Finished by Hand by William Anthony

Finished By Hand
by William Anthony
    It had been a typically slow Monday afternoon down Porthmerry Lane, when a customer walked into Marquis & Delaney – Gentleman’s Outfitters. Young Mr Grisham had wasted no time in giving him the once-over with his experienced menswear eye. It had been easy to tell from tall black gentleman’s bespoke houndstooth jacket, white shirt with an autumn brown silk tie, gabardine slacks, and well-polished brown leather brogues, that he obviously possessed good taste and a timeless fashion sense – and he certainly wasn’t afraid to spend a pound or two on clothing. The style was quite clearly classic Continental French, accentuating the gentleman’s broad shoulders and chest, while at the same time cut to compliment his flat stomach and 34-and-three-quarter-inch waist.
    Predatorily, Mr Grisham waited just long enough for the shop door to start closing before he glided around a rack of Hugo Boss cashmere and wools, well ahead of his other two colleagues, and made first contact with the commission – er, customer .
    â€˜Excuse me, but would sir be looking for anything in particular? We pride ourselves on carrying most of the classic, as well as the modern, designer names. So I am sure we could find something to sir’s liking.’
    The gentleman had regarded the shop assistant silently for several seconds. His large, warm brown eyes were set in an exotically dark face, which young Mr Grisham thought was Moroccan, or possibly North African. Then the gentleman had smiled broadly, a hint of gold flashing for a moment. ‘I was just passing, saw some of the window displays, and decided to come in. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for – probably something casual yet adventurous in trousers. Oh, and a jacket would be nice as well.’
    Mr Grisham had smiled warmly back at the thought of increasing his sales figures, and told the gentleman he thought he knew exactly what he was after, little realising just how true his words would turn out to be.
    With the Moroccan gentleman in tow, Mr Grisham had headed toward the back of the shop where the more casual, rather than business, styles were located. He had also been more than pleasantly surprised when – on stopping short in front of a rack of Gerrals & Fletcher trousers – the gentleman had, seemingly accidentally, bumped into him from behind. It had not been the bumping which had been the surprising part, but the exhilarating feel of the Moroccan’s strong hands gripping his waist as the gentleman steadied himself – apologising profusely as he did so.
    â€˜I’m terribly sorry, I was preoccupied for a moment and forgot where I was.’
    Young Mr Grisham had turned around and, in light of the incident, had taken a more appraising look at the gentleman. He was slightly taller, around 6 feet 2, with a lean, almost athletic build to him. With his broad shoulders and inverse waist he appeared masculine, but not brutish. His hair had been neatly barbered, framing his handsome facial features, and he gave the appearance of being in his mid to late 30s, as best Mr Grisham could tell under the warm shop lighting.
    Making eye contact, the assistant had asked, ‘I don’t suppose sir happens to know any of his measurements?’
    He shook his head. ‘I’ve lost a little weight recently since attending a club gym, hence the need for something new in my wardrobe.’
    Without thinking, Mr Grisham had eyed the gentleman up and down several times, and, before he had been able to stop himself, said, ‘Sir certainly appears to be in very fit shape to me,’ then he had felt his face flush a little with embarrassment.
    Instead of taking offence, the Moroccan had just tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Thank you. It seems rare to be given an honest compliment these days.’
    â€˜Now, sir,’ said Mr Grisham, hurriedly trying to