Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 40

“Might want to go stricter,” Brooke said, simultaneously sidestepping him so he couldn’t swat her.
“Big talker over here. I admit, I’ve got a few pounds to lose, but you’re a nutritionist—what’s your excuse? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, totally anorexic?” Randy reached her across the sidewalk and mussed up her hair.
“Wow, a weight comment and an insult to my profession all in the same breath. You’re on fire today.”
“Oh come on, you know I’m just kidding. You look great.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe I should lose five pounds, but Michelle’s got her work cut out for her,” she said with a grin.
“Trust me, I’m working on him,” Michelle called out as she gingerly stepped down the stairs. Her belly looked like it extended six feet in front of her despite the fact that she still had seven weeks to go, and her face broke into an instant sweat in the crushing August heat. Despite all of it, she looked happy, almost exhilarated. Brooke had always thought the whole pregnancy glow thing was a myth, but there was no denying something agreed with Michelle.
“I’m working on Brooke, too,” Julian said as he kissed Michelle on the cheek.
“Brooke’s gorgeous just the way she is,” Michelle immediately replied, her expression registering the hit.
Brooke turned to face Julian, forgetting that Michelle and Randy were watching the whole thing.
“What did you just say?”
Julian shrugged. “Nothing, Rook. It was a joke. Just a joke.”
“You’re ‘working on me’? Was that it? What, you’re trying to keep my morbid obesity in check?”
“Brooke, can we talk about this another time? You know I was just kidding around.”
“No, I’d like to talk about this right now. What exactly did you mean by that?”
Julian was beside her in a second, instantly contrite. “Rookie, it was totally just a joke. You know I love the way you look and wouldn’t change a thing. I just, uh, don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Randy reached out for Michelle’s hand and announced, “We’re going to get everything set up inside. Here, let me take these bags. Come in whenever you’re ready.”
Brooke waited until they’d shut the screen door. “Why, exactly, would I be uncomfortable? I’m not a supermodel, I know, but who is?”
“No, I know, it’s just that . . .” He kicked at the stoop with his Converse sneaker and then sat down.
“It’s just what?”
“Nothing. You know I think you’re gorgeous. It’s just that Leo thought you might feel uncomfortable in terms of publicity, and, you know, stuff like that.”
He looked at her, waiting, but she was too stunned to speak.
“Brooke—”
She pulled a piece of gum from her purse and stared at the ground.
“Rookie, come here. Christ, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not at all what I meant.”
She paused and waited for him to explain what he had really meant, but there was only silence.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” she said, trying to keep from tearing up. In a way, it’d be easier not knowing what he really meant.
“No, wait a minute. Come here,” he said, pulling her down next to him on the stoop and taking both her hands in his.
“Baby, I’m sorry I said that. Leo and I do not sit around and talk about you, and I know all this horseshit about my ‘image’ is nothing more than that, but I’m freaking out about all of this, and I need to listen to him right now. The album just dropped, and I’m trying not to let all this go to my head, but whichever way I think about it, I’m terrified: If it works and the album’s a hit—terrifying. If, more likely, this has all just been a lot of very lucky smoke and mirrors and nothing is really going to come of it—even more terrifying. Yesterday I was sitting in my safe little recording studio playing the music I love, totally able to pretend it was just me and a piano and no one else, and all of a sudden there’s this other stuff: TV appearances, dinners with executives, interviews. I’m just . . . not prepared. And if it means I’ve been kind of an asshole lately, I’m really, really sorry.”
There were a million things Brooke wanted to say—how much she missed him now that he was gone so often; how nervous she was about all their recent fighting, the constant roller coaster of up and down; how thrilled she was that he had actually opened up a little and let her in—but instead of pushing him even more, of asking all her questions or airing all her feelings, she forced herself to appreciate the tiny step he’d just taken.
She squeezed his hands and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes for the first time all day.
“Thank you,” he replied, and kissed her cheek right back.
With much still left unsaid and a lingering uneasy feeling, Brooke clasped her husband’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled up and escorted inside. She would do her best to forget the weight comment.
Randy and Michelle were waiting for them in the kitchen, where Michelle was preparing a platter of food for make-your-own-sandwiches: sliced turkey, roast beef, rye bread, Russian dressing, tomatoes, lettuce, and pickles. There were cans of Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda and a liter of lime seltzer. Michelle handed them each a paper plate and motioned for them to get started.
“So, what time do the festivities begin?” Brooke asked, helping herself to a few slices of turkey, no bread. She hoped both Randy and Julian would notice and feel guilty.
“The party starts at seven, but Cynthia wants us there at six to help set up.” Michelle moved around with surprising grace considering her size.
“Do you think he’s going to be surprised?” Brooke asked.
“I can’t believe your father is turning sixty-five.” Julian spread Russian dressing on a piece of bread.
“I can’t believe he finally retired,” Randy said. “It’s weird, but this September is going to be the first year in almost fifteen that we won’t be starting a school year together.”
Brooke followed everyone else into the dining room and set her plate and a can of Dr. Brown’s next to her brother. “Aw, you’re going to miss him, aren’t you? Who are you going to eat lunch with?”
Julian’s phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it.