Lauren Weisberger - Last Night at Chateau Marmont

Brooke and Nola didn’t meet until second semester senior year at Cornell, although Brooke – like the rest of the student body – knew of Nola and was equal parts terrified of and fascinated by her. Compared to her hoodie-and-Ugg-wearing fellow students, the model-thin Nola favored high-heeled boots and blazers and never, ever tied her hair in a ponytail. She’d grown up in elite prep schools in New York, London, Hong Kong, and Dubai, places her investment banker father worked, and had enjoyed the requisite freedom that goes along with being the only child of extremely busy parents.

How she ended up at Cornell instead of Cambridge or Georgetown or the Sorbonne was anyone’s guess, but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to see she wasn’t particularly impressed. When the rest of them were busy rushing sororities, meeting for lunch at the Ivy Room, and getting drunk at various Collegetown bars, Nola kept to herself. There were glimpses into her life – the well-known affair with the archaeology professor, the frequent appearances of sexy, mysterious men on campus who vanished soon thereafter – but for the most part, Nola attended her classes, aced everything she took, and hightailed it back to Manhattan the moment Friday afternoon rolled around. When the two girls found themselves assigned to workshop each other’s short stories in a creative writing elective their senior year, Brooke was so intimidated she could barely speak. Nola, as usual, didn’t appear particularly pleased or upset, but when she returned Brooke’s first submission a week later – a fictional piece on a character struggling to adapt to her Peace Corps assignment in Congo – it was filled with thoughtful, insightful commentary and suggestions. Then, on the last page, after scrawling out her lengthy and serious feedback, Nola had written, ‘P.S. Consider sex scene in Congo?’ and Brooke had laughed so hard she had to excuse herself from class to calm down.

After class Nola invited Brooke to a tiny little coffee place in the basement of one of the academic buildings, a place none of Brooke’s friends ever hung out, and within a couple weeks Brooke was going to New York with Nola on weekends. Even after all these years, Nola was too fabulous for words, but it helped Brooke knowing that her friend sobbed during news segments featuring soldiers coming home from war, was secretly obsessed with one day having a perfect white picket fence in the suburbs despite being openly derisive about it, and had a pathological fear of small, yappy dogs (Walter, Brooke’s dog, not included).

‘Perfect, perfect. No, I think sitting at the bar is just fine,’ Nola said into the phone, rolling her eyes at Brooke. ‘No, no need to make a reservation for dinner, let’s just play it by ear. Okay, sounds good. See you then.’ She clicked her phone shut and immediately grabbed the red wine, refreshing her own glass before remembering Brooke and filling hers too.

‘Do you hate me?’ Brooke asked as she arranged her coat on the chair next to her and tossed her dripping umbrella underneath the table. She took a long, deep drink of wine and savored the feeling of the alcohol sliding over her tongue.

‘Why? Just because I’ve been sitting here alone for thirty minutes?’

‘I know, I know, I’m really sorry. Hellish day at work. Two of the full-time nutritionists called in sick today – which if you ask me sounds suspicious – and the rest of us had to cover their rotations. Of course, if we met sometime in my neighborhood. Then maybe I could get there on time …’

Nola held up her hand. ‘Point taken. I do appreciate you coming all the way down here. Dinner in Midtown West just isn’t appealing.’

‘Who were you just on with? Was that Daniel?’

‘Daniel?’ Nola looked baffled. She stared at the ceiling as she appeared to wrack her brain. ‘Daniel, Daniel … oh! Nah, I’m over him. I brought him to a work thing early last week and he was weird. Super awkward. No, that was setting up tomorrow’s Match dot-com date. Second one this week. How did I get so pathetic?’ She sighed.

‘Please. You’re not—’

‘No, really. It’s pathetic that I’m almost thirty and still think of my college boyfriend as my only “real” relationship. It is also pathetic that I belong to multiple online dating sites and date men from all of them. But what is most pathetic – what is bordering on inexcusable – is how willing I am to admit this to anyone who will listen.’

Brooke took another sip. ‘I’m hardly “anyone who will listen.”’

‘You know what I mean,’ Nola said. ‘If you were the only one privy to my humiliation, I could live with that. But it’s as though I’ve become so inured to the—’

‘Good word.’

‘Thanks. It was on my word-a-day calendar this morning. So, really, I’m so inured to the indignity of it all that I have no filter anymore. Just yesterday I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to explain to one of Goldman’s most senior vice presidents the difference in men on Match versus those on Nerve. It’s unforgivable.’

‘So, what’s the story with the guy tomorrow?’ Brooke asked, trying to change the subject. It was impossible to keep track of Nola’s man situation from week to week. Not just which one – a challenge itself – but whether she desperately wanted a boyfriend to settle down with or loathed commitment and wanted only to be single and fabulous and sleep around. It changed on a dime, with no warning, and left Brooke constantly trying to remember whether this week’s guy was ‘ so amazing’ or ‘a total disaster.’

Nola lowered her lashes and arranged her glossed lips into her signature pout, the one that managed to say, ‘I’m fragile,’ ‘I’m sweet,’ and ‘I want you to ravish me’ all at the same time. Clearly, she was planning a long response to this question.

‘Save it for the men, my friend. Doesn’t work on me,’ Brooke lied. Nola wasn’t traditionally pretty, but it didn’t much matter. She put herself together so beautifully and emanated such confidence that men and women alike regularly fell under her spell.

‘This one sounds promising,’ she said wistfully. ‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until he reveals some sort of colossal deal breaker, but until then, I think he’s perfect.’

‘So, what’s he like?’ Brooke pressed.

‘Mmm, let’s see. He was on the ski racing team in college, which is why I clicked on him in the first place, and he even did two seasons as an instructor, first in Park City and then in Zermatt.’

‘Perfection so far.’

Nola nodded. ‘Yep. He’s just about six foot, fit build – or so he claims – sandy blond hair, and green eyes. He just moved to the city a few months ago and doesn’t know a lot of people.’

‘You’ll change that.’

‘Yeah, I guess …’ She pouted. ‘But …’

‘What’s the problem?’ Brooke refreshed both their glasses and nodded to the waiter when he asked if they’d both like their usual orders.

‘Well, it’s the job thing. He lists his profession as “artist.”’ She pronounced this word as though she were saying ‘pornographer.’

‘So?’

‘So? So what the hell does that mean. Artist? ’

‘Um, I think it could mean a lot of things. Painter, sculptor, musician, actor, wri—’

Nola touched her hand to her forehead. ‘Please. It can mean one thing only and we both know it: unemployed.’

‘Everyone’s unemployed now. It’s practically chic.’

‘Oh, come on. I can live with recession-related unemployment. But an artist ? Tough to stomach.’

‘Nola! That’s ridiculous. There are plenty of people – loads of them, thousands, probably millions – who support themselves with their art. I mean, look at Julian. He’s a musician. Should I never have gone out with him ?’