Last Night at Chateau Marmont (30 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll help.”

“What’d you do with my husband?”

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

“Who was it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brooke thought she heard wrong. “What?”

“The Grammys. For Julian’s performance.”

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

“When were you going to tell me about the Grammys?” she asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

He looked up at her. “I was going to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t want it to dominate our entire night together.”

“Oh come on, Julian! You don’t want me to go, that’s why you didn’t say anything.”

At this, Julian looked truly alarmed. “Why would you think that? Of course I want you to!”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like Samara thinks so. She just told me she totally understands why I’m too busy with work to make it. Are you kidding? My husband is going to be performing at the Grammys and she thinks I can’t get off
work
for it?”

“Brooke, I’m guessing she only thinks that because you couldn’t, uh, get off work for the Sony holiday party, you know? But I swear the only reason I didn’t tell you yet is because I thought we could use a night without talking shop. I’ll tell her you’re coming.”

Brooke turned and headed back into the bedroom. “I’ll tell her myself.”

She unmuted the phone and said, “Samara? There must have been some misunderstanding, because I’m definitely planning to accompany Julian.”

There was a long pause before Samara said, “You know it’s a performance and not a nomination, right?”

“I understand.”

Another pause. “And you’re sure your own commitments won’t interfere this time?”

Brooke wanted to scream at the girl that she didn’t understand anything, but she forced herself to remain silent.

“Well, okay then. We’ll make that happen,” Samara said.

Brooke tried to ignore the hesitation—disappointment?—in her voice. Why should she care what Samara thought? “Okay, great. So, what should I wear? I mean, I definitely don’t have anything that fancy. Do you think I should rent something?”

“No! Let us handle everything, okay? We’ll just need you to show up six hours before and we’ll have a dress, shoes, undergarments, bag, jewelry, hair, and makeup. Don’t wash your own hair for twenty-four hours beforehand, no fake-baking unless our stylist specifically recommends an aesthetician, get a good manicure and use either Allure by Essie or Bubble Bath by OPI, get a full leg and arm wax five to seven days ahead of time, and get a deep-conditioning hair treatment seventy-two hours before. As for color, I’ll send you a recommenda
tion for the salon we work with in New York. You’ll start a highlighting regimen next week.”

“Oh, wow. Okay, do you—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put this all in an e-mail and we’ll review it. Listen, you know the cameras will be all over Julian, and I know Leo mentioned a trainer for you both—have you had time to think about that?—so let me make you an appointment at the place we got Julian’s teeth done. The man’s a genius, you can never tell they’re caps, they really look so natural. You’ll be amazed what a difference it makes.”

“Um, okay. You’ll just tell me what—”

“We’ve got it covered. I’ll touch base soon, Brooke. We’ll work it all out. Can I talk to Julian? I promise it’s just a quick question.”

Brooke nodded dumbly, completely unaware that Samara couldn’t see her, and handed the phone to Julian, who’d come into the bedroom to get undressed. He said, “yes,” “no,” and “Sounds good, I’ll call you tomorrow,” and then he turned to her.

“Can you come get in the bath? Please?”

His eyes were pleading, and she forced herself to put the Grammys out of her mind. They had been having such a lovely night; she decided she shouldn’t let any lingering weirdness ruin it. She followed him into the bathroom and stripped down. They wouldn’t ever sleep in Julian’s parents’ bed—way too creepy—but they did love using the master bathroom. It was heaven on earth, pure luxury. Heated floors, a massive soaking tub with a separate steam shower, and best of all, a small gas fireplace. Although he couldn’t bring himself to climb into the piping hot water, Julian always drew Brooke a bath and, after his own shower, turned on the fire and climbed onto the tub platform, clad only in a towel, to keep her company.

Brooke spooned some more lavender salts into the water and lay back against the terry-cloth bath pillow. Julian was reminiscing about the first bath they’d taken together, on a weekend trip early in their relationship. He was recounting his misery over the scalding water,
which he’d silently endured in an effort to impress, and Brooke could only gaze at him as he spoke, so overcome with that intense relaxation and utter exhaustion that comes from a piping-hot bath.

Afterward, wrapped in a huge plush bath sheet, Brooke walked with Julian back to their bedroom, where he’d lit a candle on either night table and turned on some relaxing music. They made love softly, slowly, like two people who have been together for years and know everything about each other, and for the first time in ages, they fell asleep entwined.

They slept until almost noon and woke to six inches of snow, a sure sign they’d be spending another night in the Hamptons. Delighted, Brooke gathered her mussed hair into a bun, pulled on her Uggs and her puffy winter coat, and climbed in the passenger side of the Jeep the Alters kept there year-round. Julian looked adorably dorky in one of his father’s winter hats he’d found in the closet; it was topped with a yarn ball, and extending from the earflaps were strings that could be tied under the chin. He pulled up to the East Hampton Starbucks so Brooke could run in for a
Times,
but then they headed to the Golden Pear Café, for breakfast.

Ensconced in a booth with her hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee, Brooke sighed in happy contentment. If she could’ve scripted the most perfect New Year’s Eve ever, it would’ve looked exactly like their last twenty-four hours. Julian was reading aloud to her from the paper, an article about a man imprisoned for twenty-eight years before being exonerated by DNA evidence, when her phone rang.

He looked up.

“It’s Nola,” Brooke said, staring at the screen.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“You don’t mind? She’s going to want to tell me all about her night, I’m guessing.”

Julian shook his head. “I’m happy to just sit here and read. I really don’t mind.”

“Hey, Nol,” Brooke said as quietly as possible. She couldn’t stand people shouting into cell phones.

“Brooke? Where are you?”

“What do you mean, where are we? We’re in the Hamptons, you know that. I actually think with all this snow, we’re going to have to stay until—”

“Have you seen the online edition of
Last Night
yet?” Nola interrupted.

“
Last Night
? No, the Wi-Fi at the house was down. I have the
Times
right here. . . .”

“Look, I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to hear it somewhere else.
Last Night
wrote this whole horrible column this morning, theorizing on all the possible reasons Julian canceled his New Year’s gig last night.”