Page 69 of Don't Point at the Moon

“Okay, catwalk time. We have a decent selection to be getting on with. Try each of the six I’ve hung in the dressing room. Let’s check out the styles, and see what feels and fits you best.”

After a full five minutes and a fair amount of huffing and grunting from the small changing room, the door opened and Mitchell stepped out. Tommy almost dropped his iced caramel macchiato. The first suit comprised a tuxedo jacket and matching trousers covered in scarlet sequins with black velvet trimming—an outfit that might have looked good on a Cantonese pop singer, but not on Mitchell.

“How’s the fit?” said Tommy.

“I appreciate that I should be grateful you didn’t pick anything out in hot pink, but there is no way on God’s green earth—to borrow your turn of phrase—that I would be seen wearing anything like this in public.”

“Red is an auspicious colour in Chinese culture. My family—”

“Tommy.”

“Okay, okay. Try the next one.”

Fair play to Mitchell, he donned Tommy’s choices obediently and patiently, without once refusing or complaining. Mitchell looked more relaxed when he stepped out wearing a traditional black tie ensemble, but while Mitchell cited James Bond, Tommy considered the look too dull, too much like Mitchell’s usual business attire. Moreover, his old uncles would be wearing similar outfits. Neither the sage nor the tan suit appealed to either of them. Tommy smiled and nodded at the burgundy two-piece, but Mitchell shook his head and, after a huff, Tommy waved him back inside. As the hour ticked on, and Tommy loudly drained the last dregs of his drink, Mitchell finally stepped out wearing a distinctive blue three-piece number that even drew the male salesclerk’s attention.

“It’s a brighter tone than I would normally choose,” said Mitchell, the single-breasted jacket open as he smoothed a hand down the front of the waistcoat while looking at himself in the full-length mirror. “What shade of blue is this?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Royal.”

“I like the fit.”

“Me, too. And the colour. Not an obvious choice for you. Everything works. This is the one. We’re going to need to coordinate and accessorise—”

Mitchell’s head whipped around.

“I am not carrying a male clutch bag or whatever you call—”

“Shirt, cufflinks, tie, shoes. Have a little faith.”

“Fine,” said Mitchell before turning to the clerk. “How much are we talking?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” said Tommy. “The right fashion choice does not come with a price tag.”

“I think you’ll find it does. More importantly, my savings account is not bottomless.”

“Think of this as an investment.”

“In what?”

“In you, the new Mitchell. Worth every Hong Kong cent.”

Tommy noticed Mitchell’s smile broaden as he admired himself in the mirror again before nodding to the clerk and heading back into the room to change.

“What about you?” came Mitchell’s voice.

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“Are you going to buy anything?”

“My whole outfit was chosen, bought and paid for two days after my sister announced her big day.”

“Of course it was.”

Once Tommy had the suit colour, everything else felt instinctive. For him, at least. Convincing Mitchell to accessorise with a white wing-tip shirt, dark red bow tie with matchingtop-pocket hanky and cufflinks took some doing. Mitchell cited sustainability and lack of opportunity to reuse. Even the light shade of brown shoes and matching belt had him pulling a face. Eventually Tommy got his way and, after asking the clerk if they could store the bags in the boutique—Tommy did not want Devon questioning any of his fashion choices—they made their way to the top-floor restaurant.

“I hope you’re fine with Japanese. This tiny ramen noodle bar called Oishi Ramen is tucked away in the corner. Devon calls the place his secret haven. One that everyone seems to know about—”

“I’ve been there. Many times. I know the place well.”

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