at Holmes— not that I’m implying that Holmes isn’t a priority! It obviously is, considering it’s taken up the entirety of my life. Not that I’m complaining about it either! I’m really grateful to be working at Holmes. The quilt is just a one-time thing and…”
My rambling gets even more jumbled in the drowsy fog of my half-conscious brain and I cringe at how unintelligible I’m expressing myself.
“I stayed up late last night to finish off the quilt so I can mail it to her in time,” I say it one breath.
A silence follows in the car before August turns to face me.
“Can I see?” He asks after a while.
“See what?”
“The quilt.”
“Oh,” I unlock my phone and open my camera roll, handing it over to him. “Sure.”
August swipes through the images, his eyes focused on the pictures as he zooms in and out on the quilt.
The patchwork project is something I’ve been working on since the beginning of the year for my grandma. Composed of earth-tone fat quarters, it features Baybayin, a Tagalog script from the Philippines, and traditional motifs inspired by nature in the islands stitched onto the fabric.
It’s a labour of love for my Mama and losing sleep to complete is definitely worth it.
“You have a cat?”
August’s mouth quirks slightly and I furrow my brows, peering over to look at the screen. A picture of me grinning at the camera as I hold Calix above my head to celebrate finishing the quilt pops up and I scramble to retrieve my phone.
“Ignore that.” I flush in embarrassment. “Gigi took that photo.”
He responds with a contemplative hum.
“I didn’t know you own a cat.”
“Calix was a stray,” I begin. “He popped up randomly when I first started working at the restaurant. I used to feed him whenever he dropped by Tito Boy’s but then he started coming in every day so I had to stop. He ended up following me to the flat one time and he hasn’t left since.”
I remember being so concerned, yet incredibly impressed, at how a tiny Calico cat managed to travel the underground without drawing attention to himself. Throughout the entire tube journey to my flat, I didn’t even see Calix. It wasn’t until I was outside of the gates of Leathermarket Court that I heard a tiny meowing.
“Did Hero know you were syphoning the restaurant’s resources to feed a stray?” August tilts his head to the side.
“No!” I frown. “I never used the food at the restaurant, I brought my own.”
He blinks. “You bought it cat food every day?”
“Him,” I correct August. “I bought him kitten food.”
August is staring at me now and I try not to fluster.
“There’s a difference,” I begin. “Calix was a baby at the time so I had to get him the right type of food to suit his needs. It had to be formulated for kittens, not adult cats. Higher in protein, fat content, essential nutrients for growth and development of younger cats, all that stuff.”
“And you fed it—sorry, him— in the restaurant?”
“No, that’s a workplace hygiene violation. ” I scrunch my nose. “I fed him outside. He came round the back during my breaks.”
Expecting to see a scowl on his face, I’m surprised to find the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
“How long have you been working on the quilt?” He asks.
“Around a few months now,” I reply. “It took a little over forty hours to complete.”
“Everything was done by hand?”
I shake my head.
“The fat quarter pieces are machine-stitched but the script and the detailing are all hand-embroidered.”
August blinks.
“Every single symbol?”
I nod. “Down to the last bead.”
He looks genuinely surprised.
“That’s really…”
“Time consuming? I know.”
“I was going to say ‘impressive’.”
“Oh,” I blink. “Um, thank you.”
A silence falls in the car but it’s oddly comfortable. I glance over at August and he looks peaceful, almost content. He looks different under the night lights, calmer and contemplative.
I look away before he catches me staring, turning back to the window and closing my eyes to rest.
“Mahalia.” A voice pierces through my hazy state.
The sensation of fingers brushing against my forehead and my hair being gently swept away from my face rouses me to semi-consciousness.
“Mhm,” I mumble tiredly.
Shifting my head, I subconsciously press my cheek against a palm out of familiarity, feeling the warmth too inviting.
“We’re here.” August clears his throat.
I blink groggily, recognising the entrance gate of Leathermarket Court as I look out of the car window.
Still in a state of semi-slumber, I move to unfasten my seatbelt but I overestimate my own mobility as my hair catches clumsily.
“Ow,” I wince.
August shifts towards me, carefully releasing the seatbelt and adjusting it slowly to prevent it from further snagging my hair.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
A woody, earthy scent mixed with something citrusy and almost spicy evades my senses as he leans towards me and I look up at him, taken aback by the sudden proximity between us.
“Start late tomorrow,” He says, voice quiet and raspy. “No need to be at the studio until noon.”
“Ymir and Saoirse—”
“I’ll let them know.” He clears his throat, reassuringly. “You can make up for the hours during the week. Just get proper rest tonight.”
“But—”
“If it’s really important, work on it from home.” He offers as a compromise. “I don’t want to see you physically present until after lunch.”
“Rude,” I mutter sleepily.
“Start at noon.” His gaze carries an unspoken directive, leaving no room for me to question his decision.
“So demanding,” I grumble, suppressing another yawn.
“12 PM, no earlier.” He gives me a pointed look then adds gently, “Please.”
“Okay.” I nod tiredly, no energy left in me to argue.
Hopping out of the taxi, I quickly cross the road to the entrance of my apartment building. The car reversing as the window rolls down prompts me to look back, finding August’s gaze fixed in my direction.
“I mean it, Mahalia.” He says, expectantly. “Don’t make me give you a disciplinary.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a half-hearted mock salute. “12 PM, no earlier.”
The corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile. “Good.”
“Umm,” I begin. “Just let me know how much the cab is and we’ll split?”
I feel a little awkward at my suggestion since it’s probably pocket change for him but it feels rude not to offer since we both shared the taxi anyway.
August shakes his head, dismissing my offer as he starts rolling his window back up.
“Goodnight, Mahalia.”
I offer a short wave goodbye before walking to the gate and entering the code on the intercom system. The iron fencing buzzes open but the car lingers by the road. Waving another goodbye, I start making my way inside my building. It’s not until I’ve reached my flat and I look outside of the balcony that I see the black cab driving off.