B E A U R E N A U D

   There was something incredibly comforting about spending so many hours in the Twelfth Night, being surrounded by masterpieces and like-minded devotees of art. Working on her birthday, then, was no burden to her – it kept her mind occupied, her hands busy, and gave little room for her to ruminate on birthdays past. There was a definitive 50/50 split between enjoyable birthdays and horrific one, and dwelling on either one of them was of no use to her. So working today of all days was truly a blessing. But those who lived to revel, such as Beau, likely did not see it in such a positive light. All the same, when she saw a silhouette in her doorway, heard his tongue curl lovingly around his mother tongue, she couldn’t smother her warm smile. 

    “I don’t recall asking for your forgiveness,” she responds breezily, rising from her chair and shutting her laptop with a quick snap. “A present, however, I’ll never deny. Is it something sparkling, perhaps? Dior? Dolce? Versace?” He steps back, holding up the bag tantalizingly, baiting her to come closer. And she does, narrowing her eyes at him ruefully. “Beau Renard, thinking about someone other than himself for 24 hours? Impossible.” 

    Snatching the bag from his fingertips, she ushered him out of her office, closing the door behind her. Beau was one of the few people with no ties and no allegiances – save to himself – that she found thoroughly entertaining. His narcissism, debauchery, and avid desire to do nothing more than indulge was like utter catnip to the Capulet consigliere. He was a study of how far human morality could fall with little reason as to why – and she was more than happy to take his hand in hers and drag him that much further. “I should break your heart much more often.”

“If you take the bag, you might find out,” He grins in response, words quick to tumble from his mouth. “It could be the certificate for a painting, or a commission waiting for you to sit for the piece. A leather bag from my good friends at Chanel, perhaps? Though you wound me to suggest that I would ever gift anything that was not French.” There’s a sigh, a forlorn shake of his head before: “Another strike upon my heart.” The drama is there in his voice and in another life perhaps he should have been, could have been a stage actor, but to work with words day in and day out is to master them and bend them to one’s will and make people see what they want to see, while uttering them into existence and to have them curl lovingly into the air to meet another’s ears was a whole drama altogether-- and of course, it’s all in French. And as a playful response to the utter impossibility of his thinking of anyone but himself, he merely winks. “I think of beauty, don’t I? The joys of being alive and the pleasure in indulgence?”

Beau allows her to take the bag before he continues, both hands tucked into his pockets as he steps out of her office all prim and proper with the way he stands as though he constantly needs to peacock about. “If you must know, procuring your present was half the fun. The other half, of course, was putting it all together in that little bag in your hands-- and, yes, I did that myself, not my assistant.” It’s a laugh that leaves him next, easy as it rolls off of his shoulders and he turns his head to glance at Rafaella. “Nothing would devastate me more than you truly breaking my heart--” But what heart is there to find? What heart is there to break? They’re only words, aren’t they? He ate his own heart long ago and the void in his chest-- “But, I do think you’ll have to fight Daphne for that role. Or the entirety of France.” 

“This is a sin. The worst of sins, in fact, this is an atrocity, a crime against nature. I cannot believe you.” It’s a quiet drawl that leaves him, holding a rather large gift bag in one hand as he leans against the open doorway. His expression might be only be playfully judgmental (there’s a hint of a smirk at his lips after all and the corners of his eyes have crinkled slightly), but he means every word he says, breathing them in his native French before he shakes his head. “Working on your birthday, mademoiselle, you break my heart.” 

It’s all in jest, of course. There is no heart to be broken in Beau Renaud. Not when he loves himself so much-- as especially not when he’s fluttering about on some pretty mixture of narcotics that he’s begun to develop a fondness for. Or, perhaps it’s merely a passing fancy. There ought to be something better of course: like a new scarf, a new suit, a better tailor in the city. It’s only a matter of time before he finds it. And in the same way that he wants to find the best the city that has to offer, he’s made it a point to try to make as many friends as he can. After all, he can’t throw parties without all the right attendees. Rafaella’s one of them.

Friday, 22 March 2019 Unspecified Cafe, Verona 1115 h / 11:15am Closed for @beaurenaud

     It’s been a long day, already. Part of it, no doubt, is the lack of sleep he’d gotten last night, and the hair-raising memory of being both the focus of Ivan Rahal’s curiosity, and pinned by the business end of Katarina DuPont’s gun. It’s also in part due to the fact that his leg is killing him, as well as all of his joints it seems, and he’s decided today would be a good day to check up on a little pet project of his. 

          Beau Renaud. 

    Even thinking the name makes his lip curl, equal parts bemusement, disdain, and disgust. He’s been sitting on a bench nursing a long-cold coffee and picking at a crumbly pastry for the better part of two hours, now, waiting for the man to show his face at the usual haunt. Though he gave himself plenty of time to get here with his injury, it seems he’s either arrived far too early or far too late to catch him, but– no, there he is. Meandering down the street, and right into the cafe. It takes a moment for Battista to stand, as stiff with cold and inactivity as his joints are, and his half-eaten food and congealed coffee are tossed in a trash bin before he follows the man inside, cool and collected, and then he takes a seat across from him as if he were invited, leaning his crutches against the table with a soft sigh and settling back in his chair. His face is blank, sunglasses firmly in place. 

     “A fine morning, isn’t it?” As if they’re old friends, as if he’s here to talk to an old friend, but there’s no warmth to be found in the rasp of his voice. Like he isn’t here to play an age-old game, in Verona. Like he isn’t playing for keeps. “Have you been keeping busy?”

It’s been a week since-- No, he’s not going to think about it. In fact, he isn’t thinking about it. The only thing on his mind at present is figuring out which suit he’s going to wear tonight and figuring out what time he should be leaving for Milan. After the disaster of last week, Beau has been busy glossing things over in L’Arena (and soothing the ruffled feathers of the reporters who still so desperately wanted to point fingers) and between his vices and need for coherence while working there’s been hardly an opportunity to even think of the benefit dinner he’s supposed to be hosting next week or get his hair trimmed. 

Speaking of hair, there’s a lock of it that’s fallen to his face as he keeps his head tilted down towards his phone. There’s a half thought to fix it, but he’ll fix his hair after he’s inside. Maybe if he has time after grabbing this pre-lunch caffè corretto, he can make it to a shop to get a trim-- or maybe he’ll find a new tie and pocket square to wear to the party he’s headed to tonight. 

It’s just after he’s taken a seat and spared a half-glance at the menu that he’s joined by-- mon dieu, does he have to ruin a Friday? Beau’s eye twitches the slightest bit as he inwardly winces at the very idea of having to converse in Italian beyond ordering food at the moment but he smiles. The man smiles and sets his phone down, gives a partly concerned glance towards the crutches. “Why do you…” What’s the word for sunglasses? Or crutches? He pauses, mouth partly open before he points to the crutches. It’s after that he answers Battista’s questions. “It’s fine,” He says first, then a shrug with: “Busy, yes. But busy’s good. For business. Have you seen the paper the past week?” No Montague mentions, neither have there been any Capulets.

The Due Torri Hotel’s ballroom is filled with the wide grins and curious eyes of Verona’s elite, chandeliers overhead casting halos above its occupants as bubbly Prosecco is constantly poured from behind counters, and amongst the chatter and glittering jewels is a live band performing some song that no one actually knows the name of but can recall enough that it’s pleasing to their ears. It’ll be like this for hours yet. Invitations to tonight’s engagement party being one of the most sought-after during La Festa Degli Innamorati, and as Beau had gone from one city of love to the next-- well, he had to make sure his grand entrance was as unforgettable as possible. 

He’s from one of the top families in Paris. Beau Renaud is the new publisher and editor-in-chief of L’Arena. The man practically glows now as he celebrates his engagement to one of Verona’s most beloved, and he doesn’t speak a lick of Italian. 

There hadn’t been enough time to learn much more than some poorly pronounced pleasantries before he’d been sent here, and thus far he’d been lucky to be able to speak to Daphne and her family in French as he settled into Verona. Yet, his secondary language of English can only get him so far with tonight’s guests, and that hardly counted for a third of them. It’s occurred to him in the past hour that having such a large party where he was expected to greet every guest wasn’t the best idea, but now that he’s here, he’d might as well make the best of it. 

Beau decidedly removes himself from a couple with a gracious apology and excuse of wishing to find his fiancee, and as he turns away, he seems to have found the answer to his prayers as the room around him glows all the brighter. 

Everett Craven: CEO and chairman of Craven & Ricci, philanthropist, Italian socialite, and the charming billionaire was voted last year’s fifth most eligible (non-royal) bachelor in Europe (Beau ranked fourth). Though to some end each of those things matter to Beau, what matters most at this second is that he knows the man speaks English. In record time and with surprising grace he makes his way halfway across the room, politely side-stepping and smiling past guests while keeping an eye on the man to make sure he doesn't disappear from his line of sight.

“My God, is that Everett Craven?”