Last Night at Chateau Marmont (13 page)

He twisted his hands. “I know . . . it’s just that I was up early this morning, and I was catching up on e-mail. I finally got around to opening that attachment with the invite to the party tonight, and I saw that the dress code is something called ‘Cowboy Couture.’”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t panic! See, I knew you’d panic, but—”

“I brought a black strapless dress and gold sandals!” Brooke screeched loud enough that a few fellow shoppers turned to look.

“I know, Rook. That’s why I immediately e-mailed Samara and asked her if she could elaborate. Which she did. In great detail.”

“She did?” Brooke cocked her head, surprised but slightly mollified.

“Yes.” Julian pulled out his iPhone and scrolled for a second before touching the screen and beginning to read. “‘Hey sweetheart’—she calls everyone that—‘the
Friday Night Lights
people planned a costume party to stay true to their Texas roots. Don’t be afraid to go all-out—cowboy hats, boots, chaps, and some very tight sexy jeans will all be on display tonight. Tell Brooke she needs a great pair of Daisy Dukes. Coach Taylor himself is going to pick the winner, so do it up right! Can’t wait to . . . ’” Julian’s voice drifted off as he stopped himself from reading aloud. “The rest is boring scheduling stuff. That was the important part. So . . . that’s why we’re here. Aren’t you happy?”

“Well, I’m glad you found out before we got there tonight. . . .” She noticed Julian looked anxious, eager for her to be appreciative.
“I’m definitely grateful you saved me from that fate. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Julian said, his relief obvious.

“You were supposed to practice today.”

“There’s still time, that’s why we came early. I’m just happy you’re here with me at all.” He gave her a sweet peck and held his hand up and gave the salesgirl a little wave. She bounded over, all smiles.

“Are we ready?” the girl asked.

“We’re ready,” Brooke and Julian said simultaneously.

When they finally left nearly an hour later, Brooke was flushed with excitement. The shopping had been a thousand times better than she imagined, an exhilarating combination of enjoying Julian’s approval when she tried on short shorts and tight tops and sexy boots, and the sheer regressive fun of playing dress-up. The salesgirl, Mandy, had expertly guided Brooke to the perfect party outfit: a cut-off jean skirt, when Brooke felt too self-conscious in the shorts; a plaid shirt identical to the one she was wearing, sexily knotted above her navel (but in Brooke’s case, paired with a white tank so she wouldn’t have to reveal the soft flesh of her belly); a massive brass belt buckle in the shape of a sheriff’s star; a cowboy hat with the sides rolled up and a jaunty chin tassel; and a pair of the sassiest stitched cowboy boots Brooke had ever seen. Mandy suggested Brooke wear her hair in low pigtail braids and handed her a red bandana to tie around her neck. “And don’t forget to go really, really heavy on the mascara,” Mandy said with a finger waggle. “Cowgirls love their smoky eyes.” Although Julian wouldn’t get in full costume for the performance, Mandy taught him how to roll a pack of cigarettes into his T-shirt sleeves and equipped him with the matching men’s version of Brooke’s cowgirl hat.

They laughed the whole way back to the hotel. When Julian leaned over to kiss her and told her he’d be back at six to shower, Brooke wanted to beg him to stay, but she gathered her shopping
bags and kissed him back. “Good luck,” she said. “I had a great time today.” And she couldn’t keep herself from grinning when Julian said that he had, too.

He was late getting back to the room and had to rush to shower and dress, and she could feel him start to get jittery when they stepped into the waiting Town Car.

“You nervous?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah, a little, I guess.”

“Just remember: of all the songs in the universe, they chose
yours.
Every single solitary time someone tunes in to watch an episode, they’re going to hear
your
song. It’s incredible, baby. It really is.”

Julian placed his hand on top of hers. “I think we’re going to have a great time. And
you
look like a model. The cameras are going to go crazy.”

Brooke had barely gotten the question out of her mouth—“What cameras?”—before the car pulled up to the entrance of the Hula Hut, a famous local dive reputed to have the best queso north of the border, and they were met with a dozen or so paparazzi.

“Omigod, are they going to take our picture?” Brooke asked, suddenly terrified by this possibility she had failed to consider. She looked up and noticed a long runner in a cow print—the Texas version of a red carpet, she guessed. A few feet down, between the street and the door of the restaurant, she glimpsed a couple of the cast members posing for the cameras.

“Wait there, I’ll open your door,” Julian said, climbing out his side and walking around to hers. He opened it and leaned in, offering his hand. “Don’t worry, they don’t care much about us.”

Brooke was relieved to discover he was absolutely right. The photographers swarmed them at first, eager to see if they were anyone important, and then faded into the background as quickly as they appeared. Only one of the snappers asked if they could pose for a picture in front of the large black step-and-repeat that was emblazoned with
Friday Night Lights
and NBC near the door. After he’d halfheartedly
shot a few frames, he asked them to spell their names into a tape recorder and then wandered off. They made their way to the door, Brooke clutching Julian’s hand, when she spotted Samara across the room. Brooke took one look at the girl’s elegantly simple silk dress, gladiator sandals, and tinkling chandelier earrings and felt ridiculous. Why was Brooke dressed for a hoedown when this girl looked like she’d just stepped off a runway? What if there had been some horrible mix-up and Brooke was going to be the only person in full costume tonight? She could feel her breath slow and a wave of panic set in.

It was only then Brooke braved a look around the rest of the room. There were Daisy Dukes and ten-gallon hats as far as the eye could see.

She accepted a fruity-looking cocktail from a tray that passed in their direction and floated happily through the next hour of introductions and mingling, drinking and laughing. It was one of those rare parties where everyone seemed genuinely excited to be there—not just the cast and crew, who obviously knew one another well and got along, but all their spouses and friends and the smattering of celebrities that some of the actors were dating or whom their PR people had wrangled into coming for publicity’s sake. Brooke spotted Derek Jeter hovering over a heaping plate of nachos and tried to remember which of the
Friday Night Lights
girls he was engaged to, and Julian reported that he’d glimpsed a half-naked Taylor Swift holding court on the terrace. But mostly it was just a boisterously fun crowd in chaps and plaid and cutoffs, drinking beer and eating queso and jamming to the eighties music that played over the speakers. It was the least self-conscious Brooke had ever felt at any of Julian’s gigs, and she reveled in it, enjoying that all-too-rare feeling of being buzzed and charming and just generally
on.
By the time Julian and his band took the makeshift stage, Brooke was part of the gang, having gotten pulled into an impromptu margarita taste test by a bunch of the show’s writers. It occurred to her only then that aside from watching the taped
Leno
appearance, she hadn’t yet seen Julian play with his new backup band.

Brooke studied them as they climbed onstage to assemble and test their instruments and was somewhat surprised to discover that they looked less like a rock band and more like a group of twentysomethings who’d all been best friends at their elite New England boarding school. The drummer, Wes, had the requisite long hair, only his didn’t hang in greasy strings around his face. Wes’s mahogany locks were thick and wavy and lush, hair only a girl deserved. He wore a sporty green polo shirt with clean, pressed jeans and a pair of classic gray New Balance sneakers. He looked like the kind of guy who’d caddied during the summers in high school—not to earn money, but to “build character”—and then didn’t work again until it was time to join his father’s law firm. The lead guitarist was the oldest of the crew, probably in his early thirties, and although not quite as preppy as Wes, his beat-up old chinos, black Converse sneakers, and just do it! T were hardly rebellious. Unlike his drummer colleague, Nate didn’t fit any of the lead-guitarist stereotypes—he was chunky and had a shy smile and downcast eyes. Brooke remembered how shocked Julian had been to hear Nate at the audition after sizing him up when he first walked onstage. “This guy walks up onstage and immediately you just know he’s the kid who got the shit kicked out of him his whole life. He’s, like, afraid of his own shadow. And then he starts to play, and man, he just rips it. It was out of this world.” Their trio was rounded out by Zack, the bassist, who looked more like a musician than his counterparts but whose cool spiky hair and wallet chain and subtle swipe of eyeliner actually made him seem more poseurish. He was the only band member Julian didn’t love, but Sony thought his first choice for bassist—a girl—would overshadow him, and Julian didn’t feel like arguing. It was an odd grouping, this band of seeming misfits, but no one could say it wasn’t an intriguing one. Brooke looked around the room and noticed everyone had quieted down.

Julian didn’t introduce himself or the song the way he normally did when performing, just nodded his head toward his bandmates and began to sing his own version of “Achy Breaky Heart.” It was a risky decision but a brilliant calculation. He had chosen a trite, corny song, changed it so it sounded serious, almost profound, and ended up with a completely fresh version that was conspiratorially cool and ironic. It said:
You expected us to come up here and sing an earnest rendition of the song you chose as your show’s opener, or maybe something off the future album, but we’re not here to take ourselves too seriously.
The crowd laughed and cheered and sang along, and when it was over, broke into mad applause.

Brooke clapped along with everyone else and reveled in all the people she could hear around her saying how talented Julian was, how they could listen to him all night. Hearing the others’ excitement didn’t surprise her in the least; how could they not feel that way? But it never, ever got old. Now, when Julian sidled up next to the microphone stand and flashed a huge, adorable smile, Brooke could feel the entire room smile back at him.

“Hey, y’all,” he said, making an exaggerated tip of his cowboy hat. “Thanks for welcoming this Yankee boy to town.”

The crowd hollered and clapped. Brooke saw Tim Riggins raise his bottle of beer to Julian, and she tried not to scream. Derek Jeter put both his hands around his mouth and made a “whoo-hoo!” sound. A couple of the writers, the female ones, with whom Brooke had been taste-testing margaritas earlier, formed a line in front of the stage and catcalled to the band. Julian rewarded them all with another killer smile.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say how proud and honored I am that you’ve made my song your song.” More cheers and catcalls ensued, but Julian held up his hand. “And I can’t wait to sing that tonight, here with all of you. But I hope you won’t mind indulging me for just a few minutes before I play ‘For the Lost.’ Right
now I’d like to sing a little something for my lovely wife, Brooke. She’s been a really good sport lately—trust me, a
really
good sport—and it’s been a while since I’ve said thank you. Rookie, this one’s for you.”

At the sound of her nickname, Brooke could feel herself blush, and for a split second she was taken aback that Julian had called her that in public. But before she even had time to consider it, she heard the opening chords to “Crazy Love” by Van Morrison—the first song they’d danced to at their wedding—and in a second, she was transfixed by his performance. Julian gazed directly at her as he allowed the song to grow and build, and it wasn’t until he hit the chorus and threw his head back to wail the words that Brooke snapped out of their private reverie and noticed that every single person in the room was staring at her. Scratch that. The men in the room were shifting their weight from foot to foot, taking pulls of their beers, and watching the band as they worked over their instruments—it was the women who were staring at Brooke with looks of sheer envy and admiration. It was a surreal feeling; she’d certainly witnessed her fair share of Julian-worship at his other gigs, but she’d never before felt the spotlight focused so directly on her. She smiled and danced a little and watched Julian as he serenaded her and somehow, despite the fact that it was witnessed by hundreds, it felt like one of the most intimate moments they’d ever shared. One of the best she could ever remember.

As Julian finally segued into “For the Lost,” Brooke was certain the entire room was in love with him. The energy was palpable and intense, but about halfway through the song, she felt an even stronger frisson of excitement. People started moving around, turning, looking, whispering. A few people craned their necks. One even pointed. Something was happening, but Brooke couldn’t quite see what over the crowd until . . .
Wait . . . could that actually be . . .

Layla Lawson?
Oh, it sure was, and while Brooke couldn’t figure
out for the life of her what Layla Lawson was doing at the season-premiere party for
Friday Night Lights,
there she was . . . and she looked great. Judging from the floral bustier sundress and cowboy boots Layla was wearing, Brooke didn’t know whether she was in costume or not, but there was no denying the girl looked fit, happy, and very, very famous. The entire room watched her as she greeted Samara with a huge hug and then made her way to the front of the crowd, near where Brooke stood at the foot of the stage.

It happened before anyone—including Julian—could even process it. Just a couple seconds after they finished the song and were soaking in the applause, Layla marched up the stage’s side stairs, strode confidently over to Julian, and enveloped him in a bear hug. She smiled and, after kissing his cheek and wrapping both her hands around his upper arm, turned to face the crowd. She looked as though she was literally hanging from him, gazing up at him with a glimmering white smile and a look of sheer adoration. Until this point Julian had been frozen in disbelief, but something must have clicked—within seconds, he was returning the adoring look and then some.