[ He's just about to say, excuse me, who? when his mind catches up - a split second is a long time when you do the kind of job he does but in his defense, Lukas' story and Amélie's lack of same is kind of making his brain rotate around itself. He blinks. Claude Bérubé. The French deputy, socialist.
Excuse me indeed.
Vincent frowns and turns his back on the whiteboard in his office, covered in sprawling graphics and cut-outs. The monitors at the other end are running nonstop, currently on mute. He knows when to pay attention. ]
Okay. And why, exactly, am I talking to you, Claude?
[ -- was told to call you, is almost on its way out of his mouth, but Claude, with a smoothness he will later congratulate himself on, in hindsight, manages to hold that one back, thinking of Bernadette's poor phone. She's gonna drop it in the toilet next time.
Also, did he just call him by his given name? Shit. What a smartass.
So he clears his throat, making it sound like it was completely intentional, he hopes, and continues, turning towards the big windows with the beautiful view of the park: ]
It's about Jean Louis Girard. About Jean Louis Girard and about a red-carpet event. I figured you were the person to contact about this particular intersection of public relations?
[ Claude Bérubé starts out by hiding his stammer with the kind of success you'd expect of a man in his position - perhaps not entirely smooth, perhaps not as praticed as someone with more experience and more ambition but passable. Vincent tempers down his own immediate irritation and remains in a somewhat generous mood right until the man actually continues his sentence.
Oh, that motherfucker. That absolutely disastrous motherfucker. He's going to rip his hair out, one fucking strand at a time until he's bald on exactly one side of his skull. That absolute shithead. For a moment, Vincent actually takes the phone from his ear and stares at the display before mouthing what the everloving fuck soundlessly into the air. Then, taking a very deep, very audible breath, he puts the phone back to his ear. ]
You figured. That's nice, darling, but unfortunately, you've put me in an awkward position here. I guess you're the prince who sent him a fucking doll for his birthday, too? Fuck's sake, this is unbelievable.
[ There's scathing sarcasm there, in the you figured and then, in darling and like, Claude's pretty sure no one but exactly three people ever call him darling and that's his mom, his grandmother and Yves. He wonders only for a second which one of them, Yves or Fortesqué, has the looser wrists. Not a problem that they do and regardless of the answer to that little riddle he doesn't ask out loud, but it does say something about type.
He's imagining Vincent Fortesqué now as any one grown-up-repressed-util-this-exact-moment queers that he knows already, including Yves and he wonders whether he'd like a hug. Yves likes hugs. Sometimes he likes them too much and gets frowny-faced as a consequence.
None of this can, of course, be heard in his voice when he replies, completely evenly: ]
The official opening of the annual ice sculpture exhibit in Jardin d'Acclimatation, February 16th. [ A pause, his voice softens noticeably: ] I think he'll like it.
- February 16th, official announcement, relatively informal, foreign ground. - February 10th, absolutely last possible date to release a Bold story. - February 2nd - 5th, pap shots, Paris, arrange with Jean-Marie (note: double-check the official calendar) - Absolutely no - as in zero - news breakage before February 2nd to avoid overshadowing the Grund story on the factory workers and the state of their crumbling union.
He pinches his nose. I think he'll like it says Claude the Socialist and fucking hell, what kind of a relationship is this anyway? Jean Louis is pulling the guy around by his nose, clearly. Sweet people never date psychos otherwise. ]
Like that's the most important thing. Ugh, you probably think it is. [ He shakes his head and stalks to his desk. ] Okay, so if I can't talk him into dropping you like a hot potato - and I promise you, I'm gonna try - I will arrange for this to come out properly. Who have you told and don't bother lying, you've told at least one person in order to get my number.
[ Don't bother lying, and Claude actually takes offense to that. One, he doesn't lie and two, when he does, he's so bad at it that Bernadette wouldn't stand a fighting chance anyway. Frowning, he stares off into space, not seeing the snow-covered grassy ground or the road up ahead or the security personel milling around in the parking lot where everyone parks during the day in their big, expensive cars, so we need to (under)pay a bunch of guys to make sure no one sneaks in and causes havoc.
Claude sighs. He has no faith in Fortesqué's ability to talk Jean Louis out of it, they've been good, they've been great since Jean Louis' birthday. He even calls it a relationship to the other man's face now.
Things he hasn't done to anyone in almost a decade. It's wild.
But outwardly, he's 25 and counting, polite to a fault, voice deep and neutrally pleasant, when he replies: ]
Professionally or privately? Both? [ Rather than waiting for an answer, it's only to make the other man aware, that was pretty unclear, Claude recites the information in a very - for this entire absurd situation - calm voice: ] In that case, Bernadette Ardisson was the one who asked me to call you. My mother, two sisters and their various spouses and kids know, after Jean Louis spend Christmas with us. Along the same vein, a couple of my colleagues probably have an inkling, but nothing that's been confirmed by me yet.
[ Professionally or privately says that little shit, like it isn't perfectly obvious that he could have meant nothing but everyone, everywhere, at every possible moment in time. Vincent stares up at the ceiling, waiting for the God he doesn't believe in to show his arse to him now that apparently, the whole world and life in general is all about that but as it were, nothing happens except his eyes start to water slightly.
Shit. ]
So everybody and their fucking horse. Thanks for your discretion, darling.
[ And thank you, Jean Louis, for being this randomly incompetent. It's honestly a new low. ]
Wise of Ardisson, though, props to her. Make space in your calendar between February 2nd and 5th. I'm gonna need you for a shoot.
Well. Look at the positives, I haven't gotten that tattoo across my forehead made yet, the one reading: "Jean Louis Girard's favourite dangerous liaison".
[ How's that for a headline?? It's the way Fortesqué assumes shit, like Claude has some random Friday and Monday he can just reschedule. Saturday and Sunday, cool, most people can pull those out of the big picture, but he actually works, okay. He's getting fucking paid to do a fucking job. He is no doubt gonna skip the internal party conference that Friday, if he -- goes to do a shoot. Where? France? Luxembourg? Plus, Mondays are officials' meetings, lined up.
So, it just blurts out of him and he immediately, very immediately bites his lip and takes a deep breath to calm himself down. Because just like him, Vincent Fortesqué has a job too, and presumably he gets paid. In spades. Liberal country down there.
A second, then - ]
I'm sorry. What I meant to say was, can you specify the date more?
[ A snort of laughter, dry and 97 percent unamused. He does give Claude time to recover, though - the man might be used to navigating the media business from the periphery, using what strings are available to him to climb that mountain he's currently climbing, one small precipice at a time. It's fine. It's what people tend to do. They also tend to specify dates because that's easy when you have one mountain to climb, rather than fifty at a fucking time. ]
No.
[ A pause. Fuck, but he's not gonna convince Jean Louis to give this guy up (considering the fact that he's kept him a secret since fucking Christmas and no doubt earlier, no, the chances of that are about as slim as Amélie's dream version of her own waist). No way. No way in hell. He sighs and adds, sounding maybe sort of slightly defeated here - like, there's a big pile of shit in front of you and you have to get through it, one regretful bite at a time: ]
Once I've talked to him, I'll get back to you. Sometime before tomorrow.
[ That comes out about as automatically as everything else his mom has taught him, manners, hello - goodbye, the polite you over the intimate you, all those things. So, when Fortesqué says he can't specify the date but he can promise Claude to get back to him relatively fast, so he can arrange his calendar accordingly, that's okay. That's good enough. Claude will take it, because he actually doesn't want to upset the no doubt crucial balance of Jean Louis' public relations. Between the two of them, Jean Louis is, after all, the one who has to rely on that most.
Then, because there's a defeated air to the other man's voice now, the lightness of his voice dropping a notch, two, Claude hesitates for a second before saying, remembering what his mother usually says: you never know when you might need a friend. ]
My apologies, you know, for the awkward position, evidently positioning isn't my forté. I'm more of a philosophy and chill kind of guy.
[ Evidently positioning isn't my forté and Vincent, who's actually half a slip of his finger from shutting down the conversation, pauses and blinks into the air for a second before he laughs. It's less dry this time, lighter, but predictably short-lived. He doesn't have time for much, Vincent. It's just how the world's turned out. ]
If I know him at all, I'd say you're more than adequate at positioning, darling.
[ Perhaps it's something about the softness in Claude's tone - the way he just keeps being kind, even in the face of Vincent's rudeness which, obviously, he needs to be curt in this job, how's anyone going to get anything done if he waffles about like he's permanently confused? No. But something about that softness makes him feel maybe slightly softer, too, like you'd be a complete monster not to mirror it, to take it in a little.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Excuse me indeed.
Vincent frowns and turns his back on the whiteboard in his office, covered in sprawling graphics and cut-outs. The monitors at the other end are running nonstop, currently on mute. He knows when to pay attention. ]
Okay. And why, exactly, am I talking to you, Claude?
no subject
[ -- was told to call you, is almost on its way out of his mouth, but Claude, with a smoothness he will later congratulate himself on, in hindsight, manages to hold that one back, thinking of Bernadette's poor phone. She's gonna drop it in the toilet next time.
Also, did he just call him by his given name? Shit. What a smartass.
So he clears his throat, making it sound like it was completely intentional, he hopes, and continues, turning towards the big windows with the beautiful view of the park: ]
It's about Jean Louis Girard. About Jean Louis Girard and about a red-carpet event. I figured you were the person to contact about this particular intersection of public relations?
no subject
Oh, that motherfucker. That absolutely disastrous motherfucker. He's going to rip his hair out, one fucking strand at a time until he's bald on exactly one side of his skull. That absolute shithead. For a moment, Vincent actually takes the phone from his ear and stares at the display before mouthing what the everloving fuck soundlessly into the air. Then, taking a very deep, very audible breath, he puts the phone back to his ear. ]
You figured. That's nice, darling, but unfortunately, you've put me in an awkward position here. I guess you're the prince who sent him a fucking doll for his birthday, too? Fuck's sake, this is unbelievable.
[ There's barely any pause here. ]
What red-carpet event and more importantly, why?
no subject
He's imagining Vincent Fortesqué now as any one grown-up-repressed-util-this-exact-moment queers that he knows already, including Yves and he wonders whether he'd like a hug. Yves likes hugs. Sometimes he likes them too much and gets frowny-faced as a consequence.
None of this can, of course, be heard in his voice when he replies, completely evenly: ]
The official opening of the annual ice sculpture exhibit in Jardin d'Acclimatation, February 16th. [ A pause, his voice softens noticeably: ] I think he'll like it.
no subject
He pinches his nose. I think he'll like it says Claude the Socialist and fucking hell, what kind of a relationship is this anyway? Jean Louis is pulling the guy around by his nose, clearly. Sweet people never date psychos otherwise. ]
Like that's the most important thing. Ugh, you probably think it is. [ He shakes his head and stalks to his desk. ] Okay, so if I can't talk him into dropping you like a hot potato - and I promise you, I'm gonna try - I will arrange for this to come out properly. Who have you told and don't bother lying, you've told at least one person in order to get my number.
no subject
Claude sighs. He has no faith in Fortesqué's ability to talk Jean Louis out of it, they've been good, they've been great since Jean Louis' birthday. He even calls it a relationship to the other man's face now.
Things he hasn't done to anyone in almost a decade. It's wild.
But outwardly, he's 25 and counting, polite to a fault, voice deep and neutrally pleasant, when he replies: ]
Professionally or privately? Both? [ Rather than waiting for an answer, it's only to make the other man aware, that was pretty unclear, Claude recites the information in a very - for this entire absurd situation - calm voice: ] In that case, Bernadette Ardisson was the one who asked me to call you. My mother, two sisters and their various spouses and kids know, after Jean Louis spend Christmas with us. Along the same vein, a couple of my colleagues probably have an inkling, but nothing that's been confirmed by me yet.
no subject
Shit. ]
So everybody and their fucking horse. Thanks for your discretion, darling.
[ And thank you, Jean Louis, for being this randomly incompetent. It's honestly a new low. ]
Wise of Ardisson, though, props to her. Make space in your calendar between February 2nd and 5th. I'm gonna need you for a shoot.
no subject
[ How's that for a headline?? It's the way Fortesqué assumes shit, like Claude has some random Friday and Monday he can just reschedule. Saturday and Sunday, cool, most people can pull those out of the big picture, but he actually works, okay. He's getting fucking paid to do a fucking job. He is no doubt gonna skip the internal party conference that Friday, if he -- goes to do a shoot. Where? France? Luxembourg? Plus, Mondays are officials' meetings, lined up.
So, it just blurts out of him and he immediately, very immediately bites his lip and takes a deep breath to calm himself down. Because just like him, Vincent Fortesqué has a job too, and presumably he gets paid. In spades. Liberal country down there.
A second, then - ]
I'm sorry. What I meant to say was, can you specify the date more?
no subject
No.
[ A pause. Fuck, but he's not gonna convince Jean Louis to give this guy up (considering the fact that he's kept him a secret since fucking Christmas and no doubt earlier, no, the chances of that are about as slim as Amélie's dream version of her own waist). No way. No way in hell. He sighs and adds, sounding maybe sort of slightly defeated here - like, there's a big pile of shit in front of you and you have to get through it, one regretful bite at a time: ]
Once I've talked to him, I'll get back to you. Sometime before tomorrow.
no subject
[ That comes out about as automatically as everything else his mom has taught him, manners, hello - goodbye, the polite you over the intimate you, all those things. So, when Fortesqué says he can't specify the date but he can promise Claude to get back to him relatively fast, so he can arrange his calendar accordingly, that's okay. That's good enough. Claude will take it, because he actually doesn't want to upset the no doubt crucial balance of Jean Louis' public relations. Between the two of them, Jean Louis is, after all, the one who has to rely on that most.
Then, because there's a defeated air to the other man's voice now, the lightness of his voice dropping a notch, two, Claude hesitates for a second before saying, remembering what his mother usually says: you never know when you might need a friend. ]
My apologies, you know, for the awkward position, evidently positioning isn't my forté. I'm more of a philosophy and chill kind of guy.
no subject
If I know him at all, I'd say you're more than adequate at positioning, darling.
[ Perhaps it's something about the softness in Claude's tone - the way he just keeps being kind, even in the face of Vincent's rudeness which, obviously, he needs to be curt in this job, how's anyone going to get anything done if he waffles about like he's permanently confused? No. But something about that softness makes him feel maybe slightly softer, too, like you'd be a complete monster not to mirror it, to take it in a little.
Ugh, what a waste of time.
Vincent straightens. ]
I'll call you back on this number.
[ And then, he hangs up. ]