Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Lauren Weisberger
A novel from the million copy bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada.Heartbreak, headlines and Hermes – welcome to Brooke's new world…Brooke and Julian live a happy life in New York – she's the breadwinner working two jobs and he's the struggling musician husband. Then Julian is discovered by a Sony exec and becomes an overnight success – and their life changes for ever.Soon they are moving in exclusive circles, dining at the glitziest restaurants, attending the most outrageous parties in town and jetting off to the trendiest hotspots in LA.But Julian's new-found fame means that Brooke must face the savage attentions of the ruthless paparazzi. And when a scandalous picture hits the front pages, Brooke's world is turned upside down. Can her marriage survive the events of that fateful night at Chateau Marmont? It's time for Brooke to decide if she's going to sink or swim…
Last Night at Chateau Marmont
by Lauren Weisberger
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
Copyright © Lauren Weisberger 2010
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013
Lauren Weisberger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007311002
Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007365937
Version: 2016-04-27
For Dana, my sister and best friend forever
Contents
Cover (#uf3366aca-40d3-50e6-8aab-3eabf5ebf822)
Title Page (#u87824946-7fac-5412-ae27-5976d3e49fff)
Copyright (#ua903df22-ebba-5cf2-8192-68feb29a6164)
Dedication (#ucaf8e430-525a-5d8e-bd2b-62f350364ad9)
1. piano man (#u8beffb5d-9b75-5ef4-8e04-011271037139)
2. suffer one, suffer all (#ude8396b9-e70a-5c94-a5e1-fdc100504ada)
3. makes john mayer look like amateur hour (#u398f7ff3-1e2a-52de-ac1c-895945d9441e)
4. a toast to hot redheads (#u5583a697-9cfa-56d7-915c-d6d89f7108a7)
5. they’ll swoon for you (#litres_trial_promo)
6. he could have been a doctah (#litres_trial_promo)
7. betrayed by a bunch of tweens (#litres_trial_promo)
8. my weak heart can’t handle another threesome (#litres_trial_promo)
9. a bun in the oven and a drink in hand (#litres_trial_promo)
10. boy-next-door dimples (#litres_trial_promo)
11. knee-deep in tequila and eighteen-year-old girls (#litres_trial_promo)
12. better or worse than the sienna pictures (#litres_trial_promo)
13. gods and nurses don’t mix (#litres_trial_promo)
14. the removal of clothes (#litres_trial_promo)
15. not a shower sobber (#litres_trial_promo)
16. boyfriend with a villa and a son (#litres_trial_promo)
17. good old ed had a thing for prostitutes (#litres_trial_promo)
18. we hit crazy at check-in (#litres_trial_promo)
19. pity dance (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Lauren Weisberger (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1
piano man
When the subway finally screeched into the Franklin Street station, Brooke was nearly sick with anxiety. She checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes and tried to remind herself that it wasn’t the end of the world; her best friend, Nola, would forgive her, had to forgive her, even if she was inexcusably late. She pushed her way through the rush-hour throngs of commuters toward the door, instinctively holding her breath in the midst of so many bodies, and allowed herself to be pulled toward the stairwell. On autopilot now, Brooke and her fellow riders each pulled their cell phones from their purses and jacket pockets, filed silently into a straight line and, zombielike, marched like choreographed soldiers up the right side of the cement stairs while staring blankly at the tiny screensxs in their palms.
‘Shit!’ she heard an overweight woman up ahead call out, and in just a moment she knew why. The rain hit her forcefully and without warning the instant she emerged from the stairwell. What had been a chilly but decent enough March evening only twenty minutes earlier had deteriorated into a freezing, thundering misery, where the winds whipped the rain down with driving force and made it utterly impossible to stay dry.
‘Dammit!’ she added to the cacophony of expletives people were shouting all around her as they struggled to pull umbrellas from their briefcases or arrange newspapers over their heads. Since she’d run home to change after work, Brooke had nothing but a tiny (and admittedly cute) silver clutch to shield herself from the onslaught. Good-bye, hair, she thought as she began to sprint the three blocks to the restaurant. I’ll miss you, eye makeup. Nice knowing you, gorgeous new tall suede boots that ate up half my weekly salary.
Brooke was drenched by the time she reached Sotto, the tiny, unpretentious neighborhood joint where she and Nola met two or three times a month. The pasta wasn’t the best in the city – probably not even the best on the block – and the space wasn’t anything all that special, but Sotto had other charms, more important ones: reasonably priced wine by the full carafe, a killer tiramisu, and a downright hot Italian maître d’ who, simply because they’d been coming for so long, always saved Brooke and Nola the most private table in the back.
‘Hey, Luca.’ Brooke greeted the owner as she shrugged off her wool peacoat, trying not to shake water everywhere. ‘Is she here yet?’
Luca immediately put his hand over the phone receiver and pointed with a pencil over his shoulder. ‘The usual. What’s the occasion for the sexy dress, cara mia? You want to dry off first?’
She smoothed her fitted, short-sleeved black jersey dress with both palms and prayed that Luca was right, that the dress was sexy and she looked okay. She’d come to think of that dress as her Gig Uniform; paired with either heels, sandals, or boots, depending on the weather, she wore it to nearly every one of Julian’s performances.
‘I’m so late already. Is she all whiny and mad?’ Brooke asked, scrunching handfuls of her hair in a desperate attempt to save it from the imminent frizz attack.
‘She’s a half carafe in and hasn’t put the mobile down yet. You better get back there.’
They exchanged a triple cheek-kiss – Brooke had protested the full three kisses in the beginning but Luca insisted – before Brooke took a deep breath and walked back to their table. Nola was tucked neatly into the banquette, her suit jacket flung across the back bench and her navy cashmere shell showing off tightly toned arms and contrasting nicely with her amazing olive skin. Her shoulder-length layered cut was stylish and sexy, her blonde highlights glowed under the restaurant’s soft lights, and her makeup looked dewy and fresh. No one would ever know from looking at her that Nola had just clocked in twelve hours on a trading desk screaming into a headset.
Brooke and Nola didn’t meet until second semester senior year at Cornell, although Brooke – like the rest of the student body – knew of Nola and was equal parts terrified of and fascinated by her. Compared to her hoodie-and-Ugg-wearing fellow students, the model-thin Nola favored high-heeled boots and blazers and never, ever tied her hair in a ponytail. She’d grown up in elite prep schools in New York, London, Hong Kong, and Dubai, places her investment banker father worked, and had enjoyed the requisite freedom that goes along with being the only child of extremely busy parents.
How she ended up at Cornell instead of Cambridge or Georgetown or the Sorbonne was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to see she wasn’t particularly impressed. When the rest of them were busy rushing sororities, meeting for lunch at the Ivy Room, and getting drunk at various Collegetown bars, Nola kept to herself. There were glimpses into her life – the well-known affair with the archaeology professor, the frequent appearances of sexy, mysterious men on campus who vanished soon thereafter – but for the most part, Nola attended her classes, aced everything she took, and hightailed it back to Manhattan the moment Friday afternoon rolled around. When the two girls found themselves assigned to workshop each other’s short stories in a creative writing elective their senior year, Brooke was so intimidated she could barely speak. Nola, as usual, didn’t appear particularly pleased or upset, but when she returned Brooke’s first submission a week later – a fictional piece on a character struggling to adapt to her Peace Corps assignment in Congo – it was filled with thoughtful, insightful commentary and suggestions. Then, on the last page, after scrawling out her lengthy and serious feedback, Nola had written, ‘P.S. Consider sex scene in Congo?’ and Brooke had laughed so hard she had to excuse herself from class to calm down.
After class Nola invited Brooke to a tiny little coffee place in the basement of one of the academic buildings, a place none of Brooke’s friends ever hung out, and within a couple weeks Brooke was going to New York with Nola on weekends. Even after all these years, Nola was too fabulous for words, but it helped Brooke knowing that her friend sobbed during news segments featuring soldiers coming home from war, was secretly obsessed with one day having a perfect white picket fence in the suburbs despite being openly derisive about it, and had a pathological fear of small, yappy dogs (Walter, Brooke’s dog, not included).
‘Perfect, perfect. No, I think sitting at the bar is just fine,’ Nola said into the phone, rolling her eyes at Brooke. ‘No, no need to make a reservation for dinner, let’s just play it by ear. Okay, sounds good. See you then.’ She clicked her phone shut and immediately grabbed the red wine, refreshing her own glass before remembering Brooke and filling hers too.
‘Do you hate me?’ Brooke asked as she arranged her coat on the chair next to her and tossed her dripping umbrella underneath the table. She took a long, deep drink of wine and savored the feeling of the alcohol sliding over her tongue.
‘Why? Just because I’ve been sitting here alone for thirty minutes?’
‘I know, I know, I’m really sorry. Hellish day at work. Two of the full-time nutritionists called in sick today – which if you ask me sounds suspicious – and the rest of us had to cover their rotations. Of course, if we met sometime in my neighborhood. Then maybe I could get there on time …’
Nola held up her hand. ‘Point taken. I do appreciate you coming all the way down here. Dinner in Midtown West just isn’t appealing.’
‘Who were you just on with? Was that Daniel?’
‘Daniel?’ Nola looked baffled. She stared at the ceiling as she appeared to wrack her brain. ‘Daniel, Daniel … oh! Nah, I’m over him. I brought him to a work thing early last week and he was weird. Super awkward. No, that was setting up tomorrow’s Match dot-com date. Second one this week. How did I get so pathetic?’ She sighed.
‘Please. You’re not—’
‘No, really. It’s pathetic that I’m almost thirty and still think of my college boyfriend as my only “real” relationship. It is also pathetic that I belong to multiple online dating sites and date men from all of them. But what is most pathetic – what is bordering on inexcusable – is how willing I am to admit this to anyone who will listen.’
Brooke took another sip. ‘I’m hardly “anyone who will listen.”’
‘You know what I mean,’ Nola said. ‘If you were the only one privy to my humiliation, I could live with that. But it’s as though I’ve become so inured to the—’
‘Good word.’
‘Thanks. It was on my word-a-day calendar this morning. So, really, I’m so inured to the indignity of it all that I have no filter anymore. Just yesterday I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to explain to one of Goldman’s most senior vice presidents the difference in men on Match versus those on Nerve. It’s unforgivable.’
‘So, what’s the story with the guy tomorrow?’ Brooke asked, trying to change the subject. It was impossible to keep track of Nola’s man situation from week to week. Not just which one – a challenge itself – but whether she desperately wanted a boyfriend to settle down with or loathed commitment and wanted only to be single and fabulous and sleep around. It changed on a dime, with no warning, and left Brooke constantly trying to remember whether this week’s guy was ‘so amazing’ or ‘a total disaster.’
Nola lowered her lashes and arranged her glossed lips into her signature pout, the one that managed to say, ‘I’m fragile,’ ‘I’m sweet,’ and ‘I want you to ravish me’ all at the same time. Clearly, she was planning a long response to this question.
‘Save it for the men, my friend. Doesn’t work on me,’ Brooke lied. Nola wasn’t traditionally pretty, but it didn’t much matter. She put herself together so beautifully and emanated such confidence that men and women alike regularly fell under her spell.
‘This one sounds promising,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until he reveals some sort of colossal deal breaker, but until then, I think he’s perfect.’
‘So, what’s he like?’ Brooke pressed.
‘Mmm, let’s see. He was on the ski racing team in college, which is why I clicked on him in the first place, and he even did two seasons as an instructor, first in Park City and then in Zermatt.’
‘Perfection so far.’
Nola nodded. ‘Yep. He’s just about six foot, fit build – or so he claims – sandy blond hair, and green eyes. He just moved to the city a few months ago and doesn’t know a lot of people.’
‘You’ll change that.’
‘Yeah, I guess …’ She pouted. ‘But …’
‘What’s the problem?’ Brooke refreshed both their glasses and nodded to the waiter when he asked if they’d both like their usual orders.
‘Well, it’s the job thing. He lists his profession as “artist.”’ She pronounced this word as though she were saying ‘pornographer.’
‘So?’
‘So? So what the hell does that mean. Artist?’
‘Um, I think it could mean a lot of things. Painter, sculptor, musician, actor, wri—’
Nola touched her hand to her forehead. ‘Please. It can mean one thing only and we both know it: unemployed.’
‘Everyone’s unemployed now. It’s practically chic.’
‘Oh, come on. I can live with recession-related unemployment. But an artist? Tough to stomach.’
‘Nola! That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of people – loads of them, thousands, probably millions – who support themselves with their art. I mean, look at Julian. He’s a musician. Should I never have gone out with him?’
Nola opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. There was an awkward moment of silence.
‘What were you going to say?’ Brooke asked.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing. You’re right.’
‘No, really. What were you just about to say? Just say it.’
Nola twirled her wineglass by the stem and looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there. ‘I’m not saying that Julian isn’t really talented, but …’
‘But what?’ Brooke leaned in so close that Nola was forced to meet her eyes.
‘But I’m not sure I would call him a “musician.” He was someone’s assistant when you met. Now you support him.’
‘Yes, he was an intern when we met,’ Brooke said, barely even attempting to hide her irritation. ‘He was interning at Sony to learn the music industry, see how it works. And guess what? It’s only because of the relationships he built there that anyone paid him any attention in the first place. If he hadn’t been there every day, trying to make himself indispensable, do you think the head of A&R would’ve taken two hours of his time to watch him perform?’
‘I know, it’s just that—’
‘How can you say he’s not doing anything? Is that really what you think? I’m not sure if you realize this, but he has spent the last eight months locked away in a Midtown recording studio making an album. And not just some vanity project, by the way; Sony actually signed him as an artist – there’s that word again – and paid him an advance. If you don’t think that’s proper employment, I really don’t know what to tell you.’
Nola held her hands up in defeat and hung her head. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’ Brooke began chewing on her thumbnail. Any relief she’d felt from the wine had completely vanished.
Nola pushed her salad around with a fork. ‘Well, don’t they give out, like, a ton of recording contracts to anyone showing a modicum of talent, figuring it’ll only take one big hit to pay for all the smaller flops?’
Brooke was surprised by her friend’s knowledge of the music industry. Julian always explained that very theory when he downplayed his label deal and tried to, in his words, ‘manage expectations’ about what such a deal really meant. Still, coming from Nola, it somehow sounded worse.
‘A “modicum of talent”?’ Brooke could only whisper the words. ‘Is that what you think of him?’
‘Of course that’s not what I think of him. Don’t take it so personally. It’s just hard, as your friend, to watch you kill yourself working to support him for so many years now. Especially when the odds are so low that anything will come of it.’
‘Well, I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but you should know it was my choice to take on the extra private school consulting work to help support us. I don’t do it out of the kindness of my heart, I do it because I actually believe in him and his talent, and I know – even if no one else seems to think so – that he has a brilliant career ahead of him.’
Brooke had been ecstatic beyond description – possibly even more than Julian – when he’d called her with the initial offer from Sony eight months earlier. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars was more than they’d collectively made in the previous five years, and Julian would have the freedom to do with it what he wanted. How could she have possibly foreseen that such a massive infusion of cash would put them in even greater debt than they already were? From that advance Julian needed to pay for studio time, hire high-priced producers and sound engineers, and cover the entire cost of his equipment, travel, and backup band? The money was gone in a few short months, long before they could use so much as a single dollar toward rent, utilities, or even a celebratory dinner. And once all those funds were being used to help Julian make a name for himself, it didn’t make sense not to see the project through. They’d already spent thirty thousand dollars of their own money – the entirety of their savings that had once been earmarked for a down payment on an apartment – and they were burning through more credit every single day. The scariest part of the whole thing was what Nola had so brutally spelled out: the chances of Julian ever making good on all that time and money – even with the Sony name behind him – were almost nil.
‘I just hope he knows how lucky he is to have a wife like you,’ Nola said, more softly now. ‘I can tell you, I sure wouldn’t be so supportive. Which is probably why I’m destined to be forever single …’
Thankfully their pasta dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to safer topics: how fattening was the meat sauce, whether or not Nola should ask for a raise at work, how much Brooke disliked her in-laws. When Brooke motioned for the check without ordering the tiramisu or even a coffee, Nola looked concerned.
‘You’re not upset with me, are you?’ she asked, adding her credit card to the leather folder.
‘No,’ Brooke lied. ‘I’ve just had a long day.’
‘Where are you headed now? No après-dinner drink?’
‘Julian’s actually got a … he’s performing,’ Brooke said, changing her mind at the last second. She’d rather not have mentioned his gig at all, but it felt strange lying to Nola.
‘Oh, fun!’ Nola said brightly, draining the last of her wine. ‘Want company?’
They both knew she didn’t really want to go, which was okay, because Brooke didn’t really want her to go. Her friend and her husband got along just fine, and that was good enough. She appreciated Nola’s protectiveness and knew it came from a good place, but it was hard thinking your best friend was constantly judging your husband – and he was always coming up short.
‘Trent’s in town actually,’ Brooke said. ‘He’s here on a rotation of some sort, so I’m meeting him there.’
‘Ah, good old Trent. How’s he liking med school?’
‘He’s done actually; he’s an intern now. Julian says he loves LA, which is surprising – born-and-bred New Yorkers never like LA.’
Nola stood up and put her suit jacket back on. ‘Is he dating anyone? If I remember correctly, he’s boring as hell but perfectly cute …’
‘He just got engaged, actually. To a fellow gastro intern, a girl named Fern. Intern Fern, the gastro specialist. I shudder to think what their conversation entails.’
Nola scrunched up her face in disgust. ‘Thanks for that visual. And to think, he could’ve been all yours …’
‘Mmmm.’
‘I just want to make sure I still get proper credit for introducing you to your husband. If you hadn’t gone out with the Trent man that night, you’d still just be another Julian groupie.’
Brooke laughed and kissed her friend on the cheek. She fished two twenties out of her wallet and handed them to Nola. ‘I’ve got to run. If I don’t get on the train in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to be late. Talk tomorrow?’ She grabbed her coat and umbrella, offered a quick wave to Luca on the way out, and bolted through the door.
Even after all these years, Brooke shuddered when she thought how close she and Julian came to missing each other. It was June 2001, a mere month after she’d graduated from college, and Brooke was finding it almost impossible to acclimatize to her new sixty-hour workweek, split almost evenly between her nutrition grad coursework, logging internship hours, and a make-ends-meet barista stint at a neighborhood coffee joint. While she’d had no illusions about the difficulty of working twelve hours a day for $22,000 – or so she’d thought – she hadn’t been able to predict the sum strain of long workdays, insufficient salary, too little sleep, and the logistics of sharing a seven-hundred-square-foot Murray Hill one-bedroom with Nola and another of their friends. Which is why, when Nola implored Brooke to join her for live music on a Sunday night, she’d flatly refused.
‘Come on, Brookie, you need to get out of the apartment,’ Nola had argued while pulling on a tight black tank top. ‘There’s some jazz quartet performing and they’re supposed to be really good, and Benny and Simone said they’d save us seats. Five-dollar cover and two-for-one drinks. What can you possibly not like about that?’
‘I’m just too tired.’ Brooke sighed, clicking listlessly through the channels from the girls’ living room futon. ‘I still have to write a paper, and I have to be at work in eleven hours.’
‘Oh, save the drama. You’re twenty-two, for chris-sake. Suck it up and go get dressed. We’re leaving in ten.’
‘It’s pouring outside and—’
‘Ten minutes, not one second longer, or you’re not my friend anymore.’
By the time the girls had made it to Rue B’s in the East Village and tucked themselves into a too-small table with friends from school, Brooke was regretting her weakness. Why did she always cave in to Nola? Why on earth was she packed into a smoky, crowded bar, drinking a watery vodka tonic and waiting to see a jazz quartet she’d never heard of? She didn’t even particularly like jazz. Or, for that matter, any live music, unless it happened to be a Dave Matthews or Bruce Springsteen concert where she could merrily sing along to all the songs. This was clearly not that kind of night. Which is why she felt a mixture of both irritation and relief when the leggy, blonde bartender banged a spoon on a water glass.
‘Hey, guys! Hey, y’all, can I have your attention for a minute?’ She wiped her free hand on her jeans and patiently waited for the crowd to quiet down. ‘I know you’re all excited to hear the Tribesmen tonight, but we just got word that they’re stuck in traffic on the LIE and aren’t going to make it in time.’
Rousing boos and jeers ensued.
‘I know, I know, it sucks. Overturned tractor trailer, complete standstill, blah, blah, blah.’
‘How about a free round as an apology?’ called out a middle-aged man sitting in the back while holding up his drink.
The bartender laughed. ‘Sorry. But if anyone wants to come on up here and entertain us …’ She looked directly at the man, who just shook his head.
‘Seriously, we’ve got a perfectly good piano. Anyone play?’
The room was silent as everyone glanced around at each other.
‘Hey, Brooke, don’t you play?’ Nola whispered loud enough for their table to hear.
Brooke rolled her eyes. ‘I got kicked out of the band in sixth grade because I couldn’t learn to read sheet music. Who gets kicked out of the middle school band?’
The bartender was not giving up easily. ‘Come on, folks! It’s freaking pouring outside, and we’re all in the mood to hear a little music. I’ll cave and throw in free pitchers for the room if someone can entertain us for a few minutes.’
‘I play a little.’
Brooke followed the voice to a scruffy-looking guy sitting alone at the bar. He was in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and a knit hat even though it was summer. She hadn’t noticed him before but decided he might – might – be reasonably cute if he showered, shaved, and lost the hat.
‘By all means …’ the bartender swept her arms toward the piano. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Julian.’
‘Well, Julian, she’s all yours.’ She resumed her position behind the bar as Julian climbed onto the piano bench. He played a few notes, messing around with the timing and rhythm, and the audience lost interest pretty quickly and went back to their conversations. Even when he did quietly play an entire song (something ballad-y she didn’t recognize), the music was more like background noise. But after ten minutes he played the intro notes to ‘Hallelujah,’ and he started to sing the lyrics in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. The room fell silent.
Brooke had heard the song before, having been briefly obsessed with Leonard Cohen, and had loved it, but the full-body chills were brand-new. She scanned the room. Were other people feeling this way? Julian’s hands moved effortlessly across the keys as he somehow infused each word with intense feeling. Only when he’d murmured the final drawn-out ‘hallelujah’ did the crowd react: they clapped, whistled, screamed, and almost uniformly jumped out of their seats. Julian appeared embarrassed, sheepish, and after an almost imperceptible bow, he began to walk back to his bar stool.
‘Damn, he’s good,’ breathed a young girl to her date at the table behind them, her eyes fixed on the piano player.
‘Encore!’ called an attractive woman who clutched her husband’s hand. The husband nodded and echoed her call. Within seconds, the cheering had doubled in volume and the entire room was demanding a second song.
The bartender grabbed Julian’s hand and pulled him back toward the microphone. ‘Pretty amazing, isn’t he, guys?’ she yelled, beaming with pride at her new discovery. ‘What do you say we convince Julian here to play us one more?’
Brooke turned to Nola, feeling more excited than she had in ages. ‘Do you think he’s going to play something else? Would you ever believe that some nobody sitting at a random bar on a random Sunday night – the guy who’s there to hear someone else perform – can sing like that?’
Nola smiled at her and leaned in to make herself heard above the crowd. ‘He is really talented. Too bad he looks like that.’
Brooke felt as though she’d been personally insulted. ‘Looks like what? I like that whole scruffy thing he has going on. And with a voice like that, I think he’s going to be a star one day.’
‘Not a chance. He’s talented, but so are a million other people who are more outgoing and a whole lot better looking.’
‘He’s cute,’ Brooke said a little indignantly.
‘He’s East Village-gig cute. Not international-rock-star cute.’
Before she could leap to Julian’s defense, he returned to the bench and began to play again. This time it was a cover of ‘Let’s Get It On,’ and again, somehow, he managed to sound even better than Marvin Gaye – a deeper, sexier voice, a slightly slower rhythm, and an expression on his face of intense concentration. Brooke was so lost in the experience she barely noticed that her friends had resumed their chitchat as the promised free pitcher of beer made its way around their table. They poured and swallowed and poured some more, but Brooke couldn’t take her eyes off the disheveled guy at the piano. When he walked out of the bar twenty minutes later, bowing his head to his appreciative audience and offering the smallest hint of a smile, Brooke seriously considered following him. She’d never done anything like it in her life, but it felt right.
‘Should I go introduce myself?’ she asked everyone at the table, leaning far enough forward that conversation couldn’t continue.
‘To whom?’ Nola asked.
‘To Julian!’ This was exasperating. Didn’t anyone else realize he’d already stepped outside and would soon disappear forever?
‘Julian, the piano man?’ Benny asked.
Nola rolled her eyes and took a swig of beer. ‘What are you going to do? Chase him down and tell him that you can overlook his potential homelessness as long as he’ll make sweet love to you atop his piano?’
Benny began to sing. ‘Well it’s nine o’clock on a Sat – Sunday, regular crowd shuffles in …’
‘There’s a scruffy man sitting next to me, making love to our friend Brooke,’ Nola finished, laughing. They clinked beer mugs.
‘You’re both hysterical,’ Brooke said as she stood.
‘No way! You’re not following him, are you? Benny, go with her. Piano Man could be a serial killer,’ Nola said.
‘I’m not following him,’ Brooke said. But she did make her way to the bar and, after digging her nails into her palms and changing her mind five times, she finally worked up the courage to ask the bartender if she knew anything else about the mystery performer.
The woman didn’t look up as she mixed a batch of mojitos. ‘I’ve seen him in here before, usually when we have a blues or classic rock band playing, but he never talks to anyone. Always alone, if that’s what you’re asking …’
‘No, no, I, uh … no, it’s not that at all. Just curious,’ she stammered, feeling like an idiot.
Brooke had turned back toward the table when the bartender called out, ‘Told me he plays a regular gig at a bar on the Upper East Side, a place called Trick’s or Rick’s, something like that. Tuesdays. Hope that helps.’
Brooke could count on one hand the number of times she’d gone to see live acts. She had never tracked down and followed a strange guy; and, with the exception of ten or fifteen minutes waiting for friends or dates to arrive, she didn’t spend a lot of time solo in bars. Yet none of this stopped her from making a half dozen phone calls to find the right place and, after another three weeks working up her nerve, actually getting on the subway one scorching hot Tuesday night in July and walking in the front door of Nick’s Bar and Lounge.
Once she sat down, finding one of the last seats in the very back corner, she knew it had been worthwhile. The bar was one of a hundred just like it lining Second Avenue, but the crowd was surprisingly mixed. Instead of the usual Upper East Side mob of recent college grads who liked downing beer after loosening their brand-new Brooks Brothers ties, the group tonight seemed an almost odd mix of NYU students who’d made the trek uptown, couples in their thirties who sipped martinis and held hands, and hordes of Converse-wearing hipsters rarely seen in such concentrations outside the East Village or Brooklyn. Soon Nick’s was packed beyond capacity, every seat filled and probably another fifty or sixty people standing behind the tables, all there for one and only one reason. It shocked Brooke to realize that the way she’d felt when she heard Julian play a month earlier at Rue B’s wasn’t unique. Dozens of people already knew about him and were willing to travel from all over the city to see him perform.
By the time Julian claimed his seat at the piano and began his checks to make sure the sound was okay, the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. When he began, the room seemed to settle into the rhythm, some people swaying ever so slightly, some with their eyes closed, all with their bodies leaning in toward the stage. Brooke, who had never before understood what it meant to get lost in the music, felt her entire body relax. Whether it was the red wine or the sexy crooning or the completely foreign feeling of being in a crowd of complete strangers, Brooke was addicted.
She went to Nick’s every Tuesday for the rest of the summer. She never invited anyone to join her; when her roommates pressed her on where she went each week, she invented a very believable story about a book club with school friends. Just being there, watching him and hearing the music, she began to feel like she knew him. Up until then, music had been a side note, nothing more than a distraction on the treadmill, a fun dance song at a party, a way to kill time on long drives. But this? This was incredible. Without so much as a hello, Julian’s music could affect her mood and change her mind and make her feel things that were completely outside the realm of her daily routine.
Until those solo nights at Nick’s, her weeks had all looked the same: first work, then the all-too-rare happy hour with the same group of college friends and the same nosy roommates. She was happy enough, but at times it felt suffocating. Now Julian was all hers, and the fact that they never exchanged so much as a glance didn’t bother her in the least. She was perfectly content just to watch him. He made the rounds – a bit reluctantly, it appeared to her – after each performance, shaking hands and modestly accepting the praise everyone lavished on him, but Brooke never once considered approaching him.
It was two weeks after September 11, 2001, when Nola convinced her to go on a blind date with a guy she’d met at a work function. All their friends had either fled NYC to see family or rekindled relationships with exes, and the city was still pinned by acrid smoke and an overwhelming grief. Nola had hunkered down with some new guy, spending nearly every night at his apartment, and Brooke was feeling unsettled and lonely.
‘A blind date? Really?’ Brooke asked, barely looking up from her computer.
‘He’s a sweetheart,’ Nola said one night while they sat side by side on the couch watching SNL. ‘He’s not going to be your future husband, but he’s super nice, and he’s cute enough, and he’ll take you somewhere good. If you stop being such a frigid bitch, he might even hook up with you.’
‘Nola!’
‘I’m just saying. You could use it, you know. And while we’re on the topic, a shower and a manicure wouldn’t kill you either.’
Brooke held out her hands and noticed, for the first time, bitten-down nails and raggedy cuticles. They really did look gross. ‘What is he, one of your discards?’ she asked.
Nola sniffed.
‘He is! You totally hooked up with him and now you’re passing him along to me. That’s vile, no! And I have to say, surprising. Even you’re not usually that bad.’
‘Save it,’ Nola said with a massive roll of her eyes. ‘I met him a couple weeks ago at some work fund-raiser; he was there with one of my colleagues.’
‘So you did hook up with him.’
‘No! I may have hooked up with my colleague—’
Brooke groaned and covered her eyes.
‘—but that’s not important. I remember his friend was cute and single. A med student, I think, but honestly, you’re not really at a point to be discriminatory about such things. So long as he’s breathing …’
‘Thanks, friend.’
‘So you’ll go?’
Brooke grabbed for the clicker back again. ‘If it will make you shut up right now, I’ll consider it,’ she said.
Four days later Brooke found herself sitting at an outdoor Italian café on MacDougal Street. Trent was, as Nola promised, a perfectly sweet guy. Reasonably cute, extremely polite, nicely dressed, and boring as hell. Their conversation was more bland than the linguini with tomato and basil he ordered for them both, and his earnestness left her with the overwhelming desire to plunge a fork into her eyes. Yet for a reason she didn’t understand, when he suggested they move on to a nearby bar, she agreed.
‘Really?’ he asked, sounding every bit as surprised as she felt.
‘Yeah, why not?’ And really, she thought, why not? It’s not like she had any other prospects or even the expectation of watching a movie with Nola later that night. The next day she would have to start outlining a fifteen-page paper that was due in two weeks; besides that, her most exciting plans were the laundry, the gym, and a four-hour shift at the coffee shop. What exactly was she rushing home to?
‘Great, I have just the place in mind.’ Trent sweetly insisted on paying the check and, finally, they were off.
They’d only walked two blocks when Trent crossed in front of her and pulled open the door to a notoriously raucous NYU bar. It was possibly the last place in downtown Manhattan anyone would take a date he wasn’t planning to roofie, but Brooke was pleased they’d be going somewhere loud enough to prevent any real conversation. She’d have a beer, maybe two, listen to some good eighties on the jukebox, and be under her covers by midnight – alone.
It took a couple seconds for her eyes to adjust, though she immediately recognized Julian’s voice. When she finally focused on the front stage, she stared in disbelief: he sat in his familiar pose at the piano, fingers flying and mouth pressed against the microphone, singing her favorite of his originals: The woman sits alone in a room / Alone in a house like a silent tomb / The man counts every jewel in his crown / What can’t be saved is measured in pounds. She wasn’t sure how long she stood rooted in the doorway, instantly and completely absorbed in his performance, but it was long enough for Trent to comment.
‘Pretty great, isn’t he? Come on, I see a couple seats over there.’
He took her arm and Brooke allowed herself to be pulled through the crowd. She arranged herself in the chair Trent pointed to and had barely placed her purse on the table when the song ended and Julian announced he’d be taking a break. She was vaguely aware that Trent was speaking to her, but between the noise of the bar and the vigil she was keeping on Julian’s whereabouts, she didn’t hear what he was saying.
It happened so fast she could barely process it. One second Julian was unhooking his harmonica from its piano-top stand and the next he was standing over their table, smiling. As usual, he was wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans with a knit cap, this one an eggplant color. There was a light sheen of sweat on his face and forearms.
‘Hey, buddy, glad you could make it,’ Julian said, clapping Trent on the shoulder.
‘Yeah, me too. Looks like we missed the first set.’ Someone had just abandoned a chair at the next table, and Trent pulled it over for Julian. ‘Take a load off.’
Julian hesitated, glanced at Brooke with a small smile, and sat. ‘Julian Alter,’ he said, offering his hand.
Brooke was about to respond when Trent spoke over her. ‘Christ, I’m such an idiot! Who taught me my manners, you know? Julian, this is my, uh, this is Brooke. Brooke …’
‘Greene,’ she said, pleased with Trent for demonstrating in front of Julian how little they knew each other.
She and Julian shook hands, which seemed like an awkward gesture in a crowded college bar, but Brooke felt only excitement. She examined him more closely as he and Trent exchanged jokes about some guy they both knew. Julian was probably only a couple years older than her, but something made him look more knowing, experienced, although Brooke couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. His nose was too prominent and his chin a touch weak, and his pale skin even more noticeable now, at the very end of summer, when everyone else had a season’s worth of vitamin D. His eyes, while green, were unremarkable, even murky, with fine lines that crinkled around them when he smiled. Had she not heard him sing so many times, seen him throw his head back and call out lyrics in a voice so rich and filled with meaning – had she just ran into him like this, wearing that knit cap and clutching a beer in a loud, anonymous bar – she never would have looked twice, nor thought him the least bit attractive. But tonight, she could barely breathe.
The two guys chatted for a few minutes while Brooke sat back and watched. It was Julian, not Trent, who noticed she didn’t have a drink.
‘Can I get you guys a beer?’ he asked, looking around for a waitress.
Trent immediately stood up. ‘I’ll get them. We just got here and no one’s come by yet. Brooke, what would you like?’
She murmured the name of the first beer that came to mind, and Julian held up what looked like an empty water cup. ‘Can you get me a Sprite?’
Brooke felt a stab of panic when Trent left. What on earth were they going to talk about? Anything, she reminded herself, anything but the fact that she’d followed him all over the city.
Julian turned to her and smiled. ‘Trent’s a good guy, huh?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Yeah, he seems nice. We just met tonight. I barely even know him.’
‘Ah, the always-fun blind date. Do you think you’ll go out with him again?’
‘No,’ Brooke said without any emotion whatsoever. She was convinced she was in shock; she barely knew what she was saying.
Julian laughed and Brooke laughed with him. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Brooke shrugged. ‘No reason in particular. He seems perfectly pleasant. Just a little boring.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, but she couldn’t think straight.
Julian’s face broke in a massive smile, one so bright and beaming that Brooke forgot to feel embarrassed. ‘That’s my cousin you’re calling boring’ He laughed.
‘Omigod, I didn’t mean it like that. He’s seems really, uh, great. It just—’ The more she stammered, the more amused he appeared.
‘Oh, please.’ He interrupted her, placing his wide, warm hand on her forearm. ‘You’re absolutely, exactly correct. He’s a really great guy – honestly, as sweet as they come – but no one’s ever described him as the life of the party.’
There was a moment of silence as Brooke wracked her brain for something appropriate to say next. It didn’t much matter what it was, so long as she managed to keep her fan status under wraps.
‘I’ve seen you play before,’ she announced, before clapping her hand over her mouth in reflexive shock.
He peered at her. ‘Oh yeah? Where?’
‘Every Tuesday night at Nick’s.’ Any chance of not appearing downright stalkerish had just come to a crashing end.
‘Really?’ He seemed puzzled but pleased.
She nodded.
‘Why?’
Brooke briefly considered lying and telling him that her best friend lived nearby or that she went every week with a group for happy hour, but for a reason she herself didn’t entirely understand, she was completely truthful. ‘I was there that night at Rue B’s when the jazz quartet canceled and you did that impromptu performance. I thought you, uh, I thought it was awesome, so I asked the bartender for your name and found out you had a regular gig. Now I try to go whenever I can.’ She forced herself to look up, convinced he’d be staring at her with horror, and possibly fear, but Julian’s expression revealed nothing, and his silence only made her more determined to fill it.
‘Which is why it was so weird when Trent brought me here tonight … such a weird coincidence …’ She let her words trail off awkwardly and was filled with instant regret at all that she had just revealed.
When she worked up the nerve to meet his eyes once again, Julian was shaking his head.
‘You must be creeped out,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘I promise I’ll never show up at your apartment or your day job. I mean, not that I know where your apartment is, or if you even have a day job. Of course, I’m sure music is your day job, your real job, as it should—’
The hand was back on her forearm and Julian met her eye. ‘I see you there every week,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
He nodded and smiled again, this time shaking his head a little as if to say, I can’t believe I’m admitting this. ‘Yeah. You always sit in the far back corner, near the pool table, and you’re always alone. Last week you were wearing a blue dress, and it had white flowers or something sewn on the bottom, and you were reading a magazine but you put it away right as I came on.’
Brooke remembered the sundress, a gift from her mom to wear at her graduation brunch. Only four months earlier it had felt so stylish; wearing it around the city now made her feel girlishly unsophisticated. The blue did make her red hair look even more fiery, so that was good, but it really did nothing for her hips or legs. So engrossed was she in trying to remember how she’d looked that night, she hadn’t noticed Trent return to the table until he pushed a bottle of Bud Light her way.
‘What’d I miss?’ he asked, sliding into his seat. ‘Sure is crowded tonight. Julian, dude, you know how to pack’em in.’
Julian clinked his cup with Trent’s bottle and took a long drink. ‘Thanks, buddy. I’ll get you back after the show.’ He nodded to Brooke with what she swore – and prayed – was a knowing look and walked back toward the stage.
She didn’t know then that he would ask Trent for his permission to call her, or that their first phone conversation would make her feel like she was flying, or that their first date would be a defining night in her life. She never would have predicted that they would fall into bed together less than three weeks later after a handful of marathon dates she had never wanted to end, or that they would save up for nearly two years to drive cross-country together or get engaged while listening to live music at a divey little place in the West Village with a plain gold band he’d paid for entirely on his own, or get married at his parents’ gorgeous seaside Hamptons home because really, what were they proving by refusing a place like that? All she knew for sure that night was that she desperately wanted to see him again, that she would be at Nick’s in two nights come hell or high water, and that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop smiling.
2
suffer one, suffer all
Brooke stepped into the hallway of the maternal medicine ward at NYU Langone Medical Center and pulled the curtain closed. Eight down, three to go. She rifled through the remaining files: a pregnant teenager, a pregnant mother with gestational diabetes, and a first-time mother struggling to nurse newborn twins. She checked her watch and did a few calculations: if all went as smoothly as she anticipated, she might actually get to leave at a decent hour.
‘Mrs Alter?’ Her patient’s voice called out from behind the curtain.
Brooke stepped back inside.
‘Yes, Alisha?’ Brooke pulled her white scrub coat tightly around her chest and wondered how this woman wasn’t shivering in her paper-thin hospital gown.
Alisha wrung her hands and, staring at her sheet-draped lap, said, ‘You know how you said the prenatal vitamins were really important? Like, even if I haven’t been taking them since the beginning?’
Brooke nodded. ‘I know it’s hard to look on the bright side of severe flu,’ she said, walking over to the girl’s bedside, ‘but at least it got you in here and will give us a chance to get you started on the vitamins and discuss a plan for the rest of your pregnancy.’
‘Yeah, so about that … is there, um, like some sort of samples you could give me?’ Alisha refused to meet her eyes.
‘Oh, I don’t think that should be a problem,’ Brooke said, smiling for her patient’s sake but irritated with herself for neglecting to inquire whether or not Alisha could afford the prenatals. ‘Let’s see, you’ve got another sixteen weeks … I’ll leave the full supply with the nurses’ station, okay?’
Alisha looked relieved. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.
Brooke squeezed the girl’s forearm and stepped back outside the curtain. After getting Alisha’s vitamins, she half-sprinted to the dietitians’ dreary fifth-floor break room, a windowless cubicle with a four-seater Formica table, a mini fridge, and a small wall of lockers. If she hurried, she could cram down a quick snack and a cup of coffee and still make it to her next appointment on time. Relieved to find the room empty and the coffeepot full, Brooke pulled a Tupperware container of precut apple wedges from her locker and began to smear them with travel-sized packets of all-natural peanut butter. At the exact moment her mouth was full, her cell phone rang.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked without saying hello. Her words were muffled from the food.
Her mother paused. ‘Of course, honey. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Because, Mom, it’s pretty busy here, and you know I hate talking at work.’ The overhead intercom drowned out the second half of her sentence.
‘What was that? I couldn’t hear you.’
Brooke sighed. ‘Nothing, never mind. What’s up?’ She pictured her mother in her signature khaki pants and Naturalizer flats, the same ones she’d worn her entire life, pacing the galley kitchen of her Philadelphia apartment. Despite filling her days with a never-ending stream of book clubs, theater clubs, and volunteer work, it still seemed like her mother had way too much time on her hands, most of which was filled with calling her children and asking them why they weren’t calling back. While it was lovely her mother got to enjoy her retirement, she’d been a lot more hands-off with Brooke when she was teaching from seven to three each day.
‘Wait just a minute …’ Her mother’s voice trailed off and it was momentarily replaced by Oprah’s before that, too, abruptly ended. ‘There we go.’
‘Wow, you turned off Oprah. It must be important.’
‘She’s interviewing Jennifer Aniston again. I can’t stand to listen to it anymore. She’s over Brad. She’s thrilled to be forty-whatever. She’s never felt better. We get it. Why do we have to keep talking about it?’
Brooke laughed. ‘Listen, Mom, can I call you later tonight? I only have fifteen minutes left of break.’
‘Oh sure, honey. Remind me then to tell you about your brother.’
‘What’s wrong with Randy?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with Randy – something’s finally right. But I know you’re busy right now, so let’s just talk later.’
‘Mom …’
‘It was thoughtless of me to call in the middle of your shift. I wasn’t even—’
Brooke sighed loudly and smiled to herself. ‘Do you want me to beg?’
‘Sweetheart, if it’s a bad time, it’s a bad time. Let’s talk when you have a little more time.’
‘Okay, Mom, I’m begging you to tell me about Randy. Literally pleading. Please tell me what’s up with him. Please?’
‘Well, if you’re going to be so insistent … fine, I’ll tell you. Randy and Michelle are pregnant. There, you forced it out of me.’
‘They’re what?’
‘Pregnant, sweetheart. Having a baby. She’s still very early – only seven weeks, I think – but their doctor says all looks well. Isn’t that just wonderful?’
Brooke heard the television go on again in the background, quieter this time, but she could still make out Oprah’s recognizable laugh.
‘Wonderful?’ Brooke asked, setting down her plastic knife. ‘I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use. They’ve only been dating for six months. They’re not married. They’re not even living together.’
‘Since when are you such a prude, my dear?’ Mrs Greene asked, clucking her tongue. ‘If you’d ever told me that my educated, urbane, thirty-year-old daughter would be such a traditionalist, I never would’ve believed it.’
‘Mother, I’m not sure it’s exactly “traditionalist” to expect that people try to limit baby-making to committed relationships.’
‘Oh, Brooke, relax a little. Not everyone can – or should – get married at twenty-five. Randy’s thirty-eight and Michelle is almost forty. Do you really think anyone cares at this point about some silly little legal document? We should all know well enough by now that it hardly means a thing.’
Brooke’s mind circled through a number of thoughts: her parents’ divorce nearly ten years earlier, when her father left her mother for the school nurse at the high school where they both taught; the way her mother sat Brooke down after her engagement to Julian and told her that women could be perfectly happy these days without getting married; her mother’s fervent wish that Brooke wait to start a family until her career was fully established. It was interesting to see that Randy, apparently, operated under a completely different set of guidelines.
‘Do you know what I really find amusing?’ her mother asked without missing a beat. ‘The thought that maybe, just maybe, your father and Cynthia will have a baby, too. You know, considering how young she is. Then you’d have a brother and a father who are expecting. Really, Brooke, how many girls can say that?’
‘Mom …’
‘Seriously, sweetheart, don’t you think it’s pretty ironic – well, I’m not sure “ironic” is the right word, but it’s pretty coincidental – that your father’s wife is a year younger than Michelle?’
‘Mom! Please stop. You know Dad and Cynthia aren’t going to have any children – he’s going to be sixty-five years old, for god’s sake, and she doesn’t even want—’ Brooke stopped, smiled to herself, shook her head. ‘You know, maybe you’re right, and Dad and Cynthia will jump on the bandwagon. Then Randy and Dad will be able to bond over feeding schedules and naptime. How sweet.’
She waited for it and wasn’t disappointed.
Her mother snorted. ‘Please. The closest that man came to a diaper when you two were babies was watching a Pampers commercial. Men don’t change, Brooke. Your father won’t have anything to do with that child until it is old enough to express a political opinion. But I do think there’s hope for your brother.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s hope so. I’ll call him tonight to congratulate him, but I have to—’
‘No!’ Mrs Greene screeched. ‘We never had this conversation. I promised I wouldn’t tell you, so act surprised when he calls you.’
Brooke sighed and smiled. ‘Great loyalty, Mom. Does that mean you tell Randy everything even when I swear you to secrecy?’
‘Of course not. I only tell him when it’s interesting.’
‘Thanks, Mom.’
‘Love you, sweetheart. And remember, keep this to yourself.’
‘I promise. You have my word.’
Brooke hung up and checked her watch: five minutes to five. Four minutes to get to her next consultation. She knew she shouldn’t call right then, but she just couldn’t wait.
She remembered as soon as she dialed that Randy could be staying after school to coach the boys’ soccer team, but he picked up his cell on the first ring. ‘Hey, Brookie. What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on with me? Not a goddamn thing. What’s going on with you is a much more relevant question.’
‘Jesus Christ. I told her no less than eight minutes ago, and she swore she’d let me tell you myself.’
‘Yeah, well, I swore I wouldn’t tell you she told me, so whatever. Congratulations, big brother!’
‘Thanks. We’re both pretty excited. A little freaked out – it happened a lot faster than either of us expected – but excited.’
Brooke felt her breath catch. ‘What do you mean “faster”? You planned this?’
Randy laughed. She heard him say, ‘Give me a minute,’ to someone in the background, a student probably, and then he said, ‘Yeah, she went off the pill last month. The doctor said it would take at least a couple months for her cycle to regulate before we’d even be able to tell if pregnancy was a possibility due to her age. We just never figured it would happen immediately …’
It was surreal to hear her big brother – an avowed bachelor who decorated his house with old football trophies and dedicated more square footage to his pool table than he did to his kitchen – talk about regulated cycles and birth control pills and doctor’s opinions. Especially when all bets would’ve been on Brooke and Julian as the likeliest candidates to make a big announcement …
‘Wow. What else can I say? Wow.’ It really was all she could say; she was worried Randy would hear her voice catch and interpret it the wrong way.
She was so excited for Randy, she felt a lump in her throat. Sure, he managed to take care of himself just fine, and he always seemed happy enough, but Brooke worried about him being so alone. He lived in the suburbs, surrounded by families, and all of his old college buddies had long since had children. She and Randy weren’t really close enough to talk about it, but she’d always wondered if he wanted all that or if he was happy with his life as a bachelor. Now hearing his excitement confirmed how badly he must have longed for this, and she thought she might cry.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Can you imagine me teaching the little guy how to throw a pass? I’m going to get him a kid-sized pigskin right from the outset – none of that Nerf crap for my boy – and by the time he’s grown into his hands, he’ll be ready for the real deal.’
Brooke laughed. ‘So you obviously haven’t considered the distinct possibility that you could have a girl, huh?’
‘There are three other pregnant teachers at school, and all three of them are having boys,’ he said.
‘Interesting. But you are aware that, although you all share a work environment, your future child and their future children are not required by law or physics to be the same gender, right?’
‘I’m not sure about that …’
She laughed again. ‘So are you guys going to find out? Or is it too early to ask that question? I don’t really know how these things work.’
‘Well, being that I know we’re having a boy, I don’t really think it’s relevant, but Michelle wants to be surprised. So we’re going to wait.’
‘Aw, that’s fun. When’s the little one due?’
‘October twenty-fifth. A Halloween baby. I think that’s good luck.’
‘I do too,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m marking it in the calendar right now. October twenty-fifth: I’ll be an aunt.’
‘Hey, Brookie, what about you guys? It’d be pretty nice to have first cousins be close in age. Any chance?’
She knew it was hard for Randy to ask her such a personal question so she was careful not to jump down his throat, but he’d hit a nerve. When she and Julian had married at twenty-five and twenty-seven, respectively, she’d always figured they’d have a baby around her thirtieth birthday. But here they were, already past that and nowhere near even starting to try. She’d broached the subject with Julian a few times, casually so as not to put too much pressure on either of them, but he’d been just as casual with his response. Namely, that a baby would be great ‘someday,’ but for now they were doing the right thing focusing on their careers. So although she did want a baby – actually wanted nothing more, especially now, hearing Randy’s news – she adopted Julian’s party line.
‘Oh, someday of course,’ she said, trying to sound casual, the exact opposite of the way she felt. ‘But now’s just not the right time for us. Focusing on work, you know?’
‘Sure,’ Randy said, and Brooke wondered if he knew the truth. ‘You’ve got to do what’s right for you guys.’
‘Yeah, so … listen, I’m sorry to run but my break’s over and I’m late for a consult.’
‘No worries, Brookie. Thanks for the call. And the excitement.’
‘Are you kidding me? Thank you for the incredible news. You made my whole day – my month. Congrats again, Randy. I’m so excited for you guys! I’ll call later tonight to congratulate Michelle, okay?’
They hung up and Brooke began the trek back to the fifth floor. Incredulous, she couldn’t stop shaking her head as she walked. She probably looked like a crazy person, but that would hardly draw attention at the hospital. Randy. A father!
Brooke wanted to call Julian and tell him the news, only he’d sounded so stressed earlier, and there really wasn’t time before her consult. With one of the other nutritionists out on vacation and an unexplained influx of births that morning – nearly twice the usual amount – her day felt like it was moving at warp speed. It was good: the more she moved, the less time she had to wallow in her exhaustion. Besides, it was exciting and challenging when they got hit like this, and although she complained to Julian and her mother, she secretly loved it: all the different patients from every walk of life, each in the hospital for hugely varied reasons but still in need of someone to fine-tune a diet to their specific condition.
The caffeine hit exactly as planned, and Brooke banged out her final three appointments quickly and efficiently. She had just finished changing from scrubs into jeans and a sweater when one of her colleagues in the break room, Rebecca, announced that their boss wanted to see her.
‘Now?’ Brooke asked, watching her evening begin to disintegrate.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were sacred: they were the only days of the week she didn’t need to leave the hospital and head uptown to her second job, a position as a visiting nutritionist for the Huntley Academy, one of the most elite all-girls private schools on the Upper East Side. The parents of a Huntley alumna who’d died in her twenties of severe anorexia had set up a fund at the school for an experimental program where a nutritionist was available on site to counsel the girls on healthy eating and body image awareness twenty hours a week. Brooke was the second person to staff the fairly new program, and although she’d originally accepted the position solely as a way to supplement her and Julian’s income, she had found herself growing more and more attached to the girls. Sure, the anger, the awkwardness, the never-ending obsession with food sometimes wore her down but she always tried to remind herself that these young patients didn’t know any better. Plus the job had the added bonus of giving her more experience working with adolescents, something she lacked.
So Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked only at the hospital, from nine to six. The other three days a week her schedule shifted earlier to accommodate her second job: she worked at NYU from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon and then took two trains and a crosstown bus to get uptown to Huntley, where she’d meet with students – and sometimes their parents – until close to seven. No matter how early she forced herself to bed, and regardless of how much coffee she sucked down when she woke up, she was perpetually exhausted. The dual-job lifestyle was absolutely grueling, but she estimated she needed only one more year of work before being both qualified and experienced enough to open her own private pre-and postnatal nutrition practice, something she’d dreamed about since her very first day of graduate school and the very thing she’d worked diligently toward since then.
Rebecca nodded sympathetically. ‘She asked if you’d stop in before you left.’
Brooke quickly packed up her things and headed back to the fifth floor.
‘Margaret?’ she called out, knocking on the office door. ‘Rebecca said you wanted to see me?’
‘Come in, come in,’ her boss said, shuffling some papers on her desk. ‘Sorry to keep you late, but I figured there was always time for good news.’
Brooke sank into the chair opposite Margaret and waited.
‘Well, we’ve finished calculating all of the patient evaluations, and I’m happy to report that you received the highest marks of the entire dietitian staff.’
‘I did?’ Brooke asked, barely believing she’d come in first among seven.
‘It wasn’t even close.’ Margaret absentmindedly slicked on some ChapStick, smacked her lips, and returned her gaze to her papers. ‘Ninety-one percent of your patients evaluated your consultations as “excellent,” and the remaining nine all ranked them as “good.” The next best on staff had an “excellent” rating of eight-two percent.’
‘Wow,’ Brooke said, aware that she should be aiming for a little modesty but unable to stop smiling. ‘That is great news. I’m so happy to hear it.’
‘So are we, Brooke. We’re extremely pleased, and I wanted you to know that your performance doesn’t go unnoticed. You’ll still be assigned cases in the ICU, but as of next week, we’ll be replacing all of your psych shifts with neonatal. I’m assuming that’s okay with you?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s wonderful with me!’ Brooke said.
‘As you know, you’re only the third most senior on staff, but no one else has your background and experience. I think it’ll be a perfect fit for you.’
Brooke couldn’t keep herself from beaming. Finally, that extra year of coursework in child, adolescent, and newborn nutrition in grad school, plus her optional double internship – both in pediatrics – had paid off. ‘Margaret, I can’t thank you enough for everything. That is just the best news ever.’
Her boss laughed. ‘Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
As she walked to the subway, Brooke sent up a silent thanks, both for her semipromotion and, almost better, the fact that she didn’t have to.
She jumped off the train at the Times Square stop, quickly weaved her way through the masses of people underground, and strategically emerged onto the street at her usual Forty-third Street stairwell, which was closest to their apartment and allowing her to avoid the crush of humanity she’d otherwise encounter walking along Forty-second Street. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss their old apartment in Brooklyn – she’d loved nearly everything about Brooklyn Heights and hated almost everything about Midtown West – but even she had to admit that both their commutes were a little less hellish.
She was surprised when Walter, her tricolored spaniel with a black eye-mask patch over one eye, didn’t bark when she inserted her key into the apartment door. Nor did he race to greet her.
‘Walter Alter! Where are you?’ She made kissing noises and waited. Music was playing from somewhere in the apartment.
‘We’re in the living room,’ Julian called back. His reply was punctuated by Walter’s frenetic, high-pitched woofs.
Brooke dropped her bag just inside the door, kicked off her heels, and noticed that the kitchen was significantly cleaner than she’d left it.
‘Hey! I didn’t know you were getting home early tonight,’ she said as she sat down next to Julian on the couch. She leaned over to kiss him but Walter intercepted her and licked her mouth first.
‘Mmm, thank you, Walter. I feel so welcome.’
Julian muted the television and turned to face her. ‘I’d be happy to lick your face too, you know. My tongue probably can’t compete with a spaniel’s, but hey, I’m willing to try.’ He grinned and Brooke marveled at that fluttery feeling she got when he smiled like that, even after all these years.
‘Tempting, I have to say.’ She ducked around Walter and actually managed to kiss Julian’s wine-stained mouth. ‘You sounded so stressed earlier, I figured you wouldn’t be home until so much later. Is everything okay?’
He stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with a second wineglass, which he filled and handed to Brooke. ‘Everything’s fine. I realized after we hung up this afternoon that we haven’t spent an evening together in almost a week. I’m here to remedy that.’
‘You are? Really?’ She’d been thinking the same thing for days but hadn’t wanted to complain when Julian was at such a crucial point in the production process.
He nodded. ‘I miss you, Rook.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again. ‘I miss you, too. I’m so glad you came home early. Want to run out for some noodles?’
For their budget’s sake, she and Julian made it a point to cook as often as possible, but they both agreed that the cheapie corner noodle joint didn’t really count as eating out.
‘Do you mind if we stay in? I was looking forward to a quiet evening with you tonight.’ He took another sip of wine.
‘Sure, fine with me. I’ll make you a deal …’
‘Oh no, here we go …’
‘I will go slave over a hot stove to prepare you a delicious and nutritious meal if you agree to rub my feet and back for thirty minutes.’
‘“Slave over a hot stove”? You can make a chicken stir-fry in like two minutes. Not a fair deal.’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Okay. There’s cereal in the pantry, although I think we’re out of milk. You could always make yourself some popcorn.’
Julian turned to Walter and said, ‘You don’t know how good you have it, boy. She doesn’t make you work in exchange for kibble.’
‘The price just went up to thirty minutes.’
‘It was already thirty minutes,’ Julian whined.
‘That was thirty minutes total. Now it’s thirty minutes feet and another thirty for the back.’
Julian pretended to weigh this. ‘Forty-five minutes and I’ll––’
‘Any attempts at bargaining only add time onto the total.’
He held up his palms. ‘I’m afraid there’s no deal.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You going to fend for yourself tonight?’ she asked, grinning. Julian was an equal partner with the cleaning, bill paying, and dog care, but he was useless in the kitchen and he knew it.
‘As a matter of fact, I am. I’m fending for both of us, actually. I cooked dinner for you tonight.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard me.’ Somewhere in the kitchen a timer began to beep. ‘And it’s ready as we speak. Please be seated,’ he said grandly in a faux British accent.
‘I am seated,’ she said, leaning back against the sofa and kicking her feet up on the coffee table.
‘Ah, yes,’ Julian called cheerfully from their miniature kitchen. ‘I see you’ve found your way to the formal dining room. Perfect.’
‘Can I help?’
Julian walked back in holding a Pyrex casserole dish between two oven mitts. ‘One baked ziti for my love …’ He was about to set the dish down on the bare wood before Brooke yelped and jumped up to retrieve a trivet. Julian began to spoon the steaming pasta.
Brooke could only stare. ‘Is this where you tell me you’ve been having an affair with another woman for the entire duration of our marriage and you want my forgiveness?’ she asked.
Julian grinned. ‘Shut up and eat.’
She sat down and helped herself to some salad while Julian spooned ziti on her plate. ‘Baby, this looks incredible. Where did you learn to do this? And why aren’t you doing it every night?’
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 crucial 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.
‘It’s their anniversary,’ Brooke replied, shrugging. It was unnaturally cold for a winter 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 March?’
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-seventy 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 now. 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 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 Mr 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 laypeople 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 parents 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?’
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 over 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 3D 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 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 blonde 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 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.’
The three had just clinked glasses – Julian only had water – and were about to get the full rundown on Fern when one of the best-looking guys Brooke had ever laid eyes on seemed to magically appear by her side. 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 overgrooming or perfection. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his entire body.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Leo,’ Brooke said. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
He didn’t appear to hear. ‘Okay, listen,’ he said, turning to Julian. ‘I just got word that you’re scheduled as the final act. One down, one to go, then you.’ Leo peered intently over Julian’s shoulder as he talked.
‘Is that good news?’ Brooke asked politely. Julian had already told her that none of the other musicians scheduled to perform that night were in any real competition. One was an R&B group who everyone thought sounded like a modern-day Boyz II Men, and the other was a heavily tattooed female country singer who wore frilly dresses and pigtails.
She looked at Leo and saw that once again, his gaze had wandered. Brooke followed it and saw he was staring directly at Nola. Or, more precisely, Nola’s pencil-skirt-swathed bum. She made a mental note to threaten Nola with banishment and worse if she went anywhere near him.
Leo cleared his throat and took a swig of whiskey. ‘The chick went already, and she was decent. Not mind-blowing, but mildly entertaining. I think—’
He was cut off by the sound of voices harmonizing. There wasn’t a stage, exactly, but there was a cleared area in front of the piano where four African-American men in their early twenties stood, each leaning in toward a central microphone. For a moment it sounded like a really good college a capella group, but then three of the guys stepped back and left the main singer alone to croon about his childhood in Haiti. The crowd nodded and grooved appreciatively.
‘Hey, baby.’ Julian circled around the group and came up behind her. He kissed the back of her neck and she almost groaned aloud. 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 caps, when he would safely pull them 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 wracked 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 your wife,’ Leo said, returning from a quick chat with the people behind him. ‘Just forget where you are and why you’re here and do your thing. Got it?’
Julian nodded and tapped his foot furiously. ‘Got it.’
Leo motioned toward the area in the back of the room. ‘Let’s get you set up.’
Brooke stood on her tiptoes and kissed Julian on the mouth. She squeezed his hand and said, ‘I’ll be right here the whole time, but forget about all of us. Just close your eyes and play your heart out.’
He shot her a grateful look but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Leo led him off, and before she could finish her wine, one of the A&R guys announced Julian over the microphone.
Brooke looked around again for Nola and spotted her talking to a group of people in front of the bar. That girl knew everyone. Happy to have Trent there, Brooke let him lead her to a little sliver of couch space, where he motioned for her to take a seat. She perched herself on the end of a velvet sofa and nervously gathered her hair into a knot. She rooted around in her bag for a hair tie but couldn’t find one.
‘Here,’ said the beautiful Asian girl Leo had winked at earlier. She pulled a brown elastic off her wrist and handed it to Brooke. ‘I have a million.’
Brooke paused for a minute, unsure what to do, and the girl smiled. ‘Really, it’s fine. There’s nothing more annoying than not being able to get hair off your face. Although if I had your hair, I’d never tie it back.’
‘Thanks,’ Brooke said, accepting the tie and immediately twisting it into her ponytail. She was going to say something more, maybe something self-deprecating about how she wouldn’t wish being a redhead on anyone, but at that moment Julian took his seat at the piano, and she heard his voice, a little shaky, thanking everyone for coming.
The girl took a swig from the bottle of beer she was holding and asked, ‘Have you ever heard him before?’
Brooke could only nod and pray the girl would stop talking. She didn’t want to miss a single moment, and she was totally preoccupied wondering if anyone else could hear the slight wobble in Julian’s voice.
‘Because if not, you’re really in for something. He is the sexiest singer I’ve ever seen.’
This caught her attention. ‘What?’ she asked, turning to the girl.
‘Julian Alter,’ the girl said, waving toward the piano. ‘I’ve heard him a couple times in different venues around the city. He has a few regular gigs. And I’m telling you, he’s ridiculously good. Makes John Mayer look like amateur hour.’
Julian had begun to play ‘For the Lost,’ a soulful song about a young boy who loses his older brother, and she felt Trent glance in her direction – he was probably the only other person in the entire room who knew what truly inspired that song. Julian himself was an only child, but Brooke knew he often thought of the brother who had died of SIDS before Julian was born. To this day the Alters never discussed James, but Julian had gone through a stage where he wondered, sometimes obsessively, what James would’ve been like today, how different life might have been with an older brother.
His hands moved across the piano keys, producing the first haunting notes that would eventually build to a powerful crescendo, but Brooke couldn’t focus on anything but the girl beside her. She wanted to hug her and slap her all at the same time. It was disconcerting to hear this perfectly attractive girl rave about Julian’s sexiness – no matter how long they’d been together, she never got used to that aspect – but it was so rare to hear a totally honest and unfiltered opinion.
‘You think so?’ Brooke asked, suddenly desperate for the girl to agree.
‘Oh, definitely. I tried to tell my boss, like, a dozen times, but Sony got him first.’ The girl’s attention to Brooke started to wane as Julian’s volume increased, and by the time he tilted his head and sang out the raw, emotional chorus, she was fixated only on him. Brooke wondered if she noticed Julian’s wedding band through the haze of worship.
Brooke turned to watch, and it was all she could do not to sing along. She knew every word by heart.
They say Texas is the promised land
In the highway’s dust you become a man
Blind and blue, lonely in love
Scars on your hands, broken above
He was a mother’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
The woman sits alone in a room
Alone in a house like a silent tomb
The man counts every jewel in his crown
What can’t be saved is measured in pounds
He was a father’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
In my dreams the voices from beyond the door
I remember them saying you weren’t coming no more
You wouldn’t believe how quiet it’s become
The heart obscure fills with shame
He was a brother’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
He finished the song to rousing applause – genuine, enthusiastic applause – and moved effortlessly into the second. He had hit his stride, and there wasn’t a single sign of any anxiety. Just that familiar sheen across his forearms and the furrowed brow of concentration as he sang the words he had spent months, sometimes years, perfecting. The second song was over in a flash, and then the third, and before she realized what was happening, the crowd was ecstatically cheering and calling for an encore. Julian looked pleased and a little confused – his instructions to play three songs in under twelve minutes couldn’t have been clearer – but he must’ve gotten the green light from someone offstage, because he smiled and nodded and eased right into one of his more upbeat songs. The crowd roared their approval.
By the time he pushed back the piano bench and took a modest bow, the air in the room had changed. More than the loud cheering and clapping and whistles, there was that electrified feeling of having been part of something important. Brooke stood, hemmed in on all sides by her husband’s admirers, when Leo approached. He gruffly greeted the hair-tie girl by name – Umi – but she immediately rolled her eyes and walked away. Before Brooke could process that, Leo grabbed her arm a little too tightly and leaned in so close she wondered for the briefest second if he was going to kiss her.
‘Get ready, Brooke. Get ready for one fucking crazy ride. Tonight is only the start, and it’s going to be insane.’
4
a toast to hot redheads
‘Kaylie, sweetheart, I don’t know how else to say it: you do not need to lose weight. Look at your statistics; look at this chart. You are absolutely perfect just the way you are.’
‘No one else here looks like me,’ Kaylie said, lowering her eyes. The girl absently twisted her limp brown hair in circles around her forefinger, methodically wrapping and turning, wrapping and turning. Her face was filled with anxiety.
‘What do you mean?’ Brooke asked, although she knew what Kaylie meant.
‘I just … I never felt fat until I came here. At public school, I was totally normal, maybe even on the skinny side! And then this year rolls around and they stick me in this weird place because it’s supposed to be so fancy and special, and suddenly I’m obese.’ The girl’s voice cracked at the last word, and it was all Brooke could do not to hug her.
‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re no such thing! Come here, look at this chart. One hundred twenty-five pounds at five-one is well within the healthy range.’ Brooke held out her laminated chart showing the huge range of normal weights, but Kaylie barely glanced at it.
She knew it wasn’t particularly comforting in light of all the astonishingly thin girls in Kaylie’s ninth-grade class. Kaylie was a scholarship student from the Bronx, the daughter of an air-conditioning repairman who raised her alone after her mother was killed in a car accident. Her father was clearly doing something right, considering the girl’s straight-A record in middle school, success on the field hockey team, and, according to what Brooke heard from other teachers, an ability to play the violin that far surpassed that of her peers, and yet here was his lovely, accomplished daughter, and all she could see was that she didn’t fit in.
Kaylie tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, which rested across thighs that were strong and muscular, but nowhere near fat, and said, ‘I guess I just have bad genes. My mom was really overweight, too.’
‘Do you miss her?’ Brooke asked, and Kaylie could only nod, the tears welling in her eyes.
‘She always told me I was perfect just the way I am, but I wonder what she would’ve said if she could see the girls here. They’re perfect. Their hair is perfect and their makeup is perfect and their bodies are perfect, and even though we all have the same exact uniform, even the way they wear it is perfect.’
It was one aspect of the job she had least expected but had grown to appreciate more than she could express, this crossover between nutritionist and confidante. They’d learned in grad school that anyone who came into regular contact with teenagers and was merely willing to listen could play an important role as a caring, involved adult, but Brooke hadn’t known what they meant until she started at Huntley.
Brooke spent a few more minutes explaining that although it might not have felt that way, Kaylie was well within a healthy weight limit. It was a hard argument, especially considering the girl’s muscular, athletic body was broader than most of her classmates’, but she tried. If only I could fast-forward her through four years of high school and send her straight to college, Brooke thought. She’d realize then that none of this ninth-grade nonsense means anything in the long run.
But Brooke knew from experience that this was impossible. She, too, had self-consciously been on the larger end of normal all through high school and Cornell, straight up until grad school, when she went on a drastic diet and lost almost twenty pounds. She couldn’t keep it off, though, and gained fifteen of it back almost immediately. Now, despite mostly healthful eating and a dedicated running program, Brooke was also on the outer limits of the healthy range for her height and, just like Kaylie, was acutely aware of that fact. She felt hypocritical even trying to tell Kaylie not to worry about it when she herself thought about it every day.
‘You are perfect, Kaylie. I know it doesn’t always feel that way, especially surrounded by girls with so many advantages, but believe me when I tell you that you’re absolutely beautiful. You’re going to make friends here, find the girls you connect with, and feel more at home. And then before you know it, you’ll kiss the SATs and prom and some dumb boyfriend from Dalton good-bye, and you’ll run off to a fantastic college where everyone’s perfect in their own way, in exactly the way they choose. And you’ll love it. I can honestly promise you that.’
Brooke’s phone rang, the special piano-sounding ring that she’d attached only to Julian’s number. He never called when she was at work, knowing she wouldn’t be able to answer, and even kept his texts to a minimum. She knew in an instant something was wrong.
‘Excuse me, Kaylie. This will just be a minute.’ She swiveled in her chair the best she could to get some privacy in the small office. ‘Hi. Is everything okay? I’m with a patient right now.’
‘Brooke, you are not going to believe this, but—’ He stopped and breathed in deeply, dramatically.
‘Julian, seriously, if this is not an emergency, I need to call you back.’
‘Leo just called. One of the main bookers from Leno was at the showcase last week. They want me to perform on the show!’
‘No!’
‘It’s true! It’s a hundred percent guaranteed done deal. Next week, Tuesday night. Taping at five. I’ll be the musical performance on the show, probably right after the interviews. Do you believe it?’
‘Ohmigod!’
‘Brooke, say something else.’
She forgot where she was for a moment. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, of course I can believe it, but it’s just so incredible.’ She heard Julian laughing and thought how long it’d been. ‘When are you home tonight? We must celebrate. I have something in mind …’
‘Does it involve my favorite mesh thingy?’
Brooke smiled into the phone. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of that Dom Pérignon we got as a gift and can never justify opening.’
‘Mesh. Tonight deserves champagne and mesh. Meet you home at eight? I’ll take care of dinner.’
‘You don’t have to deal with dinner. Let me pick something up. Or we can go out! Why don’t we go somewhere and really celebrate?’
‘Let me handle it,’ Julian said. ‘Please? I have something in mind.’
Brooke’s heart surged. Maybe now he’d be able to ease up on his time at the studio and spend more time at home. She felt the familiar pangs of excitement and anticipation she’d felt earlier in their marriage, before anything had become routine. ‘Absolutely. I’ll see you at eight. And, Julian? I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither.’ He made a kissing sound into the phone – something he hadn’t done in years – and hung up. For the first time in five full minutes, Brooke remembered where she was.
‘Wow, sounds like some hot stuff,’ Kaylie said with a grin. ‘Big date tonight?’
It never failed to amaze Brooke how young these girls really were, despite all the confident backtalk and a distressing familiarity with everything from extreme dieting to the best blow-job techniques. (Brooke had read a highly detailed how-to list when one of the girls left behind a notebook – so detailed, in fact, she briefly considered making a few notes for herself before realizing that taking sex tips from a high school freshman was horrifying on too many levels.)
‘Big date with my husband.’ Brooke corrected her, trying to salvage at least a little professionalism. ‘I’m so sorry for the interruption. Now, back to what—’
‘Sounded pretty exciting,’ Kaylie said. She loosened her grip on her hair just long enough to gnaw a hangnail on her right index finger. ‘What happened?’
Brooke was so relieved to see the girl smile that she said, ‘Yeah, actually it is really exciting. My husband is a musician. He just got a call from Leno’s people inviting him to be on the show.’ Brooke could hear her voice surge with pride, and although she knew it was both unprofessional and even silly to be sharing the news with her teenage patient, she was too happy to care.
Kaylie’s head snapped to full attention. ‘He’s going to be on Leno?’
Brooke nodded and shuffled some papers around on her desk in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her pleasure.
‘That is the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard!’ the girl exclaimed, her ponytail bobbing as if to underscore her point.
‘Kaylie!’
‘Sorry, but it is! What’s his name and when’s he on? I want to make sure I see it.’
‘Next Tuesday night. His name is Julian Alter.’
‘That is so fuck— freaking cool. Congratulations, Mrs A. Your husband must be pretty awesome if Leno wants him. You’re going to go to LA with him, right?’
‘What?’ Brooke asked. She hadn’t had a second to think about the logistics, but Julian hadn’t mentioned them either.
‘Isn’t Leno in LA? You, like, have to go with him.’
‘Of course I’ll go with him,’ Brooke replied automatically, although she had a nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach that Julian’s omission of an invitation wasn’t just a detail that got lost in all the excitement.
Brooke still had another ten minutes with Kaylie, then a full hour afterwards with a Huntley gymnast whose coach’s weigh-ins were having disastrous effects on the girl’s self-esteem, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate for one more second. Figuring she’d already acted inappropriately by oversharing and using their session time to talk about her personal life, Brooke turned back to Kaylie.
‘I’m sorry to do this, sweetheart, but I need to cut our session short this afternoon. I’ll be back on Friday; and I’ll notify your sixth-period teacher that we didn’t get a chance to finish so we can reschedule another full session for then. Is that okay?’
Kaylie nodded. ‘Hell, yeah, Mrs A. This is big news for you. Say congratulations to your husband for me, okay?’
Brooke smiled at her. ‘Thanks, I will. And, Kaylie? We’re going to continue talking about this. I can’t condone you losing weight, but if you want to talk about eating more healthfully, I’m happy to advise you. Does that sound good?’
Kaylie nodded and Brooke thought she may have even detected a small smile before the girl walked out of her office. Although she didn’t look the least bit fazed about cutting their session short, Brooke was overcome with guilt. It wasn’t easy to get these girls to open up, and she actually felt like she was starting to get somewhere with Kaylie.
Pledging to set things right with everyone on Thursday, Brooke sent a quick e-mail to Rhonda, her principal, claiming sudden sickness, threw all her stuff in a canvas tote bag, and jumped directly into the backseat of an idling taxi. Hell, if Leno wasn’t sufficient reason to splurge, nothing was.
Despite the fact that it was rush hour, the park crossing at Eighty-sixth Street wasn’t unbearable and the West Side Highway was moving at a brisk twenty miles an hour (downright dreamy for that time of night), and Brooke was delighted to find herself standing in her apartment by six thirty. She got down on the floor and let Walter lick her face for a few minutes and then gently replaced herself with a thickly braided, extra-smelly bully stick – Walter’s favorite. After pouring herself a glass of pinot grigio from an open bottle in the fridge and taking a long, deep swallow, Brooke toyed with the idea of posting Julian’s news as a Facebook status update but quickly dismissed it; she didn’t want to announce anything without running it by him first.
The first status update on her homepage was, unpleasantly, from Leo. Apparently, he had just linked his Twitter account to his Facebook page, and despite the fact he usually had not one redeeming tidbit to share, he was taking full advantage of the constant-update feature.
Leo Moretti … PUMPED JULIAN ALTER WILL BE ROCKING THE LENO SHOW NEXT TUESDAY. LA, HERE WE COME …
The update’s mere association with her husband made Brooke feel queasy, as did what it pointed out: that Julian was definitely planning a trip to Los Angeles, Leo was definitely joining him, and it was only Brooke who had not yet received an invitation.
Brooke showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, and toweled dry. Was it weird to assume she’d accompany Julian to Los Angeles for the taping? She had no clue if Julian wanted her there for the support, or if he figured that this was a business trip and he should be traveling with his manager, not his wife.
As she slathered a Julian-approved scent-free moisturizer on her freshly shaved legs – he couldn’t stand the smell of scented products – Brooke watched Walter watch her. ‘Did Daddy make a bad call hiring Leo?’ she asked him in a high-pitched voice.
Walter lifted his head from the fluffy bath mat that always made his fur smell like mildew, wagged his tail, and woofed.
‘Is that a no?’
Walter woofed again.
‘Or a yes?’
Another woof.
‘Thank you for that insight, Walter. I will surely treasure it.’
He rewarded her with an ankle lick and sank back into the mat.
A quick time check revealed it was ten to eight, so after taking a minute to psych herself up, Brooke pulled a crumpled pile of black fabric from the back of her underwear drawer. The last time she’d worn this getup had been over a year before, when she had accused Julian of not being interested in sex anymore and he had gone straight to that drawer, pulled out the jumpsuit, and said something to the effect of ‘It’s a crime to own this and not wear it.’ It had immediately broken the tension and Brooke remembered putting it on and dancing exaggerated stripper moves around their bedroom to Julian’s loud cheers and catcalls.
Somewhere along the way, that jumpsuit began to symbolize their sex life. She’d bought it in their first or second year of marriage, after a discussion where Julian confessed, as though it were some scandalous, shameful secret, that he just loved women in tight black lingerie … and maybe didn’t love all the brightly colored boy shorts and striped racerback tanks that Brooke wore each night to bed and would’ve sworn were sexy in their teenage girlness. Although she couldn’t remotely afford it back then, Brooke immediately set out on a lingerie-buying spree and, within two days, had acquired a super-soft black jersey chemise with spaghetti straps from Bloomingdale’s; a babydoll-style, ruffled black nightie from Victoria’s Secret; and a short black cotton nightshirt with ‘Juicy Sleeper’ splashed across the bum. Each one, in succession, had been met with barely tepid enthusiasm along the lines of ‘Mmm, that’s cute,’ before Julian turned back to his magazine each night. When not even the babydoll nightie elicited a modicum of interest, Brooke called Nola the very next morning.
‘Clear your Saturday afternoon,’ Nola had announced. ‘We’re going shopping.’
‘I already went shopping and spent a fortune,’ Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.
‘Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy nightshirt? Are you serious?’
‘What? He wasn’t exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It’s all black and short and tight. The “JUICY” part is even in rhinestones. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with that … if you’re a sophomore in college and you’re super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you’re all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy woman.’
Brooke sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’m in your hands. What time Saturday?’
‘Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We’re hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.’
Although she’d looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise – not all that different from her Bloomie’s version – was $375. Where on earth was she – a graduate student! – going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn’t until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky’s to buy paraphernalia for another friend’s bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.
There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped ‘fantasy outfits.’ They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked.
Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.
‘I’d be happy to make some recommendations,’ he lisped. ‘On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.’
‘Thanks, I’m just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,’ she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.
‘Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.’
He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she’d lose her nerve if he came back – or anyone else walked into the room – she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn’t until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.
The picture featured a redheaded woman who didn’t look drastically different from Brooke – save the forty-two-inch legs – wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-length mesh bodysuit. The woman jutted out her hip provocatively and stared at the camera, but despite all the dramatic posturing, she managed to convey ‘sexy’ and ‘confident’ and not just ‘sleazy’ and ‘slutty.’ I can do this one, she thought to herself, and that very night, when she walked out of the bathroom wearing that bodysuit and a pair of heels, Julian had nearly fallen off the bed.
Brooke had donned the now-infamous jumpsuit over the years on some of Julian’s birthdays, their anniversaries, and the occasional warm-weather vacation, but lately, like all the old remnants of their pre-exhaustion sex life, it had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer. As she unrolled the material over her legs and shimmied first her hips and then her arms into the outfit, she knew it would send the message loud and clear: I’m so proud of you for this amazing accomplishment, now get over here so I can show you. No matter that the one-size-fits-all jumpsuit was digging tightly into her thighs and doing a weird thing on her upper arms; she felt sexy anyway. She had just shaken her hair out of her ponytail and reclined on top of the covers when the landline rang. Certain it was Julian calling to say he was on his way home, Brooke answered on the first ring.
‘Rook? Honey, can you hear me?’ Her mother’s voice rang through the receiver.
Brooke took a deep breath and wondered why the woman had an uncanny knack for calling at exactly the worst possible times. ‘Hey, Mom. I hear you.’
‘Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. Listen, I need you to grab your calendar and check a date for me. I know you hate planning ahead, but I’m trying to make some arrangements for—’
‘Mom! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but it’s not a great time right now. Julian’s going to be home any second, and I’m late getting ready,’ she lied.
‘Are you going out to celebrate? Such amazing news. You both must be so happy.’
Brooke opened her mouth to talk and then remembered she hadn’t yet told her mother Julian’s good news. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Randy, sweetheart. He saw some update on Julian’s fan page – is that what you call it? I wish I could say my daughter had called to tell me on her own, but luckily Randy remembered his dear old mom.’
‘Mmm, right. Facebook. I almost forgot. So yeah, we’re both really excited.’
‘So how are you two going to celebrate tonight? Going out to dinner?’
Brooke glanced down at her mesh-covered body; as if to emphasize the ludicrousness of talking to one’s mother while wearing a crotchless mesh jumpsuit, one of her nipples popped through the fabric. ‘Um, I think Julian’s bringing dinner home. We already have a bottle of good champagne, so we’ll probably have that.’
‘Sounds lovely. Give him a kiss for me. And as soon as you have a second, I’d really like to get a date nailed down—’
‘Uh-huh, okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Because it’ll only take a second, and—’
‘Mom …’
‘Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you, Rookie.’
‘Love you, too, Mom.’ She heard the door open just as she hung up the phone.
She knew he would take his coat off and greet Walter, which gave her just enough time to peel off the foil wrapper and unscrew the wire basket around the cork. She had remembered to bring two flutes, which she placed on her bedside table before stretching out, catlike, atop the made bed. Her nervousness lasted only a second, just until Julian opened the door.
‘Guess who’s staying at the Chateau Marmont?’ he said, his smile a mile wide.
‘Who?’ She sat up in bed, momentarily forgetting her outfit.
‘I am,’ he said, and instantly Brooke felt a wave of anxiety.
‘No way,’ she breathed. It was all she could manage.
‘Oh yes. In a suite. Where I’ll be picked up by limo and taken to the NBC studio for the Leno taping.’
She forced herself to focus on his good news and remind herself that it had nothing to do with her. ‘Wow, Julian, that’s amazing! They mention that place constantly in Last Night,US Weekly, all of them. Kate Hudson just hosted an all-night party in the bungalows. JLo and Marc Anthony ran into Ben Affleck by the pool and Marc supposedly made a scene. Belushi overdosed there, for chrissake. The place is absolutely legendary.’
‘And guess what else?’ Julian asked, sitting down beside her on the bed and running his hand over her mesh-covered thigh.
‘What?’
‘My extremely hot wife is going to be joining me, so long as she promises to bring this mesh outfit with her,’ he said, leaning in to kiss Brooke.
‘Stop it!’ she shrieked.
‘Of course, only if she wants to.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m not. I spoke to Samara, my new publicist’ – his eyebrows shot up and he grinned at her – ‘and she said it’s fine so long as we pay for your plane ticket. Leo thought it’d be better if we went alone, just so I wouldn’t be distracted, but I told him I could never do something this big without you. So what do you say?’
She ignored the Leo part. ‘I think that’s freaking incredible!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘I think I can’t wait to canoodle with you by the bar and party all night in the bungalows.’
‘Is that really what it’s like?’ Julian asked, pushing her backward against the pillows and arranging himself, still fully dressed, on top of her.
‘Hell yes. From everything I’ve read, we can fully expect Cristal-filled pools, heaping mountains of cocaine, more cheating celebrities than a high-end escort service, and enough gossip on an hourly basis to fill ten tabloids. Oh, and orgies. I’ve never read that, but I’m sure they happen. Probably right in the restaurant.’
Walter jumped up on the bed and, chin to the air, began to howl.
‘That does sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it, Walter?’ Julian asked, kissing Brooke’s neck.
Walter howled in response and Brooke laughed.
Julian dipped his finger in his champagne glass, put it up to Brooke’s lips, and kissed her again.
‘What do you say to some practice?’ he asked.
Brooke kissed him back and pulled off his shirt, her heart swelling with the sense of possibility. ‘I’d say that’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long, long time.’
‘Can I get you another Diet Coke?’ the bermuda-clad waiter asked as he sidled up next to Brooke’s lounge chair, blocking her sun. In the direct sunlight it felt reasonably warm, and although she thought the low seventies was a bit too chilly for bikini weather, her fellow pool-goers apparently disagreed.
She glanced at the half-dozen or so people sipping delicious-looking cocktails around the pool, reminded herself that although it was only midafternoon on a Tuesday this was still a vacation of sorts, and said, ‘I’d love a Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and two stalks of celery.’
A long, lithe girl who, judging from her astonishing figure, was definitely a model lowered herself elegantly into the pool. Brooke watched as she swam a charming sort of doggie paddle to the side, taking great pains to keep her hair dry, and called out to her male companion in Spanish. Without glancing up from his laptop, the man answered her in French. The girl pouted, the man grumbled, and within thirty seconds he was walking toward the pool with her massive Chanel sunglasses in hand. When she thanked him, Brooke could’ve sworn she did so in Russian.
Her phone rang. ‘Hello?’ she said quietly, although no one seemed to care.
‘Rookie? How’s it going out there?’
‘Hey, Dad. I’m not going to lie, everything’s pretty damn great.’
‘Did Julian play yet?’
‘He and Leo just left so I’m guessing they’ll be in Burbank soon. I don’t think the actual taping starts until five or five thirty. It sounded like it was going to be a pretty long afternoon, so I’m waiting at the hotel for them.’
The waiter returned with her drink, the Bloody Mary in a glass every bit as tall and skinny as the women she’d spied so far in Los Angeles. He set it on the table beside her, along with a little three-part tray of snacks: marinated olives, mixed nuts, and baked vegetable chips. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
‘What’s the place like? Pretty swanky, I’d bet.’
Brooke took a small sip at first and then a gulp. Damn, that was good. ‘Yeah, it really is. You should see the people sitting by the pool. Each one is more gorgeous than the next.’
‘Do you know Jim Morrison tried to jump off the roof there? And that the members of Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby? From what I’ve heard, it is the place to be for badly behaved musicians.’
‘Where are you getting your information, Dad? Google?’ Brooke laughed.
‘Brooke, please! Don’t insult me by suggesting—’
‘Wikipedia?’
A pause. ‘Maybe.’
They chatted for a few more minutes while Brooke watched the gorgeous thing in the pool shriek like a child when her boyfriend jumped in and tried to splash her. Her father wanted to tell her all about the non-surprise surprise birthday party Cynthia was planning for him in a few months, how determined she was to celebrate his sixty-fifth since it was also his retirement year, but Brooke had a hard time focusing. After all, the woman-child had just climbed out of the water, and Brooke clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed that her white bikini was entirely transparent when wet. She glanced down at her own terry-cloth sweats and wondered what she would do to look that good in a bikini, even if just for an hour. She sucked in her stomach and continued to watch.
The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special – she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes – but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.
She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it was all Brooke could do not to whip out her BlackBerry and send a picture to Nola.
When she got back to their room – a one-bedroom suite in the main building, with gorgeous hillside views – she was delighted to discover a massive gift basket with a note that read, ‘Welcome, Julian! From your friends at Sony.’ Inside was a bottle each of Veuve Clicquot and Patrón; a box of those tiny, funkily painted chocolate truffles; an assortment of energy bars and snacks; enough Vitaminwaters to stock a grocery; and a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes. She took a picture of the whole thing splayed out on the coffee table and sent it to Julian with the caption, ‘They love you,’ and then she tore into it, demolishing a red velvet cupcake in under ten seconds.
It was the room’s landline that eventually woke her.
‘Brooke? You alive?’ Julian’s voice rang through the cordless handset.
‘I’m alive,’ she managed to say, looking around to get her bearings, surprised to discover that she was under the covers, wearing only her underwear, and the entire room was dark. Cupcake crumbs were scattered around her pillow.
‘I’ve been calling your cell phone for the last half hour. Where are you? Is everything okay?’
She bolted upright and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She’d been asleep for nearly three hours. ‘Must’ve been that second Bloody Mary,’ she mumbled to herself, but Julian began to laugh.
‘I leave you alone for one afternoon and you get yourself drunk?’
‘It wasn’t like that! But whatever, how was the taping? How did it go?’
In the brief pause that followed, Brooke had a mental flash of all the potential things that could’ve gone wrong, but once again, Julian laughed. It was more than a laugh – he sounded downright giddy.
‘Rook, it was incredible! I nailed it, just absolutely nailed it, and the backup band was way better than I expected with so little practice.’ Brooke could hear other voices in the car and Julian lowered his to a whisper. ‘Jay came over to me as the song ended, put his arm around me, pointed me to the camera, and said how that was awesome, and he’d like for me to come back every night.’
‘No!’
‘He did! The audience was clapping like crazy, and then when the whole taping was over and we were hanging out backstage, Jay even thanked me, said he couldn’t wait to hear the whole album!’
‘Julian, that’s incredible. Congratulations! This is huge!’
‘I know, I’m just so relieved. Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel in twenty minutes or so. Meet me on the patio for a drink?’
The mere thought of alcohol made her head throb a bit more – when was the last time she was hungover at dinnertime? – but she sat straight up. ‘I’ve got to change. I’ll meet you down there as soon as I’m ready,’ she said, but the line had already been disconnected.
Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets wasn’t easy, but three Advils and a stint under the rainfall shower helped. She quickly pulled on a pair of legging-style skinny jeans, a silky tank top, and a blazer, but a closer inspection revealed that the jeans were doing hideous things to her butt. As hard as it was to pull the damn things on, it was hell trying to get them off, and Brooke nearly kneed herself in the face trying to yank them down her legs, inch by painful inch. Her stomach rolled and her legs flailed and still, they barely budged. Did White Bikini Girl ever have to suffer such indignity? She flung the jeans across the room in disgust. The only thing left in her suitcase was a sundress. It was too cold for it, but paired with the blazer, a cotton scarf, and a pair of flat boots, she’d have to suck it up.
Not terrible, she thought as she checked herself one last time. Her hair was mostly air-dried and – even Brooke had to admit – looked pretty damn good for requiring zero effort. She’d slicked on some mascara and a few dots of this glimmering liquid blush Nola had pressed into her palm a few weeks earlier and politely insisted she use. She grabbed her phone and her bag and ran. The lip gloss went on in the elevator. The blazer sleeves got rolled while walking across the lobby. She gave her hair a final shake and tousle and actually felt fresh and pretty by the time she saw Julian holding court at a prime patio table.
‘Brooke!’ He stood up and waved.
She could see his smile from fifty feet, and every inch of self-consciousness vanished as she ran toward him. ‘Congratulations!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck.
‘Thanks, baby,’ he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, ‘Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.’
‘Hi!’ she sang, giving the general table area a wave. ‘I’m Brooke.’
The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.
Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman – fortysomething with great Botox? – with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who … Ohmigod, is that, could it be …
‘You already know Leo,’ Julian was saying as Leo smirked. ‘And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.’
Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. ‘Pleasure,’ she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. ‘It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, “Everyone says she’s the best.”’
‘Oh, that’s sweet of you,’ Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.’
‘Both of you need to stop,’ Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. ‘Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.’
Good god. It was him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke wracked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like ‘I’m a huge fan’ or ‘I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,’ she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar every day …
‘Hey,’ Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. ‘That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?’
Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi. Nola! she shouted to herself. I need you to hear this right now!
‘Yeah, it’s real,’ she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. ‘Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.’ She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.
‘Well I think it’s fucking awesome,’ Jon declared, and raised his tall, tapered beer glass. ‘A toast to fire cro—’ He stopped short and an adorably sheepish look crossed his face. Brooke wanted to tell him he could call her ‘fire crotch’ anytime.
‘A toast to hot redheads and first appearances on Leno. Congrats, man. That’s big.’ Jon held his glass aloft and everyone clinked it with his own. Brooke’s champagne flute was the last to touch it, and she wondered if there was any way she could smuggle the glass home with her.
‘Cheers!’ everyone called out. ‘Congratulations!’
‘So how was it?’ Brooke asked Julian, happy to give him the opening to shine once again in front of all these people. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘He was perfect,’ Samara announced in her clipped, professional voice. ‘His performance followed really solid guests.’ She paused and turned to Julian. ‘I thought Hugh Jackman was charming. Did you?’
‘Yeah, he was good. And so was that chick from Modern Family,’ Julian said, nodding.
‘We caught a break with that – two legitimately interesting and famous guests, none of the child performers or the magicians or the animal trainers,’ Samara said. ‘Trust me, nothing’s worse than getting upstaged by a studio full of chimpanzees.’
Everyone laughed. A waiter arrived at the table and Leo ordered for the group without consulting anyone. Brooke normally hated it when people did that, but even she couldn’t argue with his choices: another bottle of champagne, a round of tequila gimlets, and a bunch of snack plates, everything from truffled porcini bruschetta to mozzarella and arugula. By the time the first dish of crab cakes in an avocado puree arrived, Brooke had happily rediscovered her earlier buzz and was feeling almost euphoric from the excitement. Julian – her Julian, the same one who slept in socks every night – had just performed on The Tonight Show. They were staying in a gorgeous suite at the infamous Chateau Marmont, eating and drinking like rock royalty. One of the most famous musicians of the twentieth century had announced he loved her hair. Of course her wedding was the best day of her life (weren’t you required to say that no matter what?), but this was quickly clocking in as a very close second.
Her cell phone screeched from her bag on the ground, a shrill fire-alarm-like ring she’d chosen post-nap to ensure she didn’t oversleep again.
‘Why don’t you get it?’ Julian asked through a full mouth as Brooke stared at her phone. She didn’t want to answer it, but she was worried something was wrong; it was already after midnight back at home.
‘Hey, Mom,’ she said as quietly as she could. ‘We’re all in the middle of dinner right now. Is everything okay?’
‘Brooke! Julian’s on right now and he’s incredible! He looks adorable, and the band is playing perfectly, and my god, you just want to eat him up. I think it’s the best he’s ever been.’ Her mother’s words tumbled out in a frantic jumble, and it was all Brooke could do to put the pieces together.
She glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty California time, which meant The Tonight Show was airing that very second up and down the East Coast. ‘Really? He looks good?’ Brooke asked.
This got everyone’s attention.
‘Of course, it’s airing on the East Coast now,’ Samara said, pulling out her BlackBerry. Sure enough, it was vibrating with the intensity of a washing machine.
‘Amazing,’ her mother was saying through the receiver. ‘He looks absolutely amazing. And Jay gave him a really nice introduction. Wait – he’s just finishing up the song now.’
‘Mom, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m being really rude right now.’
‘All right, honey. It’s late here so call me in the morning. And congratulate Julian for me.’
Brooke clicked to disconnect the call, but her phone instantly rang again. Nola. She glanced around the table and noticed that with the exception of Jon, who had wandered over to say hello to another group, everyone else was on the phone, too.
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Lauren Weisberger
A novel from the million copy bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada.Heartbreak, headlines and Hermes – welcome to Brooke's new world…Brooke and Julian live a happy life in New York – she's the breadwinner working two jobs and he's the struggling musician husband. Then Julian is discovered by a Sony exec and becomes an overnight success – and their life changes for ever.Soon they are moving in exclusive circles, dining at the glitziest restaurants, attending the most outrageous parties in town and jetting off to the trendiest hotspots in LA.But Julian's new-found fame means that Brooke must face the savage attentions of the ruthless paparazzi. And when a scandalous picture hits the front pages, Brooke's world is turned upside down. Can her marriage survive the events of that fateful night at Chateau Marmont? It's time for Brooke to decide if she's going to sink or swim…
Last Night at Chateau Marmont
by Lauren Weisberger
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
Copyright © Lauren Weisberger 2010
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013
Lauren Weisberger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007311002
Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007365937
Version: 2016-04-27
For Dana, my sister and best friend forever
Contents
Cover (#uf3366aca-40d3-50e6-8aab-3eabf5ebf822)
Title Page (#u87824946-7fac-5412-ae27-5976d3e49fff)
Copyright (#ua903df22-ebba-5cf2-8192-68feb29a6164)
Dedication (#ucaf8e430-525a-5d8e-bd2b-62f350364ad9)
1. piano man (#u8beffb5d-9b75-5ef4-8e04-011271037139)
2. suffer one, suffer all (#ude8396b9-e70a-5c94-a5e1-fdc100504ada)
3. makes john mayer look like amateur hour (#u398f7ff3-1e2a-52de-ac1c-895945d9441e)
4. a toast to hot redheads (#u5583a697-9cfa-56d7-915c-d6d89f7108a7)
5. they’ll swoon for you (#litres_trial_promo)
6. he could have been a doctah (#litres_trial_promo)
7. betrayed by a bunch of tweens (#litres_trial_promo)
8. my weak heart can’t handle another threesome (#litres_trial_promo)
9. a bun in the oven and a drink in hand (#litres_trial_promo)
10. boy-next-door dimples (#litres_trial_promo)
11. knee-deep in tequila and eighteen-year-old girls (#litres_trial_promo)
12. better or worse than the sienna pictures (#litres_trial_promo)
13. gods and nurses don’t mix (#litres_trial_promo)
14. the removal of clothes (#litres_trial_promo)
15. not a shower sobber (#litres_trial_promo)
16. boyfriend with a villa and a son (#litres_trial_promo)
17. good old ed had a thing for prostitutes (#litres_trial_promo)
18. we hit crazy at check-in (#litres_trial_promo)
19. pity dance (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Lauren Weisberger (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
1
piano man
When the subway finally screeched into the Franklin Street station, Brooke was nearly sick with anxiety. She checked her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes and tried to remind herself that it wasn’t the end of the world; her best friend, Nola, would forgive her, had to forgive her, even if she was inexcusably late. She pushed her way through the rush-hour throngs of commuters toward the door, instinctively holding her breath in the midst of so many bodies, and allowed herself to be pulled toward the stairwell. On autopilot now, Brooke and her fellow riders each pulled their cell phones from their purses and jacket pockets, filed silently into a straight line and, zombielike, marched like choreographed soldiers up the right side of the cement stairs while staring blankly at the tiny screensxs in their palms.
‘Shit!’ she heard an overweight woman up ahead call out, and in just a moment she knew why. The rain hit her forcefully and without warning the instant she emerged from the stairwell. What had been a chilly but decent enough March evening only twenty minutes earlier had deteriorated into a freezing, thundering misery, where the winds whipped the rain down with driving force and made it utterly impossible to stay dry.
‘Dammit!’ she added to the cacophony of expletives people were shouting all around her as they struggled to pull umbrellas from their briefcases or arrange newspapers over their heads. Since she’d run home to change after work, Brooke had nothing but a tiny (and admittedly cute) silver clutch to shield herself from the onslaught. Good-bye, hair, she thought as she began to sprint the three blocks to the restaurant. I’ll miss you, eye makeup. Nice knowing you, gorgeous new tall suede boots that ate up half my weekly salary.
Brooke was drenched by the time she reached Sotto, the tiny, unpretentious neighborhood joint where she and Nola met two or three times a month. The pasta wasn’t the best in the city – probably not even the best on the block – and the space wasn’t anything all that special, but Sotto had other charms, more important ones: reasonably priced wine by the full carafe, a killer tiramisu, and a downright hot Italian maître d’ who, simply because they’d been coming for so long, always saved Brooke and Nola the most private table in the back.
‘Hey, Luca.’ Brooke greeted the owner as she shrugged off her wool peacoat, trying not to shake water everywhere. ‘Is she here yet?’
Luca immediately put his hand over the phone receiver and pointed with a pencil over his shoulder. ‘The usual. What’s the occasion for the sexy dress, cara mia? You want to dry off first?’
She smoothed her fitted, short-sleeved black jersey dress with both palms and prayed that Luca was right, that the dress was sexy and she looked okay. She’d come to think of that dress as her Gig Uniform; paired with either heels, sandals, or boots, depending on the weather, she wore it to nearly every one of Julian’s performances.
‘I’m so late already. Is she all whiny and mad?’ Brooke asked, scrunching handfuls of her hair in a desperate attempt to save it from the imminent frizz attack.
‘She’s a half carafe in and hasn’t put the mobile down yet. You better get back there.’
They exchanged a triple cheek-kiss – Brooke had protested the full three kisses in the beginning but Luca insisted – before Brooke took a deep breath and walked back to their table. Nola was tucked neatly into the banquette, her suit jacket flung across the back bench and her navy cashmere shell showing off tightly toned arms and contrasting nicely with her amazing olive skin. Her shoulder-length layered cut was stylish and sexy, her blonde highlights glowed under the restaurant’s soft lights, and her makeup looked dewy and fresh. No one would ever know from looking at her that Nola had just clocked in twelve hours on a trading desk screaming into a headset.
Brooke and Nola didn’t meet until second semester senior year at Cornell, although Brooke – like the rest of the student body – knew of Nola and was equal parts terrified of and fascinated by her. Compared to her hoodie-and-Ugg-wearing fellow students, the model-thin Nola favored high-heeled boots and blazers and never, ever tied her hair in a ponytail. She’d grown up in elite prep schools in New York, London, Hong Kong, and Dubai, places her investment banker father worked, and had enjoyed the requisite freedom that goes along with being the only child of extremely busy parents.
How she ended up at Cornell instead of Cambridge or Georgetown or the Sorbonne was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to see she wasn’t particularly impressed. When the rest of them were busy rushing sororities, meeting for lunch at the Ivy Room, and getting drunk at various Collegetown bars, Nola kept to herself. There were glimpses into her life – the well-known affair with the archaeology professor, the frequent appearances of sexy, mysterious men on campus who vanished soon thereafter – but for the most part, Nola attended her classes, aced everything she took, and hightailed it back to Manhattan the moment Friday afternoon rolled around. When the two girls found themselves assigned to workshop each other’s short stories in a creative writing elective their senior year, Brooke was so intimidated she could barely speak. Nola, as usual, didn’t appear particularly pleased or upset, but when she returned Brooke’s first submission a week later – a fictional piece on a character struggling to adapt to her Peace Corps assignment in Congo – it was filled with thoughtful, insightful commentary and suggestions. Then, on the last page, after scrawling out her lengthy and serious feedback, Nola had written, ‘P.S. Consider sex scene in Congo?’ and Brooke had laughed so hard she had to excuse herself from class to calm down.
After class Nola invited Brooke to a tiny little coffee place in the basement of one of the academic buildings, a place none of Brooke’s friends ever hung out, and within a couple weeks Brooke was going to New York with Nola on weekends. Even after all these years, Nola was too fabulous for words, but it helped Brooke knowing that her friend sobbed during news segments featuring soldiers coming home from war, was secretly obsessed with one day having a perfect white picket fence in the suburbs despite being openly derisive about it, and had a pathological fear of small, yappy dogs (Walter, Brooke’s dog, not included).
‘Perfect, perfect. No, I think sitting at the bar is just fine,’ Nola said into the phone, rolling her eyes at Brooke. ‘No, no need to make a reservation for dinner, let’s just play it by ear. Okay, sounds good. See you then.’ She clicked her phone shut and immediately grabbed the red wine, refreshing her own glass before remembering Brooke and filling hers too.
‘Do you hate me?’ Brooke asked as she arranged her coat on the chair next to her and tossed her dripping umbrella underneath the table. She took a long, deep drink of wine and savored the feeling of the alcohol sliding over her tongue.
‘Why? Just because I’ve been sitting here alone for thirty minutes?’
‘I know, I know, I’m really sorry. Hellish day at work. Two of the full-time nutritionists called in sick today – which if you ask me sounds suspicious – and the rest of us had to cover their rotations. Of course, if we met sometime in my neighborhood. Then maybe I could get there on time …’
Nola held up her hand. ‘Point taken. I do appreciate you coming all the way down here. Dinner in Midtown West just isn’t appealing.’
‘Who were you just on with? Was that Daniel?’
‘Daniel?’ Nola looked baffled. She stared at the ceiling as she appeared to wrack her brain. ‘Daniel, Daniel … oh! Nah, I’m over him. I brought him to a work thing early last week and he was weird. Super awkward. No, that was setting up tomorrow’s Match dot-com date. Second one this week. How did I get so pathetic?’ She sighed.
‘Please. You’re not—’
‘No, really. It’s pathetic that I’m almost thirty and still think of my college boyfriend as my only “real” relationship. It is also pathetic that I belong to multiple online dating sites and date men from all of them. But what is most pathetic – what is bordering on inexcusable – is how willing I am to admit this to anyone who will listen.’
Brooke took another sip. ‘I’m hardly “anyone who will listen.”’
‘You know what I mean,’ Nola said. ‘If you were the only one privy to my humiliation, I could live with that. But it’s as though I’ve become so inured to the—’
‘Good word.’
‘Thanks. It was on my word-a-day calendar this morning. So, really, I’m so inured to the indignity of it all that I have no filter anymore. Just yesterday I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to explain to one of Goldman’s most senior vice presidents the difference in men on Match versus those on Nerve. It’s unforgivable.’
‘So, what’s the story with the guy tomorrow?’ Brooke asked, trying to change the subject. It was impossible to keep track of Nola’s man situation from week to week. Not just which one – a challenge itself – but whether she desperately wanted a boyfriend to settle down with or loathed commitment and wanted only to be single and fabulous and sleep around. It changed on a dime, with no warning, and left Brooke constantly trying to remember whether this week’s guy was ‘so amazing’ or ‘a total disaster.’
Nola lowered her lashes and arranged her glossed lips into her signature pout, the one that managed to say, ‘I’m fragile,’ ‘I’m sweet,’ and ‘I want you to ravish me’ all at the same time. Clearly, she was planning a long response to this question.
‘Save it for the men, my friend. Doesn’t work on me,’ Brooke lied. Nola wasn’t traditionally pretty, but it didn’t much matter. She put herself together so beautifully and emanated such confidence that men and women alike regularly fell under her spell.
‘This one sounds promising,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until he reveals some sort of colossal deal breaker, but until then, I think he’s perfect.’
‘So, what’s he like?’ Brooke pressed.
‘Mmm, let’s see. He was on the ski racing team in college, which is why I clicked on him in the first place, and he even did two seasons as an instructor, first in Park City and then in Zermatt.’
‘Perfection so far.’
Nola nodded. ‘Yep. He’s just about six foot, fit build – or so he claims – sandy blond hair, and green eyes. He just moved to the city a few months ago and doesn’t know a lot of people.’
‘You’ll change that.’
‘Yeah, I guess …’ She pouted. ‘But …’
‘What’s the problem?’ Brooke refreshed both their glasses and nodded to the waiter when he asked if they’d both like their usual orders.
‘Well, it’s the job thing. He lists his profession as “artist.”’ She pronounced this word as though she were saying ‘pornographer.’
‘So?’
‘So? So what the hell does that mean. Artist?’
‘Um, I think it could mean a lot of things. Painter, sculptor, musician, actor, wri—’
Nola touched her hand to her forehead. ‘Please. It can mean one thing only and we both know it: unemployed.’
‘Everyone’s unemployed now. It’s practically chic.’
‘Oh, come on. I can live with recession-related unemployment. But an artist? Tough to stomach.’
‘Nola! That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of people – loads of them, thousands, probably millions – who support themselves with their art. I mean, look at Julian. He’s a musician. Should I never have gone out with him?’
Nola opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. There was an awkward moment of silence.
‘What were you going to say?’ Brooke asked.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing. You’re right.’
‘No, really. What were you just about to say? Just say it.’
Nola twirled her wineglass by the stem and looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there. ‘I’m not saying that Julian isn’t really talented, but …’
‘But what?’ Brooke leaned in so close that Nola was forced to meet her eyes.
‘But I’m not sure I would call him a “musician.” He was someone’s assistant when you met. Now you support him.’
‘Yes, he was an intern when we met,’ Brooke said, barely even attempting to hide her irritation. ‘He was interning at Sony to learn the music industry, see how it works. And guess what? It’s only because of the relationships he built there that anyone paid him any attention in the first place. If he hadn’t been there every day, trying to make himself indispensable, do you think the head of A&R would’ve taken two hours of his time to watch him perform?’
‘I know, it’s just that—’
‘How can you say he’s not doing anything? Is that really what you think? I’m not sure if you realize this, but he has spent the last eight months locked away in a Midtown recording studio making an album. And not just some vanity project, by the way; Sony actually signed him as an artist – there’s that word again – and paid him an advance. If you don’t think that’s proper employment, I really don’t know what to tell you.’
Nola held her hands up in defeat and hung her head. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’ Brooke began chewing on her thumbnail. Any relief she’d felt from the wine had completely vanished.
Nola pushed her salad around with a fork. ‘Well, don’t they give out, like, a ton of recording contracts to anyone showing a modicum of talent, figuring it’ll only take one big hit to pay for all the smaller flops?’
Brooke was surprised by her friend’s knowledge of the music industry. Julian always explained that very theory when he downplayed his label deal and tried to, in his words, ‘manage expectations’ about what such a deal really meant. Still, coming from Nola, it somehow sounded worse.
‘A “modicum of talent”?’ Brooke could only whisper the words. ‘Is that what you think of him?’
‘Of course that’s not what I think of him. Don’t take it so personally. It’s just hard, as your friend, to watch you kill yourself working to support him for so many years now. Especially when the odds are so low that anything will come of it.’
‘Well, I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but you should know it was my choice to take on the extra private school consulting work to help support us. I don’t do it out of the kindness of my heart, I do it because I actually believe in him and his talent, and I know – even if no one else seems to think so – that he has a brilliant career ahead of him.’
Brooke had been ecstatic beyond description – possibly even more than Julian – when he’d called her with the initial offer from Sony eight months earlier. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars was more than they’d collectively made in the previous five years, and Julian would have the freedom to do with it what he wanted. How could she have possibly foreseen that such a massive infusion of cash would put them in even greater debt than they already were? From that advance Julian needed to pay for studio time, hire high-priced producers and sound engineers, and cover the entire cost of his equipment, travel, and backup band? The money was gone in a few short months, long before they could use so much as a single dollar toward rent, utilities, or even a celebratory dinner. And once all those funds were being used to help Julian make a name for himself, it didn’t make sense not to see the project through. They’d already spent thirty thousand dollars of their own money – the entirety of their savings that had once been earmarked for a down payment on an apartment – and they were burning through more credit every single day. The scariest part of the whole thing was what Nola had so brutally spelled out: the chances of Julian ever making good on all that time and money – even with the Sony name behind him – were almost nil.
‘I just hope he knows how lucky he is to have a wife like you,’ Nola said, more softly now. ‘I can tell you, I sure wouldn’t be so supportive. Which is probably why I’m destined to be forever single …’
Thankfully their pasta dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to safer topics: how fattening was the meat sauce, whether or not Nola should ask for a raise at work, how much Brooke disliked her in-laws. When Brooke motioned for the check without ordering the tiramisu or even a coffee, Nola looked concerned.
‘You’re not upset with me, are you?’ she asked, adding her credit card to the leather folder.
‘No,’ Brooke lied. ‘I’ve just had a long day.’
‘Where are you headed now? No après-dinner drink?’
‘Julian’s actually got a … he’s performing,’ Brooke said, changing her mind at the last second. She’d rather not have mentioned his gig at all, but it felt strange lying to Nola.
‘Oh, fun!’ Nola said brightly, draining the last of her wine. ‘Want company?’
They both knew she didn’t really want to go, which was okay, because Brooke didn’t really want her to go. Her friend and her husband got along just fine, and that was good enough. She appreciated Nola’s protectiveness and knew it came from a good place, but it was hard thinking your best friend was constantly judging your husband – and he was always coming up short.
‘Trent’s in town actually,’ Brooke said. ‘He’s here on a rotation of some sort, so I’m meeting him there.’
‘Ah, good old Trent. How’s he liking med school?’
‘He’s done actually; he’s an intern now. Julian says he loves LA, which is surprising – born-and-bred New Yorkers never like LA.’
Nola stood up and put her suit jacket back on. ‘Is he dating anyone? If I remember correctly, he’s boring as hell but perfectly cute …’
‘He just got engaged, actually. To a fellow gastro intern, a girl named Fern. Intern Fern, the gastro specialist. I shudder to think what their conversation entails.’
Nola scrunched up her face in disgust. ‘Thanks for that visual. And to think, he could’ve been all yours …’
‘Mmmm.’
‘I just want to make sure I still get proper credit for introducing you to your husband. If you hadn’t gone out with the Trent man that night, you’d still just be another Julian groupie.’
Brooke laughed and kissed her friend on the cheek. She fished two twenties out of her wallet and handed them to Nola. ‘I’ve got to run. If I don’t get on the train in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to be late. Talk tomorrow?’ She grabbed her coat and umbrella, offered a quick wave to Luca on the way out, and bolted through the door.
Even after all these years, Brooke shuddered when she thought how close she and Julian came to missing each other. It was June 2001, a mere month after she’d graduated from college, and Brooke was finding it almost impossible to acclimatize to her new sixty-hour workweek, split almost evenly between her nutrition grad coursework, logging internship hours, and a make-ends-meet barista stint at a neighborhood coffee joint. While she’d had no illusions about the difficulty of working twelve hours a day for $22,000 – or so she’d thought – she hadn’t been able to predict the sum strain of long workdays, insufficient salary, too little sleep, and the logistics of sharing a seven-hundred-square-foot Murray Hill one-bedroom with Nola and another of their friends. Which is why, when Nola implored Brooke to join her for live music on a Sunday night, she’d flatly refused.
‘Come on, Brookie, you need to get out of the apartment,’ Nola had argued while pulling on a tight black tank top. ‘There’s some jazz quartet performing and they’re supposed to be really good, and Benny and Simone said they’d save us seats. Five-dollar cover and two-for-one drinks. What can you possibly not like about that?’
‘I’m just too tired.’ Brooke sighed, clicking listlessly through the channels from the girls’ living room futon. ‘I still have to write a paper, and I have to be at work in eleven hours.’
‘Oh, save the drama. You’re twenty-two, for chris-sake. Suck it up and go get dressed. We’re leaving in ten.’
‘It’s pouring outside and—’
‘Ten minutes, not one second longer, or you’re not my friend anymore.’
By the time the girls had made it to Rue B’s in the East Village and tucked themselves into a too-small table with friends from school, Brooke was regretting her weakness. Why did she always cave in to Nola? Why on earth was she packed into a smoky, crowded bar, drinking a watery vodka tonic and waiting to see a jazz quartet she’d never heard of? She didn’t even particularly like jazz. Or, for that matter, any live music, unless it happened to be a Dave Matthews or Bruce Springsteen concert where she could merrily sing along to all the songs. This was clearly not that kind of night. Which is why she felt a mixture of both irritation and relief when the leggy, blonde bartender banged a spoon on a water glass.
‘Hey, guys! Hey, y’all, can I have your attention for a minute?’ She wiped her free hand on her jeans and patiently waited for the crowd to quiet down. ‘I know you’re all excited to hear the Tribesmen tonight, but we just got word that they’re stuck in traffic on the LIE and aren’t going to make it in time.’
Rousing boos and jeers ensued.
‘I know, I know, it sucks. Overturned tractor trailer, complete standstill, blah, blah, blah.’
‘How about a free round as an apology?’ called out a middle-aged man sitting in the back while holding up his drink.
The bartender laughed. ‘Sorry. But if anyone wants to come on up here and entertain us …’ She looked directly at the man, who just shook his head.
‘Seriously, we’ve got a perfectly good piano. Anyone play?’
The room was silent as everyone glanced around at each other.
‘Hey, Brooke, don’t you play?’ Nola whispered loud enough for their table to hear.
Brooke rolled her eyes. ‘I got kicked out of the band in sixth grade because I couldn’t learn to read sheet music. Who gets kicked out of the middle school band?’
The bartender was not giving up easily. ‘Come on, folks! It’s freaking pouring outside, and we’re all in the mood to hear a little music. I’ll cave and throw in free pitchers for the room if someone can entertain us for a few minutes.’
‘I play a little.’
Brooke followed the voice to a scruffy-looking guy sitting alone at the bar. He was in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and a knit hat even though it was summer. She hadn’t noticed him before but decided he might – might – be reasonably cute if he showered, shaved, and lost the hat.
‘By all means …’ the bartender swept her arms toward the piano. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Julian.’
‘Well, Julian, she’s all yours.’ She resumed her position behind the bar as Julian climbed onto the piano bench. He played a few notes, messing around with the timing and rhythm, and the audience lost interest pretty quickly and went back to their conversations. Even when he did quietly play an entire song (something ballad-y she didn’t recognize), the music was more like background noise. But after ten minutes he played the intro notes to ‘Hallelujah,’ and he started to sing the lyrics in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. The room fell silent.
Brooke had heard the song before, having been briefly obsessed with Leonard Cohen, and had loved it, but the full-body chills were brand-new. She scanned the room. Were other people feeling this way? Julian’s hands moved effortlessly across the keys as he somehow infused each word with intense feeling. Only when he’d murmured the final drawn-out ‘hallelujah’ did the crowd react: they clapped, whistled, screamed, and almost uniformly jumped out of their seats. Julian appeared embarrassed, sheepish, and after an almost imperceptible bow, he began to walk back to his bar stool.
‘Damn, he’s good,’ breathed a young girl to her date at the table behind them, her eyes fixed on the piano player.
‘Encore!’ called an attractive woman who clutched her husband’s hand. The husband nodded and echoed her call. Within seconds, the cheering had doubled in volume and the entire room was demanding a second song.
The bartender grabbed Julian’s hand and pulled him back toward the microphone. ‘Pretty amazing, isn’t he, guys?’ she yelled, beaming with pride at her new discovery. ‘What do you say we convince Julian here to play us one more?’
Brooke turned to Nola, feeling more excited than she had in ages. ‘Do you think he’s going to play something else? Would you ever believe that some nobody sitting at a random bar on a random Sunday night – the guy who’s there to hear someone else perform – can sing like that?’
Nola smiled at her and leaned in to make herself heard above the crowd. ‘He is really talented. Too bad he looks like that.’
Brooke felt as though she’d been personally insulted. ‘Looks like what? I like that whole scruffy thing he has going on. And with a voice like that, I think he’s going to be a star one day.’
‘Not a chance. He’s talented, but so are a million other people who are more outgoing and a whole lot better looking.’
‘He’s cute,’ Brooke said a little indignantly.
‘He’s East Village-gig cute. Not international-rock-star cute.’
Before she could leap to Julian’s defense, he returned to the bench and began to play again. This time it was a cover of ‘Let’s Get It On,’ and again, somehow, he managed to sound even better than Marvin Gaye – a deeper, sexier voice, a slightly slower rhythm, and an expression on his face of intense concentration. Brooke was so lost in the experience she barely noticed that her friends had resumed their chitchat as the promised free pitcher of beer made its way around their table. They poured and swallowed and poured some more, but Brooke couldn’t take her eyes off the disheveled guy at the piano. When he walked out of the bar twenty minutes later, bowing his head to his appreciative audience and offering the smallest hint of a smile, Brooke seriously considered following him. She’d never done anything like it in her life, but it felt right.
‘Should I go introduce myself?’ she asked everyone at the table, leaning far enough forward that conversation couldn’t continue.
‘To whom?’ Nola asked.
‘To Julian!’ This was exasperating. Didn’t anyone else realize he’d already stepped outside and would soon disappear forever?
‘Julian, the piano man?’ Benny asked.
Nola rolled her eyes and took a swig of beer. ‘What are you going to do? Chase him down and tell him that you can overlook his potential homelessness as long as he’ll make sweet love to you atop his piano?’
Benny began to sing. ‘Well it’s nine o’clock on a Sat – Sunday, regular crowd shuffles in …’
‘There’s a scruffy man sitting next to me, making love to our friend Brooke,’ Nola finished, laughing. They clinked beer mugs.
‘You’re both hysterical,’ Brooke said as she stood.
‘No way! You’re not following him, are you? Benny, go with her. Piano Man could be a serial killer,’ Nola said.
‘I’m not following him,’ Brooke said. But she did make her way to the bar and, after digging her nails into her palms and changing her mind five times, she finally worked up the courage to ask the bartender if she knew anything else about the mystery performer.
The woman didn’t look up as she mixed a batch of mojitos. ‘I’ve seen him in here before, usually when we have a blues or classic rock band playing, but he never talks to anyone. Always alone, if that’s what you’re asking …’
‘No, no, I, uh … no, it’s not that at all. Just curious,’ she stammered, feeling like an idiot.
Brooke had turned back toward the table when the bartender called out, ‘Told me he plays a regular gig at a bar on the Upper East Side, a place called Trick’s or Rick’s, something like that. Tuesdays. Hope that helps.’
Brooke could count on one hand the number of times she’d gone to see live acts. She had never tracked down and followed a strange guy; and, with the exception of ten or fifteen minutes waiting for friends or dates to arrive, she didn’t spend a lot of time solo in bars. Yet none of this stopped her from making a half dozen phone calls to find the right place and, after another three weeks working up her nerve, actually getting on the subway one scorching hot Tuesday night in July and walking in the front door of Nick’s Bar and Lounge.
Once she sat down, finding one of the last seats in the very back corner, she knew it had been worthwhile. The bar was one of a hundred just like it lining Second Avenue, but the crowd was surprisingly mixed. Instead of the usual Upper East Side mob of recent college grads who liked downing beer after loosening their brand-new Brooks Brothers ties, the group tonight seemed an almost odd mix of NYU students who’d made the trek uptown, couples in their thirties who sipped martinis and held hands, and hordes of Converse-wearing hipsters rarely seen in such concentrations outside the East Village or Brooklyn. Soon Nick’s was packed beyond capacity, every seat filled and probably another fifty or sixty people standing behind the tables, all there for one and only one reason. It shocked Brooke to realize that the way she’d felt when she heard Julian play a month earlier at Rue B’s wasn’t unique. Dozens of people already knew about him and were willing to travel from all over the city to see him perform.
By the time Julian claimed his seat at the piano and began his checks to make sure the sound was okay, the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. When he began, the room seemed to settle into the rhythm, some people swaying ever so slightly, some with their eyes closed, all with their bodies leaning in toward the stage. Brooke, who had never before understood what it meant to get lost in the music, felt her entire body relax. Whether it was the red wine or the sexy crooning or the completely foreign feeling of being in a crowd of complete strangers, Brooke was addicted.
She went to Nick’s every Tuesday for the rest of the summer. She never invited anyone to join her; when her roommates pressed her on where she went each week, she invented a very believable story about a book club with school friends. Just being there, watching him and hearing the music, she began to feel like she knew him. Up until then, music had been a side note, nothing more than a distraction on the treadmill, a fun dance song at a party, a way to kill time on long drives. But this? This was incredible. Without so much as a hello, Julian’s music could affect her mood and change her mind and make her feel things that were completely outside the realm of her daily routine.
Until those solo nights at Nick’s, her weeks had all looked the same: first work, then the all-too-rare happy hour with the same group of college friends and the same nosy roommates. She was happy enough, but at times it felt suffocating. Now Julian was all hers, and the fact that they never exchanged so much as a glance didn’t bother her in the least. She was perfectly content just to watch him. He made the rounds – a bit reluctantly, it appeared to her – after each performance, shaking hands and modestly accepting the praise everyone lavished on him, but Brooke never once considered approaching him.
It was two weeks after September 11, 2001, when Nola convinced her to go on a blind date with a guy she’d met at a work function. All their friends had either fled NYC to see family or rekindled relationships with exes, and the city was still pinned by acrid smoke and an overwhelming grief. Nola had hunkered down with some new guy, spending nearly every night at his apartment, and Brooke was feeling unsettled and lonely.
‘A blind date? Really?’ Brooke asked, barely looking up from her computer.
‘He’s a sweetheart,’ Nola said one night while they sat side by side on the couch watching SNL. ‘He’s not going to be your future husband, but he’s super nice, and he’s cute enough, and he’ll take you somewhere good. If you stop being such a frigid bitch, he might even hook up with you.’
‘Nola!’
‘I’m just saying. You could use it, you know. And while we’re on the topic, a shower and a manicure wouldn’t kill you either.’
Brooke held out her hands and noticed, for the first time, bitten-down nails and raggedy cuticles. They really did look gross. ‘What is he, one of your discards?’ she asked.
Nola sniffed.
‘He is! You totally hooked up with him and now you’re passing him along to me. That’s vile, no! And I have to say, surprising. Even you’re not usually that bad.’
‘Save it,’ Nola said with a massive roll of her eyes. ‘I met him a couple weeks ago at some work fund-raiser; he was there with one of my colleagues.’
‘So you did hook up with him.’
‘No! I may have hooked up with my colleague—’
Brooke groaned and covered her eyes.
‘—but that’s not important. I remember his friend was cute and single. A med student, I think, but honestly, you’re not really at a point to be discriminatory about such things. So long as he’s breathing …’
‘Thanks, friend.’
‘So you’ll go?’
Brooke grabbed for the clicker back again. ‘If it will make you shut up right now, I’ll consider it,’ she said.
Four days later Brooke found herself sitting at an outdoor Italian café on MacDougal Street. Trent was, as Nola promised, a perfectly sweet guy. Reasonably cute, extremely polite, nicely dressed, and boring as hell. Their conversation was more bland than the linguini with tomato and basil he ordered for them both, and his earnestness left her with the overwhelming desire to plunge a fork into her eyes. Yet for a reason she didn’t understand, when he suggested they move on to a nearby bar, she agreed.
‘Really?’ he asked, sounding every bit as surprised as she felt.
‘Yeah, why not?’ And really, she thought, why not? It’s not like she had any other prospects or even the expectation of watching a movie with Nola later that night. The next day she would have to start outlining a fifteen-page paper that was due in two weeks; besides that, her most exciting plans were the laundry, the gym, and a four-hour shift at the coffee shop. What exactly was she rushing home to?
‘Great, I have just the place in mind.’ Trent sweetly insisted on paying the check and, finally, they were off.
They’d only walked two blocks when Trent crossed in front of her and pulled open the door to a notoriously raucous NYU bar. It was possibly the last place in downtown Manhattan anyone would take a date he wasn’t planning to roofie, but Brooke was pleased they’d be going somewhere loud enough to prevent any real conversation. She’d have a beer, maybe two, listen to some good eighties on the jukebox, and be under her covers by midnight – alone.
It took a couple seconds for her eyes to adjust, though she immediately recognized Julian’s voice. When she finally focused on the front stage, she stared in disbelief: he sat in his familiar pose at the piano, fingers flying and mouth pressed against the microphone, singing her favorite of his originals: The woman sits alone in a room / Alone in a house like a silent tomb / The man counts every jewel in his crown / What can’t be saved is measured in pounds. She wasn’t sure how long she stood rooted in the doorway, instantly and completely absorbed in his performance, but it was long enough for Trent to comment.
‘Pretty great, isn’t he? Come on, I see a couple seats over there.’
He took her arm and Brooke allowed herself to be pulled through the crowd. She arranged herself in the chair Trent pointed to and had barely placed her purse on the table when the song ended and Julian announced he’d be taking a break. She was vaguely aware that Trent was speaking to her, but between the noise of the bar and the vigil she was keeping on Julian’s whereabouts, she didn’t hear what he was saying.
It happened so fast she could barely process it. One second Julian was unhooking his harmonica from its piano-top stand and the next he was standing over their table, smiling. As usual, he was wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans with a knit cap, this one an eggplant color. There was a light sheen of sweat on his face and forearms.
‘Hey, buddy, glad you could make it,’ Julian said, clapping Trent on the shoulder.
‘Yeah, me too. Looks like we missed the first set.’ Someone had just abandoned a chair at the next table, and Trent pulled it over for Julian. ‘Take a load off.’
Julian hesitated, glanced at Brooke with a small smile, and sat. ‘Julian Alter,’ he said, offering his hand.
Brooke was about to respond when Trent spoke over her. ‘Christ, I’m such an idiot! Who taught me my manners, you know? Julian, this is my, uh, this is Brooke. Brooke …’
‘Greene,’ she said, pleased with Trent for demonstrating in front of Julian how little they knew each other.
She and Julian shook hands, which seemed like an awkward gesture in a crowded college bar, but Brooke felt only excitement. She examined him more closely as he and Trent exchanged jokes about some guy they both knew. Julian was probably only a couple years older than her, but something made him look more knowing, experienced, although Brooke couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. His nose was too prominent and his chin a touch weak, and his pale skin even more noticeable now, at the very end of summer, when everyone else had a season’s worth of vitamin D. His eyes, while green, were unremarkable, even murky, with fine lines that crinkled around them when he smiled. Had she not heard him sing so many times, seen him throw his head back and call out lyrics in a voice so rich and filled with meaning – had she just ran into him like this, wearing that knit cap and clutching a beer in a loud, anonymous bar – she never would have looked twice, nor thought him the least bit attractive. But tonight, she could barely breathe.
The two guys chatted for a few minutes while Brooke sat back and watched. It was Julian, not Trent, who noticed she didn’t have a drink.
‘Can I get you guys a beer?’ he asked, looking around for a waitress.
Trent immediately stood up. ‘I’ll get them. We just got here and no one’s come by yet. Brooke, what would you like?’
She murmured the name of the first beer that came to mind, and Julian held up what looked like an empty water cup. ‘Can you get me a Sprite?’
Brooke felt a stab of panic when Trent left. What on earth were they going to talk about? Anything, she reminded herself, anything but the fact that she’d followed him all over the city.
Julian turned to her and smiled. ‘Trent’s a good guy, huh?’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Yeah, he seems nice. We just met tonight. I barely even know him.’
‘Ah, the always-fun blind date. Do you think you’ll go out with him again?’
‘No,’ Brooke said without any emotion whatsoever. She was convinced she was in shock; she barely knew what she was saying.
Julian laughed and Brooke laughed with him. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Brooke shrugged. ‘No reason in particular. He seems perfectly pleasant. Just a little boring.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, but she couldn’t think straight.
Julian’s face broke in a massive smile, one so bright and beaming that Brooke forgot to feel embarrassed. ‘That’s my cousin you’re calling boring’ He laughed.
‘Omigod, I didn’t mean it like that. He’s seems really, uh, great. It just—’ The more she stammered, the more amused he appeared.
‘Oh, please.’ He interrupted her, placing his wide, warm hand on her forearm. ‘You’re absolutely, exactly correct. He’s a really great guy – honestly, as sweet as they come – but no one’s ever described him as the life of the party.’
There was a moment of silence as Brooke wracked her brain for something appropriate to say next. It didn’t much matter what it was, so long as she managed to keep her fan status under wraps.
‘I’ve seen you play before,’ she announced, before clapping her hand over her mouth in reflexive shock.
He peered at her. ‘Oh yeah? Where?’
‘Every Tuesday night at Nick’s.’ Any chance of not appearing downright stalkerish had just come to a crashing end.
‘Really?’ He seemed puzzled but pleased.
She nodded.
‘Why?’
Brooke briefly considered lying and telling him that her best friend lived nearby or that she went every week with a group for happy hour, but for a reason she herself didn’t entirely understand, she was completely truthful. ‘I was there that night at Rue B’s when the jazz quartet canceled and you did that impromptu performance. I thought you, uh, I thought it was awesome, so I asked the bartender for your name and found out you had a regular gig. Now I try to go whenever I can.’ She forced herself to look up, convinced he’d be staring at her with horror, and possibly fear, but Julian’s expression revealed nothing, and his silence only made her more determined to fill it.
‘Which is why it was so weird when Trent brought me here tonight … such a weird coincidence …’ She let her words trail off awkwardly and was filled with instant regret at all that she had just revealed.
When she worked up the nerve to meet his eyes once again, Julian was shaking his head.
‘You must be creeped out,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘I promise I’ll never show up at your apartment or your day job. I mean, not that I know where your apartment is, or if you even have a day job. Of course, I’m sure music is your day job, your real job, as it should—’
The hand was back on her forearm and Julian met her eye. ‘I see you there every week,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
He nodded and smiled again, this time shaking his head a little as if to say, I can’t believe I’m admitting this. ‘Yeah. You always sit in the far back corner, near the pool table, and you’re always alone. Last week you were wearing a blue dress, and it had white flowers or something sewn on the bottom, and you were reading a magazine but you put it away right as I came on.’
Brooke remembered the sundress, a gift from her mom to wear at her graduation brunch. Only four months earlier it had felt so stylish; wearing it around the city now made her feel girlishly unsophisticated. The blue did make her red hair look even more fiery, so that was good, but it really did nothing for her hips or legs. So engrossed was she in trying to remember how she’d looked that night, she hadn’t noticed Trent return to the table until he pushed a bottle of Bud Light her way.
‘What’d I miss?’ he asked, sliding into his seat. ‘Sure is crowded tonight. Julian, dude, you know how to pack’em in.’
Julian clinked his cup with Trent’s bottle and took a long drink. ‘Thanks, buddy. I’ll get you back after the show.’ He nodded to Brooke with what she swore – and prayed – was a knowing look and walked back toward the stage.
She didn’t know then that he would ask Trent for his permission to call her, or that their first phone conversation would make her feel like she was flying, or that their first date would be a defining night in her life. She never would have predicted that they would fall into bed together less than three weeks later after a handful of marathon dates she had never wanted to end, or that they would save up for nearly two years to drive cross-country together or get engaged while listening to live music at a divey little place in the West Village with a plain gold band he’d paid for entirely on his own, or get married at his parents’ gorgeous seaside Hamptons home because really, what were they proving by refusing a place like that? All she knew for sure that night was that she desperately wanted to see him again, that she would be at Nick’s in two nights come hell or high water, and that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop smiling.
2
suffer one, suffer all
Brooke stepped into the hallway of the maternal medicine ward at NYU Langone Medical Center and pulled the curtain closed. Eight down, three to go. She rifled through the remaining files: a pregnant teenager, a pregnant mother with gestational diabetes, and a first-time mother struggling to nurse newborn twins. She checked her watch and did a few calculations: if all went as smoothly as she anticipated, she might actually get to leave at a decent hour.
‘Mrs Alter?’ Her patient’s voice called out from behind the curtain.
Brooke stepped back inside.
‘Yes, Alisha?’ Brooke pulled her white scrub coat tightly around her chest and wondered how this woman wasn’t shivering in her paper-thin hospital gown.
Alisha wrung her hands and, staring at her sheet-draped lap, said, ‘You know how you said the prenatal vitamins were really important? Like, even if I haven’t been taking them since the beginning?’
Brooke nodded. ‘I know it’s hard to look on the bright side of severe flu,’ she said, walking over to the girl’s bedside, ‘but at least it got you in here and will give us a chance to get you started on the vitamins and discuss a plan for the rest of your pregnancy.’
‘Yeah, so about that … is there, um, like some sort of samples you could give me?’ Alisha refused to meet her eyes.
‘Oh, I don’t think that should be a problem,’ Brooke said, smiling for her patient’s sake but irritated with herself for neglecting to inquire whether or not Alisha could afford the prenatals. ‘Let’s see, you’ve got another sixteen weeks … I’ll leave the full supply with the nurses’ station, okay?’
Alisha looked relieved. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.
Brooke squeezed the girl’s forearm and stepped back outside the curtain. After getting Alisha’s vitamins, she half-sprinted to the dietitians’ dreary fifth-floor break room, a windowless cubicle with a four-seater Formica table, a mini fridge, and a small wall of lockers. If she hurried, she could cram down a quick snack and a cup of coffee and still make it to her next appointment on time. Relieved to find the room empty and the coffeepot full, Brooke pulled a Tupperware container of precut apple wedges from her locker and began to smear them with travel-sized packets of all-natural peanut butter. At the exact moment her mouth was full, her cell phone rang.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked without saying hello. Her words were muffled from the food.
Her mother paused. ‘Of course, honey. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Because, Mom, it’s pretty busy here, and you know I hate talking at work.’ The overhead intercom drowned out the second half of her sentence.
‘What was that? I couldn’t hear you.’
Brooke sighed. ‘Nothing, never mind. What’s up?’ She pictured her mother in her signature khaki pants and Naturalizer flats, the same ones she’d worn her entire life, pacing the galley kitchen of her Philadelphia apartment. Despite filling her days with a never-ending stream of book clubs, theater clubs, and volunteer work, it still seemed like her mother had way too much time on her hands, most of which was filled with calling her children and asking them why they weren’t calling back. While it was lovely her mother got to enjoy her retirement, she’d been a lot more hands-off with Brooke when she was teaching from seven to three each day.
‘Wait just a minute …’ Her mother’s voice trailed off and it was momentarily replaced by Oprah’s before that, too, abruptly ended. ‘There we go.’
‘Wow, you turned off Oprah. It must be important.’
‘She’s interviewing Jennifer Aniston again. I can’t stand to listen to it anymore. She’s over Brad. She’s thrilled to be forty-whatever. She’s never felt better. We get it. Why do we have to keep talking about it?’
Brooke laughed. ‘Listen, Mom, can I call you later tonight? I only have fifteen minutes left of break.’
‘Oh sure, honey. Remind me then to tell you about your brother.’
‘What’s wrong with Randy?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with Randy – something’s finally right. But I know you’re busy right now, so let’s just talk later.’
‘Mom …’
‘It was thoughtless of me to call in the middle of your shift. I wasn’t even—’
Brooke sighed loudly and smiled to herself. ‘Do you want me to beg?’
‘Sweetheart, if it’s a bad time, it’s a bad time. Let’s talk when you have a little more time.’
‘Okay, Mom, I’m begging you to tell me about Randy. Literally pleading. Please tell me what’s up with him. Please?’
‘Well, if you’re going to be so insistent … fine, I’ll tell you. Randy and Michelle are pregnant. There, you forced it out of me.’
‘They’re what?’
‘Pregnant, sweetheart. Having a baby. She’s still very early – only seven weeks, I think – but their doctor says all looks well. Isn’t that just wonderful?’
Brooke heard the television go on again in the background, quieter this time, but she could still make out Oprah’s recognizable laugh.
‘Wonderful?’ Brooke asked, setting down her plastic knife. ‘I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use. They’ve only been dating for six months. They’re not married. They’re not even living together.’
‘Since when are you such a prude, my dear?’ Mrs Greene asked, clucking her tongue. ‘If you’d ever told me that my educated, urbane, thirty-year-old daughter would be such a traditionalist, I never would’ve believed it.’
‘Mother, I’m not sure it’s exactly “traditionalist” to expect that people try to limit baby-making to committed relationships.’
‘Oh, Brooke, relax a little. Not everyone can – or should – get married at twenty-five. Randy’s thirty-eight and Michelle is almost forty. Do you really think anyone cares at this point about some silly little legal document? We should all know well enough by now that it hardly means a thing.’
Brooke’s mind circled through a number of thoughts: her parents’ divorce nearly ten years earlier, when her father left her mother for the school nurse at the high school where they both taught; the way her mother sat Brooke down after her engagement to Julian and told her that women could be perfectly happy these days without getting married; her mother’s fervent wish that Brooke wait to start a family until her career was fully established. It was interesting to see that Randy, apparently, operated under a completely different set of guidelines.
‘Do you know what I really find amusing?’ her mother asked without missing a beat. ‘The thought that maybe, just maybe, your father and Cynthia will have a baby, too. You know, considering how young she is. Then you’d have a brother and a father who are expecting. Really, Brooke, how many girls can say that?’
‘Mom …’
‘Seriously, sweetheart, don’t you think it’s pretty ironic – well, I’m not sure “ironic” is the right word, but it’s pretty coincidental – that your father’s wife is a year younger than Michelle?’
‘Mom! Please stop. You know Dad and Cynthia aren’t going to have any children – he’s going to be sixty-five years old, for god’s sake, and she doesn’t even want—’ Brooke stopped, smiled to herself, shook her head. ‘You know, maybe you’re right, and Dad and Cynthia will jump on the bandwagon. Then Randy and Dad will be able to bond over feeding schedules and naptime. How sweet.’
She waited for it and wasn’t disappointed.
Her mother snorted. ‘Please. The closest that man came to a diaper when you two were babies was watching a Pampers commercial. Men don’t change, Brooke. Your father won’t have anything to do with that child until it is old enough to express a political opinion. But I do think there’s hope for your brother.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s hope so. I’ll call him tonight to congratulate him, but I have to—’
‘No!’ Mrs Greene screeched. ‘We never had this conversation. I promised I wouldn’t tell you, so act surprised when he calls you.’
Brooke sighed and smiled. ‘Great loyalty, Mom. Does that mean you tell Randy everything even when I swear you to secrecy?’
‘Of course not. I only tell him when it’s interesting.’
‘Thanks, Mom.’
‘Love you, sweetheart. And remember, keep this to yourself.’
‘I promise. You have my word.’
Brooke hung up and checked her watch: five minutes to five. Four minutes to get to her next consultation. She knew she shouldn’t call right then, but she just couldn’t wait.
She remembered as soon as she dialed that Randy could be staying after school to coach the boys’ soccer team, but he picked up his cell on the first ring. ‘Hey, Brookie. What’s going on?’
‘What’s going on with me? Not a goddamn thing. What’s going on with you is a much more relevant question.’
‘Jesus Christ. I told her no less than eight minutes ago, and she swore she’d let me tell you myself.’
‘Yeah, well, I swore I wouldn’t tell you she told me, so whatever. Congratulations, big brother!’
‘Thanks. We’re both pretty excited. A little freaked out – it happened a lot faster than either of us expected – but excited.’
Brooke felt her breath catch. ‘What do you mean “faster”? You planned this?’
Randy laughed. She heard him say, ‘Give me a minute,’ to someone in the background, a student probably, and then he said, ‘Yeah, she went off the pill last month. The doctor said it would take at least a couple months for her cycle to regulate before we’d even be able to tell if pregnancy was a possibility due to her age. We just never figured it would happen immediately …’
It was surreal to hear her big brother – an avowed bachelor who decorated his house with old football trophies and dedicated more square footage to his pool table than he did to his kitchen – talk about regulated cycles and birth control pills and doctor’s opinions. Especially when all bets would’ve been on Brooke and Julian as the likeliest candidates to make a big announcement …
‘Wow. What else can I say? Wow.’ It really was all she could say; she was worried Randy would hear her voice catch and interpret it the wrong way.
She was so excited for Randy, she felt a lump in her throat. Sure, he managed to take care of himself just fine, and he always seemed happy enough, but Brooke worried about him being so alone. He lived in the suburbs, surrounded by families, and all of his old college buddies had long since had children. She and Randy weren’t really close enough to talk about it, but she’d always wondered if he wanted all that or if he was happy with his life as a bachelor. Now hearing his excitement confirmed how badly he must have longed for this, and she thought she might cry.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Can you imagine me teaching the little guy how to throw a pass? I’m going to get him a kid-sized pigskin right from the outset – none of that Nerf crap for my boy – and by the time he’s grown into his hands, he’ll be ready for the real deal.’
Brooke laughed. ‘So you obviously haven’t considered the distinct possibility that you could have a girl, huh?’
‘There are three other pregnant teachers at school, and all three of them are having boys,’ he said.
‘Interesting. But you are aware that, although you all share a work environment, your future child and their future children are not required by law or physics to be the same gender, right?’
‘I’m not sure about that …’
She laughed again. ‘So are you guys going to find out? Or is it too early to ask that question? I don’t really know how these things work.’
‘Well, being that I know we’re having a boy, I don’t really think it’s relevant, but Michelle wants to be surprised. So we’re going to wait.’
‘Aw, that’s fun. When’s the little one due?’
‘October twenty-fifth. A Halloween baby. I think that’s good luck.’
‘I do too,’ Brooke said. ‘I’m marking it in the calendar right now. October twenty-fifth: I’ll be an aunt.’
‘Hey, Brookie, what about you guys? It’d be pretty nice to have first cousins be close in age. Any chance?’
She knew it was hard for Randy to ask her such a personal question so she was careful not to jump down his throat, but he’d hit a nerve. When she and Julian had married at twenty-five and twenty-seven, respectively, she’d always figured they’d have a baby around her thirtieth birthday. But here they were, already past that and nowhere near even starting to try. She’d broached the subject with Julian a few times, casually so as not to put too much pressure on either of them, but he’d been just as casual with his response. Namely, that a baby would be great ‘someday,’ but for now they were doing the right thing focusing on their careers. So although she did want a baby – actually wanted nothing more, especially now, hearing Randy’s news – she adopted Julian’s party line.
‘Oh, someday of course,’ she said, trying to sound casual, the exact opposite of the way she felt. ‘But now’s just not the right time for us. Focusing on work, you know?’
‘Sure,’ Randy said, and Brooke wondered if he knew the truth. ‘You’ve got to do what’s right for you guys.’
‘Yeah, so … listen, I’m sorry to run but my break’s over and I’m late for a consult.’
‘No worries, Brookie. Thanks for the call. And the excitement.’
‘Are you kidding me? Thank you for the incredible news. You made my whole day – my month. Congrats again, Randy. I’m so excited for you guys! I’ll call later tonight to congratulate Michelle, okay?’
They hung up and Brooke began the trek back to the fifth floor. Incredulous, she couldn’t stop shaking her head as she walked. She probably looked like a crazy person, but that would hardly draw attention at the hospital. Randy. A father!
Brooke wanted to call Julian and tell him the news, only he’d sounded so stressed earlier, and there really wasn’t time before her consult. With one of the other nutritionists out on vacation and an unexplained influx of births that morning – nearly twice the usual amount – her day felt like it was moving at warp speed. It was good: the more she moved, the less time she had to wallow in her exhaustion. Besides, it was exciting and challenging when they got hit like this, and although she complained to Julian and her mother, she secretly loved it: all the different patients from every walk of life, each in the hospital for hugely varied reasons but still in need of someone to fine-tune a diet to their specific condition.
The caffeine hit exactly as planned, and Brooke banged out her final three appointments quickly and efficiently. She had just finished changing from scrubs into jeans and a sweater when one of her colleagues in the break room, Rebecca, announced that their boss wanted to see her.
‘Now?’ Brooke asked, watching her evening begin to disintegrate.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were sacred: they were the only days of the week she didn’t need to leave the hospital and head uptown to her second job, a position as a visiting nutritionist for the Huntley Academy, one of the most elite all-girls private schools on the Upper East Side. The parents of a Huntley alumna who’d died in her twenties of severe anorexia had set up a fund at the school for an experimental program where a nutritionist was available on site to counsel the girls on healthy eating and body image awareness twenty hours a week. Brooke was the second person to staff the fairly new program, and although she’d originally accepted the position solely as a way to supplement her and Julian’s income, she had found herself growing more and more attached to the girls. Sure, the anger, the awkwardness, the never-ending obsession with food sometimes wore her down but she always tried to remind herself that these young patients didn’t know any better. Plus the job had the added bonus of giving her more experience working with adolescents, something she lacked.
So Tuesdays and Thursdays she worked only at the hospital, from nine to six. The other three days a week her schedule shifted earlier to accommodate her second job: she worked at NYU from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon and then took two trains and a crosstown bus to get uptown to Huntley, where she’d meet with students – and sometimes their parents – until close to seven. No matter how early she forced herself to bed, and regardless of how much coffee she sucked down when she woke up, she was perpetually exhausted. The dual-job lifestyle was absolutely grueling, but she estimated she needed only one more year of work before being both qualified and experienced enough to open her own private pre-and postnatal nutrition practice, something she’d dreamed about since her very first day of graduate school and the very thing she’d worked diligently toward since then.
Rebecca nodded sympathetically. ‘She asked if you’d stop in before you left.’
Brooke quickly packed up her things and headed back to the fifth floor.
‘Margaret?’ she called out, knocking on the office door. ‘Rebecca said you wanted to see me?’
‘Come in, come in,’ her boss said, shuffling some papers on her desk. ‘Sorry to keep you late, but I figured there was always time for good news.’
Brooke sank into the chair opposite Margaret and waited.
‘Well, we’ve finished calculating all of the patient evaluations, and I’m happy to report that you received the highest marks of the entire dietitian staff.’
‘I did?’ Brooke asked, barely believing she’d come in first among seven.
‘It wasn’t even close.’ Margaret absentmindedly slicked on some ChapStick, smacked her lips, and returned her gaze to her papers. ‘Ninety-one percent of your patients evaluated your consultations as “excellent,” and the remaining nine all ranked them as “good.” The next best on staff had an “excellent” rating of eight-two percent.’
‘Wow,’ Brooke said, aware that she should be aiming for a little modesty but unable to stop smiling. ‘That is great news. I’m so happy to hear it.’
‘So are we, Brooke. We’re extremely pleased, and I wanted you to know that your performance doesn’t go unnoticed. You’ll still be assigned cases in the ICU, but as of next week, we’ll be replacing all of your psych shifts with neonatal. I’m assuming that’s okay with you?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s wonderful with me!’ Brooke said.
‘As you know, you’re only the third most senior on staff, but no one else has your background and experience. I think it’ll be a perfect fit for you.’
Brooke couldn’t keep herself from beaming. Finally, that extra year of coursework in child, adolescent, and newborn nutrition in grad school, plus her optional double internship – both in pediatrics – had paid off. ‘Margaret, I can’t thank you enough for everything. That is just the best news ever.’
Her boss laughed. ‘Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
As she walked to the subway, Brooke sent up a silent thanks, both for her semipromotion and, almost better, the fact that she didn’t have to.
She jumped off the train at the Times Square stop, quickly weaved her way through the masses of people underground, and strategically emerged onto the street at her usual Forty-third Street stairwell, which was closest to their apartment and allowing her to avoid the crush of humanity she’d otherwise encounter walking along Forty-second Street. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss their old apartment in Brooklyn – she’d loved nearly everything about Brooklyn Heights and hated almost everything about Midtown West – but even she had to admit that both their commutes were a little less hellish.
She was surprised when Walter, her tricolored spaniel with a black eye-mask patch over one eye, didn’t bark when she inserted her key into the apartment door. Nor did he race to greet her.
‘Walter Alter! Where are you?’ She made kissing noises and waited. Music was playing from somewhere in the apartment.
‘We’re in the living room,’ Julian called back. His reply was punctuated by Walter’s frenetic, high-pitched woofs.
Brooke dropped her bag just inside the door, kicked off her heels, and noticed that the kitchen was significantly cleaner than she’d left it.
‘Hey! I didn’t know you were getting home early tonight,’ she said as she sat down next to Julian on the couch. She leaned over to kiss him but Walter intercepted her and licked her mouth first.
‘Mmm, thank you, Walter. I feel so welcome.’
Julian muted the television and turned to face her. ‘I’d be happy to lick your face too, you know. My tongue probably can’t compete with a spaniel’s, but hey, I’m willing to try.’ He grinned and Brooke marveled at that fluttery feeling she got when he smiled like that, even after all these years.
‘Tempting, I have to say.’ She ducked around Walter and actually managed to kiss Julian’s wine-stained mouth. ‘You sounded so stressed earlier, I figured you wouldn’t be home until so much later. Is everything okay?’
He stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with a second wineglass, which he filled and handed to Brooke. ‘Everything’s fine. I realized after we hung up this afternoon that we haven’t spent an evening together in almost a week. I’m here to remedy that.’
‘You are? Really?’ She’d been thinking the same thing for days but hadn’t wanted to complain when Julian was at such a crucial point in the production process.
He nodded. ‘I miss you, Rook.’
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again. ‘I miss you, too. I’m so glad you came home early. Want to run out for some noodles?’
For their budget’s sake, she and Julian made it a point to cook as often as possible, but they both agreed that the cheapie corner noodle joint didn’t really count as eating out.
‘Do you mind if we stay in? I was looking forward to a quiet evening with you tonight.’ He took another sip of wine.
‘Sure, fine with me. I’ll make you a deal …’
‘Oh no, here we go …’
‘I will go slave over a hot stove to prepare you a delicious and nutritious meal if you agree to rub my feet and back for thirty minutes.’
‘“Slave over a hot stove”? You can make a chicken stir-fry in like two minutes. Not a fair deal.’
Brooke shrugged. ‘Okay. There’s cereal in the pantry, although I think we’re out of milk. You could always make yourself some popcorn.’
Julian turned to Walter and said, ‘You don’t know how good you have it, boy. She doesn’t make you work in exchange for kibble.’
‘The price just went up to thirty minutes.’
‘It was already thirty minutes,’ Julian whined.
‘That was thirty minutes total. Now it’s thirty minutes feet and another thirty for the back.’
Julian pretended to weigh this. ‘Forty-five minutes and I’ll––’
‘Any attempts at bargaining only add time onto the total.’
He held up his palms. ‘I’m afraid there’s no deal.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You going to fend for yourself tonight?’ she asked, grinning. Julian was an equal partner with the cleaning, bill paying, and dog care, but he was useless in the kitchen and he knew it.
‘As a matter of fact, I am. I’m fending for both of us, actually. I cooked dinner for you tonight.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard me.’ Somewhere in the kitchen a timer began to beep. ‘And it’s ready as we speak. Please be seated,’ he said grandly in a faux British accent.
‘I am seated,’ she said, leaning back against the sofa and kicking her feet up on the coffee table.
‘Ah, yes,’ Julian called cheerfully from their miniature kitchen. ‘I see you’ve found your way to the formal dining room. Perfect.’
‘Can I help?’
Julian walked back in holding a Pyrex casserole dish between two oven mitts. ‘One baked ziti for my love …’ He was about to set the dish down on the bare wood before Brooke yelped and jumped up to retrieve a trivet. Julian began to spoon the steaming pasta.
Brooke could only stare. ‘Is this where you tell me you’ve been having an affair with another woman for the entire duration of our marriage and you want my forgiveness?’ she asked.
Julian grinned. ‘Shut up and eat.’
She sat down and helped herself to some salad while Julian spooned ziti on her plate. ‘Baby, this looks incredible. Where did you learn to do this? And why aren’t you doing it every night?’
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 crucial 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.
‘It’s their anniversary,’ Brooke replied, shrugging. It was unnaturally cold for a winter 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 March?’
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-seventy 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 now. 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 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 Mr 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 laypeople 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 parents 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?’
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 over 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 3D 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 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 blonde 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 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.’
The three had just clinked glasses – Julian only had water – and were about to get the full rundown on Fern when one of the best-looking guys Brooke had ever laid eyes on seemed to magically appear by her side. 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 overgrooming or perfection. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his entire body.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Leo,’ Brooke said. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
He didn’t appear to hear. ‘Okay, listen,’ he said, turning to Julian. ‘I just got word that you’re scheduled as the final act. One down, one to go, then you.’ Leo peered intently over Julian’s shoulder as he talked.
‘Is that good news?’ Brooke asked politely. Julian had already told her that none of the other musicians scheduled to perform that night were in any real competition. One was an R&B group who everyone thought sounded like a modern-day Boyz II Men, and the other was a heavily tattooed female country singer who wore frilly dresses and pigtails.
She looked at Leo and saw that once again, his gaze had wandered. Brooke followed it and saw he was staring directly at Nola. Or, more precisely, Nola’s pencil-skirt-swathed bum. She made a mental note to threaten Nola with banishment and worse if she went anywhere near him.
Leo cleared his throat and took a swig of whiskey. ‘The chick went already, and she was decent. Not mind-blowing, but mildly entertaining. I think—’
He was cut off by the sound of voices harmonizing. There wasn’t a stage, exactly, but there was a cleared area in front of the piano where four African-American men in their early twenties stood, each leaning in toward a central microphone. For a moment it sounded like a really good college a capella group, but then three of the guys stepped back and left the main singer alone to croon about his childhood in Haiti. The crowd nodded and grooved appreciatively.
‘Hey, baby.’ Julian circled around the group and came up behind her. He kissed the back of her neck and she almost groaned aloud. 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 caps, when he would safely pull them 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 wracked 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 your wife,’ Leo said, returning from a quick chat with the people behind him. ‘Just forget where you are and why you’re here and do your thing. Got it?’
Julian nodded and tapped his foot furiously. ‘Got it.’
Leo motioned toward the area in the back of the room. ‘Let’s get you set up.’
Brooke stood on her tiptoes and kissed Julian on the mouth. She squeezed his hand and said, ‘I’ll be right here the whole time, but forget about all of us. Just close your eyes and play your heart out.’
He shot her a grateful look but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Leo led him off, and before she could finish her wine, one of the A&R guys announced Julian over the microphone.
Brooke looked around again for Nola and spotted her talking to a group of people in front of the bar. That girl knew everyone. Happy to have Trent there, Brooke let him lead her to a little sliver of couch space, where he motioned for her to take a seat. She perched herself on the end of a velvet sofa and nervously gathered her hair into a knot. She rooted around in her bag for a hair tie but couldn’t find one.
‘Here,’ said the beautiful Asian girl Leo had winked at earlier. She pulled a brown elastic off her wrist and handed it to Brooke. ‘I have a million.’
Brooke paused for a minute, unsure what to do, and the girl smiled. ‘Really, it’s fine. There’s nothing more annoying than not being able to get hair off your face. Although if I had your hair, I’d never tie it back.’
‘Thanks,’ Brooke said, accepting the tie and immediately twisting it into her ponytail. She was going to say something more, maybe something self-deprecating about how she wouldn’t wish being a redhead on anyone, but at that moment Julian took his seat at the piano, and she heard his voice, a little shaky, thanking everyone for coming.
The girl took a swig from the bottle of beer she was holding and asked, ‘Have you ever heard him before?’
Brooke could only nod and pray the girl would stop talking. She didn’t want to miss a single moment, and she was totally preoccupied wondering if anyone else could hear the slight wobble in Julian’s voice.
‘Because if not, you’re really in for something. He is the sexiest singer I’ve ever seen.’
This caught her attention. ‘What?’ she asked, turning to the girl.
‘Julian Alter,’ the girl said, waving toward the piano. ‘I’ve heard him a couple times in different venues around the city. He has a few regular gigs. And I’m telling you, he’s ridiculously good. Makes John Mayer look like amateur hour.’
Julian had begun to play ‘For the Lost,’ a soulful song about a young boy who loses his older brother, and she felt Trent glance in her direction – he was probably the only other person in the entire room who knew what truly inspired that song. Julian himself was an only child, but Brooke knew he often thought of the brother who had died of SIDS before Julian was born. To this day the Alters never discussed James, but Julian had gone through a stage where he wondered, sometimes obsessively, what James would’ve been like today, how different life might have been with an older brother.
His hands moved across the piano keys, producing the first haunting notes that would eventually build to a powerful crescendo, but Brooke couldn’t focus on anything but the girl beside her. She wanted to hug her and slap her all at the same time. It was disconcerting to hear this perfectly attractive girl rave about Julian’s sexiness – no matter how long they’d been together, she never got used to that aspect – but it was so rare to hear a totally honest and unfiltered opinion.
‘You think so?’ Brooke asked, suddenly desperate for the girl to agree.
‘Oh, definitely. I tried to tell my boss, like, a dozen times, but Sony got him first.’ The girl’s attention to Brooke started to wane as Julian’s volume increased, and by the time he tilted his head and sang out the raw, emotional chorus, she was fixated only on him. Brooke wondered if she noticed Julian’s wedding band through the haze of worship.
Brooke turned to watch, and it was all she could do not to sing along. She knew every word by heart.
They say Texas is the promised land
In the highway’s dust you become a man
Blind and blue, lonely in love
Scars on your hands, broken above
He was a mother’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
The woman sits alone in a room
Alone in a house like a silent tomb
The man counts every jewel in his crown
What can’t be saved is measured in pounds
He was a father’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
In my dreams the voices from beyond the door
I remember them saying you weren’t coming no more
You wouldn’t believe how quiet it’s become
The heart obscure fills with shame
He was a brother’s dream, he was a fist of sand
My brother, you slipped away with the second hand
Like parallel lines that never cross
For the lost, for the lost
He finished the song to rousing applause – genuine, enthusiastic applause – and moved effortlessly into the second. He had hit his stride, and there wasn’t a single sign of any anxiety. Just that familiar sheen across his forearms and the furrowed brow of concentration as he sang the words he had spent months, sometimes years, perfecting. The second song was over in a flash, and then the third, and before she realized what was happening, the crowd was ecstatically cheering and calling for an encore. Julian looked pleased and a little confused – his instructions to play three songs in under twelve minutes couldn’t have been clearer – but he must’ve gotten the green light from someone offstage, because he smiled and nodded and eased right into one of his more upbeat songs. The crowd roared their approval.
By the time he pushed back the piano bench and took a modest bow, the air in the room had changed. More than the loud cheering and clapping and whistles, there was that electrified feeling of having been part of something important. Brooke stood, hemmed in on all sides by her husband’s admirers, when Leo approached. He gruffly greeted the hair-tie girl by name – Umi – but she immediately rolled her eyes and walked away. Before Brooke could process that, Leo grabbed her arm a little too tightly and leaned in so close she wondered for the briefest second if he was going to kiss her.
‘Get ready, Brooke. Get ready for one fucking crazy ride. Tonight is only the start, and it’s going to be insane.’
4
a toast to hot redheads
‘Kaylie, sweetheart, I don’t know how else to say it: you do not need to lose weight. Look at your statistics; look at this chart. You are absolutely perfect just the way you are.’
‘No one else here looks like me,’ Kaylie said, lowering her eyes. The girl absently twisted her limp brown hair in circles around her forefinger, methodically wrapping and turning, wrapping and turning. Her face was filled with anxiety.
‘What do you mean?’ Brooke asked, although she knew what Kaylie meant.
‘I just … I never felt fat until I came here. At public school, I was totally normal, maybe even on the skinny side! And then this year rolls around and they stick me in this weird place because it’s supposed to be so fancy and special, and suddenly I’m obese.’ The girl’s voice cracked at the last word, and it was all Brooke could do not to hug her.
‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re no such thing! Come here, look at this chart. One hundred twenty-five pounds at five-one is well within the healthy range.’ Brooke held out her laminated chart showing the huge range of normal weights, but Kaylie barely glanced at it.
She knew it wasn’t particularly comforting in light of all the astonishingly thin girls in Kaylie’s ninth-grade class. Kaylie was a scholarship student from the Bronx, the daughter of an air-conditioning repairman who raised her alone after her mother was killed in a car accident. Her father was clearly doing something right, considering the girl’s straight-A record in middle school, success on the field hockey team, and, according to what Brooke heard from other teachers, an ability to play the violin that far surpassed that of her peers, and yet here was his lovely, accomplished daughter, and all she could see was that she didn’t fit in.
Kaylie tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, which rested across thighs that were strong and muscular, but nowhere near fat, and said, ‘I guess I just have bad genes. My mom was really overweight, too.’
‘Do you miss her?’ Brooke asked, and Kaylie could only nod, the tears welling in her eyes.
‘She always told me I was perfect just the way I am, but I wonder what she would’ve said if she could see the girls here. They’re perfect. Their hair is perfect and their makeup is perfect and their bodies are perfect, and even though we all have the same exact uniform, even the way they wear it is perfect.’
It was one aspect of the job she had least expected but had grown to appreciate more than she could express, this crossover between nutritionist and confidante. They’d learned in grad school that anyone who came into regular contact with teenagers and was merely willing to listen could play an important role as a caring, involved adult, but Brooke hadn’t known what they meant until she started at Huntley.
Brooke spent a few more minutes explaining that although it might not have felt that way, Kaylie was well within a healthy weight limit. It was a hard argument, especially considering the girl’s muscular, athletic body was broader than most of her classmates’, but she tried. If only I could fast-forward her through four years of high school and send her straight to college, Brooke thought. She’d realize then that none of this ninth-grade nonsense means anything in the long run.
But Brooke knew from experience that this was impossible. She, too, had self-consciously been on the larger end of normal all through high school and Cornell, straight up until grad school, when she went on a drastic diet and lost almost twenty pounds. She couldn’t keep it off, though, and gained fifteen of it back almost immediately. Now, despite mostly healthful eating and a dedicated running program, Brooke was also on the outer limits of the healthy range for her height and, just like Kaylie, was acutely aware of that fact. She felt hypocritical even trying to tell Kaylie not to worry about it when she herself thought about it every day.
‘You are perfect, Kaylie. I know it doesn’t always feel that way, especially surrounded by girls with so many advantages, but believe me when I tell you that you’re absolutely beautiful. You’re going to make friends here, find the girls you connect with, and feel more at home. And then before you know it, you’ll kiss the SATs and prom and some dumb boyfriend from Dalton good-bye, and you’ll run off to a fantastic college where everyone’s perfect in their own way, in exactly the way they choose. And you’ll love it. I can honestly promise you that.’
Brooke’s phone rang, the special piano-sounding ring that she’d attached only to Julian’s number. He never called when she was at work, knowing she wouldn’t be able to answer, and even kept his texts to a minimum. She knew in an instant something was wrong.
‘Excuse me, Kaylie. This will just be a minute.’ She swiveled in her chair the best she could to get some privacy in the small office. ‘Hi. Is everything okay? I’m with a patient right now.’
‘Brooke, you are not going to believe this, but—’ He stopped and breathed in deeply, dramatically.
‘Julian, seriously, if this is not an emergency, I need to call you back.’
‘Leo just called. One of the main bookers from Leno was at the showcase last week. They want me to perform on the show!’
‘No!’
‘It’s true! It’s a hundred percent guaranteed done deal. Next week, Tuesday night. Taping at five. I’ll be the musical performance on the show, probably right after the interviews. Do you believe it?’
‘Ohmigod!’
‘Brooke, say something else.’
She forgot where she was for a moment. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, of course I can believe it, but it’s just so incredible.’ She heard Julian laughing and thought how long it’d been. ‘When are you home tonight? We must celebrate. I have something in mind …’
‘Does it involve my favorite mesh thingy?’
Brooke smiled into the phone. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of that Dom Pérignon we got as a gift and can never justify opening.’
‘Mesh. Tonight deserves champagne and mesh. Meet you home at eight? I’ll take care of dinner.’
‘You don’t have to deal with dinner. Let me pick something up. Or we can go out! Why don’t we go somewhere and really celebrate?’
‘Let me handle it,’ Julian said. ‘Please? I have something in mind.’
Brooke’s heart surged. Maybe now he’d be able to ease up on his time at the studio and spend more time at home. She felt the familiar pangs of excitement and anticipation she’d felt earlier in their marriage, before anything had become routine. ‘Absolutely. I’ll see you at eight. And, Julian? I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither.’ He made a kissing sound into the phone – something he hadn’t done in years – and hung up. For the first time in five full minutes, Brooke remembered where she was.
‘Wow, sounds like some hot stuff,’ Kaylie said with a grin. ‘Big date tonight?’
It never failed to amaze Brooke how young these girls really were, despite all the confident backtalk and a distressing familiarity with everything from extreme dieting to the best blow-job techniques. (Brooke had read a highly detailed how-to list when one of the girls left behind a notebook – so detailed, in fact, she briefly considered making a few notes for herself before realizing that taking sex tips from a high school freshman was horrifying on too many levels.)
‘Big date with my husband.’ Brooke corrected her, trying to salvage at least a little professionalism. ‘I’m so sorry for the interruption. Now, back to what—’
‘Sounded pretty exciting,’ Kaylie said. She loosened her grip on her hair just long enough to gnaw a hangnail on her right index finger. ‘What happened?’
Brooke was so relieved to see the girl smile that she said, ‘Yeah, actually it is really exciting. My husband is a musician. He just got a call from Leno’s people inviting him to be on the show.’ Brooke could hear her voice surge with pride, and although she knew it was both unprofessional and even silly to be sharing the news with her teenage patient, she was too happy to care.
Kaylie’s head snapped to full attention. ‘He’s going to be on Leno?’
Brooke nodded and shuffled some papers around on her desk in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her pleasure.
‘That is the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard!’ the girl exclaimed, her ponytail bobbing as if to underscore her point.
‘Kaylie!’
‘Sorry, but it is! What’s his name and when’s he on? I want to make sure I see it.’
‘Next Tuesday night. His name is Julian Alter.’
‘That is so fuck— freaking cool. Congratulations, Mrs A. Your husband must be pretty awesome if Leno wants him. You’re going to go to LA with him, right?’
‘What?’ Brooke asked. She hadn’t had a second to think about the logistics, but Julian hadn’t mentioned them either.
‘Isn’t Leno in LA? You, like, have to go with him.’
‘Of course I’ll go with him,’ Brooke replied automatically, although she had a nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach that Julian’s omission of an invitation wasn’t just a detail that got lost in all the excitement.
Brooke still had another ten minutes with Kaylie, then a full hour afterwards with a Huntley gymnast whose coach’s weigh-ins were having disastrous effects on the girl’s self-esteem, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate for one more second. Figuring she’d already acted inappropriately by oversharing and using their session time to talk about her personal life, Brooke turned back to Kaylie.
‘I’m sorry to do this, sweetheart, but I need to cut our session short this afternoon. I’ll be back on Friday; and I’ll notify your sixth-period teacher that we didn’t get a chance to finish so we can reschedule another full session for then. Is that okay?’
Kaylie nodded. ‘Hell, yeah, Mrs A. This is big news for you. Say congratulations to your husband for me, okay?’
Brooke smiled at her. ‘Thanks, I will. And, Kaylie? We’re going to continue talking about this. I can’t condone you losing weight, but if you want to talk about eating more healthfully, I’m happy to advise you. Does that sound good?’
Kaylie nodded and Brooke thought she may have even detected a small smile before the girl walked out of her office. Although she didn’t look the least bit fazed about cutting their session short, Brooke was overcome with guilt. It wasn’t easy to get these girls to open up, and she actually felt like she was starting to get somewhere with Kaylie.
Pledging to set things right with everyone on Thursday, Brooke sent a quick e-mail to Rhonda, her principal, claiming sudden sickness, threw all her stuff in a canvas tote bag, and jumped directly into the backseat of an idling taxi. Hell, if Leno wasn’t sufficient reason to splurge, nothing was.
Despite the fact that it was rush hour, the park crossing at Eighty-sixth Street wasn’t unbearable and the West Side Highway was moving at a brisk twenty miles an hour (downright dreamy for that time of night), and Brooke was delighted to find herself standing in her apartment by six thirty. She got down on the floor and let Walter lick her face for a few minutes and then gently replaced herself with a thickly braided, extra-smelly bully stick – Walter’s favorite. After pouring herself a glass of pinot grigio from an open bottle in the fridge and taking a long, deep swallow, Brooke toyed with the idea of posting Julian’s news as a Facebook status update but quickly dismissed it; she didn’t want to announce anything without running it by him first.
The first status update on her homepage was, unpleasantly, from Leo. Apparently, he had just linked his Twitter account to his Facebook page, and despite the fact he usually had not one redeeming tidbit to share, he was taking full advantage of the constant-update feature.
Leo Moretti … PUMPED JULIAN ALTER WILL BE ROCKING THE LENO SHOW NEXT TUESDAY. LA, HERE WE COME …
The update’s mere association with her husband made Brooke feel queasy, as did what it pointed out: that Julian was definitely planning a trip to Los Angeles, Leo was definitely joining him, and it was only Brooke who had not yet received an invitation.
Brooke showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, and toweled dry. Was it weird to assume she’d accompany Julian to Los Angeles for the taping? She had no clue if Julian wanted her there for the support, or if he figured that this was a business trip and he should be traveling with his manager, not his wife.
As she slathered a Julian-approved scent-free moisturizer on her freshly shaved legs – he couldn’t stand the smell of scented products – Brooke watched Walter watch her. ‘Did Daddy make a bad call hiring Leo?’ she asked him in a high-pitched voice.
Walter lifted his head from the fluffy bath mat that always made his fur smell like mildew, wagged his tail, and woofed.
‘Is that a no?’
Walter woofed again.
‘Or a yes?’
Another woof.
‘Thank you for that insight, Walter. I will surely treasure it.’
He rewarded her with an ankle lick and sank back into the mat.
A quick time check revealed it was ten to eight, so after taking a minute to psych herself up, Brooke pulled a crumpled pile of black fabric from the back of her underwear drawer. The last time she’d worn this getup had been over a year before, when she had accused Julian of not being interested in sex anymore and he had gone straight to that drawer, pulled out the jumpsuit, and said something to the effect of ‘It’s a crime to own this and not wear it.’ It had immediately broken the tension and Brooke remembered putting it on and dancing exaggerated stripper moves around their bedroom to Julian’s loud cheers and catcalls.
Somewhere along the way, that jumpsuit began to symbolize their sex life. She’d bought it in their first or second year of marriage, after a discussion where Julian confessed, as though it were some scandalous, shameful secret, that he just loved women in tight black lingerie … and maybe didn’t love all the brightly colored boy shorts and striped racerback tanks that Brooke wore each night to bed and would’ve sworn were sexy in their teenage girlness. Although she couldn’t remotely afford it back then, Brooke immediately set out on a lingerie-buying spree and, within two days, had acquired a super-soft black jersey chemise with spaghetti straps from Bloomingdale’s; a babydoll-style, ruffled black nightie from Victoria’s Secret; and a short black cotton nightshirt with ‘Juicy Sleeper’ splashed across the bum. Each one, in succession, had been met with barely tepid enthusiasm along the lines of ‘Mmm, that’s cute,’ before Julian turned back to his magazine each night. When not even the babydoll nightie elicited a modicum of interest, Brooke called Nola the very next morning.
‘Clear your Saturday afternoon,’ Nola had announced. ‘We’re going shopping.’
‘I already went shopping and spent a fortune,’ Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.
‘Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy nightshirt? Are you serious?’
‘What? He wasn’t exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It’s all black and short and tight. The “JUICY” part is even in rhinestones. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with that … if you’re a sophomore in college and you’re super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you’re all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy woman.’
Brooke sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’m in your hands. What time Saturday?’
‘Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We’re hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.’
Although she’d looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise – not all that different from her Bloomie’s version – was $375. Where on earth was she – a graduate student! – going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn’t until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky’s to buy paraphernalia for another friend’s bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.
There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped ‘fantasy outfits.’ They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked.
Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.
‘I’d be happy to make some recommendations,’ he lisped. ‘On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.’
‘Thanks, I’m just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,’ she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.
‘Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.’
He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she’d lose her nerve if he came back – or anyone else walked into the room – she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn’t until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.
The picture featured a redheaded woman who didn’t look drastically different from Brooke – save the forty-two-inch legs – wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-length mesh bodysuit. The woman jutted out her hip provocatively and stared at the camera, but despite all the dramatic posturing, she managed to convey ‘sexy’ and ‘confident’ and not just ‘sleazy’ and ‘slutty.’ I can do this one, she thought to herself, and that very night, when she walked out of the bathroom wearing that bodysuit and a pair of heels, Julian had nearly fallen off the bed.
Brooke had donned the now-infamous jumpsuit over the years on some of Julian’s birthdays, their anniversaries, and the occasional warm-weather vacation, but lately, like all the old remnants of their pre-exhaustion sex life, it had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer. As she unrolled the material over her legs and shimmied first her hips and then her arms into the outfit, she knew it would send the message loud and clear: I’m so proud of you for this amazing accomplishment, now get over here so I can show you. No matter that the one-size-fits-all jumpsuit was digging tightly into her thighs and doing a weird thing on her upper arms; she felt sexy anyway. She had just shaken her hair out of her ponytail and reclined on top of the covers when the landline rang. Certain it was Julian calling to say he was on his way home, Brooke answered on the first ring.
‘Rook? Honey, can you hear me?’ Her mother’s voice rang through the receiver.
Brooke took a deep breath and wondered why the woman had an uncanny knack for calling at exactly the worst possible times. ‘Hey, Mom. I hear you.’
‘Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. Listen, I need you to grab your calendar and check a date for me. I know you hate planning ahead, but I’m trying to make some arrangements for—’
‘Mom! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but it’s not a great time right now. Julian’s going to be home any second, and I’m late getting ready,’ she lied.
‘Are you going out to celebrate? Such amazing news. You both must be so happy.’
Brooke opened her mouth to talk and then remembered she hadn’t yet told her mother Julian’s good news. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.
‘Randy, sweetheart. He saw some update on Julian’s fan page – is that what you call it? I wish I could say my daughter had called to tell me on her own, but luckily Randy remembered his dear old mom.’
‘Mmm, right. Facebook. I almost forgot. So yeah, we’re both really excited.’
‘So how are you two going to celebrate tonight? Going out to dinner?’
Brooke glanced down at her mesh-covered body; as if to emphasize the ludicrousness of talking to one’s mother while wearing a crotchless mesh jumpsuit, one of her nipples popped through the fabric. ‘Um, I think Julian’s bringing dinner home. We already have a bottle of good champagne, so we’ll probably have that.’
‘Sounds lovely. Give him a kiss for me. And as soon as you have a second, I’d really like to get a date nailed down—’
‘Uh-huh, okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Because it’ll only take a second, and—’
‘Mom …’
‘Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you, Rookie.’
‘Love you, too, Mom.’ She heard the door open just as she hung up the phone.
She knew he would take his coat off and greet Walter, which gave her just enough time to peel off the foil wrapper and unscrew the wire basket around the cork. She had remembered to bring two flutes, which she placed on her bedside table before stretching out, catlike, atop the made bed. Her nervousness lasted only a second, just until Julian opened the door.
‘Guess who’s staying at the Chateau Marmont?’ he said, his smile a mile wide.
‘Who?’ She sat up in bed, momentarily forgetting her outfit.
‘I am,’ he said, and instantly Brooke felt a wave of anxiety.
‘No way,’ she breathed. It was all she could manage.
‘Oh yes. In a suite. Where I’ll be picked up by limo and taken to the NBC studio for the Leno taping.’
She forced herself to focus on his good news and remind herself that it had nothing to do with her. ‘Wow, Julian, that’s amazing! They mention that place constantly in Last Night,US Weekly, all of them. Kate Hudson just hosted an all-night party in the bungalows. JLo and Marc Anthony ran into Ben Affleck by the pool and Marc supposedly made a scene. Belushi overdosed there, for chrissake. The place is absolutely legendary.’
‘And guess what else?’ Julian asked, sitting down beside her on the bed and running his hand over her mesh-covered thigh.
‘What?’
‘My extremely hot wife is going to be joining me, so long as she promises to bring this mesh outfit with her,’ he said, leaning in to kiss Brooke.
‘Stop it!’ she shrieked.
‘Of course, only if she wants to.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I’m not. I spoke to Samara, my new publicist’ – his eyebrows shot up and he grinned at her – ‘and she said it’s fine so long as we pay for your plane ticket. Leo thought it’d be better if we went alone, just so I wouldn’t be distracted, but I told him I could never do something this big without you. So what do you say?’
She ignored the Leo part. ‘I think that’s freaking incredible!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘I think I can’t wait to canoodle with you by the bar and party all night in the bungalows.’
‘Is that really what it’s like?’ Julian asked, pushing her backward against the pillows and arranging himself, still fully dressed, on top of her.
‘Hell yes. From everything I’ve read, we can fully expect Cristal-filled pools, heaping mountains of cocaine, more cheating celebrities than a high-end escort service, and enough gossip on an hourly basis to fill ten tabloids. Oh, and orgies. I’ve never read that, but I’m sure they happen. Probably right in the restaurant.’
Walter jumped up on the bed and, chin to the air, began to howl.
‘That does sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it, Walter?’ Julian asked, kissing Brooke’s neck.
Walter howled in response and Brooke laughed.
Julian dipped his finger in his champagne glass, put it up to Brooke’s lips, and kissed her again.
‘What do you say to some practice?’ he asked.
Brooke kissed him back and pulled off his shirt, her heart swelling with the sense of possibility. ‘I’d say that’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long, long time.’
‘Can I get you another Diet Coke?’ the bermuda-clad waiter asked as he sidled up next to Brooke’s lounge chair, blocking her sun. In the direct sunlight it felt reasonably warm, and although she thought the low seventies was a bit too chilly for bikini weather, her fellow pool-goers apparently disagreed.
She glanced at the half-dozen or so people sipping delicious-looking cocktails around the pool, reminded herself that although it was only midafternoon on a Tuesday this was still a vacation of sorts, and said, ‘I’d love a Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and two stalks of celery.’
A long, lithe girl who, judging from her astonishing figure, was definitely a model lowered herself elegantly into the pool. Brooke watched as she swam a charming sort of doggie paddle to the side, taking great pains to keep her hair dry, and called out to her male companion in Spanish. Without glancing up from his laptop, the man answered her in French. The girl pouted, the man grumbled, and within thirty seconds he was walking toward the pool with her massive Chanel sunglasses in hand. When she thanked him, Brooke could’ve sworn she did so in Russian.
Her phone rang. ‘Hello?’ she said quietly, although no one seemed to care.
‘Rookie? How’s it going out there?’
‘Hey, Dad. I’m not going to lie, everything’s pretty damn great.’
‘Did Julian play yet?’
‘He and Leo just left so I’m guessing they’ll be in Burbank soon. I don’t think the actual taping starts until five or five thirty. It sounded like it was going to be a pretty long afternoon, so I’m waiting at the hotel for them.’
The waiter returned with her drink, the Bloody Mary in a glass every bit as tall and skinny as the women she’d spied so far in Los Angeles. He set it on the table beside her, along with a little three-part tray of snacks: marinated olives, mixed nuts, and baked vegetable chips. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
‘What’s the place like? Pretty swanky, I’d bet.’
Brooke took a small sip at first and then a gulp. Damn, that was good. ‘Yeah, it really is. You should see the people sitting by the pool. Each one is more gorgeous than the next.’
‘Do you know Jim Morrison tried to jump off the roof there? And that the members of Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby? From what I’ve heard, it is the place to be for badly behaved musicians.’
‘Where are you getting your information, Dad? Google?’ Brooke laughed.
‘Brooke, please! Don’t insult me by suggesting—’
‘Wikipedia?’
A pause. ‘Maybe.’
They chatted for a few more minutes while Brooke watched the gorgeous thing in the pool shriek like a child when her boyfriend jumped in and tried to splash her. Her father wanted to tell her all about the non-surprise surprise birthday party Cynthia was planning for him in a few months, how determined she was to celebrate his sixty-fifth since it was also his retirement year, but Brooke had a hard time focusing. After all, the woman-child had just climbed out of the water, and Brooke clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed that her white bikini was entirely transparent when wet. She glanced down at her own terry-cloth sweats and wondered what she would do to look that good in a bikini, even if just for an hour. She sucked in her stomach and continued to watch.
The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special – she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes – but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.
She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it was all Brooke could do not to whip out her BlackBerry and send a picture to Nola.
When she got back to their room – a one-bedroom suite in the main building, with gorgeous hillside views – she was delighted to discover a massive gift basket with a note that read, ‘Welcome, Julian! From your friends at Sony.’ Inside was a bottle each of Veuve Clicquot and Patrón; a box of those tiny, funkily painted chocolate truffles; an assortment of energy bars and snacks; enough Vitaminwaters to stock a grocery; and a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes. She took a picture of the whole thing splayed out on the coffee table and sent it to Julian with the caption, ‘They love you,’ and then she tore into it, demolishing a red velvet cupcake in under ten seconds.
It was the room’s landline that eventually woke her.
‘Brooke? You alive?’ Julian’s voice rang through the cordless handset.
‘I’m alive,’ she managed to say, looking around to get her bearings, surprised to discover that she was under the covers, wearing only her underwear, and the entire room was dark. Cupcake crumbs were scattered around her pillow.
‘I’ve been calling your cell phone for the last half hour. Where are you? Is everything okay?’
She bolted upright and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She’d been asleep for nearly three hours. ‘Must’ve been that second Bloody Mary,’ she mumbled to herself, but Julian began to laugh.
‘I leave you alone for one afternoon and you get yourself drunk?’
‘It wasn’t like that! But whatever, how was the taping? How did it go?’
In the brief pause that followed, Brooke had a mental flash of all the potential things that could’ve gone wrong, but once again, Julian laughed. It was more than a laugh – he sounded downright giddy.
‘Rook, it was incredible! I nailed it, just absolutely nailed it, and the backup band was way better than I expected with so little practice.’ Brooke could hear other voices in the car and Julian lowered his to a whisper. ‘Jay came over to me as the song ended, put his arm around me, pointed me to the camera, and said how that was awesome, and he’d like for me to come back every night.’
‘No!’
‘He did! The audience was clapping like crazy, and then when the whole taping was over and we were hanging out backstage, Jay even thanked me, said he couldn’t wait to hear the whole album!’
‘Julian, that’s incredible. Congratulations! This is huge!’
‘I know, I’m just so relieved. Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel in twenty minutes or so. Meet me on the patio for a drink?’
The mere thought of alcohol made her head throb a bit more – when was the last time she was hungover at dinnertime? – but she sat straight up. ‘I’ve got to change. I’ll meet you down there as soon as I’m ready,’ she said, but the line had already been disconnected.
Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets wasn’t easy, but three Advils and a stint under the rainfall shower helped. She quickly pulled on a pair of legging-style skinny jeans, a silky tank top, and a blazer, but a closer inspection revealed that the jeans were doing hideous things to her butt. As hard as it was to pull the damn things on, it was hell trying to get them off, and Brooke nearly kneed herself in the face trying to yank them down her legs, inch by painful inch. Her stomach rolled and her legs flailed and still, they barely budged. Did White Bikini Girl ever have to suffer such indignity? She flung the jeans across the room in disgust. The only thing left in her suitcase was a sundress. It was too cold for it, but paired with the blazer, a cotton scarf, and a pair of flat boots, she’d have to suck it up.
Not terrible, she thought as she checked herself one last time. Her hair was mostly air-dried and – even Brooke had to admit – looked pretty damn good for requiring zero effort. She’d slicked on some mascara and a few dots of this glimmering liquid blush Nola had pressed into her palm a few weeks earlier and politely insisted she use. She grabbed her phone and her bag and ran. The lip gloss went on in the elevator. The blazer sleeves got rolled while walking across the lobby. She gave her hair a final shake and tousle and actually felt fresh and pretty by the time she saw Julian holding court at a prime patio table.
‘Brooke!’ He stood up and waved.
She could see his smile from fifty feet, and every inch of self-consciousness vanished as she ran toward him. ‘Congratulations!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck.
‘Thanks, baby,’ he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, ‘Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.’
‘Hi!’ she sang, giving the general table area a wave. ‘I’m Brooke.’
The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.
Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman – fortysomething with great Botox? – with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who … Ohmigod, is that, could it be …
‘You already know Leo,’ Julian was saying as Leo smirked. ‘And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.’
Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. ‘Pleasure,’ she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. ‘It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, “Everyone says she’s the best.”’
‘Oh, that’s sweet of you,’ Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.’
‘Both of you need to stop,’ Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. ‘Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.’
Good god. It was him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke wracked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like ‘I’m a huge fan’ or ‘I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,’ she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar every day …
‘Hey,’ Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. ‘That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?’
Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi. Nola! she shouted to herself. I need you to hear this right now!
‘Yeah, it’s real,’ she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. ‘Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.’ She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.
‘Well I think it’s fucking awesome,’ Jon declared, and raised his tall, tapered beer glass. ‘A toast to fire cro—’ He stopped short and an adorably sheepish look crossed his face. Brooke wanted to tell him he could call her ‘fire crotch’ anytime.
‘A toast to hot redheads and first appearances on Leno. Congrats, man. That’s big.’ Jon held his glass aloft and everyone clinked it with his own. Brooke’s champagne flute was the last to touch it, and she wondered if there was any way she could smuggle the glass home with her.
‘Cheers!’ everyone called out. ‘Congratulations!’
‘So how was it?’ Brooke asked Julian, happy to give him the opening to shine once again in front of all these people. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘He was perfect,’ Samara announced in her clipped, professional voice. ‘His performance followed really solid guests.’ She paused and turned to Julian. ‘I thought Hugh Jackman was charming. Did you?’
‘Yeah, he was good. And so was that chick from Modern Family,’ Julian said, nodding.
‘We caught a break with that – two legitimately interesting and famous guests, none of the child performers or the magicians or the animal trainers,’ Samara said. ‘Trust me, nothing’s worse than getting upstaged by a studio full of chimpanzees.’
Everyone laughed. A waiter arrived at the table and Leo ordered for the group without consulting anyone. Brooke normally hated it when people did that, but even she couldn’t argue with his choices: another bottle of champagne, a round of tequila gimlets, and a bunch of snack plates, everything from truffled porcini bruschetta to mozzarella and arugula. By the time the first dish of crab cakes in an avocado puree arrived, Brooke had happily rediscovered her earlier buzz and was feeling almost euphoric from the excitement. Julian – her Julian, the same one who slept in socks every night – had just performed on The Tonight Show. They were staying in a gorgeous suite at the infamous Chateau Marmont, eating and drinking like rock royalty. One of the most famous musicians of the twentieth century had announced he loved her hair. Of course her wedding was the best day of her life (weren’t you required to say that no matter what?), but this was quickly clocking in as a very close second.
Her cell phone screeched from her bag on the ground, a shrill fire-alarm-like ring she’d chosen post-nap to ensure she didn’t oversleep again.
‘Why don’t you get it?’ Julian asked through a full mouth as Brooke stared at her phone. She didn’t want to answer it, but she was worried something was wrong; it was already after midnight back at home.
‘Hey, Mom,’ she said as quietly as she could. ‘We’re all in the middle of dinner right now. Is everything okay?’
‘Brooke! Julian’s on right now and he’s incredible! He looks adorable, and the band is playing perfectly, and my god, you just want to eat him up. I think it’s the best he’s ever been.’ Her mother’s words tumbled out in a frantic jumble, and it was all Brooke could do to put the pieces together.
She glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty California time, which meant The Tonight Show was airing that very second up and down the East Coast. ‘Really? He looks good?’ Brooke asked.
This got everyone’s attention.
‘Of course, it’s airing on the East Coast now,’ Samara said, pulling out her BlackBerry. Sure enough, it was vibrating with the intensity of a washing machine.
‘Amazing,’ her mother was saying through the receiver. ‘He looks absolutely amazing. And Jay gave him a really nice introduction. Wait – he’s just finishing up the song now.’
‘Mom, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m being really rude right now.’
‘All right, honey. It’s late here so call me in the morning. And congratulate Julian for me.’
Brooke clicked to disconnect the call, but her phone instantly rang again. Nola. She glanced around the table and noticed that with the exception of Jon, who had wandered over to say hello to another group, everyone else was on the phone, too.
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Лорен Вайсбергер
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A novel from the million copy bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada.Heartbreak, headlines and Hermes – welcome to Brooke′s new world…Brooke and Julian live a happy life in New York – she′s the breadwinner working two jobs and he′s the struggling musician husband. Then Julian is discovered by a Sony exec and becomes an overnight success – and their life changes for ever.Soon they are moving in exclusive circles, dining at the glitziest restaurants, attending the most outrageous parties in town and jetting off to the trendiest hotspots in LA.But Julian′s new-found fame means that Brooke must face the savage attentions of the ruthless paparazzi. And when a scandalous picture hits the front pages, Brooke′s world is turned upside down. Can her marriage survive the events of that fateful night at Chateau Marmont? It′s time for Brooke to decide if she′s going to sink or swim…