Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 13
“No, baby, of course not,” she whispered as she leaned in and hugged his arm. “At least, not after all these years. He knows the situation, and he knows he’s never getting his hands on them, and I think he’s finally over it.”
“They’re perfect, Brooke. Just perfect,” Julian said automatically.
“I know. That’s why your dad offered to do them at cost when we got engaged.”
“He offered his partner, and not because he thought you needed it—”
“Why, because you thought I needed it?” Brooke knew that wasn’t it at all—they’d talked about it a hundred times and she knew that Dr. Alter had only offered his services the way a tailor would have offered a discounted custom suit—but the whole thing still irked her.
“Brooke . . .”
“Sorry. I’m just hungry. Hungry and nervous.”
“It’s not going to be nearly as bad as you’re anticipating.”
The doorman greeted Julian with a high five and a backslap. It wasn’t until he ushered them into the elevator and they were whisking up toward the eighteenth floor that Brooke realized she hadn’t brought anything.
“I think we should run back out and pick up some cookies or flowers or something,” Brooke said, tugging Julian’s arm urgently.
“Come on, Rook, it doesn’t matter. They’re my parents. They really don’t care.”
“Uh-huh. If you believe your mother isn’t going to notice when we show up empty-handed, you’re delusional.”
“We’re bringing ourselves. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay. You just keep telling yourself that.”
Julian knocked and the door swung open. Smiling at them from the doorway was Carmen, the Alters’ nanny and housekeeper of thirty years. In a particularly intimate moment early in their relationship, Julian had confided to Brooke that he called Carmen “Mommy” until his fifth birthday because he just hadn’t known any better. She immediately flung her arms around Julian.
“How’s my baby?” Carmen asked him after smiling at Brooke and pecking her on the cheek. “Your wife here feeding you enough?”
Brooke squeezed Carmen’s arm, wondering for the thousandth time why Carmen couldn’t be Julian’s mother, and said, “Does he look like he’s starving, Carmen? I have to pry the fork from his hands some nights.”
“That’s my boy,” she said, gazing at him with pride.
A shrill voice came from the formal living room down the hallway. “Carmen, darling, send the children in here, please. And don’t forget to snip the stems before you the put the flowers in a vase. The new Michael Aram one, please.”
Carmen glanced around for the flowers but Brooke merely held out her empty hands. She turned to Julian and gave him a knowing look.
“Don’t say it,” Julian muttered.
“Fine. I won’t say I told you so because I love you.”
Julian led her into the formal living room—Brooke had been hoping they would skip the living room altogether and move straight to the eating part—and found both sets of parents sitting opposite each other on identical, low-profile, ultra-modern couches.
“Brooke, Julian.” His mother smiled but didn’t stand. “So glad you could join us.”
Brooke immediately interpreted this as an attack on their tardiness. “So sorry we’re late, Elizabeth. The subways were just so—”
“Well, at least you’re here now,” Dr. Alter said, both hands cupped rather effeminately around a fat orange juice glass, exactly the way she imagined he cradled all his breasts.
“Brookie! Julian! What’s up, guys?” Brooke’s dad jumped up and embraced them both in one bear hug. He was clearly turning up the camp factor for the Alters’ benefit, but Brooke couldn’t really blame him.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, hugging him back. She also walked over to Cynthia, who remained trapped by all of their bodies on the couch and gave her an awkward standing-sitting hug. “Hey, Cynthia. Good to see you.”
“Oh, you too, Brooke. We’re so excited to be here! Your father and I were just saying that we can barely remember the last time we were in New York.”
It was only then that Brooke was able to really absorb Cynthia’s appearance. She wore a fire-engine-red pantsuit, probably polyester, with a white blouse, black patent leather flats, and a triple strand of faux pearls wrapped around her neck, and topped off the entire ensemble with a highly curled and lacquered updo. She looked like she was channeling Hillary Clinton at a State of the Union address, determined to stand out in a sea of dark suits. Brooke knew she was only trying to fit in with her notion of how a wealthy Manhattan woman might dress, but her calculations were all wrong, especially in the midst of the Alters’ sleek, Asian-inspired apartment. Julian’s mother—although twenty years older than Cynthia—looked ten years younger in her fitted, dark jeans and featherweight cashmere wrap over a sleeveless, stretchy tunic. She wore a pair of delicate ballet flats with a discreet Chanel logo and accessorized only with a single gold bangle and her massive diamond ring. Her skin glowed with a healthy tan and light makeup, and her hair swung loosely down her back. Brooke immediately felt guilty: she knew how intimidated Cynthia must feel—after all, Brooke felt that way in her mother-in-law’s presence all the time—but she was also embarrassed at how badly she had miscalculated. Even Brooke’s dad looked uncomfortably aware that his khakis and tie were out of place next to Dr. Alter’s short-sleeve polo shirt.
“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.
“They’re perfect, Brooke. Just perfect,” Julian said automatically.
“I know. That’s why your dad offered to do them at cost when we got engaged.”
“He offered his partner, and not because he thought you needed it—”
“Why, because you thought I needed it?” Brooke knew that wasn’t it at all—they’d talked about it a hundred times and she knew that Dr. Alter had only offered his services the way a tailor would have offered a discounted custom suit—but the whole thing still irked her.
“Brooke . . .”
“Sorry. I’m just hungry. Hungry and nervous.”
“It’s not going to be nearly as bad as you’re anticipating.”
The doorman greeted Julian with a high five and a backslap. It wasn’t until he ushered them into the elevator and they were whisking up toward the eighteenth floor that Brooke realized she hadn’t brought anything.
“I think we should run back out and pick up some cookies or flowers or something,” Brooke said, tugging Julian’s arm urgently.
“Come on, Rook, it doesn’t matter. They’re my parents. They really don’t care.”
“Uh-huh. If you believe your mother isn’t going to notice when we show up empty-handed, you’re delusional.”
“We’re bringing ourselves. That’s all that matters.”
“Okay. You just keep telling yourself that.”
Julian knocked and the door swung open. Smiling at them from the doorway was Carmen, the Alters’ nanny and housekeeper of thirty years. In a particularly intimate moment early in their relationship, Julian had confided to Brooke that he called Carmen “Mommy” until his fifth birthday because he just hadn’t known any better. She immediately flung her arms around Julian.
“How’s my baby?” Carmen asked him after smiling at Brooke and pecking her on the cheek. “Your wife here feeding you enough?”
Brooke squeezed Carmen’s arm, wondering for the thousandth time why Carmen couldn’t be Julian’s mother, and said, “Does he look like he’s starving, Carmen? I have to pry the fork from his hands some nights.”
“That’s my boy,” she said, gazing at him with pride.
A shrill voice came from the formal living room down the hallway. “Carmen, darling, send the children in here, please. And don’t forget to snip the stems before you the put the flowers in a vase. The new Michael Aram one, please.”
Carmen glanced around for the flowers but Brooke merely held out her empty hands. She turned to Julian and gave him a knowing look.
“Don’t say it,” Julian muttered.
“Fine. I won’t say I told you so because I love you.”
Julian led her into the formal living room—Brooke had been hoping they would skip the living room altogether and move straight to the eating part—and found both sets of parents sitting opposite each other on identical, low-profile, ultra-modern couches.
“Brooke, Julian.” His mother smiled but didn’t stand. “So glad you could join us.”
Brooke immediately interpreted this as an attack on their tardiness. “So sorry we’re late, Elizabeth. The subways were just so—”
“Well, at least you’re here now,” Dr. Alter said, both hands cupped rather effeminately around a fat orange juice glass, exactly the way she imagined he cradled all his breasts.
“Brookie! Julian! What’s up, guys?” Brooke’s dad jumped up and embraced them both in one bear hug. He was clearly turning up the camp factor for the Alters’ benefit, but Brooke couldn’t really blame him.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, hugging him back. She also walked over to Cynthia, who remained trapped by all of their bodies on the couch and gave her an awkward standing-sitting hug. “Hey, Cynthia. Good to see you.”
“Oh, you too, Brooke. We’re so excited to be here! Your father and I were just saying that we can barely remember the last time we were in New York.”
It was only then that Brooke was able to really absorb Cynthia’s appearance. She wore a fire-engine-red pantsuit, probably polyester, with a white blouse, black patent leather flats, and a triple strand of faux pearls wrapped around her neck, and topped off the entire ensemble with a highly curled and lacquered updo. She looked like she was channeling Hillary Clinton at a State of the Union address, determined to stand out in a sea of dark suits. Brooke knew she was only trying to fit in with her notion of how a wealthy Manhattan woman might dress, but her calculations were all wrong, especially in the midst of the Alters’ sleek, Asian-inspired apartment. Julian’s mother—although twenty years older than Cynthia—looked ten years younger in her fitted, dark jeans and featherweight cashmere wrap over a sleeveless, stretchy tunic. She wore a pair of delicate ballet flats with a discreet Chanel logo and accessorized only with a single gold bangle and her massive diamond ring. Her skin glowed with a healthy tan and light makeup, and her hair swung loosely down her back. Brooke immediately felt guilty: she knew how intimidated Cynthia must feel—after all, Brooke felt that way in her mother-in-law’s presence all the time—but she was also embarrassed at how badly she had miscalculated. Even Brooke’s dad looked uncomfortably aware that his khakis and tie were out of place next to Dr. Alter’s short-sleeve polo shirt.
“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.
