Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 97
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She scanned the room for Trent or Fern but didn’t see them. Outside, it was in the fifties, which, compared to February in New York, was downright tropical, and she didn’t even bother rebuttoning her coat. She was certain Julian wouldn’t answer—it was midnight in the UK and he would’ve just finished his set—but she dialed anyway and was surprised when she heard his voice.
“Hi! I’m so glad you called,” he said, sounding as shocked as she felt. There was no background noise. She could hear the excitement in his voice. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” she asked, hating the insecurity in her voice. They’d been talking once a day for the last two weeks, but each time it was Julian who initiated.
“It kills me to think of you at that wedding without me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s killing your parents, too.”
“Are they driving you crazy?”
“Understatement of the century. We hit crazy at check-in. We are now on our way to self-annihilation.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Do you think you’re doing the right thing, Julian? I haven’t seen Trent or Fern yet, but I don’t know what I’m going to say.”
Julian cleared his throat. “Just tell them again that I didn’t want to turn his special night into a media circus.”
Brooke was quiet for a second. If she had to bet, she’d guess that Trent would rather risk a nosy reporter or two than have his cousin and lifelong friend miss his wedding, but she didn’t say anything.
“So, uh, how’d it go tonight?”
“Oh my god, Rook, it was incredible. Just incredible. There’s a town near the property, and it has this amazing medieval old city way up on a hill, overlooking the modern town below it. The only way to get up there was to take a little funicular to the top, like fifteen people at a time, and then when you step off, it’s like a maze—all these huge stone walls with torches extending from the top, and little alcoves hiding shops and homes. There was an ancient amphitheater right in the middle with the most outrageous views of the expansive Scottish hillside, and I performed in the dark, with everything lit only by candles and torches. They served these hot, spiked lemon drinks, and there was something about the cold air and the hot drinks and the creepy lighting and the view . . . I’m not explaining it well, but it was awesome.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“It was! And then when it ended, they took everyone back to the hotel . . . resort? Country estate? I don’t know what to call it, but this place is incredible, too. Picture an ancient farmhouse surrounded by hundreds of acres of rolling hills, but it’s got all the flat-screens and heated floors in the bathrooms and the most insane infinity pool you’ve ever seen. The rooms are, like, two thousand a night and they each have a private fireplace with a separate little library, and they come with your own butler.” He paused for a minute and then said, very sweetly, “It would be absolutely perfect if you were here.”
It was nice to hear him so happy—really, it was—and so talkative. He was clearly taking the share approach; maybe he did have a crisis of conscience about their communications lately. But it was a little hard to stomach considering her own current circumstances: accompanied by her in-laws, rather than heads of state or international supermodels; strip malls instead of bucolic fields; a cookie-cutter hotel room at the local Sheraton with a decided lack of butlers. And on top of it all, she was attending his cousin’s wedding—alone. So while it was great to hear him enjoying himself so much, she would not be opposed to hearing fewer details about his current abundance of fabulousness.
“Look, I should run. The rehearsal dinner is about to start.”
A couple about her age walked past her on their way to the restaurant’s entrance, and they all exchanged smiles.
“Seriously, how are my parents?”
“I don’t know, they seem fine.”
“Are they behaving themselves?”
“They’re trying, I guess. Your dad’s all fired up about the rental car—don’t ask—and your mother seems to think this is a costume party, but, yeah, they’re fine.”
“You’re a hero, Brooke,” he said quietly. “So above and beyond the call of duty. I’m sure Trent and Fern appreciate it.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“But that doesn’t mean a lot of people would’ve done it. I hope I did the right thing, too.”
“It’s not about us and what we’re going through,” she said quietly. “It’s our responsibility to put on a happy face and celebrate their night. Which is what I’m going to try to do.”
She was interrupted again by another couple walking past. Something about the way they looked at her indicated they recognized her. There would be assumptions when everyone saw she was there alone.
“Brooke? I’m sorry, I really am. But I miss you and I can’t wait to see you. I really think that—”
“I’ve got to run,” she said, aware that others were listening to her. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and she could hear that he was hurt. “Say hi to everyone for me, and try to have fun tonight. I miss and love you so much.”
“Uh-huh. You too. Bye.” She disconnected the call and was met with the all-too-familiar feeling of wanting to crumple to the floor and cry, and she may have done just that had Trent not walked outside. He was wearing what Brooke thought of as Boarding School Chic: white shirt, blue blazer, cranberry-colored tie, Gucci loafers, and—as a nod to the changing times—a daring pair of khakis (flat front instead of pleated). Even now, all these years later, she still flashed back to their date at the bland Italian restaurant and that intense, fluttery feeling she got when Trent took her to the bar where she spotted Julian.
“Hey, I heard a rumor you were here,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Was that Julian?” He nodded toward the phone.
“Yeah, he’s in Scotland. I know he would rather be here,” she said weakly.
Trent smiled. “Well then he would be. I tried to tell him a thousand times that this is a private residence and we would gladly hire security to keep away any paparazzi, but he kept insisting he didn’t want to create a circus. Nothing I said could convince him. So . . .”
“Hi! I’m so glad you called,” he said, sounding as shocked as she felt. There was no background noise. She could hear the excitement in his voice. “I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” she asked, hating the insecurity in her voice. They’d been talking once a day for the last two weeks, but each time it was Julian who initiated.
“It kills me to think of you at that wedding without me.”
“Yeah, well, it’s killing your parents, too.”
“Are they driving you crazy?”
“Understatement of the century. We hit crazy at check-in. We are now on our way to self-annihilation.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Do you think you’re doing the right thing, Julian? I haven’t seen Trent or Fern yet, but I don’t know what I’m going to say.”
Julian cleared his throat. “Just tell them again that I didn’t want to turn his special night into a media circus.”
Brooke was quiet for a second. If she had to bet, she’d guess that Trent would rather risk a nosy reporter or two than have his cousin and lifelong friend miss his wedding, but she didn’t say anything.
“So, uh, how’d it go tonight?”
“Oh my god, Rook, it was incredible. Just incredible. There’s a town near the property, and it has this amazing medieval old city way up on a hill, overlooking the modern town below it. The only way to get up there was to take a little funicular to the top, like fifteen people at a time, and then when you step off, it’s like a maze—all these huge stone walls with torches extending from the top, and little alcoves hiding shops and homes. There was an ancient amphitheater right in the middle with the most outrageous views of the expansive Scottish hillside, and I performed in the dark, with everything lit only by candles and torches. They served these hot, spiked lemon drinks, and there was something about the cold air and the hot drinks and the creepy lighting and the view . . . I’m not explaining it well, but it was awesome.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“It was! And then when it ended, they took everyone back to the hotel . . . resort? Country estate? I don’t know what to call it, but this place is incredible, too. Picture an ancient farmhouse surrounded by hundreds of acres of rolling hills, but it’s got all the flat-screens and heated floors in the bathrooms and the most insane infinity pool you’ve ever seen. The rooms are, like, two thousand a night and they each have a private fireplace with a separate little library, and they come with your own butler.” He paused for a minute and then said, very sweetly, “It would be absolutely perfect if you were here.”
It was nice to hear him so happy—really, it was—and so talkative. He was clearly taking the share approach; maybe he did have a crisis of conscience about their communications lately. But it was a little hard to stomach considering her own current circumstances: accompanied by her in-laws, rather than heads of state or international supermodels; strip malls instead of bucolic fields; a cookie-cutter hotel room at the local Sheraton with a decided lack of butlers. And on top of it all, she was attending his cousin’s wedding—alone. So while it was great to hear him enjoying himself so much, she would not be opposed to hearing fewer details about his current abundance of fabulousness.
“Look, I should run. The rehearsal dinner is about to start.”
A couple about her age walked past her on their way to the restaurant’s entrance, and they all exchanged smiles.
“Seriously, how are my parents?”
“I don’t know, they seem fine.”
“Are they behaving themselves?”
“They’re trying, I guess. Your dad’s all fired up about the rental car—don’t ask—and your mother seems to think this is a costume party, but, yeah, they’re fine.”
“You’re a hero, Brooke,” he said quietly. “So above and beyond the call of duty. I’m sure Trent and Fern appreciate it.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“But that doesn’t mean a lot of people would’ve done it. I hope I did the right thing, too.”
“It’s not about us and what we’re going through,” she said quietly. “It’s our responsibility to put on a happy face and celebrate their night. Which is what I’m going to try to do.”
She was interrupted again by another couple walking past. Something about the way they looked at her indicated they recognized her. There would be assumptions when everyone saw she was there alone.
“Brooke? I’m sorry, I really am. But I miss you and I can’t wait to see you. I really think that—”
“I’ve got to run,” she said, aware that others were listening to her. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and she could hear that he was hurt. “Say hi to everyone for me, and try to have fun tonight. I miss and love you so much.”
“Uh-huh. You too. Bye.” She disconnected the call and was met with the all-too-familiar feeling of wanting to crumple to the floor and cry, and she may have done just that had Trent not walked outside. He was wearing what Brooke thought of as Boarding School Chic: white shirt, blue blazer, cranberry-colored tie, Gucci loafers, and—as a nod to the changing times—a daring pair of khakis (flat front instead of pleated). Even now, all these years later, she still flashed back to their date at the bland Italian restaurant and that intense, fluttery feeling she got when Trent took her to the bar where she spotted Julian.
“Hey, I heard a rumor you were here,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Was that Julian?” He nodded toward the phone.
“Yeah, he’s in Scotland. I know he would rather be here,” she said weakly.
Trent smiled. “Well then he would be. I tried to tell him a thousand times that this is a private residence and we would gladly hire security to keep away any paparazzi, but he kept insisting he didn’t want to create a circus. Nothing I said could convince him. So . . .”
