Last Night at Chateau Marmont (44 page)

“It’s true. I bailed him out. But when
48 Hours
showed hidden-camera footage of my husband literally trolling a high school girls’ soccer game, trying to chat them up, I started to accept it.”

“Wow,” Brooke said.

“It wasn’t great. But at least most of the media horror show was focused on what a total and complete scumbag
he
was. Isabel Prince—she’s not here tonight—didn’t have it so easy.”

Brooke knew she was referring to the sex tape that Isabel’s husband, world-famous rapper Major K, deliberately released to the public. Julian had seen it and described it to Brooke. Apparently it featured Isabel and Major K in a rooftop hot tub, naked, drunk, kinky, and uninhibited . . . caught on Major K’s professional-grade HD camera and soon thereafter sent by the Major himself to every media outlet in the continental United States. Brooke remembered reading interviews asking him why he’d betrayed his wife’s confidence and he’d answered, “She’s fucking hot, man, and I think everyone deserves to experience one time what I get to experience every night.”

“Yeah, she really got killed,” Amber said. “I remember they were circling her fat in still shots from the sex tape. All the late-show hosts were joking about it for weeks. It must have been horrible for her.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone thought about this, and Brooke realized she was starting to feel suffocated, trapped. The airy white apartment now seemed more like a cage, and these nice women—so welcoming and friendly just a few minutes earlier—were making her feel even more alone and misunderstood. She was sorry for their troubles, and they seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t anything like them. Julian’s biggest crime was a drunken make-out with a plain girl his own age—hardly the stuff of sex tapes, sex addiction, statutory rape, or prostitutes.

Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts,
because Diana made a
tsk-tsk
sound and said, “You’re thinking how different your situation is from ours, aren’t you? I know it’s difficult, dear. Your husband had a little hotel room tryst or two, and what man hasn’t had that, right? But please, don’t fool yourself. That may be how it begins”—she paused and waved her hand in a semicircle around the couch—“but this is how it ends.”

That was it. She’d had enough. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that . . . um, look, I so appreciate your hospitality and your inviting me here tonight, but I think I have to go now,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as she gathered her purse and avoided eye contact with everyone. Brooke knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t stop herself; she needed to get out of there
right then.

“Brooke, I hope I didn’t offend you,” Diana said in a conciliatory tone, although Brooke could see she was annoyed.

“No, no, not at all. I’m sorry, I’m just not . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rather than think of something to fill the silence, she stood and turned to face everyone.

“We didn’t even give you a chance to tell us your story!” Amber said, looking distraught. “I told you we talk too much.”

“I’m so sorry. Please don’t think it was anything anyone said. I’m just, uh, I guess I’m just not ready for this yet. Thank you all again. Amber, thank you. And I’m sorry,” she was mumbling now, clutching her coat and purse, and had reached the top of the staircase, where she could see one of the teenage boys making his way upstairs. She had the crazy thought that he was going to try to detain her. Pushing past him harder than necessary, she heard him say, “Uncool,” and then, a moment later, “Hey, Mom, is there any more Coke? Dylan drank it all.” It was the last thing she heard as she crossed the basketball court and took the building stairs instead of the elevator and then she was outside, the freezing cold air whipping against her skin, and she could breathe once again.

An available cab passed her, and then another, and although it must’ve only been in the midtwenties, she ignored them all and began
walking, almost running, toward her apartment. Her mind raced, going over every story she’d heard that night and discarding it, ignoring it, finding the holes or the details that didn’t fit her narrative with Julian. It was ridiculous to think that she and Julian would end up that way, just because of a single lapse, a lone mistake. They loved each other. Just because things were difficult didn’t mean they were doomed. Did it?

Brooke crossed Sixth Avenue, and then Seventh, and then Eighth. Her cheeks and fingers were starting to go numb, but she didn’t care. She was out of that place and away from all those hideous stories, away from those predictions about her marriage that held no weight. Those women didn’t know her or Julian. She managed to calm herself, slowed her pace, took a deep breath, and told herself that everything was going to be fine.

If only she could get rid of that small, stubborn thought in the very back of her mind:
What if they’re right?

T
HE
phone beside the bed rang and Brooke wondered for the thousandth time why hotels didn’t provide caller ID. But since anyone else would call on her cell, she leaned over, plucked the handset from its cradle, and braced herself for the onslaught.

“Hello, Brooke. Have you heard from Julian?” Dr. Alter’s voice sailed through the phone as if he were in the next room, which, despite Brooke’s best efforts, was exactly where he was.

She forced herself to smile into the phone so she wouldn’t say anything truly nasty. “Oh, hi there!” she said brightly. Someone who actually knew her would have instantly recognized it as her fake friendly/professional tone. As she had been doing for the last five years, she avoided calling Julian’s father anything. “Dr. Alter” was too formal for a father-in-law, “William” somehow felt too familiar, and he certainly hadn’t ever invited her to call him “Dad.”

“I did,” Brooke said evenly for the hundredth time. “He’s
still
in London, and he’ll probably be there until early next week.” They were aware of this information. She’d told them the moment they’d descended on her at the reception desk. They in turn told Brooke that although the hotel had tried to place them on the opposite side of
the two-hundred-room hotel (Brooke’s request) they had insisted on being in adjoining rooms “for convenience’s sake.”

It was her father-in-law’s turn to
tsk
with disapproval. “I can’t believe he’s missing the wedding! Those two were born less than six months apart. They’ve grown up together. Trent gave the most touching speech at your wedding, and now Julian’s not even going to be at his.”

She had to smile at the irony of it. She’d given Julian such a hard time about missing the wedding, saying many of the same things to him that his father had just said to her, but the moment Dr. Alter uttered them, she felt compelled to leap to Julian’s defense.

“It’s a pretty big deal, actually. He’s going to be performing in front of some incredible people, including the prime minister of England.” She left out the part about Julian getting paid two hundred thousand dollars for a four-hour event. “He didn’t want to steal attention from the bride and groom in light of, uh, well, everything that’s been happening.”

That was as close as either of them had come to acknowledging the current situation. Julian’s father seemed content to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t seen the infamous pictures, or read the articles detailing the apparent crumbling of his son’s marriage. And now, despite having been informed a dozen times that Julian was not coming to Trent’s wedding, he refused to believe it.

She heard her mother-in-law call out from the background. “William! What are you doing on the phone with her when she’s right next door?”

Within moments there was a knock.

She heaved herself off the bed and pumped both middle fingers at the door while silently screaming, “Fuck you!” then carefully arranged her face in a smile, unlatched the chain, and said, “Why, hello there, neighbor!”

For the very first time since she’d met her mother-in-law, the woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps even ridiculous. Her fitted,
cashmere sweater dress was a beautiful, rich shade of eggplant and looked like it had been custom-made for her trim figure. She’d paired it with the perfect shade of purplish stockings and a dynamite pair of high-heeled booties that, despite their edginess, did not make it seem like she was trying too hard. Her chunky gold necklace was cool but understated and her makeup appeared professionally done. All in all, she was the picture of urbane sophistication, a model for how women might aspire to look at fifty-five. The hat was the problem. Its brim was the circumference of a serving tray; while its color matched the dress exactly, it was hard to notice anything but the sprouting feathers, the sprays of fake flowers, and the crinoline pretending to be baby’s breath, all held together by a massive silk bow. It perched precariously on her head, the brim dipping down to artfully obscure her left eye.

Brooke’s mouth fell open.

“What do you think?” Elizabeth asked, touching the brim. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

“Wow,” she breathed, uncertain how to proceed. “What’s it, uh, for?”

“What do you mean, what’s it for? It’s for Tennessee!” She laughed before switching to her best mocking approximation of a Southern accent, one that sounded like a weird combination of someone who spoke English as a second language and a cowboy from an old Western. “We are in Chay-duh-noogah, Bruck! Y’all must re-a-lize that re-ahl Southern ladies wear hats like this.”

She wanted to curl up under the covers and die. This was humiliating beyond belief.

“They do?” she squeaked. It was all she could manage.

Thankfully, Elizabeth reverted back to her normal, slightly nasal New York pronunciation. “Of course they do. Haven’t you ever seen the Kentucky Derby?”

“Well, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky. And isn’t that, like, a special situation to wear the hats? I’m not sure it translates to other, uh,
social occasions. . . .” She allowed her voice to drift off to soften her words, but her mother-in-law barely noticed.

“Oh, Brooke, you have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re in the South now, sweetheart! The one I brought for the actual wedding is even better. We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to go buy you one, so don’t worry about a thing.” She paused and, still standing in the doorway, looked Brooke up and down. “You’re not dressed yet?”

Brooke glanced first at her sweats and then at her watch. “I thought we weren’t leaving until six.”

“Yes, but it’s already five. You hardly left yourself enough time.”

“Wow, right you are!” she exclaimed in a faux-surprised voice. “Let me run. I’m going to jump in the shower.”

“Okay, knock when you’re ready. Better yet, come on over and have a cocktail. William sent out for some decent vodka, so you won’t have to drink that dreadful hotel sludge.”

“Why don’t we just meet in the lobby at six? As you can see”—Brooke stepped back and motioned to her ripped T-shirt and messy hair—“I have a lot of work to do.”

“Mmm,” her mother-in-law said, clearly agreeing. “All right then. See you at six. And, Brooke? Maybe consider a little eye makeup? It does a face wonders.”

The hot shower and the episode of
Millionaire Matchmaker
that she had playing in the background didn’t help her feel much better, though the single-serving bottle of white wine in the minibar helped a bit. It didn’t last for long, though. By the time she’d put on her standby black wrap dress, slapped on some eye shadow like an obedient daughter-in-law, and headed to the lobby, she was back to being supremely stressed.

The drive to the restaurant was only a couple of miles, but it felt like an eternity. Dr. Alter complained bitterly the entire time: what kind of hotel doesn’t have a valet, how could Hertz rent only American cars, who called dinner for six thirty in the evening, for chrissake, it was practically lunchtime? He even managed to complain that
there wasn’t enough traffic for a Friday night in Chattanooga—after all, what kind of respectable city had clear streets and plenty of available parking? Where on earth were other drivers so goddamn polite, what with everyone sitting at stop signs for ten minutes, frantically waving each other through? Nowhere
he
wanted to be, that was for sure. Real cities had congestion, dirt, crowds, snow, sirens, potholes, and other assorted miseries, he insisted in the most ridiculous rant Brooke had ever heard. By the time the three of them made their way inside, it felt like they’d been out all night.

To her enormous relief, Trent’s parents were standing right by the door. Brooke wondered what they thought of her mother-in-law’s absurd derby hat. Trent’s father and Julian’s father were brothers, extremely close despite a large age difference, and the four of them immediately retreated to the bar at the far end of the room. Brooke begged off by saying she was going to call Julian. She noted the relieved looks; women who called their husbands just to say hello didn’t turn around and divorce them, right?

She scanned the room for Trent or Fern but didn’t see them. Outside, it was in the fifties, which, compared to February in New York, was downright tropical, and she didn’t even bother rebuttoning her coat. She was certain Julian wouldn’t answer—it was midnight in the UK and he would’ve just finished his set—but she dialed anyway and was surprised when she heard his voice.

“Hi! I’m so glad you called,” he said, sounding as shocked as she felt. There was no background noise. She could hear the excitement in his voice. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” she asked, hating the insecurity in her voice. They’d been talking once a day for the last two weeks, but each time it was Julian who initiated.

“It kills me to think of you at that wedding without me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s killing your parents, too.”

“Are they driving you crazy?”

“Understatement of the century. We hit crazy at check-in. We are now on our way to self-annihilation.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“Do you think you’re doing the right thing, Julian? I haven’t seen Trent or Fern yet, but I don’t know what I’m going to say.”