Last Night at Chateau Marmont (21 page)

“I don’t know . . . twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds? She looked
terrific, actually. She seemed really pleased with herself.” Heather noticed that Brooke looked worried. “Why? Is that bad?”

“Not necessarily, but that’s an awful lot of weight to lose in a short amount of time. And the whole Whitney friendship? Let’s just say that together, I think there’s a red flag there.”

Heather nodded. “Well, I think at this point you’ll see her before I do, but keep me in the loop, okay?”

Brooke said good-bye to Heather and leaned back in her chair. Twenty-five pounds was actually an enormous weight loss over two and a half months, and the Whitney connection wasn’t comforting. Whitney was an extremely slim girl who had put on five or seven pounds after she quit playing field hockey the previous year, and her underweight mother had immediately shown up in Brooke’s office demanding the name of a reputable “fat camp,” as the woman so crudely put it. All of Brooke’s vehement protestations that it was a completely normal, even welcome, amount of weight gain for a growing fourteen-year-old girl made no difference, and Whitney was sent to a posh camp upstate to “work it off.” Predictably, the girl had begun to show signs of bingeing and purging since then, something to which Kaylie certainly didn’t need any exposure. She made a mental note to call Kaylie’s father after their first meeting and see if he’d noticed anything unusual about her behavior.

She made a few notes about her earlier sessions and then left, the suffocating blanket of early September humidity hitting her like a wall as all thoughts of taking the subway went straight to hell. As though an angel above had read her mind or, more likely, a Bangladeshi taxi driver had seen her frantic arm-waving, a cab pulled directly up to the school’s entrance to dispatch a customer and Brooke fell into the air-conditioned backseat.

“Corner of Duane and Hudson, please,” she said as she moved her legs closer to the cold air pouring from the vent. She spent the entire duration of the ride with her head back and her eyes closed. Just before the taxi pulled up to Nola’s building, a text came in from Julian.

Just got an e-mail from John Travolta!!! Says he “loves” the new album and congratulated me on it,
it read.

Brooke could feel Julian’s excitement through the screen.
John Travolta?!
she texted back.
No way! So awesome.

He wrote it to his agent and agent forwarded it to Leo,
Julian responded.

Congrats! Very cool. That’s a keeper,
she wrote, and then followed it up with,
At Nola’s now. Call when you can. Xoxo.

Nola’s one-bedroom was at the very end of a long hallway, and it overlooked a trendy café with outdoor tables. Brooke walked straight through the propped-open door, dumped her bag while simultaneously kicking off her shoes, and beelined for the kitchen.

“I’m here!” she shouted as she helped herself to a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. Her favorite guilty pleasure, and one she allowed herself only at Nola’s apartment.

“There’s Diet Coke in the fridge. Grab me one, too!” Nola screamed out from the bedroom. “I’m almost finished packing. I’ll be right out.”

Brooke cracked open both their cans and walked back to hand one to Nola, who was sitting in a massive pile of clothing, shoes, cosmetics, electronics, and guidebooks.

“How the
fuck
do they expect me to get all this stuff into a backpack?” she snapped, trying to cram a round brush into the pack’s front pocket and, when she failed, flinging it across the room. “What was I thinking, signing up for this?”

“I have no idea,” Brooke said, surveying the chaos. “I’ve actually been asking myself that for about two weeks now.”

“This is what happens when your vacation time doesn’t roll over and you don’t have a boyfriend—you make decisions like this. Sixteen days with eleven strangers in Southeast Asia? Seriously, Brooke, I blame you for this.”

Brooke laughed. “Nice try. I told you it was the worst idea I’d
ever
heard the moment you floated it, but you were very determined.”

Nola pulled herself up, took a sip of Diet Coke, and walked to the living room. “I should be a cautionary tale for single women everywhere. No impulsive, last-minute group tours. Vietnam is not freaking going anywhere—what was my big rush?”

“Oh come on, it’ll be fun. Besides, maybe there’ll even be a cute guy in your group.”

“Uh-huh. Sure there will be. Definitely not a bunch of middle-aged German couples or wannabe Buddhist hippies or, possibly, all lesbians. No! It’ll be chock-full of adorable, eligible men aged thirty to thirty-five.”

“I like your positive attitude!” Brooke said with a grin.

Something caught Nola’s eye and she moved toward the living room window. Brooke glanced out and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“At that first table all the way on the left? Natalie Portman? Wearing that little pageboy cap and sunglasses as a disguise, as though her essential Natalie Portman-ness doesn’t shine right through?” Nola said.

Brooke looked again, this time noticing the girl in the cap as she sipped from her wineglass and laughed at something her dinner partner said. “Mmm, yeah, I think that probably is her.”

“Of course it is! And she looks freaking fantastic. I can’t figure out why I don’t hate her. I should, but I don’t.” Nola cocked her head to the side but never took her eyes off the window.

“Why should you hate her?” Brooke asked. “She actually seems like one of the more normal ones.”

“Even more of a reason you should hate her. Not only is she insanely attractive—including when she’s completely bald—but she’s also a Harvard graduate, she speaks like fifteen languages, she’s traveled all over the world encouraging people to support microfinance, and she’s so in love with the environment that she won’t wear leather shoes. And on top of all that, everyone who’s ever worked with her or so much as sat next to her on a plane swears she’s the coolest, most
down-to-earth person they’ve ever met. Now, tell me, please, how can you possibly not hate someone like that?”

Nola finally left her window perch and Brooke followed her. They both flopped down on opposite slipcovered love seats and each turned on her side to face the other.

Brooke took a gulp and shrugged, thinking about the photographer outside their apartment. “Good for Natalie Portman, I guess?”

Nola shook her head slowly from side to side. “My god, you’re a piece of work.”

“What did I say? I don’t understand. Am I supposed to be obsessed with her? Jealous of her? She’s not even real.”

“Of course she’s real! She’s sitting right across the street, and she looks amazing.”

Brooke draped an arm across her forehead and moaned. “And now we’re stalking her, which I’m not feeling great about. Leave her be.”

“Feeling a little sensitive about Natalie’s privacy?” Nola asked more gently.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s weird; the part of me that’s been reading these magazines for years and has seen every movie she’s ever been in and can name every dress she’s worn to the awards show makes me want to sit at that window and stare at her all night. Then there’s the part of me . . .”

Nola pointed the remote control to the TV and scrolled through the channels until she found the alternative rock station. She propped herself up on her elbow. “I hear you. What else is going on? Why are you in such a shitty mood?”

Brooke sighed. “I had to ask for another day off for next weekend in Miami, and let’s just say that Margaret was less than thrilled.”

“She can’t expect her staff not to have personal lives.”

Brooke snorted. “It’s probably not unfair for her to expect us to show up every now and then.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. Can I change the topic to something a little more fun? No offense.”

“What, the party this weekend?”

“Am I invited?” Nola grinned. “I could be your date.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love it, but I didn’t think it was an option.”

“What, would I rather be in New York having drinks with some loser when I could be nibbling caviar with a fledgling rock star’s wife?”

“Done. I’m sure Julian will be thrilled he won’t have to babysit me all night.” Brooke’s phone vibrated on the coffee table. “Speak of the devil . . .”

“Hey!” Brooke said into the receiver. “Nola and I were just talking about the party this weekend.”

“Brooke? Guess what? I just spoke to Leo who heard from the VP at Sony. They said that the album’s initial numbers are far exceeding their expectations.”

Brooke could hear music and some general clattering in the background, but she couldn’t remember where Julian was that afternoon. Maybe Atlanta? Or were they playing in Charleston that night? Yes, that was definitely it. Atlanta was last night—she remembered speaking to Julian when he called around one in the morning, and he sounded drunk but in generally good spirits. He’d been calling from the Ritz in Buckhead.

“No one wants to commit to anything yet since the airplay-tracking week still has three days to go, but the sales-tracking week ended today and supposedly it’s on pace.”

Brooke had spent two hours the night before reading up on all the other singers and groups who had released albums in the last couple weeks, but she still didn’t understand how the tracking worked. Should she ask? Or would he just get annoyed at her ignorance?

“For at
least
a move from number four to number three. Possibly even higher!”

“I’m so proud of you! Are you guys having fun in Charleston?” she asked brightly.

There was silence. She panicked for a second. Were they not in Charleston? But then he said, “Believe it or not, we’re all busting our asses down here. Practicing, performing, breaking down, setting up, staying in a different hotel every night. Everyone’s
working
here.”

Brooke was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t suggesting that all you’re doing is partying.” Brooke somehow managed to refrain from reminding him about his drunken, very late call last night.

Nola caught Brooke’s eye and motioned that she’d be in the other room, but Brooke waved and gave her a look that said,
Don’t be ridiculous.

“Is this about leaving in the middle of your dad’s party? How many times have I apologized about that? I can’t believe you’re still punishing me.”

“No, it’s not about that, although for the record you walked out with about six seconds’ warning and you haven’t been home since and that was almost two weeks ago.” She softened her voice. “I guess I thought you’d be back for a day or two after the shoot, before you resumed the tour.”

“What’s with the attitude?”

It felt like a slap. “The
attitude
? Is it really so horrible that I said I hoped you were having fun? Or asked when we might see each other? Gee, I’m an awful person.”

“Brooke, I don’t have time for a tantrum right now.”

The way he said her full name gave her a chill.

“A ‘tantrum,’ Julian?
Really?
” She almost never told him how she really felt—he was too stressed, too busy, too distracted, or too far away—so she tried hard not to complain. To be upbeat and understanding, just like her mother said, but it wasn’t easy.

“Well then what exactly are you so worked up about? I’m sorry I can’t get home this week. How many times do you want me to apolo
gize? I’m doing this for us, you know. You might want to remember that sometimes.”

Brooke felt that all-too-anxious feeling. “I don’t think you understand,” she said quietly.

He sighed. “I’ll try and take a night and get home before Miami this weekend, okay? Would that make things better? It’s just not so easy two weeks after your album drops.”

She wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but instead she took a deep breath, counted to three, and said, “That would be great if you could manage it. I’d love to see you.”

“I’m going to try, Rook. Look, I’ve got to run, but please know I love you. And I miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Before she could say another word, he hung up.

“He hung up on me!” she yelled, before slamming her cell phone into the cushiony couch, where it bounced off a pillow before landing on the floor.

“You okay?” Nola’s voice was soft and soothing. She stood in the doorway of the living room, holding a handful of takeout menus and a bottle of wine. “For the Lost” began playing from the TV’s radio station, and both Nola and Brooke turned toward the set.

He was a brother’s dream, he was a fist of sand
He slipped away with the second hand . . .

“Can you turn that off, please?” Brooke collapsed onto the couch and covered her eyes, although she wasn’t crying. “What am I going to do?” she moaned.

Nola swiftly changed the channel. “First, you’re going to decide whether you want lemongrass chicken or jumbo prawn curry from the Vietnamese place, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you guys.” Nola seemed to remember the bottle in her hand. “Scratch that. First, we’re going to have a drink.”

She quickly cut the foil wrapper with the tip of the wine opener and was about to plunge it into the cork when she said, “Are you still upset about that stupid Layla picture?”

Brooke snorted and accepted a glass of red from Nola that, in more polite company, would’ve been considered overfilled but for tonight looked exactly right. “What, you mean the one where my husband has his arm wrapped around her twenty-six-inch waist with a smile so massive, so positively beatific, that he looks like he’s in the throes of an orgasm?”

Nola sipped her wine and put her feet up on the table. “Some dumb starlet was looking to take advantage of a little press time with the next big thing. She couldn’t care less about Julian.”

“I know that. And it’s not the picture so much as . . . He went from Nick’s and a part-time internship to this? It all changed overnight, Nola. I wasn’t ready.”

There was no point in denying it anymore: Julian Alter, her husband, was officially and undeniably famous. Intellectually, Brooke was aware that it had been an impossibly long and difficult road; so many years of daily practice and gigs and songwriting (not including the countless gigs and hours Julian had logged before they’d even met). There’d been demo tapes, promo tracks, singles that almost worked but never did. Even once he’d scored the long-shot record deal that was never supposed to go anywhere, there had been weeks and months of poring over contract books, hiring and working with entertainment lawyers, contacting more experienced artists for their advice and possible mentoring. There were the many months that followed spent in a Midtown recording studio, tweaking the keyboard and the vocals hundreds, maybe thousands of times to get the sound just right. The endless meetings with producers and A&R guys and intimidating executives that knew—and acted like—they held the golden keys to his future. There was the Sony casting call for new band members and then the interviewing and auditioning that followed; the nonstop travel between Los Angeles and New York to
make sure everything was proceeding smoothly; the consultations with PR people who could guide the public’s perception; and the instructions from the media trainers on how to behave in front of the cameras. And of course the stylist in charge of Julian’s image.