Last Night at Chateau Marmont (6 page)

He looked at her with a sheepish smile. “I
may
have picked the ziti up at the store today and just heated it in the oven. That’s possible. But it was purchased and heated with love.”

Brooke held her wineglass aloft and waited for Julian to clink it. “It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it. “Absolutely, incredibly perfect.”

As they ate, Brooke told him about Randy and Michelle and was pleased to see how happy he was, even going so far as to suggest they drive to Pennsylvania and babysit for their new niece or nephew. Julian brought her up to date on Sony’s plans now that the album was nearing completion and told her about the new manager he’d hired on the recommendation of his agent.

“Apparently, he’s the best of the best. He does have the reputation of being a little aggressive, but I think that’s probably what you want in a manager.”

“Well what did he seem like when you interviewed him?”

Julian thought about this. “I’m not sure ‘interview’ is the right word. It was more like he laid out his entire plan for me. Says we’re at a critical junction right now, and it’s time to start really ‘orchestrating the action.’”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” Brooke said.

“Yeah, he’s definitely got a little of that smarmy Hollywood thing going on—you know, where you feel like they’re always working an angle?—but I like how confident he is.”

Julian emptied the remainder of the wine bottle evenly between their glasses and sat back in his chair. “How’s everything at the hospital going? Was it a crazy day?”

“It was, but guess what? I got the highest ratings in patient evaluations of anyone on staff, and they’re going to give me a few more peds shifts.” She took another sip from her wineglass; it would be worth the next morning’s headache.

Julian broke into a huge smile. “That’s great news, Rook. Not the least bit surprising, but absolutely great. I’m so proud of you.” He leaned over the table and kissed her.

Brooke did the dishes, then took a bath while Julian finished some work on the new website he was designing for himself, and they met
back on the couch, each clad in flannel pajama pants and T-shirts. Julian spread the throw blanket across both their legs and grabbed the clicker.

“Movie?” he asked.

She glanced at the clock on the DVR: ten fifteen. “I think it’s too late to start one now, but what about a
Grey’s
?”

He looked at her with a horrified expression. “Seriously? Can you, in good conscience, make me watch that after I cooked you dinner?”

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 bringing 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.