The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

I look. I don’t see a problem, but she must think it was already obvious to me because she’s opening the garment and showing me inside. “Look at the lining. See where it’s puckered? And this seam here — see how the pattern is lined up sloppy? And here. Feel.”

  I feel my jacket.

  “It’s half-canvas. Which is usually fine. But what did you pay?”

  I tell her. Her hand slaps her mouth as if she’s accidentally said fuck while sitting in a pew.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s none of my business.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Will you just —”

  “Even half that price, a jacket should be full canvas. It’ll wear better, hold its shape better. And look, wow, that’s a raw fabric edge.” She bundles the jacket and sets it aside as if she can’t stand the sight any longer. She’s red-faced when she meets my eyes again. “So. Is Tuesday okay?”

  I consider fighting for my jacket’s dignity, but I’m outmatched. I settle for being increasingly annoyed. She seems to be trying hard not to insult me, but I feel my temperature rising.

  “I need it today.”

  She dives for paper, finds something that might be a schedule, and says, “Okay, I can do that. After seven tonight. I’ll have to add a rush charge.”

  I need to be in the air by then. Hell, I’ll be halfway to Colorado. It’s a private plane and I can delay all I want, but what am I supposed to do once I’m done looking at my future building? Play checkers with the locals?

  “How long does a job like that take? The actual time spent working on it?”

  “An hour, maybe, to do it right.”

  “An hour? To fix a seam that’s just opened up?”

  “To do it right,” she repeats. Her eyes tick toward the blazer, and I suddenly suspect she’s going to do more than fix the seam. She’ll over-repair that sleeve, to save me from myself.

  I look at my watch. “I can come back in two hours.”

  “I need more time than that.”

  “You just said an hour.”

  “I have customers ahead of you,” she says, flustered. “I can’t turn it around that quickly.”

  “I don’t care what it costs. My pilot charges by the hour.”

  It’s not true; it’s a company jet, and the crew is on salary. But I’m trying to make a point.

  “You have a pilot?”

  “Yes. He flies me everywhere. Including Barcelona.”

  “You mean, a private jet?”

  Now I’ve got her. She says my jacket isn’t quality construction? I can rub the finer things in her face all day long. Starting with my watch, which I’m already tapping.

  “I’ll be back at—”

  “Are you here on business?”

  “Yes. And—”

  “What business?”

  The corner of my lip tips up. She’s wide-eyed, like a doe. I pull the trigger.

  “Ever heard of Expendable Chic?”

  The doe-like eyes turn hard. Her gaping mouth closes.

  “Expendable Chic?” Wheels are turning. “Wait. You’re that Hampton Brooks?”

  I want to ask her how many she knows. I nod instead.

  I can’t read what crosses the shopgirl’s face. I only know that it’s unpleasant and conflicted. She seems to be holding her tongue in a new way. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she turns to the computer, punching keys like staccato gunfire.

  “Well, I can have your blazer ready by 7 o’clock, Mr. Brooks.”

  “I need it earlier.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s the fastest I can go.”

  “You could do it right now if you drop everything else.”

  “I’m not going to do that, thanks.”

  “Don’t even worry about doing it right. Just quick-stitch it. When I get back home, I can take it to my own tailor.”

  “I don’t believe in halfway work, Mr. Brooks.”

  “Your client is demanding halfway work if that’s the only way it gets done inside the two hours he has.”

  “It’s not. It’ll be done at seven.”

  “What’s happening here? Is there a problem?”

  She looks up at me, glaring.

  She’s one of those women who’s stunning when angry, and I feel a sudden, inexplicable, inappropriate blast of lust. Her full lips have made a straight line, her brown eyes narrowed. I can tell she didn’t think twice about her honey-brown hair; it’s pulled back into a loose ponytail that doesn’t give a damn. Her cheeks are flushed, pulse throbbing in her throat. Her sundress is totally inappropriate, too casual and sheer. Something inside me makes me glance down. Anger has hardened her nipples.

  “Not at all,” she says.

  “I’ll pay double your charge.”

  “Of course you will.” But that’s too hard for what’s still ostensibly a merchant-customer exchange, so she softens her voice and forces a smile. She glances aside to look at the clock, and I sneak another look at her body. Why do I care? And why is what I see turning me on, even while I face her down? “I mean, the rush charge alone …”

  I turn. Mateo is outside. I can see him through the windows, maybe overhearing, interpreting the change in body language. He’s grinning. I just want to get out of here.

  “Two hours,” I say.

  “Seven o’clock,” she says from behind me.

  “I only want a halfway job. Get it done. Just pin the damn thing if you have to.”

  Her jaw is working. “Fine.”

  “It only has to be ‘good enough.’”

  “Of course it does … Mr. Brooks.”

  It’s only after I’m through the doors that I realize she wasn’t just saying my name as a codicil. It wasn’t just the end of her sentence. When that woman said, “Mr. Brooks,” she was implying cause and effect.

  ”Of course it only has to be “good enough” … because you are Hampton Brooks.

  As if Hampton Brooks isn’t used to demanding and getting the best.

  As if I couldn’t buy this whole backward little town a hundred times over, starting with the Billings & Pile building.

  Mateo is laughing like a kid when I emerge on the sidewalk. He claps me on the back as if in support.

  “I want to see the rest of the building,” I say.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STACY

  I WAIT FOR HIM TO leave.

  Then I assess myself the way I do in my morning meditation, starting at the top of my head and working down to my feet. I already know I’m pissed, and part of the reason is clear: Mr. Hampton Asshole Brooks’ demanding, imperious nature. Some people are just pushy. I said seven and meant it. And don’t think I didn’t see the disapproving glances he was giving my shop.

  But there’s more. My heart pounds. My hands have turned into fists. My jaw clenches.

  I pick up his blazer. His expensive-as-hell, crap-construction blazer. I’m not sure who I’m angrier at. Hampton Brooks? Or the villain who dared to charge him more than two hundred bucks for that thing?

  I stare at it. I guess I agreed to a two-hour turnaround. To shoving all my other work aside — including my own line, which I was inspired to give some love after April’s visit. I glance back into the cutting room — at the bolt of beautiful yellow cotton print I’d just unboxed when Carlo walked through the door.

  It’s okay that I have to work on the blazer instead. I don’t want to work on my designs now. He’s spoiled my mood. And my inspiration.

  I look down at the blazer. I find, frustratingly, that I can’t hate it. It’s not the blazer’s fault that it was poorly constructed, or that it’s owned by a pompous ass. The fabric is gorgeous. And when I came into the front room and saw Mr. Brooks standing there, my first impression was that he looked very good in that jacket — a handsome man who knows how to dress.

  The blazer is lighter than it should be, given its lack of canvas. And it fit well despite that. Brooks must have been providing the infrastructure that the jacket itself was m
issing. A strong body to hold up a weak garment that could have, in more skilled hands, been truly magnificent.

  I’m still holding the thing, pulse slamming, emotions confused, when the trio of men walks back past the front window. Hampton Brooks looks inside, and I meet his piercing blue eyes.

  I throw the thing onto the back counter and stalk upstairs.

  I’m wearing heavy shoes with my sundress — thick-heeled sandals that rack the wood as I march up the flight to my apartment. It must sound like I’m trying to make a point, because Emily and Ricky, both home from college and staying in the third suite I sometimes AirBnB for extra cash, are waiting in the hallway. They’re halfway out the door, peering at me like emerging prairie dogs.

  “Was that you?” Emily asks.

  “Was what me?”

  “Setting off M-80s in the stairwell,” Ricky says.

  “Nobody was setting off M-80s.”

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  “I just walked up the stairs, Ricky,” I say, heading for my front door at the end of the hallway.

  “With a vengeance,” Ricky says.

  “Why do you hate the stairs?” Emily asks.

  I don’t answer. I must be putting off a seriously bad vibe because now Ricky sounds like a peacemaker. “You had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Want to grab something?”

  “No, Ricky. I’m good.”

  After a few long seconds, I hear the door close behind me.

  Then: “Hey. Peanut.”

  I turn around. Dad is in the hallway, just outside his door. Ricky and Emily are back inside. Like they’re hiding. Dad is quiet, almost whispering. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Come inside.”

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  “Your mother insists.”

  I sigh. I’m not even slightly fooled, but I marched up those stairs for a reason. I wanted attention. I leave my door closed and follow my father through his.

  The small apartment seems empty. “Mom isn’t here, Dad.”

  “I know.”

  “You said she insisted.”

  “If she were here, she would.”

  I sigh and plop onto the couch. It’s old, but still in great shape and just as comfortable as it was when I lived here when Grandpa and Dad ran the shop below. My parents have plenty of money to get a better place, but they stay for the same reason I do. We’re all here together, and that seems to matter more and more with every passing year.

  “Bad day?” Dad sits in the opposite recliner. His chair, forever smelling of leather and childhood.

  “No.”

  “I know the sound of your angry march, Peanut.”

  “I’m too old to be called ‘Peanut,’ Dad.”

  “I know that. Peanut.” He smiles. My Dad has an enormous mustache that used to be black but is now more salt-and-pepper. You don’t see his lips move when he smiles. Instead, it looks like a caterpillar standing on tiptoe.

  “Didn’t that crazy lady come today?”

  I nod. “She was only a little crazy. She just really seemed to like the clothes I make.”

  “‘Course she does. They’re amazing.”

  “Daddy. You have to say that.”

  “Yes. But I’m also a tailor. As was my father. As is my eldest daughter. So, it went well?”

  “It did. It was flattering.” I don’t elaborate, or tell him about the strange sense of claustrophobia that persisted in the aftermath of April’s departure — the feeling of holding myself in check, of refusing to let myself bloom. I give Dad a slimmer version: “She thinks I should open my own shop. Sell outside of my FairTraded store.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for a year.”

  “Yes, but …” I let the thought hang. The rest would be, Yes, but she’s a paying customer, and you’re my father. “Anyway, that’s not what sucked.”

  Thick eyebrows raise with his mustache. “Oh? What sucked?”

  I exhale, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. I study the coffee table. The rug. “You remember Grandpa’s rants about the decline of the clothing industry?”

  “How could I forget? We carved one on his tombstone.”

  “Well, do you know about ‘fast fashion’?”

  Dad shrugs.

  “Disposable clothes. Crap spun out by overseas factories that’s just meant to be worn a few times, then tossed to make room for the next shopping spree.”

  “Those shops in the mall. Three outfits for $18?”

  “So you do read my blog.”

  “I’ve been to a mall.” Dad doesn’t bother with the rest. He’s practically a Luddite. Mom, too. Ricky and Emily read my blog from time to time — out of support, not because they care about homespun clothing — but my parents barely know how to use a computer, let alone read anything that isn’t printed.

  “They’re the worst,” I say. “Pure consumerism. Nobody even knows what quality is anymore. It doesn’t matter because the clothes aren’t around long enough that they’d need to last. One night out and they go into landfills.”

  “This is an environmental thing?”

  I consider my father. He’s right-wing, and I lean left. We don’t argue. We just don’t raise politics or hot social issues. I decide to spare him my rant about how much the fashion industry pollutes. He can read my blog if he wants it.

  “It should offend you. As a tailor.”

  “Okay. Consider me offended. Why are you telling me?”

  “Well, guess who walked into the shop today after my Number One Fan left?”

  “Wilford Brimley.”

  My dad has the driest sense of humor. I can only look at him and wait. He’s lucky I know who Wilford Brimley is.

  “Wilford Brimley is dead, Dad.”

  “That’s what’d make it so surprising.”

  “It was Hampton Brooks.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “You don’t know who Hampton Brooks is, do you?”

  “No.”

  “He owns Expendable Chic.”

  Dad waits.

  “The worst of the fast fashion stores, Dad.”

  “Oh. Okay. Now I’m shocked.”

  “You’re not helping, Dad.”

  “Are you still mad enough to clomp up the stairs?”

  “Yes. Only now I’m mad at you instead of Hampton Brooks.”

  “Well,” he says, “my job here is done.”

  I am trying to stay mad, but I can’t. I came in here to rant and rave about Hampton Brooks — about his asshole manners, and the way he managed to think he was better than me even though he couldn’t tell a $200 jacket from one that costs twenty times as much. Or worse, one that did cost twenty times as much, but wasn’t any better than something from Men’s Wearhouse.

  But my father is a control rod. He doesn’t make people feel happy so much as make them feel maddeningly neutral. He makes me want to wear beige, get a corporate hairstyle, and listen to Muzak.

  “Come on, Peanut. You going to let some jerk ruin your day? Bring you down after some crazy lady finally told you what your mom and I have been telling you all along — that you’re special and talented, and that you should listen to your fans?”

  “He’s everything that’s wrong with our industry. He’s full of himself, and not for any good reasons. He doesn’t know clothes, Dad. Or quality. He doesn’t even care.”

  “I don’t imagine he needs to, to make his business work.”

  “But he’s …”

  Again, I’m out of words. He’s an asshole? Arrogant? In my father’s presence, I can no longer see why that should even matter. His arrogance doesn’t affect me unless I let it.

  “Look,” Dad says, shifting in his seat. “I heard how loud you stomped up those stairs. He really got you wound up, didn’t he?”

  I hear “wound up,” and for some messed-up reason, I think of the sexual meaning. Hampton Brooks may have filled out his poorly stitched jacket admirably well, and has a fac
e that’s adored by the media. But that doesn’t mean I was “wound up.” Not in the least.

  “Just a little,” I say.

  “Why, though? Did he shout at you or something?”

  “No. He was just a jerk.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Dad, you can’t understand if you don’t read my blog. Companies like Expendable Chic are the enemy. I spend all day hating them.”

  “Maybe you’re the problem.”

  I blink. “They’re—”

  Dad raises a hand. “Just pointing out that there are two sides to every story.”

  “He doesn’t know the first thing about clothes. And yet people talk like his company is the next big thing.”

  “So?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Kill him with kindness, Peanut.”

  “I don’t understand, Dad.”

  He shrugs, creaking the leather of his big chair.

  “Hating people is such a useless thing. A total waste of energy. If something bothers you, then you only have two choices.”

  I’ve heard what’s coming before. Like, a zillion times.

  “You can try to change it, or you can ignore it. But you can’t just sit there and complain.”

  I sigh, exasperated. I should have known better than to come here for sympathy. Wisdom is all I ever get from the old man. What a rip-off.

  “If he doesn’t know what quality is,” my father says, “then show him. Whether he wants it or not.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  STACY

  HAMPTON ROLLS THE SLEEVE OF his blazer between his fingers, pausing where the rip used to be. I refuse to say anything if he doesn’t, but part of me hopes that he will. I don’t even want to rub anything in Hampton Brooks’ smug face anymore. As much as I hate to admit it, this is about pride.

  Hampton looks up at me, his expression puzzled, then returns his attention to the sleeve. Carlo isn’t here, but I can see his other pal — a tall and rather impressive man with a reddish-brown goatee — through the window.

  “I can’t see the rip.”

  His voice and manner are both guarded. I can tell he’s dying to berate me, or to spar as we did before.

  “I should hope not.”

  “This is your halfway job?”

  I don’t do anything halfway; that’s what I didn’t want to admit earlier when he was explaining how I could get it done faster. But I don’t want to tell him that I played full-out. He might take that as his winning, and my surrendering to his superior will.