The Job Interview
by Soledad
A "Pathways in the Dark" story
Part 02 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "The Choice".
For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.
Rating: General, for this part. Some mild swearing, nothing serious.
Author's note: The D'Oblique, of course, is the single bar from the 1st Season Angel episode Lonely Hearts. However, I made the club quite different from the original one: more classy and with music and performance artists and so on. Hey, in this episode it's owned by a Toreador fashion czar!
Summary: Brian gets an offer that is too exciting to refuse. So he takes off with Emmett to LA.
The unexpected phone call saved Brian Kinney from another afternoon of desperate boredom. In the last months he had started to realize that something was missing from his life. Ever since Justin had broken up with him and left town to start a new life somewhere with an art scholarship and refused to tell anyone where. Well, with the possible exception of his mother, but Jennifer Taylor wasn't willing to reveal the secret to anyone. Especially not to Brian, whom she held responsible for about everything that had gone wrong in her son's life.
But that wasn't all. With all his friends settling down, the adventurous element in his life was now limited to the casual one-night stands, and he felt that it wasn't enough anymore. He was almost thirty-four years old, and he felt with dread that his wild days would be over, soon. The crowd in the Babylon was getting younger and younger, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his title as the Stud of Liberty Avenue much longer. If he wanted to be honest with himself – which he avoided at all costs whenever he could – he didn't even want it anymore.
The only problem was, he didn't really know what he wanted instead. Dreading commitment like he did, it would have been too extreme of a change, and besides, his reputation would most likely kill any opportunity of a committed relationship. At least here, in Pittsburgh.
So, he was understandably happy to hear the phone ring. It gave him the chance to distract himself from his depressing thoughts. He picked up the receiver before Cynthia, his once assistant and now top ad executive, could do it for him.
"Kinnetic," he said curtly.
"This is Catherine DuBois, assistant director of the Girard Fashion House," a sultry female voice with a soft French accent replied. "I'd like to speak with Mr. Brian Kinney, please."
"This must be your lucky day," Brian replied sarcastically. "You are speaking with him."
"Tres bien," she actually sounded relieved. "I'm calling you on behalf of Monsieur Girard. He has some… interest in Brown Athletics and was impressed with your recent campaign. He'd like to meet you to discuss further… business opportunities."
"What sort of business?" Brian's curiosity was picked. Small as it might be, the Girard Fashion House was at least as famous as Dior, Gucci or Versace.
Besides, it would be a challenge. After having worked like a slave to make Kinnetic the best agency in town, the business practically ran itself nowadays. Cynthia had everything under control and Ted handled the finances expertly. Most of the time, he was practically unnecessary for the day-to-day business. Only when they had to woo a particularly important business partner were his charms still needed.
"We'll send you the preliminaries via e-mail," the French woman replied, "but Monsieur Girard insists on a personal meeting. When could you take a plane to Los Angeles?"
"To Los Angeles?" Brian was more than a little stunned, unable to even guess what the famous Victor Girard would need him for so urgently.
"We'll provide the flight ticket, of course," the woman on the phone said, probably misunderstanding his hesitation, "as well as your accommodations in LA for the time of your visit. All you need is to give me the date of your arrival."
"Well," Brian was still a little flabbergasted, but he'd never been a man to waste a good opportunity… in any area. He checked his time planner. "I have a business meeting on Thursday in town, and another one in Chicago on next Monday, but if your boss is willing to see me on the weekend…" He very much doubted it, but it was a way to find out how serious these guys were about all this.
"Excellent," the woman said. "I'll have your flight ticket booked and waiting for you on the airport. Claude Bellamy, Monsieur Girard's personal assistant will fetch you here in LA."
She hung up, leaving Brian slightly bewildered but willing to pick up a challenge. To which, however, he needed professional help, not having all too much idea about fashion. Well, he did have a good – and quite expensive – taste when it came to his own clothes, but he wasn't particulary well-versed in what was considerd the latest hit in the more… flamboyant circles. Which, he was sure, the rather conservative Victor Girard was looking for. The only campaign that had something to do with fashion was the underwear one for Brown Athletics, and that one was brought about by Emmett. Which meant, he needed Emmett for this potentially lucrative job.
With Girard paying for his flight ticket, he could afford to pay Emmett's, and if need must be, he'd be able to spend a day or two in the same room with the drama queen of Pittsburgh. Besides, Emmett could use a change of scenery after the all the recent stress in his life.
Decision made, Brian picked up the phone and called Emmett's new place.
"Hi Auntie Em," he said, grinning, "how do you feel about spending the weekend in LA?"
Emmett was enthusiastic, of course – he loved travelling but rarely had the chance to do so, and never before for free – and four days later they boarded the plane together. Emmett had the time of his life, flirting shamelessly with the pretty flight attendants, males and females alike, not out of some suddenly awakened interest for the opposite gender, just for the fun of it, and was declared the cutest passenger of the season. It wasn't really surprising. Emmett's childlike happiness about the unexpected trip was near irresistible – even though slightly irritating after the first couple of hours. But finally they reached LA airport without any major incident and were about to leave the plane.
"Emmett," Brian warned his hyper friend one last time, "this might turn out the biggest job I've ever caught… or will ever catch. If I get it, I'll see that you get hired as my fashion expert. But if you screw it up because you can't keep your dick in your pants, I'll rip off your nuts and stuff them into your mouth, understand?"
"No need to be rude, darling," Emmett said in her best drag queen manner. "I'm spontaneous, not an idiot, you know… ooh, see that little appetizer over there?"
"That's exactly what I mean," Brian elbowed him in the ribs roughly. "I'm about to have my most important business meeting ever, and you'll not ruin it for me by drooling over every piece of ass that might walk by."
"Sorry," Emmett blushed in embarrassment, because Brian was right, of course. He did tend to forget important things when he saw a pretty man. "I'll restrain myself."
"See that you do, or I'll turn you into a soprano," Brian threatened, and Emmett pulled in his neck, knowing that his friend was serious.
They walked out into the arrival lounge. Barely had they looked around when they were already approached by a – for LA measures – unnaturally pale young man with ice cold dark eyes and slightly long, jet-black hair that reached to the collar of his dark burgundy jacket. The jacket had the gold-embroidered emblem of the Girard Fashion House on its breast pocket.
"Mr. Kinney?" the young man asked with a slight French accent, after checking out a picture on his palmtop. "I'm Claude Bellamy. Monsieur Girard sent me to drive you to your temporary quarters," he gave Emmett a strange look. "You… came with company?"
"He's my fashion expert," Brian replied with a meaningful look at Emmett's half-transparent shirt with the little sparkling gizmos scattered all over it. "Is that a problem? We can share the hotel room."
"That won't be necessary, sir," the coldly elegant young man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You've been assigned one of the guest rooms in Monsieur Girard's establishment, the Club D'Oblique. We'll be able to open another guest room for Mr…"
"Honeycutt," Emmett provided helpfully. The young man raised an eyebrow.
"Oh… a stage name," he said lamely, losing his icy superiority for a moment. Emmett nearly bent over in amusement.
"Not exactly, sweetie. My father would find the idea… well, less than funny…"
"It's his real name," Brian told the little snot, fighting his own irritation. This smooth-licked lackey had no right to make fun of Emmett's name. "Can we go now?"
The young man apologized immediately and – after fetching their luggage – led them to a long, elegant black limousine… with tinted windows. Emmett was outside himself, of course, chatting excitedly about his time with the late George Schickel, but Brian was getting uncomfortable. He was a cynic and a realist, and he knew well enough that his moderate success back in Pittsburgh wasn't enough for a big fish like Victor Girard to roll out the red carpet for him like this. Either the fashion czar was in deep shit to fly him in for a campaign, or he wanted something that Brian wasn't sure he was willing to do. The only question was how could he escape – and haul Emmett out – should this turn out to be some sort of sick trap.
"Em," he murmured in a voice that was barely audible," stick to me all the time. This whole… thing seems too good to be true. This driver guy is giving me the creeps… we must be ready to bolt, if necessary."
Unbeknownst to them, the young Toreador driving the car could hear their every word – well, their every heartbeat, actually – with his acute vampire hearing. A thin, unpleasant smile appeared in the corners of Claude Bellamy's mouth, smelling the humans' fear. Good. They should fear him.
The D'Oblique seemed to be one of those typical single clubs that stuck in the 1980s permanently – only for a slightly wealthier and more snobbish clientele than the average. It had a dance floor, a stage area and a large, dimly lit room for those who just wanted to sit and talk – or make out. A handsome young black man tended the bar – Emmett nearly ate him up with his eyes and earned a wink and an understanding grin for his efforts – and an apparently Italian waiter, who wore his long, curly black hair in a ponytail, zigg-zagged between the tables, charming everyone out of their underwear, regardless of age or gender, while serving them their drinks. Brian gave him a speculative look.
There wasn't much going on at the moment, as it was early afternoon. So they could spot an elegant blonde in the "little black dress" that French women had developed to perfection during the 20th century coming to greet them.
"Mr. Kinney?" he asked, and Brian realized the softly accented voice that had called him four days ago. He nodded, and she proffered him a hand.
"Bienvenu. I'm Catherine DuBois. We've phoned."
"My pleasure, Ms DuBois," Brian shook her hand. "This is my… associate, Emmett Honeycutt."
"Enchantée," she gave Emmett, who, carried away by the spirit of the moment, kissed her hand in a theatrical manner, a seductive smile, apparently not caring that the young man stood out of the clientele of the club like a sore thumb. "I'm the manager of this establishment and the business partner of Monsieur Girard. I assume you were surprised to have been assigned quarters here instead of a hotel…"
"A little," Brian admitted carefully. "The limo with the tinted glasses is… unusual, too."
She redirected that sultry smile at him. "Oh, sorry to have worried you. Monsieur Girard has a… skin condition, he cannot take much direct sunlight. I should have sent another car."
"I see," Brian said; it was a convincing explanation, but he wasn't about to lower his defences just yet.
"As for the rooms," she continued, "it's standard procedure with potential associates of Monsieur Girard's. He has a private office and a penthouse above the club, although he doesn't actually live here. Claude will take your luggage to the guest rooms," she added, her manner becoming colder and authoritive.
"Oui, Madame," the pale young man bowed and hurriedly obeyed. Mme DuBois turned back to the visitors.
"Allow me to show you the way to Monsieur Girard's office. This will be a short informal meeting only, in the presence of his lawyer. The actual interview will take place later in the afternoon, when you've rested a little and some of Monsieur Girard's associates have arrived."
"May I ask a question?" Emmett intervened, batting his eyelashes amiably. Mme DuBois smiled.
"Mais oui, go on!"
"Is here everyone French?" Emmett blurted out, and she laughed.
"No, of course not! But many of Monsieur Girard's business partners are. These are associations that go back two or three generations between their respective families. Follow me, please."
She led ed them into an old-fashioned, elegant office above the club. It had wood-panelled walls, stained glass windows and expensive furniture made of dark, polished wood and black leather. Really classy, Brian noticed, but perhaps a century or a half outdated. It was very old wealth that was represented there.
"Victor, your visitors are here," Mme DuBois said in an easy, familiar manner that didn't really match the stiffly elegant surroundings. The man whom she addressed was tall, with wavy, elegantly greying brown hair and a vivid face that seemed on constant motion – actually, he'd match everyone's bad cliché of French people. The hand-tailored silk shirt and slacks and the hand-sewn, soft shoes revealed that they were dealing with someone rich and important.
The only other person in the room was an auburn-haired man in an Armani suit who had 'lawyer' written all over him. They were sitting on a black leather sofa at a marble-plated coffee table.
Victor Girard rose and shook first Brian's, then Emmett's hand in a genuinely friendly manner.
"Welcome to my humble establishment, gentlemen. May I introduce my lawyer, Monsieur Phillipe Navital?"
Navital didn't bother to shake hands with them; he remained seated and simply nodded in greeting. His manners were a lot more subdued, and his cold, calculating look belied the apparent softness of his handsome face. He was definitely a shark – one that Brian found enticing.
"I'm merely an observer at the moment," he explained. "And to provide Monsieur Girard the data my agency has acquired about you, Mr. Kinney, if necessary."
"Please, please, have a seat," Girard gestured towards the deep, comfortable black leather armchairs on the other side of the table. "Our immediate goal is to gain a first impression of each other, although, as you can guess, we have checked you out as well as it was possible in the shortness of time. Catherine, ma chere, can you recommend us some good wine? Red, of course."
"Bien sûr," she smiled that slow, sly smile of her again, naming a wine that Brian was familiar with from upper-class movies only.
"Catherine is a trained sommeliere," Girard told his guests proudly. "One of the best in the entire California, I may add. Nobody knows as much about wine as she does."
"Impressive," Brian said blankly while the woman was giving the order on phone, "But I doubt it very much that you've had fly me in all the way from Pittsburgh just to talk about wine with me."
It was a risky approach, but he was fed up with all the pussyfooting around the actual business. To his relief, Girard grinned.
"You are very direct. I like that. Tres bien, I'll give you the problem in a nutshell. Less than a year ago, a popular actress started her own business in the fashion scene. Due to her popularity among young people above all else, she could become serious concurrence for us. We can't allow that. So we want to start an aggressive campaign to drive her back, before it's too late. We want to do it on two fronts: we need to win at least some of the young customers back, and we want to extend our influence to the gay community, which has been an unexploited market for too long. You do have good connections to that community. And you have the reputation to be aggressive and ruthless, to have an abstract way of thinking, and you're said to like a good challenge. Those are the traits we need to give our business a new swing. Are you interested?"
Brian thought about the question unhurriedly.
"I assume you don't mean just your own fashion house, right?" he then asked. Girard shook his head.
"Of course not. You'll meet the others later today. We'll have an extended meeting at 1900, where we can work out he details with Phillipe's help."
"What exactly do you expect from me?" Brian asked. "I can sell almost everything, of course, and Emmett here can tell you if a design can become a hit among queers, but…"
"That's exactly what we need," the lawyer interrupted. "Monsieur Girard has the experienced and talented designers who can do the actual work. You are needed to create and organize the campaign itself."
"However," Girard added, eyeing Emmett's outfit with professional interest, "I'd welcome Mr. Honeycutt's input. Maybe we can work out for him a contract with the designer studio. What are you doing for a living, Mr. Honeycutt?"
"Emmett, please," the man in question batted his eyelashes. "Well, I've tried various jobs, from window dressing through naked house cleaning to Web porn star. At the moment, I'm working for a catering service… an absolutely serious one, I swear," he added hurriedly.
Girard's eyes literally bulged for a moment – apparently, he hadn't Brian's friends checked out – and the lawyer could barely hold his amusement.
"That says nothing about his fashion sense, Victor," he said with forced seriousness. "You should give him a chance. I think Celeste would just love him."
"Oh, no," Emmett panicked visibly, "thanks for the generous offer, but I'm not into girls."
"You'll love this one," the lawyer chuckled. "He's not really a girl… well, he might be one now, but he started out as a man. And he's gorgeous as transgender singers go."
"Really?" Emmett's eyes lit up in childlike excitement. "I adore transvestites! Why, when Godiva first…"
"Emmett," Brian warned him in a low voice, "think of the safety of your private parts…"
The arrival of the wine saved poor Emmett from mortal embarrassment and the necessity to explain what the remark was supposed to mean. It was brought by the young Italian waiter of the D'Oblique, him with the long hair and the unique swing of hips, and when Brian tasted it, his eyebrows lifted, impressed, forgetting even the waiter for a moment. Although he preferred beer on the daily basis and tequila in the moments of a crisis, he knew an excellent red wine when he met one. Emmett, always a connoisseur of fine things, was out of his head from delight. The conversation turned to causal things after that, and shortly thereafter the meeting was broken up.
"We'll all be seeing each other at 1900," Phillipe Navital said to Brian before parting. "I'm looking forward to knowing you better, Mr. Kinney… a lot better," he added in a low, suggestive voice. Brian grinned.
"It'll be my pleasure."
"I certainly hope so," the lawyer flashed him an unexpectedly charming smile and left. Emmett pouted.
"It's not fair! The most delicious guys always hit on you."
"Calm down, Em," Brian grinned. "By the generous choices only in this place, you'll find someone, too."
"Well, I'd better do," Emmett replied, "otherwise what fun would the whole thing be?"
"Em, you're such a slut," Brian laughed, shaking his head, but his voice was strangely fond.
"I know," Emmett replied nonchalantly, "but at least I'm honest. And cute."
"You're a queen," Brian patted his butt fondly, "and as Mikey likes saying, these days it takes real guts to be a queen in a world full of commoners."
Emmett looked at him in pleasant surprise. "You think I'm brave?"
"Perhaps," Brian grinned, "but perhaps you're just completely nuts. Anyway, let's have a break and something to eat, Queen Em. I have the distinct suspicion that negotiations won't be all that easy tonight."
The End - for now