Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 98
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She took Trent’s hand. “I really am sorry about all this,” she said. “It’s pretty hideous timing on our part.”
“Come inside, let’s get you a drink,” Trent said.
She squeezed his forearm. “Let’s get you a drink.” She smiled. “This is your night. And I still haven’t said hello to your lovely bride.”
Brooke walked through the door Trent held open for her. The room was buzzing now, with people milling around with cocktails in hand, making the usual small talk. The only person she recognized aside from her in-laws and the bride and groom was Trent’s younger brother, Trevor, a sophomore in college who was currently slumped in the corner, praying no one approached him, staring intently at his iPhone. With the exception of Trevor, it felt like the entire room stopped moving for a split second and looked up just as they entered; her presence—and Julian’s absence—had been noted.
Unconsciously she squeezed Trent’s hand. Trent squeezed hers back and Brooke said, “Go, go meet your public! Enjoy it—it goes by really fast.”
The rest of the dinner was blessedly uneventful. Fern had been kind enough, without being asked, to move Brooke’s seat away from the Alters and next to her. Brooke immediately saw her appeal: she told adorable stories and jokes, asked everyone questions about themselves, and had self-deprecation down to a science. Fern even managed to diffuse the awkwardness when one of Trent’s med school friends drunkenly toasted Trent’s past penchant for girls with fake boobs by laughing and pulling her dress away from her chest while glancing down and saying, “Well, he’s certainly gotten over that!”
When the dinner was over and the Alters had come to fetch her for the ride back to the hotel, Fern linked her arm through Brooke’s, batted her eyelashes at Julian’s father, and turned on the Southern charm. “Oh, no you don’t!” she drawled exaggeratedly, Brooke noticed with amusement. “This one is staying right here with us. We’re sending all you old fogies back to your rooms, and we’re going to stay and have a little party. We’ll make sure she gets back safely.”
The Alters smiled and air-kissed Fern and then Brooke. The moment they’d left the dining room, Brooke turned to Fern. “You saved my life. They would’ve made me get a drink with them back at the hotel. After that they would’ve walked straight into my room to ask another six thousand questions about Julian. There’s a decent chance she would’ve commented about my weight, my marriage, or both. I can’t thank you enough.”
Fern waved her off. “Please. I couldn’t let you leave with someone wearing a hat like that. What if people saw?” She laughed and Brooke was more charmed than ever. “Besides, I’m selfishly happy you can stay. My friends all love you.”
She knew Fern only said it to make her feel good—after all, she’d barely had the chance to speak to anyone all night, although Trent and Fern’s friends all did seem nice—but who really cared? It worked. She felt good. Good enough to do a tequila shot with Trent “in Julian’s honor,” and still good enough to down a couple lemon drops with Fern and her sorority sisters (who, incidentally, could drink like no women she’d ever seen). She was still feeling good when the lights got turned off around midnight and someone figured out how to hook up an iPhone to the restaurant’s stereo system, felt good all the way through another two hours more of drinking, dancing, and—were she to be completely honest—some fun, old-fashioned flirting with one of Trent’s fellow residents. Completely innocent, of course, but she’d forgotten what it felt like to have an extremely cute guy focus on her the entire night, fetch her drinks, and try to make her laugh; that, too, felt good.
What didn’t feel good, naturally, was the excruciating hangover the next morning. Despite not getting back to the room until almost three, she woke at seven and stared at the ceiling, knowing she would surely vomit and wondering how long she would have to suffer before it happened. A half hour later, she was on the floor of her bathroom, gasping for breath and praying the Alters wouldn’t knock. Thankfully, she was able to crawl back under the covers and fall back asleep until nine.
Despite a crushing headache and a disgusting taste in her mouth, Brooke smiled when she opened her eyes and checked her phone. Julian had called and texted half a dozen times, continually asking where she was and why she wasn’t picking up the phone—he was on his way to the airport for his flight home, he missed her and loved her and couldn’t wait to see her back in New York. It was nice to have the tables turned, if only for a night. She’d finally been the one to drink too much, stay up too late, and party too long.
Brooke showered and headed to the lobby for some coffee, praying she wouldn’t run into the Alters on their way out. They’d told her the night before that they were planning to spend the day with Trent’s parents; the women had hair and makeup appointments scheduled and the men were playing squash. When Elizabeth invited Brooke to join them, she’d blatantly lied, saying she was thinking of heading over to Fern’s house and having lunch with her and the bridesmaids. She’d just sat down with the paper and an extra-large latte when she heard her name. Standing next to her table was Isaac, the cute resident she’d been flirting with the night before.
“Brooke? Hey! How are you? I was hoping I’d see you!”
She couldn’t help but feel flattered at this.
“Hey, Isaac. Good to see you.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty banged up after last night.”
She smiled. “Yeah, last night was tough. But I had a great time.”
She was pretty sure this sounded as innocent as she’d intended it to—after all, the flirting was fun but she was married—so just in case, she blurted out, “My husband’s going to be so upset he missed it.”
A strange expression appeared on his face. Not surprise, but more like relief that she’d finally said something. Then she understood.
“So, your husband is Julian Alter, right?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers. “I’d heard everyone talking about it last night, but I wasn’t sure if it was true.”
“The one and only,” Brooke said.
“That’s the craziest thing ever! I can’t even tell you, I’ve been following him since he used to play at Nick’s on the Upper East Side. Then all of a sudden, he was everywhere! Couldn’t open a magazine or turn on the TV and not see Julian Alter. Wow. You must be so excited.”
“Come inside, let’s get you a drink,” Trent said.
She squeezed his forearm. “Let’s get you a drink.” She smiled. “This is your night. And I still haven’t said hello to your lovely bride.”
Brooke walked through the door Trent held open for her. The room was buzzing now, with people milling around with cocktails in hand, making the usual small talk. The only person she recognized aside from her in-laws and the bride and groom was Trent’s younger brother, Trevor, a sophomore in college who was currently slumped in the corner, praying no one approached him, staring intently at his iPhone. With the exception of Trevor, it felt like the entire room stopped moving for a split second and looked up just as they entered; her presence—and Julian’s absence—had been noted.
Unconsciously she squeezed Trent’s hand. Trent squeezed hers back and Brooke said, “Go, go meet your public! Enjoy it—it goes by really fast.”
The rest of the dinner was blessedly uneventful. Fern had been kind enough, without being asked, to move Brooke’s seat away from the Alters and next to her. Brooke immediately saw her appeal: she told adorable stories and jokes, asked everyone questions about themselves, and had self-deprecation down to a science. Fern even managed to diffuse the awkwardness when one of Trent’s med school friends drunkenly toasted Trent’s past penchant for girls with fake boobs by laughing and pulling her dress away from her chest while glancing down and saying, “Well, he’s certainly gotten over that!”
When the dinner was over and the Alters had come to fetch her for the ride back to the hotel, Fern linked her arm through Brooke’s, batted her eyelashes at Julian’s father, and turned on the Southern charm. “Oh, no you don’t!” she drawled exaggeratedly, Brooke noticed with amusement. “This one is staying right here with us. We’re sending all you old fogies back to your rooms, and we’re going to stay and have a little party. We’ll make sure she gets back safely.”
The Alters smiled and air-kissed Fern and then Brooke. The moment they’d left the dining room, Brooke turned to Fern. “You saved my life. They would’ve made me get a drink with them back at the hotel. After that they would’ve walked straight into my room to ask another six thousand questions about Julian. There’s a decent chance she would’ve commented about my weight, my marriage, or both. I can’t thank you enough.”
Fern waved her off. “Please. I couldn’t let you leave with someone wearing a hat like that. What if people saw?” She laughed and Brooke was more charmed than ever. “Besides, I’m selfishly happy you can stay. My friends all love you.”
She knew Fern only said it to make her feel good—after all, she’d barely had the chance to speak to anyone all night, although Trent and Fern’s friends all did seem nice—but who really cared? It worked. She felt good. Good enough to do a tequila shot with Trent “in Julian’s honor,” and still good enough to down a couple lemon drops with Fern and her sorority sisters (who, incidentally, could drink like no women she’d ever seen). She was still feeling good when the lights got turned off around midnight and someone figured out how to hook up an iPhone to the restaurant’s stereo system, felt good all the way through another two hours more of drinking, dancing, and—were she to be completely honest—some fun, old-fashioned flirting with one of Trent’s fellow residents. Completely innocent, of course, but she’d forgotten what it felt like to have an extremely cute guy focus on her the entire night, fetch her drinks, and try to make her laugh; that, too, felt good.
What didn’t feel good, naturally, was the excruciating hangover the next morning. Despite not getting back to the room until almost three, she woke at seven and stared at the ceiling, knowing she would surely vomit and wondering how long she would have to suffer before it happened. A half hour later, she was on the floor of her bathroom, gasping for breath and praying the Alters wouldn’t knock. Thankfully, she was able to crawl back under the covers and fall back asleep until nine.
Despite a crushing headache and a disgusting taste in her mouth, Brooke smiled when she opened her eyes and checked her phone. Julian had called and texted half a dozen times, continually asking where she was and why she wasn’t picking up the phone—he was on his way to the airport for his flight home, he missed her and loved her and couldn’t wait to see her back in New York. It was nice to have the tables turned, if only for a night. She’d finally been the one to drink too much, stay up too late, and party too long.
Brooke showered and headed to the lobby for some coffee, praying she wouldn’t run into the Alters on their way out. They’d told her the night before that they were planning to spend the day with Trent’s parents; the women had hair and makeup appointments scheduled and the men were playing squash. When Elizabeth invited Brooke to join them, she’d blatantly lied, saying she was thinking of heading over to Fern’s house and having lunch with her and the bridesmaids. She’d just sat down with the paper and an extra-large latte when she heard her name. Standing next to her table was Isaac, the cute resident she’d been flirting with the night before.
“Brooke? Hey! How are you? I was hoping I’d see you!”
She couldn’t help but feel flattered at this.
“Hey, Isaac. Good to see you.”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty banged up after last night.”
She smiled. “Yeah, last night was tough. But I had a great time.”
She was pretty sure this sounded as innocent as she’d intended it to—after all, the flirting was fun but she was married—so just in case, she blurted out, “My husband’s going to be so upset he missed it.”
A strange expression appeared on his face. Not surprise, but more like relief that she’d finally said something. Then she understood.
“So, your husband is Julian Alter, right?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers. “I’d heard everyone talking about it last night, but I wasn’t sure if it was true.”
“The one and only,” Brooke said.
“That’s the craziest thing ever! I can’t even tell you, I’ve been following him since he used to play at Nick’s on the Upper East Side. Then all of a sudden, he was everywhere! Couldn’t open a magazine or turn on the TV and not see Julian Alter. Wow. You must be so excited.”
