Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 52
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“Julian, I really—”
“No more talking,” he said, pressing his fingers to her lips. “We won’t go if you don’t want to”—he corrected himself when he saw Brooke’s expression—“if you’re not able to. I’ll wait until we can see it together, I swear. But promise you’ll think about it?”
Not trusting her voice, Brooke just nodded.
“Okay, then. How about we go out tonight? Somewhere low-key but great. No press. No friends. Just us. What do you say?”
She had figured they would spend their first night together at home, but the more she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time the two of them went out alone. There was still so much to talk about, but they could do it over a bottle of good wine. Maybe she was just being too hard on him and it would do them both some good if she could just relax. “Okay, let’s do it. I just want to dry my hair a little so it doesn’t frizz.”
Julian beamed and kissed her. “Excellent. Walter and I will call around and find the perfect spot.” He turned to Walter and kissed him, too. “Walty, boy, where should I take the wife?”
Brooke quickly ran the blow-dryer over her damp hair and picked out her cutest pair of ballet flats. She slicked on some lip gloss, added a double-chain gold necklace, and after a bit of a debate, decided in favor of a long, soft cardigan rather than a boxier blazer. The look wasn’t going to win her any awards, but it was the best she could do without completely stripping down and starting from scratch.
Julian was on the phone when she walked back into the living room, but he immediately hung up and walked over to her.
“Come here, beautiful girl,” he murmured, kissing her.
“Mmm, you taste good.”
“You look even better. We’ll get some dinner, drink some wine, and then what do you say we come directly back here and get reacquainted?”
“I say yes,” Brooke said, kissing him back. The uneasy feeling she’d had since the moment Julian walked in—the sense that so much was happening, so quickly, and they hadn’t resolved anything—was still nudging her, but she tried her best to ignore it.
Julian had chosen a great little Spanish restaurant on Ninth Avenue and the weather was still warm enough to sit outside. After they kicked the first half bottle of wine they ordered, both of them relaxed, and the conversation grew easy again, more comfortable. Randy and Michelle’s baby was due soon, Julian’s parents were going away over New Year’s and had offered up their Hamptons home, Brooke’s mother had just seen an incredible play off-Broadway and was insisting they go see it as well.
It wasn’t until they got home and undressed that the awkwardness came rushing back. Brooke had expected Julian to make good on his offer of makeup sex the instant they walked into the apartment—after all, it had been three weeks—but he was distracted first by his phone and then his laptop. When he finally joined her in the bathroom to brush his teeth, it was already after midnight.
“What time are you up tomorrow?” Julian asked as he plucked out his contact lenses and squirted them with cleaning solution.
“I have to be at the hospital by seven thirty for a staff meeting. What about you?”
“I’m meeting Samara at some hotel in SoHo for a photo shoot.”
“Got it. So, should I put my face moisturizer on now or later?” she asked Julian as he flossed. Since Julian hated the smell of her intensive night cream and refused to come near her when she was wearing it, this was code for “Are we going to have sex tonight?”
“I’m beat, baby. The schedule is pretty intense now. So close to the new single.” He set the little plastic box of floss on the sink and kissed her cheek.
She couldn’t help but be insulted. Yes, she could understand how absolutely exhausted he must be after all that time on the road. She was pretty tired, too, after her daily six o’clock wake-ups to walk Walter, but he was a man and it had been three weeks.
“Got it,” she said, and immediately slathered on her thick, yellow face cream—the same one every reviewer on beauty.com opined was 100 percent fragrance free but which her husband swore he could smell from across the living room.
Okay, fine, she’d admit it: she was also relieved. Which is not to say she didn’t love sex with her husband, because she did—from the very first time, it had been one of the best features of their relationship, and certainly one of the most constant. Of course, having sex every day (sometimes twice) when you’re twenty-four and it still feels vaguely scandalous just to sleep over at someone else’s apartment isn’t such a rarity, but things hadn’t slowed much as they dated or even married. For years she’d listened as her friends would joke about their different methods for avoiding husbands and boyfriends each night and Brooke would laugh right along with them, but she didn’t understand. Why would they want to? Crawling into bed with her husband and making love before they fell asleep had been her favorite part of the day; hell, it was the good part about being an adult in a committed relationship.
Well, she got it now. Nothing between them had changed—the sex was still every bit as great as it had always been—but the two of them were just so exhausted all the time. (The night before he’d left, he’d fallen asleep on top of her, halfway through, and Brooke only managed to be insulted for about ninety seconds before she passed out, too.) They were both constantly in motion, often separated, and overwhelmed. She hoped it was only temporary and that once Julian was home more often and she could more easily determine her own hours, they’d rediscover each other.
She turned off the bathroom light and followed him to their bed, where Julian had settled in with a copy of Guitar Player in hand, Walter snuggled in the crook of his elbow. “Look, baby. There’s a mention of my new song.” He showed her the magazine.
She nodded, but she was already thinking about sleep. Her routine was military efficient, designed to bring on unconsciousness in the shortest amount of time possible. She turned the air conditioner colder despite the fact that it was a pleasantly cool sixty degrees outside, stripped naked, and climbed under their hugely puffy down comforter. After washing her birth control pill down with a swig of water, she arranged a pair of blue foam earplugs and her favorite satin eye mask right next to the alarm clock and, satisfied, began to read.
“No more talking,” he said, pressing his fingers to her lips. “We won’t go if you don’t want to”—he corrected himself when he saw Brooke’s expression—“if you’re not able to. I’ll wait until we can see it together, I swear. But promise you’ll think about it?”
Not trusting her voice, Brooke just nodded.
“Okay, then. How about we go out tonight? Somewhere low-key but great. No press. No friends. Just us. What do you say?”
She had figured they would spend their first night together at home, but the more she thought about it, she couldn’t remember the last time the two of them went out alone. There was still so much to talk about, but they could do it over a bottle of good wine. Maybe she was just being too hard on him and it would do them both some good if she could just relax. “Okay, let’s do it. I just want to dry my hair a little so it doesn’t frizz.”
Julian beamed and kissed her. “Excellent. Walter and I will call around and find the perfect spot.” He turned to Walter and kissed him, too. “Walty, boy, where should I take the wife?”
Brooke quickly ran the blow-dryer over her damp hair and picked out her cutest pair of ballet flats. She slicked on some lip gloss, added a double-chain gold necklace, and after a bit of a debate, decided in favor of a long, soft cardigan rather than a boxier blazer. The look wasn’t going to win her any awards, but it was the best she could do without completely stripping down and starting from scratch.
Julian was on the phone when she walked back into the living room, but he immediately hung up and walked over to her.
“Come here, beautiful girl,” he murmured, kissing her.
“Mmm, you taste good.”
“You look even better. We’ll get some dinner, drink some wine, and then what do you say we come directly back here and get reacquainted?”
“I say yes,” Brooke said, kissing him back. The uneasy feeling she’d had since the moment Julian walked in—the sense that so much was happening, so quickly, and they hadn’t resolved anything—was still nudging her, but she tried her best to ignore it.
Julian had chosen a great little Spanish restaurant on Ninth Avenue and the weather was still warm enough to sit outside. After they kicked the first half bottle of wine they ordered, both of them relaxed, and the conversation grew easy again, more comfortable. Randy and Michelle’s baby was due soon, Julian’s parents were going away over New Year’s and had offered up their Hamptons home, Brooke’s mother had just seen an incredible play off-Broadway and was insisting they go see it as well.
It wasn’t until they got home and undressed that the awkwardness came rushing back. Brooke had expected Julian to make good on his offer of makeup sex the instant they walked into the apartment—after all, it had been three weeks—but he was distracted first by his phone and then his laptop. When he finally joined her in the bathroom to brush his teeth, it was already after midnight.
“What time are you up tomorrow?” Julian asked as he plucked out his contact lenses and squirted them with cleaning solution.
“I have to be at the hospital by seven thirty for a staff meeting. What about you?”
“I’m meeting Samara at some hotel in SoHo for a photo shoot.”
“Got it. So, should I put my face moisturizer on now or later?” she asked Julian as he flossed. Since Julian hated the smell of her intensive night cream and refused to come near her when she was wearing it, this was code for “Are we going to have sex tonight?”
“I’m beat, baby. The schedule is pretty intense now. So close to the new single.” He set the little plastic box of floss on the sink and kissed her cheek.
She couldn’t help but be insulted. Yes, she could understand how absolutely exhausted he must be after all that time on the road. She was pretty tired, too, after her daily six o’clock wake-ups to walk Walter, but he was a man and it had been three weeks.
“Got it,” she said, and immediately slathered on her thick, yellow face cream—the same one every reviewer on beauty.com opined was 100 percent fragrance free but which her husband swore he could smell from across the living room.
Okay, fine, she’d admit it: she was also relieved. Which is not to say she didn’t love sex with her husband, because she did—from the very first time, it had been one of the best features of their relationship, and certainly one of the most constant. Of course, having sex every day (sometimes twice) when you’re twenty-four and it still feels vaguely scandalous just to sleep over at someone else’s apartment isn’t such a rarity, but things hadn’t slowed much as they dated or even married. For years she’d listened as her friends would joke about their different methods for avoiding husbands and boyfriends each night and Brooke would laugh right along with them, but she didn’t understand. Why would they want to? Crawling into bed with her husband and making love before they fell asleep had been her favorite part of the day; hell, it was the good part about being an adult in a committed relationship.
Well, she got it now. Nothing between them had changed—the sex was still every bit as great as it had always been—but the two of them were just so exhausted all the time. (The night before he’d left, he’d fallen asleep on top of her, halfway through, and Brooke only managed to be insulted for about ninety seconds before she passed out, too.) They were both constantly in motion, often separated, and overwhelmed. She hoped it was only temporary and that once Julian was home more often and she could more easily determine her own hours, they’d rediscover each other.
She turned off the bathroom light and followed him to their bed, where Julian had settled in with a copy of Guitar Player in hand, Walter snuggled in the crook of his elbow. “Look, baby. There’s a mention of my new song.” He showed her the magazine.
She nodded, but she was already thinking about sleep. Her routine was military efficient, designed to bring on unconsciousness in the shortest amount of time possible. She turned the air conditioner colder despite the fact that it was a pleasantly cool sixty degrees outside, stripped naked, and climbed under their hugely puffy down comforter. After washing her birth control pill down with a swig of water, she arranged a pair of blue foam earplugs and her favorite satin eye mask right next to the alarm clock and, satisfied, began to read.
