Okay, this is one of those good news/bad news occasions. On the bright side, I updated ... yay! On the urm ... not so bright side, I'm going off to Europe during the summer (in fact, I might be gone by the time you review this) so it' going to be another 2 month wait till the next chapter. But don't worry, I'm going straight back to the writing table when I'm back. I promise! In fact, my slow updating in the past was not due to my lack of attention, but my inability to find time to write down my ideas. Once I have some time, I'll promise to update.
Sorry!
Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls do not belong to me. I don't see how you could've come to that conclusion.
Dedication: To Reeka (for being my PIC. Together we can't wait to see the crack team of Lex and Big Tom on TAR) and Kou Shun'u. The fact that you decided to read my stories and decided to leave a review at every single opportunity warms my fanfic writer heart. The fanfiction community can definitely use more of your kind of dedicated reviewers. I cannot express my gratitude enough. Thank you! wipes away tears of joys
12 - Me? What the Hell do You Think You're Doing?
Tristan went to work on Tuesday reasonably relaxed and optimistic. While the long weekend was undoubtedly eventful, he was also full of restless energy dedicated to his project. His project. He liked the way that rolled around his tongue. He was felt unnaturally proud of it despite that he had only been on it for a month and could hardly call it an accomplishment. But he was there from the moment he hatched the idea and had run with it. He felt justified when he couldn't talk of his project his project in anything other than an overtly protective manner.
He kept telling anybody who was willing to listen that this was like giving birth. But of course this wasn't like giving birth. For one, he was a man, and a man had no business knowing what giving birth was really like. Also, it's rather absurd to compare a museum project with a baby. Nonetheless, Tristan never let those pesky details distract him from using his analogy.
He just finished re-sorting a pile of slides with Kevin poked his head into his office.
"Hey Tris, got a minute?"
"Yeah." He meticulously slipped the slides into a binder while Kevin took a seat.
"How's that coming along?"
"Pretty good. Elle and I drawn up a preliminary list of the displays we wanted to include in the exhibit. Some of those belonged to the Met and it is a matter of re-sorting them. But there are a few from the Canadian National Gallery, The Prado, and The Lourve that I would really want to include as part of this."
"So you've done the majority of the planning."
"Yep. The next stage is to see if we can arrange some sort of exchange project with those museums." That was an unmistakable gleam in. Despite him having a BA background and that he would probably get a masters in fine arts had his father not gotten his way, there were times when he enjoyed his MBA education. Perhaps his father was right when he said that the DuGrey's were naturals when it came to making business deals. "The Canadians were eyeing one of our Degas and a Cézanne for their impressionist exhibition. I think I'm going to start with them."
"Good. Looks like everything is in control." Tristan, aside from his ongoing feud with Carmen Dowling, was generally an affable and efficient worker.
Which made this next part all the harder to say.
"Listen Tristan ..."
"Oh no. I hate it when people use that tone."
"What tone?"
"The tone that my grandpa used when he told me that Pongo died."
"Sorry ... who? What?"
"My grandpa's Dalmatian. She had a very sweet personality and she used to let me piggyback on her. She passed away when I was 6."
"Wait, a she? Shouldn't her name be Perdita?" Picking up on the obvious reference.
"She was a stray puppy and for the longest time my grandma thought she was a he. It didn't help the way her ears were black. By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late to change her name. Anyway, you were saying?"
"Right. Got carried away. I'm here to tell you that Elle will not be able to continue on this project."
"Is something wrong? Is she okay?"
"Oh no, she's fine. Actually, one of the missing Vermeer might have surfaced in Hong Kong. The trustees are interested in acquiring it if it is indeed an authentic Vermeer. Elle's expertise will be required over there."
"That would be great if it's real." He was excited for her. Elle had told him repeatedly that one of her goals was to find one of Vermeer's missing paintings. That goal was a lot harder than it sounded mainly because Vermeer only sign his works occasionally and his style varied so much that false hope were often given to a great imitator or nameless contemporaries.
"Well, she was one of the leading scholars in this area and the most qualified person that this organization could send."
"So who's taking her place? As much as I like it, it would be rather impossible for me to organize Metamorphoses on my own."
"Sorry boy, I whish you understand how much I hate to do this." Kevin took a deep breath. A breath that implied the beginning of some sort of doomsday news to Tristan. "Carmen will officially take over Elle's involvement with this project."
"What! Her?" He scoffed.
"She was the only one free."
"How about Lisa?"
"She has a project going on at The Cloisters and it would be a great strain on her to have to go back and forth between here and there."
"What about Patrick?"
"He and Anne are supervising the restoration of the Titian."
"Okay ... what about Lucy?"
"She's going on maternity leave by the end of the month. It would be a hassle for her to work on this for 4 weeks and then have a change of hands again."
"What about Remy?" Even he realized how ridiculous that suggestion sounded once he said it out loud. But to him, it still beat working with Carmen.
"Come on now, you and I both know that he was only here on exchange and he is going to be gone soon. Besides, he could hardly help you when it comes to negotiations. Admit it, Carmen is the best choice. She can be helpful at negotiations."
"I think you're mistaking 'negotiations' with 'throwing hissy fits.'" Tristan didn't mean to do this, but his disgruntled tone sliced through the air.
Kevin thought that, up till this moment, he was being reasonable. But enough was enough. As much as he loved the boy, his stubbornness would get him into trouble one of these days. To be honest, his hissy-fit skills were right there along with Carmen's. Even though he wasn't Tristan's boss, he had 5 years of expertise on him. He was not afraid to reprimand him as a friend and as somebody that was sick and tired of his petulant behavior.
"You know, I didn't have to tell you this. You could've gone to the next meeting and realize that Elle is on a plane bound for Hong Kong and Carmen took up her usual post. What I'm doing right now is giving you a heads up, a professional courtesy. I wish you can compose yourself and act in a semi-professional manner more suitable to your age. Maybe I'm not your boss, but let me warn you, if this kind of behavior continues don't be surprised when Michael take you out of this project." Kevin hated saying this, but the boy was due for a reality check. He needed to know that this little spat of theirs had to stop.
As expected, Tristan backed off. But his displeasure was still clearly there. "I'm sorry. I realize that I was out of line. It's just ..." he ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture that indicated his frustration, "Carmen and I don't exactly work well together."
"Then this is the perfect chance for you guys to start over. Maybe you guys will be friends once you know her better."
To avoid further confrontations, he didn't say what was on his mind when Kevin was sitting right across him. It wasn't until Kevin left his room and was at a great distance from his office did Tristan mutter, "I highly doubt that."
Meanwhile, across town Rory Gilmore was having a similar sort of work crisis. Albeit it really wasn't a full scale "crisis."
"Sorry Tim, let me just repeat what you said, or what I think you've said, in simpler words and tell me if I'm wrong. You want me to step over to Judy's territory and do a profile on Blair McCain, the fashion designer." Her editor nodded. "Are you nuts?"
She had heard of Blair McCain. Or more correctly, she had seen his work. His latest handbag was declared the "it" accessory of this season and a ridiculous amount of people were spending way too much money on what was essentially an overhyped hobo bag. As a proof of its hit status, street vendors across town were selling counterfeit versions of it on every single street corner. She failed to see what all this fuss was about.
In addition, this story belonged to the fashion and style territory and Rory was definitely not accustomed to that world. She was used to writing things that were less glamorous, with less use of words like "hottest colour" or "Spring's new look." Jess probably read her Vogue a lot more often than her. That is after considering Jess wouldn't touch it even if he was paid to do so. It wasn't as if they actually had territories and departments for specific stories, but there must have been other people in this building who were more willing to write something so ... trivial.
"Judy's reporting is okay, but her profile stories were a bit weak. It felt too ... USA Today. I want somebody with more experience for this."
"So it's a profile story and not a fashion show review." She clarified. Not that she had anything against fashion shows, but in the grand scheme of things, she considered herself to be inexperienced and reluctant at writing that.
"No you silly. Fashion week isn't till September. You're probably going to hang around him for a day, observe what he does and make him open up to you. Besides, if I give you fashion show coverage, half of the girls will claw me to death!" A few of the girls already thought Tim displayed blatant favoritism towards Rory. To a certain degree, he admitted that it was true. But since she was one of his best writers, he did not hesitate to assign her on some of the juicer stories.
"Fine, I'll take it." She said as if she had a choice. "When is it due?"
"2 weeks." He handed her the file with the addresses and contact info. "And check up with Frankie. He's the photog for this. Mr. McCain is a busy guy and he prefers to have the photos taken during the interview."
"Okay."
"Rory, I can always rely on you. You're my best."
"Sure." She pretended to believe that. "I won't hesitate to quote you the next time I want a raise. Just a minor note though, people usually do the sweet talking before I agree to go out of my way."
Tristan then embarked on one of the most stressful workweek he had ever experienced. Working with Carmen was as horrible as he expected. At first, they reluctantly stroke up a truce, pretending that their clashing ideologies won't be the root of any further arguments. Unfortunately, the truce was broken in a mere 3 hours when Tristan stated that they were not picking a certain painting that Carmen wanted over what he already had in mind.
He thought that since he and Elle had made up the preliminary list, Carmen should just deal with it rather than trying to make adjustments to it. Besides, in order for them to work within the deadline, they couldn't backtrack and spend any more time on changing the displays. To her, he was just not respecting her artistic input and was plain dissing her. Both were partially right and some of their points were valid. Perhaps these minor kinks could've been easily solved had they not approached each other with heavy blinders.
His life would've been better had Rory been around to talk to him and sooth his temper. But he could only get in touch with her voice mailbox every time he called her. The fact that she was out of reach irritated him more so than it should be.
It was Friday night and he was ready to go home and put away his work debacle for the next two days. But on his way him, he happened to run into somebody, literally.
"Tristan? Tristan Dugrey?" The girl asked hesitantly once they apologized in unison. "Is that you?" When she saw his perplexed look, she added, "It's me, Marci. Marci Beaumont. My father used to work with your father."
"Right!" He mocked recognition. Despite her brief introduction, he still had no idea who she was. He remembered the possibility of meeting a Mr. Beaumont during one of those stuffy Christmas functions back before military school. But he couldn't be sure. They all looked the same. Besides, he remembered his daughter as a short scrawny little thing that had these hideous braces. The young lady standing before him was hardly scrawny and definitely did not wear braces.
But she saw through him anyway. "That's okay, I didn't expect you to remember me. You didn't spend a lot of time mingling." What she was saying was that he basically only recognized girls with a lower IQ and higher cup size. Which was probably an apt description of him up till he was 17. He did spend the majority of his time making out with said girls.
"I remember you. My father mentioned that you went to Princeton. What were you taking?" He completely pulled that out of his ass and was hoping that he guessed right.
"Economics. I graduated last year."
"Are you working in the city?"
"Yeah. Hey, it's getting cold right now. Do you mind heading over to a bar or something to continue with this conversation. I know this place couple blocks down."
He shrugged. "Sure."
His didn't know why, but he agreed to this a lot easier than expected. As they walked towards the bar, he didn't even try to convince or justify what is essentially a date. Because to him, there was nothing out of the ordinary where a man and woman met up, had dinner, and engaged in subsequent mediocre conversations that came along with it. Just because he was a guy and she was a girl, it didn't make it a date.
It was day two of her interview. Initially, Rory was hoping to gather all the necessary material in one day. But that turned out to be impossible. There were a few minor incidents and the guy came across as a little stuck up. She found it rather difficult to direct any substantial questions and receiving an equally honest and substantial answer. But it turned out that he was just camera shy. A camera-conscious fashion designer, who knew those existed. In any case, she and Frankie managed to loosen him up a bit and by the end of the day, the man acted more naturally towards the two interlopers.
She went up to his studio again on Friday to finish the second half of the interview. This time, not only was he more talkative, he insisted on her calling him Blair and even showed her sketches of his older designs ("not that I don't trust you darling, but you'll just have to wait with the rest of them to see my new collection.") She had a feeling that the man wasn't exactly an introvert, but rather, he needed time to get to know strangers. Unfortunately, this also meant that they spent a lot of time getting off-topic in the guise of warming up.
Rory was going to arrange a third interview with him, but he told her that he was flying to Paris next evening ("the couture house need my new sketches so they can start working.") He gracefully suggested that they could extend their interview over dinner ("just this little place uptown where the DJ spins the most awesome tunes.") Though her professional side resisted the idea of dining with her subject, her journalistic side told her this would be the perfect opportunity to ask him the more personal questions. At least he would be comfortable in his own element. So she agreed to dinner with him.
Blair was even chattier over dinner. He also sprinkled his conversations with enough swear words that would make any native New Yorker proud. She admitted that he was painting a more favorable image of himself as she spent more time with him. Her initial impression of him was being slowly replaced with this nicer and more realistic version. Perhaps this profile story would turn out better than she hoped.
Over dinner, he told her where he came from ("Harlem"), what he had been through ("fucking LVMH told me that my stuff was too 'experimental.' Translation: we're firing yo ass because we can't sell enough of your shit to make a profit"), his original aspirations ("I was trained to be a concert pianist, but the whole plan failed when I didn't get into Julliard.") He was quite popular, as proven by the many people that stopped by their table.
And soon enough, dinner was over and under his insistence, she ordered the house special dessert ("My friend said it looks as good as it tastes. I wouldn't know though. Never tried it myself.") Rory couldn't help but give a faint squeak of appreciation when the elaborately decorated chocolate cake was placed before her. Unlike her, Blair opted to skip the desserts.
"This is very good." She said as she ate the dessert, careful not to devour the cake excitedly and embarrass herself in front of him. "You sure you don't want some?"
"Fucking Atkins." He grumbled.
"Well, your loss." She spooned some of the white chocolate syrup over a little corner of the cake.
"What the hell, fuck the diet. Hand over the cake." He mock commanded as he picked up the dessert fork and took a generous chunk of her cake. "It is good."
She let him finish the rest of the dessert as she formulated her last question in her head. By then, she felt like it was the right time to ask him one of her more sensitive questions:
"Are you afraid of getting horrible reviews than can potentially end your career? After all, the fashion business is notoriously competitive and there are always new and ambitious guys graduating from St. Martins thinking they can carve their niche out of your market share. On top of that, the critics can be quite fickle and can turn the entire world on you. How can you deal with that prospect?"
"You know what, the way I see it, fuck those retards. The first step to success in this business is confidence. You have to believe that you are the best. Your design is the best. I have a proven record of producing the best cutting and using the best material. I know I'm not producing junk that doesn't fit the body properly. Here's an example. Some people see pencil skirts as librarian. What I'm trying to do is to convince them that with the proper cutting, a pencil skirt can make you look like a femme fatale. It's a matter of interpretation and getting them to believe that my stuff is desirable."
"Well, I never see it as that." She admitted.
"That's why you're not in fashion. How about I put this in your terms. As a journalist, I'm sure you've come across negative reviews. It's a matter of how you approach those reviews. You can't let yourself mope. You stand up and throw them your next best shot," he said with an air of authority while washing down his final bite of the cake with a bit of wine.
Rory thought of the discouraging sight of her first rough draft when she started working at the New York Times. Her pristine draft was basically covered with red marks. If her heart was any weaker, she probably would have quit on the spot.
"Besides, if worse comes to worse, I can always get myself hired on a second rate cruise ship and play jazz standards for a living."
"I don't have a fall back like you. I'm a born and trained journalist."
"You ever modeled?" He gave her an appreciative glance that made her a tad squeamish.
"No. My one track mind had always made me pursue journalism." Besides, she didn't think too highly of a job where she essentially got photographed for wearing sequined panties or fur-trimmed bikinis.
"Too bad, I'm sure you can get famous with that face of yours. You know what, if those assmonkeys ever fire you, you can come to me. My spring campaign can use a fresh face."
Sensing a possible way to change the uncomfortable topic, Rory grabbed the chance, "Spring? You meant fall campaign right?"
"No. The stuff that I'm working for, that was for the spring collection ..."
Unfortunately for Tristan, his dinner partner was less charming. The conversation took a turn for the worse, to a point where he barely listened to her. And whenever he paid attention to the words coming out of her mouth, all he could hear was "Blah blah blah, Merrill Lynch, blah blah, trust funds, blah blah, IPO ..." In addition to being a horribly boring conversationalist, the girl is quite touchy. Tristan had more than once gently pushed her hand off his arm.
He discretely scanned the restaurant while feigning interest in whatever she had to say. Suddenly, he recognized that the person sitting in a dark corner across the room was none other than Rory, the girlfriend that he was trying to get in touch with for these couple of days with no avail. The initial excitement of discovery quickly turned sour as he took notice of the man sitting beside her.
He now ignored the girl before him completely and concentrated his attention on Rory. The dim lighting of the room didn't deter him from instantly recognizing her dinner date. That was none other than Blair McCain, the hot new New York designer that had currently made it to People's list of 50 most beautiful people. His slow, measuring stare towards the man was quite obvious to his dinner companion. Soon, Marci and him split the bill and she left. She probably saw him as a lost cause. He barely noticed her disappointment.
An unfound jealousy spread through him when he saw her sharing a plate of dessert with him. He didn't know why. He thought he trusted Rory. At least he was trying to convince himself of that exact notion right now. But that trust had never traveled beyond a series of hypothetical situations limited to his imagination. That trust was never tested in a real life situation before. He always assumed that if there was one charmingly handsome man in her company, that man would automatically be him.
His self-restraint finally reached its limit when he distinctly saw the man checking Rory out in a not so discreet manner. He threw down his napkin with more force than necessary and marched towards her. Rory was shocked when he appeared behind her shoulder, but her upbringing prevented her from displaying her annoyance.
"Can I have a word with you?" He didn't bother to lean down to whisper in her ear. Even though Tristan's voice was barely audible over the music, she could still hear his irritation.
"Can you wait a minute?" Her irritation easily matched his.
"No." Then he stalked away from them and exited from the restaurant.
This put Rory in a very difficult situation. While she had technically already asked Blair all the necessary questions and she really had no reason to dawdle any longer, that was an entirely different matter than abandoning him in order to chase down her boyfriend. She would probably break all of the journalism rules that her very expensive college taught her. In the mean time, though he had never seen Tristan's temper, this was the worst she had ever seen and she didn't want to make it even worse.
Sensing her dilemma, he offered, "Go. Dinner is on me."
"I can't let you do that. We should split the tab."
"Don't worry. I come here often enough that the owner adores me. Besides, I mentioned this spot in an interview once. He was so grateful of the free publicity that I practically eat here for free. So don't worry. Go after him."
She found it quite humiliating that her personal life had stepped over to her professional life and that this stranger had to witness this. But nonetheless, she was grateful for his offer. Because in truth, judging by his tone, she didn't think that Tristan would still stick around by the time she got the bill.
"Thank you very much. Hey, the next time you see me, dinner's on me. Good luck in Paris." She yelled as she hurried away from the table. There went another rule.
Outside, she saw Tristan inside his car. Tristan was being irrationally irritated and for once, she didn't know how to deal with it. Was he mad? Was he jealous? He shouldn't be. A part of her felt guilty, but the other half told off that other half and told her that she did nothing wrong. She was taming her inner battle when she ducked into his car. Maybe they just need to talk about it
Any expectations of a civil conversation were immediately eliminated when Tristan said, "What the hell do you think you are doing?" His voice was harsher than ever.
She felt her anger swelling up and retorted, "Me? What the hell did you think you're doing? It was so humiliating back in the restaurant. I can't believe you did that in front of Blair." She vaguely realized that he was driving her home.
"Oh, so it's Blair now. If I remember correctly, you didn't think that highly of him before. What were you doing having dinner with him?"
"That's work! The paper is doing a profile story on him. And in case you don't know, journalists have to interview people in order to write the stories. I'm the person interviewing him. This is what I do for a living! When did you start having a problem with it?"
"Strange, I didn't see your recorder out. You call that working?" Tristan was not backing down from this argument.
"I didn't need one. The recorder would just pick up background noise. Besides, I have a fully functional brain for me to memorize things. Unlike yours, which is having trouble regulating your hormones." She huffed. "This is what this is about isn't it, jealousy. You're jealous."
She was seething mad. His choice of music probably didn't help either. Maroon 5 was in no condition at soothing her anger. Normally, she would reject listening to such drivel. But she only had the energy to deal with one thing at a time.
He sidestepped that comment. Instead, he asked, "Why isn't your phone on? I was trying to find you for days."
"I always turn my phone off during interviews. You know that! Here's an update. You don't own me. I don't have to report my activities to you. I can do whatever I want and I certainly do not need your permission in order to properly do my job!"
"Funny. I didn't know that your job description includes you gallivanting off with other men."
"Tristan Marcus Dugrey, you better not have meant what I just heard." She didn't know if she was overreacting or if he was being a jerk, but did he just imply ... that? "You are being very unreasonable." She folded her arms across her chest. "Why are you listening to this rubbish." She leaned over and turned down the volume.
He immediately turned it up, even louder than before. "Typical." He muttered.
"Excuse me."
"Your holier than thou attitude is making me sick. My music choice doesn't need the approval of your royal highness. You know what, I like Maroon 5. Oh by the way, I also like John Mayer, Christina Aguilera, and even No Doubt. Hell, I even listen to Weezer's green album! You know what's worse about this? It's that I have to feel ashamed of my music choice around you, even though there is nothing to be ashamed of!"
"What I have is music taste. Something that your CD collection is sorely lacking." She turned down the music.
"You may think you have 'music taste,' but that doesn't mean you have to lord it over me. God, you're such a snob!" He turned up the music.
Her anger precipitated through all this time and that was the last straw. "Stop! Pull over!"
"Hey I can't ..."
She didn't care. This was probably the first time in her life where she had gotten this mad. She acted out her frustration when Tristan refused to pull over, on account that the street was lined with parallel parked cars, and interrupted his sentence, "Tristan, if you want all your limbs attached to you by the end of the day, you better pull over!" There was a slow burning rage in her tone. When he finally found a spot, she didn't wait till the car had come to a complete stop before she hopped out.
"What are you doing?" If she had bothered to listen, she might have heard the hint of regret and concern in his voice. But frankly, she was fucking pissed.
"I'm going to walk home."
"Rory!"
"Oh, I'll just leave you along. Don't let my 'pretentious' music taste distract you from listening to Avril." She slammed the door of the car so hard that he could feel the vibrations it caused. Rory then stalked off. Tristan wanted to get out of the car and chase after her. But then the rational side of his brain finally kicked in, for the first time tonight, and reminded him that she probably needed some time to cool down.
He slumped over the steering wheel and rested his head on it. They both probably needed some time to cool down.