Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (158 page)

Brooke's phone rang, the special piano-sounding ring that she'd attached only to Julian's number. He never called when she was at work, knowing she wouldn't be able to answer, and even kept his texts to a minimum. She knew in an instant something was wrong.

‘Excuse me, Kaylie. This will just be a minute.' She swiveled in her chair the best she could to get some privacy in the small office. ‘Hi. Is everything okay? I'm with a patient right now.'

‘Brooke, you are not going to believe this, but—' He stopped and breathed in deeply, dramatically.

‘Julian, seriously, if this is not an emergency, I need to call you back.'

‘Leo just called. One of the main bookers from
Leno
was at the showcase last week. They want me to perform on the show!'

‘No!'

‘It's true! It's a hundred percent guaranteed done deal. Next week, Tuesday night. Taping at five. I'll be the musical performance on the show, probably right after the interviews. Do you believe it?'

‘Ohmigod!'

‘Brooke, say something else.'

She forgot where she was for a moment. ‘I can't believe it. I mean, of course I can believe it, but it's just so incredible.' She heard Julian laughing and thought how long it'd been. ‘When are you home tonight? We
must
celebrate. I have something in mind …'

‘Does it involve my favorite mesh thingy?'

Brooke smiled into the phone. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of that Dom Pérignon we got as a gift and can never justify opening.'

‘Mesh. Tonight deserves champagne
and
mesh. Meet you home at eight? I'll take care of dinner.'

‘You don't have to deal with dinner. Let me pick something up. Or we can go out! Why don't we go somewhere and really celebrate?'

‘Let me handle it,' Julian said. ‘Please? I have something in mind.'

Brooke's heart surged. Maybe now he'd be able to ease up on his time at the studio and spend more time at home. She felt the familiar pangs of excitement and anticipation she'd felt earlier in their marriage, before anything had become routine. ‘Absolutely. I'll see you at eight. And, Julian? I can't wait.'

‘Me neither.' He made a kissing sound into the phone – something he hadn't done in years – and hung up. For the first time in five full minutes, Brooke remembered where she was.

‘Wow, sounds like some hot stuff,' Kaylie said with a grin. ‘Big date tonight?'

It never failed to amaze Brooke how young these girls really were, despite all the confident backtalk and a distressing familiarity with everything from extreme dieting to the best blow-job techniques. (Brooke had read a highly detailed how-to list when one of the girls left behind a notebook – so detailed, in fact, she briefly considered making a few notes for herself before realizing that taking sex tips from a high school freshman was horrifying on too many levels.)

‘Big date with my
husband.
' Brooke corrected her, trying to salvage at least a little professionalism. ‘I'm so sorry for the interruption. Now, back to what—'

‘Sounded pretty exciting,' Kaylie said. She loosened her grip on her hair just long enough to gnaw a hangnail on her right index finger. ‘What happened?'

Brooke was so relieved to see the girl smile that she said, ‘Yeah, actually it is really exciting. My husband is a musician. He just got a call from Leno's people inviting him to be on the show.' Brooke could hear her voice surge with pride, and although she knew it was both unprofessional and even silly to be sharing the news with her teenage patient, she was too happy to care.

Kaylie's head snapped to full attention. ‘He's going to be on
Leno
?'

Brooke nodded and shuffled some papers around on her desk in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her pleasure.

‘That is the coolest fucking thing I've ever heard!' the girl exclaimed, her ponytail bobbing as if to underscore her point.

‘Kaylie!'

‘Sorry, but it is! What's his name and when's he on? I want to make sure I see it.'

‘Next Tuesday night. His name is Julian Alter.'

‘That is so fuck – freaking cool. Congratulations, Mrs. A. Your husband must be pretty awesome if Leno wants him. You're going to go to L.A. with him, right?'

‘What?' Brooke asked. She hadn't had a second to think about the logistics, but Julian hadn't mentioned them either.

‘Isn't
Leno
in L.A.? You, like,
have
to go with him.'

‘Of course I'll go with him,' Brooke replied automatically, although she had a nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach that Julian's omission of an invitation wasn't just a detail that got lost in all the excitement.

Brooke still had another ten minutes with Kaylie, then a full hour afterwards with a Huntley gymnast whose coach's weigh-ins were having disastrous effects on the girl's self-esteem, but she knew she wouldn't be able to concentrate for one more second. Figuring she'd already acted inappropriately by oversharing and using their session time to talk about her personal life, Brooke turned back to Kaylie.

‘I'm sorry to do this, sweetheart, but I need to cut our session short this afternoon. I'll be back on Friday; and I'll notify your sixth-period teacher that we didn't get a chance to finish so we can reschedule another full session for then. Is that okay?'

Kaylie nodded. ‘Hell, yeah, Mrs. A. This is big news for you. Say congratulations to your husband for me, okay?'

Brooke smiled at her. ‘Thanks, I will. And, Kaylie? We're going to continue talking about this. I can't condone you losing weight, but if you want to talk about eating more healthfully, I'm happy to advise you. Does that sound good?'

Kaylie nodded and Brooke thought she may have even detected a small smile before the girl walked out of her office. Although she didn't look the least bit fazed about cutting their session short, Brooke was overcome with guilt. It wasn't easy to get these girls to open up, and she actually felt like she was starting to get somewhere with Kaylie.

Pledging to set things right with everyone on Thursday, Brooke sent a quick e-mail to Rhonda, her principal, claiming sudden sickness, threw all her stuff in a canvas tote bag, and jumped directly into the backseat of an idling taxi. Hell, if Leno wasn't sufficient reason to splurge, nothing was.

Despite the fact that it was rush hour, the park crossing at Eighty-sixth Street wasn't unbearable and the West Side Highway was moving at a brisk twenty miles an hour (downright dreamy for that time of night), and Brooke was delighted to find herself standing in her apartment by six thirty. She got down on the floor and let Walter lick her face for a few minutes and then gently replaced herself with a thickly braided, extra-smelly bully stick – Walter's favorite. After pouring herself a glass of pinot grigio from an open bottle in the fridge and taking a long, deep swallow, Brooke toyed with the idea of posting Julian's news as a Facebook status update but quickly dismissed it; she didn't want to announce anything without running it by him first.

The first status update on her homepage was, unpleasantly, from Leo. Apparently, he had just linked his Twitter account to his Facebook page, and despite the fact he usually had
not one
redeeming tidbit to share, he was taking full advantage of the constant-update feature.

Leo Moretti … PUMPED JULIAN ALTER WILL BE ROCKING THE LENO SHOW NEXT TUESDAY. L.A., HERE WE COME …

The update's mere association with her husband made Brooke feel queasy, as did what it pointed out: that Julian was definitely planning a trip to Los Angeles, Leo was definitely joining him, and it was only Brooke who had not yet received an invitation.

Brooke showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, and toweled dry. Was it weird to assume she'd accompany Julian to Los Angeles for the taping? She had no clue if Julian wanted her there for the support, or if he figured that this was a business trip and he should be traveling with his manager, not his wife.

As she slathered a Julian-approved scent-free moisturizer on her freshly shaved legs – he couldn't stand the smell of scented products – Brooke watched Walter watch her. ‘Did Daddy make a bad call hiring Leo?' she asked him in a high-pitched voice.

Walter lifted his head from the fluffy bath mat that always made his fur smell like mildew, wagged his tail, and woofed.

‘Is that a no?'

Walter woofed again.

‘Or a yes?'

Another woof.

‘Thank you for that insight, Walter. I will surely treasure it.'

He rewarded her with an ankle lick and sank back into the mat.

A quick time check revealed it was ten to eight, so after taking a minute to psych herself up, Brooke pulled a crumpled pile of black fabric from the back of her underwear drawer. The last time she'd worn this getup had been over a year before, when she had accused Julian of not being interested in sex anymore and he had gone straight to that drawer, pulled out the jumpsuit, and said something to the effect of ‘It's a crime to own this and not wear it.' It had immediately broken the tension and Brooke remembered putting it on and dancing exaggerated stripper moves around their bedroom to Julian's loud cheers and catcalls.

Somewhere along the way, that jumpsuit began to symbolize their sex life. She'd bought it in their first or second year of marriage, after a discussion where Julian confessed, as though it were some scandalous, shameful secret, that he just loved women in tight black lingerie … and maybe didn't love all the brightly colored boy shorts and striped racerback tanks that Brooke wore each night to bed and would've sworn were sexy in their teenage girlness. Although she couldn't remotely afford it back then, Brooke immediately set out on a lingerie-buying spree and, within two days, had acquired a super-soft black jersey chemise with spaghetti straps from Bloomingdale's; a babydoll-style, ruffled black nightie from Victoria's Secret; and a short black cotton nightshirt with ‘Juicy Sleeper' splashed across the bum. Each one, in succession, had been met with barely tepid enthusiasm along the lines of ‘Mmm, that's cute,' before Julian turned back to his magazine each night. When not even the babydoll nightie elicited a modicum of interest, Brooke called Nola the very next morning.

‘Clear your Saturday afternoon,' Nola had announced. ‘We're going shopping.'

‘I already went shopping and spent a fortune,' Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.

‘Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy
nightshirt
? Are you serious?'

‘What? He wasn't exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It's all black and short and tight. The “JUICY” part is even in rhinestones. What's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing's wrong with that … if you're a sophomore in college and you're super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you're all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy
woman.
'

Brooke sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I'm in your hands. What time Saturday?'

‘Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We're hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.'

Although she'd looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise – not all that different from her Bloomie's version – was $375. Where on earth was she – a graduate student! – going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn't until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky's to buy paraphernalia for another friend's bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.

There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped ‘fantasy outfits.' They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.

‘Can I help you with anything?' he asked.

Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.

‘I'd be happy to make some recommendations,' he lisped. ‘On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.'

‘Thanks, I'm just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,' she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.

‘Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.'

He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she'd lose her nerve if he came back – or anyone else walked into the room – she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn't until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.