Last Night at Chateau Marmont (2 page)

“So?”

“So? So what the hell does that mean.
Artist?
”

“Um, I think it could mean a lot of things. Painter, sculptor, musician, actor, wri—”

Nola touched her hand to her forehead. “Please. It can mean one thing only and we both know it: unemployed.”

“Everyone’s unemployed now. It’s practically chic.”

“Oh, come on. I can live with recession-related unemployment. But an
artiste
? Tough to stomach.”

“Nola! That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of people—loads of them, thousands, probably millions—who support themselves with their art. I mean, look at Julian. He’s a musician. Should I never have gone out with
him
?”

Nola opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. There was an awkward moment of silence.

“What were you going to say?” Brooke asked.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. You’re right.”

“No, really. What were you just about to say? Just say it.”

Nola twirled her wineglass by the stem and looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there. “I’m not saying that Julian isn’t really talented, but . . .”

“But what?” Brooke leaned in so close that Nola was forced to meet her eyes.

“But I’m not sure I would call him a ‘musician.’ He was someone’s assistant when you met. Now
you
support him.”

“Yes, he was an
intern
when we met,” Brooke said, barely even attempting to hide her irritation. “He was interning at Sony to learn the music industry, see how it works. And guess what? It’s only because of the relationships he built there that anyone paid him any attention in the first place. If he hadn’t been there every day, trying to make himself indispensable, do you think the head of A&R would’ve taken two hours of his time to watch him perform?”

“I know, it’s just that—”

“How can you say he’s not doing anything? Is that really what you think? I’m not sure if you realize this, but he has spent the last eight months locked away in a Midtown recording studio making an album. And not just some vanity project, by the way; Sony actually
signed
him as an artist—there’s that word again—and paid him an advance. If you don’t think that’s proper employment, I really don’t know what to tell you.”

Nola held her hands up in defeat and hung her head. “Yes, of course. You’re right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.” Brooke began chewing on her thumbnail. Any relief she’d felt from the wine had completely vanished.

Nola pushed her salad around with a fork. “Well, don’t they give out, like, a ton of recording contracts to anyone showing a modicum of talent, figuring it’ll only take one big hit to pay for all the smaller flops?”

Brooke was surprised by her friend’s knowledge of the music industry. Julian always explained that very theory when he downplayed his label deal and tried to, in his words, “manage expectations” about what such a deal really meant. Still, coming from Nola, it somehow sounded worse.

“A ‘modicum of talent’?” Brooke could only whisper the words. “Is that what you think of him?”

“Of
course
that’s not what I think of him. Don’t take it so personally. It’s just hard, as your friend, to watch you kill yourself working to support him for so many years now. Especially when the odds are so low that anything will come of it.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but you should know it was my choice to take on the extra private school consulting work to help support us. I don’t do it out of the kindness of my heart, I do it because I actually believe in him and his talent, and I know—even if no one else seems to think so—that he has a brilliant career ahead of him.”

Brooke had been ecstatic beyond description—possibly even more than Julian—when he’d called her with the initial offer from Sony eight months earlier. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars was more than they’d collectively made in the previous five years, and Julian would have the freedom to do with it what he wanted. How could she have possibly foreseen that such a massive infusion of cash would put them in even greater debt than they already were? From that advance
Julian needed to pay for studio time, hire high-priced producers and sound engineers, and cover the entire cost of his equipment, travel, and backup band. The money was gone in a few short months, long before they could use so much as a single dollar toward rent, utilities, or even a celebratory dinner. And once all those funds were being used to help Julian make a name for himself, it didn’t make sense not to see the project through. They’d already spent thirty thousand dollars of their own money—the entirety of their savings that had once been earmarked for a down payment on an apartment—and they were burning through more credit every single day. The scariest part of the whole thing was what Nola had so brutally spelled out: the chances of Julian ever making good on all that time and money—even with the Sony name behind him—were almost nil.

“I just hope he knows how lucky he is to have a wife like you,” Nola said, more softly now. “I can tell you, I sure wouldn’t be so supportive. Which is probably why I’m destined to be single forever . . .”

Thankfully their pasta dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to safer topics: how fattening was the meat sauce, whether or not Nola should ask for a raise at work, how much Brooke disliked her in-laws. When Brooke motioned for the check without ordering the tiramisu or even a coffee, Nola looked concerned.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?” she asked, putting her credit card in the leather folder.

“No,” Brooke lied. “I’ve just had a long day.”

“Where are you headed now? No après-dinner drink?”

“Julian’s actually got a . . . he’s performing,” Brooke said, changing her mind at the last second. She’d rather not have mentioned his gig at all, but it felt strange lying to Nola.

“Oh, fun!” Nola said brightly, draining the last of her wine. “Want company?”

They both knew she didn’t really want to go, which was okay, because Brooke didn’t really want her to go. Her friend and her husband got along just fine, and that was good enough. She appreciated Nola’s
protectiveness and knew it came from a good place, but it was hard thinking your best friend was constantly judging your husband—and he was always coming up short.

“Trent’s in town actually,” Brooke said. “He’s here on a rotation of some sort, so I’m meeting him there.”

“Ah, good old Trent. How’s he liking med school?”

“He’s done actually; he’s an intern now. Julian says he loves L.A., which is surprising—born-and-bred New Yorkers
never
like L.A.”

Nola stood up and put her suit jacket back on. “Is he dating anyone? If I remember correctly, he’s boring as hell but perfectly cute. . . .”

“He just got engaged, actually. To a fellow gastro intern, a girl named Fern. Intern Fern, the gastro specialist. I’d rather not imagine what their conversation entails.”

Nola scrunched up her face in disgust. “Thanks for that visual. And to think, he could’ve been all yours. . . .”

“Mmmm.”

“I just want to make sure I still get proper credit for introducing you to your husband. If you hadn’t gone out with the Trent man that night, you’d still just be another Julian groupie.”

Brooke laughed and kissed her friend on the cheek. She fished two twenties out of her wallet and handed them to Nola. “I’ve got to run. If I don’t get on the train in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to be late. Talk tomorrow?” She grabbed her coat and clutch, offered a quick wave to Luca on the way out, and bolted through the door.

Even after all these years, Brooke shuddered when she thought how close she and Julian came to missing each other. It was June 2001, a mere month after she’d graduated from college, and Brooke was finding it almost impossible to acclimate to her new sixty-hour workweek, split almost evenly between her nutrition grad coursework, logging internship hours, and a make-ends-meet barista stint at a neighborhood coffee joint. While she’d had no illusions about the
difficulty of working twelve hours a day for $22,000—or so she’d thought—she hadn’t been able to predict the sum strain of long workdays, insufficient salary, too little sleep, and the logistics of sharing a seven-hundred-square-foot Murray Hill one-bedroom with Nola and another of their friends. Which is why, when Nola implored Brooke to join her for live music on a Sunday night, she’d flatly refused.

“Come on, Brookie, you need to get out of the apartment,” Nola had argued while pulling on a tight black tank top. “There’s some jazz quartet performing and they’re supposed to be really good, and Benny and Simone said they’d save us seats. Five-dollar cover and two-for-one drinks. What can you possibly not like about that?”

“I’m just too tired.” Brooke sighed, clicking listlessly through the channels from the girls’ living room futon. “I still have to write a paper, and I have to be at work in eleven hours.”

“Oh, save the drama. You’re twenty-two, for chrissake. Suck it up and go get dressed. We’re leaving in ten.”

“It’s pouring outside and—”

“Ten minutes, not one second longer, or you’re not my friend anymore.”

By the time the girls had made it to Rue B’s in the East Village and tucked themselves into a too-small table with friends from school, Brooke was regretting her weakness. Why did she always cave to Nola? Why on earth was she packed into a smoky, crowded bar, drinking a watery vodka tonic and waiting to see a jazz quartet she’d never heard of? She didn’t even particularly
like
jazz. Or, for that matter, any live music, unless it happened to be a Dave Matthews or Bruce Springsteen concert where she could merrily sing along to all the songs. This was clearly not that kind of night. Which is why she felt a mixture of both irritation and relief when the leggy, blond bartender banged a spoon on a water glass.

“Hey, guys! Hey, y’all, can I have your attention for a minute?” She wiped her free hand on her jeans and patiently waited for the crowd to quiet down. “I know you’re all excited to hear the Tribesmen
tonight, but we just got word that they’re stuck in traffic on the LIE and aren’t going to make it in time.”

Rousing boos and jeers ensued.

“I know, I know, it sucks. Overturned tractor trailer, complete standstill, blah, blah, blah.”

“How about a free round as an apology?” called out a middle-aged man sitting in the back while holding up his drink.

The bartender laughed. “Sorry. But if anyone wants to come on up here and entertain us . . .” She looked directly at the man, who just shook his head.

“Seriously, we’ve got a perfectly good piano. Anyone play?”

The room was silent as everyone glanced around at each other.

“Hey, Brooke, don’t you play?” Nola whispered loud enough for their table to hear.

Brooke rolled her eyes. “I got kicked out of the band in sixth grade because I couldn’t learn to read sheet music. Who gets kicked out of the middle school band?”

The bartender was not giving up easily. “Come on, folks! It’s freaking
pouring
outside, and we’re all in the mood to hear a little music. I’ll cave and throw in free pitchers for the room if someone can entertain us for a few minutes.”

“I play a little.”

Brooke followed the voice to a scruffy-looking guy sitting alone at the bar. He was in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and a knit hat even though it was summer. She hadn’t noticed him before but decided he might—might—be reasonably cute if he showered, shaved, and lost the hat.

“By all means . . .” The bartender swept her arms toward the piano. “What’s your name?”

“Julian.”

“Well, Julian, she’s all yours.” She resumed her position behind the bar as Julian climbed onto the piano bench. He played a few
notes, messing around with the timing and rhythm, and the audience lost interest pretty quickly and went back to their conversations. Even when he did quietly play an entire song (something ballad-y she didn’t recognize), the music was more like background noise. But after ten minutes he played the intro notes to “Hallelujah,” and he started to sing the lyrics in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. The room fell silent.

Brooke had heard the song before, having been briefly obsessed with Leonard Cohen, and had loved it, but the full-body chills were brand-new. She scanned the room. Were other people feeling this way? Julian’s hands moved effortlessly across the keys as he somehow infused each word with intense feeling. Only when he’d murmured the final drawn-out “hallelujah” did the crowd react: they clapped, whistled, screamed, and almost uniformly jumped out of their seats. Julian appeared embarrassed, sheepish, and after an almost imperceptible bow, he began to walk back to his bar stool.

“Damn, he’s good,” breathed a young girl to her date at the table behind them, her eyes fixed on the piano player.

“Encore!” called an attractive woman who clutched her husband’s hand. The husband nodded and echoed her call. Within seconds, the cheering had doubled in volume and the entire room was demanding a second song.

The bartender grabbed Julian’s hand and pulled him back toward the microphone. “Pretty amazing, isn’t he, guys?” she yelled, beaming with pride at her new discovery. “What do you say we convince Julian here to play us one more?”