Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 89
“It’s just an impossible situation.” She smiled a little and wiped away a tear. “People like you don’t marry people like me.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, a look of total devastation on his face.
“You know what it means, Julian. You’re a celebrity now. I’m an ordinary civilian.”
They sat there and looked at each other for ten seconds, then thirty seconds, and then a minute. There was nothing more to say.
When she heard the knock at the front door at ten A.M. on Saturday morning a week and a half later, Brooke assumed it was the super finally coming to snake her clogged shower drain. She looked down at her faded, stained Cornell sweatpants and her hole-ridden T-shirt and decided that Mr. Finley would have to live with it. She even attempted a perfunctory smile as she opened the door.
“Good god,” a horrified Nola exclaimed as she looked Brooke up and down. She sniffed in the general direction of the apartment and grimaced. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Nola, as usual, looked fantastic in high-heeled boots over dark skinny jeans, a tight cashmere turtleneck sweater, and one of those expensive down coats that somehow managed to make her look thin and stylish instead of someone who’d merely wrapped herself in a high-performance sleeping bag. Her cheeks glowed from the cold outside and her wavy blond hair looked wind-tousled and sexy.
“Ugh, do you really have to show up here looking like that?” Brooke asked, returning the head-to-toe examination. “How’d you even get in, by the way?”
Nola pushed past her, shucked her coat, and took a seat on the living room couch. She made a face while she pushed away a days-old cereal bowl with her fingertips. “I still have my key from when I watched Walter. Christ, this is even worse than I imagined.”
“Nola, please, I don’t want to hear it.” Brooke poured herself a glass of orange juice, downed it in one gulp, and didn’t offer any to her friend. “Maybe you should go.”
Nola snorted. “Trust me, I’d like that. But no can do. You and I are getting out of here today, and we’re doing it together.”
“Like hell. I’m not leaving.” Brooke pulled her greasy hair into a ponytail and sat in the small armchair opposite the couch. The one she and Julian had bought at a vintage market on the Lower East Side because Julian said the cranberry-colored velvet reminded him of Brooke’s hair.
“Oh yes you are. Look, I didn’t realize things were this bad. I’ve got to run by the office for a couple hours”—Nola looked at her watch—“but I’m coming back here at three and we’re going for lunch.” Brooke opened her mouth to protest, but Nola cut her off. “First, clean this dump. Second, clean yourself. You’re starting to look straight out of central casting for the wretchedly depressed spurned lover.”
“Thanks.”
Nola picked up an empty Häagen-Dazs container by her nails and held it toward Brooke with a withering look. “Get ahold of yourself, okay? Handle all of this and I’ll see you in a few hours. If you even think of disobeying me, you’re not my friend anymore.”
“Nola . . .” It came out as a whine, but a defeated one.
Nola had already walked back to the front door. “I’ll be back. And I’m taking this key with me, so don’t think you can run or hide.” And with that, she was gone.
After learning of her enforced time off from Huntley and surviving that hideous conversation with Julian, Brooke had crawled into bed and barely gotten out. She did it all—the back issues of Cosmo, the pints of ice cream, the bottle of white wine per night, and the endless loop of seasons one through three of Private Practice on her laptop, and in a weird way she’d almost enjoyed it. Not since she’d gotten mono her first semester at Cornell and had to spend the entire five-week winter break in bed had she lounged and indulged so much. But Nola was right, it was time to get up and out, and besides, she was starting to grow disgusted with herself. It was time.
She resisted the urge to crawl back under the covers and pulled on her old fleece running tights and sneakers and went for a three-mile run along the Hudson. It was unseasonably warm for the second week of February, and all the gray slush from the previous week’s storm had melted away. Feeling invigorated and proud of her motivation, she took a long, hot shower. Afterward, she rewarded herself with twenty minutes of luxuriating under her covers, allowing her hair to air-dry as she read a couple chapters of her book, and then fixed herself a healthy snack: a bowl of sliced fruit, a quarter cup of cottage cheese, and a toasted whole wheat English muffin. Only then did she begin to feel strong enough to tackle the apartment.
The massive cleaning took three hours and did more for Brooke’s mental state than anything else she could have imagined. For the first time in months, she dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed floors, countertops, and bathrooms. She refolded all the clothes in her dresser (but ignored Julian’s), weeded out old and unworn clothes from their shared closet, organized both the hallway coat closet and the drawers of the living room desk, and finally, after what felt like years of procrastination, changed the printer cartridge, called Verizon about a mistake on their bill, and made a note to herself to schedule an annual ob/gyn exam for herself, dentist appointments for both of them (no matter how upset she was, she still didn’t wish him cavities), and an appointment at the vet to get Walter Alter up to date on his shots.
Feeling like a goddess of efficiency and organization, she threw open the door when she heard a knock exactly at three and greeted Nola with a huge smile.
“Wow, you look human again. Is that lipstick?”
Brooke nodded, pleased with the reaction. She watched as Nola inspected her apartment.
“Impressive!” She whistled. “I have to say, I wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for you, and I’m really glad I was wrong.” She pulled a black peacoat from the hallway closet and handed it to Brooke. “Come on, we’re going to show you what the outside world looks like.”
Brooke followed her friend down to the street, into the back of a taxi, and, finally, into a banquette table at Cookshop, one of their favorite brunch places in West Chelsea. Nola ordered them each a coffee and a Bloody Mary and insisted Brooke take three sips of each before she’d let her say a word. “There,” she said soothingly as Brooke obliged. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
“What does that mean?” he asked, a look of total devastation on his face.
“You know what it means, Julian. You’re a celebrity now. I’m an ordinary civilian.”
They sat there and looked at each other for ten seconds, then thirty seconds, and then a minute. There was nothing more to say.
When she heard the knock at the front door at ten A.M. on Saturday morning a week and a half later, Brooke assumed it was the super finally coming to snake her clogged shower drain. She looked down at her faded, stained Cornell sweatpants and her hole-ridden T-shirt and decided that Mr. Finley would have to live with it. She even attempted a perfunctory smile as she opened the door.
“Good god,” a horrified Nola exclaimed as she looked Brooke up and down. She sniffed in the general direction of the apartment and grimaced. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Nola, as usual, looked fantastic in high-heeled boots over dark skinny jeans, a tight cashmere turtleneck sweater, and one of those expensive down coats that somehow managed to make her look thin and stylish instead of someone who’d merely wrapped herself in a high-performance sleeping bag. Her cheeks glowed from the cold outside and her wavy blond hair looked wind-tousled and sexy.
“Ugh, do you really have to show up here looking like that?” Brooke asked, returning the head-to-toe examination. “How’d you even get in, by the way?”
Nola pushed past her, shucked her coat, and took a seat on the living room couch. She made a face while she pushed away a days-old cereal bowl with her fingertips. “I still have my key from when I watched Walter. Christ, this is even worse than I imagined.”
“Nola, please, I don’t want to hear it.” Brooke poured herself a glass of orange juice, downed it in one gulp, and didn’t offer any to her friend. “Maybe you should go.”
Nola snorted. “Trust me, I’d like that. But no can do. You and I are getting out of here today, and we’re doing it together.”
“Like hell. I’m not leaving.” Brooke pulled her greasy hair into a ponytail and sat in the small armchair opposite the couch. The one she and Julian had bought at a vintage market on the Lower East Side because Julian said the cranberry-colored velvet reminded him of Brooke’s hair.
“Oh yes you are. Look, I didn’t realize things were this bad. I’ve got to run by the office for a couple hours”—Nola looked at her watch—“but I’m coming back here at three and we’re going for lunch.” Brooke opened her mouth to protest, but Nola cut her off. “First, clean this dump. Second, clean yourself. You’re starting to look straight out of central casting for the wretchedly depressed spurned lover.”
“Thanks.”
Nola picked up an empty Häagen-Dazs container by her nails and held it toward Brooke with a withering look. “Get ahold of yourself, okay? Handle all of this and I’ll see you in a few hours. If you even think of disobeying me, you’re not my friend anymore.”
“Nola . . .” It came out as a whine, but a defeated one.
Nola had already walked back to the front door. “I’ll be back. And I’m taking this key with me, so don’t think you can run or hide.” And with that, she was gone.
After learning of her enforced time off from Huntley and surviving that hideous conversation with Julian, Brooke had crawled into bed and barely gotten out. She did it all—the back issues of Cosmo, the pints of ice cream, the bottle of white wine per night, and the endless loop of seasons one through three of Private Practice on her laptop, and in a weird way she’d almost enjoyed it. Not since she’d gotten mono her first semester at Cornell and had to spend the entire five-week winter break in bed had she lounged and indulged so much. But Nola was right, it was time to get up and out, and besides, she was starting to grow disgusted with herself. It was time.
She resisted the urge to crawl back under the covers and pulled on her old fleece running tights and sneakers and went for a three-mile run along the Hudson. It was unseasonably warm for the second week of February, and all the gray slush from the previous week’s storm had melted away. Feeling invigorated and proud of her motivation, she took a long, hot shower. Afterward, she rewarded herself with twenty minutes of luxuriating under her covers, allowing her hair to air-dry as she read a couple chapters of her book, and then fixed herself a healthy snack: a bowl of sliced fruit, a quarter cup of cottage cheese, and a toasted whole wheat English muffin. Only then did she begin to feel strong enough to tackle the apartment.
The massive cleaning took three hours and did more for Brooke’s mental state than anything else she could have imagined. For the first time in months, she dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed floors, countertops, and bathrooms. She refolded all the clothes in her dresser (but ignored Julian’s), weeded out old and unworn clothes from their shared closet, organized both the hallway coat closet and the drawers of the living room desk, and finally, after what felt like years of procrastination, changed the printer cartridge, called Verizon about a mistake on their bill, and made a note to herself to schedule an annual ob/gyn exam for herself, dentist appointments for both of them (no matter how upset she was, she still didn’t wish him cavities), and an appointment at the vet to get Walter Alter up to date on his shots.
Feeling like a goddess of efficiency and organization, she threw open the door when she heard a knock exactly at three and greeted Nola with a huge smile.
“Wow, you look human again. Is that lipstick?”
Brooke nodded, pleased with the reaction. She watched as Nola inspected her apartment.
“Impressive!” She whistled. “I have to say, I wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for you, and I’m really glad I was wrong.” She pulled a black peacoat from the hallway closet and handed it to Brooke. “Come on, we’re going to show you what the outside world looks like.”
Brooke followed her friend down to the street, into the back of a taxi, and, finally, into a banquette table at Cookshop, one of their favorite brunch places in West Chelsea. Nola ordered them each a coffee and a Bloody Mary and insisted Brooke take three sips of each before she’d let her say a word. “There,” she said soothingly as Brooke obliged. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
