A Red Logo in the Mirror
Two weeks later, on the weekend, word came that the soft opening was ready, and I went straight to Sir Lewis's shop.
Knock, knock.
When I rapped on the door, Sir Lewis welcomed me in that impeccable suit of his.
"Come in."
We traded a glad hello, and then I asked,
"The construction must have been a terrible inconvenience?"
Interior work and all the rest—workers would have been in and out constantly. Of course the place had been a madhouse. Sir Lewis, however, seemed to see it differently.
"If I complained of hardship while the doors were shut and I was still being paid..."
"Even so."
"Thanks to you, I got to feel like a landlord, if only for a little while."
A soft laugh escaped me.
"Well, I'm glad, then."
"I caught glimpses coming and going. The shop looks splendid."
"Does it really?"
"Don't stand about chatting with me. Go on in."
I dipped my head and set off, using the old paintings as my signposts, until I reached the secret room. I studied the bookshelves that filled the wall. Dead center sat a single green volume: Hamlet, by Shakespeare, the great writer England had given the world.
The moment I quietly drew Hamlet from the shelf, a strange grinding rose, and the bookcase began to slide aside. An old door revealed itself. Hung upon it was a nameplate in cursive.
Far finer than I'd imagined.
In high spirits, I turned the handle. The interior was even more magnificent. First, the Triumph Grandfather had sent stood proudly on display—a motorcycle, parked indoors—and beside it, in a showcase, a vintage Patek Philippe.
They suit each other, somehow.
There was the color of the light, the tone of the wallpaper, the objets set down as if by accident, and the texture of the carpet holding all of it up. The instant my foot crossed the threshold, every sense felt answered. Unfortunately, the Olivia who had made it was still off in dreamland. She had almost certainly worked until dawn. Fair enough.
She was not the only one who had stayed up. James Paver was nodding off against the sofa, and in his place Lukashi came toward me.
"Should I wake him?"
"No. It's all right."
"I'd wake him if I reasonably could, but he hasn't been sleeping at all lately. He only just dropped off, so waking him feels a bit..."
And then, of all things, Paver's eyes cracked open. His face was still half in a dream, but he soon scrubbed it with dry palms and spoke.
"The sample... is ready."
Straight to business, without so much as a hello. I don't mind, mind you—but ahem!
Paver brought over the shopping bag that had been sitting beside the sofa.
"It's the shoe I told you about last time."
The first piece Paver had designed and John Green had made. I opened the bag. White sneakers, a beautiful silhouette. John Green had built them, so the quality went without saying, and Paver's own skate-shoe sensibility ran all through them. Even the stitching, set where the shoe would meet a trouser hem, was a clever touch.
And above all.
Ultimate's signature logo was the final stroke that finished the piece. Even so, faced with this remarkable result, Paver showed not a flicker of pleasure. He only shuffled off and came back with a large box.
"Since you're here, you might as well look at these too."
A black hoodie, and trousers of the same color.
"The clothes are done as well?"
"Yes. I made them to your size, but..."
"I'll try them on right now."
It was a loose fit you rarely saw these days—not enormous, just enough slack to feel faintly rebellious. The dye had faded along the seams. To chase a vintage look, they had used garment dyeing: coloring the clothes only after they were sewn.
"Wear the hood as if you're just resting it on your head."
"Like this?"
"Perfect."
I had just planted myself before the mirror in the full kit—top, bottoms, and sneakers—when it hit me.
"......!"
It looked good. More than good. And this was a brand I'd wanted so badly. A strange feeling came over me, and I stared at the red logo in the glass. The first product to carry the name Ultimate, and I was the first to wear it. You really never knew where a life would turn.
"Do you like it?"
"Like it? Of course I do."
At that, Paver finally let go.
"Haaaaah."
Only then did he breathe out in relief. He must have driven himself hard, for it to hit him like that.
"You look exhausted. Why don't you head home and rest?"
"A cup of coffee and I'll be fine."
Lukashi, beside him, poked his head out.
"Boss, I'm not saying this just because he's my friend... this guy worked like he was dying. I honestly thought he'd caught a fever for money."
Well, now. Praising a friend was all well and good, but the man was digging his own grave.
"And when will the manager's own work be ready?"
"Huh? M-me?"
I nodded.
"You were hired as a designer too."
"Ah, well. I have been making things diligently, but looking at his stuff, mine's a little short on detail, so..."
"So when, roughly?"
"Hard to say. The truth is I've been focused on shooting lately. Haha."
He wasn't wrong. He had been photographing like a man possessed, and thanks to that we had more than enough to fill the magazine. Which was fine, of course.
"Perhaps it's time you concentrated on design?"
"Ah, yes. Of course. I should."
Between checking the samples and nudging him for the new work, I figured I had done everything I'd come to do. If I cleared out, the two of them could rest.
"I'll be going, then."
With the farewell I drew an envelope from my jacket. They had suffered through a brutal schedule, and the only cure I could offer was a scorching round of financial therapy. I dodged Paver, who was waving me off and insisting he was fine, pressed the envelope into Lukashi's hands with a soft thump, and—
"I'm off!"
—bolted out of the shop.
Whew.
Last time, he had run into Park Jihoon here. Fortunately, today he hadn't crossed paths with anyone. Perhaps it was the limited edition he had wanted so badly, now finally in his hands—Tennessee could not hide his beaming smile. He had been forced to pay a premium for coming late, but it was only about a hundred pounds.
Practically free. Practically free.
If anyone asked why, the answer was simple.
The illustration changed!
Not merely changed. The illustration, of all things, had changed! That alone was reason enough to open a wallet. A fan was supposed to be like that. Maybe the good mood was what put an unusual thought in his head. Two blocks on from here was Sir Lewis's shop, and with the thought an embarrassing memory reared up. The day they had measured him for his school uniform, he had been unbearably arrogant. An apology this late would be awkward. What if he simply brought a drink?
But what do I even say when I hand it over?
No decent answer came, yet he stopped at a nearby market anyway, bought a carton of vitamin drink, and started toward Sir Lewis's shop. Ugh. He still didn't know what he would say. He might slip in like a thief and leave the drink behind in secret. Anyway, he would go. It seemed the only way his mind would settle.
He was nearly there when he noticed.
The lights are off?
All the better. He would just set it down in front and leave. Everything was going his way today!
And then—a click. The door of the darkened shop opened with a creak, and a boy dressed in black from head to toe burst out. In that brief instant their eyes met, and, astonishingly, they recognized each other.
P-Park Jihoon?
Tennessee hurriedly hid the D-Que behind his back. Damn it! He meant to hide it fast, but he was too startled. Thud—it rolled—and he dropped it on the ground. He tried to shield the package with his body, but there had surely been time enough for the other boy to see what it was.
He wanted to fling the carton of drinks away. If only he hadn't come. If only he hadn't done something so pointless. Damn it... damn it... daaamn it!
Insisting it isn't me won't do any good, will it?
He told himself that, and still—
Agh!
Too late, Tennessee covered his face and hurried off. He heard someone calling after him, but that only made his feet faster.
Ten minutes later, Tennessee came back to the shop. He would have just gone, but he had dropped the limited edition on the ground and could not bring himself to leave it.
Ugh.
Why did he run into Park Jihoon at every decisive moment? Grumbling, he walked up to the front of the shop. A white shopping bag sat before the darkened door, and inside it was the limited-edition D-Que. As far as he could tell, Park Jihoon had picked up the package rolling on the pavement and put it in the bag.
If he went and claimed it, wouldn't that be admitting he was Tennessee Grosvenor?
Admit it? Like hell. His face had already been given away for all it was worth. Wasn't it still better to at least take the package?
Just as that conflict flooded through him—click, creak. The shop door opened again. Surely not Park Jihoon, again? Fortunately, the ones who stepped out were two men, both white, somewhere in their mid-twenties. Ordinary faces, but the clothes they wore were anything but. A red logo sat on a hood worn lightly over the head, and with a skateboard carried as if it meant nothing, the whole look might have been a fashion spread. The man who followed was no different: a black T-shirt with printing that looked like a signature. Yes—literally just a T-shirt. And yet how could it look that good?
Above all, both of them wore the same shoes. White sneakers with a red logo. Brand-new, without a hint of the patina of years, and yet they didn't look the least bit green. The roughly finished leather did its part, but the washed laces seemed to do a great deal of the work of giving the shoes a seasoned authority. For a while Tennessee could not take his eyes off them. He had never seen fashion like that. Come to think of it, hadn't Park Jihoon been dressed the same way just now?
Wait...
All three people who had come out of that shop were dressed alike? Tennessee peered inside in surprise, but the shop was only dark. The lights were out, and that was all.