Chapter 69.5: Shellfish Buffet

Chapter 69.5: Shellfish Buffet

Uniqlo HQ Yamaguchi City, Japan. December 2011.

Upward mobility in Japanese corporate society wasn’t a climb, it was an uphill battle.

Nothing was guaranteed except toil. Not contract hours, not rest, not weekends, not pay, not even resignation depending on the company. Unfortunately, and inefficiently, merit didn’t dictate hierarchy; very often, age did.

Despite the lessons in distillation he’d instilled in Bas, Shinpachi was as yet treated as a relatively young man at the office. Or at least had been. “Moving on up in the world eh, Shinpachi?” Tadashi Yanai, the chairman/CEO/president/owner of Uniqlo - the same man who he’d worked assiduously under these past few years, greeted him far more casually than their relative positions would suggest. Like a peer instead of an employee.

Throughout his career at Uniqlo, he’d appreciated the less stringent atmosphere; but the company still had its adherences. “Please, boss.” Societal norms Shinpachi was content to cling to out of respect - and perhaps guilt for doing the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do. 

Quit.

“Are you certain you should still call me that? It’s a recent development, but you better get used to it already. Bas Rhys is becoming a serious mogul these days, exceptionally profitable for me, too. Do not carelessly split your deference.” Shinpachi felt conditioned relief as Tadashi Yanai scolded him. There was always something eerily disquieting about informality to Japanese sensitivities. He better acclimatise quickly, or risk squirming the rest of his professional days.

“Yes, of course.” Shinpachi bowed apologetically, easing his conscience. “I shall strive to be more heedful going forward.” 

“Enough of that, boy!” His ex-boss jabbed his hand at the plush zabuton sitting cushion beneath the low-lying chabudai traditional table. “Pop a squat and tell me about our gaijin genius’ next goldmine.”

Shinpachi sat seiza. Folded knees and his ankles tucked numbly under his backside. Adequate penance for his ingratitude. His own personal means to silently express remorse to the man who had given his career a true start; but Bas had been too headstrong to deny.

His career trajectory had been standard. From store clerk to manager, then after several years, a promotion to the customer service department at the corporate office. Half a decade of experience there, as well as his mother’s vehement knuckle bashing that he become fluent in the English language during his childhood, combined to fast-track him to the foreign business development branch.

Just as Uniqlo was set for its international debut, Bas marched into their offices and negotiated a Harry Potter merchandising deal that saw Uniqlo blossom into a global sensation. All while he was barely a teen, and hadn’t slowed since.

The pace of his lifestyle made the already sluggish progress Shinpachi was accustomed to seem like it was going in rewind. It was a pace Bas had dragged him into by his stiffly starched collars.

From a humble liaison and deal broker, by Bas’ good grace, Shinpachi was now boldly the head of the entire Asia division of Bas’ new company. “Bas has purchased an anime studio.”

“Oh?” Tadashi Yanai leaned in with interest; Shinpachi nodded, knowing his old boss was already smelling the aroma of new merchandising and collaboration opportunities. “Well known?”

“Legendary. Gainax. Makers of FLCL, Neon Genesis Evangelion, and most recently, Gurren Lagan. Some of the key creatives left Gainax earlier this year and were struggling to find funding for their freshly formed animation studio.” New will always be circumspect in Japan, unfortunately. “Bas bid me to approach them with an offer for financing. They accepted and were folded under his umbrella. Studio Trigger will make a debut soon enough. Our mutual friend plans to cooperate with both the east and west for projects, adaptations, and original works as well. We are also searching further afield across the rest of Asia, primarily Korea, India, and China, for a wide range of prospects; but that is for the future.” Shinpachi had been kept extremely busy and constantly airborne.

“And I thought that his help contracting with Mandarin Oriental for their branded uniforms and towels was worth millions… I’m guessing this is also his tactic to get Netflix to stop bumbling?”

“Correct. But he retains all rights to anything his studios create. Only exclusive streaming is on the table.”

“Ah, I’m full! I can’t eat anymore!” Shinpachi was unable to resist the small grin that escaped him as he watched Tadashi Yanai pat his stomach in delight. “You boys have been hard at work. If you put more on my plate I’m gonna burst. Take a break already, will you?”

There was a card slotted inconspicuously in his wallet that weighed on him until his smile fell. A horrible reminder of what Bas had ordered he do in blatant disregard for Shinpachi’s preferred corporate conventions. It was time to go on holiday. 

Nothing in the world could be more selfish. 

–

William Morris Endeavor HQ, Beverly Hills. December 2011.

Anita’d clung to a rung that refused to allow her any higher up the ladder she’d spent her entire career climbing. 

Nothing below except a lethal fall to rock bottom. And up above a pair of oversized loafers poised to trample her aching fingers.

Well, fuck that! 

Endeavor denied her partner buy-in for the last time; she’d walk the plank herself. They’d soon come to learn just how big this fish could get swimming on her own. Anita sincerely hoped they liked stiff competition, and a stiffer cock up their collective ass.

On second thought, no. Adam Venit might actually enjoy that treatment. Bas was never gonna have to bear with that deviant on her account again, thank god! Anita had enough trouble trying to keep pervs outta Bas’ pants (and him in his too, that damn exhibitionist). Fedex might not be fed up, but Anita sure as hell was. Never a better time for a beach vacay, especially when someone else was footing the bill.

Anita desperately needed to decompress. At least she was permanently getting rid of the worst stressor in her life - this stagnant job.

“Final sweep. I want all files, tech, decorations, and the dust bunnies, too. Leave no trace we were ever here.” Anita wished she could have punctuated her statement by slamming a cardboard box full of her affects, but she might chip a nail. Which is why she employed a small team of assistants to do the packing for her. Privileges of her newfound lofty position.

Clearing out her office didn’t mean she was leaving empty-handed, her expertise wasn’t the only thing WME was losing. The majority of Anita’s team had chosen to follow, and she’d also enticed a few fellow associates to throw their lot in with her. Most vitally, all the relevant clients were, too. 

Among her most prolific, Emma and Bas were a given along with their quantifiable box office percentages. Convincing Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson might have been much harder had he not been inexorably pleased with his first self-produced feature film in the pipeline. Bas had helped Anita earn Dwayne’s current loyalty by bequeathing Knight And Day to him. She was positive the cool couple milli she’d begged off Bas to get the project off the ground (for revenue share, of course) also helped soothe tempers.

That was far from the last of Bas’ and her’s joint investments, though. 

Anita spied her old name plaque poking out of one of the boxes. Brass on lacquered wood. Cheap. She snatched, tossed it, and caught it after it flipped mid-air. It landed squarely in her palm with a satisfying meaty thwack! Her name was her own now.

Specter. She could already imagine it; her next plaque engraved in pure gold - not dissimilar to that ridiculous card Bas gave her. 

SpecOps - her own brand spanking new talent agency and management company. Technically, a subsidiary under Bas’ umbrella; but despite his inability to shut up, he didn’t want to be anything except a silent partner, so she had free rein. Besides, he’d done the one thing WME wouldn’t and let her buy equity in his holding company. A small portion, but they were fully partners now. 

“That’s everything and everyone, Ms Specter.” Weren’t minions just the best? Barely just became the boss, and Anita was already reaping the rewards.

Swerving on her stilettos, and twirling a finger in the air, Anita declared their next course of action. “Then let’s roll out of this dump, people!” Her army of assistants marched militaristically behind her as they made their grand (and somewhat gauche) exit from WME.

Straight out the massive front doors to freedom and a crowd of clamouring paps stalking their next celeb. Anita was a local one in her own right, and making such an embarrassing public spectacle was an impolite way to repay the company that gave Anita her start.

Eh, fuck ‘em! She’d done everything for them and gotten shit in return. Now, she’d be selfish!

–

Bas’ Old Foster Home, Cardiff. December 2011.

“Funerals are so terribly morose, aren’t they?” Mrs Stephens sighed into the steaming cup of tea she cradled in her hands.

“Indeed. He was a good man. Shame about his children, though. Greedy little creatures they ended up being. Our benefactor’s death almost shuttered this very home, seeing as his disappointing progeny don’t care one whit about anything except their own inheritances.” Her matronly colleague had a much stiffer lip as she slurped her cuppa. They both needed it after this afternoon’s events.

“Toddlers to teens potentially out on the streets, and the lot of them were more worried about divvying up the poor man’s estate before they’d even finished burying him.” The foster home Mrs Stephens worked at had always been a privately funded one; and their sole patron had succumbed to his advanced age after three decades of generous philanthropy. His next of kin bucked that trend immediately. 

Bas, rather uncharitably, said: “God finally accepted his bribe, eh? The pearly gates sure do have a hefty cover charge. I wonder if it’s a one drink minimum, too? Good racket, better margins - water into wine and all that.” The gall! If he was determined to be such a cynical old man, why couldn’t he affect that same energy in any other aspect of his juvenile existence!?

Either way, their benefactor’s death meant that their safe haven nearly shared his fate. “Luckily that boy of yours stepped in - honestly, he practically jumped in with both feet, didn’t he?”

“You say that as if you played no part in his upbringing. Lord knows I wouldn’t have been able to raise the blighter alone.”

The other caretaker decisively cut across her platitude with a slash of her hand. “Of course I did, and of course you couldn’t. We gave him the same attention as every other charge under our purview, despite his obvious talents. Talents which you alone championed by going above and beyond. You played favourites back then, so now he reciprocates. Simple.” 

“No, I-!” But Mrs Stephens couldn’t deny it. She grimaced while staring down at her tea, thankful that the added milk had clouded it too much to reflect her undoubtedly guilty expression. Especially in light of recent developments regarding Ellie.

“You needn’t feel sorry for yourself. It’s natural - human. Sometimes we love certain people more than the rest.” Her compatriot shrugged. “Happens. To me, too. No one expects you to be some paragon of ungodly fairness and virtue. We must merely do the best we can for everyone, including ourselves. Worked out well in the end. In the alternative scenario, more than just your suitcase would’ve been packed. Got rocky there for a mo’, but we got to keep our home, while you move out for a higher calling.”

Touch-and-go wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Upon being informed that their patron had entered critical condition at the hospital, the very first thing Mrs Stephens did was call Bas. Neither of them minced words; Mrs Stephens wanted money to keep the foster home running.

Bas said no. 

However, before she could get too up-in-arms, squeeze them through the telephone, and wring the boy’s neck like laundry, he clarified. “Because that’s nowhere near enough.”

Without even being afforded the time to contemplate drowning in debt to keep bread on the table, they were suddenly swimming in dough. So many, many zeroes. She been crowned steward of a multi-multimillion pound trust fund, of which the details went over her head.

She’d receive ample opportunity and training to get familiar since the money came attached with specific conditions. Bas didn’t provide her with the GDP of a small island nation purely for the benefit of a single house. A foundation was being set up under her authority. 

Whenever another home for children needed building, she could help. Whoever else shared in their vision but struggled with achieving them, she could help. Wherever in the world children needed succor, she would help. But if she wanted to do so, she must leave her own carved out corner.

A fair few names were bandied around. Mothers for all, many moms, purse of the mummy - no guesses who suggested that. Ultimately, they settled on Hidden Gems to polite, if subdued, agreement. 

To most, it sounded generic. Bas’ reasoning made it more heartfelt when he explained that the foundation’s goal was to do what Mrs Stephens did for him; find the diamond in the rough and buff it out. It struck her much more profoundly, though. It brought her to the verge of tears just thinking about it. He wanted everyone to acknowledge her. 

Gemma Stephens was her full name, after all!

Bas… Bas wasn’t ordinary - he was quite a bit extra, in fact. She couldn’t be prouder for it, but his independence did sometimes leave a hole where her hysterectomy incisions cut into her. If her boy believed she deserved so much; then surely, it wasn’t so bad if she did something for herself, for once.

Ellie had endured an unreasonable amount in her short life, yet she was unable to withstand screaming ‘yes!’ before Mrs Stephens could complete her question. Ellie had made it clear that she needed Mrs Stephens as sure as the air she breathed. To confess, Mrs Stephens had grown desperately fond of her, too. The custody would take time, but it was officially underway. 

Shaking off the mood her black frock worn for the wake had put her in, Mrs Stephens instead honed in on the bevy of colourful festivities occurring around her. Christmas was ‘round the corner. 

Red ribbon wrapped presents, under a lush green tree, covered in silver tinsel and baubles. There was a large splattering of brown courtesy of molten cocoa splashing out of the chocolate fountain. No sweater was spared. At least cleaning up these messes wasn’t one thing she’d miss.

Mrs Stephens watched with an indulgent smile as Ellie and the others pigged out on the assortment of fruits and cakes.

Noticing her, Ellie fixed her a plate, too. A coated strawberry on a stick dripped precariously over a shaky saucer as the young girl shuffled up to her and offered a taste. Mrs Stephens bit, and her heart exploded more than the flavour did. Sweet.

“You know… it was Charlie who won the chocolate factory, if I recall. Not Ellie.” The other matron teased.

“Yes, but I’ve got a golden ticket!” Quite literally, actually. An envelope had been delivered by post, from Bas to Mrs Stephens. A single gold keycard, and a note to go along with it that read: ‘Not exactly the house keys like I promised. Serves the same purpose, though.’

Grabbing a tissue, she dabbed the chocolate Van-Dyke Ellie had smeared across her chin and around her mouth. Sugar would only exacerbate the pimples that would start popping up any day now - and unlike a stereotypical tween, Ellie didn’t once fidget. Her young girl was shyly chuffed and might’ve happily allowed the intimacy all day. “While private jets may be more comfortable than glass elevators, our flight to the tropics is a lot longer still. Say your goodbyes.”

“... We’ll come back, won’t we? We’re not abandoning them, right?”

“They might get sick with how often we’ll return.” She reassured.

The weight on her shoulders would impress even Atlas. Heavy responsibilities headed her way - her own perpetual nine months. A quick rest was required. She might not have birthed either Bas or Ellie, but she wanted to spend some quality time with her first borne son, anyway.

Even if it was selfish.