Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 96
It was her father-in-law’s turn to tsk with disapproval. “I can’t believe he’s missing the wedding! Those two were born less than six months apart. They’ve grown up together. Trent gave the most touching speech at your wedding, and now Julian’s not even going to be at his.”
She had to smile at the irony of it. She’d given Julian such a hard time about missing the wedding, saying many of the same things to him that his father had just said to her, but the moment Dr. Alter uttered them, she felt compelled to leap to Julian’s defense.
“It’s a pretty big deal, actually. He’s going to be performing in front of some incredible people, including the prime minister of England.” She left out the part about Julian getting paid two hundred thousand dollars for a four-hour event. “He didn’t want to steal attention from the bride and groom in light of, uh, well, everything that’s been happening.”
That was as close as either of them had come to acknowledging the current situation. Julian’s father seemed content to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t seen the infamous pictures, or read the articles detailing the apparent crumbling of his son’s marriage. And now, despite having been informed a dozen times that Julian was not coming to Trent’s wedding, he refused to believe it.
She heard her mother-in-law call out from the background. “William! What are you doing on the phone with her when she’s right next door?”
Within moments there was a knock.
She heaved herself off the bed and pumped both middle fingers at the door while silently screaming, “Fuck you!” then carefully arranged her face in a smile, unlatched the chain, and said, “Why, hello there, neighbor!”
For the very first time since she’d met her mother-in-law, the woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps even ridiculous. Her fitted, cashmere sweater dress was a beautiful, rich shade of eggplant and looked like it had been custom-made for her trim figure. She’d paired it with the perfect shade of purplish stockings and a dynamite pair of high-heeled booties that, despite their edginess, did not make it seem like she was trying too hard. Her chunky gold necklace was cool but understated and her makeup appeared professionally done. All in all, she was the picture of urbane sophistication, a model for how women might aspire to look at fifty-five. The hat was the problem. Its brim was the circumference of a serving tray; while its color matched the dress exactly, it was hard to notice anything but the sprouting feathers, the sprays of fake flowers, and the crinoline pretending to be baby’s breath, all held together by a massive silk bow. It perched precariously on her head, the brim dipping down to artfully obscure her left eye.
Brooke’s mouth fell open.
“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked, touching the brim. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
“Wow,” she breathed, uncertain how to proceed. “What’s it, uh, for?”
“What do you mean, what’s it for? It’s for Tennessee!” She laughed before switching to her best mocking approximation of a Southern accent, one that sounded like a weird combination of someone who spoke English as a second language and a cowboy from an old Western. “We are in Chay-duh-noogah, Bruck! Y’all must re-a-lize that re-ahl Southern ladies wear hats like this.”
She wanted to curl up under the covers and die. This was humiliating beyond belief.
“They do?” she squeaked. It was all she could manage.
Thankfully, Elizabeth reverted back to her normal, slightly nasal New York pronunciation. “Of course they do. Haven’t you ever seen the Kentucky Derby?”
“Well, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky. And isn’t that, like, a special situation to wear the hats? I’m not sure it translates to other, uh, social occasions. . . .” She allowed her voice to drift off to soften her words, but her mother-in-law barely noticed.
“Oh, Brooke, you have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re in the South now, sweetheart! The one I brought for the actual wedding is even better. We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to go buy you one, so don’t worry about a thing.” She paused and, still standing in the doorway, looked Brooke up and down. “You’re not dressed yet?”
Brooke glanced first at her sweats and then at her watch. “I thought we weren’t leaving until six.”
“Yes, but it’s already five. You hardly left yourself enough time.”
“Wow, right you are!” she exclaimed in a faux-surprised voice. “Let me run. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
“Okay, knock when you’re ready. Better yet, come on over and have a cocktail. William sent out for some decent vodka, so you won’t have to drink that dreadful hotel sludge.”
“Why don’t we just meet in the lobby at six? As you can see”—Brooke stepped back and motioned to her ripped T-shirt and messy hair—“I have a lot of work to do.”
“Mmm,” her mother-in-law said, clearly agreeing. “All right then. See you at six. And, Brooke? Maybe consider a little eye makeup? It does a face wonders.”
The hot shower and the episode of Millionaire Matchmaker that she had playing in the background didn’t help her feel much better, though the single-serving bottle of white wine in the minibar helped a bit. It didn’t last for long, though. By the time she’d put on her standby black wrap dress, slapped on some eye shadow like an obedient daughter-in-law, and headed to the lobby, she was back to being supremely stressed.
The drive to the restaurant was only a couple of miles, but it felt like an eternity. Dr. Alter complained bitterly the entire time: what kind of hotel doesn’t have a valet, how could Hertz rent only American cars, who called dinner for six thirty in the evening, for chrissake, it was practically lunchtime? He even managed to complain that there wasn’t enough traffic for a Friday night in Chattanooga—after all, what kind of respectable city had clear streets and plenty of available parking? Where on earth were other drivers so goddamn polite, what with everyone sitting at stop signs for ten minutes, frantically waving each other through? Nowhere he wanted to be, that was for sure. Real cities had congestion, dirt, crowds, snow, sirens, potholes, and other assorted miseries, he insisted in the most ridiculous rant Brooke had ever heard. By the time the three of them made their way inside, it felt like they’d been out all night.
To her enormous relief, Trent’s parents were standing right by the door. Brooke wondered what they thought of her mother-in-law’s absurd derby hat. Trent’s father and Julian’s father were brothers, extremely close despite a large age difference, and the four of them immediately retreated to the bar at the far end of the room. Brooke begged off by saying she was going to call Julian. She noted the relieved looks; women who called their husbands just to say hello didn’t turn around and divorce them, right?
She had to smile at the irony of it. She’d given Julian such a hard time about missing the wedding, saying many of the same things to him that his father had just said to her, but the moment Dr. Alter uttered them, she felt compelled to leap to Julian’s defense.
“It’s a pretty big deal, actually. He’s going to be performing in front of some incredible people, including the prime minister of England.” She left out the part about Julian getting paid two hundred thousand dollars for a four-hour event. “He didn’t want to steal attention from the bride and groom in light of, uh, well, everything that’s been happening.”
That was as close as either of them had come to acknowledging the current situation. Julian’s father seemed content to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t seen the infamous pictures, or read the articles detailing the apparent crumbling of his son’s marriage. And now, despite having been informed a dozen times that Julian was not coming to Trent’s wedding, he refused to believe it.
She heard her mother-in-law call out from the background. “William! What are you doing on the phone with her when she’s right next door?”
Within moments there was a knock.
She heaved herself off the bed and pumped both middle fingers at the door while silently screaming, “Fuck you!” then carefully arranged her face in a smile, unlatched the chain, and said, “Why, hello there, neighbor!”
For the very first time since she’d met her mother-in-law, the woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps even ridiculous. Her fitted, cashmere sweater dress was a beautiful, rich shade of eggplant and looked like it had been custom-made for her trim figure. She’d paired it with the perfect shade of purplish stockings and a dynamite pair of high-heeled booties that, despite their edginess, did not make it seem like she was trying too hard. Her chunky gold necklace was cool but understated and her makeup appeared professionally done. All in all, she was the picture of urbane sophistication, a model for how women might aspire to look at fifty-five. The hat was the problem. Its brim was the circumference of a serving tray; while its color matched the dress exactly, it was hard to notice anything but the sprouting feathers, the sprays of fake flowers, and the crinoline pretending to be baby’s breath, all held together by a massive silk bow. It perched precariously on her head, the brim dipping down to artfully obscure her left eye.
Brooke’s mouth fell open.
“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked, touching the brim. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
“Wow,” she breathed, uncertain how to proceed. “What’s it, uh, for?”
“What do you mean, what’s it for? It’s for Tennessee!” She laughed before switching to her best mocking approximation of a Southern accent, one that sounded like a weird combination of someone who spoke English as a second language and a cowboy from an old Western. “We are in Chay-duh-noogah, Bruck! Y’all must re-a-lize that re-ahl Southern ladies wear hats like this.”
She wanted to curl up under the covers and die. This was humiliating beyond belief.
“They do?” she squeaked. It was all she could manage.
Thankfully, Elizabeth reverted back to her normal, slightly nasal New York pronunciation. “Of course they do. Haven’t you ever seen the Kentucky Derby?”
“Well, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky. And isn’t that, like, a special situation to wear the hats? I’m not sure it translates to other, uh, social occasions. . . .” She allowed her voice to drift off to soften her words, but her mother-in-law barely noticed.
“Oh, Brooke, you have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re in the South now, sweetheart! The one I brought for the actual wedding is even better. We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to go buy you one, so don’t worry about a thing.” She paused and, still standing in the doorway, looked Brooke up and down. “You’re not dressed yet?”
Brooke glanced first at her sweats and then at her watch. “I thought we weren’t leaving until six.”
“Yes, but it’s already five. You hardly left yourself enough time.”
“Wow, right you are!” she exclaimed in a faux-surprised voice. “Let me run. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
“Okay, knock when you’re ready. Better yet, come on over and have a cocktail. William sent out for some decent vodka, so you won’t have to drink that dreadful hotel sludge.”
“Why don’t we just meet in the lobby at six? As you can see”—Brooke stepped back and motioned to her ripped T-shirt and messy hair—“I have a lot of work to do.”
“Mmm,” her mother-in-law said, clearly agreeing. “All right then. See you at six. And, Brooke? Maybe consider a little eye makeup? It does a face wonders.”
The hot shower and the episode of Millionaire Matchmaker that she had playing in the background didn’t help her feel much better, though the single-serving bottle of white wine in the minibar helped a bit. It didn’t last for long, though. By the time she’d put on her standby black wrap dress, slapped on some eye shadow like an obedient daughter-in-law, and headed to the lobby, she was back to being supremely stressed.
The drive to the restaurant was only a couple of miles, but it felt like an eternity. Dr. Alter complained bitterly the entire time: what kind of hotel doesn’t have a valet, how could Hertz rent only American cars, who called dinner for six thirty in the evening, for chrissake, it was practically lunchtime? He even managed to complain that there wasn’t enough traffic for a Friday night in Chattanooga—after all, what kind of respectable city had clear streets and plenty of available parking? Where on earth were other drivers so goddamn polite, what with everyone sitting at stop signs for ten minutes, frantically waving each other through? Nowhere he wanted to be, that was for sure. Real cities had congestion, dirt, crowds, snow, sirens, potholes, and other assorted miseries, he insisted in the most ridiculous rant Brooke had ever heard. By the time the three of them made their way inside, it felt like they’d been out all night.
To her enormous relief, Trent’s parents were standing right by the door. Brooke wondered what they thought of her mother-in-law’s absurd derby hat. Trent’s father and Julian’s father were brothers, extremely close despite a large age difference, and the four of them immediately retreated to the bar at the far end of the room. Brooke begged off by saying she was going to call Julian. She noted the relieved looks; women who called their husbands just to say hello didn’t turn around and divorce them, right?
