Last Night at Chateau Marmont (36 page)

“I’m Brooke,” she said so quietly and with such softness that she sounded sad even to herself.

“I’m Carter Price. Oh, my . . . I didn’t even realize . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. . . .”

Brooke’s hands immediately flew to her face. Carter was staring at her with a look of such intense sympathy, she was certain something was very wrong.

“You heard everything those cows said, didn’t you?”

“I, uh, I don’t really . . .”

“You can’t listen to them, to anyone even like them! They’re petty, silly, ridiculous people, and they think they understand, think they have the tiniest notion of what it’s like to have your marriage play out in public, but they don’t know a damn thing. About anything.”

Huh.
Not what she was expecting, but very welcome.

“Thanks,” Brooke said, reaching out to accept a tissue from Carter. She told herself to remember to tell Nola that Carter Price had given her a tissue, and then she immediately felt stupid thinking it.

“Look, you don’t know me at all,” Carter said, her long, graceful fingers gesticulating through the air, “but I wish someone would’ve told me that it really does get better. Every story, no matter how juicy or horrible it is, eventually goes away. The vultures always need fresh misery to feed on, so if you just keep your cool and refuse to comment, it
will
get better.”

Brooke was so focused on the fact that Carter Price was standing next to her and confiding in her about her ex—conceivably the most gorgeous, talented, revered actor of their generation—that she forgot to speak.

She must have been quiet for longer than she realized, because Carter turned back to the mirror, concealer stick in hand, and said, “God, that was none of my business, was it?” while dabbing at an imaginary circle under her left eye.

“No! That was so,
so
helpful, and
so
appreciated,” Brooke said, quite aware that she sounded like an illiterate teenager.

“Here,” Carter said, handing over her still-full glass of champagne. “You need this more than I do.”

Under any other circumstances, Brooke would have politely refused, but tonight she agreed with Carter, movie star extraordinaire, and drained it in one easy swallow. She couldn’t say what she would’ve paid for another—it was within new-car territory.

Carter gave her an approving look and nodded. “It feels like the
entire world has been invited into your home and every one of them has something to say about it.”

She was so nice! So normal! Brooke felt guilty for all the times she’d speculated with Nola about whether it was Carter’s shrewishness or her botched boob job that had driven her ex into the arms of that tennis player. Never again would she be such a judgmental bitch about someone she didn’t know.

“Yes, exactly,” Brooke said, smacking her palm against the sink to underscore her point. “And the worst part is, they think it’s all true. To just automatically assume that whatever gets printed in those things is accurate, well, it’s ridiculous.”

With this last sentence, Carter stopped nodding and cocked her head. A moment later, her face registered recognition. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t realize what?”

“That you think he didn’t do it. Sweetheart, those photos . . .” She trailed off. “Look, I know it’s heartbreaking—trust me, I’ve been through all of it before—but it doesn’t help anything to live in denial.”

It felt like Carter Price had punched her in the gut. “Look, I haven’t even seen the pictures yet, but I know my husband, and I—”

The bathroom door swung open and a young woman materialized. She was wearing a sleek skirt suit, a Bluetooth earpiece, and a badge on a lanyard around her neck. “Carter? We need to get you seated right away.” She turned and looked at Brooke. “Are you Brooke Alter?”

Brooke merely nodded, praying this woman wasn’t going to add in her two cents about Julian. She couldn’t handle another opinion.

“Julian’s manager asked me to tell you that they had to get Julian backstage, but to proceed to your seat in the audience and he’ll send someone to get you right before Julian goes on.”

“Thanks,” she said. She was relieved she wouldn’t be seeing Leo or Julian but nervous about entering the theater area by herself.

She didn’t need to worry. “I’ll escort you both now if you’re ready.”

Carter shot Brooke a quick look and a huge smile. “We’re ready,” she said, linking her arm with Brooke’s. “Aren’t we?”

It was surreal. In the space of a single minute, one of the most famous actresses on earth had announced she thought Brooke’s husband was cheating and then linked arms with her to stroll through the crowd together as though they’d been friends for twenty years. Brooke’s face must have revealed her confusion and nausea and all-around discomfort; as the badge lady pointed to Brooke’s seat in the fourth row from the stage, Carter leaned in and whispered, “It was real nice meeting you. And you’ll survive this, I promise. If I can, anyone can. As for the show right now, remember to smile, smile, smile. Those cameras are going to be
all over
you tonight, just praying for a breakdown, so don’t give it to them, okay?”

Brooke nodded, wishing more than anything that she could press a magic button and be transported back to Nola and Walter and her favorite fleece sweatpants. Instead, she took her seat. And she smiled.

She grinned maniacally through Jimmy Kimmel’s opening monologue, Carrie Underwood’s performance, a song-and-dance duet with Justin Timberlake and Beyoncé, a prerecorded video montage, and a quirky little number by Katy Perry. Her cheek muscles were starting to throb when the girl sitting beside her, a Kardashian, she thought, although she didn’t know one from the next or why they were famous, leaned in and said, “You look hot tonight, FYI. Don’t let those pictures get you down.”

It had seemed impossible enough when it was just her and Julian in a hotel room together, but this? This was unbearable.

She heard the master of ceremonies announce that they’d gone to commercial, and before she could respond to the girl’s comment, Leo materialized at the end of her aisle, crouching down so as not to block anyone’s view, and motioned for her to follow him.
You know things are grim when you’re happy to see
him
,
she thought to herself. Smiling, smiling, smiling all the way despite feeling a strange light-headedness,
Brooke ignored Potential Kardashian and politely excused herself as she climbed over people’s legs (was that just Seal she’d almost straddled?) and followed Leo backstage.

“How’s he doing?” She desperately wanted not to care, but knowing Julian and his stage fright, she couldn’t help but feel for him. Instantly, despite everything that had happened, she was transported back to the countless times she’d held his hand and rubbed his back and reassured him that he’d be great.

“He only puked, like, seventeen times, so I think we’re good to go.”

She glared at Leo, who stared at the ass of an extremely young girl as he walked Brooke to the viewing area at stage left. “Really?”

“He’s fine. A little nervous, but fine. He’s going to rock it tonight.”

She caught a split-second view of Julian before a PA, who was listening intently to an earpiece, nodded and gave Julian’s shoulder a little shove. He and his bandmates quickly took their positions at their instruments. They were still behind the curtain, and Brooke could hear Jimmy Kimmel joking with the audience, keeping them warm during the commercial break. The monitor in the viewing area was counting down from twenty seconds, and the hand that Julian had wrapped around the microphone was clearly shaking.

Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, Jimmy Kimmel announced Julian’s name and the curtain rose on all sides, revealing a crowd of people so huge and so loud, Brooke wondered if Julian would even be able to make himself heard. But then the drummer began with a soft
tap-tap-tap,
the guitarist played a few mournful notes, and Julian pressed the microphone to his lips and began to sing the words that had made him famous. The sound of his baritone voice reverberated around the stadium, causing the audience to quiet almost immediately; to Brooke, it felt like nothing short of an electric jolt.

She flashed back to the first time she’d heard Julian perform “For
the Lost,” on that balmy Tuesday night at Nick’s. He’d already played Brooke’s favorite cover material plus two or three of his original songs, but when he played his brand-new song for the very first time, Brooke got chills. Since then, she had witnessed countless performances, but nothing could have prepared her for the experience of watching her husband sing his heart out for millions of people.

What felt like only seconds later, the crowd had erupted into ecstatic, frantic cheers. Julian was bowing and gesturing a thank-you toward his bandmates, and the very next minute he was walking offstage, the microphone still clutched in his hand. Brooke could see he was exultant, trembling with the excitement and pride of a man who brought down a house of his peers and his heroes. His eyes shone and he moved to pull Brooke into a hug.

She pulled away and he looked like someone had slapped him.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her by the hand. People backstage were swarming around, offering their congratulations and admiration, but Julian clasped Brooke’s hand and led her into his dressing room. He closed the door behind them and smiled widely.

Brooke looked directly into his eyes. “We need to talk about those pictures. It’s not a good time, I know, but I can’t stand wondering anymore. If you could hear what people are saying . . . what they’ve been saying to me . . .”

“Shh,” he said, putting a finger across her lips. “We’ll talk about everything, we’ll figure it all out. Let’s enjoy this here now. Let’s pop some champagne! Leo said he got us into Usher’s post-party at Geisha House, and I’m telling you, it’s going to be incredible.”

A million images flashed through her mind at the same time, and they all included reporters, flashbulbs, and a rotating retinue of scorned women offering unsolicited advice on how to survive the devastation and humiliation. Before she could tell Julian that she needed the truth and she needed it now, there was a knock on the door.

Neither of them said it was okay to come in, but Leo entered anyway. Samara stood by his side. Both peered at Brooke.

“Hey, Brooke, you okay?” Samara asked without the least bit of concern in her voice.

Brooke flashed a phony smile.

“Listen, guys, CBS wants to do a post-performance interview.”

“Samara—” Julian started but Leo cut him off.

“With
both
of you,” he said as though he’d just announced their execution date.

“Oh, come on, you guys.”

“I know, Julian, and I apologize, but I’m afraid I have to insist you go out there. It’s up to Brooke if she joins you”—Samara paused pointedly and looked at Brooke—“but let me go on the record as saying that everyone at Sony would
really
appreciate it if she could do this. There is obviously a lot of interest in those pictures. You two need to get out there and show the world that nothing’s wrong.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment until Brooke realized they were all looking at her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Julian, tell them that . . .”

Julian didn’t respond. When she worked up the nerve to look at him, he was staring at his hands.

“No,” Brooke said.

“Five more minutes of solidarity? We’ll go out there, we’ll smile, we’ll tell them everything’s great, and then we’ll be free.”

Leo and Samara were nodding at Julian’s wisdom and common sense.

Brooke noticed her dress was badly wrinkled. Her head ached powerfully. She stood, but still, she didn’t cry.

“Brooke, come here, let’s talk about this,” Julian said in his managing-my-crazy-wife voice.

She walked past Samara and stood face-to-face with Leo at the dressing room door. “Excuse me,” she said. When he didn’t step aside, she turned her body and slid past him to pull open the door. For the final time that day, she felt his sweaty hand touch her skin. “Brooke, wait a minute, okay?” His irritation was unmistakable. “You can’t
leave like this. There are ten thousand cameras right outside the center. They’ll eat you alive.”

She turned and faced Leo, holding her breath as her face came within inches of his. “Considering what it’s like in
here,
I think I’ll take my chances. Now take your disgusting hand off my neck and get out of my way.”

And without another word to anyone, she left.

N
OLA
had arranged for the car to wait at a specific cross street behind the Staples Center, and through some miracle—or the fact that people didn’t generally leave midceremony—Brooke managed to slip out the back and into the waiting car undetected by any paparazzi. Her suitcase was open on the backseat, and everything was neatly folded, thanks to a helpful staffer at the Beverly Wilshire. The driver announced he would give her some privacy while she changed out of her dress and back into her street clothes.

She quickly changed and dialed Nola. “How did you make all this happen?” she asked without saying hello. “You’ve got a very bright future as an assistant.” It was easier to joke than even try to explain what the evening had really been like.

“Look, don’t think you’re getting off the hook—I want to hear everything—but there’s been a change of plan.”

“A change of plan? Please don’t tell me I have to stay here tonight.”

“You don’t have to stay there, but you can’t come here. The paparazzi have completely staked out my house. There must be eight, maybe ten of them. I already unplugged my landline. If this is my apartment, I can’t even imagine what yours looks like. I definitely don’t think you want to deal with this.”

“Nola, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, please! This is by far the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, so just shut up. I’m only sorry I won’t get to see you. I booked you on a US Airways flight straight to Philadelphia, and I called your mom to tell her. You leave at ten tonight and arrive a little before six
A.M.
She’ll meet you at the airport. I hope that’s okay?”