Last Night at Chateau Marmont (22 page)

For years Brooke had willingly worked two jobs to support them despite the confusing twinges of resentment she sometimes felt when she was exhausted and alone, a studio widow in the apartment. There were her own dreams—sidelined for now by choice—the wish to really carve out a niche for herself at work, travel more, have a baby. There was the financial strain from having to invest and reinvest every last dollar into different areas of Julian’s career. The hideously long hours in the studio. All the late nights away from home, when both of them were in loud, smoky bars for Julian’s gigs instead of curled up on the couch or away for the weekend with other couples. And now the travel! The constant, unrelenting, endless travel for Julian, moving from city to city, coast to coast. They both tried, they really did, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder. An uninterrupted phone conversation these days felt like a luxury.

Nola refilled both their glasses and picked up her phone. “What do you want?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Brooke said, and was surprised herself that she actually meant it.

“I’m ordering us a shrimp and a chicken to share and a bunch of spring rolls. That okay?”

Brooke waved her glass, nearly spilling her wine. The first one had gone down so quickly. “Fine, that’s fine.” She thought for a moment and remembered she was doing to Nola exactly what Julian always did to her. “So what’s going on with you? Anything new with . . .”

“Drew? He’s done. I had a little . . . distraction this past weekend, and it reminded me that there are a lot more exciting men out there than Drew McNeil.”

Brooke once again covered her eyes. “Oh no. Here we go.”

“What? It was just a little fun.”

“When did you find the time?”

Nola feigned looking hurt. “Remember after dinner on Saturday, you wanted to go home and Drew and I were going out?”

“Oh, god. Please don’t tell me this was another threesome. My weak heart can’t handle another threesome.”

“Brooke! Drew left right after you did, but I wanted to stay for a little. I had another drink and then left all by my lonesome around one thirty and went outside to hail a cab.”

“Aren’t we a little too old for late-night booty calls? Do the kids even still call them that these days?”

Nola covered her eyes. “My god, you’re such a prude. I was about to get into the first open cab in twenty minutes when this guy tries to steal it from me. He just jumped into the other side.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, well, he was pretty cute and I told him he could share with me as long as I got dropped off first, and before I even knew what was happening, we were making out.”

“And then?” Brooke asked, even though she knew.

“It was amazing.”

“Do you even know his name?”

“Save it,” Nola said, rolling her eyes.

She stared at her friend, trying to remember back to her single days. She’d dated plenty of guys and hooked up with her fair share, but never had she been so, so . . . free in her willingness to fall into bed with one of them. Sometimes, when she wasn’t terrified for Nola, she was envious of her confidence and the assertive way she approached her sexuality. The one time Brooke had had a one-night stand, she had to force herself to do it by repeatedly telling herself that it would be fun and exciting and empowering. One broken condom, twenty-four hours of nausea from the morning-after pill, six weeks until the HIV test could be assuredly negative, and exactly zero calls from her so-called lover later, she knew she wasn’t cut out for that lifestyle.

She took a deep breath and was relieved to hear the buzzer sound to let them know the food had arrived. “Nola, do you realize you could’ve been—”

“Could you just spare me the ‘he could’ve been a serial killer’ lecture, please?”

She held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Look, I’m glad you had fun. Maybe it’s just my own jealousy talking.”

Nola made a little shrieking sound at this. She pulled her knees up on the couch and reached over to take Brooke’s hand, which she promptly slapped.

“What was that for?” Brooke asked with a wounded look.

“Don’t ever say you’re jealous again!” Nola said with an intensity Brooke rarely saw from her. “You’re beautiful and talented and you can’t even imagine how wonderful it is, as your friend, to see the way Julian looks at you. I know I haven’t always been his number one fan, but he loves you, there’s no denying it. Whether you realize it or not, you guys are inspiring to me. I know it took a lot of hard work for both of you, but it’s all paying off.”

There was a knock at the door. She leaned over and hugged Nola. “I love you. Thanks for that—I needed to hear it.”

Nola smiled, grabbed her wallet, and headed into the hallway.

The girls ate quickly and Brooke, exhausted from the day and a half bottle of wine, ducked out as soon as they finished. Out of habit she purposefully walked to the 1 train and claimed her favorite end seat, not remembering until she was halfway home that she could afford to take taxis. She screened her mother’s call during the three-block walk home and began to fantasize about her single-girl evening ritual: herbal tea, hot bath, freezing cold room, sleeping pill, and a blacked-out sleep under her massively puffy comforter. Perhaps she’d even shut off her phone so Julian wouldn’t wake her with his sporadic calls, unpredictable in every way except for the certainty that she would hear music, girls, or both in the background.

Lost in a reverie and desperate to get inside and strip off her
clothes, Brooke didn’t see the flowers on her doormat until she tripped over them. The cylindrical glass vase was as tall as a toddler and lined with vibrantly green banana leaves. It brimmed over with calla lilies, rich purple and creamy white in color, a single towering stalk of bamboo the only accent.

There had been the occasional floral arrangement, the kinds that all women received at one time or another—the sunflowers from her parents when she had her wisdom teeth removed her freshman year, the requisite dozen roses from various uncreative boyfriends on Valentine’s Days, the bodega-bought bunches friends brought over as hostess gifts—but never in her life had she gotten something like this. A sculpture. An object of art. Brooke heaved it inside and yanked the tiny envelope from the discreet spot where it was taped to the base. Walter bounded over to sniff this new fragrant acquisition.

She smiled and leaned forward to smell the gorgeous lilies, a joy that lasted exactly ten seconds until all her doubts rushed forward. Why had he written
Brooke
when he almost always called her Rookie, especially when he was trying to be romantic or intimate? Was this his way of apologizing for being an inconsiderate jerk the last few weeks, and if so, why hadn’t he actually said he was sorry? Could someone who prides himself on having a way with words—a songwriter, for chrissake—have possibly written something so generic? And most of all, why would he choose now of all times to send his very first flower arrangement when Brooke knew how much he hated the very idea of retail flowers? According to Julian, they were a clichéd, overpriced, commercialized crutch for people who couldn’t adequately express their emotions creatively or verbally, not to mention the fact that they
died quickly, and what kind of symbol was that? Brooke had never cared much either way, but she understood where Julian was coming from, and she always treasured the letters and the songs and the poems he so carefully took the time to make for her before. So what was up with this “counting the days” crap?

Walter nudged her knee and let out a mournful howl.

“Why can’t your daddy walk you?” Brooke asked as she leashed him and went right back outside. “Oh, I know why. Because he’s never here!” Despite feeling tremendous guilt for leaving Walter alone so long, she dragged him back inside the moment he finished and bribed him with extra kibble for dinner and a particularly fat carrot for dessert. She picked up the card again, reread it twice more, and then gently placed it on top of the pile in the garbage can before walking right back over and retrieving it. It may not have been the loveliest thing Julian had ever written, but still, it was a gesture.

She dialed Julian’s cell, already working out what she would say, but the call went straight to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s me. I just got home and got the flowers. My god, they’re . . . incredible. I barely know what to say.”
At least you’re being honest,
she thought. She thought about asking him to call her so they could talk, but it suddenly seemed too exhausting. “All right, then. Um, have a good night. Love you.”

Brooke filled the tub with the hottest water she could stand, grabbed the latest copy of
Last Night
that had just arrived, and gently eased her way in, taking almost five full minutes until she could tolerate having her entire body submerged. As soon as the water washed over her shoulders, she breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Thank god this day is about to end.

In the days Before the Picture, nothing was better than settling into a bath with a fresh-off-the-presses
Last Night.
Now she was always vaguely terrified of what she might stumble across, but old habits were tough to break. She worked her way through the first few pages, pausing for a moment to reflect on how so many married celebs were
willing to dish on their sex lives with gems like, “Our secret to keeping things sexy? He brings me breakfast in bed on Sundays and then I
really
show him my appreciation,” and “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy. My wife is seriously hot stuff in the bedroom.” The page where they showed stars doing “normal people” things was unusually boring: Dakota Fanning shopping at a mall in Sherman Oaks, Kate Hudson hanging on her guy du jour, a shot of Cameron Diaz picking a bikini wedgie, Tori Spelling clutching a blond child and exiting a salon. There was a mildly interesting spread on what had become of eighties childhood stars (who knew Winnie Cooper was a math genius!), but it wasn’t until she turned to the so-called features section that she forgot to breathe. There she found a multipage spread titled “Soulful Songwriters Who Rock Our World,” and it featured write-ups and pictures on probably a half dozen artists. Her eyes flew across the page, searching intently. John Mayer, Gavin DeGraw, Colbie Caillat, Jack Johnson. Nothing. She flipped the page. Bon Iver, Ben Harper, Wilco. Nothing again. But wait!
Oh my god.
There, at the bottom of the fourth page was a yellow box.
WHO IS JULIAN ALTER
? the purple headline screamed. That hideous picture of Julian and Layla Lawson occupied the top half of the box and the bottom was filled with text.
Ohmigod,
Brooke thought, and noticed in an oddly out-of-body way that her heart was pounding and she was holding her breath. She was simultaneously desperate to read it and desperate for it to evaporate, vanish, completely disappear from her consciousness forever. Had anyone read this yet? Had
Julian
read this yet? As a subscriber, she knew she received the magazine a day before it hit the newsstands, but was it really possible no one had managed to tell her about this beforehand? She grabbed a towel to blot the sweat from her forehead and dry her hands, took a deep breath, and began to read.

Brooke used her feet to push herself into more of a sitting position. She was aware of a growing queasiness and she quickly blamed it on the combination of too much wine and steaming hot water.
And if you believe that . . .
she thought to herself. Deep breath. It was natural to feel a little strange reading a surprise article about your own husband in a national magazine. She willed herself to keep going.

At the very bottom of the box was a photo of herself and Julian, taken by one of the professional photographers at the
Friday Night Lights
party, one that she hadn’t seen yet. Her eyes hungrily devoured it, and she breathed an enormous sigh of relief: somehow, miraculously, they both looked good. Julian was leaning down and kissing her shoulder, and you could see the hint of a smile on his face. Brooke had one arm draped across the back of his neck and the other was holding a brightly colored margarita; her head was thrown back a bit and she was laughing. Despite the cocktail, the two cowboy hats, and the pack of cigarettes rolled up in Julian’s shirtsleeve as part of his costume, Brooke was thrilled they looked happy and carefree, not drunk or sloppy. Were she forced to find something wrong with the picture, she probably would’ve pointed to her midsection, where, due to a perfect storm of her body contorting in an unusual angle, the shadows cast off from the dark room, and a bit of a breeze from the back patio, her plaid shirt puffed out like she had a potbelly. Nothing egregious, just the suggestion of a little spare tire that in reality didn’t exist. But the truth was, she could live with a bad camera angle. All things considered—and there were myriad other ways each could’ve looked horrifically bad—she was pretty pleased.