A Fairy Tale and a Trash Can
Back from Italy, I headed for Paver's lodgings first thing in the morning. Fortunately, he seemed to have been up for some time already.
"You were away on business. You might have seen the sights while you were at it. Why back so soon…?"
"My head designer got an offer to jump ship. I was so on edge that nothing else registered."
At the joke, a small smile touched his mouth.
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Hotel or not, it was still another man's room, wasn't it? Arriving empty-handed had felt wrong, so I had picked up a simple sandwich and a coffee on the way.
"I was hungry anyway."
Paver sat on the sofa and tore into the sandwich. I had no appetite, so I made do with the coffee.
A little later, without either of us quite deciding to start, we laid out our exploits—if you could call them that. Paver went first.
"They just kept on with money, money, money. I'm not some maniac for cash."
"So you cut them off in one stroke?"
"Not in one stroke… I was curious, so I heard them out."
"What did they say?"
"They told me money was all they had to give, so I said they could be on their way."
A sly grin. My turn.
"How was Guccio?"
"I had them make fifty thousand of each item. On the condition that if they don't sell, we swallow the whole inventory."
"Fifty thousand… how much is that…?"
Unlike the Guccio chairman's secretary, Paver was hopeless at sums in his head. He held up a few fingers, then shook his head as if the effort had beaten him.
"Isn't the risk far too big?"
"It isn't safe."
At that, Paver blinked. His face asked why on earth we would take a risk like this when there were perfectly ordinary ways to acquire a company.
My answer was simple.
"To make a story."
If we were an ant, Guccio was a dinosaur. Two companies that far apart collaborating was already a strange enough picture. And if, on the back of a successful collaboration, the ant went so far as to swallow the dinosaur? Wouldn't that be a myth people told for years?
The explanation must have been too thin.
"What connection is there between a successful collaboration and acquiring the company?"
"Guccio is hitting bottom day after day. The shareholders' discontent is at its peak, naturally. Suppose, in that situation, a collaboration posts the greatest results in their history and drives enormous sales?"
To shareholders worn out by slack management, we would look like a single ray of hope.
"Hm. Then Guccio would be the ones to call. Let's do it once more—this time we won't have to eat the inventory…"
"That's when we make a new offer."
"Forget the collaboration. We're acquiring the company?"
I nodded.
"Accept, and the share price explodes. Refuse, and it crashes."
"Whose side will the shareholders be on?"
"Whoa. This is a whole fairy tale, knocked out just like that."
An ant swallowing a dinosaur—a story more fairy tale than any fairy tale. We had been having a rather pleasant conversation.
Strangely, though, a thread of worry rose across Paver's face. Sure enough, he opened his mouth with care.
"Sir, there's something that's been sitting wrong with me."
Paver's account, briefly, came to this: a lawyer from Harris had threatened him, and he had laughed coldly in the man's face and walked out.
"I was afraid my refusal might do you harm…"
"Not a chance."
"In case it throws the plan off, or something…"
"No problem at all."
Perhaps it was the clean answer. Paver's face broke into a smile again.
"Right? Listening to them, I nearly laughed. Don't even dream of opening a store in London, they said. As if all of London belonged to them. I didn't think they could actually manage it."
"That wasn't an empty threat."
"…What?"
"They'll know the man who has every prime spot in London clenched in his fist."
"Th-then we really are in trouble, aren't we?"
"It's fine."
"…?"
"I'm on quite good terms with that man's son."
At that same hour, in front of Harris Department Store, Tennessee looked up at a building the size of a castle.
A department store comes with a certain expected scale. The Harris flagship, though, was easily the size of five ordinary ones put together. The grandeur was overwhelming, and yet a cold sneer settled on his face. If he had to name the single most vulgar thing in this city, he would have chosen Harris Department Store without a moment's hesitation. There was no particular concept in the place, and no refined taste. It did nothing but stir primal appetite and goad people into indiscriminate waste.
But what could he do? His father had given the order, so the least he could manage was to show his face.
Tennessee drew an invitation from inside his jacket.
Tch. And of course it's the luxury hall again.
He forced his unwilling feet forward, thinking all the while that he would like to stuff that hall into a trash bag and haul it out.
On the third floor, in the choicest spot, a pure white sign came into view.
He wasn't even a famous designer. What nerve, hanging his own name up there.
Shameless.
And Park Jihoon, set beside that? Enough. He felt bad toward Park Jihoon, so the comparison could stop there.
He had just reached the front of the store.
Click. Click.
Oh. A shoot was in full swing. A lookbook, was it? One model, and three photographers. What was this spectacle? More to the point, this was the sort of thing you did after the shop had closed. He looked around the floor and could not find a single customer, search as he might. Perhaps that was why they were at it during business hours.
In any case, when a store was in this state you turned around and came back later. If later truly wouldn't do, the ordinary thing was to look somewhere else first and return once the place had been put back in order. Yes. Ordinarily, that was how it went.
Why should I?
What kind of grand establishment was this, that he should make allowances and walk the same path twice? So Tennessee planted himself, rather brazenly, in the entrance.
A moment later a clerk spotted him and came forward. He had just resolved to thrust the invitation at them the instant they started in about a shoot.
But—
"You would be Mr. Tennessee Grosvenor?"
The clerk came out with something he had not expected.
"We heard you would be visiting, and we've been preparing."
Tennessee said nothing.
"May I show you through?"
Damn it. He had meant to buy something modest and leave. This might take considerably longer than he had thought.
"Our brand comprises several labels. From a modern White Label to an elegant Black Label, all in order to satisfy our customers' varied tastes…"
In a word, a grab bag. Wasn't this Harris Department Store, the place that gave a concession to anything so long as it made money? The shop looked like that Harris spirit, reduced and distilled.
"You've seen all of the White Label. Next is the Green Label…"
"How many are there in all?"
"We're planning twelve labels in total. Only nine are on display at present."
Bloody hell. Twelve labels—was that a clothes shop, or a general store?
I said I wouldn't compare. Even without an invitation, Park Jihoon's store had been a place you went because you were curious. The satisfaction had been remarkable, too. The secret room hidden behind the wardrobe had been a pleasure, and the system of releasing a few new pieces every week had fit that secret-room concept perfectly.
That was branding. Nor was it only the planning that excelled. James Paver's particular sharpness of design went without saying. Set beside that, this place…
Better not to speak of it.
Tennessee turned to the clerk.
"I've had enough of the explanation. I want to buy something."
"Ah, yes. If you'll tell me your taste, I'll guide you."
Taste. What taste.
"What's the most expensive lineup?"
"Black Label."
"Fine. That. Every new piece. All of it."
He thought he had said something similar at Queensman. Then, of course, the things had been so scarce that he was simply taking what he could get. Now he was buying his way through a courtesy call.
"There's quite a lot. Will that be all right?"
"Just hand them over."
Perhaps he ought to have bought a sensible amount.
The packing alone was into its tenth minute. If they had only been packing, it would at least have been bearable. Unable, it seemed, to leave him staring into space, one of the staff attached himself as a dedicated attendant. When a pretty face spoke to you, the ordinary thing was to smile and answer. Unfortunately, Tennessee had all the reaction of a block of wood.
"If you've time to talk to me, why don't you help with the packing?"
Later he even went that far. Ahem.
The photographers he had assumed were there for the lookbook turned out to have come for him. They made a show of packing up and quietly swung their lenses his way. His becoming Queensman's first customer had caused quite a stir, so they probably wanted a few pictures. Had it not been for the invitation he would have had a word for them, but well.
Do as you like.
Tennessee had turned his head as if giving the whole thing up when, only after another five minutes, the packing he had been waiting on was finally done.
"We'll carry them out to your car."
"No."
"They'll be heavy to manage alone."
"Forget it. Just fetch me a hat."
"Pardon?"
Hauling about an armful of these wretched shopping bags—wouldn't it be shameful if people saw? If he meant to hide his face, he at least needed a hat.
The moment the bill was settled, the staff came trailing out after him in a string, and Tennessee's stride only quickened. The corridor of the luxury hall felt unusually long. It may in fact have been long; walking with his head ducked may have made it longer still.
Heavy. Damnably heavy. He was just wanting to fling down the bags that filled both hands.
Thump.
His fingertips seemed to jolt—and then a splash. A cold wetness spread across the top of his foot. He turned his head to see what it was and found a drink rolling over the floor, and a small child with a devastated face.
As best he could guess, a shopping bag had caught the child mid-run. The boy had dropped the drink he was drinking, and as a result Tennessee's shoes were soaked through.
Hah.
Tennessee let out a low sigh. These were Ultimate × John Green collaboration limited sneakers, the kind he could no longer even get his hands on. And sticky cola, of all things.
There was, fortunately, a restroom sign nearby. But the thought of taking all these bags in there sent his irritation surging.
Damn it. No two ways about it: the worst day.
As if he meant to spend the anger on something—
Thud.
He jammed the entire armful of shopping bags down into a trash can.
Ten minutes later, Carl Bernstein took a call and came at a dead run.
Was it the fruit of having hired so many expensive designers? Word had arrived that Tennessee, notorious for being particular, had swept up every last new piece of Black Label. Both hands full of shopping bags, all of it caught on camera, they said.
Perfect, if we put it on a magazine cover. A fine start. Well—it was a little late to call it a start. Even so, this much counted as excellent, did it not?
On the first floor, Carl's store would soon stand in the space Guccio had vacated. There would be the sales, yes, and the attention from the press would leap.
Once the store moves, send the invitation again. First floor. The first customer had to be Tennessee Grosvenor.
He was steeped in that rosy future when the thought struck him.
Why the hell are they emptying the trash now?
Carl glared and kept as close to the wall as he could while he walked. Then—
One glance at the trash can, and he froze where he stood. The pride of the brand, the new Black Label pieces, lay wretchedly buried in the filth.