Last Night at Chateau Marmont. Lauren Weisberger

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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?’

      Nola opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. There was an awkward moment of silence.

      ‘What were you going to say?’ Brooke asked.

      ‘Nothing, it’s nothing. You’re right.’

      ‘No, really. What were you just about to say? Just say it.’

      Nola twirled her wineglass by the stem and looked like she’d rather be anywhere but there. ‘I’m not saying that Julian isn’t really talented, but …’

      ‘But what?’ Brooke leaned in so close that Nola was forced to meet her eyes.

      ‘But I’m not sure I would call him a “musician.” He was someone’s assistant when you met. Now you support him.’

      ‘Yes, he was an intern when we met,’ Brooke said, barely even attempting to hide her irritation. ‘He was interning at Sony to learn the music industry, see how it works. And guess what? It’s only because of the relationships he built there that anyone paid him any attention in the first place. If he hadn’t been there every day, trying to make himself indispensable, do you think the head of A&R would’ve taken two hours of his time to watch him perform?’

      ‘I know, it’s just that—’

      ‘How can you say he’s not doing anything? Is that really what you think? I’m not sure if you realize this, but he has spent the last eight months locked away in a Midtown recording studio making an album. And not just some vanity project, by the way; Sony actually signed him as an artist – there’s that word again – and paid him an advance. If you don’t think that’s proper employment, I really don’t know what to tell you.’

      Nola held her hands up in defeat and hung her head. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right.’

      ‘You don’t sound convinced.’ Brooke began chewing on her thumbnail. Any relief she’d felt from the wine had completely vanished.

      Nola pushed her salad around with a fork. ‘Well, don’t they give out, like, a ton of recording contracts to anyone showing a modicum of talent, figuring it’ll only take one big hit to pay for all the smaller flops?’

      Brooke was surprised by her friend’s knowledge of the music industry. Julian always explained that very theory when he downplayed his label deal and tried to, in his words, ‘manage expectations’ about what such a deal really meant. Still, coming from Nola, it somehow sounded worse.

      ‘A “modicum of talent”?’ Brooke could only whisper the words. ‘Is that what you think of him?’

      ‘Of course that’s not what I think of him. Don’t take it so personally. It’s just hard, as your friend, to watch you kill yourself working to support him for so many years now. Especially when the odds are so low that anything will come of it.’

      ‘Well, I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but you should know it was my choice to take on the extra private school consulting work to help support us. I don’t do it out of the kindness of my heart, I do it because I actually believe in him and his talent, and I know – even if no one else seems to think so – that he has a brilliant career ahead of him.’

      Brooke had been ecstatic beyond description – possibly even more than Julian – when he’d called her with the initial offer from Sony eight months earlier. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars was more than they’d collectively made in the previous five years, and Julian would have the freedom to do with it what he wanted. How could she have possibly foreseen that such a massive infusion of cash would put them in even greater debt than they already were? From that advance Julian needed to pay for studio time, hire high-priced producers and sound engineers, and cover the entire cost of his equipment, travel, and backup band? The money was gone in a few short months, long before they could use so much as a single dollar toward rent, utilities, or even a celebratory dinner. And once all those funds were being used to help Julian make a name for himself, it didn’t make sense not to see the project through. They’d already spent thirty thousand dollars of their own money – the entirety of their savings that had once been earmarked for a down payment on an apartment – and they were burning through more credit every single day. The scariest part of the whole thing was what Nola had so brutally spelled out: the chances of Julian ever making good on all that time and money – even with the Sony name behind him – were almost nil.

      ‘I just hope he knows how lucky he is to have a wife like you,’ Nola said, more softly now. ‘I can tell you, I sure wouldn’t be so supportive. Which is probably why I’m destined to be forever single …’

      Thankfully their pasta dishes arrived and the conversation shifted to safer topics: how fattening was the meat sauce, whether or not Nola should ask for a raise at work, how much Brooke disliked

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