Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 12
Julian scrolled through their DVR list and clicked on a recent CSI episode. “Come here, I’ll do your feet while we watch.”
Brooke flipped herself around so she could rest her legs in his lap. She could’ve purred with happiness. On television the detectives were examining the mutilated body of a presumed prostitute lying in a landfill outside of Vegas, and Julian watched with rapt attention. She didn’t love the gadget-oriented murder mystery stuff as much as he did—he could watch them find killers by scanning and lasering and tracing things all night long—but tonight she didn’t mind. She was happy to sit quietly next to her husband and focus on the wonderful sensation of his kneading her feet.
“I love you,” she said as she rested her head on the armrest and closed her eyes.
“I love you, too, Brooke. Now be quiet and let me watch.”
But she had already drifted off to sleep.
She had just finished getting dressed when Julian walked into their bedroom. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, he looked stressed out.
“We have to go right now, or we’re going to be late,” he said, grabbing a pair of sneakers from their shared closet. “You know how much my mother loves late.”
“I know, I’m almost ready,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that she was still sweating from her three-mile run an hour earlier. Brooke trailed Julian out of the bedroom, accepted the wool coat he handed her, and followed him down to the street.
“I’m still unclear why your dad and Cynthia are in the city today,” Julian said as they ran-walked from their apartment to the Times Square subway station. The shuttle train appeared the moment they stepped on the platform.
“It’s their anniversary,” Brooke replied, shrugging. It was unnaturally cold for a March morning, and she desperately wanted a cup of tea from the corner bodega, but they didn’t have a second to spare.
“And they decided to come here? On a freezing day in winter?”
Brooke sighed. “I guess it’s more exciting than Philly. Apparently Cynthia has never seen The Lion King and my dad thought it’d be a good excuse to visit us. I’m just glad you’ll get to tell them the news in person. . . .”
She sneaked a look at Julian and saw him smile, just a little. He should be proud of himself, she thought. He’d just gotten some of the best news of his career, and he deserved it.
“Yeah, well, I think it’s safe to say that my parents are going to be lacking in the enthusiasm department, but maybe your parents will understand,” he said.
“My father already tells anyone who will listen that you have the songwriting talent of Bob Dylan and a voice that will make them cry,” she said, laughing. “He’ll be thrilled, guaranteed.”
Julian squeezed her hand. His excitement was palpable.
Brooke managed a weak smile as they transferred to the 6 train.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asked.
“Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’m so excited for you to tell them all I can barely stand it. I’m just slightly dreading having to deal with the awkwardness of both sets of parents in one room.”
“Do you really think it’s going to be that bad? It’s not like they haven’t all met before.”
Brooke sighed. “I know, but they’ve only really seen each other in big groups: our wedding, holidays. But never one-on-one like this. All my father wants to talk about is how the Eagles will do next season. Cynthia is excited to be seeing The Lion King, for chrissake, and thinks no trip to the city is complete without lunch at the Russian Tea Room. Then we have your parents: the most intense, intimidating lifelong New Yorkers I’ve ever met, who probably think the NFL is a French nonprofit group, who haven’t seen a musical since the sixties, and who won’t eat anything unless it’s prepared by a celebrity chef. You tell me: what are they all going to say to each other?”
Julian squeezed the back of her neck. “It’s brunch, baby. Some coffee, a few bagels, and we’re out. I really think it’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah, sure, as my dad and Cynthia blather on nonstop in their manically happy way and your parents sit in stony, silent judgment of them. Sounds like a delightful Sunday morning.”
“Cynthia can talk shop with my parents,” Julian offered meekly. He made that face that said, I don’t even believe this myself, and Brooke started to laugh.
“Tell me you didn’t say that,” she said, her eyes starting to tear up as she laughed harder. They emerged at Seventy-seventh and Lex and began walking toward Park Avenue.
“Well, it’s true!”
“You’re so sweet, do you know that?” Brooke asked, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Cynthia is a high school nurse. She watches out for strep throats and gives out Motrin for cramps. She knows nothing about whether Botox or Restylane is recommended for a particularly deep smile line. I’m not sure where their professional experiences overlap.”
Julian feigned offense. “I think you’re forgetting that Mom was also named one of the best in the country at varicose vein removal,” he said with a grin. “You know how big that was.”
“Yes, of course. Big.”
“All right, I hear what you’re saying. But my dad can talk to anyone. You know how easygoing he is. He’ll make Cynthia love him.”
“He’s a great guy,” Brooke agreed. She grabbed his hand as they approached the Alters’ building. “But the man is a world-renowned breast augmentation specialist. It’s only natural that a woman would assume he’s sizing up her breasts and finding them inadequate.”
“Brooke, that’s idiotic. Do you assume that all dentists you encounter in social situations are staring at your teeth?”
“Yes.”
“Or any psychologist you meet at a party is analyzing you?”
“Absolutely, one hundred percent, beyond a doubt.”
“Well that’s just ridiculous.”
“Your father examines, handles, and evaluates breasts eight hours a day. I’m not suggesting he’s some pervert, but it’s his instinct to check them out. Women can feel it, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, that begs the obvious question now.”
“Yeah?” she asked, glancing at her watch as their awning came into view.
“Do you feel like he’s checking out your breasts when he sees you?” Poor Julian looked so crushed at the mere mention of it that Brooke wanted to hug him.
Brooke flipped herself around so she could rest her legs in his lap. She could’ve purred with happiness. On television the detectives were examining the mutilated body of a presumed prostitute lying in a landfill outside of Vegas, and Julian watched with rapt attention. She didn’t love the gadget-oriented murder mystery stuff as much as he did—he could watch them find killers by scanning and lasering and tracing things all night long—but tonight she didn’t mind. She was happy to sit quietly next to her husband and focus on the wonderful sensation of his kneading her feet.
“I love you,” she said as she rested her head on the armrest and closed her eyes.
“I love you, too, Brooke. Now be quiet and let me watch.”
But she had already drifted off to sleep.
She had just finished getting dressed when Julian walked into their bedroom. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, he looked stressed out.
“We have to go right now, or we’re going to be late,” he said, grabbing a pair of sneakers from their shared closet. “You know how much my mother loves late.”
“I know, I’m almost ready,” she said, trying to ignore the fact that she was still sweating from her three-mile run an hour earlier. Brooke trailed Julian out of the bedroom, accepted the wool coat he handed her, and followed him down to the street.
“I’m still unclear why your dad and Cynthia are in the city today,” Julian said as they ran-walked from their apartment to the Times Square subway station. The shuttle train appeared the moment they stepped on the platform.
“It’s their anniversary,” Brooke replied, shrugging. It was unnaturally cold for a March morning, and she desperately wanted a cup of tea from the corner bodega, but they didn’t have a second to spare.
“And they decided to come here? On a freezing day in winter?”
Brooke sighed. “I guess it’s more exciting than Philly. Apparently Cynthia has never seen The Lion King and my dad thought it’d be a good excuse to visit us. I’m just glad you’ll get to tell them the news in person. . . .”
She sneaked a look at Julian and saw him smile, just a little. He should be proud of himself, she thought. He’d just gotten some of the best news of his career, and he deserved it.
“Yeah, well, I think it’s safe to say that my parents are going to be lacking in the enthusiasm department, but maybe your parents will understand,” he said.
“My father already tells anyone who will listen that you have the songwriting talent of Bob Dylan and a voice that will make them cry,” she said, laughing. “He’ll be thrilled, guaranteed.”
Julian squeezed her hand. His excitement was palpable.
Brooke managed a weak smile as they transferred to the 6 train.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asked.
“Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’m so excited for you to tell them all I can barely stand it. I’m just slightly dreading having to deal with the awkwardness of both sets of parents in one room.”
“Do you really think it’s going to be that bad? It’s not like they haven’t all met before.”
Brooke sighed. “I know, but they’ve only really seen each other in big groups: our wedding, holidays. But never one-on-one like this. All my father wants to talk about is how the Eagles will do next season. Cynthia is excited to be seeing The Lion King, for chrissake, and thinks no trip to the city is complete without lunch at the Russian Tea Room. Then we have your parents: the most intense, intimidating lifelong New Yorkers I’ve ever met, who probably think the NFL is a French nonprofit group, who haven’t seen a musical since the sixties, and who won’t eat anything unless it’s prepared by a celebrity chef. You tell me: what are they all going to say to each other?”
Julian squeezed the back of her neck. “It’s brunch, baby. Some coffee, a few bagels, and we’re out. I really think it’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah, sure, as my dad and Cynthia blather on nonstop in their manically happy way and your parents sit in stony, silent judgment of them. Sounds like a delightful Sunday morning.”
“Cynthia can talk shop with my parents,” Julian offered meekly. He made that face that said, I don’t even believe this myself, and Brooke started to laugh.
“Tell me you didn’t say that,” she said, her eyes starting to tear up as she laughed harder. They emerged at Seventy-seventh and Lex and began walking toward Park Avenue.
“Well, it’s true!”
“You’re so sweet, do you know that?” Brooke asked, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Cynthia is a high school nurse. She watches out for strep throats and gives out Motrin for cramps. She knows nothing about whether Botox or Restylane is recommended for a particularly deep smile line. I’m not sure where their professional experiences overlap.”
Julian feigned offense. “I think you’re forgetting that Mom was also named one of the best in the country at varicose vein removal,” he said with a grin. “You know how big that was.”
“Yes, of course. Big.”
“All right, I hear what you’re saying. But my dad can talk to anyone. You know how easygoing he is. He’ll make Cynthia love him.”
“He’s a great guy,” Brooke agreed. She grabbed his hand as they approached the Alters’ building. “But the man is a world-renowned breast augmentation specialist. It’s only natural that a woman would assume he’s sizing up her breasts and finding them inadequate.”
“Brooke, that’s idiotic. Do you assume that all dentists you encounter in social situations are staring at your teeth?”
“Yes.”
“Or any psychologist you meet at a party is analyzing you?”
“Absolutely, one hundred percent, beyond a doubt.”
“Well that’s just ridiculous.”
“Your father examines, handles, and evaluates breasts eight hours a day. I’m not suggesting he’s some pervert, but it’s his instinct to check them out. Women can feel it, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, that begs the obvious question now.”
“Yeah?” she asked, glancing at her watch as their awning came into view.
“Do you feel like he’s checking out your breasts when he sees you?” Poor Julian looked so crushed at the mere mention of it that Brooke wanted to hug him.
