Last Night at Chateau Marmont (29 page)

Neha laughed. “Like, back when we were in our twenties and still hot?”

“Yeah, we do lab coats and clogs better than anyone. Here, let me take your coats,” Brooke said as she ushered them inside.

Julian emerged from the tiny galley kitchen. “Hey, man,” he said, shaking Rohan’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “Great to see you. How is everything?” Julian looked especially adorable in a pair of black jeans, a cashmere gray waffle sweater, and a pair of vintage sneakers. His skin glowed with a subtle L.A.-acquired tan and despite being exhausted, his eyes were bright and he moved with a relaxed confidence Brooke had only recently noticed.

Rohan glanced at his own navy chino pants, dress shirt, and tie and actually blushed. He and Julian had never been close friends—Julian found Rohan way too quiet and conservative—but they’d always managed to make small talk in the presence of their wives. Now Rohan could barely meet Julian’s eyes, and he mumbled, “Oh, same old for us. Not nearly as exciting as you. We actually saw your face on a billboard the other day.”

There was an awkward pause until Ella, no longer crying and sporting the cutest little cow onesie Brooke had ever seen, made an appearance, and everyone could ooh and aah over her for a bit.

“So, Neha, how do you like Boston?” Brooke’s mother asked. She smeared a small hunk of blue cheese on a cracker and popped it in her mouth.

Neha smiled. “Well, we love our neighborhood and we’ve met some nice people. I like our apartment a lot. The city really does have a great quality of life.”

“What she wants to say is that it’s boring beyond description,” Brooke said, spearing an olive with a toothpick.

Neha nodded. “She’s right. It’s spirit crushing.”

Mrs. Greene laughed and Brooke could tell her mother was charmed. “So why don’t you two move back to New York? I know Brooke would be thrilled.”

“Rohan will be done with his MBA next year, and if I have any say at all, we’ll sell our car—I hate the driving—give up our perfectly lovely apartment, say good-bye to our extremely polite neighbors, and hightail it right back here where we can only afford a walk-up in a
sketchy neighborhood surrounded by rude, aggressive people. And I will love every minute of it.”

“Neha . . .” Rohan overheard this last part and gave his wife a look.

“What? You can’t expect me to live there forever.” She turned to Brooke and Mrs. Greene and lowered her voice. “He hates it, too, but he feels guilty about hating it. Who ever hates Boston, you know?”

By the time everyone had gathered around the cloth-draped card table to start the meal, Brooke had all but forgotten about the hideous article. There was plenty of wine, and the turkey was moist and perfectly cooked, and although the mashed potatoes were a little bland, her guests protested that they were the best damn mashed potatoes they’d ever eaten. They chatted easily about the new Hugh Grant movie and the upcoming trip to Mumbai and Goa that Neha and Rohan were planning over the holidays to visit their families. Things were so relaxed, in fact, that when Brooke’s mother leaned over and quietly asked her how she was holding up, she almost dropped her fork.

“
You’ve
read it?” Brooke spat, staring at her mother.

“Oh, honey, of course I read it. Four different women forwarded it to me this morning. Gossip hounds, each and every one of them. I can’t even imagine how devastating it is to read—”

“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“—something like that about yourself, but anyone who’s ever met you two will know it’s complete—pardon my French—bullshit.”

Neha must have caught the tail end of this, because she too leaned over and said, “Seriously, Brooke, it was all so obviously fictional. I mean, not one word of it was true. Don’t think about it for a second.”

She felt like she’d been slapped again. Why did she think no one would read this? How had she managed to delude herself into believing that the whole thing would just go away?

“I’m trying not to think about it,” she said.

Neha nodded, and Brooke knew she understood. If only she could say the same for her mother.

“Did you see those photographers out there when you came in?” Mrs. Greene asked Neha and Rohan. “They’re like vultures.”

Julian must have seen her face tighten, because he cleared his throat, but Brooke wanted to explain once and for all so they could move along. “It’s not that bad,” she said, passing the platter of grilled asparagus to Randy. “They’re not there all the time, and we had a bunch of blackout shades put in, so they really can’t get any shots. Unlisting our number helped. I’m sure it’s the initial excitement over the album. They’ll be totally bored of us by New Year’s.”

“I hope not,” Julian said with a dimpled smile. “Leo just told me he’s pushing for a Grammy appearance. He thinks there’s a pretty good chance I could get picked to perform.”

“Congratulations!” Michelle said with more enthusiasm than she’d displayed the entire day. “Is it a secret?”

Julian glanced at Brooke, who met his gaze and gave him a look back.

He coughed. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a secret, but they won’t announce performers until after the New Year, so it probably doesn’t make sense to say anything.”

“Awesome, man,” Randy said, grinning. “We’re all going if you go. You know that, right? This family’s a package deal.”

Julian had told her of the possibility when they were on the phone before, but hearing him tell everyone else somehow made it more real. She could barely even wrap her mind around it: her husband performing at the Grammys for the entire world.

Ella squawked from her portable swing next to the table and broke the spell. Brooke took the time to put all the homemade goodies on cake plates and platters: two homemade pies from her mother, one pumpkin and one rhubarb; a dozen mint brownies from Michelle; and a plate of Neha’s specialty, coconut
burfi,
which looked a little like Rice Krispie treats but tasted more like mini cheesecakes.

“So, Brooke, how’s work going for you?” Rohan asked through a mouthful of brownie.

Brooke sipped her coffee and said, “It’s going well. I love the hospital, but I’m hoping to go into business for myself in the next couple years.”

“You and Neha should think about doing it together. It’s all she’s been talking about lately.”

Brooke looked at Neha. “Really? You’re thinking of opening a private practice?”

Neha nodded so hard her black ponytail swung up and down. “Sure am. My parents have offered to loan me part of the start-up money, but I’d still need a partner to be able to make it work. Of course, I wasn’t even thinking about it until we got back to the city. . . .”

“I had no idea!” Brooke said, her excitement growing by the second.

“I can’t work in an OB office forever. Hopefully one day we’ll have a family”—something about the way Neha glanced at Rohan, who immediately blushed and looked away, made Brooke think they were newly pregnant—“and I’ll need some more flexible hours. Ideally, a small private practice that focuses exclusively on pre- and postnatal nutrition for moms and babies. Maybe bring in a lactation consultant as well, I’m not sure.”

“That is exactly what I’ve been thinking!” Brooke said. “I need another nine months to a year in hands-on clinical experience, but after that . . .”

Neha delicately bit off a piece of
burfi
and smiled. She turned to the other side of the table. “Hey, Julian, you think you can cough up some cash to get your wife started here?” she asked, and everyone laughed.

Later, after everyone had gone home and they’d done all the dishes and folded the chairs, Brooke curled up next to Julian on the couch.

“Pretty crazy that Neha’s been planning the exact same thing, isn’t it?” she asked excitedly. Although the conversation had naturally drifted to other subjects over dessert, Brooke hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

“It sounds absolutely perfect,” Julian said, kissing the top of her head. His phone had been ringing all night, and although he kept silencing it and pretending everything was fine, he was clearly distracted.

“Even more perfect, because as soon as I can get out there on my own, I’ll have so much more free time to travel with you, so much more flexibility than I do now. Won’t that be great?”

“Mmm. Definitely.”

“I mean, the time and effort that would go into doing something like that on your own—never mind the money—is so overwhelming, but it would be perfect for the two of us to do it together. We’d be able to cover for each other and still see double the patients. It is literally the
ideal
scenario,” Brooke said happily.

It was just the good news she’d needed. Julian’s absences, the snoopy reporters, the horrible article still stung, but something to look forward to helped turn the volume down on everything else.

His phone rang yet again. “Just answer it already,” she said, sounding more irritated than she’d intended.

Julian stared at the caller ID, which read “Leo,” and clicked Talk. “Hey, man, happy Thanksgiving.” He nodded a few times, laughed, and then said, “Sure, okay. Yeah, I’ll check with her, but I’m sure she can make it. Yep. Count us in. Later.”

He turned and faced her with a huge grin. “Guess where we’re going?”

“Where?”

“We, my dear, were invited to the ultra-exclusive Sony VIP holiday lunch and cocktails. Leo said the whole world goes to the party at night in the city, but only their top artists are invited to join all the
top record execs at some crazy, trillion-dollar house in the Hamptons during the day. Performances by surprise guests. We’ll travel back and forth by
helicopter.
Nothing has ever been written about this party before because it’s so secret and so exclusive. And
we
are going!”

“Wow, that sounds incredible. When is it?” Brooke asked, her mind already cycling through outfit options.

Julian jumped up and headed to the kitchen. “Friday before Christmas. I don’t know what the date is.”

She grabbed his phone and scrolled through to the calendar. “December twentieth? Julian, it’s my last day at Huntley before school closes for the holidays.”

“So?” He pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

“So, that’s
our
holiday party. At Huntley. They asked me to plan their first-ever healthy menu of fun party foods for the girls. I also promised Kaylie that I’d meet her father and her grandmother. Parents are invited to the party and she’s been very excited about introducing all of us.”

Brooke was proud of her tremendous progress with the girl over the last couple months. By increasing the frequency of their sessions and asking a lot of pointed questions about Whitney Weiss, Brooke was able to determine that Kaylie was flirting with purging, but she was also now certain that she didn’t fit any of the criteria of someone suffering from a full-blown eating disorder. With lots of talking and listening and an abundance of extra attention, Kaylie had put back on a healthful portion of the weight she’d lost so rapidly, and she seemed to have developed more self-confidence to go with it. Probably most important of all, she’d joined the theater club and scored a coveted supporting role in this year’s production of
West Side Story.
She finally had friends.

Julian rejoined her on the couch and clicked on the television. Noise filled the room.

“Can you turn that down?” she asked, trying to mask the irritation in her voice.

He obliged, but only after giving her a strange look. “I don’t mean to sound insensitive here,” he said, “but can’t you just call in sick? We’re talking helicopters and meeting the head of Sony Music. Don’t you think someone else can figure out the cupcakes?”

At no point in the last five years of marriage could she remember him being so patronizing, so incredibly condescending. What made it worse was the way he was peering at her, oblivious to how obnoxious and self-centered he sounded.

“You know what? I’m positive someone else could ‘figure out the cupcakes,’ as you so asininely put it. What’s my silly, frivolous job compared to the worldwide importance of yours, right? But you’re forgetting one thing. I actually like what I do. I help these girls. I’ve invested a ton of time and energy in Kaylie, and guess what? It’s paying off. She’s happier and healthier than she’s been in a year. She’s not hurting herself anymore or crying every day. I know that can’t compare to a number four
Billboard
hit in your world, but in mine, it’s pretty freaking great. So no, Julian, I won’t be joining you at your super-fancy VIP holiday party. Because I’ve got my own party to attend.”

She stood up and glared at him, waiting for an apology, an attack, anything but what he was doing: staring blankly at the muted TV, shaking his head in disbelief, a look on his face that seemed to say,
I’m married to a lunatic.

“Well, I’m glad we worked that out,” she said quietly as she walked back toward the bedroom.

She waited for him to come in and talk about it, hug her, remind her that they never went to sleep angry, but when she crept back to the living room over an hour later, he was curled up on the couch, under the purple afghan, snoring softly. She turned and went back to bed alone.

J
ULIAN
laughed as the fatter lobster pulled ahead. “One and a half pounds has taken the lead. They’re just about to round the corner, folks,” he said in his best imitation of a sports announcer. “I think I’ve got this one.”

Its rival, a smaller lobster with a shiny black shell and what Brooke would swear were soulful eyes, scuttled forward to close the gap. “Not so fast,” she said.

They were sitting on the kitchen floor, their backs against the island, cheering on their respective competitors. Brooke felt vaguely guilty for trying to race her lobster before tossing him in a pot of boiling water, but they didn’t seem to mind. It was only when Walter nosed one of them and it refused to move another inch that Brooke swooped in and rescued hers from further torture.

“Victory by surrender! I’ll take it,” Julian shouted with a fist pump. He then proceeded to high-five his lobster’s rubber-banded claw. Walter woofed.