Last Night at Chateau Marmont (40 page)

“No, I wouldn’t say it’s anything personal,” the woman said while shaking her head. She listened for a moment and then shook it again. “No, I have never had any interaction with her—my daughter doesn’t require any nutrition counseling, but . . .”

Brooke stopped listening for a split second upon realizing this strange woman was talking about
her.

“Let me say that I’m not alone in thinking this kind of attention
is inappropriate in a school environment. My daughter should be concentrating on algebra and field hockey, and instead she’s fielding calls from reporters asking her to comment for a national gossip tabloid. It’s unacceptable, and it’s why the Parents’ Association is calling for the immediate resignation of Mrs. Alter.”

Brooke gasped. The woman caught Brooke’s eye. The dozen or so other people in the circle—she could see now that there were another two mothers standing with the blond lady—all looked at her. The shouting commenced immediately.

“Brooke! Have you ever met the woman who appeared in the photographs with Julian?”

“Brooke, will you be leaving Julian? Have you seen him since Sunday night?”

“What are your thoughts on the Huntley Parents’ Association calling for your resignation? Do you blame your husband for that?”

It was like the Grammys all over again, only this time without the dress, the husband, or the rope line that separated her from the paparazzi. Thankfully, she did have the school security guard, a kindly man in his late sixties who barely cleared five-six but who nonetheless held up an arm toward the crowd and ordered them to stand back, reminding everyone that while the sidewalk was public property, the stairs leading up to the front door were not. Brooke shot him a grateful look and bolted inside. She was equal parts angry and shocked, mostly at herself for not predicting—for never even suspecting—that all this hellish, unwanted attention would follow her to school.

She took a deep breath and headed directly to her office on the ground floor. Rosie, the administrative assistant for all counseling-related programming, glanced up from her desk when Brooke entered the anteroom to the suite where she, Heather, and the other three guidance counselors all had their offices. Rosie had never excelled at minding her own business, but Brooke guessed today would be worse than usual. She braced herself for the inevitable reference to the Julian photographs, the mob outside, or both.

“Hey, Brooke. Let me know when you’re settled from all the, um, craziness outside. Rhonda wants to come in for a few minutes before your appointments begin,” Rosie said, sounding nervous enough to make Brooke nervous.

“Really? Any idea why?”

“Nope,” Rosie replied, clearly lying. “She asked me to let her know when you got here.”

“Okay, can I take my coat off and check the machine? Two minutes?”

She stepped inside her office, only big enough to house a desk, two chairs, and a coat stand, and she quietly shut the door. Through the glass door, she could see Rosie pick up the phone, letting Rhonda know that she had arrived.

Barely thirty seconds had passed when she heard a knock. “Come in!” Brooke called, trying to sound welcoming. She genuinely liked and respected Rhonda, and while a visit from her principal wasn’t the least bit unusual, she had been hoping to avoid any unnecessary contact that day.

“I’m glad you’re here. I want to give you an update on Lizzie Stone,” Brooke said, hoping to co-opt the conversation by bringing up one of the students she counseled. Brooke barreled on. “I can’t believe that Coach Demichev is trusted with the well-being of these girls. I mean, I think it’s great he can just create Olympians out of thin air—no pun intended—but it’s really only a matter of time before one of them starves to death.”

“Brooke,” Rhonda said, drawing out her name in an unusually long way, “I want to hear this; maybe you can write me a memo. But we need to talk.”

“Oh? Is everything okay?” she asked, her heart rattling in her chest.

“I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. . . .”

She knew from the look on Rhonda’s face. Of course it wasn’t her decision, Rhonda said; she might have been the principal but she an
swered to so many others, especially the parents, who thought all this attention Brooke was receiving didn’t reflect well on the school. Everyone understood it wasn’t Brooke’s fault, that of course she couldn’t be pleased about the media scrutiny, which is why they wanted her to take some time off—paid, of course—until everything calmed down.

By the time Rhonda said, “I do hope you understand this is only temporary, and it’s a last resort that none of us is happy about,” Brooke had mentally checked out. She didn’t suggest to Rhonda that the hostile mother currently holding court for press outside the school was the person drawing all the media attention, not her. She refrained from reminding her principal that she had never mentioned the school by name in a single interview and had never, ever compromised her students’ privacy by so much as explaining her responsibilities to anyone outside her immediate circle of friends and family. Instead, she forced herself into appropriate-response autopilot, assuring Rhonda she understood, that she knew it wasn’t her decision, that she’d be on her way as soon as she tied up a few loose ends. Less than an hour later, Brooke walked back into the anteroom with her coat on and bag slung over her shoulder and ran into Heather.

“Hey, are you done for the day already? I’m jealous.”

Brooke felt a lump growing in her throat and coughed. “More like done for the foreseeable future.”

“I heard what happened,” Heather whispered, although they were alone in the room. Brooke wondered how she already knew and then remembered how fast rumors spread in a high school.

Brooke shrugged. “Yeah, well, that’s part of the deal. If I were a parent paying forty grand a year for my daughter to go to school here, I guess I wouldn’t be thrilled to have her harassed by paparazzi every time she stepped outside. Rhonda told me that some of the girls had been contacted by tabloid reporters via their Facebook accounts, asking what I was like at school and if I ever talked about Julian. Can you imagine?” She sighed. “If that’s really the case, I probably
should
be dismissed.”

“Vile. They are absolutely vile people. Listen, Brooke, I really think you should meet my friend. The one I was telling you about whose husband won
American Idol
? I’m guessing not a lot of people know what you’re going through, but trust me, she gets it. . . .” Heather’s voice trailed off, and she looked anxious, like she was afraid she’d pushed too hard.

Brooke had less than zero interest in meeting Heather’s significantly younger friend from Alabama and comparing husband woes, but she nodded. “Sure, get me her e-mail and I’ll shoot her a note.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll have her get in touch with you if that’s okay?”

It was absolutely not okay, but what could she say? She just wanted to get out of there before she ran into anyone else. “Sure, sounds good,” she said awkwardly.

Brooke forced a smile and a little wave and bolted for the front door. She passed a group of girls in the hall and one of them called her name. She thought about pretending she hadn’t heard, but she couldn’t just ignore it. When she turned around, Kaylie was walking toward her.

“Mrs. A? Where are you going? Don’t we have our appointment today? I heard there are a bunch of reporters outside.”

Brooke looked at the girl, who was, as usual, twisting frizzy strands of hair nervously around her fingers, and felt a surge of guilt. “Hey, sweetheart. It looks like I’m, well, I’m going to be taking a little time off.” When Kaylie’s face fell, she rushed on. “But don’t worry, it’s only temporary, I’m sure, and you’re doing so great.”

“But, Mrs. A., I don’t think that—”

Brooke interrupted her and leaned in closer to the girl, so none of the other students could hear them. “Kaylie, you’ve graduated beyond me,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “You’re strong and healthy and you know—probably better than any girl here—how to take care of yourself. Not only do you fit in, but
you’re one of the stars of the school play. You look great and you feel great . . . hell, I don’t know what more I could do with you.”

Kaylie smiled back at her and leaned in for a hug. “I won’t tell anyone you just cursed,” she said.

Brooke swatted the girl’s arm and grinned, although she could feel her throat constricting. “You take care. And call if you need anything. But trust me, you’re not getting rid of me that quickly. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Kaylie nodded and Brooke tried not to cry. “And promise me: no more moronic cleanses, okay? We’re over that, right?”

“We’re over it,” Kaylie said with a smile.

Brooke gave a small wave and turned back toward the building’s exit, determined to keep moving past the handful of lingering photographers who launched into a shouting, questioning frenzy when they saw her, and she didn’t slow down until she hit Fifth Avenue. She checked to make sure no one had followed her and then tried to hail a cab, a completely fruitless endeavor at four in the afternoon. After twenty frustrating minutes, she hopped a crosstown bus on Eighty-sixth Street and rode west to the 1 train, where she was grateful to find a seat in the very last car.

She closed her eyes and sat back, not caring that her hair was touching the place on the wall where so many people had rubbed their greasy locks. So this was what it felt like to get fired not once but twice in the same week. She was just beginning to feel really sorry for herself when she opened her eyes and saw Julian smiling down at her from an advertisement.

It was the same publicity headshot she’d seen a thousand times, framed by a photo of his album cover and the line “For the Lost,” but she’d never seen it on the subway before, and she hadn’t noticed how his eyes seemed to stare directly into hers. The irony that he was there with her, on that subway, despite never being
anywhere
with her, did not go unnoticed. Brooke walked to the opposite end of the car and took a seat where the only advertisements were for cosmetic dentistry and ESL classes.
She sneaked a look back toward Julian and felt her stomach roil when, once again, he stared back at her. No matter which way she turned her body or angled her head, his eyes always found hers and, combined with his dimpled smile, made her more miserable. At the next station, Brooke quickly switched cars, choosing one without her husband.

“B
ROOKE
, if you hear nothing else I say tonight, please hear this: I think this is worth fighting for.” Julian reached across the couch and took her hand in his. “I am going to fight for our marriage.”

“Strong opening move,” Brooke said. “Well done.”

“Come on, Rookie, I’m serious.”

There was clearly nothing funny about the situation, but she was desperate to lighten the mood, even a little. In the ten minutes Julian had been home, they’d acted like complete strangers. Polite, wary, totally distant strangers.

“I’m serious too,” she said quietly. And then, when he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Why didn’t you come home earlier? I know you had media obligations, but it’s already Thursday. Was this just not important enough?”

Julian looked at her, surprised. “How could you think that, Rook? I needed some time to think. Everything’s happening so quickly, it feels like it’s all unraveling. . . .”

The teakettle began to sing. Brooke knew without asking that Julian wouldn’t want the lemon ginger tea she was making for herself but would probably drink a cup of plain green if she prepared it for
him. She felt a tiny bit of satisfaction when he accepted it gratefully and took a sip.

He twisted his hands around the mug. “Look, I can’t even tell you how sorry I am. To think how you must have felt when you saw—”

“The pictures aren’t the point!” she yelled, more sharply than she’d intended. She paused for a minute. “Yes, it was hideous and painful and embarrassing, there’s no doubt. But it’s
why
those pictures exist that I find way more upsetting.”

When he didn’t respond, she said, “What the hell happened that night?”

“Rook, I’ve told you: it was a stupid, one-time mistake, and I absolutely did not have sex with her. With
anyone,
” he rushed to add.

“So what
did
you do?”

“I don’t know. . . . It started out as a big group over dinner, and then a few people left, and then a few more, and I guess by later on in the night, she and I were the only ones left at the table.”

Just hearing Julian say “she and I” about someone else made Brooke feel queasy.

“I don’t even know who she is, where’s she from—”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Brooke said sarcastically. “The entire country is happy to help you out there. Janelle Moser, twenty-four, from a small town in Michigan. She was in L.A. for a friend’s bachelorette party. How the hell they ended up at the Chateau is really the big mystery.”

“I didn’t—”

“And in case you were interested—although you could probably speak to this more authoritatively than
Last Night
—they are real.”

Julian exhaled a long sigh. “I drank way too much and she offered to walk me back to my room.” He stopped, ran his fingers through his hair.

“And then?”

“We made out, and she took her clothes off. Just stood up and stripped, like no pretenses or anything. It snapped me back to reality.
I told her to get dressed. Which she did, but she started crying, saying she was so embarrassed. So I tried to calm her down, and we had something to drink from the minibar, I honestly can’t remember what at this point, and the next thing I know, I woke up fully dressed and she was gone.”

“She was gone? And you just passed out?”

“Gone. No note, no nothing. And until you told me, I couldn’t remember her name.”

“Do you know how hard that is to believe?”

“She got undressed—I never did. And, Brooke, I don’t know how else to say it, or how else to convince you. I swear on your life and mine, and the lives of everyone we love, that that is
exactly
how it happened.”