Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 91
“I don’t know that I’d call him my boyfriend. . . .”
“Nola!”
“Look, it’s been fun. Very relaxed. I’m trying not to think about it too much, and you’ve had a lot going on lately. . . .”
“Start talking!”
“Okay, his name is Andrew, you know that part. He has brown hair and he’s an excellent tennis player and his favorite food is guacamole.”
“I’m giving you ten seconds.”
Nola clapped her hands together and did a little jump in her seat. “It’s too much fun torturing you.”
“Nine, eight, sev—”
“All right! He’s about five-ten, maybe five-eleven on a good day, and he’s got a six-pack, which I find more intimidating than attractive. I suspect that he has all his shirts and suits custom-made, but I don’t have confirmation of that. He was on the golf team in college and spent a few years bumming around Mexico teaching golf before he founded an Internet company, took it public, and retired at age twenty-nine, although he still seems to do a lot of consulting, whatever that means. He lives in a town house on the Upper West Side, to be near his son, who is six and lives with his ex-wife. He has a flat in London and the villa in Turks and Caicos. And he is absolutely, positively inexhaustible in bed.”
Brooke clutched her heart and pretended to collapse backward on the booth. “You’re lying,” she moaned.
“About which part?”
“About all of it.”
“Nope,” Nola said with a smile. “All true.”
“I want to be happy for you, I really do, but I can’t seem to overcome my own bitterness.”
“Don’t get carried away. He’s still forty-one, divorced, and a father. It’s not exactly the fairy tale. But I will say he’s a pretty good guy.”
“Please. Short of beating you or the kid, he can do no wrong. Have you told your mother yet? She might up and die on the spot.”
“Are you kidding? I can hear it now. ‘What did I tell you, Nola? It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor one. . . .’ Uch, knowing how happy it would make her takes the joy out of it for me.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great stepmother. You’d be a natural,” Brooke mused aloud.
“I’m not even going to dignify that,” Nola said, rolling her eyes.
It was getting dark by the time they finished, but when Nola went to hail a cab, Brooke gave her friend a hug and said, “I’m going to walk home.”
“Really? It’s gotten so gross out. You don’t even want to jump on the subway?”
“Nah, I feel like walking.” She took Nola’s hand. “Thanks for making me do this, Nol. I needed a kick in the ass, and I’m glad you’re the one who delivered it. I promise I’m going to rejoin the land of the living. And I’m so excited for you and your taxi lover.”
Nola kissed her on the cheek and hopped into the backseat. “Call you later!” she said as the cab pulled away, and once again, Brooke was alone.
She walked up Tenth Avenue, pausing to watch the dogs play in the small dog run on Twenty-third Street, and then cut over to Ninth, where she backtracked a couple blocks to treat herself to a Billy’s red velvet cupcake and another cup of coffee before continuing back uptown. It had started to rain and by the time she got home, her peacoat was soaked and her boots were covered in the city’s special salty-dirty-slushy mix, so she stripped in the hallway and immediately wrapped herself in the purple cashmere blanket her mother had knitted years earlier. Six o’clock on a Sunday night, she had nothing to do for the rest of the evening and, weirder still, nowhere to go the next morning. Alone. Jobless. Free.
With Walter curled into a ball and pressed against her thigh, Brooke pulled out her computer and scanned her e-mail. Nothing interesting except for an e-mail from someone named Amber Bailey, which sounded familiar. She clicked on it and began to read.
Dear Brooke,
Hi there! I think my friend Heather gave you the heads-up that I was going to get in touch, or at least I hope she did! I know this is super last-minute (and probably feels like the very last thing on earth you want to do right now), but a bunch of friends are getting together for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll explain more if you’re interested, but basically they’re an amazing group of women I’ve met, and they’ve all had . . . oh, let’s say “experience” with dating or being married to very famous men. Nothing formal, we just get together once every couple months and drink a lot! I hope you’ll join me? We’re meeting at 8 P.M. at 128 West 12th Street. Please come! It really is fun.
xoxo, Amber Bailey
Aside from the overly enthusiastic use of exclamation points, Brooke thought the e-mail seemed perfectly nice. She read it once more and then, without thinking or allowing herself to list the thousand and one reasons she shouldn’t go, she hit Reply and typed:
Dear Amber,
Thanks for the invite. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. I’ll see you there tomorrow.
Best, Brooke
“Might be a disaster, Walter, but I sure don’t have anything better to do,” she said, snapping the laptop closed and pulling the spaniel onto her lap. He stared at her and panted, his long, pink tongue hanging out the side of this mouth.
Without warning, he leaned in and licked her nose.
“Thanks, buddy,” she said, kissing him back. “I love you, too.”
17
Good Old Ed Had a Thing for Prostitutes
WHEN Brooke woke up the next morning and saw it was nine thirty, her heart started racing and she jumped out of bed. And then she remembered: she wasn’t late for anything. She had, at that moment, exactly zero places to be, and while this wasn’t the ideal scenario—or a sustainable one—she was determined not to think of it as the end of the universe. Besides, she had a plan for the day, which was the first step toward establishing a routine (routines being very important, according to a recent Glamour article on being unemployed).
Number one on the Glamour to-do list was Get Your Most Dreaded Tasks Done First, and so before she even changed out of her robe, Brooke willed herself to pick up the phone and dial Margaret. She knew her ex-boss would’ve just wrapped up the Monday morning staff meeting and would be back in her office working on the next week’s schedule. Sure enough, she picked up on the first ring.
“Nola!”
“Look, it’s been fun. Very relaxed. I’m trying not to think about it too much, and you’ve had a lot going on lately. . . .”
“Start talking!”
“Okay, his name is Andrew, you know that part. He has brown hair and he’s an excellent tennis player and his favorite food is guacamole.”
“I’m giving you ten seconds.”
Nola clapped her hands together and did a little jump in her seat. “It’s too much fun torturing you.”
“Nine, eight, sev—”
“All right! He’s about five-ten, maybe five-eleven on a good day, and he’s got a six-pack, which I find more intimidating than attractive. I suspect that he has all his shirts and suits custom-made, but I don’t have confirmation of that. He was on the golf team in college and spent a few years bumming around Mexico teaching golf before he founded an Internet company, took it public, and retired at age twenty-nine, although he still seems to do a lot of consulting, whatever that means. He lives in a town house on the Upper West Side, to be near his son, who is six and lives with his ex-wife. He has a flat in London and the villa in Turks and Caicos. And he is absolutely, positively inexhaustible in bed.”
Brooke clutched her heart and pretended to collapse backward on the booth. “You’re lying,” she moaned.
“About which part?”
“About all of it.”
“Nope,” Nola said with a smile. “All true.”
“I want to be happy for you, I really do, but I can’t seem to overcome my own bitterness.”
“Don’t get carried away. He’s still forty-one, divorced, and a father. It’s not exactly the fairy tale. But I will say he’s a pretty good guy.”
“Please. Short of beating you or the kid, he can do no wrong. Have you told your mother yet? She might up and die on the spot.”
“Are you kidding? I can hear it now. ‘What did I tell you, Nola? It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor one. . . .’ Uch, knowing how happy it would make her takes the joy out of it for me.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great stepmother. You’d be a natural,” Brooke mused aloud.
“I’m not even going to dignify that,” Nola said, rolling her eyes.
It was getting dark by the time they finished, but when Nola went to hail a cab, Brooke gave her friend a hug and said, “I’m going to walk home.”
“Really? It’s gotten so gross out. You don’t even want to jump on the subway?”
“Nah, I feel like walking.” She took Nola’s hand. “Thanks for making me do this, Nol. I needed a kick in the ass, and I’m glad you’re the one who delivered it. I promise I’m going to rejoin the land of the living. And I’m so excited for you and your taxi lover.”
Nola kissed her on the cheek and hopped into the backseat. “Call you later!” she said as the cab pulled away, and once again, Brooke was alone.
She walked up Tenth Avenue, pausing to watch the dogs play in the small dog run on Twenty-third Street, and then cut over to Ninth, where she backtracked a couple blocks to treat herself to a Billy’s red velvet cupcake and another cup of coffee before continuing back uptown. It had started to rain and by the time she got home, her peacoat was soaked and her boots were covered in the city’s special salty-dirty-slushy mix, so she stripped in the hallway and immediately wrapped herself in the purple cashmere blanket her mother had knitted years earlier. Six o’clock on a Sunday night, she had nothing to do for the rest of the evening and, weirder still, nowhere to go the next morning. Alone. Jobless. Free.
With Walter curled into a ball and pressed against her thigh, Brooke pulled out her computer and scanned her e-mail. Nothing interesting except for an e-mail from someone named Amber Bailey, which sounded familiar. She clicked on it and began to read.
Dear Brooke,
Hi there! I think my friend Heather gave you the heads-up that I was going to get in touch, or at least I hope she did! I know this is super last-minute (and probably feels like the very last thing on earth you want to do right now), but a bunch of friends are getting together for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll explain more if you’re interested, but basically they’re an amazing group of women I’ve met, and they’ve all had . . . oh, let’s say “experience” with dating or being married to very famous men. Nothing formal, we just get together once every couple months and drink a lot! I hope you’ll join me? We’re meeting at 8 P.M. at 128 West 12th Street. Please come! It really is fun.
xoxo, Amber Bailey
Aside from the overly enthusiastic use of exclamation points, Brooke thought the e-mail seemed perfectly nice. She read it once more and then, without thinking or allowing herself to list the thousand and one reasons she shouldn’t go, she hit Reply and typed:
Dear Amber,
Thanks for the invite. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. I’ll see you there tomorrow.
Best, Brooke
“Might be a disaster, Walter, but I sure don’t have anything better to do,” she said, snapping the laptop closed and pulling the spaniel onto her lap. He stared at her and panted, his long, pink tongue hanging out the side of this mouth.
Without warning, he leaned in and licked her nose.
“Thanks, buddy,” she said, kissing him back. “I love you, too.”
17
Good Old Ed Had a Thing for Prostitutes
WHEN Brooke woke up the next morning and saw it was nine thirty, her heart started racing and she jumped out of bed. And then she remembered: she wasn’t late for anything. She had, at that moment, exactly zero places to be, and while this wasn’t the ideal scenario—or a sustainable one—she was determined not to think of it as the end of the universe. Besides, she had a plan for the day, which was the first step toward establishing a routine (routines being very important, according to a recent Glamour article on being unemployed).
Number one on the Glamour to-do list was Get Your Most Dreaded Tasks Done First, and so before she even changed out of her robe, Brooke willed herself to pick up the phone and dial Margaret. She knew her ex-boss would’ve just wrapped up the Monday morning staff meeting and would be back in her office working on the next week’s schedule. Sure enough, she picked up on the first ring.
