Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  Cynthia gracefully stepped in and smoothed over the tense moment. “Well isn’t that just some of the greatest news we’ve heard in ages!” she said with excessive enthusiasm. Brooke’s dad nodded excitedly. “Where exactly will it be held? How many people are invited? Have you decided yet what you’re going to play?” Cynthia peppered him with questions and for once Brooke didn’t find the interrogation irritating. They were all the things Julian’s own parents should have asked but never would, and Julian was clearly delighted to be on the receiving end of such interest.

  “It’ll be at a small, really intimate downtown music venue, and my agent said they were inviting about fifty people in the industry—television and radio bookers, music execs, some people from MTV, that sort of thing. Most likely nothing too exciting will come of it, but it’s a good sign that the label is happy with the album.”

  “They rarely do these for their debut artists,” Brooke announced with pride. “Julian’s actually being too modest—it’s a very big deal.”

  “Well at least that’s good news,” his mother announced, taking her seat on the couch again.

  Julian’s mouth tightened and his fists clenched by his sides. “Mom, they’ve been supportive with the way the album’s been taking shape for months now. Sure, the senior execs were pushing for more of a guitar focus, but ever since then, they’ve been great. So I don’t know why you have to say it like that.”

  Elizabeth Alter looked at her son and appeared momentarily confused. “Oh, sweetheart, I was talking about L’Olivier. It’s good news that they have enough of the calla lilies I was wanting, and the designer I like the most is available to come over and install them. Don’t be so touchy.”

  Brooke’s father glanced at her with a look that said, Who is this woman? Brooke shrugged. She, like Julian, had accepted that his parents were never going to change. It was why she stood by him a hundred percent when he rejected their offer to buy the newlyweds an apartment near theirs on the Upper East Side. It was why she chose to work two jobs rather than take the “allowance” they’d once proposed, understanding all the strings that would accompany it.

  By the time Carmen announced brunch was ready, Julian had gone completely silent and glazed over—turtled, Brooke always called it—and Cynthia looked rumpled and exhausted in her polyester pantsuit. Even Brooke’s dad, who still valiantly searched for neutral conversation (“Do you believe this brutal winter we’re having this year?” and “You into baseball, William? Yanks seem like an obvious choice, but I know a man’s team isn’t always determined by where he’s from. . . .”) appeared defeated. Under normal circumstances Brooke would have felt responsible for everyone’s misery—after all, they were all only there because of her and Julian, right?—but today she let it all go. Suffer one, suffer all, she thought, and excused herself to use the powder room, which she bypassed immediately for the kitchen.

  “How’s it going out there, love?” Carmen asked as she spooned apricot jam into a sterling silver bowl.

  Brooke held out her empty Bloody Mary glass and paired it with a pleading look.

  “That bad?” Carmen laughed and motioned for Brooke to pull the vodka from the freezer as she prepared the tomato juice and Tabasco sauce. “How are your parents holding up? Cynthia seems like a real nice lady.”

  “Uh-huh, she’s lovely. They’re grown-ups and they made their own idiotic choice to come visit. It’s Julian I’m worried about.”

  “Nothing he hasn’t seen before, love. No one deals with them better.”

  Brooke sighed. “I know. But he’s depressed for days afterward.”

  Carmen plunged a celery stalk into the thick Bloody Mary and handed it to Brooke. “Reinforcement,” she announced, and kissed Brooke on the forehead. “Now get back out there and protect your man.”

  The actual eating part of brunch wasn’t half as bad as the cocktail hour. Julian’s mother threw a minor hissy fit over the crepe filling (although everyone else loved the chocolate ones Carmen whipped up, Elizabeth thought they were far too fattening for an actual meal), and Dr. Alter disappeared for a spell into his study, but as a result, neither of them insulted their son for more than an hour. Good-byes were blessedly painless, but by the time she and Julian put her father and Cynthia into a cab, she could see Julian was withdrawn and unhappy.

  “You okay, baby? My dad and Cynthia were so excited. And I can barely—”

  “I don’t feel like talking about it, okay?”

  They walked in silence for a couple minutes.

  “Hey, we have the whole rest of the day free. Absolutely nothing to do. Want to go to a museum while we’re up here?” Brooke asked, taking his hand and tugging gently on his arm as they walked toward the subway.

  “Nah, I don’t think I’m up for the Sunday crowds.”

  She thought for a moment. “You’ve been wanting to see that 3-D IMAX movie for a while. I wouldn’t mind going with you,” she lied. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “I’m fine, Brooke. I really am,” Julian said quietly, pulling on his wool scarf. She knew he was the one lying now.

  “Can I invite Nola to the showcase? It sounds so fabulous, and you know Nola can’t miss any opportunity at fabulousness.”

  “I guess, but Leo said it’s going to be really small, and I already invited Trent. He’s only in New York on this rotation another couple weeks and he’s been working like crazy. I thought he could use a night out.”

  They talked more about the showcase, and they discussed what he would wear, which songs he would play, and in what order. She was happy she could draw him out, and by the time they reached their apartment, Julian seemed almost like himself.

  “Have I told you how proud I am of you?” Brooke asked when they stepped onto their own elevator, both clearly relieved to be home.

  “Yeah,” Julian said with a small smile.

  “Well, come inside, baby,” Brooke said, pulling him down the hallway by the hand. “I think it’s about time I showed you.”

  3

  Makes John Mayer Look Like Amateur Hour

  “WHERE are we?” Brooke grumbled, stepping out of the cab and looking around the dark and deserted side street in West Chelsea. The tall black pull-on boots she’d found at an end-of-season sale kept sliding down her tights.

  “Heart of the gallery district, Brooke. Avenue and 1 OAK are right around the corner.”

  “I should know what those are, shouldn’t I?”

  Nola just shook her head. “Well, at least you look good. Julian’s going to be proud to have such a hot wife tonight.”

  Brooke knew her friend was just being kind. It was Nola who, as usual, looked stunning. She’d jammed her suit jacket and her sensible pumps into her oversized LV tote and replaced them with a massive multistrand necklace and a pair of those sky-high Louboutin heels that were somewhere between a bootie and sandal, a style approximately six women on earth could pull off without being mistaken for a professional dominatrix. Things that would look downright trashy on everyone else—scarlet lipstick, flesh-colored fishnets, and the black lace bra that peeked through her sheer tank—on Nola managed to look both edgy and playful. Her pencil skirt, which as one-half of an expensive suit had been appropriate enough for one of the most conservative work environments on Wall Street, now showed off her toned backside and perfect legs. If Nola had been any other female on earth, Brooke would have hated her mightily.

  Brooke looked at her BlackBerry. “Between Tenth and Eleventh. That’s exactly where we are, isn’t it? Where is this place?” She saw a darting shadow out of the corner of her eye and yelped.

  “Oh relax, Brooke. It’s much more scared of you than you are of it.” Nola waved off the rat spotting with a cocktail-ring-adorned hand.

  Brooke hurried to cross the street, seeing that the even-numbered addresses they wanted were on the opposite side. “Easy for you to say. You could pierce its heart with one stomp of that heel. My dumpy flat boots put me at heightened risk.”


  Nola laughed and scampered gracefully behind Brooke. “There, I think that’s it,” she said, pointing to the only building on the block that didn’t look condemned.

  The girls followed a small staircase down from the sidewalk to a windowless basement door. Julian had explained that these kinds of showcases were constantly on the move, and music-biz people were always looking for the next hip place to help generate buzz, but still, she had been envisioning a venue somewhere that looked like a smaller version of Joe’s Pub. What was this? No line fanning out to the sidewalk. No marquee announcing the night’s talent. There wasn’t even the requisite sullen girl with a clipboard, petulantly telling everyone to take a step back and wait his turn.

  Brooke felt a small wave of anxiety until she heaved open the vaultlike door, stepped inside, and was enveloped in a warm cocoon of semidarkness and low laughter and the subtle but unmistakable scent of marijuana. The entire space was the size of a large living room, and everything—the walls, the sofas, even the paneling on the small corner bar—was swathed in plush burgundy velvet. A single lamp rested atop the piano and cast a soft light onto the empty stool. Hundreds of tiny votives were magnified by the mirrored tabletops and ceiling, a look that somehow managed to be impossibly sexy without so much as a twinge of eighties-throwback.

  The crowd looked like they had been hand-plucked from a poolside cocktail party in Santa Barbara and dropped in New York City. Forty or fifty mostly young and attractive people milled about, sipping from lowball glasses and exhaling plumes of cigarette smoke in long, languorous wafts. The men were dressed almost uniformly in jeans, and the few who still wore their daytime suits had ditched their ties and loosened their top buttons. Almost none of the women wore stilettos or the short, tight black cocktail dresses that made up the Manhattan uniform; instead, they were all roaming about in beautifully printed tunics and tinkling beaded earrings and jeans so perfectly worn in that Brooke actually yearned to strip out of her black sweater dress then and there. Some had hippie-chic headbands around their foreheads and beautiful hair falling to their waists. No one appeared the least bit self-conscious or stressed out—another Manhattan unlikelihood—which of course made Brooke doubly anxious. This was a far cry from Julian’s usual audiences. Who were all these people and why did each and every one of them look a thousand times better than she did?

  “Breathe,” Nola whispered in her ear.

  “If I’m this nervous, I can’t even imagine how Julian feels.”

  “Come on, let’s find ourselves some drinks.” Nola flung her blond hair over her shoulder and held out a hand for Brooke, but before they could move through the crowd, Brooke heard a familiar voice.

  “Red, white, or stronger?” Trent asked, magically appearing next to them. He was one of the only men in a suit and looked uncomfortable. It was probably his first time away from the hospital in weeks.

  “Hey there!” Brooke said, hugging him around the neck. “You remember Nola, right?”

  Trent smiled. “Of course I do.” He turned to Nola and kissed her on the cheek. There was something in his tone that said Of course I remember meeting you, because you randomly went home with my friend that night and he was very impressed with both your willingness and your creativity in the bedroom. But Trent was much too discreet to joke about it, even after all these years.

  Not so with Nola. “How is Liam? God, he was fun,” she said with a huge smile. “Like, really fun.”

  Trent and Nola exchanged knowing looks and laughed.

  Brooke held up a hand. “Okay then. Trent, congratulations on the engagement! When do we get to meet her?” She couldn’t bring herself to say Fern’s name, didn’t trust herself to say it without laughing. What kind of name was Fern?

  “Considering we are almost never not at the hospital at the same time, possibly not until the wedding.”

  The bartender motioned to Trent, who turned to the girls.

  “Red, please,” they said in unison, and all three watched as the bartender poured from a bottle of California cabernet. Trent handed them each a glass and downed his own in two swift swallows.

  He turned to Brooke with a sheepish look on his face. “I don’t get out much.”

  Nola excused herself to do a loop of the room.

  Brooke smiled at Trent. “So tell me about her. Where’s the wedding going to be?”

  “Well, Fern’s from Tennessee and has a huge family, so we’re probably just going to do it at her parents’ place. Next February, I think.”

  “Wow, moving right along. Well, that’s great news.”

  “Yeah, the only way we can be matched at the same place for our residencies is if we’re married.”

  “So you’re both continuing on with gastro?”

  “Yeah, that’s the plan. My interests are more in the scoping and testing area—they’re doing some incredibly high-tech things these days—but Fern is more a Crohn’s/celiac kind of person.” Trent paused for a moment and appeared to reflect on this before breaking into a wide smile. “She’s a great girl. I really think you’ll like her.”

  “Hey, buddy!” Julian said, clapping Trent on the back. “Of course we’ll like her. She’s going to be your wife. How crazy is that?” Julian leaned over and kissed Brooke full on the lips. He tasted delicious, like chocolate mint, and just seeing him was reassuring.

  Trent laughed. “Not as crazy as the fact that my socially stunted cousin has had himself a wife for five years now, but it’s up there.”

  It was on nights like this that Brooke couldn’t be prouder to be Julian’s wife. He was wearing his uniform, unchanged even after all these years: white T-shirt, Levi’s, and a knit cap. The outfit couldn’t have been less exceptional, but it had come to signify pure sexiness to Brooke. The cap was Julian’s signature, the closest thing he had to a “look,” but only Brooke knew it was more than that. Just last year Julian had been crushed to discover the tiniest bald spot in the history of hair loss. Brooke tried to assure him that it was barely noticeable, but Julian would hear none of it. And truth be told, it may have gotten slightly bigger since he’d first pointed it out, although she’d never admit it.

  No one who saw all those luscious dark curls peeking out from under the cap would ever guess what Julian was trying to cover up underneath it, and for Brooke, it only added to Julian’s appeal, made him more vulnerable and human. She secretly loved that she was the only one who ever got to see Julian without the cap, when he would safely pull it off at home and shake his curls just for her. Had someone told Brooke a few years earlier that she’d find her thirty-two-year-old husband’s increasing baldness to be one of his most appealing qualities she would’ve laughed with disbelief, but that is exactly what had happened.

  “How are you feeling? Are you nervous?” Brooke asked, searching his face for a hint as to how he was holding up. He’d been a wreck all week—barely eating, never sleeping, even vomiting earlier that afternoon—but when Brooke tried to talk to him about it, he’d completely turtled. She had wanted to accompany him to the venue that night, but Julian insisted she go with Nola. He said he needed to talk through a few things with Leo, get there early, make sure everything was set up. Something must have worked, because he looked a little more relaxed.

  “I’m ready,” he said with a determined nod. “I’m feeling good.”

  Brooke kissed him on the cheek, knowing he was racked with nerves but proud of him for holding it together. “You look good. You look ready. You’re going to be fantastic tonight.”

  “You think so?” He sipped his club soda, and Brooke noticed his knuckles were white. She knew he was dying for something stronger, but he never drank before a performance.

  “I know so. When you’re sitting at that piano, all you’re thinking about is the music. Tonight is no different from doing a gig at Nick’s. The crowd always loves you, baby. Remember that. Just be yourself, and they’re going to love you here too.”

  “Listen to her,” said an unfamiliar male voice. When
Brooke turned around, there stood one of the best-looking guys she had ever laid eyes on. He was at least six inches taller than her, which immediately made Brooke feel girlishly slight and dainty. She wished for the umpteenth time that Julian were as tall as this mystery man but then forced the thought from her head; Julian probably wished Brooke’s body was more like Nola’s, so what right did she have? The guy wrapped an arm around Brooke’s back and squeezed her left shoulder, so close she could smell his cologne. Masculine, subtle, and expensive. She blushed.

  “You must be the wife,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head, a gesture that felt oddly intimate and impersonal at the same time. His voice was not nearly as deep as Brooke would’ve expected from someone of his height and obvious level of fitness.

  “Leo, I’d like you to meet Brooke,” Julian said. “Brooke, this is Leo, new manager extraordinaire.”

  A gorgeous Asian girl walked by at that exact moment and both Brooke and Julian watched as Leo winked at her. Where the hell was Nola? She needed to warn her early and often that Leo was off-limits. It wasn’t going to be easy—Leo was exactly her type. His pink dress shirt was open one button more than most men would dare, and it highlighted his lovely tan—dark enough but without a hint of booth or aerosol. His pants were low-waisted and European slim. He dressed as though his hair should’ve been slicked back with heavy product, but he smartly let his thick, dark locks wave freely just over his eyes. The only flaw she could make out was a scar that bisected his right eyebrow in a hairless dividing line, but it actually worked to his benefit, taking away any hint of effeminate over-grooming or perfection. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his entire body.