Love by design, p.35
Love By Design, page 35
The current state of my studio is a mess.
Piles of fabric scraps scattered on the floor, partially crumpled sketches and torn design drafts strewn haphazardly across worktables. Unfinished garments that I haven’t touched in months hang from clothing racks and every single mannequin of mine is pinned with half-finished garments from postponed commissioned work.
My worktables are cluttered with spools of thread, fabric swatches and random trimmings and embellishments that I haven’t bothered putting away.
There is nothing controlled about the creative chaos I used to pride myself on. There’s no artistry thriving in the messiness of my design studio.
Opening my closet to retrieve my suitcase, my stomach sinks at the sight of mahogany chests with the logo of the Toussaint Foundry.
I roll my suitcase out of my closet, sidestepping around pattern pieces and templates littering the floor before grabbing an armful of clothes and heading out into the living room.
“What about Holmes?” Gigi asks, trailing behind me.
“I’ll be handing in my notice after Christmas,” I reply.
Hauling the empty luggage on top of the sofa bed, I begin to remove my clothes from the hangers and dump them inside.
“You’re quitting?” She asks in disbelief.
“I requested time off in the meantime,” I say quietly. “But I’ll be leaving in the New Year.”
One by one, I messily fold my clothes to make them fit in the suitcase. Cream-coloured fabric peeks out from the disorderly pile and I pause.
August’s jumper.
My fingers twitch as I tug on the delicate material and pull it out from the pile. It’s soft to the touch but I find no comfort in it like I used to.
Eyes watering, I bite my lip to stop it from quivering.
“I’ve done all the work needed on my end for the regalwear collection,” I say. “I won’t be needed at Holmes anymore.”
Gigi’s eyes flicker to the jumper in my hands.
“Have you spoken to August?”
The question hangs heavy around us, the mention of his name a deadweight on my chest.
“No,” I swallow. “I don’t think he wants to hear from me.”
“That prick,” She seethes, shaking her head.
“It’s not his fault,” My voice sounds oddly distant, hollow to my own ears as I speak. “I told him I didn’t want to involve myself with him.”
I was delusional to think that I actually knew August. Even more so to think that everything that happened between us was more than what it was. In reality, I was nothing more than a fleeting face in the industry.
The latest fad he’s fucking.
A stinging sensation lurches in my chest.
“I thought he liked me,” I say quietly.
I fold his jumper neatly but I don’t put it inside my suitcase.
“Oh, Hallie…” Gigi’s eyes flicker with a sadness.
“It doesn’t matter,” I shake my head. “He was right, Holmes isn’t for me.”
“That’s total fucking bullshit, Mahalia Hartt.”
The frustration in her voice about the situation is evident, I know because I feel it too. I turn towards Gigi who’s looking at me with glossy, dejected eyes.
“Didn’t you also try to dissuade me from joining Holmes?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. “Consider me defected from the fashion frontlines, General Winters.”
Gigi rolls her watery eyes at me. “This is different and you know it.”
There’s a pause between us, my heart beginning to feel heavy.
“I’ve never had to question what I love doing, Gigi.” I say, voice shaking. “Sure, I question myself so many times. Everyone in the industry is far more qualified, far more experienced than I am. My mind is in a state of constant comparison to other people. I question myself a lot but I’ve never had to question my passion. Despite people telling me otherwise, I’ve never had a single doubt on what it is I love to do.”
I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes, threatening to spill over.
“Oh, Hals.” Gigi sighs.
Her gaze is downcast, dark brown eyes brimming with unshed tears as she moves to hug me.
“But lately, it’s all I think about,” I sniffle. “It’s all I feel. The uncertainties that come with the territory. It makes me wonder, who am I doing this for? When am I going to see results? Where am I going with all of this? What am I actually doing?”
Everything is just so… grey again.
But not the kind of grey that melts into silver and provides me with a sense of security whenever I look into them.
It’s an overcasting, cloudy grey— unpredictable, indecisive.
“There’s just so many rules to all of this, I’m struggling to keep up.” I continue. “Being in the industry, being in fashion. Why is it so unnecessarily difficult? Why do things have to be so stupidly complicated? All I want to do is be in my silly little studio, make my silly little clothes and maybe kiss a silly little grey-eyed photographer every now and again.”
Gigi chokes on tear-filled laughter.
“Adulting is fucking hard,” I complain, scrunching my nose tearfully.
There’s a slight tremor in Gigi’s voice as she speaks.
“First of all,” She begins, letting out a shaky breath. “There’s no need to put so much pressure on yourself, Hallie. You’re 22 years old. You’re a baby adult. You’ve been trying to navigate the godforsaken adult world for like, what? Two years? That’s nothing. You’re at potty training stage.”
I burst into a cheerful sob.
“You say that as if we’re not the same age.” I shake my head, wiping my eyes. “I wish I had your brain.”
“I wish I had your heart,” She responds, sniffling. “And your hands. You’re talented, Hals. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
You’re good at what you do and other people know it too.
August’s voice rings in my head.
Don’t ever doubt yourself.
I turn to Gigi, giving her a watery smile as I pull her into another hug.
“No crying, Genevieve.”
“I will attend as many of these sorrow soirées with you as I want to.” She dismisses me with a playful eye roll. “Will you be okay? Going back to Switzerland?”
I nod.
“I think a change in scenery would do me good,” I say. “And I really want to see my Mama and Papa. I miss them both, so so much.”
As of this moment, the thought of reuniting with my grandparents is the only thing providing me a sense of comfort and I want nothing more than to be in their company, especially after everything that’s happened.
“If you need anything, I’m here, okay?” Gigi says to me.
“I know.” I smile at her. “Thank you.”
She gives me a reassuring smile before enveloping me in another bone-crushing hug.
“Have a safe flight to Geneva. Send Lola and Lolo my love.”
III
Part Three
“Fashion is about dreaming. And making other people dream.”
— Donatella Versace
Chapter 43
Travelling to Switzerland was like being on auto-pilot mode. From packing my bags, getting a taxi to Heathrow and Gigi seeing me off at the airport to checking in, going through security then finally boarding.
Two hours on the plane felt like two days as I finally land in Geneva. The airport buzzed with activity, intensified by the Christmas holidays and navigating the rail network was even more hectic.
Sitting on the train by the window, I watch in real-time as the Swiss landscape, normally bright and vibrant in greenery, is covered in white as it begins to snow.
An untouched canvas, a clean slate.
The thought of seeing my grandparents in person for the first time in almost half a decade left a warm feeling in my chest despite the anxiety-inducing notion of spending the holidays in Switzerland.
A lot of time has passed but the memory of Christmas from four years ago continues to cast a shadow over my thoughts. Resting my head against the glass window, a heaviness settles in my ribcage and I find myself drifting off to sleep.
“She’s wasting her time.”
The exasperated voice from one of my uncles can be heard in the living room as I sit by the top of the stairs.
“It’s not too late,” Another voice replies, this time from one of aunts. “She can defer and then apply again next year.”
“We’re not asking for solutions on the matter.” It’s my grandma this time. “Lia is fine.”
There’s a quiet frustration in her voice as she speaks and I feel a tug on my heart at my grandma defending me.
“She is delusional.” The voice of my Uncle Jeremiah is the one I hear the most. “Always making things so difficult for herself and for everyone else around her.”
He’s speaking in Tagalog but I can loosely translate and comprehend what he’s saying, despite his attempt at lowering his voice.
“She won’t get anywhere with a degree in fashion,” He emphasises. “That boarding school should have disciplined her, not fed into her delusions. I can’t believe she had the audacity to go against our wishes and apply for that art school nonsense.”
“Fashion school,” My grandmother corrects him tiredly. “She applied and got accepted to one of the most prestigious institutions in London. A school she has consistently expressed interest in attending and has equally spent a lot of her time dedicating work to. Her decisions are not on a whim, Jeremiah. Give your niece a little more credit.”
“Why are you entertaining her mindless fantasies?”
“Jericho and Cassandra would have wanted their daughter to choose what she loves to do most.” My grandma states, an air of finality in her voice.
At the mention of my parents, the growing ache in my chest intensifies. I bite my tongue and blink back the tears blurring my vision.
“She is not your daughter, Remy.” It’s my grandpa this time. “Your expectations are not hers to uphold.”
“If she were my daughter, she wouldn’t be such a disappointment.”
I jolt awake as the memory slowly fades from my mind, a familiar knot forming in the recesses of my chest.
This time, four hours on the train felt like four minutes as I reach Interlaken station.
Heavy snowfall starts to form, my hands twitching involuntarily at how the cold has suddenly frozen them over. Driving through the snow-covered streets, I’m grateful that the taxis are still operating as I see the recognisable sights of the picturesque town I spent so much of my childhood come into view.
Festive decorations adorn the wooden chalets and the quaint, cobbled streets as twinkling lights and garlands hang on lampposts and storefronts. The usually crystal-clear waters of the lake have frozen over, the snow-capped mountains adding to the atmosphere of the holiday season.
Everything looks the same and, somehow, changed.
I finally arrive at the house belonging to my grandparents, a three-floor traditional Alpine-style structure with a sloping roof and overhanging eaves. Nestled on a hill and surrounded by towering pines, the chalet is located further out from the main commercial area of the town, my grandpa preferring the peace and quiet of nature rather than the hustle and bustle of the high street.
Though it towered over me, it felt a little smaller than what I was used to back then. The water fountain in the small courtyard at the front is surprisingly still functioning, even in the cold weather. The festive lights and bright display of ornaments that decorated the outside is typically Filipino and I couldn’t help but smile.
Every year, my grandparents always go above and beyond with the Christmas decorations and seeing it all in person again is making me a little emotional.
Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I wheel my suitcase towards the front door, the nervousness I feel growing with each step I take. Pausing by the porch steps, I stare at the ornament hanging on the door.
A star-shaped lantern made up of bamboo sticks and craft paper.
My heart warms at the display as my eyes begin to water.
It’s the parol I made when I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old.
Knocking on the door, I wait patiently as the noise of keys jangling can be heard on the other side of the wooden frame before it swings open.
A surge of emotions courses through me as my grandma comes into view.
“Hi, Mama.” I greet her, voice quivering. “Surprise?”
My grandma blinks at me, big brown eyes widening in realisation as she takes in my presence by the front door.
“Lia.”
My vision blurs as I move to hug her, an overwhelming feeling washing over me as she hugs me tightly.
The dam of emotions I’ve been barricading since landing in Switzerland bursts as the waterworks begin. I’ve always been an emotional person and I prepared myself for the tears but I didn’t realise it would be as soon as I step foot in front of the house, not even inside it.
“Who’s at the door?” The gruff voice belonging to my grandpa echoes from inside.
Peering over my grandma’s shoulder, I see my grandpa in the hallway, wearing a familiar-looking Christmas jumper with bobbles all over it. My grandma pats me on the back before releasing me and I scuttle over to my grandpa.
“Papa,” I give him a watery smile.
It takes him a moment to realise before he envelopes me in the warmest bear hug I haven’t felt in years. My grandma’s presence is instantly next to me as she hugs both of us and I bite my lip to prevent myself from ugly crying in front of them.
“Lili?” The nickname I haven’t heard in person for years tugs on my heart.
“Yes, po.” I respond with the Filipino honorific.
My grandpa chuckles affectionately. “Well, if it isn’t our little Christmas miracle.”
His words pull on my emotions and the next thing I know, I find myself bawling my eyes out like a baby as he envelops me in another bear hug.
“Are you well?” I ask him, my voice muffled.
“Why are you crying?” He pats my shoulder twice then scratches my head, something he used to always do when I was younger to stop me from crying and I weep even harder.
“I’ve missed you both so much.”
“Come inside, it’s so cold out!” My grandma exclaims, ushering me in and closing the door behind us.
My grandpa assesses me for a moment, “Have you eaten? You look so skinny.”
Next to him, my grandma lightly swats his arm and I let out a watery giggle.
“Don’t mind him, hija.” She shakes her head, turning to me. “What would you like to eat?”
“Anything, ma.”
“Your favourite?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
Chapter 44
Spending the day with my grandparents by catching up and preparing food reminded me of when I used to visit them regularly during my time at boarding school. My Mama would be the one telling stories as she fussed around in the kitchen and my Papa would just sit back with a soft smile on his face, quietly listening and clinging on to her every word as he sips on his coffee by the island.
“Your Mama’s on a mission to collect fruits that are, once again, out of season for Christmas.” He shakes his head, gesturing towards the centre of the dining table.
My eyes catch the pomegranates inside the massive fruit basket and I’m momentarily reminded of August.
“Hush, Josef.” The playful tone in my grandma’s voice carries from the kitchen.
She returns to the dining room, placing a bowl of cut mango pieces in front of me.
“Thanks, Mama.” I smile at her, grateful.
Conversations pick up again, the topic of my job inevitable. I tell them about the outcome of the regalwear collection, how I won’t be attending the Winter Gala after a disagreement with the lead designer, even though I worked the extensive bulk of the project. I briefly skim over the details but I did disclose to them that I’ll be quitting Holmes.
I avoid any talk about August, still feeling like I can’t even mention the slightest bit of information about him without getting emotional. I left London for a change in environment and talking about him, no matter how small the discussion, will put me right back where I’m trying not to be.
In my feelings and out of my mind.
It’s well into the night by the time I head up to my childhood bedroom, feeling even more nostalgic as I take in the little sanctuary of an aspiring fashion designer in her teenage years.
An entire wall of my room is dedicated to a moodboard of the life I wanted to manifest with fashion sketches, magazine cutouts and vintage posters of my favourite fashion icons and runway shows.
The standard sewing machine and mannequin occupied the corner of my room. Next to it, a workstation that is neatly organised with sewing materials from yesteryears. Running my hand across the crafting surface, I expected it to be collecting dust so I’m surprised to find it spotless.
Stacks of cardboard boxes tucked underneath the table with the label ‘Lia’ taped on them grab my attention and I blink.
Kneeling down, I pull the boxes from under the table and begin opening them to find textile materials and crafting supplies, from fabrics and embellishments to equipment and tools.
Clothes that I used to cut up and reassemble, outfits for my dolls and teddy bears, life-size garments assembled together from scraps of fabric. I carefully pick up one of the pieces, a tattered dress made from fat quarters my grandma used to buy in the market. Sentimental memories flood my mind— countless hours spent and all fingers pricked as I sit in my room, needle in one hand and thread in the other, fabric markers in my pockets and a measuring tape around my neck. Nothing compared to the joy I felt when I finished a piece and the look of pride on my grandma’s face when I showed it to her.
Lost in my thoughts, I’m gently brought back to reality by the soft voice of my grandma standing by the door.
“Did you find anything useful?” She asks, walking inside.
