Last Night at Chateau Marmont (27 page)

Brooke remembered the night Julian had come home from media training and told her it was the most important thing he’d learned. “You are not required to answer the question they ask you, and if you don’t like the question, you go ahead and answer any question you feel like answering. It does not need to be related whatsoever to the asked question. The only requirement is that you convey information
you
want to share. Take back control of the interview. Don’t let them bully you into answering anything unpleasant or uncomfortable. Just smile and change the subject. The onus is on the anchor to keep the interview moving forward, to make it appear smooth and seamless, and they’re not going to call you out on refusing to answer a question. This is morning television, not the presidential debates, so as long as you’re smiling and relaxed, you’ve succeeded. You’ll never get cornered or pinned down if you only answer questions you like.”

That night felt like a year ago, and Brooke just prayed Julian could muster the same confidence right now.
Stick to the script,
she willed him,
and don’t let her see you sweat.

Meredith folded over the magazine, which Brooke could now see was
US Weekly,
and held a page toward Julian. She pointed to a photo in the upper-right-hand corner, which was Brooke’s first indication this wasn’t about the infamous Layla picture. Julian was smiling, but he looked confused.

“Ah yes,” he said in response to nothing, since Meredith had not asked a question yet. “My beautiful wife.”

Oh no,
Brooke thought. Meredith was pointing to a picture of Brooke and Julian with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the cameras. The camera zoomed in on the picture and Brooke could make out the details now: her standby black sweater dress, Julian looking uncomfortable in a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, both of them holding wineglasses aloft . . . where were they? She leaned forward in her chair and stared at the nearest monitor and it hit her all at once. Her father’s sixty-fifth birthday party. The picture must have been taken just after Brooke gave her toast,
since she and Julian were standing in front of an otherwise seated table. Who on earth had taken that and, more to the point, why did
US Weekly
care?

Then the camera moved down just a touch and she was able to see that the photo had a caption that read, “A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand?” She felt a horrible, anxious jolt in the middle of her stomach when she realized that the new issue of
US Weekly
had probably come out that very day, and no one on Julian’s team had seen it yet.

“Yes, I’ve read that you and your wife, Brooke, have been married for what, five years now?” Meredith asked, looking to Julian. He just nodded, clearly nervous about where this line of questioning was going.

Meredith leaned in close to Julian and, with a huge smile, said, “So can you confirm it here first?”

Julian peered back at her, meeting her eyes, but he looked just as confused as Brooke felt. Confirm what? Brooke knew he hadn’t processed the whole “bun in the oven” thing and most likely thought he was being questioned about the state of his marriage.

“Sorry?” It wasn’t exactly articulate, but Brooke could hardly blame him. What, exactly,
was
she asking?

“Well, we just couldn’t help but wonder if that was a baby bump your wife is sporting.” Meredith smiled broadly, as though an answer in the affirmative was a mere formality, not really a question at all.

Brooke inhaled sharply. Definitely not what she was expecting, and poor Julian was about as likely to use the phrase “baby bump” as he was to answer the question in Russian. Not to mention that while she might not be in the absolute best shape of her life, she sure as hell didn’t think she looked pregnant. It was just another awkward picture angle, taken from below and exposing the weird puffiness of fabric around the waist where the dress was cinched closed. So what?

He squirmed in his seat; his distress only seemed to confirm the truth of her question.

“Oh come on, you can tell us here. That would be quite a big year for you—debut album and a new baby! I’m sure the fans would love to know for sure. . . .”

It took Brooke a second to realize she wasn’t breathing. Was this actually
happening
? Who the hell did she think they were? Brangelina? Did anyone actually care if they were pregnant? Was it anyone’s business? Did she really look so huge in that picture that the only assumption could be she was with child? And most of all, if the whole goddamn world was going to assume she was pregnant, that picture made her look like a pregnant woman with a drinking problem. It was almost too much to believe.

Julian opened his mouth to say something, appeared to remember his instructions to smile and answer whatever he wanted, and said, “I love my wife very much. None of this would have ever happened without her incredible support.”

None of what?
Brooke wanted to scream.
The horrible timing of the pregnancy that didn’t exist? The fact that his wife was drinking straight through her faux pregnancy?

There was an awkward silence that probably only lasted a couple seconds but felt endless, and then Meredith thanked Julian, looked directly at the camera, ordered everyone to buy his new album, and cut to commercial. Brooke was vaguely aware that the intense lights had been lowered and Meredith had unhooked her microphone and stood up. She extended a hand to Julian, who looked shell-shocked, offered a few words Brooke couldn’t hear, and quickly walked off the set. A dozen people began scurrying around the studio, checking wires and pushing cameras and exchanging clipboards. Julian continued to sit there, looking like he’d just been whacked over the head with a shovel.

Brooke stood up and was about to make her way to Julian when Leo materialized in front of her.

“Our boy did pretty well, dontcha think, Brooke? Little weird on the last question, but nothing major.”

“Mmm.” Brooke was intent on getting to Julian, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Samara, the media trainer, and two PAs escorted Julian back outside to prepare for his next set. He still had two more songs to sing, one at eight forty-five and one at nine thirty, before this hellish morning would finally end.

“You wanna come outside or watch from the greenroom? Might want to take it easy, you know, put your legs up?” Leo leered, which felt grosser than usual right then.

“You think I’m pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.

Leo threw his hands in the air. “I’m not asking. That’s your deal, you know? Granted, it wouldn’t be the
best
timing in terms of Julian’s career, but hey, I guess babies come when they’re ready. . . .”

“Leo, I would really appreciate—”

Leo’s cell phone rang and he yanked it from his pocket and cradled it like it was the Bible. “Gotta take this,” he said, and turned to walk outside.

Brooke stood rooted to her spot. She couldn’t even begin to process what had happened. Julian had all but confirmed an imaginary pregnancy on live, national television. The page who had greeted them this morning appeared by Brooke’s side.

“Hi! Can I show you back to the greenroom? They’re getting set up for the next segment, so things are kind of crazy here,” he said, checking his clipboard.

“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks,” Brooke said gratefully.

She followed him in silence back up the stairs and down the long hallway. He opened the greenroom door for her and Brooke thought he may have said “congratulations” before he left, but she wasn’t sure. Her seat had been claimed by a man in full chef whites, so she took the only empty chair left.

The child prodigy with the violin looked up at her. “Do you know what it is?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched it sounded like she had just inhaled a helium balloon.

“Pardon me?” Brooke glanced at the child, uncertain she had heard her correctly.

“I asked,” the girl said excitedly, “if you know what you’re having yet. A boy or a girl?”

Brooke’s mouth dropped in shock.

The girl’s mother leaned over and whispered something in her ear, probably something about her question being rude or inappropriate, but the girl only glared back. “I just asked what she was having!” she screeched.

Brooke tried to relax. Might as well have a little fun—god knows her family and friends weren’t going to be quite as amused. She scanned the room to make sure no one else was listening and leaned over. “I’m having a girl,” she whispered, only feeling slightly evil for lying to a child. “And I can only hope she is every bit as lovely as you.”

The phone calls from friends and family began pouring in during the car ride home and continued nonstop for days. Her mother announced that while she was hurt she had to find out on television, she was nonetheless ecstatic that her only daughter would finally be a mother herself. Her father was delighted that the picture from his party had been posted on national television and wondered how he and Cynthia hadn’t figured it out earlier. Julian’s mother weighed in with the expected “Oh, well! We sure don’t feel old enough to be grandparents!” Randy kindly offered to include Brooke’s future son on the small football team of Greene children he was mentally drafting, and Michelle volunteered her services to decorate the little one’s nursery. Nola was livid that Brooke hadn’t confided in her first, although she admitted that she’d be more apt to forgive were the little girl named after her. And every single one of them—some more gently than others—commented on the wine.

That she had to convince her entire family, Julian’s entire family, all her coworkers and all their friends that first, she was not pregnant, and second, she would
never
drink during her purely hypothetical
pregnancy, felt to Brooke like more than an insult. An affront. And she could still sense skepticism. The only thing that worked—that actually made people back off for half a second—was the following week’s
US Weekly,
which showed a paparazzi picture of Brooke grocery shopping at her neighborhood Gristedes. Her belly looked flatter, no doubt, but that wasn’t what did the trick. In the photo she held a basket with bananas, a four-pack of yogurt, a liter of Poland Spring, a bottle of Windex, and, apparently, a box of Tampax. The Pearl version, super absorbency, should the world be interested, and it was circled with a thick black marker and a caption that screamed “No Baby for the Alters!” as though the magazine, through some sort of savvy detective work, had really gotten to the bottom of the issue.

Thanks to that stellar journalism, the entire world knew she was
not
pregnant but she
did
have heavier-than-average periods. Nola found the entire thing hysterically funny; Brooke couldn’t stop thinking that everyone from her tenth-grade boyfriend to her ninety-one-year-old grandfather—not to mention every single teenager, housewife, frequent flyer, grocery shopper, salon visitor, manicure seeker, and subscriber in North America—was privy to the details of her menstrual cycle. She hadn’t even
seen
the photographer! From that day on, she ordered all products that were sex, period, or digestion related online.

Thankfully, Randy and Michelle’s baby, Ella, proved to be the ultimate distraction. She arrived, like a blessing from above, two weeks after the
Today
show drama, and she had the courtesy to arrive right on Halloween, thereby giving them a perfect excuse to bail on Leo’s costume party. Brooke couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude toward her new niece. Between all the retellings of the birthing story (Michelle’s water breaking while they were out at an Italian restaurant, the race to the hospital only to wait another twelve hours, the offer of free lifetime meals for Ella from the owner of Campanelli’s), the swaddling lessons, and the counting of fingers and toes, the focus
had shifted away from Brooke and Julian. At least, within their own family.

They were the model aunt and uncle, making it to the hospital with time to spare before the baby was born, remembering to bring with them two dozen New York bagels and enough lox to feed the entire maternity ward. Even Julian had seemed pleased by the whole event, cooing in Ella’s ear that her tiny hands looked like they were made to play the piano. She would forever think of baby Ella as the last delicious calm before the hell storm to come.

B
ROOKE’s
cell phone rang just as she’d lugged the twenty-two-pound turkey into the apartment and managed to heave it on top of the counter.

“Hello?” she said as she began clearing her fridge of every nonessential item to make room for the gigantic bird.

“Brooke? It’s Samara.”

She was caught off guard. Samara had never, ever called her before. Did she want to check in and see what they thought of the
Vanity Fair
cover? It had just hit the stands and Brooke couldn’t stop staring at it. She thought of it as vintage Julian, in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, wearing one of his favorite knit caps and smiling in just that way that showed off his astonishingly endearing dimples. He was by far the cutest of the gang.

“Oh, hi! Doesn’t he just look amazing on the
Vanity Fair
cover? I mean, I’m not surprised, but he just looks so—”

“Brooke, do you have a minute?”

Obviously, this wasn’t a social call about a magazine cover, and if that woman was even going to try to tell Julian that he couldn’t make it home for the very first Thanksgiving
they
were hosting, well, she’d kill her.

“Um, yeah, just hold on one sec.” She closed the fridge and sat down at their tiny table, which reminded her that she needed to call and check on the status of the table and chair rental. “Okay, I’m settled now. What’s going on?”

“Brooke, there’s been an article written, and it’s not pleasant,” Samara announced in that clipped, curt way she always had, although with news like this there was something comforting about it.

Brooke tried to laugh it off. “Well, seems like these days there’s always an article written. Hey, I’m the hard-drinking pregnant lady, remember? What did Julian say?”