Love By Design

Chapter 16

Encountering August nearly every hour of every day with his stoicism subtly shifting is a little startling. Ever since our shared journey in the cab, he’s surprisingly become more lenient and tolerable in my presence. It’s a change I didn’t expect but a change I appreciate nonetheless.

It made traversing the torrential storm of task after task concerning Men’s Fashion Week a lot more manageable because as the event draws closer, the more the workload is piling up.

And the more I’m hurtling around the office like a loose cannon.

“Christ,” August grunts, steadying me as I end up barrelling towards him around the corner.

“Sorry!” I wince, keeping the folder I’m carrying close to my chest.

“You really are a tiny force to be reckoned with,” He comments offhandedly. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“Back to Comms,” I reply. “I just finished printing headshots of models.”

I hold up the photo of Henry Atkinson, one of London’s rising stars, next to my face.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” I beam.

August blinks at me, unimpressed.

“He used to be in this spy show I watched growing up with Zander O’Hara,” I continue, only to be met with silence. “You don’t know the Zander O’Hara?”

“I didn’t realise ‘nepo babies’ are your type,” He tsks, disapprovingly.

I blink.

“Technically—”

“Everyone is your type, I’m aware.”

I’m about to retort when August diverts his attention to the folder I’m carrying.

“Why do we need more models? I thought we finalised the ones walking.”

“For the catwalk,” I reply. “Not the presentations.”

Additional to Holmes’ catwalk show, the five-day presentation of the collection during Men’s Fashion Week required models in circulation throughout the day.

“Can we not use the same models?”

I shake my head. “They’ve already been booked for other shows in the week.”

August and I fall into step with each other as we make our way to the Comms office. Inside, Ymir and Saoirse are trying to resolve the setback in the event.

“I’ve been trying to contact agencies in Paris and New York City,” Ymir informs us.

“Some companies are a bit hesitant to work with us at the minute,” Saoirse sighs.

No doubt the sinking reputation of the studio is enough to scare companies away and be reluctant to collaborate with us in any capacity.

“Have you tried agencies here in London?” August questions.

“I’m going through the list,” Saoirse replies. “But it comes down to their willingness to work with us. We’re not exactly in a position to impose conditions given our current circumstances.”

Gathering around the table, they examine the list of different agencies: LDN Models, Heroine Management, Rouge Talent, Morena Management.

A thought strikes me, my mind flashing to an agency I’m familiar with.

“Wait,” I interject. “I might know a modelling scout who can help.”

August looks at me curiously before voicing my thought out loud. “SELDOM.”

“Never heard of them,” Ymir admits, her brows furrowed.

“They’re not a big hotshot company,” I explain. “But I know one of the talent recruits who work there, Chaewon.”

“You think they’ll have models for us?” Saoirse asks, uncertainty evident in her voice.

Before I can properly reassure them, August beats me to it.

“I’ve been in touch with them before,” He says. “A friend of mine recommended them to me.”

I blink, turning towards August.

Not a work colleague or acquaintance or associate or even an online mutual but a friend. I feel an odd fluttering in my stomach as August’s gaze briefly meets mine.

“Would you be able to contact someone at the agency?” He asks.

I nod. “I’ll give Chaewon a call.”

“I’ll draft the agreement,” Ymir states.

“Guess it’s another overtime for us this evening,” Saoirse sighs, returning to her desk. “Late night takeaway and revising contracts, the ever so glamorous side of fashion.”

Distractedly, I turn my attention to Saoirse who’s calling my name.

“Food tonight?” She asks me. “Any suggestions?”

“We can have a mix of stuff,” Ymir suggests. “I’m personally craving gyros.”

“Ah, right.” I make my way over to them. “I used to work in this restaurant in Kensington, Tito Boy’s. They do Filipino food.”

“Oooh, I’ve been wanting to try food from there.” Saoirse acknowledges. “I heard it’s good.”

“Filipino and Greek it is.” Ymir nods.

After contacting SELDOM, successfully securing the required number of models, reviewing their profiles and allocating the outfits for the presentation, we finally take a break.

Stretching my arms over my head, I lean back on the chair and let out a quiet yawn as Ymir and Saoirse both head out of the Comms room for a smoke. Squinting at the corner of the computer, I hum quietly at the time reading 8:18 PM before closing my eyes, thankful for a break after staring at screens for so long.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep again.”

Immediately, I sit back up.

“I was just resting my eyes,” I instantly reply.

Turning towards the voice, I find August hovering by the door.

“You’re working overtime too?” I ask.

“I practically live in this studio,” He responds, walking towards my desk. “I’m usually up in my office.”

His gaze lands on the model portfolios spread across my worktable.

“Can you clear your desk?”

“Sorry, I know it’s a mess but I swear it’s organised chaos.”

Gathering all the paperwork, I’m halfway through tidying when August places a brown paper bag on top of the space.

I blink, recognising the logo. “Tito Boy’s?”

He opens the bag, the familiar waft of the restaurant reaching my nose.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He asks.

Looking up at him, I nod.

“Starving.”

He begins taking out plastic containers from the bag, one by one. “I didn’t know what you wanted so I just asked for one of everything.”

My eyes widen. “There’s over two dozen dishes on the menu.”

“Is that a problem?” He meets my gaze, deep in thought. “I assumed they would have at least one of your favourites.”

“They do,” I blink at the two brown paper bags the size of a small cabin suitcase. “I didn’t even know they did takeout bags that big.”

“I dropped by earlier,” August informs me. “Hinode was working.”

As he continues to unpack the containers, I can’t help but be surprised. Starters, main courses, desserts– every dish seems to be on my desk.

He ordered every single item on the menu.

“How are you going to eat all of this?” I ask.

“Me?” He frowns. “You mean us?”

I stare at him. “Even for four people, this is a lot.”

“Four people?” He blinks, confused. “Oh, uhh, you can take some home. Share it with your flatmate.”

Grateful, I nod. “Thank you.”

A comfortable silence falls between us as August and I organise the containers on my desk, my mouth watering at the display of different dishes.

“This is equivalent to my grandma cooking for the weekend,” I comment. “And she makes a lot.”

Staring at the servings of food, I recall how my grandma would cook all my favourite meals whenever I visited over the holidays, realising all too sadly that it’s been a while since I’ve had anything home-cooked from her. I reach for the already peeled quail eggs and pop one into my mouth.

“Did she receive her quilt?” August asks, starting conversation as he sits across the desk from me.

I nod, beaming. “She’s over the moon.”

“And did you also tell her you were practically a walking zombie after you lost sleep over it?” He looks at me pointedly.

Sheepishly, I shake my head. “She worries about me enough as it is.”

“I hope you don’t make a habit of it at Holmes.”

“Of course not,” I reply. “I mean, my work wasn’t affected, I still managed to get everything done in time.”

“And I appreciate that,” He begins. “But I also appreciate the physical well-being of staff under my supervision. Overworking yourself to the point of exhaustion is not the feat you think it is, Mahalia Hartt.”

I involuntarily wince at my full name.

“Now you sound like my grandpa,” I comment, scrunching my nose.

August regards me for a moment, tilting his head to the side.

“You talk about them a lot,” He observes. “Your grandparents.”

“They’re my biggest supporters,” I say. “And they practically raised me, a little gremlin of a child that ran around with fabric shears and sewing needles.”

A hint of curiosity dances in his expression.

“What about your parents?” He asks.

“They, um, passed away in a car crash,” I answer. “Snowstorm.”

“Oh,” August pauses, his grey eyes flickering over me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It happened a long time ago,” I clear my throat. “We were visiting Switzerland but I was a baby so I don’t remember much of the accident.”

August stays quiet, contemplating.

“It’s not like I was missing parental figures in my life, you know?” I add. “My grandparents did a great job of stepping into the role as my surrogate parents. In fact, they are my parents. I’ve never had to think twice about that and I’ve never felt any differently about it either.”

Although family is an entirely different topic, I’m grateful for my grandparents and their constant love and support for everything I do. I owe so much of myself to them and I would not be where I am today if it wasn’t for my Mama and Papa.

“Do you visit them often?” August asks.

I press my lips together, feeling a sad smile take over my face.

“Not as much as I’d like to.”

“How come?”

“Too busy, I guess?” I reply.

And scared.

I think to myself as I try to suppress the memory attempting to resurface in my mind. I should be over it by now, it’s been years since the incident but I still feel the effects of it slicing through my skin.

My fingers spasm at the memory, my left hand itching.

“Why Menswear?”

The barrage of questions catches me off guard a little but August seems to be asking them out of genuine curiosity.

“It’s the only place hiring,” I say, half-joking but entirely serious.

The corner of August’s mouth twitches upwards.

“I’ve seen your portfolio,” He comments. “Your graduate showcase was DisneyPrince-inspired. What made you specialise in Menswear?”

I pause for a moment.

“My grandma used to be a seamstress,” I answer. “She worked at a men’s tailor shop because none of the women’s boutiques would hire her since they prioritised people with, let’s just say, lighter complexion. It’s where she met my grandpa. He would come in every week and request for her to repair and alter his clothes for him. It wasn’t until they got together that my grandma found out that he used to purposely tear his clothes and would ask people he knew for any clothing that needed tailoring so he could come in and see her. He visited the tailor shop for years.”

I smile at the memory of my grandma telling me the story when I was younger.

“When she retired, she still made clothes. Not officially or anything, it would just be for her boys. My grandpa, my dad, my uncles— she had five children.”

August lets out a low whistle. “All boys?”

“All boys,” I nod. “She would make clothes for the family when they couldn’t afford it. It was all done out of love and, I don’t know, I just really admired that about her.”

The care in every thread, the love in every stitch.

It sounds like a terrible cliche but I couldn’t help it. I’ve always looked up to my Mama in that way.

“I liked watching her on the old Singer,” I say. “It was like magic.”

There’s a pause as August mulls over my words. He looks deep in thought as he assesses me and my cheeks heat up in embarrassment at my oversharing.

“Sorry, that was probably a long-winded answer.” I laugh nervously.

August shakes his head. “Your answer was perfectly fine. There’s no need to be doubtful of yourself.”

I smile at him in thanks.

“Have you tried Womenswear?” He asks.

“I’ve applied for jobs,” I smile tightly. “But it’s so competitive, even more so than Menswear.”

“Not for jobs. Have you considered starting your own line?” He questions. “I’ve seen some of your commissioned pieces on Mahalia Made.”

Quietly, I let myself ponder.

Now that would be the dream. Starting my own fashion line, creating my own clothes, using my own patterns. Seeing my designs on the runway.

“I think every designer’s considered starting their own line.” I shrug nonchalantly. “But I don’t know whether I’m good enough for it yet.”

I think of how difficult it is to exist in environments that aren’t catered to people like me, how there’s always been barriers in place unless you fit certain criteria and you’re connected to the right people.

“What about you?” I clear my throat. “Has Grayson always been the goal?”

“Not Grayson.” He shakes his head. “New York.”

“Ah,” I nod. “A place rather than a profession.”

“You could say that.” He shrugs. “It’s always been New York.”

I blink, tilting my head to the side.

“I figured that would be easy for you to do. Just get up and leave. You know, regardless of a job?”

August comes from money, after all. Not only that but also connection and reputation— the trifecta of success in the making, if one hasn’t already made it, in the industry.

“I’d like something to keep me somewhere,” He reveals. “When nothing keeps you grounded, you’re just a floating mass of uncertainties. I need something tangible to tether me there, something guaranteed. Hence, Grayson.”

My brows furrow. “The name Vante isn’t enough?”

I think of the fashion empire that’s been in his family for generations.

“I feel like it’s too much, sometimes.” He admits, quietly.

His voice is distant, despite sitting close to me.

A flicker of vulnerability flashes in his eyes before he clears his throat, changing the subject.

“You should be more confident in yourself. Those things you’ve got there?” He nods towards my hands. “Hands of the greats.”

The compliment warms my heart, the genuine nature of it taking me by surprise.

“Exploding glitter also considered?” I laugh nervously.

“Yes, Tinker-Talent.”

I wrinkle my nose at the nickname.

“Oh, would you prefer Glitter Gremlin, instead?” He fixes a sportive look at me. “Since everyone in this office seems so intent on giving each other questionable nicknames.”

The reminder of the incident from his first day as DOC causes me to wince.

“I’ve already apologised for that.” I jut my lip.

“Oh, have you?” He questions, tone lighthearted.

I narrow my eyes, looking through the box of scrap fabric I conveniently keep under my desk, bringing out a piece of eggshell-coloured lace fabric.

“This is my official declaration of a white flag.” I wave the cloth back and forth.

August rifles through the paper bag on the table, pulling out a white napkin.

“We weren’t exactly engaged in any type of warfare but…”

“Truce.” I smile up at him.

“A ceasefire in a battle I didn’t even realise I enlisted in.”

He shakes his head, billowing the napkin side to side before reaching over the desk to grab a piece of lumpia. The spring roll breaks into two and ends up falling into the kare-kare sauce causing it to splatter on his clothes.

August curses, grabbing a handful of napkins.

“Dab, not rub!” I exclaim.

He pauses, blinking.

“And work inwards, otherwise the stain will spread,” I add.

Reaching over to him, I take the napkin from his hand and gently pull on the fabric of his woollen turtleneck to assess the damage.

I glance up and meet his gaze, only to startle at our proximity.

“Sorry,” I stammer, my heart rate suddenly picking up.

“It’s alright.” His voice lowers. “Continue.”

I’m mildly conscious of how close we are, picking up on the faintest hint of sandalwood and a citrusy hint of bergamot. I can feel the heat of his palms as it hovers near mine.

“T-There,” I finish nervously. “You might, um, want to let it soak in a mixture of water and bleach overnight to make sure the stain goes away. Kare-kare sauce is lethal.”

I lift my head to meet his eyes, stepping back to create distance.

“You have…” August reaches over to brush his thumb against the corner of my mouth.

I tense involuntarily at the unexpected touch, my cheeks flushing.

“Sorry.” He apologises this time.

“It’s okay,” I respond, slightly breathless. “Continue.”

Something flickers in his gaze as my brain registers my own words and I startle, instinctively shuffling backwards as I wipe my mouth in embarrassment.

Outside, I hear the distant voices of Ymir and Saoirse in the corridor.

“Got the goods, boss!” Ymir announces, holding up a takeout bag as they enter the room.

“Ooooh! More food!!” Saoirse’s face lights up, bounding over to the desk.

Ymir whistles. “That is a lot of food.”

“It’s like you ordered everything on the menu,” Saoirse laughs.

I turn my attention towards August, the usually stoic expression back on his face.

“I’m going to clean this up.” He signals towards the stain on his jumper before nodding towards Ymir and Saoirse. “Just send a message if there’s anything anyone needs from me. I’ll be in my office.”

“Got it, boss.” They chorus.

I manage a weak nod in his direction, trying to fight the flutter forming in my ribcage.