“It’ll be at a small, really intimate downtown music venue, and my agent said they were inviting about fifty people in the industry—television and radio bookers, music execs, some people from MTV, that sort of thing. Most likely nothing too exciting will come of it, but it’s a good sign that the label is happy with the album.”

“They rarely do these for their debut artists,” Brooke announced with pride. “Julian’s actually being too modest—it’s a very big deal.”

“Well at least that’s good news,” his mother announced, taking her seat on the couch again.

Julian’s mouth tightened and his fists clenched by his sides. “Mom, they’ve been supportive with the way the album’s been taking shape for months now. Sure, the senior execs were pushing for more of a guitar focus, but ever since then, they’ve been great. So I don’t know why you have to say it like that.”

Elizabeth Alter looked at her son and appeared momentarily confused. “Oh, sweetheart, I was talking about L’Olivier. It’s good news that they have enough of the calla lilies I was wanting, and the designer I like the most is available to come over and install them. Don’t be so touchy.”

Brooke’s father glanced at her with a look that said, Who is this woman? Brooke shrugged. She, like Julian, had accepted that his parents were never going to change. It was why she stood by him a hundred percent when he rejected their offer to buy the newlyweds an apartment near theirs on the Upper East Side. It was why she chose to work two jobs rather than take the “allowance” they’d once proposed, understanding all the strings that would accompany it.

By the time Carmen announced brunch was ready, Julian had gone completely silent and glazed over—turtled, Brooke always called it—and Cynthia looked rumpled and exhausted in her polyester pantsuit. Even Brooke’s dad, who still valiantly searched for neutral conversation (“Do you believe this brutal winter we’re having this year?” and “You into baseball, William? Yanks seem like an obvious choice, but I know a man’s team isn’t always determined by where he’s from. . . .”) appeared defeated. Under normal circumstances Brooke would have felt responsible for everyone’s misery—after all, they were all only there because of her and Julian, right?—but today she let it all go. Suffer one, suffer all, she thought, and excused herself to use the powder room, which she bypassed immediately for the kitchen.

“How’s it going out there, love?” Carmen asked as she spooned apricot jam into a sterling silver bowl.

Brooke held out her empty Bloody Mary glass and paired it with a pleading look.

“That bad?” Carmen laughed and motioned for Brooke to pull the vodka from the freezer as she prepared the tomato juice and Tabasco sauce. “How are your parents holding up? Cynthia seems like a real nice lady.”

“Uh-huh, she’s lovely. They’re grown-ups and they made their own idiotic choice to come visit. It’s Julian I’m worried about.”

“Nothing he hasn’t seen before, love. No one deals with them better.”

Brooke sighed. “I know. But he’s depressed for days afterward.”

Carmen plunged a celery stalk into the thick Bloody Mary and handed it to Brooke. “Reinforcement,” she announced, and kissed Brooke on the forehead. “Now get back out there and protect your man.”

The actual eating part of brunch wasn’t half as bad as the cocktail hour. Julian’s mother threw a minor hissy fit over the crepe filling (although everyone else loved the chocolate ones Carmen whipped up, Elizabeth thought they were far too fattening for an actual meal), and Dr. Alter disappeared for a spell into his study, but as a result, neither of them insulted their son for more than an hour. Good-byes were blessedly painless, but by the time she and Julian put her father and Cynthia into a cab, she could see Julian was withdrawn and unhappy.

“You okay, baby? My dad and Cynthia were so excited. And I can barely—”

“I don’t feel like talking about it, okay?”

They walked in silence for a couple minutes.

“Hey, we have the whole rest of the day free. Absolutely nothing to do. Want to go to a museum while we’re up here?” Brooke asked, taking his hand and tugging gently on his arm as they walked toward the subway.

“Nah, I don’t think I’m up for the Sunday crowds.”

She thought for a moment. “You’ve been wanting to see that 3-D IMAX movie for a while. I wouldn’t mind going with you,” she lied. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I’m fine, Brooke. I really am,” Julian said quietly, pulling on his wool scarf. She knew he was the one lying now.

“Can I invite Nola to the showcase? It sounds so fabulous, and you know Nola can’t miss any opportunity at fabulousness.”

“I guess, but Leo said it’s going to be really small, and I already invited Trent. He’s only in New York on this rotation another couple weeks and he’s been working like crazy. I thought he could use a night out.”

They talked more about the showcase, and they discussed what he would wear, which songs he would play, and in what order. She was happy she could draw him out, and by the time they reached their apartment, Julian seemed almost like himself.

“Have I told you how proud I am of you?” Brooke asked when they stepped onto their own elevator, both clearly relieved to be home.

“Yeah,” Julian said with a small smile.

“Well, come inside, baby,” Brooke said, pulling him down the hallway by the hand. “I think it’s about time I showed you.”

3

Makes John Mayer Look Like Amateur Hour

“WHERE are we?” Brooke grumbled, stepping out of the cab and looking around the dark and deserted side street in West Chelsea. The tall black pull-on boots she’d found at an end-of-season sale kept sliding down her tights.

“Heart of the gallery district, Brooke. Avenue and 1 OAK are right around the corner.”

“I should know what those are, shouldn’t I?”

Nola just shook her head. “Well, at least you look good. Julian’s going to be proud to have such a hot wife tonight.”

Brooke knew her friend was just being kind. It was Nola who, as usual, looked stunning. She’d jammed her suit jacket and her sensible pumps into her oversized LV tote and replaced them with a massive multistrand necklace and a pair of those sky-high Louboutin heels that were somewhere between a bootie and sandal, a style approximately six women on earth could pull off without being mistaken for a professional dominatrix. Things that would look downright trashy on everyone else—scarlet lipstick, flesh-colored fishnets, and the black lace bra that peeked through her sheer tank—on Nola managed to look both edgy and playful. Her pencil skirt, which as one-half of an expensive suit had been appropriate enough for one of the most conservative work environments on Wall Street, now showed off her toned backside and perfect legs. If Nola had been any other female on earth, Brooke would have hated her mightily.