Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “—something like that about yourself, but anyone who’s ever met you two will know it’s complete—pardon my French—bullshit.”

  Neha must have caught the tail end of this, because she too leaned over and said, “Seriously, Brooke, it was all so obviously fictional. I mean, not one word of it was true. Don’t think about it for a second.”

  She felt like she’d been slapped again. Why did she think no one would read this? How had she managed to delude herself into believing that the whole thing would just go away?

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” she said.

  Neha nodded, and Brooke knew she understood. If only she could say the same for her mother.

  “Did you see those photographers out there when you came in?” Mrs. Greene asked Neha and Rohan. “They’re like vultures.”

  Julian must have seen her face tighten, because he cleared his throat, but Brooke wanted to explain once and for all so they could move along. “It’s not that bad,” she said, passing the platter of grilled asparagus to Randy. “They’re not there all the time, and we had a bunch of blackout shades put in, so they really can’t get any shots. Unlisting our number helped. I’m sure it’s the initial excitement over the album. They’ll be totally bored of us by New Year’s.”

  “I hope not,” Julian said with a dimpled smile. “Leo just told me he’s pushing for a Grammy appearance. He thinks there’s a pretty good chance I could get picked to perform.”

  “Congratulations!” Michelle said with more enthusiasm than she’d displayed the entire day. “Is it a secret?”

  Julian glanced at Brooke, who met his gaze and gave him a look back.

  He coughed. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a secret, but they won’t announce performers until after the New Year, so it probably doesn’t make sense to say anything.”

  “Awesome, man,” Randy said, grinning. “We’re all going if you go. You know that, right? This family’s a package deal.”

  Julian had told her of the possibility when they were on the phone before, but hearing him tell everyone else somehow made it more real. She could barely even wrap her mind around it: her husband performing at the Grammys for the entire world.

  Ella squawked from her portable swing next to the table and broke the spell. Brooke took the time to put all the homemade goodies on cake plates and platters: two homemade pies from her mother, one pumpkin and one rhubarb; a dozen mint brownies from Michelle; and a plate of Neha’s specialty, coconut burfi, which looked a little like Rice Krispie treats but tasted more like mini cheesecakes.

  “So, Brooke, how’s work going for you?” Rohan asked through a mouthful of brownie.

  Brooke sipped her coffee and said, “It’s going well. I love the hospital, but I’m hoping to go into business for myself in the next couple years.”

  “You and Neha should think about doing it together. It’s all she’s been talking about lately.”

  Brooke looked at Neha. “Really? You’re thinking of opening a private practice?”

  Neha nodded so hard her black ponytail swung up and down. “Sure am. My parents have offered to loan me part of the start-up money, but I’d still need a partner to be able to make it work. Of course, I wasn’t even thinking about it until we got back to the city. . . .”

  “I had no idea!” Brooke said, her excitement growing by the second.

  “I can’t work in an OB office forever. Hopefully one day we’ll have a family”—something about the way Neha glanced at Rohan, who immediately blushed and looked away, made Brooke think they were newly pregnant—“and I’ll need some more flexible hours. Ideally, a small private practice that focuses exclusively on pre- and postnatal nutrition for moms and babies. Maybe bring in a lactation consultant as well, I’m not sure.”

  “That is exactly what I’ve been thinking!” Brooke said. “I need another nine months to a year in hands-on clinical experience, but after that . . .”

  Neha delicately bit off a piece of burfi and smiled. She turned to the other side of the table. “Hey, Julian, you think you can cough up some cash to get your wife started here?” she asked, and everyone laughed.

  Later, after everyone had gone home and they’d done all the dishes and folded the chairs, Brooke curled up next to Julian on the couch.

  “Pretty crazy that Neha’s been planning the exact same thing, isn’t it?” she asked excitedly. Although the conversation had naturally drifted to other subjects over dessert, Brooke hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

  “It sounds absolutely perfect,” Julian said, kissing the top of her head. His phone had been ringing all night, and although he kept silencing it and pretending everything was fine, he was clearly distracted.

  “Even more perfect, because as soon as I can get out there on my own, I’ll have so much more free time to travel with you, so much more flexibility than I do now. Won’t that be great?”

  “Mmm. Definitely.”

  “I mean, the time and effort that would go into doing something like that on your own—never mind the money—is so overwhelming, but it would be perfect for the two of us to do it together. We’d be able to cover for each other and still see double the patients. It is literally the ideal scenario,” Brooke said happily.

  It was just the good news she’d needed. Julian’s absences, the snoopy reporters, the horrible article still stung, but something to look forward to helped turn the volume down on everything else.

  His phone rang yet again. “Just answer it already,” she said, sounding more irritated than she’d intended.

  Julian stared at the caller ID, which read “Leo,” and clicked Talk. “Hey, man, happy Thanksgiving.” He nodded a few times, laughed, and then said, “Sure, okay. Yeah, I’ll check with her, but I’m sure she can make it. Yep. Count us in. Later.”

  He turned and faced her with a huge grin. “Guess where we’re going?”

  “Where?”

  “We, my dear, were invited to the ultra-exclusive Sony VIP holiday lunch and cocktails. Leo said the whole world goes to the party at night in the city, but only their top artists are invited to join all the top record execs at some crazy, trillion-dollar house in the Hamptons during the day. Performances by surprise guests. We’ll travel back and forth by helicopter. Nothing has ever been written about this party before because it’s so secret and so exclusive. And we are going!”

  “Wow, that sounds incredible. When is it?” Brooke asked, her mind already cycling through outfit options.

  Julian jumped up and headed to the kitchen. “Friday before Christmas. I don’t know what the date is.”

  She grabbed his phone and scrolled through to the calendar. “December twentieth? Julian, it’s my last day at Huntley before school closes for the holidays.”

  “So?” He pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

  “So, that’s our holiday party. At Huntley. They asked me to plan their first-ever healthy menu of fun party foods for the girls. I also promised Kaylie that I’d meet her father and her grandmother. Parents are invited to the party and she’s been very excited about introducing all of us.”

  Brooke was proud of her tremendous progress with the girl over the last couple months. By increasing the frequency of their sessions and asking a lot of pointed questions about Whitney Weiss, Brooke was able to determine that Kaylie was flirting with purging, but she was also now certain that she didn’t fit any of the criteria of someone suffering from a full-blown eating disorder. With lots of talking and listening and an abundance of extra attention, Kaylie had put back on a healthful portion of the weight she’d lost so rapidly, and she seemed to have developed more self-confidence to go with it. Probably most important of all, she’d joined the theater club and scored a coveted supporting role in this year’s production of West Side Story. She finally had friends.

  Julian rejoined her on the couch and clicked on the television. Noise filled the room.

  “Can you turn that down?” she asked, trying to mask the irritation in her voice.
>
  He obliged, but only after giving her a strange look. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive here,” he said, “but can’t you just call in sick? We’re talking helicopters and meeting the head of Sony Music. Don’t you think someone else can figure out the cupcakes?”

  At no point in the last five years of marriage could she remember him being so patronizing, so incredibly condescending. What made it worse was the way he was peering at her, oblivious to how obnoxious and self-centered he sounded.

  “You know what? I’m positive someone else could ‘figure out the cupcakes,’ as you so asininely put it. What’s my silly, frivolous job compared to the worldwide importance of yours, right? But you’re forgetting one thing. I actually like what I do. I help these girls. I’ve invested a ton of time and energy in Kaylie, and guess what? It’s paying off. She’s happier and healthier than she’s been in a year. She’s not hurting herself anymore or crying every day. I know that can’t compare to a number four Billboard hit in your world, but in mine, it’s pretty freaking great. So no, Julian, I won’t be joining you at your super-fancy VIP holiday party. Because I’ve got my own party to attend.”

  She stood up and glared at him, waiting for an apology, an attack, anything but what he was doing: staring blankly at the muted TV, shaking his head in disbelief, a look on his face that seemed to say, I’m married to a lunatic.

  “Well, I’m glad we worked that out,” she said quietly as she walked back toward the bedroom.

  She waited for him to come in and talk about it, hug her, remind her that they never went to sleep angry, but when she crept back to the living room over an hour later, he was curled up on the couch, under the purple afghan, snoring softly. She turned and went back to bed alone.

  11

  Knee-Deep in Tequila and Eighteen-Year-Old Girls

  JULIAN laughed as the fatter lobster pulled ahead. “One and a half pounds has taken the lead. They’re just about to round the corner, folks,” he said in his best imitation of a sports announcer. “I think I’ve got this one.”

  Its rival, a smaller lobster with a shiny black shell and what Brooke would swear were soulful eyes, scuttled forward to close the gap. “Not so fast,” she said.

  They were sitting on the kitchen floor, their backs against the island, cheering on their respective competitors. Brooke felt vaguely guilty for trying to race her lobster before tossing him in a pot of boiling water, but they didn’t seem to mind. It was only when Walter nosed one of them and it refused to move another inch that Brooke swooped in and rescued hers from further torture.

  “Victory by surrender! I’ll take it,” Julian shouted with a fist pump. He then proceeded to high-five his lobster’s rubber-banded claw. Walter woofed.

  “Winner gets to put them in the water,” she said, motioning to the lobster pot they’d unearthed in the Alters’ pantry. “I don’t think I can handle it.”

  Julian stood up and extended a hand to help Brooke. “Go check the fire, and I’ll deal with these guys.”

  She took him up on his offer and headed toward the living room, where a couple hours earlier Julian had taught her how to build a fire. It was something her father or Randy had always handled, and she was delighted to discover how satisfying it was to stack the logs strategically and use the poker to shuffle them around just so. She grabbed a medium-sized log from the hearthside basket and gently placed it diagonally across the top; she sat back on the couch, watching the flames, transfixed. She could hear Julian’s cell phone ring from the other room.

  He came in from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine and joined her on the couch. “They should be done in fifteen minutes. They didn’t feel a thing, I promise.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sure they loved it. Who was that calling?” she asked.

  “Calling? Oh, I don’t know, doesn’t matter.”

  “Cheers,” Brooke said, and clinked his glass.

  Julian sighed, a deep, satisfied sigh that seemed to say everything was right with the world. “How nice is this?” he asked. It was the right sigh, the right sentiment, but something about it struck Brooke as strange. He was almost being too sweet.

  Things between them had been noticeably strained in the weeks leading up to the Sony party; Julian kept expecting Brooke to bail on her responsibilities at Huntley, and when she didn’t—when he actually did fly to the Hamptons dateless—he had seemed downright shocked by it. In the ten days since the party, they’d discussed it as best they could, but Brooke couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Julian still didn’t understand her perspective, and despite a heroic effort on both their parts to move past it and act like everything was normal, things still didn’t feel right.

  She took a sip of the wine and felt that familiar warming sensation as it first hit her stomach. “Nice is an understatement. This is lovely,” she said with an almost awkward formality.

  “I can’t understand why my parents never come out here in the winter. It’s gorgeous when it’s snowing, they have this awesome fireplace, and there’s no one else around.”

  Brooke smiled. “There’s no one else around—that’s what they can’t stand. What’s the point of going to eat at Nick & Toni’s if there’s no one to witness you get the best table?”

  “Yeah, well, Anguilla should be perfect for that. I’m sure they’re very happy fighting the holiday crowds. Plus everything will cost two to three times as much now, which they adore. Makes them feel special. I bet they’re happy as can be.”

  Although neither of them liked to admit it, they were both so grateful that the Alters owned the East Hampton house. Not that they ever spent a weekend out there with Julian’s parents or dared visit during the summer—even their wedding had been in early March, when there was still snow on the ground—but it gave them a free, luxurious escape from the city a full six months a year. They’d taken advantage of it often for the first couple years, going out to see the first spring bloom or visit a local vineyard or walk the beach in October when the weather was starting to turn, but with the craziness of both their schedules, they hadn’t been there in over a year. It had been Julian’s idea to spend New Year’s out there, just the two of them, and while she suspected it was a peace offering more than a genuine desire to hole up together, Brooke had readily accepted.

  “I’m going to make the salad,” she said, standing up. “Do you want anything?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “What’d you do with my husband?”

  His phone rang again. He glanced at it and shoved it back in his pocket.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. Private number. I don’t know who would be calling now,” he said, following her into the kitchen, and, without being asked, he drained the boiled potatoes and began mashing them.

  Their conversation over dinner was easier and more relaxed, probably thanks to the wine. There seemed to be some sort of tacit understanding that they wouldn’t talk about work at all, not hers or his; instead, they chatted about Nola and the promotion she’d just received, how happy Randy was around baby Ella, and whether or not they might be able to sneak in a weekend trip together somewhere warm before Julian’s tour schedule really heated up in the new year.

  The brownies Brooke had made for dessert were gooier than she would’ve liked, and topped with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate chips, they looked more like a hot brownie stew, but they were delicious. Julian suited up in full snow gear to take Walter out for his final walk while Brooke cleaned up and made coffee. They met back in front of the fire. His cell phone rang, but he silenced it once again without glancing at the screen.

  “How are you feeling about not playing tonight? It must have been pretty strange to turn it down,” Brooke asked, resting her head in his lap.

  Julian had been invited to perform on MTV’s New Year’s Eve countdown show in Times Square and then host a celeb-heavy party at the Hotel on Rivington from midnight on. He’d been thrilled when Leo told him about it in the early fall, but as
the night got closer, Julian grew less and less enthused. When he finally instructed Leo to cancel the whole thing last week, no one was more shocked—or delighted—than Brooke. Especially when he’d turned to Brooke and asked if she’d join him in the Hamptons for a stay-at-home date night.

  “We don’t have to talk about all that stuff tonight,” Julian said. She could tell he was trying to be sensitive to her, but it was clear something was bugging him.

  “I know,” Brooke said. “I just want to make sure you’re not regretting it.”

  Julian stroked her hair. “Are you crazy, woman? Between that whole Today show drama and all the travel, and looking ahead at how much crazier it’s going to get next year, I just needed a break. We needed a break.”

  “We really did,” she murmured, feeling more contented than she had in months. “I’m guessing Leo isn’t thrilled, but I sure am.”

  “Leo jumped the first flight to Punta del Este. He is no doubt knee-deep in tequila and eighteen-year-old girls. Do not feel badly for Leo.”

  They finished their wine. Julian carefully drew first the screen and then the glass doors over the dwindling fire, and they walked upstairs hand in hand. This time it was the landline ringing, and before Julian could say a word, Brooke picked up an extension in the guest room she and Julian always stayed in.

  “Brooke? It’s Samara. Look, sorry to call tonight, but I’ve been trying to reach Julian for hours. He said he was going to be out there, but he hasn’t been answering his phone.”

  “Oh, hi, Samara. Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on a sec.”

  “Wait, Brooke? Look, I know you can’t be at the Grammys because of work, and I just wanted to reassure you that there will be some great after-parties in New York that I’ll get the two of you into.”

  Brooke thought she heard wrong. “What?”

  “The Grammys. For Julian’s performance.”

  “Samara? Can you hold for just a minute?” She clicked the Mute button and walked into the bathroom, where Julian was filling the bathtub.