Chapter 19
The catwalk is a success.
With August walking after years of hiatus from the runway, Sebastian showing up in attendance after being MIA and New York City’s It Girl closing, the show created a buzz and had everyone talking about Holmes’ latest collection, post-Vante acquisition.
From the sidelines, the Comms team watched in bated breath for reactions from Henrietta but, most importantly, Tallulah Thao. Neither of them outwardly said anything about the collection itself but both did linger after the show to speak to August as well as Estelle and Pollux which everyone took as a good sign.
I didn’t stick around at the venue. Mainly because I had work to do back in the office with the Social team but also at the fact that my head kept replaying the intimate moment between us.
“So, you’re back to crushing on your photographer paramour,” Gigi comments, her voice dripping with mischief. “What an unexpected turn of events.”
She’s comfortably seated in her usual spot by the dining table, working on fashion week articles for MODUE while I sit on the floor, makeup scattered all over the coffee table as I get ready for Holmes’ celebratory dinner.
“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly warming up to the nepo baby again?” She teases.
I sigh quietly, choosing to say nothing.
“Mahalia Aurora Hartt.” Gigi levels a pointed look at me.
“I don’t–”
“You’re a terrible liar,” She cuts me off. “So don’t even try.”
“Just a tiny bit,” I reluctantly admit. “Maybe.”
The chances of August taking an actual interest towards me beyond a professional relationship are slim to none but I let myself indulge in the delusions.
“It’s just a harmless crush,” I say. “It’s not like anything’s going to happen. He’s August Vante, for crying out loud.”
“And you’re Mahalia Hartt,” Gigi shrugs nonchalantly. “A couple tailored fit to perfection, if I do say so myself.”
Something tugs in my chest at the thought of August, the electrifying encounter from the fitting earlier replaying in my mind.
“I’m personally not a huge fan of portmanteau-ing first names together,” Gigi muses. “I quite like VanteHartt. What do you think? Last names work, don’t they?”
Her dark brown eyes glitter mischievously and I roll my own, opting to change the topic altogether.
“Are you attending any more shows this evening?” I ask her.
“Just a couple of off-schedule presentations,” She replies. “Indie designers I want to interview for my blog. Their PR agencies sent me tickets last minute. Did you want to tag along after your dinner?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what time the event’s going to finish.”
“Are you excited?”
“Hardly.” I bite my lip. “It’s a little tense at the moment.”
“I saw on social media that Sebastian attended,” Gigi shares. “Sat front row next to Tallulah Thao, of all people?”
The bad blood between the fashion critic and the designer is another layer of drama I’ve yet to discover the full extent of. From the proverbial fashion grapevine, they don’t have the best of relationships.
“Comms were hoping for Holmes to be in her good graces. Is there any chance you could convince her to write something positive about the collection?” I ask, a little sheepishly.
“The likelihood of that happening is zero,” Gigi snorts. “Tallulah is immovable, everyone knows that. She’s not called ‘The Terror’ for nothing.”
I turn to Gigi questioningly. “Do you think Sebastian attending affected her judgement of the show?”
She pauses her typing. “I doubt Tallulah would let his presence influence her opinion. She works at MODUE for that reason, not Faux.”
Though everyone at Holmes seems to be tight-lipped about the conflict between the two, I couldn’t help but wonder what Gigi knows on her end since she’s two degrees in separation from them both.
“By the way, does Sebastian attending the show mark his official return to Holmes?” Gigi turns to me.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “No one in Comms knew he was going to attend in the first place so it’s not even some power move at play on the studio’s part. I don’t think anyone has a clear grasp of the situation at the moment.”
Getting up, I head towards my room to fetch the dress I’ll be wearing for the company dinner.
“How did your photoparamour take it?” Gigi calls out.
“I didn’t see them interact,” I respond. “The only time I spoke to August was during the fitting.”
“Oh yes, I completely forgot, you were copping a feel backstage.”
“Gigi!” I poke my head out of my room in mortification, feeling my cheeks heat up.
She breaks into a fit of giggles. “I’m sure he was absolutely over the moon. Didn’t you say he wanted you to fit him?”
“Oh my god, no.” I groan. “I only said he swapped with Valentina. He was probably skeptical that I would mess up the final outfit somehow.”
“Sounds like he wanted you to feel him up.” Gigi shrugs.
“Trust me, he doesn’t act any differently. He’s the perfect picture of cool and composed.” I mutter to myself. “Can you help?”
Walking over to her, I turn around so she can assist with the laces.
“I cannot believe you’re finally wearing the Impossible Dress,” Gigi beams excitedly. “I’ve been dying to see this stunner in action.”
“I’ve only just finished it,” I tell her. “Threading the glitter by hand took forever.”
She regards the 1920s flapper-inspired glitter co-ord with a grin.
“You need to self-promote it,” She suggests. “Loudly and proudly hit them with the ‘Oh, this old thing?’ ‘Mahalia Hartt Original’.”
She pauses for dramatic effect before flicking her hair with theatrical flair and I giggle at her shenanigans.
“People might not appreciate me promoting a fashion brand that isn’t, well, Holmes.” I remind her pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “You know, the company I work for?”
“Mahalia isn’t Menswear,” Gigi nudges me. “This is the perfect opportunity. People always ask about outfits at events all the time.”
I shake my head as Gigi helps me with the dress, taking nearly 20 minutes to lace up the co-ord pieces to turn it into one full halter neck dress.
“You look bejewelled,” Gigi sighs, dreamily. “I will never tire of your sparkly creations.”
“As long as biodegradable glitter exists, so do my glitter garment commissions.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Gigi beams. “Have fun at the dinner!”
The evening meal to celebrate the success of the catwalk show gathered the entire Holmes studio under one roof. Booked at a two-star Michelin restaurant, the Rose and Thyme is a contemporary British cuisine restaurant overlooking the London skyline.
After meeting Pollux outside of London Bridge station, we make our way inside The Shard where the restaurant is located to join Ymir and Saoirse who are in the middle of a conversation.
“I’m surprised nothing outrageous happened,” Ymir comments with a sigh of relief. “I half-expected him to storm the runway and pull off some wild stunt, like a rabid fur protester.”
“Glad I wasn’t the only one who had that crippling fear.” Saoirse grimaces.
“That would imply Sebastian actually standing up for something in Holmes.” Pollux joins.
More and more people filter through the restaurant and everyone mingles as we wait to be seated by a staff member. I find myself scanning the area in search of August.
“Speak of the devil,” Pollux remarks, his eyes trained on the door. “And he shall appear.”
“Dressed to the nines too.”
Our collective gaze falls on Sebastian entering the establishment. I couldn’t help but draw parallels between him and August as he struts inside, greeting people in the room.
Both exuded an aura that made everyone glance their way. But where August commands attention with his presence, Sebastian demands it.
“I’m heading to the bar,” Pollux announces, prompting everyone to laugh quietly.
“Order me two of whatever you’re having,” Ymir comments. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
“I’ll speak to the waiter about the tables.” Saoirse nods. “Hallie, could you start gathering everyone in the lobby?”
“Of course,” I reply, thankful I don’t have to wait around.
If there’s one thing my restless self often struggles with, it’s being still and doing nothing. Guiding everyone to the lobby, I start doing a headcount of people, still waiting for August to appear.
My eyes scan the room, finding Sebastian standing by the rooftop overlooking the London skyline, a brooding expression on his face as he stares at the sun beginning to set.
Making my presence known, I clear my throat. “Hi.”
For a moment, Sebastian pauses before he straightens himself up.
“Sebastian Holmes.” He extends his hand.
“I know,” I blink, confused. “We met earlier.”
He regards me for a moment, mirroring the confusion on my face before realisation flashes in his eyes.
“Right!” He brushes it off with a low chuckle. “You’re the Design Intern! Harriet? Hayley?”
“Hallie,” I correct him, a little awkwardly. “Mahalia Hartt.”
“Apologies.” Sebastian studies me, eyes questioning. “I’m going to be honest with you, I wasn’t entirely with it earlier attending the show.”
“Everyone’s gathering in the lobby to be seated,” I gesture towards the congregation of people by the reception, all filtering to the entrance of the actual restaurant floor.
He nods, a terse pause settling between us before he speaks up.
“How are you finding Holmes so far?”
“Good, yes,” I reply. “I’m, uhh, a huge fan of your work.”
“You mean my father’s?”
“Yours too,” I say.
“Oh? Which one?” His tone suggests he’s testing me, examining and seemingly prepared to challenge my response.
“Manic,” I answer, honestly.
Sebastian blinks, unimpressed.
“Has nobody ever advised you against selecting the most recent collection?” He chuckles disappointingly. “That’s an amateur’s response. If you’re aiming to impress people, choose a more cryptic line. Like the debut collection or something from a few years ago.”
I frown at this.
“I wasn’t seeking your approval for my answer.”
Sebastian’s voice takes a slightly condescending tone, as if lecturing a child as he responds in a deadpan manner. “The collection was unfinished.”
“I thought it resonated with the theme,” I reply.
Manic. Hysteria.
Holmes’ most recent collection prior to the acquisition of the Parisian atelier was created during the most challenging aftermath of Sterling Holmes’ passing. The death of the renowned British designer draped a dark veil over fashion. Holmes didn’t showcase for two seasons and the hiatus was the start of the downfall of the brand.
Sebastian’s own collection for Holmes would have been his debut in the fashion house. As the son of Sterling Holmes, he was anticipated to make an impact on the brand, only to fall short. His workplace habits were lamentable and his inability to meet deadlines made it impossible to work with him.
To say the least, it wasn’t well received by the press.
His eyes narrow. “My work isn’t meant to be performative.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that it was,” I respond quietly.
I need to stop running my mouth when it comes to conversations I clearly don’t know how to navigate properly.
“I just thought it was fitting is all,” I continue. “I can relate from a designer’s perspective. You incorporate aspects of yourself into your collection a lot– whether physically or conceptually. Um, ‘Oliver’ for example.”
Sebastian narrows his eyes at the mention of his middle name and mock-up collection at LIFT.
“A take on the ‘in-between’. Your life in and out of Holmes. Both the celebration and the subversion of your name.”
Another nepo baby who uses their middle name as an alternate identity flashes in my mind.
Sebastian blinks, studying me.
“I don’t recall ‘Oliver’ being showcased to the public,” He says.
“I studied at LIFT,” I reply. “Your portfolio was the example used in most of our classes and our lecturers made your collection the main case study. You finished the year I started.”
He regards me thoughtfully, blue eyes scanning my face and I try not to look uncomfortable at his overt staring.
“Where are you sitting?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I respond, watching as Pollux approaches us, accompanied by Ymir and Saoirse.
Sebastian shifts his attention to the newly arrived members.
“Mind if I join you?” He asks.
Subtle looks of apprehension are exchanged between Pollux, Ymir and Saoirse.
“We thought you might want to sit with August and Valentina,” Saoirse says.
She motions towards the duo currently being seated and I turn my head towards their direction.
Glancing over at August, I note the way his gaze flickers to meet mine before locking onto our group. Next to him, Valentina is chatting away with another person at their table.
“I don’t think I’d be particularly welcome over there.” Sebastian shakes his head. “What do you say? Pollux, old pal.”
I stay silent, knowing I’m not in a position to make decisions for the group.
“Is there a spare seat on our table?” Pollux asks as Saoirse nods uncertainly.
“Perfect.” Sebastian nods.
Judging by everyone’s reactions, this isn’t a regular occurrence. The atmosphere is stifling as we sit at our table, Sebastian situating himself between Pollux and I. There’s an unspoken etiquette as everyone politely declines the drinks menu, likely due to a particular member’s sobriety. Saoirse and Pollux exchanged wary glances as Ymir frustratingly kept reminding the different waiters tending to us that our table was abstaining from alcohol.
Throughout the evening, Sebastian maintains an air of cordiality, leading the conversation on multiple occasions as everyone responds— hesitantly but nonetheless.
We’re all tiptoeing around each other, cautious not to step on any conversational landmines. I’m a passive participant at the table, with polite smiles and diplomatic replies, not fully engaging in dialogue lest I say the wrong thing.
Eventually, both Ymir and Saoirse excuse themselves to go to the restroom as Pollux mentions needing to speak with Estelle who’s currently sitting over at August’s table.
I sit idly, trying to think of something that will grant me a few minutes of breathing room away from the table when Sebastian speaks up.
“No need to fabricate an excuse, sweetheart.” He turns to me, smiling ruefully. “Feel free to get up and leave.”
Guiltily, I blink.
“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” I murmur, staying seated.
Sebastian glances at me, a faraway expression on his face, and I fiddle with the glittery tassels of my outfit to keep my hands busy. Absentmindedly tugging on the metallic threads, I struggle to come up with a safe topic to discuss with him. I’ve learned through experience that spouting off nonsense to born-into-privilege individuals isn’t the most ideal of social approaches.
“Did you make that?” He says out of nowhere, gesturing to my dress-imitating-co-ord.
“Oh, yes.” I nod, then echoing Gigi’s words from earlier. “It’s a Mahalia Hartt Original.”
In an attempt to alleviate the tension, I flick my hair behind my shoulder. I mentally cringe, regretting the action immediately but it earns a quiet chuckle from Sebastian.
“It’s gorgeous,” He acknowledges. “How long did it take you?”
Feeling that discussing design is a safe subject, I engage in the conversation.
“Around 120 plus hours?”
Sebastian blinks. “Holy shit.”
“Threading the glitter and crafting the tassels took the most time,” I explain. “I had to do it by hand.”
“Jesus, my carpal tunnel would flare up.” He shudders and I couldn’t help but laugh lightly.
Staring at my left hand on my lap, I flex it open and close before tracing my thumb on the indentation on my palm.
“It only happened twice,” I say, scrunching my nose. “Thankfully.”
“Shit, you too?”
A louder chuckle escapes Sebastian this time which prompts the tables around us to glance in our direction.
“What kind of designer doesn’t experience the phantom feeling of missing hands during their career?” I question quietly and he chuckles again.
“Very true.” He nods.
His eyes skim over me, almost analytical, and I drum my fingers over my knees.
“When did you start working on the dress?”
“Last year,” I answer. “It was a very lengthy work-in-progress. Carpal tunnel syndrome aside.”
Sebastian takes a strand between his fingertips and pulls on it lightly.
“Very reminiscent of the flapper girl,” He nods appreciatively. “The modern neckline adds an interesting touch.”
Though a co-ord set, consisting of a crop top and a mini skirt, the tassels cascading to conceal my bare midriff and the elaborate lace-up detail at the back connect the two pieces, creating the illusion of a dress.
“This might sound a little inappropriate and you’re by no means obligated to say yes but can I see the back?” He inquires. “From designer to designer.”
“Oh,” I blink, nodding. “Sure.”
Twisting my body, I sweep my hair over my shoulder to reveal the back.
“Laced up too?” He blinks as I nod. “You have a lot of faith in these glitter strings holding the top together.”
“As long as I don’t make any sudden movements, it holds up,” I comment.
“How long did it take you to get into the dress?”
“About 20 minutes,” I respond, remembering Gigi and I’s attempt to get me into the dress earlier.
“Wow.” He whistles. “I wonder how long it’ll take to get you out of it.”
He says the comment in a way that is neither suggestive nor invasive, yet a warm flush creeps up my neck.
“Sorry, that came out wrong.” Sebastian chuckles, noticing my reddening cheeks. “Function and practicality considered, of course. I was thinking like a designer, I promise you.”
I laugh shyly, glancing around to avoid awkward eye contact.
My gaze falls on August across the room. He’s staring in my direction, steely grey eyes narrowed and brows morphing in discontent. I didn’t realise how fixated my attention was on him until Sebastian is withdrawing his hand from the curve between my neck and collarbone, having brushed my hair back behind my shoulder.
“Oh,” I blink, the touch having barely registered, slightly discomforting that I didn’t feel it at all. “Thanks.”
Glancing back towards August, I see him rising from his table, Valentina trailing behind him.
As the dinner concludes, members of the studio began saying their goodbyes to each other and slowly trickling out of the Rose and Thyme. After ensuring that everything is all in order at the restaurant, Pollux, Ymir, Saoirse and I are one of the last ones to leave the establishment.
“The dinner had no business being that painfully tense,” Pollux remarks as we stand outside The Shard.
The air is refreshingly cool, a stark contrast to the warm and somewhat suffocating atmosphere inside the restaurant.
“I could sense the murderous tension between August and Sebastian and they weren’t even on the same table.” Saoirse shudders as Ymir laughs. “Who would’ve thought Sebastian would actually show up?”
“I think we’re all just surprised that he’s sober,” Pollux comments. “Somewhat.”
“Baby Vante was shooting daggers all night,” Ymir observes. “He did not look happy with Sebastian gatecrashing dinner.”
“We didn’t even get to drink properly and enjoy it.” Saoirse frowns, her face contorting into a pout.
“I was terrified of setting Sebastian off,” Ymir admits.
I nod in agreement. “I think we all were.”
“He didn’t leave the table once,” Pollux says, impressed. “For a man as restless as Sebastian, he sat on that table and played the role of the ideal fashion scion.”
“What did you even talk about that kept him there?” Saoirse turns to me.
“Glitter.” I scrunch my nose.
A chorus of laughter erupts in the group.
“Only you, Hallie.” Ymir shakes her head with a smile.
“I mean,” Saoirse starts. “The night is still young.”
The three of them exchange knowing looks between each other and I squint my eyes suspiciously.
“Club?” Pollux questions the group.
“Club.” Ymir confirms, nodding.
“Club!” Saoirse beams, dragging everyone to London Bridge station.