So Far Apart
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, period.
Setting: A little before Tristan is sent to Military School by his parents.
"So are we agreed?" the silky male voice hissed at him as though trying to twist itself around him, lock him into a position from which he could not wriggle himself out of. But William DuGrey was hardly listening to his business partner, preferring instead to twirl his black fountain pen between his fingers and let his thoughts drift to his impossible son. Where had he gone wrong? Why was his Tristan behaving this way? What had he done? Was it even his fault that Tristan thought he was the sole misfortune in his young life? "If we are agreed," the manipulating voice repeated, somewhat impatiently, "please sign your name right here." Oh, right. William DuGrey was poised to scribble down a signature on the bottom of a lengthy role of pristine, business-like paper just as a young man with tousled black hair opened the door somewhat hastily, interrupting Mr. DuGrey and his colleague.
"Sirs," the twenty-year-old boy addressed the two men sitting across from each other politely, acknowledging both with a slight bob of the head. Mr. DuGrey and Mr. Selestine both nodded their heads curtly in the boy's direction, Mr. DuGrey in a I-don't-mind manner and Mr. Selestine in a you-better-hurry manner. The boy was shaking a little from what must have been a tiring run up the long flight of stairs that ended in Mr. Selestine's office. Turning to Mr. DuGrey, the boy addressed him. "There has been a phone-call from one 'Mr. Charleston, principal of Chilton High'." Mr. DuGrey groaned aloud and his pen-twirling became significantly more violent. What had Tristan done this time? "He called to report that today, which was an important day at Chilton, as they were having exams, Tristan DuGrey was reported to be absent without excuse, and therefore probably playing Hooky. He requests that Tristan's father, Mr. William DuGrey, consult and speak with his son this evening concerning the events of today."
"Thank you, Sid," William thanked the young man in what he hoped was a neutral voice as he handed him a crumpled dollar bill as a tip. In truth, he felt no thanks toward Sid at all and wished he'd at least had the decency to wait and deliver his unhappy message once Mr. Selestine and he were finished with the money-making business they were attending to. He was horribly embarrassed that Mr. Selestine should know what a terribly, unbelievably bad, misbehaving boy he had. He would think it was William's fault Tristan was this way and think badly of him, which was not good for business at all. He could feel his cheeks reddening as he picked up his black leather briefcase, nodded a curt goodbye, we'll-finish-this-later sort of nod, and then was out the door as soon as possible.
Mr. DuGrey stamped angrily down the stairs, huffing and puffing with fury at his son, his knuckles, clutching the black leather briefcase full of formal papers, were white and his face was an interesting white-spotted red. William DuGrey didn't like to get angry. No, in fact, he hated it. And yet he got angry all the time since Tristan had started the new school year. Sometimes he had misgivings and thought about disowning his son. But he knew that would never happen. You could choose your friends but you could not choose your relatives. Tristan was his son no matter what, and nothing, he sometimes thought miserably, could change that. And as long as Tristan was his son, he had to deal with him as his son. This meant he was responsible for the damn boy and his god-damned stupid actions. What a burden. But it was his cross to bear, William told himself firmly and yet rather forlornly. Ooh, Tristan was going to get it when he got home. He was going to have a taste of William Janan DuGrey at his worst.
-&-
"Yes, Hello? This is the Royal Family Fashion Saloon; may I ask who is calling?" a sweet, sugar-coated voice with a slight, cute accent answered the phone. The woman who owned this voice was honey-blonde, tall and slender, with big, bright blue eyes and was a stickler for fashion. She had on several coats of blue eye-shadow, red lipstick, blush, and blood-red nail polish on all twenty of her long, manicured nails. She wore a lengthy, rose-red dress that freely exposed her showy curves and clung to her body as though for dear life. It ended somewhere before her ankles and began somewhere a little too low for modesty, no-sleeved and with a 'fashionable' slit running up the side of the right leg. She was pretty, she was rich, and she owned a Fashion Saloon that offered manicures, pedicures, hair-styling, makeup-applying and lots and lots of showy clothes. She was also, unquestionably, Rose DuGrey.
"This is Janice Dowell, calling in to make sure that the sea-blue dress, the one with the little green beads on the hems, is still available?" a tentative, insecure sort of voice answered hesitantly. Rose quickly said a rushed, "Wait just a moment" and, pressing the phone against her stomach so that nothing she said would be heard by Janice Dowell called out shrilly in her most unpleasant, commanding voice.
"Does anyone know if the Newbury Port dress is still in stock?"
Daisy Conner called back while pinning up a woman's brown locks into a tight, ballerina-bun, "Yup! Third shelf on the right in the storage room. Saw it there just an hour ago."
Rose nodded her thanks to Daisy and then put the phone back to her ear, adopting her sugar-coated tone again. "Indeed it is, Madame. Would you like us to keep it in a special place for you? That would be an extra five dollars." Rose was an expert businesswoman; reserving usually came free, but she could tell that this Janice was too unsure of herself to try to challenge this. And, although she knew somewhere in the deep, dark, unexplored crevices of her mind that she didn't need the extra five dollars and Janice probably did, Rose did it anyway.
"Um…yes, I would like to put it on hold please. It's for my daughter, her first prom, you see and I really-"
"Yes, yes, I'll make sure to put it on hold," Rose quickly interrupted before Janice could start bothering her about the petty, uninteresting details of her life and then sharply hung up. Turning to Daisy, she called out, "Put the Newbury Port dress on hold when you get the chance, Daisy! I'm going out for a while to get some fresh air. All these intoxicating fumes…they get to a woman after a while." Rose walked over to a row of hooks and selected her rabbit-fur coat from one of the hooks, put it on, and was about to walk out the glass doors of her shop when the phone rang again.
Irritated, she stomped over to the phone, picked it up in one slender, perfectly nail-polished hand and said, "Yes, Hello? This is the Royal Family Fashion Saloon; may I ask who is calling?" in her sugar-coated voice. Rose was surprised to hear a no-nonsense, deep male voice answer her.
"May I talk to Rose DuGrey please? This is Mr. Charleston, principal of Chilton High." Chilton High…was that the school her son went to?
"This is Rose DuGrey, how can I help you Mr. Charleston?"
"Oh, hello Mrs. DuGrey. I was just calling to-"
"I prefer 'Madame DuGrey' if you please," she informed Mr. Charleston without hesitation. Mr. Charleston sounded a little taken aback but continued anyway.
"Madame DuGrey, I was calling to talk to you about your son. It was found out that he was playing Hooky today while the most important exams of the year are going on. If you could just talk to him when you're both home this evening that would be helpful."
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Charleston," Rose told him sweetly, trying to keep the chilly tones from creeping in. "I will try to talk to Tristan tonight. Goodbye." And with that she hung up.
Rose DuGrey walked out of her Saloon nearly seething with rage. She had been planning to go to that expensive restaurant tonight, the one that served the most marvelous fat-free jell-o she had ever tasted, and now she would have to cancel. She would have to pay to use a dirty, vulgar taxi to get home to Hartford, and then she'd have to give her son a lecture. And it was his entire fault. If only he could be less conspicuous, a simple studious little boy. If only she didn't get so many phone calls from his school every week, asking her to talk to him about this and about that. Now she would have to go home again, for the second time that week, and she usually only went home once a month or so, preferring to stay at one expensive hotel or another. So much quieter, so much more comfortable, and so much more practical. When she did get home that night, she told herself, Tristan really was in for it. She planned for him to get a taste of Rose DuGrey at her worst. He wouldn't soon forget that evening.
