Last Night at Chateau Marmont (34 page)

“Huh?”

“Well, only because you swear up and down that you always do everything in your power to get home whenever you can—even if it’s only for a night—but apparently
that
night was an exception.”

Julian jumped off the chair and walked over to Brooke. He tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away like a skittish deer. “Brooke, come here. I didn’t . . . have sex with her. It’s not the way it seems.”

“You didn’t have
sex
with her? Am I supposed to sit here now and guess what did actually happen?”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like what? What the hell happened, Julian? Clearly
something,
because we’ve never had a conversation like this before.”

“It’s just that . . . it’s complicated.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat. “Tell me
nothing
happened. Say, ‘Brooke, they’re a total scam, a complete distortion,’ and I’ll believe you.”

She looked at him, and he looked away. It was all she needed to know.

For a reason she didn’t understand herself, Brooke felt all the rage disappear in an instant. She didn’t feel better or at all comforted, but it was like someone had drained her of all her anger and replaced it with a deep, cold hurt. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

They sat in silence, neither one of them daring to say a word. Brooke was shaking now, her hands, her shoulders, everything, and Julian was staring at his lap. She thought she might puke.

Finally, she said, “I got fired.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Yeah, just now. Margaret said the higher-ups question my ‘commitment to the program.’ Because I’m never there. Because I’ve taken more days off and switched more shifts in the last six months than people do in ten years. Because I’m too busy following you all over the country, staying in gorgeous hotel suites and wearing diamonds.”

Julian dropped his head in his hands. “I had no idea.”

There was a knock at the door. When neither of them said anything, Natalya stuck her head in. “We need to do a final run-through with both of you and then start moving out. You’re due on the red carpet in twenty-five minutes.”

Julian nodded and she closed the door again. He looked at Brooke. “I’m so sorry, Rook. I can’t believe they actually, uh, laid you off. They were lucky to have you, and they know it.”

There was another knock at the door.

“We’ll be right out!” she shouted, louder than she’d planned.

The door opened anyway, and Leo appeared. Brooke watched as he carefully arranged his expression to one of peacemaker, consensus builder, understanding confidant during hard times, and she immediately wanted to puke.

“Leo, can you give us a minute?” She didn’t bother hiding her dislike.

He walked in and closed the door behind him as though he hadn’t heard her. “Brooke, I know this can’t be easy right now, trust me, but you two have to be on that red carpet in less than thirty minutes, and it’s my job to make sure you’re prepared.”

Julian nodded. Brooke could do nothing but stare.

“Now, of course we all know those pictures are a load of crap, but until I can get to the bottom of it and force a retraction”—he paused here to give everyone a chance to process his power and influence—“I would like you both to be ready.”

“Okay,” Julian said, and looked at Brooke. “I guess we should probably work out our official response to any questions as a couple. Show a united front.”

Brooke realized the anger she’d been feeling at the beginning of their conversation had slowly become a deep sadness.
What happens when you barely recognize your husband anymore?
she wondered. Julian, who used to complete her thoughts, now seemed incapable of understanding her at all.

She took a deep breath. “You two can decide on your own ‘official response,’ and I don’t particularly care what it is. I’m going to finish getting dressed right now.” She turned to Julian and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll go with you tonight, and I’ll smile for the cameras and hold your hand on the red carpet, but the moment that ceremony is over, I’m going home.”

Julian stood up and came to sit next to her on the bed. He pulled her hands into his and said, “Brooke, I beg you, please don’t let—”

She pulled her hands back and moved a few inches away. “Don’t you
dare
try to put this on me. I’m not the reason we need a huddle and an official statement to the press. You two work it out.”

“Brooke, really, can we just—”

“Let her do her thing, Julian,” Leo announced in a voice rich with wisdom and experience, accompanied by a look that said,
At least she agreed to go—can you imagine the PR nightmare if she bailed? Take it easy, give the crazy wife a little space, and you’ll be on your way to the stage in no time. . . . “
Do what you need to do, Brooke. Julian and I will get everything straightened out here.”

Brooke stared at them both before walking back into the living room. Natalya pounced on her immediately. “Jesus Christ, Brooke! What the hell happened to your makeup? Someone fucking find Lionel!” she screamed as she raced toward the back bedroom. Brooke took the opportunity to slip into the third, blessedly empty bedroom, lock the door, and dial Nola.

“Hello?” The sound of her friend’s voice almost made her cry all over again.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Are you in the dress yet? Can you have Julian take a picture with your BlackBerry and send it? I’m dying to see you!”

“Listen, I only have two seconds before they find me, so—”

“Find you? Are you being stalked by some sort of awards show killer?” she laughed.

“Nola, please just listen to me. Everything turned into a horror
show. Pictures of Julian and some girl. I haven’t seen them yet so I don’t really know, but they sound bad. And I got fired for missing so much work. Look, I can’t explain it all now, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to get on a red-eye right after the ceremony, and I was hoping I could come to your place? I have a feeling our apartment is going to be completely staked out.”

“Pictures of Julian and some girl? Oh, Brooke, I’m sure it’s nothing. Those magazines will print any trash that floats by their desk, true or not. . . .”

“Can I stay with you, Nola? I have to get out of here. But I’ll totally understand if you don’t want the drama right now.”

“Brooke! Shut up this minute. I’ll call and book your flight myself. I remember from a project I did in L.A. that the last red-eye to New York is at eleven on American. Do you want that one? Is it enough time? I’ll also book you cars to and from the airport.”

The mere sound of concern in her friend’s voice started the tears flowing again. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“Remember to find out if Fergie looks as old in person as she does in all the photos. . . .”

“I hate you.”

“I know. I love you, too. Don’t be afraid to sneak some pics and send them. I’d especially like to see a couple of Josh Groban. . . .”

Despite herself, Brooke smiled and hung up. She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and worked up enough nerve to open the door. Natalya looked ready to faint with stress; she physically launched herself at Brooke.

“Do you realize we only have twenty minutes and they need to
completely
redo you? Who fucking
cries
after their makeup is applied?” She mumbled the last part, but it was loud enough for Brooke to hear.

“You know what I need right now, Natalya?” she asked, reaching out to touch the girl’s forearm, her voice low but barely concealing a steely rage.

Natalya peered back at her with wide eyes.

“I need you to get my makeup fixed, find my shoes, and order me a vodka martini and a bottle of Advil from room service. And I need you to do those three things without speaking. Not one single, solitary word. Do you think you can do that?”

Natalya stared at her.

“Excellent. I just knew we could work it out! Thanks so much for your help.”

And with that, feeling just the tiniest bit of satisfaction, Brooke walked back into the bedroom. She was going to get through this.

“R
EMEMBER
, you two: hold hands, smile, and relax. You’re happy and in love and you’re clearly not worrying about some two-bit, fame-seeking slut. She is not on your radar. Are we ready?” Leo all but shouted at them from his seat three feet away in the back of the limousine.

“We’re ready . . .” Julian mumbled.

“Are we psyched? We need to be psyched! Are you two feeling it?” He peered out the window to see if they were being motioned for yet by the woman with the clipboard who was timing artist arrivals. Julian was scheduled to begin his red carpet walk at exactly 4:25
P.M.
, which according to Brooke’s cell phone was in one terrifying minute.

Feeling what, exactly?
Brooke wanted to ask.
Like shit? Like I’m about to make a voluntary death march, and if I knew what was good for me I’d immediately turn around, but I’m way too conflict-averse to make waves like that, so instead I’ll just go quietly to the executioner’s? So yes, you jerk, I suppose I am “feeling it.”

“
I’m not going to lie, guys—they’re going to be piranhas.” Leo held up his hands, palms out. “I’m just sayin’, so you’ll be prepared. But ignore ’em, smile, and soak in the moment. You two’ll be great.”
His phone buzzed and after glancing at it for half a second, he clicked Unlock on the doors and turned to Brooke and Julian.

“It’s time. Let’s do this!” Leo shouted, and threw open the limo door, and before Brooke could even process what was happening, she was blinded by the flashbulbs. And while the flashes of light were piercing and painful, they were nothing compared to the questions.

“Julian! How does it feel to be attending your first Grammy ceremony?”

“Brooke! Do you have any comment on the pictures in the latest issue of
Last Night
?”

“Julian! Look over here! Here! Are you having an affair?”

“Brooke! Turn this way! Here, this camera! Who are you wearing?”

“Brooke! If you could say one thing to the Chateau bimbo, what would it be?”

“Julian! To your left! Yes, just like that! Will you stay in your marriage?”

“Julian! Is it surreal to be walking the red carpet when no one knew your name a year ago?”

“Brooke! Do you think it’s your fault because you don’t physically fit the Hollywood norm?”

“What would you say to all the young women watching right now?”

“Julian! Do you wish your wife traveled with you more?”

It was like having stadium lights suddenly turned on in your bedroom at three in the morning: her eyes wouldn’t—couldn’t—adjust, and every effort only resulted in more discomfort.

She briefly turned her back toward the camera-free zone behind them and caught a glimpse of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban climbing out of a stretch black Escalade.
Why are you talking to us when there are
real
celebrities here?
she wanted to scream. It was only when she turned back around again, her eyes finally able to handle the stunning flashes of light, that she saw an endless sea of red before
them. Was it a mile long? Two? Ten? The people who had progressed farther up the carpet appeared casual, even relaxed. They were standing around in groups of three or five, idly chatting to reporters or one another, posing expertly for the cameras, offering megawatt, professionally engineered smiles at every turn. Was it possible to be like them? Could she do that too? More to the point, did she even stand a chance of surviving the next interminable stretch of carpet?

And then they were moving. She kept one sandaled foot directly in front of the other, chin held high, cheeks most likely flaming, and Julian ushered her through the throngs. When they’d traversed half of the distance to the entrance, Leo placed a hot, sweaty hand on each of their shoulders, leaned his head between theirs, and said, “E! entertainment news, upcoming on your right. If they approach you for an interview, stop and talk to them.”

Brooke looked to her right and saw the back of a short blond guy’s head. He was holding a microphone out to a trio of black-suited boys, none of whom looked older than fifteen. She had to rack her brain trying to think of their names, and when she finally remembered they were the Jonas Brothers, she felt very, very old. They were kind of cute, she thought, in a koala-bear-type way, but sexy? Seductive? Capable of bringing millions of tween girls to the brink of unconsciousness by merely smiling? Ridiculous. She thought all those screaming girls should look back at the old
Tiger Beat
photos of Kirk Cameron and Ricky Schroeder if they wanted to see some real teen heartthrobs. She shook her head to herself. Did she just think the word “heartthrob”? She added this to a mental list of things to tell Nola.

“Julian Alter? Can we have a word with you?” The short blond guy had finally bid good-bye to the Jonas children and turned toward Brooke and Julian. Seacrest! Looking every bit as tan as he always did on
Idol,
his smile warm and welcoming. Brooke wanted to kiss him.

“Hey,” Julian said, the recognition dawning on his face at the exact same time. “Uh, sure. We’d love to.”

Seacrest motioned to the cameraman behind him and positioned
himself slightly to the left of Brooke and Julian. He nodded and the cameraman switched on a powerfully bright light, which instantly cast off a surprising amount of heat. He then spoke into the microphone while looking at the camera.

“Joining me now, Julian Alter and his beautiful wife, Brooke.” He turned toward them and waved his free hand expansively. “Thanks for taking a moment to say hello to us, you two. I have to say, you’re both looking great tonight.”

They each reflexively fake-smiled. Brooke had a brief, panic-inducing moment where she remembered that millions of people were watching this right now, all across the country and possibly the world.

“Thanks, Ryan,” Julian said, and Brooke was relieved he’d remembered to use his first name. “We’re both so excited to be here.”