Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 103
“Okay . . .”
He took her hand. “I was sitting next to this singer, Tommy Bailey, that kid who won American Idol a couple years ago?”
Brooke nodded. She didn’t mention the connection to Amber or the fact that she already knew all she needed to about Tommy.
“So we’re, like, the only two people sitting in first class. I’m obviously going over there to work, but he’s headed over for vacation. He has a couple weeks off from touring, and he rented some sick villa somewhere. And it strikes me—he’s going alone.”
“Oh, please, just because he was on the flight alone does not mean he’ll be alone when he gets there.”
Julian held up a hand. “No, you’re totally right. He couldn’t shut up about all the girls who were meeting him there, stopping by, whatever. His agent and his manager were coming over, a few so-called friends he’d rounded up by paying for their tickets. It sounded kind of pathetic, but I wasn’t sure—maybe he loves that whole scene. Lots of guys probably do. But then he starts drinking, really drinking, and by the time we’re halfway across the Atlantic, he’s in tears—literally, crying—about how much he misses his ex-wife and his family and his friends from growing up. How there’s no one in his life he’s known for longer than a couple years and no one who doesn’t want something from him. He’s a wreck, Brooke, a total disaster, and all I could think was I don’t want to be that guy.”
Brooke finally exhaled. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d been holding her breath on and off since they’d begun this conversation. He doesn’t want to be that guy. A few simple words, and she’d been waiting to hear them for so long.
She turned to look up at him. “I don’t want you to be that guy, either, but I also don’t want to be the wife who holds you back, who’s constantly carping and making threats and asking when you’ll be home.”
Julian looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Please. You love that.”
Brooke appeared to think about it. “Yeah, you’re right. I do love that.”
They both smiled.
“Look, Rook, I just keep going over and over it in my head. I know it’ll take time before you trust me again, but I will do whatever it takes. This weird no-man’s-land we’re in . . . it’s hell. If you hear nothing else tonight, please hear this: I will not give up on us. Not now, not ever.”
“Julian—”
He leaned close. “No, listen. You killed yourself working those two jobs for so long. I just . . . I didn’t see what a toll it was taking on you, and—”
She took his hand. “No, I’m sorry about that. I wanted to do it, for you, for us, but I shouldn’t have been so insistent on keeping both of them once everything started taking off with your career. I don’t know why I did; I started feeling left out, like everything was spiraling out of control, and I was trying to maintain some normalcy. But I’ve thought a lot about it, too, and I should’ve at least quit Huntley when your album dropped. I probably should’ve requested to go part-time at the hospital. Maybe then we could have had some flexibility to see each other. But even if I only go back part-time now, or hopefully open my own practice, I still . . . I don’t know how it can work.”
“It has to!” he said with an urgency she hadn’t felt from him in so long.
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded packet of papers. “Are those . . .” She almost blurted out “divorce papers” but managed to stop herself. She wondered if she sounded as irrational as she felt.
“This is our game plan, Rook.”
“Our game plan?” She could see her breath in the air, and she was starting to shiver uncontrollably.
Julian nodded. “It’s just the beginning,” he said, pushing her hair behind her ears. “We’re getting rid of poisonous people once and for all. First up? Leo.”
Just the sound of his name made her cringe. “What does he have to do with us?”
“A lot, actually. He’s been absolutely toxic in every imaginable way. Something you probably knew all along but I was too much of an ass to really see. He leaked a lot of stuff to the press and arranged to get the Last Night paparazzo into the Chateau, and he’s the one who sent that girl to my table, all under the ridiculous rationalization that any press is good press. He orchestrated the whole thing. I was at fault—I absolutely was—but Leo—”
“Disgusting,” she said, shaking her head.
“I fired him.”
Brooke’s head snapped up and she could see Julian was smiling. “You really did?”
“Oh, I sure did.” He handed her a piece of folded paper. “Here, this is step two.”
The single sheet looked like it had been printed from a website. It featured a headshot of a kindly older gentleman named Howard Liu, his contact information, and a history of the apartments he’d sold in the last couple years. “Should I know Howard?” she asked.
“You will soon,” Julian said, smiling. “Howard is our new broker. And if you’re okay with it, we have an appointment with him first thing Monday.”
“We’re getting an apartment?”
He handed her another wad of papers. “We’re seeing these. And anything else you want to look at, of course.”
She stared at him for a moment, unfolded the papers, and gasped. They were more printouts, only these were of beautiful town houses in Brooklyn, probably six or seven in all, each featuring photos and floor plans and lists of features and amenities. Her eyes froze on the last one, the four-story brownstone with the front stoop and the little gated front yard that she and Julian had walked by hundreds of times.
“That’s your favorite, right?” he asked, pointing to it.
She nodded.
“I thought so. We’re seeing that one last. And if you like it, we’re going to put in a bid then and there.”
“Ohmigod.” It was too much to process. Gone was all talk of the chic Tribeca lofts or the ultramodern high-rise apartments. He wanted a home—a real home—as much as she did.
“Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.
“There’s more?”
“Just open it.”
It was yet another printout. This one featured a smiling headshot of a man named Richard Goldberg, who looked to be around forty-five and who worked for a company called Original Artist Management. “And this lovely gentleman?” she asked with a smile.
He took her hand. “I was sitting next to this singer, Tommy Bailey, that kid who won American Idol a couple years ago?”
Brooke nodded. She didn’t mention the connection to Amber or the fact that she already knew all she needed to about Tommy.
“So we’re, like, the only two people sitting in first class. I’m obviously going over there to work, but he’s headed over for vacation. He has a couple weeks off from touring, and he rented some sick villa somewhere. And it strikes me—he’s going alone.”
“Oh, please, just because he was on the flight alone does not mean he’ll be alone when he gets there.”
Julian held up a hand. “No, you’re totally right. He couldn’t shut up about all the girls who were meeting him there, stopping by, whatever. His agent and his manager were coming over, a few so-called friends he’d rounded up by paying for their tickets. It sounded kind of pathetic, but I wasn’t sure—maybe he loves that whole scene. Lots of guys probably do. But then he starts drinking, really drinking, and by the time we’re halfway across the Atlantic, he’s in tears—literally, crying—about how much he misses his ex-wife and his family and his friends from growing up. How there’s no one in his life he’s known for longer than a couple years and no one who doesn’t want something from him. He’s a wreck, Brooke, a total disaster, and all I could think was I don’t want to be that guy.”
Brooke finally exhaled. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d been holding her breath on and off since they’d begun this conversation. He doesn’t want to be that guy. A few simple words, and she’d been waiting to hear them for so long.
She turned to look up at him. “I don’t want you to be that guy, either, but I also don’t want to be the wife who holds you back, who’s constantly carping and making threats and asking when you’ll be home.”
Julian looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Please. You love that.”
Brooke appeared to think about it. “Yeah, you’re right. I do love that.”
They both smiled.
“Look, Rook, I just keep going over and over it in my head. I know it’ll take time before you trust me again, but I will do whatever it takes. This weird no-man’s-land we’re in . . . it’s hell. If you hear nothing else tonight, please hear this: I will not give up on us. Not now, not ever.”
“Julian—”
He leaned close. “No, listen. You killed yourself working those two jobs for so long. I just . . . I didn’t see what a toll it was taking on you, and—”
She took his hand. “No, I’m sorry about that. I wanted to do it, for you, for us, but I shouldn’t have been so insistent on keeping both of them once everything started taking off with your career. I don’t know why I did; I started feeling left out, like everything was spiraling out of control, and I was trying to maintain some normalcy. But I’ve thought a lot about it, too, and I should’ve at least quit Huntley when your album dropped. I probably should’ve requested to go part-time at the hospital. Maybe then we could have had some flexibility to see each other. But even if I only go back part-time now, or hopefully open my own practice, I still . . . I don’t know how it can work.”
“It has to!” he said with an urgency she hadn’t felt from him in so long.
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded packet of papers. “Are those . . .” She almost blurted out “divorce papers” but managed to stop herself. She wondered if she sounded as irrational as she felt.
“This is our game plan, Rook.”
“Our game plan?” She could see her breath in the air, and she was starting to shiver uncontrollably.
Julian nodded. “It’s just the beginning,” he said, pushing her hair behind her ears. “We’re getting rid of poisonous people once and for all. First up? Leo.”
Just the sound of his name made her cringe. “What does he have to do with us?”
“A lot, actually. He’s been absolutely toxic in every imaginable way. Something you probably knew all along but I was too much of an ass to really see. He leaked a lot of stuff to the press and arranged to get the Last Night paparazzo into the Chateau, and he’s the one who sent that girl to my table, all under the ridiculous rationalization that any press is good press. He orchestrated the whole thing. I was at fault—I absolutely was—but Leo—”
“Disgusting,” she said, shaking her head.
“I fired him.”
Brooke’s head snapped up and she could see Julian was smiling. “You really did?”
“Oh, I sure did.” He handed her a piece of folded paper. “Here, this is step two.”
The single sheet looked like it had been printed from a website. It featured a headshot of a kindly older gentleman named Howard Liu, his contact information, and a history of the apartments he’d sold in the last couple years. “Should I know Howard?” she asked.
“You will soon,” Julian said, smiling. “Howard is our new broker. And if you’re okay with it, we have an appointment with him first thing Monday.”
“We’re getting an apartment?”
He handed her another wad of papers. “We’re seeing these. And anything else you want to look at, of course.”
She stared at him for a moment, unfolded the papers, and gasped. They were more printouts, only these were of beautiful town houses in Brooklyn, probably six or seven in all, each featuring photos and floor plans and lists of features and amenities. Her eyes froze on the last one, the four-story brownstone with the front stoop and the little gated front yard that she and Julian had walked by hundreds of times.
“That’s your favorite, right?” he asked, pointing to it.
She nodded.
“I thought so. We’re seeing that one last. And if you like it, we’re going to put in a bid then and there.”
“Ohmigod.” It was too much to process. Gone was all talk of the chic Tribeca lofts or the ultramodern high-rise apartments. He wanted a home—a real home—as much as she did.
“Here,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.
“There’s more?”
“Just open it.”
It was yet another printout. This one featured a smiling headshot of a man named Richard Goldberg, who looked to be around forty-five and who worked for a company called Original Artist Management. “And this lovely gentleman?” she asked with a smile.
