Love By Design

Chapter 30

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect regarding the work trip that August is supposed to be organising. So receiving a meticulous schedule for our research trip in Cionne over the weekend, planned entirely by himself, was something I most definitely did not anticipate. The itinerary was itemised down to the last hour– from our flight to Toussaint on Friday night to the plane back to London on Monday evening, even taking into account a free day on the last day.

The email concluded with a note:

Itinerary is only an outline and is subject to change depending on additional material you might need for your research.

– AV

It’s currently Thursday and I’m once again staying behind at the studio to work on the Holmes x Toussaint collaboration when the email about the trip to Cionne comes through. The two-page PDF document detailed all the timings, locations of establishments as well as potential alternatives and I couldn’t help but be amazed by August’s thoroughness.

“I figured you’d still be here.”

I look up to find the very same head of platinum blond hair I’m thinking about, now standing in front of me.

“No concert tonight?” He inquires, the corner of his mouth quirking.

Warmth travels up my neck.

“I saw your office door open earlier,” I reply, quietly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“That’s a shame. I enjoyed the front-row seats to your performance.” He gives me a onceover, his gaze almost teasing as he scans the studio. “Where’s Sebastian?”

“He’s attending networking events in Amsterdam this week.”

August frowns.

“Amsterdam,” He echoes emptily. “Has he even stepped foot in the studio?”

“He was here Monday,” I reply. “Our focus is still primarily on research which I’m responsible for.”

It feels oddly reminiscent of my time working under August as I update him on the work I’ve been doing and log every task in detail.

“We’re back and forth via emails,” I add. “But Sebastian said he should be back by the end of next week.”

“End of next week,” August repeats, stiffly. “Is he expecting you to do the majority of the work?”

“It’s only research,” I assure him, sensing his souring mood. “It’s the boring stuff that not many people want to do but I like research so I don’t mind.”

August maintains his stoic composure despite his growing agitation.

“You didn’t specify which airline we’re flying with,” I comment, trying to change the topic. “I don’t know how much, or how little, to pack.”

“As much as you’d like,” He replies. “You can bring your entire wardrobe if you want. We’re taking the jet.”

I stare at him, unblinking. “The jet?”

“Yes, the jet.”

“As in…” I press for clarification.

“A private plane.”

“To Toussaint?”

“Yes.”

My eyes widen. “We can’t finance a business jet to the Mediterranean for a small research trip.”

“Why not?” He turns to me. “It’s on the company card.”

“But not on company time!”

“Technically, we’re on the clock.”

On a private jet.

August turns to me. “Is this another nod to your attempts of saving the environment?”

“Well now that you’ve mentioned it, yes—”

“This is actually the first time I’m taking my private jet out this year,” He says. “Comparative to last year, my carbon footprint is practically non-existent.”

“That’s technically impossible,” I mumble.

“Flying commercial is too inconvenient,” He begins to explain. “There’s too much waiting around. Check-in lines, security lines, boarding lines. Time is money.”

Hesitantly, I turn to him.

“August, we can’t—”

The beginning of my argument is cut short by a ridiculously loud growling.

August and I stare at each other for a moment before his gaze dips to my stomach.

“That… did not come from you.” He blinks.

“Sorry.” I duck my head, flushing in embarrassment. “I forgot to eat lunch today.”

“Mahalia, it’s 7 PM.” August squints disapprovingly. “Losing sleep, forgetting to eat– do we need to schedule a session with a wellness coach for you?”

“No, no.” I visibly wince. “I’m fine, I’ve just been so hyper-focused on starting the project that it slipped my mind.”

He doesn’t look convinced and I feel a tugging at my heart at the display of concern on his face.

“I picked up an order at the restaurant earlier,” He says.

I tilt my head curiously. “I didn’t realise you’ve become a regular at Tito Boy’s.”

“Hero doesn’t want me to order anywhere else.”

“Sounds about right,” I laugh then add playfully, “You ordered food from my favourite place of all time and didn’t think of getting me any?”

August pauses, hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. The action is oddly boyish, almost a little shy, and it looks somewhat out of character.

“I, uh, did actually.” He clears his throat. “It’s in my office.”

I blink at him curiously as he gestures behind him.

Not entirely convinced, I follow him to his office and sure enough, there’s a brown paper bag with Tito Boy’s logo perched on his desk. Looking inside, my eyes widen at the plastic containers with August’s initials as well as mine.

“Wait, you actually ordered me food?”

My stomach flips excitedly at the kind gesture, or maybe it’s the hunger taking effect.

“I saw you making your way up to the fourth floor before I left the studio earlier,” He provides. “I didn’t order the entire menu but I did double-check your preferences with Hero.”

I try not to read into it, the somersaults in my stomach cartwheeling upwards to my chest.

“Eat,” He urges gently, rummaging through the paper bag to retrieve the plastic cutlery and setting it down in front of me. “You’re not leaving my office until you finish a dish.”

August watches me intently as he makes his way to the chair behind his desk and plops himself down. He retrieves his own food as we make idle conversation.

“Were you being August or Jean-Luc?” I question.

He turns to me inquisitively as I purse my lips towards the darkroom, the familiar red glow peeking out from underneath the door.

“Comms work or photography?” I inquire.

“Ah,” He nods understandingly. “Photography. London’s becoming one of my favourite muses.”

“Don’t let New York hear you say that,” I tease, feeling the ease growing in our interaction. “Can I see?”

“After you’ve finished your food.”

Speedily, I devour the bowl of sopas, grinning as I show him the empty container.

He shakes his head before getting up and I follow him into the darkroom, noticing that it’s slightly more cluttered compared to the first time I’ve been inside but it only highlighted how much work August has been doing in the meantime.

“When do you find the time to do all of this?” I ask, my eyes widening.

He shrugs in response. “I make time.”

My gaze remains fixed on the images clipped to the wire, imagining how difficult it must be to navigate the work between two fashion houses whilst still managing to make time for his photography.

“August, these are incredible.” I stare in awe at the various photos of, what appear to be, couples in Hyde Park. “Are they recent?”

He nods, a subtle excitement in his eyes. “I started a series where I take pictures of, uh, couples I come across when I’m out.”

My attention is drawn to the label taped to the corner of each photograph.

“Lovers in London.” I read out loud.

The candid snapshots of each couple are eye-catching, each photo expertly framed with varying compositions including wide angles and close-ups. One particular portrait shot of an elderly, interracial couple sticks out for me, reminding me of my grandparents.

“They’ve been married for over 50 years,” August details.

Just like Mama and Papa.

A warmth spreads throughout my chest as I stare at the photo of the couple with their arms around each other. They’re both beaming at the camera, eyes bright, with laughter lines decorating their faces. August captured them in a way that made the viewer feel the emotion. I admire the image, the memory of my grandparents tugging at my heart.

“Taking pictures of the elderly is probably my favourite.” He comments.

“Oh?”

“They lived through life.” He shrugs in way of explanation. “I like hearing their stories, their experiences. Plus, it’s refreshing to just be Jean-Luc, the ‘nice young man with the camera’ rather than August Vante the—”

“Peroxide Playboy Prince of Paris.” I finish.

He shoots me a mock glare. “That sounds like the title of a smear campaign that Faux ran against me.”

I laugh lightly. “If it’s any consolation, you were firstly Jean-Luc to me, the ‘obnoxious photographer who mansplained sustainability to a designer’.”

“I’m glad,” He chuckles quietly. “Certainly beats Baby Vante the ‘Nepo Baby Germaphobe’.”

He continues to share stories of the photographs he’s taken and I listen attentively, finding myself clinging to every word he says. August looks different under the glow of the red light, his features seemingly softer and his voice more gentle, like he’s sharing secrets of the world he’s discovered for himself.

He’s in the middle of recalling a photo of a couple he took in one of London’s Royal Parks when something catches my eye amidst the cluttered space of his worktable.

The photograph of me at the gallery.

It wasn’t hidden under the pile of endless photos anymore. Neither is it clipped on a wire like I originally saw it. It wasn’t even tacked on the wall like some of the other images are.

This time, it’s propped up in a frame on top of his desk.