Last Night at Chateau Marmont (11 page)

“Hell yes. From everything I’ve read, we can fully expect Cristal-filled pools, heaping mountains of cocaine, more cheating celebrities than a high-end escort service, and enough gossip on an hourly basis
to fill ten tabloids. Oh, and orgies. I’ve never read that, but I’m sure they happen. Probably right in the restaurant.”

Walter jumped up on the bed and, chin to the air, began to howl.

“That does sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it, Walter?” Julian asked, kissing Brooke’s neck.

Walter howled in response and Brooke laughed.

Julian dipped his finger in his champagne glass, put it up to Brooke’s lips, and kissed her again.

“What do you say to some practice?” he asked.

Brooke kissed him back and pulled off his shirt, her heart swelling with the sense of possibility. “I’d say that’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long, long time.”

“Can I get you another Diet Coke?” the bermuda-clad waiter asked as he sidled up next to Brooke’s lounge chair, blocking her sun. In the direct sunlight it felt reasonably warm, and although she thought the low seventies was a bit too chilly for bikini weather, her fellow pool-goers apparently disagreed.

She glanced at the half-dozen or so people sipping delicious-looking cocktails around the pool, reminded herself that although it was only midafternoon on a Tuesday this was still a vacation of sorts, and said, “I’d love a Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and two stalks of celery.”

A long, lithe girl who, judging from her astonishing figure, was definitely a model lowered herself elegantly into the pool. Brooke watched as she swam a charming sort of doggie paddle to the side, taking great pains to keep her hair dry, and called out to her male companion in Spanish. Without glancing up from his laptop, the man answered her in French. The girl pouted, the man grumbled, and within thirty seconds he was walking toward the pool with her massive Chanel sunglasses in hand. When she thanked him, Brooke could’ve sworn she did so in Russian.

Her phone rang. “Hello?” she said quietly, although no one seemed to care.

“Rookie? How’s it going out there?”

“Hey, Dad. I’m not going to lie, everything’s pretty damn great.”

“Did Julian play yet?”

“He and Leo just left so I’m guessing they’ll be in Burbank soon. I don’t think the actual taping starts until five or five thirty. It sounded like it was going to be a pretty long afternoon, so I’m waiting at the hotel for them.”

The waiter returned with her drink, the Bloody Mary in a glass every bit as tall and skinny as the women she’d spied so far in Los Angeles. He set it on the table beside her, along with a little three-part tray of snacks: marinated olives, mixed nuts, and baked vegetable chips. Brooke wanted to kiss him.

“What’s the place like? Pretty swanky, I’d bet.”

Brooke took a small sip at first and then a gulp.
Damn, that was good.
“Yeah, it really is. You should see the people sitting by the pool. Each one is more gorgeous than the next.”

“Do you know Jim Morrison tried to jump off the roof there? And that the members of Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby? From what I’ve heard, it is
the
place to be for badly behaved musicians.”

“Where are you getting your information, Dad? Google?” Brooke laughed.

“Brooke, please! Don’t insult me by suggesting—”

“Wikipedia?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

They chatted for a few more minutes while Brooke watched the gorgeous thing in the pool shriek like a child when her boyfriend jumped in and tried to splash her. Her father wanted to tell her all about the non-surprise surprise birthday party Cynthia was planning for him in a few months, how determined she was to celebrate his sixty-fifth since it was also his retirement year, but Brooke had a hard
time focusing. After all, the woman-child had just climbed out of the water, and Brooke clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed that her white bikini was entirely transparent when wet. She glanced down at her own terry-cloth sweats and wondered what she would do to look that good in a bikini, even if just for an hour. She sucked in her stomach and continued to watch.

The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special—she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes—but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra-cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.

She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it was all Brooke could do not to whip out her BlackBerry and send a picture to Nola.

When she got back to their room—a one-bedroom suite in the main building, with gorgeous hillside views—she was delighted to discover a massive gift basket with a note that read, “Welcome, Julian! From your friends at Sony.” Inside was a bottle each of Veuve Clicquot and Patrón; a box of those tiny, funkily painted chocolate truffles; an assortment of energy bars and snacks; enough Vitaminwaters to stock a grocery; and a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes. She took a picture of the whole thing splayed out on the coffee table and sent it to Julian with
the caption, “They love you,” and then she tore into it, demolishing a red velvet cupcake in under ten seconds.

It was the room’s landline that eventually woke her.

“Brooke? You alive?” Julian’s voice rang through the cordless handset.

“I’m alive,” she managed to say, looking around to get her bearings, surprised to discover that she was under the covers, wearing only her underwear, and the entire room was dark. Cupcake crumbs were scattered around her pillow.

“I’ve been calling your cell phone for the last half hour. Where are you? Is everything okay?”

She bolted upright and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She’d been asleep for nearly three hours. “Must’ve been that second Bloody Mary,” she mumbled to herself, but Julian began to laugh.

“I leave you alone for one afternoon and you get yourself drunk?”

“It wasn’t like that! But whatever, how was the taping? How did it go?”

In the brief pause that followed, Brooke had a mental flash of all the potential things that could’ve gone wrong, but once again, Julian laughed. It was more than a laugh—he sounded downright giddy.

“Rook, it was incredible! I nailed it, just absolutely nailed it, and the backup band was way better than I expected with so little practice.” Brooke could hear other voices in the car and Julian lowered his to a whisper. “Jay came over to me as the song ended, put his arm around me, pointed me to the camera, and said how that was awesome, and he’d like for me to come back every night.”

“No!”

“He did! The audience was clapping like crazy, and then when the whole taping was over and we were hanging out backstage, Jay even thanked me, said he couldn’t wait to hear the whole album!”

“Julian, that’s incredible. Congratulations! This is
huge
!”

“I know, I’m just so relieved. Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel in twenty minutes or so. Meet me on the patio for a drink?”

The mere thought of alcohol made her head throb a bit more—when was the last time she was hungover at dinnertime?—but she sat straight up. “I’ve got to change. I’ll meet you down there as soon as I’m ready,” she said, but the line had already been disconnected.

Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets wasn’t easy, but three Advils and a stint under the rainfall shower helped. She quickly pulled on a pair of legging-style skinny jeans, a silky tank top, and a blazer, but a closer inspection revealed that the jeans were doing hideous things to her butt. As hard as it was to pull the damn things on, it was hell trying to get them off, and Brooke nearly kneed herself in the face trying to yank them down her legs, inch by painful inch. Her stomach rolled and her legs flailed and still, they barely budged. Did White Bikini Girl ever have to suffer such indignity? She flung the jeans across the room in disgust. The only thing left in her suitcase was a sundress. It was too cold for it, but paired with the blazer, a cotton scarf, and a pair of flat boots, she’d have to suck it up.

Not terrible,
she thought as she checked herself one last time. Her hair was mostly air-dried and—even Brooke had to admit—looked pretty damn good for requiring zero effort. She’d slicked on some mascara and a few dots of this glimmering liquid blush Nola had pressed into her palm a few weeks earlier and politely insisted she use. She grabbed her phone and her bag and ran. The lip gloss went on in the elevator. The blazer sleeves got rolled while walking across the lobby. She gave her hair a final shake and tousle and actually felt fresh and pretty by the time she saw Julian holding court at a prime patio table.

“Brooke!” He stood up and waved.

She could see his smile from fifty feet, and every inch of self-consciousness vanished as she ran toward him. “Congratulations!” she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Thanks, baby,” he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, “Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.”

“Hi!” she sang, giving the general table area a wave. “I’m Brooke.”

The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.

Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman—fortysomething with great Botox?—with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who . . .
Ohmigod, is that, could it be . . .

“You already know Leo,” Julian was saying as Leo smirked. “And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. “Pleasure,” she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. “It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, ‘Everyone says she’s the best.’”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you,” Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.”

“Both of you need to stop,” Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. “Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.”

Good god.
It
was
him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a glass of beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke racked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like “I’m a huge fan” or “I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,” she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar
every
day. . . .

“Hey,” Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. “That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?”

Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi.
Nola!
she shouted to herself.
I need you to hear this right now!

“Yeah, it’s real,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. “Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.” She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.