by Ryder, H
TC: “…and the moonbeams kiss the sea…” she knows I love that poem, it’s what my brain does when it’s noisy, quotes Shelley.
PF: “He's there isn't he? OK, 'what is all this kissing worth if thou kiss not me” something like that, yes. And I won't be kissing her again if that's what she's hinting at.
TC: “Over and out poet laureate” love you.
Without Shelley, my mind wanders, I try to concentrate on the job at hand, slightly uncomfortable in my new two piece black lacy set. Spiderman pants they certainly are not, but perhaps that’s a good thing, am I growing up? Hope not.
I love Japan, so I’m quite excited, Japan holds lots of the keys to modern denim, their artisans working with centuries old techniques using real natural indigo dye where oxygen develops the pigment into that all-familiar blue we all love. They achieve the most creative effects with laundry and dry hand processes, real ancient indigo dying processes, a brighter, more green-caste blue. Today indigo dye is created artificially using chemicals. The 'show' we'll be attending with offer denims that take a long time to make, hand stitched by a small isolated group of machinists with an underground following not unlike RANDom itself. To see and touch some of these denims is a dream.
"Will your 'key' invitation let me in too?" Knowing very little about this closed community in Tokyo, only what I’ve heard. The money that changes hands is high, and there's whispers of unsavoury characters making big money trading these items.
"Yes, come, I’ll show you where you'll be working." Daniel takes my bags before I can reach for them and heads for a staircase I’ve only just noticed in the back side wall behind his desk. Once my eyes are accustomed to the darker ambiance outside the glare of his desk light, I can see the 'hall' goes back much further than I first realised. All the joining buildings which look so different from the outside, are really one huge space. At the back of the ground floor lay rows of black packed boxes sitting on a neat wooden palette. I suspect they contain finished jeans, at least twelve boxes, which to my estimate hold six or seven jeans boxes. Each serial numbered and stamped jean comes flat packed folded once in half. The reverence and treatment are a symbol of the workmanship that goes into making this exclusive pair of jeans, since there is so much hand craft involved, no two pairs are ever exactly the same. Wrapped in black tissue with the eagle and ship crest printed on in fine metallic gold, now I remember where I’ve seen the logo, and fixed with a gold seal sticker. They are placed in a wax finished black tray that slides into a lid with RANDom embossed on the top and the eagle and ship above foiled in gold. Then a ribbed gross-grain black ribbon ties the box closed in a perfectly flat, not girlie, bow.
I remember when I finally got hold of my own RANDom denim, so excited, I’d followed a trail of whispered information across London had spoken to a few people and been sent to various locations to track down this piece. I met an old man in a café on Portobello Road, where a vast part of my months’ salary was exchanged for one of those waxed black boxes.
But my prize wasn't a jean, I’d been after a jacket, only four ever made so the word on the street tells it. But you know how those words often are, truth is nobody really knows how many jackets there are, and I have one. A black raw heavy denim, rough and stiff broken twill, 32oz western style with pyramid stud decoration and the eagle and ship embroidered in black lurex on a huge square calico label inside, with the serial number stamped underneath: '2012:3/4 only'.
I follow Daniel up the stairs appraising him from behind, aware Steffi is watching us, and trying not to show it. Is she going to be a problem for me? I snap away that thought as soon as it arrives, puncture it like a sharp pin to a balloon, Daniel and I are attracted to each other, neither of us will say anything, not here, not now. But this man makes my brain quiet, I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I take a final sweeping glance behind me and Steffi is staring at our ascending figures, eyes blazing phone to her ear, listening, not talking.
Suddenly, I hope there's more tea coming.
A bit later in chapter five, Tuesday:22ndoctober2013, more of my new boss
"Here's where you'll be working when you're here Tharie," and he leads me into a massive studio. Wow! Floor to ceiling window on the side wall obviously the back of the building, I look out amazed, the streets at the back look strangely like the streets at the front, if the TARDIS appeared now I wouldn't find it astonishing at all. I have a gigantic cutting table desk, dark grey rubber surface, black legs. A black painted floor and the back wall is covered in a strong galvanised metal mesh grid for hanging garments. I have two huge Mac screens on one end and a MacBookPro laptop, my set up has already been installed. An A3 matte black Wacom graphics tablet and pen sit waiting. My email has been installed and I’m ready to go. A shelf of metalware finish colour charts and a small workstation. Like my own at home, with a grinder and a hand sander.
In front of my desk in the other half of the room sit two three-seater black leather sofas and a huge low reclaimed wooden coffee table, a similar design to the desk Daniel has downstairs I notice and nod smiling. "Very nice indeed, thank you Daniel." I hope to goodness the smile is my happy one, not my 'go to hell' with a hangover version. Daniel places my Burberry on the desk, he clearly has an affection for nice things like I do, and my laptop case on the floor leaned up against the leg of my Val Doonican style swivel chair.
He comes over to me, "I’m glad you like it Tharie, I hope you'll be happy here, if there’s anything you need just call." I have a mind to tell him exactly what I need right now, and a sofa within reach too, but hold it in. I’m so proud of myself. Then answering the silent hum of the vibrator in his phone, he nods me goodbye and a sudden change in his manner, taking a call he’d rather not be taking, he heads back downstairs.
Startled by a commotion outside my window I look out to see collared doves suddenly take flight from the rooftop opposite, scattering in all directions, I wonder what startled them?
TC: “Henry, you got arrested before me, I’m so jealous” it’s the handcuffs I think.
HC: “Knew you’d understand Sis” oh Brother.
TC: “Want to tell me about it?” It’ll be the usual story.
HC: “It was just a misunderstanding, there was this girl……..” bingo.
All his stories begin with ‘there was this girl…’
TC: “Naturally, and?” Then there’s usually a boyfriend…
HC: “Her boyfriend…took an unreasonable dislike to me” can’t think why.
TC: “Are you OK now?” Do I need to come to the police station?
HC: “Course, the Captain is a fan, gave him a demo of the new single and got released with a caution” I’m so proud.
Well, the new single is good.
I plug my iPhone into the Bose speaker docker sitting on a small table by the door, slide the door shut and press play. I fish two horseshoes from my cavernous bag and hang them on the door one from each of my boys. There is a tall black vase with parallel sides filled with the sweetest smelling flowers, I don’t recognise them, like hellebores but double rows of petals in an old antique pink colour, a note on the same folded white card with the ship and eagle watermark, 'good luck today Dx'.
Where's my tea?
I chance another glance at my phone at the missed message, telling myself it could be an emergency but secretly worried I’d miss something. As it turns out, I could not be more wrong.
2 pizzas for the price of one tonight. Even the pizza place thinks I should be sharing pizza night with someone, perhaps they’ve been speaking to my Mum! Maybe I should ask her about that?
Surrounded by my own world of sounds, followed by a quietening in my head, I begin to feel my balance returning. The music is loud enough that I hear it dead centre between my ears but not too loud that I don’t hear a phone ringing. I wander to the sound of the Ace of Spades: Motorhead playing out of an iPhone I’d noticed is part of my set up, and lays perfectly square on my neat desk. The flat matte screen with the
eagle and ship logo lit up on it. Another black phone but this time with a black rubberised cover debossed with anti-crack rubber bumpers, the eagle and ship on the back, this is my new work phone. The 'Ace of Spades', how did they know? It is Daniel, he'd had his number programmed in already so his name is part of the display, Daniel Pearce.
I swipe my finger across the answer bar "hello," I fidget my drawing pen and my screens come to life. “What could possibly have happened in the five minutes you've been gone?” The company logo screen saver on the two big screens, and my large flat MacBook monitor has my favourite photo of George and Harry, how? “Daniel.” I whisper under my breath.
"Hungry?" Is all I get, I glance at the wall clock, an intricately carved silver rounded frame like an old pocket watch but much bigger, it is lunchtime already, where is the time going?
"Always," I return, though I’m not really. I quickly finish my tea, mustn't waste that.
Chapter six Tuesday:22stoctober2013, lunchtime
Daniel appears at my door and slides it open, he must have made the call on his way up the stairs. He has to tame his quaffed hair from running up the stairs, looks incredible, I have never seen such a beautiful man in my life, how am I going to get anything done with him about? I put my new phone alongside my own one in my parka and join him at the door.
"You look like you could use a meal Tharie, let’s go." I wonder what he means by that? What is it with people and my appearance? Has he been speaking to my Mum too? Bloody hell, hope not.
Note to self, working with a hangover, it's not clever.
He winks at me and swiftly heads off down the stairs. Steffi watches us leave, not all things end neatly. I wonder what trail of devastation this man has left in his wake. We walk out into the crisp cold sunny day, head off around the corner, I judge to be near the site of the earlier fracas with the doves. There are more people about today, there's a street market nearby and the locals are out buying their veg and counterfeit DVD’s.
Everywhere I look, people are watching him, staring, then they look at me, wondering what this ordinary girl is doing walking with this extraordinary man. Wearing a WW2 vintage parka. Or am I making it up? My head, I wish I could stop it rattling by all by itself.
HXF extended trot.
Thinking too much about unimportant things, dwelling, leaving some important things left unthought about, I snap the band around my wrist, silence, lovely.
FAK collected trot.
"It's just round here." We walk through the market and out the other side, we head into a Victorian house, a most unlikely place for a restaurant, and sure enough it's decorated like a drawing room including an authentic aspidistra on a tall hall stand, I wonder where they got that from?
See? Its things like that, who knows how rare aspidistras are? I'm sad aren't I? Reader, don't answer that.
The wallpaper is William Morris, real, and the floor has the original chequer board black and white mosaic tile. The most amazing smell is emanating from within and we follow the aroma, down a step into what would have been the living room in the original layout. High ceilings with moulded fancy architrave, seven or eight tables all full with creative types I guess from their dress and noise level. We reach the large bay window at the front and a table. Clearly the best table for two, with a reserved note on it, my heels are clacking loudly on the tile, the tone is correct, original Victorian.
"Here we are." He says taking my parka from my shoulders, he slides it slowly off grazing his hot, gentle lips on my neck. Bloody hell. Hanging it over the authentic Victorian hat rack just inside the door we had come through. I get a whiff of Daniel as the air is disturbed by my coat removal, sending his scent my way.
Thank goodness I can sit now. Sitting down, the table is tiny, and our knees are touching, he doesn’t attempt to move away and neither do I, my eyes wander around this magnificent room. Who'd have thought this was here I almost said out loud.
A little cut glass vase sits centrally on the round table that must be a bugger to dust I think, and our cutlery is mismatched, beautifully worked caste handles all different, and silver plated. The menu comes and it's handwritten in a flowery scripty hand, a woman’s handwriting I’d guess. Cotes Du Rhone '85, butternut squash and coconut soup with doorstep crusty homemade bread and fat hand cut chips.
No choice.
"They do a different meal every day, all hand cooked, fresh food, there's no choice, but strangely when I come here it's always the very thing I’d been fancying all day. Even though I might not always realise it." He looks at me for a comment, brows lifted. Is he talking about the food?
A humming I can't ignore disturbs me,
PF: “Don't forget to eat” bless.
TC: “At lunch now.” see?
PF: “Good, you'll need your strength” here we go.
TC: “I’m giving you the finger” true story.
I make yummy noises putting my phone away, "it smells wonderful Daniel, I’m certain it'll taste great too." Soup, perfect I thought, I’m not that hungry. Daniel pours us both a glass of wine, drinking in the middle of a work day…hmm mm. The bottle is already sitting on the table opened as we arrived, we raise a toast, and we clink glasses, looking at each other. Apparently it's the correct way to do it.
"Tharie, I want to welcome you to the label, and congratulate you on your new job.” He swirls his wine in the great bowl of his glass, suddenly it seems the focus. That's nice. Mum would like him. Then glancing casually at me. “But also to ask you, if you'd have a problem if I fucked you every chance I get?" What?
...maybe I’m wrong?
His face is serious, I don’t quite know how to react, this type of honesty is disarming, but refreshing. My spoon stops a few inches short of my lips as I contemplate my next move. Be careful, I tell myself, it could be a trick. I take a deliberate mouthful of soup, it gives me time to think. Mmm, it is good. Horses are like that too, there's no bullshit with them either. Instead I laugh, and he instantly relaxes and joins me. "But you haven't even bought me lunch yet" I pout. I tear a corner off my lump of warm crusty bread, it smells great and inviting and suddenly I’m hungry and get the feeling Pete's right, I’m going to need my energy. Anyway I love carbs, can’t get by without them.
EC: “How's your new job?” What can I tell her? I don't answer, that response will need careful wording. I put the evil little device away.
The soup is delicious and the wine an exquisite accompaniment, I feel like an expert in my own taste buds has prepared this meal for me, it's just as Daniel said, it'll be what you've fancied all along even if you don’t realise it yet. We chat about denim and Daniels plans for Milk&Honey whilst we eat. Our trip to Japan and how we tackle that one. I tear off a corner of warm bread and dipping it into my steaming bowl of saffron coloured hot soup, I look at the man sitting opposite me. Yes, what do I tell Mum? I don't need to answer that right now.
I’m just telling him about my last visit to Tokyo..."...and as always its pouring with hot rain and the temperature is high..." Then suddenly without a change in his expression as he listens to my story, I feel his hand on my knee. I look around to see if anyone is watching, look back at him, he hasn’t taken his eyes off me the whole time. I take a mouthful of soup and return to my story, OK, just carry on. "I get into the cab, with the lace doilies on the seats, antimacassars on the armrests, and the driver in little white gloves..." Just as I get comfortable, he looks at me harder and I feel his hand as it slowly and deliberately moves up my thigh, higher and higher still.
Transitions at H+F. KE shoulder-in right. That helps.
I have to concentrate on my soup and my story, can't cause any scene here, not in public. Daniel nods a hello to two people leaving, and his hand travels higher to where my legs join my body. My breath catches in my lungs, and I’m now feeling quite hot, is it warm in here? Sparks of pleasure begin to fire all over me, I have to try really hard to continue.
E volte’s right. EG half-pass to the right. Come on brain,
focus.
"I ask the driver," I start to say, “to take me to Harajuku. I wanted to see Evisu's new shop..." god this is hot, all I can do is think of Daniels thumb as it moves up and down the seam of my jeans between my legs, still looking at me. I’m having a hard time keeping it together, my breathing is laboured and I mustn’t move or make a sound of pleasure or I’d disturb a room full of chattering happy people enjoying their lunch. It’s having an incredible effect on me, in a public place, I furtively look around me, and smile into my soup, my body is alight my sex tightens and tingles.
“Then what?” He asks smiling very sweetly.
G on the centre line, before C collected walk.
I have to take a breath, the throbbing intensifies as my jeans hold me in place. Swollen and wet I can feel every touch, even through the many layers of denim, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, Daniel’s eyes never leave mine. Smiling again, clearly aware of the effect he is having on me, here of all public places, the soft gentle touches I long to get harder, I yearn to grind myself into his hand, to satisfy the need that building inside me. He just fixes his gaze on me, never flinching or looking away. "And, did you find it, I hear it's in an odd place?” He asks slowly and carefully, clearly amused and pleased with himself, the corners of his lips curling. Not stopping or slowing his wicked little fingers. I hate him for this, but not really.
"What?" Is he talking to me, where am I?
"Evisu," he flicks his fingers faster and moves his hand up to the waistband of my jeans and pops open the metal tack. An almost unbearable feeling of arousal falls over me and I’m numb to everything else around us. I drop my piece of crust into my soup bowl, suddenly I can't take another mouthful. I've lost my appetite, and that's not like me at all. I vaguely recall someone asking a question, was it directed at me? "oh, y…yes, it was in a residential part of the city quite odd, but that’s Tokyo,” it's an odd place.