Love by design, p.14
Love By Design, page 14
“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.
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 Disney Prince-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.”
“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.
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 Disney Prince-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.”
