Last Night at Chateau Marmont Page 5

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m not quite sure ‘cooked’ is a fair word, but you’re right. Your choice tonight.”

  Julian scrolled through their DVR list and clicked on a recent CSI episode. “Come here, I’ll do your feet while we watch.”

  Brooke flipped herself around so she could rest her legs in his lap. She could’ve purred with happiness. On television the detectives were examining the mutilated body of a presumed prostitute lying in a landfill outside of Vegas, and Julian watched with rapt attention. She didn’t love the gadget-oriented murder mystery stuff as much as he did—he could watch them find killers by scanning and lasering and tracing things all night long—but tonight she didn’t mind. She was happy to sit quietly next to her husband and focus on the wonderful sensation of his kneading her feet.

  “I love you,” she said as she rested her head on the armrest and closed her eyes.

  “I love you, too, Brooke. Now be quiet and let me watch.”

  But she had already drifted off to sleep.

  She had just finished getting dressed when Julian walked into their bedroom. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, he looked stressed out.

  “We have to go right now, or we’re going to be late,” he said, grabbing a pair of sneakers from their shared closet. “You know how much my mother loves late.”

  “I know, I’m almost ready,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that she was still sweating from her three-mile run an hour earlier. Brooke trailed Julian out of the bedroom, accepted the wool coat he handed her, and followed him down to the street.

  “I’m still unclear why your dad and Cynthia are in the city today,” Julian said as they ran-walked from their apartment to the Times Square subway station. The shuttle train appeared the moment they stepped on the platform.

  “It’s their anniversary,” Brooke replied, shrugging. It was unnaturally cold for a March morning, and she desperately wanted a cup of tea from the corner bodega, but they didn’t have a second to spare.

  “And they decided to come here? On a freezing day in winter?”

  Brooke sighed. “I guess it’s more exciting than Philly. Apparently Cynthia has never seen The Lion King and my dad thought it’d be a good excuse to visit us. I’m just glad you’ll get to tell them the news in person. . . .”

  She sneaked a look at Julian and saw him smile, just a little. He should be proud of himself, she thought. He’d just gotten some of the best news of his career, and he deserved it.

  “Yeah, well, I think it’s safe to say that my parents are going to be lacking in the enthusiasm department, but maybe your parents will understand,” he said.

  “My father already tells anyone who will listen that you have the songwriting talent of Bob Dylan and a voice that will make them cry,” she said, laughing. “He’ll be thrilled, guaranteed.”

  Julian squeezed her hand. His excitement was palpable.

  Brooke managed a weak smile as they transferred to the 6 train.

  “What’s wrong?” Julian asked.

  “Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’m so excited for you to tell them all I can barely stand it. I’m just slightly dreading having to deal with the awkwardness of both sets of parents in one room.”

  “Do you really think it’s going to be that bad? It’s not like they haven’t all met before.”

  Brooke sighed. “I know, but they’ve only really seen each other in big groups: our wedding, holidays. But never one-on-one like this. All my father wants to talk about is how the Eagles will do next season. Cynthia is excited to be seeing The Lion King, for chrissake, and thinks no trip to the city is complete without lunch at the Russian Tea Room. Then we have your parents: the most intense, intimidating lifelong New Yorkers I’ve ever met, who probably think the NFL is a French nonprofit group, who haven’t seen a musical since the sixties, and who won’t eat anything unless it’s prepared by a celebrity chef. You tell me: what are they all going to say to each other?”

  Julian squeezed the back of her neck. “It’s brunch, baby. Some coffee, a few bagels, and we’re out. I really think it’s going to be fine.”

  “Yeah, sure, as my dad and Cynthia blather on nonstop in their manically happy way and your parents sit in stony, silent judgment of them. Sounds like a delightful Sunday morning.”

  “Cynthia can talk shop with my parents,” Julian offered meekly. He made that face that said, I don’t even believe this myself, and Brooke started to laugh.

  “Tell me you didn’t say that,” she said, her eyes starting to tear up as she laughed harder. They emerged at Seventy-seventh and Lex and began walking toward Park Avenue.

  “Well, it’s true!”

  “You’re so sweet, do you know that?” Brooke asked, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Cynthia is a high school nurse. She watches out for strep throats and gives out Motrin for cramps. She knows nothing about whether Botox or Restylane is recommended for a particularly deep smile line. I’m not sure where their professional experiences overlap.”

  Julian feigned offense. “I think you’re forgetting that Mom was also named one of the best in the country at varicose vein removal,” he said with a grin. “You know how big that was.”

  “Yes, of course. Big.”

  “All right, I hear what you’re saying. But my dad can talk to anyone. You know how easygoing he is. He’ll make Cynthia love him.”

  “He’s a great guy,” Brooke agreed. She grabbed his hand as they approached the Alters’ building. “But the man is a world-renowned breast augmentation specialist. It’s only natural that a woman would assume he’s sizing up her breasts and finding them inadequate.”

  “Brooke, that’s idiotic. Do you assume that all dentists you encounter in social situations are staring at your teeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or any psychologist you meet at a party is analyzing you?”

  “Absolutely, one hundred percent, beyond a doubt.”

  “Well that’s just ridiculous.”

  “Your father examines, handles, and evaluates breasts eight hours a day. I’m not suggesting he’s some pervert, but it’s his instinct to check them out. Women can feel it, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, that begs the obvious question now.”

  “Yeah?” she asked, glancing at her watch as their awning came into view.

  “Do you feel like he’s checking out your breasts when he sees you?” Poor Julian looked so crushed at the mere mention of it that Brooke wanted to hug him.

  “No, baby, of course not,” she whispered as she leaned in and hugged his arm. “At least, not after all these years. He knows the situation, and he knows he’s never getting his hands on them, and I think he’s finally over it.”

  “They’re perfect, Brooke. Just perfect,” Julian said automatically.

  “I know. That’s why your dad offered to do them at cost when we got engaged.”

  “He offered his partner, and not because he thought you needed it—”

  “Why, because you thought I needed it?” Brooke knew that wasn’t it at all—they’d talked about it a hundred times and she knew that Dr. Alter had only offered his services the way a tailor would have offered a discounted custom suit—but the whole thing still irked her.

  “Brooke . . .”

  “Sorry. I’m just hungry. Hungry and nervous.”

  “It’s not going to be nearly as bad as you’re anticipating.”

  The doorman greeted Julian with a high five and a backslap. It wasn’t until he ushered them into the elevator and they were whisking up toward the eighteenth floor that Brooke realized she hadn’t brought anything.

  “I think we should run back out and pick up some cookies or flowers or something,” Brooke said, tugging Julian’s arm urgently.

  “Come on, Rook, it doesn’t matter. They’re my parents. They really don’t care.”

  “Uh-huh. If you believe your mother isn’t going to notice when we show up empty-handed, you’re delusional.”

  “We’re bring
ing ourselves. That’s all that matters.”

  “Okay. You just keep telling yourself that.”

  Julian knocked and the door swung open. Smiling at them from the doorway was Carmen, the Alters’ nanny and housekeeper of thirty years. In a particularly intimate moment early in their relationship, Julian had confided to Brooke that he called Carmen “Mommy” until his fifth birthday because he just hadn’t known any better. She immediately flung her arms around Julian.

  “How’s my baby?” Carmen asked him after smiling at Brooke and pecking her on the cheek. “Your wife here feeding you enough?”

  Brooke squeezed Carmen’s arm, wondering for the thousandth time why Carmen couldn’t be Julian’s mother, and said, “Does he look like he’s starving, Carmen? I have to pry the fork from his hands some nights.”

  “That’s my boy,” she said, gazing at him with pride.

  A shrill voice came from the formal living room down the hallway. “Carmen, darling, send the children in here, please. And don’t forget to snip the stems before you the put the flowers in a vase. The new Michael Aram one, please.”

  Carmen glanced around for the flowers but Brooke merely held out her empty hands. She turned to Julian and gave him a knowing look.

  “Don’t say it,” Julian muttered.

  “Fine. I won’t say I told you so because I love you.”

  Julian led her into the formal living room—Brooke had been hoping they would skip the living room altogether and move straight to the eating part—and found both sets of parents sitting opposite each other on identical, low-profile, ultra-modern couches.

  “Brooke, Julian.” His mother smiled but didn’t stand. “So glad you could join us.”

  Brooke immediately interpreted this as an attack on their tardiness. “So sorry we’re late, Elizabeth. The subways were just so—”

  “Well, at least you’re here now,” Dr. Alter said, both hands cupped rather effeminately around a fat orange juice glass, exactly the way she imagined he cradled all his breasts.

  “Brookie! Julian! What’s up, guys?” Brooke’s dad jumped up and embraced them both in one bear hug. He was clearly turning up the camp factor for the Alters’ benefit, but Brooke couldn’t really blame him.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, hugging him back. She also walked over to Cynthia, who remained trapped by all of their bodies on the couch and gave her an awkward standing-sitting hug. “Hey, Cynthia. Good to see you.”

  “Oh, you too, Brooke. We’re so excited to be here! Your father and I were just saying that we can barely remember the last time we were in New York.”

  It was only then that Brooke was able to really absorb Cynthia’s appearance. She wore a fire-engine-red pantsuit, probably polyester, with a white blouse, black patent leather flats, and a triple strand of faux pearls wrapped around her neck, and topped off the entire ensemble with a highly curled and lacquered updo. She looked like she was channeling Hillary Clinton at a State of the Union address, determined to stand out in a sea of dark suits. Brooke knew she was only trying to fit in with her notion of how a wealthy Manhattan woman might dress, but her calculations were all wrong, especially in the midst of the Alters’ sleek, Asian-inspired apartment. Julian’s mother—although twenty years older than Cynthia—looked ten years younger in her fitted, dark jeans and featherweight cashmere wrap over a sleeveless, stretchy tunic. She wore a pair of delicate ballet flats with a discreet Chanel logo and accessorized only with a single gold bangle and her massive diamond ring. Her skin glowed with a healthy tan and light makeup, and her hair swung loosely down her back. Brooke immediately felt guilty: she knew how intimidated Cynthia must feel—after all, Brooke felt that way in her mother-in-law’s presence all the time—but she was also embarrassed at how badly she had miscalculated. Even Brooke’s dad looked uncomfortably aware that his khakis and tie were out of place next to Dr. Alter’s short-sleeve polo shirt.

  “Julian, sweetheart, I know you want a Bloody. Brooke, would you like a mimosa?” Elizabeth Alter asked. It was a simple question but, much like everything the woman asked, it felt like a trap.

  “Actually, I’d love a Bloody Mary as well.”

  “Of course.” Julian’s mom pursed her lips in some sort of indefinable drink disapproval. To this day, Brooke wasn’t sure whether her mother-in-law’s dislike of her had to do with Julian and the fact that Brooke supported his musical ambitions, or if the woman found Brooke distasteful all on her own.

  They were left no choice but to take the two remaining chairs—both straight backed, wooden, and unwelcoming—that sat opposite each other but were wedged between both couches. Feeling vulnerable and awkward, Brooke tried to jumpstart the conversation.

  “So, how were your weeks?” she asked the Alters, smiling at Carmen as she accepted a tall, thick Bloody Mary complete with lemon wedge and celery stalk. It was all she could do not to drain the whole thing in one gulp. “Busy as always?”

  “Yes, I just cannot even imagine how you both maintain schedules like that!” Cynthia said a bit too loudly. “Brooke’s told me how many, uh, procedures you both do in a day, and well, it’s enough to exhaust anybody! Me, I get a strep outbreak and I’m ready to collapse, but you two! Geez Louise, it must be madness.”

  Elizabeth Alter’s face broke into a wide, immensely condescending smile. “Yes, well, we do manage to keep busy. But isn’t that so boring! I’d love to hear what’s going on with the children. Brooke? Julian?”

  Cynthia sat back, deflated and properly reprimanded. The poor woman was walking through a minefield she was helpless to navigate. She absentmindedly rubbed her forehead and looked suddenly very tired. “Yes, of course. How are you two doing?”

  Brooke knew better than to offer any details about her own job. Although her mother-in-law had been the one to get Brooke the interview at Huntley, she’d done so only after thoroughly satisfying herself that Brooke wouldn’t reconsider a career in magazines, fashion, auction houses, or public relations. If Brooke simply had to use that graduate degree in nutrition, she couldn’t understand why she didn’t at least serve in an advisory role to Vogue or serve as a private consultant to her legion of Upper East Side friends; anything, really, with a little more glamour than, in her words, “a dingy ER with homeless people and drunks.”

  Julian knew enough to step in and save her. “Well, I actually have a little announcement,” he said with a cough.

  Suddenly, although Brooke was so excited for Julian she could barely contain it, a wave of panic washed over her. She found herself praying he wouldn’t tell them about the showcase, since he’d undoubtedly be disappointed by their reaction and she hated to watch him go through that. No one brought out that protective instinct in her like Julian’s parents; the mere thought of what they’d say made Brooke want to bundle him up and take him straight home, where he’d be shielded from their meanness and, worse, their indifference.

  They all waited a moment while Carmen brought in a new pitcher of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and then turned their attention back to Julian.

  “I, uh, just heard from my new manager, Leo, that Sony wants to showcase me this week. Thursday, actually.”

  There was a beat of silence when everyone expected someone else to say something, and Brooke’s father was the first one to speak. “Well, I might not know exactly what showcasing is, but it sure sounds like good news. Congratulations, son!” he said, leaning across Cynthia to clap Julian on the back.

  Dr. Alter, looking irritated at the use of “son,” scowled into his coffee before turning to Julian. “Why don’t you explain to we lay people what that means?” he asked.

  “Yes, does that mean someone is finally going to hear your music?” Julian’s mother asked, tucking her feet under her like a young girl and smiling at her son. Everyone pointedly ignored the emphasis on “finally”—everyone except Julian, whose face registered the hit, and Brooke, who witnessed it.

  After all these years Brooke was certainly accustomed to hearing Julian’s pa
rents say awful things, but she never hated them any less for it. When she and Julian were first dating, he had slowly revealed how fundamentally his parents disapproved of him and of the life he’d chosen. During their engagement, she’d seen their objection to the plain gold band Julian insisted on giving Brooke rather than one of the “Alter family estate pieces” his mother had pushed. Even when Brooke and Julian conceded to marrying at the Alters’ home in the Hamptons, his parents had been horrified at the couple’s insistence that the wedding be small, low-key, and off-season. After they were married and in the years since, when the Alters acted more freely in front of her, she saw at countless dinners and brunches and holidays just how toxic they could be.

  “Well, basically it means that they realize the album is close to being finished and they really like it so far. They’re going to arrange a showcase of industry people, sort of introduce me to them in a private performance, and then gauge the reaction.” Julian, who was usually so modest he wouldn’t even tell Brooke when he’d had a good day at the recording studio, couldn’t help but beam with pride. She wanted to kiss him on the spot.

  “I might not know a whole lot about the music industry, but that sounds like a huge vote of confidence on their part,” Brooke’s dad said, holding his glass aloft.

  Julian couldn’t contain his smile. “It is,” he said, grinning. “It’s probably the best-case scenario right now. And I’m hoping—”

  He stopped as the phone began to ring and Julian’s mother immediately began to look around for a handset. “Oh, where is that damn phone? That must be L’Olivier calling to confirm a time for tomorrow. Hold that thought, dear. If I don’t reserve them now, I’m not going to have flowers for tomorrow night’s party.” And with that, she unfolded herself from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “You know your mother with her flowers,” Dr. Alter said. He sipped his coffee, and it was unclear whether or not he’d even heard Julian’s announcement. “We’re having the Bennetts and the Kamens over for dinner tomorrow and she’s been in a tizzy about the planning. Christ, you’d think the decision between stuffed sole or braised short ribs was a matter of national security. And the flowers! She must have spent half the afternoon with those fegelas last weekend, and she’s still wavering. I told her a thousand times: no one cares about the flowers; no one will notice. Everyone throws these lavish weddings and spends tens of thousands of dollars on mountains of orchids or whatever the hell is in fashion these days, and who ever even looks at the damn things? Such a colossal waste, if you ask me. Spend the money on great food and booze—that’s what people really enjoy.” He took another gulp, looked around the room, and squinted. “Now, what were we talking about?”