Love By Design

Chapter 39

“I’m scrapping the sample suits.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the proverbial fashion bomb drops, tanking the work I’ve been doing for the collection over the last few weeks.

Hovering by the mannequin I’m currently pinning fabrics into place, the statement goes over my head completely as Sebastian walks into the secondary studio.

“What?” I blink.

“The Spring/Summer line.” He points towards the dressmaker dummies with my half of the samples.

A knot forms in my stomach.

His assessment throws me off guard and I stare at him, still unsure whether or not I heard him correctly.

“It’s not Holmes’ standards,” Sebastian states.

“What do you mean?” I try to keep my voice level as he approaches me.

“It needs revision.”

“Revision?” I repeat, stunned.

I try not to panic. The deadline for the collection is in less than two weeks and I’ve been working on my half of the lineup for twice as long.

“It’s too…” Sebastian trails off, looking around the room to search for the right word when his eyes land on me. “Hartt.”

I continue to stare at him, waiting for further elaboration.

“It isn’t Holmes enough. It’s too reminiscent of your collection and holds far too many similarities with your designs. Didn’t you use the patterns from your graduate showcase?”

“Loosely,” I answer. “I made alterations to the patterns to incorporate silhouettes that you requested for the collection.”

“But the designs themselves feel too much of Hartt, instead of Holmes.” He says with a disapproving tone. “There’s a glaring contrast when compiled next to the Autumn/Winter line. It looks like two separate collections instead of one. There’s no cohesion between the two. As if two different designers have worked on the project.”

I blink at this.

Technically, we did.

“You approved the initial designs,” I argue, numbly. “Sebastian, your concerns should have been addressed during the early stages of the project, not when we’re two weeks away from our deadline. Youcouldn’t have given this feedback earlier on?”

Sebastian narrows his eyes at me.

“Are you questioning the Lead Designer of the project, Hallie?”

“N-no, of course not. But–”

“I’m well aware that the deadline is in two weeks.” He replies nonchalantly.

Blindsided is an understatement. I feel an unease growing in my chest as the reasoning hardly makes any sense.

“Then what… what am I supposed to do?” I ask, voice strained.

“Work on the revisions for the Autumn/Winter lineup,” Sebastian answers. “I brought half of my samples with me today. You can pick the rest up from my flat at the end of the week.”

I try to remain as calm as possible about the whole situation but I feel the panic escalating steadily.

“Less Hartt,” He demands. “More Holmes.”

Discarding half of the lineup so close to the deadline is one of the worst-case scenarios of any fashion collection. I’ve encountered a lot of countless mental breakdowns during my time at university but nothing quite prepared me for the harrowing situation of experiencing it myself in the world of work.

It’s a sartorial nightmare, to say the very least.

A knock on the door brings me out of my spiralling thoughts.

“Working hard, Tinker-Talent?”

I should have been more excited to see August again after over two weeks. My chest should be fluttering with all the newfound emotions for him but all I feel is a tightening sensation around my ribcage as I stay seated by the sewing machine.

“What are you doing here?” I blink, distractedly.

“Things finished up early in Paris so I thought to come see you before New York,” He replies. “How’s the collection doing? Are these your samples?”

At the mention of the Spring/Summer suits, I feel another wave of anxiety sweeping over me.

“N-no.” I shake my head. “They’re not.”

I focus my attention back on the sewing machine in front of me, changing the needle for the fourth time. Since finding out my half of the sample lineup is being pulled, I’ve broken three machine needles within the past hour.

The thread catches on the latch again and I huff, agitated.

“Mahalia,” August calls out to me.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if you wanted to grab dinner after,” He replies, looking at me expectantly. “Thought we might get the opportunity to talk?”

I stare at August, the taut feeling in between my ribcage intensifying, like a corset tightening around my chest.

“Whenever you’re done,” He motions to the sewing machine. “I’m free for the evening.”

“I can’t,” I shake my head before I backtrack, “Not that I don’t want to. Just not today. I’m really busy right now. I have a lot of work to do.”

The machine whirrs as the fabric snags and bunches up under the presser foot. Frustrated, I pull on it before it finally starts working again. I can hear distinct voices calling my name but I want to tune it out, the sound of the needle stitching the fabric is loud but I need it to be louder.

Pressing the pedal faster, I block out everything around me, focused on finishing the lining seam of the blazer.

“Mahalia.”

The needle breaks as it catches on the sleeve of my cardigan and my breath hitches.

“Shit,” I swallow, coarsely.

The realisation of how close the needle had been near my hand, just missing the tips of my fingers by a thread, makes my stomach turn. In front of me, the sewing machine rattles in protest and I immediately take my foot away from the pedal.

My hands begin to tremble and I feel the odd singes on the tips of my fingers, like tiny electric shocks as I look up to find August’s gaze fixed on me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I answer, voice strained. “I’m just…”

The imaginary corset wrapped around my chest winds impossibly tighter, boning digging into my ribcage.

“You’re shaking.” His grey eyes flicker across my face. “What’s going on?”

A look of pure concern etches itself onto August’s face and my heart catches in my throat. The pressure on my lungs bursts as I let out a strangled breath.

“I messed up,” I answer, winded. “Sebastian is scrapping the samples I’ve been working on. He was here— earlier— and he told me… He told me—”

My breathing comes out in staggered gulps.

“Mahalia,” August says softly.

“It’s half of the lineup, August.” I choke out. “The one I’m responsible for. The turnaround time would be impossible to meet. Alterations to garment silhouettes and modifying patterns should have been done at the very early stages of the project. It doesn’t make any sense. He was greenlighting everything from the very beginning.”

“Mahalia,” August says my name again, firmly this time. “What does Sebastian want you to do?”

“Finish up the Autumn/Winter samples,” I answer frantically. “He said he’s going to revise the Spring/Summer ones.”

August frowns. “He wants you to work on his half of the collection whilst he fixes yours?”

I nod.

An unpleasant feeling lurches at the bottom of my stomach and I feel it crawl up my chest. There’s sudden pressure in my lungs as tears prick my eyes and I shut them tightly.

“Tinker-Talent,” August tries again. “Breathe.”

My hands begin to tremble and I ball them into fists to ground myself.

He wraps his hands around my own, thumbs pressing gently against my fingers as he tries to pry them open.

“None of that now,” He urges calmly. “You’ll make yourself bleed.”

I didn’t realise how badly I was digging my nails into my palms until I see maroonish crescent moons forming.

“S-sorry.” I wince.

The room suddenly feels smaller, I feel far too faint and all too dizzy.

“Up,” He instructs softly, tugging me to him and away from the sewing machine. “Tell me what works for you. Distance or distraction?”

“What?” I blink.

His question confuses me.

“I think you might be having a panic attack,” He says quietly.

My eyes widen.

The apprehension I feel heightens as my body begins to shake uncontrollably and I press a hand against my chest. It’s one thing to feel the panic but it’s another for someone to point it out and solidify it, I suppose.

“I’m–” Imaginary bile rises in my throat. “Oh God. I’m having a panic attack.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” August reassures me, grey eyes assessing my face. “Distance or distraction?”

“I don’t know,” I answer, my voice quivering. “I don’t know.”

My mind blanks as I stare at my jittering hands, no longer feeling like they’re attached to my wrists.

August reaches for them, interlocking our fingers and I watch as my nails dig into the back of his hand, burgundy crescents marring his skin. He makes a move to get up from the chair, hands slipping from mine and I let out a quiet noise of distress.

“August,” I cry out quietly, shaking my head.

“Alright, not distance.” He nods, drifting back over to me as he brings both my hands to his face. “I’m here.”

Repeatedly, I blink as my vision blurs, trying to focus on August and not the nauseating feeling coursing through my entire body.

“I just need to get you water first, mon c?ur, I’ll be right back.”

He takes his blazer off and wraps it around me as my heart races, the erratic pulsing loud in my ears. The feeling of the chair underneath me is the only thing grounding me as August leaves and I close my eyes to focus on the warmth of his blazer draped over me.

… wasting her time…

Pins and needles stab at my lungs and I blink away the dark spots blurring my vision.

“I’m here.” August is back in front of me, plastic cup in hand from the water cooler outside. “You’re okay, drink this.”

My hands convulse with tiny tremors as he hands me the plastic cup, water spilling on his trousers.

… won’t get anywhere …

“I’m sorry,” I croak out. “I’m so sorry.”

He wraps his hands around my trembling fingers, guiding the cup to my lips. The liquid is cold as it travels down my throat, the feeling distracting me.

… such a disappointment…

My focus blurs and I choke on the water.

“I’ll do better,” I sputter. ‘I’ll be better.”

August gently manoeuvres me, pulling the chair I’m sitting on closer to him until I’m positioned in between his legs.

“What are you talking about?” He tuts lightly. “You’re doing exceptionally well, Tinker-Talent.”

His voice is calming as it penetrates through the bedlam of negative voices in my head.

August takes my hands again, the pads of his thumb rubbing soothing circles on my knuckles. I feel him trace the slightly raised and rough texture on the back of my hand and I recoil slightly.

“Mon c?ur, look at me.” He requests, voice soft. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

His lips brush over my knuckles, pressing a reassuring kiss and my eyes flutter at the gesture, similar fluttering erupting in my stomach.

“Give me something for each sense, quick.”

Hands still connected with mine, he lifts my chin up with a gentle nudge, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Huh?”

“Name me something each of your senses can detect,” He instructs gently.

My brows furrow. “I don’t…”

He leans forward, planting a gentle kiss on the furrow in between my eyebrows.

“What do you see?”

I stare at him, dazed.

You.

“August.”

“Okay,” He chuckles, the sound taking over the loud thrumming of my heartbeat. “What do you hear?”

“Laughter,” I respond and he nods, mouth quirking into a small smile.

“What about smell?”

My eyes flicker down to the blazer wrapped around me, breathing in the scent of August’s cologne. I crinkle my nose in appreciation as I hone in on the woody-citrusy scent I’ve grown so familiar with.

“Fifth by GS?” I sniffle, mentioning the perfume brand. “2022, His Edition.”

“That—” August blinks. “— is surprisingly accurate, holy shit.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks as I open my eyes, blearily blinking. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He smiles, affectionately tapping my nose.

“Touch?”

His hands find mine again, intertwining our fingers and giving them a reassuring squeeze.

I look down. “Hands.”

“Good.” He nods. “Taste?”

My eyes flicker to his mouth and I’m distracted by the urge to suddenly kiss him.

“Tinker-Talent,” He hums. “What do you taste?”

I swallow. “Water?”

“Perfect.”

There’s a gentleness to August as he tucks my hair behind my ear, eyes trained on me the entire time.

“Now take deep, slow breaths,” He says. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

I inhale unsteadily, exhaling just as shakily.

“Have you eaten?” He asks after a while and I shake my head in reply. “What food would you like? Tito Boy’s? Or someplace else?”

I purse my lips and frown, wanting more than anything for the comfort of Filipino food.

“Words, mon c?ur.” He guides me gently.

August is patient, soft grey eyes watching me.

“Tito Boy’s,” I reply with a sniffle.

“Good girl,” He says, eyeing the clock on the wall. “I’ll give Rowan a call. I don’t think Hero’s working tonight.”

He lets go of one of my hands as he takes his phone out of his blazer pocket. The urge to sink my nails back into my palms returns and I spread my fingers across my kneecap to stop myself from curling my hand back into a fist.

Without August’s hand to hold mine, it suddenly feels impossible.

“You talk to Rowan?” I manage to find my voice.

“From time to time,” August confirms with a nod, scrolling through his contacts. “I’ve attended a few of his cooking masterclasses with Hero.”

I peer at his phone, my eyes blinking at the contacts when I see Tito Boy’s name as well as the letters ‘MH’ on the list.

“You have the restaurant on your Favourites?”

“Of course,” He says. “We order there so much, I had no choice.”

An overwhelming sense of fatigue washes over me, my entire body feeling all too heavy after my panic attack. August’s voice is like a blanket I want to wrap around myself, curl up into and fall asleep in as he talks on the phone.

“We just need a pick-me-up.”

August holds his phone between us as he puts it on speaker, the quiet questioning of ‘we?’ from Rowan on the other end of the line crackling.

“Tink— uh, Mahalia’s here.”

“Hi.” I make my presence known.

“Hallie?” Rowan says slowly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “It’s 10 PM.”

I stare at the clock on the wall. It didn’t even register in my mind that it’s already so late in the evening.

“Dare I ask what you’re both doing together at this hour?” His tone is somewhat teasing as he speaks.

“We’re at the studio,” August answers, voice sombre.

There’s rustling on the line before I hear Rowan ask, “Is she okay?”

“I’m fine,” I reply faintly. “Just doing overtime at work.”

A dense haze clouds my thoughts as I attempt to focus, the exhaustive aftermath of my panic attack pressing heavily on me.

“August Vante,” Rowan says, a warning tone to his voice. “I swear if you’re overworking her.”

I press my lips together, feeling them tremble at his concern.

“I’m okay, Rowan.”

August reaches towards me, fingertips delicately swiping away the strands of hair from my face before tucking it behind my ear.

“I think she just needs a little bit of home.”

The softness in August’s voice is a contrast to the familiar harsh clattering of pans that can be heard on the phone over on Rowan’s end.

“Got it,” Rowan affirms. “Will you still be at the office? Or at your place?”

August pauses, contemplating. “The office should be fine.”

They wrap up the conversation, me adding a faint goodbye as I slump on the high chair, exhausted. I haven’t had a panic attack, at least not anything close to the one I’ve just had, in years. I’m quickly learning that the comedown isn’t the most pleasant feeling.

“How are you feeling?” August asks as he pulls the chair closer to him.

“I don’t know if I can do it, August.” I swallow thickly. “The deadline is in two weeks.”

“Of course you can.” His eyes meet mine with reassurance. “You’re Mahalia Hartt. You’re good at what you do and other people know it too. Don’t ever doubt yourself, you have no reason to.”

I nod, absentmindedly playing with the sleeves of his shirt and tugging on the cufflinks.

“Come on.” August takes my hand as he tugs me down from the counter stool.

“Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something,” He replies.

August guides me down the hall, our fingers interlocked the entire time as we walk towards his office.

As usual, the room is low-lit and my eyes take a bit longer to adjust, even more so as he leads me into the darkroom. Rows and rows of printed photographs hang across the room and it takes me a moment to register the images dangling on the thin wire lines, my eyes widening.

The photos taken during our trip to Toussaint.

“I was going to put the pictures into a photo album,” He shares, clearing his throat. “Thought it might be useful for reference if you need it.”

The darkroom looked like a mini exhibition of sorts, with developed photos of various sizes meticulously arranged and hanging on the wires around the room. I recognise so many images of our tour at the museum, the foundry and the boutique. Our sightseeing day in the city. The photos of us at the café. I didn’t realise August took so many, there were at least over a hundred images all around the space.

A new, fluttering sensation spreads throughout my entire body and I feel tears welling up in my eyes.

“Shit, what’s wrong?” August asks, concern evident in his voice as he looks at me.

My reply gets stuck in my throat as I blink up at him.

“You’re crying.” His eyes scan my face quickly before shifting to lead us out of the darkroom.

I shake my head, tugging him back towards me and wrapping my arms around his torso.

“Thank you.”

My voice is muffled as I bury my face against his chest. A calmness washes over me as August wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

His voice is quiet, whispering against the crown of my head and I nod.

“Much better, thank you.”

I look up to meet his gaze, the warmth and concern of his eyes undeniable. There’s a light unravelling in my chest as I feel the invisible corset loosening.

A photograph catches my attention and I withdraw from August, slowly reaching up to take the developed photo just by his shoulder— already with the label ‘Glitter Gremlin’.

“This is an awful picture of me,” I comment.

He glances down at the image before chuckling.

“I strongly disagree. It’s my second favourite picture of you on that trip.”

“I’m afraid to ask what the first one is.” I purse my lips disapprovingly.

He readjusts his arms around me, hand falling to my waist. The soft unravelling between my ribcage manifests into a flutter as a small smile appears on his face.

He nods his head just above me and I shift, turning around to see.

The image of me wearing the white dress.