In the back of the towncar, back to their hotel, Gwenaëlle attempts to process what has just happened.
A preliminary deal has been reached: a feature, a figure, the yet-to-be-determined tour dates that will make up the limited appearances Emeric will personally make joining him on stage. Agents and lawyers and probably Guilfoyle will hammer out a final agreement and until such time this is a gentleman's handshake and about as reliable... but de Lioncourt has excellent representation. They expect to see a contract next week, to be signed if satisfactory by the end of the next. It is certainly enough to be getting on with, and Emeric beside her is already thinking out loud although if pressed she couldn't be drawn on anything he's said for the last ten minutes.
The vampire, Lestat.
And he was.
Is.
She'd assumed, like so many other people with more excuse for the incredulity, that Molloy's book is a bunch of bullshit. An interesting meditation on grief and memory and monstrousness, lessened by his insistence that it's totally legit— nevermind that she knows vampires are real, what the fuck sort of vampire is going around publishing his life story?
de Lioncourt had seemed an obvious opportunist, either an outright grifter or a talented musician on the come up who'd seen an opening to do something splashy. Her father had taken the meeting, against her advice, because it'd sounded like a lark either way; the inquiry had piqued his curiosity, though he'd had low expectations going in. Now, of course, whoever the fellow really is was his new favourite fucking person, as magnetic as advertised, and he had been advertised because he was a real fucking vampire.
She had known it as soon as they'd walked into the room. She is almost certain he knew, just as quick, her recognition.
If she'd even considered it was a possibility she'd have been better positioned to pivot, to prevent—
“And we're expected at ten,” Emeric says, drawing her back to the present with a squeeze and pat of her knee. “I thought we might go to dinner first, sweetheart.”
Because Lestat would not be joining them for dinner. Because they were going to meet him later. Because he was a fucking vampire.
“Ten,” she repeats back to him, dutifully, “at— where are we meeting them?”
Him.
“That club you like, with the interior stage,” circular, in the center of the multiple balcony levels above and below it, “you remember, you threw me that lovely tour closer there last year.”
“Oh,” she says, “great. Yeah. Sure, dinner, first.”
no subject
A preliminary deal has been reached: a feature, a figure, the yet-to-be-determined tour dates that will make up the limited appearances Emeric will personally make joining him on stage. Agents and lawyers and probably Guilfoyle will hammer out a final agreement and until such time this is a gentleman's handshake and about as reliable... but de Lioncourt has excellent representation. They expect to see a contract next week, to be signed if satisfactory by the end of the next. It is certainly enough to be getting on with, and Emeric beside her is already thinking out loud although if pressed she couldn't be drawn on anything he's said for the last ten minutes.
The vampire, Lestat.
And he was.
Is.
She'd assumed, like so many other people with more excuse for the incredulity, that Molloy's book is a bunch of bullshit. An interesting meditation on grief and memory and monstrousness, lessened by his insistence that it's totally legit— nevermind that she knows vampires are real, what the fuck sort of vampire is going around publishing his life story?
de Lioncourt had seemed an obvious opportunist, either an outright grifter or a talented musician on the come up who'd seen an opening to do something splashy. Her father had taken the meeting, against her advice, because it'd sounded like a lark either way; the inquiry had piqued his curiosity, though he'd had low expectations going in. Now, of course, whoever the fellow really is was his new favourite fucking person, as magnetic as advertised, and he had been advertised because he was a real fucking vampire.
She had known it as soon as they'd walked into the room. She is almost certain he knew, just as quick, her recognition.
If she'd even considered it was a possibility she'd have been better positioned to pivot, to prevent—
“And we're expected at ten,” Emeric says, drawing her back to the present with a squeeze and pat of her knee. “I thought we might go to dinner first, sweetheart.”
Because Lestat would not be joining them for dinner. Because they were going to meet him later. Because he was a fucking vampire.
“Ten,” she repeats back to him, dutifully, “at— where are we meeting them?”
Him.
“That club you like, with the interior stage,” circular, in the center of the multiple balcony levels above and below it, “you remember, you threw me that lovely tour closer there last year.”
“Oh,” she says, “great. Yeah. Sure, dinner, first.”