Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 26
“What can you do for her?”
She sighed. “You know, not that much. Besides listen to her and reassure her, I just need to keep an eye on her and make sure nothing gets out of hand. I’m absolutely certain I’m not dealing with a serious eating disorder, but it’s scary when someone is so preoccupied with weight, especially when that someone is a teenage girl. With school ending for the summer next month, I’m worried about her.”
“And everything at the hospital?”
“It’s okay. Margaret wasn’t thrilled with me for taking off these two days, but what can you do?”
He turned to look at her. “Is two days really such a big deal?”
“Not by itself, but I took three days for L.A. and Leno, that half day for your round of follow-up interviews in New York, and a day to go to your album cover shoot. And that was all in the last six weeks. But whatever. I’ve barely seen you since then—I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
“Rook, I don’t think it’s fair to say we’ve barely seen each other. Things have just been hectic. In a good way.”
She disagreed—no one could say that catching glimpses of each other for an hour here or there as Julian passed through their apartment every few days was seeing each other—but she really hadn’t intended to sound so critical.
“That’s not what I meant, I promise,” she said in her most soothing tone. “Look, we’re together now, so let’s just enjoy it, okay?”
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Brooke touched her fingertips to her forehead and said, “I cannot believe I’m going to meet Tim Riggins.”
“Which one is he?”
“Oh, please. Just stop.”
“Is he the coach? Or the quarterback? I get confused,” Julian said, smiling. As if anyone didn’t know Tim Riggins.
“Uh-huh, whatever. When he walks into the party tonight and every woman in the room faints with lust, you’ll know. Trust me.”
Julian slapped the steering wheel in mock outrage. “Aren’t they supposed to be swooning because of me? I mean, I’ll be the rock star.”
Brooke leaned across the seat divider and kissed his cheek. “Of course they’ll swoon for you, baby. If they can stop staring at Riggins long enough to notice you, they’ll swoon like crazy.”
“Now I’m really not telling you where we’re going,” Julian said.
His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked to avoid the potholes every ten feet or so, most of which were filled with water from the previous night’s thunderstorms. Her husband was simply not used to driving. Brooke panicked that they were going for a hike or a nature walk or some sort of rafting or fishing expedition, but she quickly reminded herself that her husband was a born-and-bred New Yorker, and his idea of communing with nature was the weekly watering of a small bonsai tree that sat on his nightstand. His knowledge of wildlife was limited: he could distinguish between a small rat and a large mouse on any subway platform, and he seemed to possess an instinctive sense of which bodega-dwelling cats were friendly and which would hiss and scratch if you got too close. Other than that, he liked to keep his shoes clean and his bed indoors and would venture outside—say, to Central Park for SummerStage or the Boat Basin when friends threw parties there—only when armed with fistfuls of Claritin and a fully charged cell phone. He hated when Brooke called him a city prince, but he could never successfully deny the charge.
The sprawling, ugly complex seemed to rise directly out of a cleared thicket and advertised itself in glaring neon: Lone Star Western Wear. There were two buildings, not quite adjoining but sharing an unpaved parking lot, and a couple of cars idled outside.
“Here we are,” Julian said, pulling off one dirt path and onto another.
“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”
“What? Shopping, just like I said.”
Brooke looked toward the squat buildings and the cluster of pickup trucks in front of them. Julian got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and held his hand out to help Brooke step over the mud puddles in her thong sandals.
“When you said shopping, I was thinking something more like Neiman’s.”
The first thing Brooke noticed after the welcome blast of air-conditioning was a pretty young girl in tight jeans; a fitted, short-sleeved plaid shirt; and a pair of cowboy boots. Immediately she came over and said, “Good mornin’! Y’all just let me know if you need any help now!”
Brooke smiled and nodded. Julian grinned. Brooke punched him on the arm. A twangy guitar sound emanated from speakers in the ceiling.
“Actually, we’d love some help,” Julian said to the blonde.
The girl clapped her hands together placed one on Julian’s shoulder and the other on Brooke’s. “Well alrighty then, let’s get started. What are we looking for today?”
“Yes, what are we looking for today?” Brooke asked.
“We’re looking for a Western-style outfit for my wife to wear to a party,” Julian said, refusing to make eye contact with Brooke.
The salesgirl smiled and said, “Well, that’s great, I know just the thing!”
“Julian, I have my outfit all picked out for tonight. That black dress I tried on for you? With the cute purse Randy and Michelle got me for my birthday? Remember?”
He twisted his hands. “I know . . . it’s just that I was up early this morning, and I was catching up on e-mail. I finally got around to opening that attachment with the invite to the party tonight, and I saw that the dress code is something called ‘Cowboy Couture.’”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t panic! See, I knew you’d panic, but—”
“I brought a black strapless dress and gold sandals!” Brooke screeched loud enough that a few fellow shoppers turned to look.
“I know, Rook. That’s why I immediately e-mailed Samara and asked her if she could elaborate. Which she did. In great detail.”
“She did?” Brooke cocked her head, surprised but slightly mollified.
“Yes.” Julian pulled out his iPhone and scrolled for a second before touching the screen and beginning to read. “‘Hey sweetheart’—she calls everyone that—‘the Friday Night Lights people planned a costume party to stay true to their Texas roots. Don’t be afraid to go all-out—cowboy hats, boots, chaps, and some very tight sexy jeans will all be on display tonight. Tell Brooke she needs a great pair of Daisy Dukes. Coach Taylor himself is going to pick the winner, so do it up right! Can’t wait to . . . ’” Julian’s voice drifted off as he stopped himself from reading aloud. “The rest is boring scheduling stuff. That was the important part. So . . . that’s why we’re here. Aren’t you happy?”
She sighed. “You know, not that much. Besides listen to her and reassure her, I just need to keep an eye on her and make sure nothing gets out of hand. I’m absolutely certain I’m not dealing with a serious eating disorder, but it’s scary when someone is so preoccupied with weight, especially when that someone is a teenage girl. With school ending for the summer next month, I’m worried about her.”
“And everything at the hospital?”
“It’s okay. Margaret wasn’t thrilled with me for taking off these two days, but what can you do?”
He turned to look at her. “Is two days really such a big deal?”
“Not by itself, but I took three days for L.A. and Leno, that half day for your round of follow-up interviews in New York, and a day to go to your album cover shoot. And that was all in the last six weeks. But whatever. I’ve barely seen you since then—I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
“Rook, I don’t think it’s fair to say we’ve barely seen each other. Things have just been hectic. In a good way.”
She disagreed—no one could say that catching glimpses of each other for an hour here or there as Julian passed through their apartment every few days was seeing each other—but she really hadn’t intended to sound so critical.
“That’s not what I meant, I promise,” she said in her most soothing tone. “Look, we’re together now, so let’s just enjoy it, okay?”
They sat in silence for a few minutes until Brooke touched her fingertips to her forehead and said, “I cannot believe I’m going to meet Tim Riggins.”
“Which one is he?”
“Oh, please. Just stop.”
“Is he the coach? Or the quarterback? I get confused,” Julian said, smiling. As if anyone didn’t know Tim Riggins.
“Uh-huh, whatever. When he walks into the party tonight and every woman in the room faints with lust, you’ll know. Trust me.”
Julian slapped the steering wheel in mock outrage. “Aren’t they supposed to be swooning because of me? I mean, I’ll be the rock star.”
Brooke leaned across the seat divider and kissed his cheek. “Of course they’ll swoon for you, baby. If they can stop staring at Riggins long enough to notice you, they’ll swoon like crazy.”
“Now I’m really not telling you where we’re going,” Julian said.
His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked to avoid the potholes every ten feet or so, most of which were filled with water from the previous night’s thunderstorms. Her husband was simply not used to driving. Brooke panicked that they were going for a hike or a nature walk or some sort of rafting or fishing expedition, but she quickly reminded herself that her husband was a born-and-bred New Yorker, and his idea of communing with nature was the weekly watering of a small bonsai tree that sat on his nightstand. His knowledge of wildlife was limited: he could distinguish between a small rat and a large mouse on any subway platform, and he seemed to possess an instinctive sense of which bodega-dwelling cats were friendly and which would hiss and scratch if you got too close. Other than that, he liked to keep his shoes clean and his bed indoors and would venture outside—say, to Central Park for SummerStage or the Boat Basin when friends threw parties there—only when armed with fistfuls of Claritin and a fully charged cell phone. He hated when Brooke called him a city prince, but he could never successfully deny the charge.
The sprawling, ugly complex seemed to rise directly out of a cleared thicket and advertised itself in glaring neon: Lone Star Western Wear. There were two buildings, not quite adjoining but sharing an unpaved parking lot, and a couple of cars idled outside.
“Here we are,” Julian said, pulling off one dirt path and onto another.
“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”
“What? Shopping, just like I said.”
Brooke looked toward the squat buildings and the cluster of pickup trucks in front of them. Julian got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and held his hand out to help Brooke step over the mud puddles in her thong sandals.
“When you said shopping, I was thinking something more like Neiman’s.”
The first thing Brooke noticed after the welcome blast of air-conditioning was a pretty young girl in tight jeans; a fitted, short-sleeved plaid shirt; and a pair of cowboy boots. Immediately she came over and said, “Good mornin’! Y’all just let me know if you need any help now!”
Brooke smiled and nodded. Julian grinned. Brooke punched him on the arm. A twangy guitar sound emanated from speakers in the ceiling.
“Actually, we’d love some help,” Julian said to the blonde.
The girl clapped her hands together placed one on Julian’s shoulder and the other on Brooke’s. “Well alrighty then, let’s get started. What are we looking for today?”
“Yes, what are we looking for today?” Brooke asked.
“We’re looking for a Western-style outfit for my wife to wear to a party,” Julian said, refusing to make eye contact with Brooke.
The salesgirl smiled and said, “Well, that’s great, I know just the thing!”
“Julian, I have my outfit all picked out for tonight. That black dress I tried on for you? With the cute purse Randy and Michelle got me for my birthday? Remember?”
He twisted his hands. “I know . . . it’s just that I was up early this morning, and I was catching up on e-mail. I finally got around to opening that attachment with the invite to the party tonight, and I saw that the dress code is something called ‘Cowboy Couture.’”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t panic! See, I knew you’d panic, but—”
“I brought a black strapless dress and gold sandals!” Brooke screeched loud enough that a few fellow shoppers turned to look.
“I know, Rook. That’s why I immediately e-mailed Samara and asked her if she could elaborate. Which she did. In great detail.”
“She did?” Brooke cocked her head, surprised but slightly mollified.
“Yes.” Julian pulled out his iPhone and scrolled for a second before touching the screen and beginning to read. “‘Hey sweetheart’—she calls everyone that—‘the Friday Night Lights people planned a costume party to stay true to their Texas roots. Don’t be afraid to go all-out—cowboy hats, boots, chaps, and some very tight sexy jeans will all be on display tonight. Tell Brooke she needs a great pair of Daisy Dukes. Coach Taylor himself is going to pick the winner, so do it up right! Can’t wait to . . . ’” Julian’s voice drifted off as he stopped himself from reading aloud. “The rest is boring scheduling stuff. That was the important part. So . . . that’s why we’re here. Aren’t you happy?”
