Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 99
“Thrilled,” she said automatically, the realization dawning on her sickeningly. . . . She wondered how long she had to wait before she could get up without being overtly rude and figured a minimum of three more interminable minutes.
“So, I really hope you don’t mind me asking. . . .”
Oh no! He was going to ask her about the pictures, she was certain of it. She’d had eighteen blissful hours where not a single person had mentioned them, and now Isaac was going to go ruin everything.
“Don’t you want some coffee?” Brooke blurted out in a desperate attempt to distract him from the inevitable.
He looked confused for a moment and then shook his head no. He reached into the canvas messenger bag resting at his feet, pulled out a manila envelope, and said, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving this to Julian for me? I mean, I can’t even imagine how busy he is and everything—and let me say right off that I’m not nearly as talented as he is—but I’ve been dedicating what little free time I have to my music, and, well . . . I’d love to hear what he thinks.” With that, he reached into the envelope, pulled out a CD encased in a sleeve, and held it out to Brooke.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Um, sure, I’ll—actually, why don’t I give you his studio address? You can mail it to him yourself.”
Isaac’s face lit up. “Really? That’s great. I just figured that with, uh, everything that’s going on, I, well, I wasn’t sure he was going to—”
“Yep. He’s still there all the time, working on his next album. Listen, Isaac, I’ve got to run upstairs and make a call. See you tonight, okay?”
“Sure, sounds good. Oh, Brooke? One last thing. My girlfriend—she’s not coming until tonight—actually has a blog. She covers, like, celebrity stuff and society parties, that kind of thing. Anyway, I know she’d love to interview you. She told me to ask you, in case you were looking for a fair and impartial place to tell your side of the story. Anyway, I just know she’d be thrilled to—”
If she didn’t walk away that instant, Brooke was going to say something horrible. “Thanks, Isaac. Really sweet of her to think of me. I’m good for now, but thanks.” And before he could utter another word, she bolted toward the elevator.
The maid was cleaning her room when she returned, but she couldn’t risk going back down to the lobby. She smiled at the woman, who looked exhausted and in need of a break anyway, and told her to skip the rest. When the woman had gathered her supplies and left, Brooke collapsed back on the unmade bed and tried to psych herself up to get some work done. She didn’t have to start getting ready for another six hours, and she was determined to spend the time researching job openings, posting her résumé, and writing a few generalized cover letters that could be personalized later.
She used the tuner on the clock radio to find a classical radio station, a small little rebellion against Julian, who had stocked her iTunes not just with his own music but also every other artist he thought she should be listening to, and she set up camp at the desk. The first hour she was supremely focused—no small feat considering the lingering headache—and managed to get her résumé posted on all the major job-seeking websites. The second hour she ordered a grilled chicken salad from room service and zoned out to an old episode of Prison Break on her laptop. Then she napped for thirty minutes. When her cell phone rang and showed “Out of Area” a little after three she almost ignored it, but thinking it might be Julian, she answered.
“Brooke? It’s Margaret. Margaret Walters.”
She was so stunned she almost dropped the phone. Her first reaction was fear—was she missing her shift again?—before logic returned and she remembered the worst had already happened. Regardless of why she was calling, Brooke could say with reasonable certainty that it wasn’t to fire her.
“Margaret! How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Listen, Brooke, I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I didn’t want this to wait until next week.”
“It’s no bother at all! I’m actually sending out my résumé as we speak,” she said with a smile into the phone.
“Well, that’s good to hear, because I think I have somewhere for you to send it.”
“Really?”
“I just got a phone call from a colleague of mine, Anita Moore. Actually, she’s an ex-employee of mine, but from many years ago. She was on staff at Mt. Sinai for years, but she recently left and she’s opening her own shop.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting.”
“I’ll let her give you all the details, but it’s my understanding that she received federal funding to open a kind of early intervention center in an at-risk neighborhood. She’s looking to hire a speech therapist who specializes in children and an RD who has experience with prenatal, lactation, new-mother, and newborn nutrition. She’ll be serving a community that doesn’t have regular access to prenatal care, patients who don’t know the first thing about nutrition, so there’s no doubt a lot of it will be basic—literally, convincing-them-why-they-need-their-folic-acid type things—but I think in that way it’ll be challenging and rewarding. She doesn’t want to poach any of the current dietitians from Mt. Sinai, so she called to ask if I had any recommendations.”
“And you recommended me?”
“I did. I’ll be honest, Brooke. I told her all about Julian, the missed days, the hectic schedule, but I also told her you were one of the best and brightest I’d ever employed. This way everyone is going into it with eyes wide open.”
“Margaret, it sounds like a wonderful opportunity. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Brooke? I only ask one thing. If you think your hectic lifestyle is going to continue in a way that will regularly impact your work, please be honest with Anita. What she’s trying to do is too difficult without staff she can depend on.”
Brooke nodded furiously. “I hear you, Margaret. Loud and clear. My husband’s career will no longer be affecting my own. I can promise you and Anita that.”
Barely able to keep from shrieking with joy into the phone, Brooke carefully copied Anita’s contact information. Snapping open a fresh can of minibar Diet Coke, her headache magically cleared, she hit Compose on her e-mail and began typing. She was going to get that job.
“So, I really hope you don’t mind me asking. . . .”
Oh no! He was going to ask her about the pictures, she was certain of it. She’d had eighteen blissful hours where not a single person had mentioned them, and now Isaac was going to go ruin everything.
“Don’t you want some coffee?” Brooke blurted out in a desperate attempt to distract him from the inevitable.
He looked confused for a moment and then shook his head no. He reached into the canvas messenger bag resting at his feet, pulled out a manila envelope, and said, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving this to Julian for me? I mean, I can’t even imagine how busy he is and everything—and let me say right off that I’m not nearly as talented as he is—but I’ve been dedicating what little free time I have to my music, and, well . . . I’d love to hear what he thinks.” With that, he reached into the envelope, pulled out a CD encased in a sleeve, and held it out to Brooke.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Um, sure, I’ll—actually, why don’t I give you his studio address? You can mail it to him yourself.”
Isaac’s face lit up. “Really? That’s great. I just figured that with, uh, everything that’s going on, I, well, I wasn’t sure he was going to—”
“Yep. He’s still there all the time, working on his next album. Listen, Isaac, I’ve got to run upstairs and make a call. See you tonight, okay?”
“Sure, sounds good. Oh, Brooke? One last thing. My girlfriend—she’s not coming until tonight—actually has a blog. She covers, like, celebrity stuff and society parties, that kind of thing. Anyway, I know she’d love to interview you. She told me to ask you, in case you were looking for a fair and impartial place to tell your side of the story. Anyway, I just know she’d be thrilled to—”
If she didn’t walk away that instant, Brooke was going to say something horrible. “Thanks, Isaac. Really sweet of her to think of me. I’m good for now, but thanks.” And before he could utter another word, she bolted toward the elevator.
The maid was cleaning her room when she returned, but she couldn’t risk going back down to the lobby. She smiled at the woman, who looked exhausted and in need of a break anyway, and told her to skip the rest. When the woman had gathered her supplies and left, Brooke collapsed back on the unmade bed and tried to psych herself up to get some work done. She didn’t have to start getting ready for another six hours, and she was determined to spend the time researching job openings, posting her résumé, and writing a few generalized cover letters that could be personalized later.
She used the tuner on the clock radio to find a classical radio station, a small little rebellion against Julian, who had stocked her iTunes not just with his own music but also every other artist he thought she should be listening to, and she set up camp at the desk. The first hour she was supremely focused—no small feat considering the lingering headache—and managed to get her résumé posted on all the major job-seeking websites. The second hour she ordered a grilled chicken salad from room service and zoned out to an old episode of Prison Break on her laptop. Then she napped for thirty minutes. When her cell phone rang and showed “Out of Area” a little after three she almost ignored it, but thinking it might be Julian, she answered.
“Brooke? It’s Margaret. Margaret Walters.”
She was so stunned she almost dropped the phone. Her first reaction was fear—was she missing her shift again?—before logic returned and she remembered the worst had already happened. Regardless of why she was calling, Brooke could say with reasonable certainty that it wasn’t to fire her.
“Margaret! How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Listen, Brooke, I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I didn’t want this to wait until next week.”
“It’s no bother at all! I’m actually sending out my résumé as we speak,” she said with a smile into the phone.
“Well, that’s good to hear, because I think I have somewhere for you to send it.”
“Really?”
“I just got a phone call from a colleague of mine, Anita Moore. Actually, she’s an ex-employee of mine, but from many years ago. She was on staff at Mt. Sinai for years, but she recently left and she’s opening her own shop.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting.”
“I’ll let her give you all the details, but it’s my understanding that she received federal funding to open a kind of early intervention center in an at-risk neighborhood. She’s looking to hire a speech therapist who specializes in children and an RD who has experience with prenatal, lactation, new-mother, and newborn nutrition. She’ll be serving a community that doesn’t have regular access to prenatal care, patients who don’t know the first thing about nutrition, so there’s no doubt a lot of it will be basic—literally, convincing-them-why-they-need-their-folic-acid type things—but I think in that way it’ll be challenging and rewarding. She doesn’t want to poach any of the current dietitians from Mt. Sinai, so she called to ask if I had any recommendations.”
“And you recommended me?”
“I did. I’ll be honest, Brooke. I told her all about Julian, the missed days, the hectic schedule, but I also told her you were one of the best and brightest I’d ever employed. This way everyone is going into it with eyes wide open.”
“Margaret, it sounds like a wonderful opportunity. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Brooke? I only ask one thing. If you think your hectic lifestyle is going to continue in a way that will regularly impact your work, please be honest with Anita. What she’s trying to do is too difficult without staff she can depend on.”
Brooke nodded furiously. “I hear you, Margaret. Loud and clear. My husband’s career will no longer be affecting my own. I can promise you and Anita that.”
Barely able to keep from shrieking with joy into the phone, Brooke carefully copied Anita’s contact information. Snapping open a fresh can of minibar Diet Coke, her headache magically cleared, she hit Compose on her e-mail and began typing. She was going to get that job.
