Chapter 5: Romantically Aspirational
1423 Words
Rafferty Cole POV
“A graph with a legend. Must be serious.”
Raff had been in a lot of meetings recently, but this was the first one that required a map key.
He’d sat down, looked at the graph on the screen, and looked at the nine people.
“Come on, Bex, even you must realize this is overkill.”
Bex’s index fingernail found her teeth.
“The partners are becoming—” The man at the far end paused.
“p*****s?” Raff offered.
“—concerned about the association.”
“You’ve always been too nice, Holt.”
Bex cleared her throat.
“The Berlin interview is trending again,” she said.
Raff looked at the ceiling.
“Hashtag love of my life gets—”
“I remember what I said.”
“Good.” She clicked to the next slide. “Because Lionsgate is questioning your involvement in the Love or Loss mini-series promo cycle. The word they used was—”
“The mini-series got approved?”
“Yes.”
“So what exactly are they questioning?”
“They want you available and—” Bex paused. “Functional was the word they used.”
“Functional,” Raff said. “I’ve never missed a shoot,” he said. “Not one. In seven years.”
Holt looked at him for a long moment.
“You know what your problem is, Raff?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“People don’t fall in love with you anymore.” He said it without blinking. “They just watch you.”
Raff placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Ouch, that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me, you’re hurting my feelings, Holt.”
Holt leaned forward. “The studio is—”
“Not going to drop me,” Raff said pleasantly. “What did we gross last time?” He asked rhetorically. “Two billion dollars? No? Right? Please, do continue.”
“It’s hopeless.”
Holt rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.
Bex slid a folder across the table.
The slide on the screen shifted to a quote:
[Rafferty Cole no longer feels romantically aspirational.]
Raff looked at it.
“Romantically aspirational,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Is that a phrase someone actually wrote, or did an AI spit it out?”
“It’s from the audience sentiment report.”
“Right.” He pressed his thumb to his jaw. “And the solution to me not being romantically aspirational is—” he gestured at the folder, “—this.”
He picked it up and opened it.
“The solution,” Bex said, “is to stabilize your public image before the promo cycle. We’re bringing in an image strategist.”
“A what? Many big words today, was the secondary purpose of this meeting to embarrass me? Oh, right—silly me, that was the main purpose.”
“She is someone whose specific expertise is rebuilding public perception.”
“You’re hiring someone to patch up my personality.”
“We’re hiring someone to remind audiences you have one.”
He had to give it to Bex. Seven years and she had gotten better at countering him.
Vivienne Le Clair.
He read the name once.
Then he read the next section of the page. Clients, A rapper named Kairo Saint who’d gone from industry punchline to Vanity Fair cover in six months.
A photo clipped to the inside cover. A professional headshot of a woman in blonde hair and green eyes.
He closed the folder.
“Ugh, even the name already sounds like a lot,” he said.
“We’re all pulling our weight here, Raff,” Bex said, standing up to signal the end of the meeting. “A little effort on your end would go a long way.”
The nine people filed out like they were relieved to be done with the meeting.
Raff secretly enjoyed how uncomfortable his mere presence made them.
He stayed in his chair looking at the ceiling.
Caspian Griffin appeared in the doorway with two cups of coffee.
“They made a graph?” he said.
“I know.”
“About your feelings.”
“I know, Cass. There was even a legend.”
“Damn.” Caspian set a coffee down and dropped into the chair beside Raff.
Raff picked up the coffee.
“I hate this industry.” He took a sip.
“The industry has thoughts about you too.”
Caspian looked at the folder on the table. “Vivienne Le Clair?”
“You know her?”
“Of her.” He tilted his head. “You remember Kairo Saint’s whole situation — that was her. Man was trending for blacking out on live television and she turned it into a cover story in six months.”
“So she’s a one hit wonder,” he said. “And now she’s looking for another hit in me.”
Cas stared at him. “You’re an asshole,” he said.
“I’ve been told, a romantically unaspirational asshole.”
“That’s a new one—I’m guessing you're going to be difficult about it?”
“Almost certainly.”
Cas nodded like this was the correct and expected answer. He leaned back and looked at the graph still on the screen.
“You look terrible by the way,” he said. “Very on-brand.”
“Thank you.”
“When’s the last time you actually had a good night's sleep?”
“I sleep.”
“You pass out, different thing—p***y, that’s what you need.”
Raff didn’t respond.
The silence held for a moment.
“You searched her name again,” Cass said.
“No.”
“Bro I literally saw her name in the search bar of your laptop.”
“Caspian—.”
“Seven years, man.”
“I know how many years it’s been.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” He looked at him. “Most people stop counting.”
“You know there’s a kid out there, Cass.”
His voice broke.
“I know.” Cass said quietly.
“Seven years old give or take.”
Cass didn’t say anything for a moment.
“I screwed up, Cass,” Raff whispered, his throat tightening. “I know I did. But she didn’t have to run. She didn’t have to take the baby and just vanish into thin air.”
“And you’ve looked. Everywhere.” Cas rubbed his face tiredly. “Seven years, Raff. Maybe... maybe she just doesn't want to be found.”
“Yeah, she left for good,” Raff said. “She chose to.”
“Yeah.” Cass turned his coffee cup in a slow circle. “And you’ve been spiraling ever since.”
“I’m not—.”
“The Berlin interview resurfaced.”
Raff’s jaw moved.
“Ugh, not you too—”
“You told a journalist the love of your life gets f—”
“I know what I said.”
“f**k every night—on live television.” He finished it anyway. “And then it became a meme.” He paused. “Which I personally find hilarious.” Cass chuckled.
“f**k off.”
Raff laughed. It came out rusty.
Cass reached into his inside jacket pocket and carefully pulled out a small leather pouch as if it held holy water. He poured out a pinch of green herb and began rolling a tight joint.
Raff watched him. “That the good stuff?”
Cas looked up, “Is that an insult?” He went back to twisting the paper. “This is the premium Afghanistan pack, my friend.”
He lit it and took a drag, then another.
He leaned back then passed it across the table.
Raff took it and took a pull.
He looked at the folder in front of him.
“Vivienne Le Clair.”
He said it in the most aggressively incorrect French he could produce, with the accent of someone who had been told once what French sounded like then totally forgot.
Caspian lost it completely, choking on his own laugh.
They were both laughing. It took a full minute to stop.
Caspian wiped his eye.
“You’re a f*****g clown.”
“Madame Le Clair,” Raff said again, using the absurd accent.
The laughter erupted again.
- Writer
