Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 50
Her cell phone buzzed and snapped her back to reality. It was a text from Julian saying he was twenty minutes away. She raced into the bathroom, tearing off her clothes as she ran, intent on at least rinsing away the lingering Windex smell from her hair and hands after a particularly intense, slightly OCD housecleaning fit. She had just stepped under the water when she heard Walter begin to bark with a franticness that could only mean one thing.
“Julian? I’ll be out in two minutes!” she called in vain, knowing from experience he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the living room.
A moment later, she felt the rush of cold air before she even saw the door open. He materialized out of the steam almost immediately, and despite the fact that he’d seen her naked thousands upon thousands of times before, Brooke had an intense, almost desperate desire to cover herself. The clear plastic curtain made her feel as exposed as she would have been showering in the middle of Union Square.
“Hey, Rook,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the running water and Walter’s frenzied barks.
She first turned her back to him and then berated herself for being so ridiculous. “Hey,” she said. “I’m almost done here. Why don’t you wait for me . . . uh, grab a Coke and I’ll be right out.”
She was met with silence before he said okay, and Brooke knew he was probably hurt. Again, she reminded herself that she was entitled to her feelings and she didn’t have to apologize for them or explain herself.
“I’m sorry,” she called while keeping her back to the door, although she could sense he’d already left. Don’t apologize! She berated herself again.
She rinsed as quickly as possible and toweled off even faster. Julian was not in the bedroom, thankfully, and she furtively—as though there were company over who might accidentally walk in at any moment—threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. There was no choice but to quickly comb out her wet hair and gather it into a ponytail. She glanced in the mirror and hoped that the ruddiness of her makeup-free face would look like some sort of healthy, happy glow to Julian, although she suspected this was unlikely. It wasn’t until she stepped into the living room and saw her husband settled on the sofa, reading last Sunday’s real estate section of the Times with Walter by his side, that the excitement hit her.
“Welcome home,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound as fraught as it felt. She sat next to him on the couch. He looked at her, smiled, and gave her what felt like a rather lukewarm hug.
“Hey, baby. I’m so happy to be here, you can’t even imagine. If I never see another hotel room . . .”
After leaving in the middle of her dad’s party, Julian had come home for two nights in late September, one of which was spent at the studio. He’d left to promote the new album, hitting the road for another three weeks, and although they’d both been good about e-mail, Skype, and phone calls, the distance was beginning to feel insurmountable.
“Finding anything good?” she asked, sitting next to him on the couch. She wanted to kiss him but couldn’t get past the lingering awkwardness.
He pointed to a listing titled “Tribeca Luxury Loft.” It boasted three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a home office, a shared roof deck, a gas fireplace, a full-time doorman, and a tax abatement for the “Best Downtown Value” price of $2.6 million. “Look at this one. Prices are falling like crazy.”
Brooke tried to ascertain whether or not he was kidding. Like every New York couple, they often participated in Sunday-morning real estate porn by circling listings that were astronomically out of their price range and wondering aloud what it would be like to actually own them. But something about this felt different.
“Yeah, it’s a total bargain. We should buy two and combine them. Maybe three,” she laughed.
“Seriously, Brooke, two point six is very reasonable for a full-service three-bedroom in Tribeca.”
She stared at the person sitting next to her and wondered where on earth her husband had gone. Was this the same man who ten months earlier had fought vigorously to re-sign the lease on the Times Square apartment they both loathed because he didn’t want to spend the extra thousand dollars it would cost to pay a moving company?
“You know, Rook,” he said, continuing despite the fact that she’d said nothing, “I know it must feel surreal when you really think about it, but we can afford a place like this. With everything that’s starting to come in, we could easily put twenty percent down. And with all the paid performances I have lined up, plus the record royalties, the monthly payments would be more than manageable.”
Once again she didn’t know what to say.
“Wouldn’t you love to live in a place like this?” he asked, pointing to the picture of an ultramodern loft with exposed-pipe ceilings and an overall industrial-chic feel. “It’s freaking awesome.”
Every fiber of her wanted to scream no. No, she didn’t want to live in a converted warehouse. No, she didn’t want to live in faraway, hyper-trendy Tribeca with its world-class galleries and fancy restaurants and nowhere to get a cup of bodega coffee or a basic burger. No, if she had two million dollars to spend on an apartment, that was absolutely, positively not what she would choose. It almost felt like she was having this conversation with a complete stranger, considering the number of times they’d dreamed together of owning a town house in Brooklyn or, if that was out of reach—and it always had been—then maybe a floor-through in a town house on a quiet, tree-lined street, perhaps with a little garden out back and lots of great molding. Something warm and cozy, prewar preferably, with high ceilings and charm and character. A home for a family in a real neighborhood with independent bookstores and cute coffee shops and a couple of cheap but good restaurants where they could be regulars. The exact opposite, actually, of that steely cold Tribeca loft in the picture. She couldn’t help but wonder when Julian’s ideal had shifted so drastically and, more to the point, why.
“Leo just moved into a new building on Duane Street with a hot tub on the roof deck,” he continued. “He said he’s never seen more attractive people in one place in his entire life. And he eats at Nobu Next Door like three times a week. Can you imagine?”
“Do you want some coffee?” she blurted out, desperate to change the subject. Every word he uttered managed to upset her even more.
“Julian? I’ll be out in two minutes!” she called in vain, knowing from experience he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the living room.
A moment later, she felt the rush of cold air before she even saw the door open. He materialized out of the steam almost immediately, and despite the fact that he’d seen her naked thousands upon thousands of times before, Brooke had an intense, almost desperate desire to cover herself. The clear plastic curtain made her feel as exposed as she would have been showering in the middle of Union Square.
“Hey, Rook,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the running water and Walter’s frenzied barks.
She first turned her back to him and then berated herself for being so ridiculous. “Hey,” she said. “I’m almost done here. Why don’t you wait for me . . . uh, grab a Coke and I’ll be right out.”
She was met with silence before he said okay, and Brooke knew he was probably hurt. Again, she reminded herself that she was entitled to her feelings and she didn’t have to apologize for them or explain herself.
“I’m sorry,” she called while keeping her back to the door, although she could sense he’d already left. Don’t apologize! She berated herself again.
She rinsed as quickly as possible and toweled off even faster. Julian was not in the bedroom, thankfully, and she furtively—as though there were company over who might accidentally walk in at any moment—threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. There was no choice but to quickly comb out her wet hair and gather it into a ponytail. She glanced in the mirror and hoped that the ruddiness of her makeup-free face would look like some sort of healthy, happy glow to Julian, although she suspected this was unlikely. It wasn’t until she stepped into the living room and saw her husband settled on the sofa, reading last Sunday’s real estate section of the Times with Walter by his side, that the excitement hit her.
“Welcome home,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound as fraught as it felt. She sat next to him on the couch. He looked at her, smiled, and gave her what felt like a rather lukewarm hug.
“Hey, baby. I’m so happy to be here, you can’t even imagine. If I never see another hotel room . . .”
After leaving in the middle of her dad’s party, Julian had come home for two nights in late September, one of which was spent at the studio. He’d left to promote the new album, hitting the road for another three weeks, and although they’d both been good about e-mail, Skype, and phone calls, the distance was beginning to feel insurmountable.
“Finding anything good?” she asked, sitting next to him on the couch. She wanted to kiss him but couldn’t get past the lingering awkwardness.
He pointed to a listing titled “Tribeca Luxury Loft.” It boasted three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a home office, a shared roof deck, a gas fireplace, a full-time doorman, and a tax abatement for the “Best Downtown Value” price of $2.6 million. “Look at this one. Prices are falling like crazy.”
Brooke tried to ascertain whether or not he was kidding. Like every New York couple, they often participated in Sunday-morning real estate porn by circling listings that were astronomically out of their price range and wondering aloud what it would be like to actually own them. But something about this felt different.
“Yeah, it’s a total bargain. We should buy two and combine them. Maybe three,” she laughed.
“Seriously, Brooke, two point six is very reasonable for a full-service three-bedroom in Tribeca.”
She stared at the person sitting next to her and wondered where on earth her husband had gone. Was this the same man who ten months earlier had fought vigorously to re-sign the lease on the Times Square apartment they both loathed because he didn’t want to spend the extra thousand dollars it would cost to pay a moving company?
“You know, Rook,” he said, continuing despite the fact that she’d said nothing, “I know it must feel surreal when you really think about it, but we can afford a place like this. With everything that’s starting to come in, we could easily put twenty percent down. And with all the paid performances I have lined up, plus the record royalties, the monthly payments would be more than manageable.”
Once again she didn’t know what to say.
“Wouldn’t you love to live in a place like this?” he asked, pointing to the picture of an ultramodern loft with exposed-pipe ceilings and an overall industrial-chic feel. “It’s freaking awesome.”
Every fiber of her wanted to scream no. No, she didn’t want to live in a converted warehouse. No, she didn’t want to live in faraway, hyper-trendy Tribeca with its world-class galleries and fancy restaurants and nowhere to get a cup of bodega coffee or a basic burger. No, if she had two million dollars to spend on an apartment, that was absolutely, positively not what she would choose. It almost felt like she was having this conversation with a complete stranger, considering the number of times they’d dreamed together of owning a town house in Brooklyn or, if that was out of reach—and it always had been—then maybe a floor-through in a town house on a quiet, tree-lined street, perhaps with a little garden out back and lots of great molding. Something warm and cozy, prewar preferably, with high ceilings and charm and character. A home for a family in a real neighborhood with independent bookstores and cute coffee shops and a couple of cheap but good restaurants where they could be regulars. The exact opposite, actually, of that steely cold Tribeca loft in the picture. She couldn’t help but wonder when Julian’s ideal had shifted so drastically and, more to the point, why.
“Leo just moved into a new building on Duane Street with a hot tub on the roof deck,” he continued. “He said he’s never seen more attractive people in one place in his entire life. And he eats at Nobu Next Door like three times a week. Can you imagine?”
“Do you want some coffee?” she blurted out, desperate to change the subject. Every word he uttered managed to upset her even more.
