Last Night at Chateau Marmont by Lauren Weisberger Page A

doorway was Carmen, the Alters’ nanny and housekeeper of thirty years. In a particularly intimate moment early in their relationship, Julian had confided to Brooke that he called Carmen “Mommy” until his fifth birthday because he just hadn’t known any better. She immediately flung her arms around Julian.
    “How’s my baby?” Carmen asked him after smiling at Brooke and pecking her on the cheek. “Your wife here feeding you enough?”
    Brooke squeezed Carmen’s arm, wondering for the thousandth time why Carmen
couldn’t
be Julian’s mother, and said, “Does he look like he’s starving, Carmen? I have to pry the fork from his hands some nights.”
    “That’s my boy,” she said, gazing at him with pride.
    A shrill voice came from the formal living room down the hallway. “Carmen, darling, send the children in here, please. And don’tforget to snip the stems before you the put the flowers in a vase. The new Michael Aram one, please.”
    Carmen glanced around for the flowers but Brooke merely held out her empty hands. She turned to Julian and gave him a knowing look.
    “Don’t say it,” Julian muttered.
    “Fine. I won’t say I told you so because I love you.”
    Julian led her into the formal living room—Brooke had been hoping they would skip the living room altogether and move straight to the eating part—and found both sets of parents sitting opposite each other on identical, low-profile, ultra-modern couches.
    “Brooke, Julian.” His mother smiled but didn’t stand. “So glad you could join us.”
    Brooke immediately interpreted this as an attack on their tardiness. “So sorry we’re late, Elizabeth. The subways were just so—”
    “Well, at least you’re here now,” Dr. Alter said, both hands cupped rather effeminately around a fat orange juice glass, exactly the way she imagined he cradled all his breasts.
    “Brookie! Julian! What’s up, guys?” Brooke’s dad jumped up and embraced them both in one bear hug. He was clearly turning up the camp factor for the Alters’ benefit, but Brooke couldn’t really blame him.
    “Hi, Dad,” she said, hugging him back. She also walked over to Cynthia, who remained trapped by all of their bodies on the couch and gave her an awkward standing-sitting hug. “Hey, Cynthia. Good to see you.”
    “Oh, you too, Brooke. We’re so excited to be here! Your father and I were just saying that we can barely remember the last time we were in New York.”
    It was only then that Brooke was able to really absorb Cynthia’s appearance. She wore a fire-engine-red pantsuit, probably polyester, with a white blouse, black patent leather flats, and a triple strand offaux pearls wrapped around her neck, and topped off the entire ensemble with a highly curled and lacquered updo. She looked like she was channeling Hillary Clinton at a State of the Union address, determined to stand out in a sea of dark suits. Brooke knew she was only trying to fit in with her notion of how a wealthy Manhattan woman might dress, but her calculations were all wrong, especially in the midst of the Alters’ sleek, Asian-inspired apartment. Julian’s mother—although twenty years older than Cynthia—looked ten years younger in her fitted, dark jeans and featherweight cashmere wrap over a sleeveless, stretchy tunic. She wore a pair of delicate ballet flats with a discreet Chanel logo and accessorized only with a single gold bangle and her massive diamond ring. Her skin glowed with a healthy tan and light makeup, and her hair swung loosely down her back. Brooke immediately felt guilty: she knew how intimidated Cynthia must feel—after all, Brooke felt that way in her mother-in-law’s presence all the time—but she was also embarrassed at how badly she had miscalculated. Even Brooke’s dad looked uncomfortably aware that his khakis and tie were out of place next to Dr. Alter’s short-sleeve polo shirt.
    “Julian, sweetheart, I know you want a Bloody. Brooke, would you like a