Last Night at Chateau Marmont (31 page)

“They
what
?”

Julian looked at her and raised his eyes questioningly.

“Of course they’re all ridiculous. But I remember you said Leo was in South America somewhere, and, well, I just thought you guys might want to know if you didn’t already.”

Brooke took a deep breath. “Great. That’s just great. Can you tell me what it said?”

“Just pull it up on Julian’s phone, okay? I’m really sorry to ruin your morning, but it also says that you two are probably ‘hiding out’ in the Hamptons, so I wanted to give you the heads-up that you might get some company.”

“Oh no,” Brooke moaned.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

They said good-bye and Brooke only realized after they’d hung up that she hadn’t so much as asked about Nola’s night.

Before she was even finished briefing Julian, he began searching for the
Last Night
article on his phone. “Here, I got it.”

“Read it out loud.”

Julian’s eyes skimmed back and forth. “Wow,” he murmured, flicking the screen with his pointer finger. “Where do they get this stuff?”

“Julian! Start reading or hand it over!”

A timid young girl not a day over sixteen appeared at their table holding two plates. She looked at Julian, but Brooke wasn’t totally positive she recognized him. “Veggie egg white omelet with wheat?” she asked in a near-whisper.

“Right here,” Brooke said, holding up a hand.

“I guess that means you’re having the breakfast combo?” she said to Julian with a smile so huge there was no longer any doubt. “French toast with powdered sugar, two eggs sunny-side up, and well-done bacon. Can I get you guys anything else?”

“Thanks, we’re good,” Julian said, immediately plunging his fork into the fluffy French toast. She had completely lost her appetite.

He washed everything down with a swig of coffee and picked up his phone again. “You ready?”

Brooke nodded.

“Okay. The headline is ‘Where Is Julian Alter?’
and right next to it is a picture taken from god knows where of me looking sweaty and wasted.” He showed her the screen.

Brooke chewed her dry toast, wishing she’d opted for the rye. “I recognize that one. It was taken thirty seconds after you walked offstage after your performance at Kristen Stewart’s party in Miami. It was ninety-five degrees that day and you’d been singing for nearly an hour.”

Julian began reading. “‘Although sources tell us the famous singer is hiding out in his parents’ house in East Hampton after canceling a New Year’s Eve MTV performance last night, what no one seems able to agree on is
why.
Many suspect trouble in paradise for the sexy crooner who shot to fame with his debut album,
For the Lost.
One source with knowledge of the music industry claims that now is “temptation time” when so many quick-rising stars give in to the lure
of drugs. Although there have been no
specific
reports of drug abuse, “rehab is one of the first places I look when a new artist goes off the radar,” said the music industry source.’”

Julian looked up at her, his mouth agape, the phone hanging limply in his hand. “They’re suggesting I’m in
rehab
?” he asked.

“I don’t think they’re suggesting
you’re
in rehab per se,” Brooke said, drawing out her words. “Actually, I’m not sure what they’re saying. Keep reading.”

“‘A source with knowledge of the music industry’?” Julian read again. “Are they kidding?”

“Keep reading.” Brooke ate a forkful of omelet and tried to look unworried.

“‘Others claim Julian and his long-term love, nutritionist wife Brooke, have been feeling the strain of fame. “I can’t imagine any couple thriving under such trying circumstances,” said noted Beverly Hills psychiatrist Ira Melnick, who has not treated the Alters personally but has broad experience with such “inter-fame couples” (where one person is famous and the other is unknown). “If they are in fact receiving couples’ counseling right now,” Dr. Melnick continued, “they’ll at least have a fighting chance.”’”

“‘A fighting chance’?” Brooke screeched. “Who the hell is Dr. Melnick and why is he commenting on our relationship when we’ve never met him?”

Julian just shook his head. “And who said we’re ‘feeling the strain of fame’?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re referring to the whole
Today
show/pregnancy thing? Keep reading.”

“Wow,” Julian said, clearly reading ahead. “I always knew these gossip rags were bullshit, but this just keeps getting better and better. ‘While rehab or couples’ counseling is the most likely cause of Julian’s disappearance’”—Julian spat out this last word dripping with sarcasm— “‘there is a third option. According to a close family source, the singer was being courted by famous Scientologists, most notably
John Travolta. “I don’t know if it was just a friendly gesture or a recruiting reach-out, but I can say without doubt that they have been in touch,” the family source said. Which leads us all to wonder: will JBro go the way of TomKat and keep the faith? Stay tuned. . . . ’”

“Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say ‘JBro’?” Brooke asked, convinced he’d made that part up.

“Scientology!” Julian nearly shouted before Brooke shushed him. “They think we’re Scientologists!”

Brooke’s mind was racing to take it all in. Rehab? Couples’ counseling? Scientology?
JBro?
That all those thing were lies wasn’t so upsetting, but what about the small kernels of truth? What “family source” had mentioned anything about John Travolta, a person Julian had actually heard from, although not in relation to Scientology? And who was implying—for the second time in this very publication—that she and Julian were having relationship problems? Brooke almost asked just that, but seeing the look of devastation on Julian’s face, she forced herself to keep it light.

“Look, I don’t know about you, but between Scientology, the world-renowned shrink who’s never met us, and JBro, you have totally made it. I mean, if those aren’t fame indicators, I don’t know what is.” She smiled widely but Julian still looked despondent.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke saw a flash of light and had a split-second thought of how strange it was to see lightning in the middle of a snowstorm. Before she could comment on it, the young waitress reappeared at their table.

“I, uh, wow,” she mumbled, managing to appear both embarrassed and excited at the same time. “I’m sorry about the photographers out there. . . .” Her voice trailed off in time for Brooke to turn and see four men with cameras pressed against the café windows. Julian must have spotted them before she did, because he reached over, took her hand, and said, “We need to go now.”

“The, uh, the manager told them they couldn’t come inside, but we can’t force them to leave the sidewalk,” the waitress said. She had
that
I’m two seconds from asking for your autograph
look about her, and Brooke knew they had to leave immediately.

She yanked two twenties from her wallet, thrust them at the girl, and said, “Is there a back door?” When the girl nodded, Brooke squeezed Julian’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

They grabbed their coats and gloves and scarves and beelined toward the back of the café. Brooke tried not to think about how gross she looked, how desperately she didn’t want the entire world to see pictures of her in her sweatpants and ponytail, but even more than that, she wanted to protect Julian. By some lucky miracle, their Jeep was parked in the back lot, and they had managed to climb in, start the engine, and make a right turn out of the parking lot before the paparazzi spotted them.

“What do we do?” Julian asked with more than a hint of panic. “We can’t go back to the house or they’ll follow us. They’ll stake it out.”

“Don’t you think they probably know where it is already? Isn’t that why they’re here?”

“I don’t know. We were in the middle of East Hampton Village. If you’re looking for someone you know is in the Hamptons in the middle of winter, it’s a damn good place to start. I think they were just lucky.” Julian drove east on Route 27, away from his parents’ house. At least two cars were following them.

“We could drive straight back to the city. . . .”

Julian smacked the steering wheel with his palm. “All our stuff is at the house. Besides, it’s too treacherous out—we’d kill ourselves.”

They were silent for a moment before Julian said, “Dial the nonemergency number of the local police and put it on speaker.”

Brooke didn’t quite know what his plan was, but she didn’t want to argue. She dialed and Julian began talking when a female dispatcher answered the phone.

“Hello, my name is Julian Alter and I’m currently driving east
on Route 27, just past East Hampton Village. There are a number of cars—photographers—chasing my car at unsafe speeds. I’m afraid if I go home, they’ll try to force their way into my house. Is there any way an officer could meet me at the house and remind them they would be trespassing?”

The woman agreed to dispatch someone within twenty minutes and after giving her the address of his parents’ home, he hung up.

“That was smart,” Brooke said. “What made you think of that?”

“I didn’t. It’s what Leo told me to do if we were anywhere outside of Manhattan and we started getting followed. Let’s see if it actually works.”

They continued driving in circles for the full twenty minutes before Julian checked his watch and made a right onto the smaller country road that led out to the open pasture land where the Alters’ home sat on an acre and a half. The front yard was large and prettily landscaped, but the house was simply not set far enough back to evade a telescopic lens. They were both relieved to see a police car sitting at the intersection of the farm road and the driveway. Julian pulled up next to it and lowered his window; the two cars following them had now become four, and all rolled to a stop following them. They could instantly make out the sound of cameras clicking as the officer made his way over to the Jeep.

“Hello, sir. I’m Julian Alter and this is my wife, Brooke. We’re just trying to get home in peace. Can you please help us?”

The officer was young, probably in his late twenties, and he didn’t look particularly annoyed at having his New Year’s Day morning interrupted. Brooke offered a silent prayer of thanks and found herself actually hoping the cop would recognize Julian.

He didn’t disappoint.

“Julian Alter, hey? My girlfriend’s a huge fan. Couple of us had heard a rumor your folks live out here, but we weren’t real sure. This their place?”

Julian squinted at the man’s name tag. “It is, Officer O’Malley,” he said. “I’m happy to hear your girlfriend’s a fan. Do you think she’d like an autographed album?”

The clicking from the cameras continued, and Brooke wondered how these pictures would be captioned. “Julian Alter Arrested in Drug-Fueled Drag Race”? Or “Officer to Alter: We Don’t Want Your Kind Out Here.” Or maybe everyone’s favorite, “Alter Tries to Convert Police Officer to Scientology.”

O’Malley’s face lit up at the suggestion. “I’m sure she would,” he said, blowing on his hands, which looked red and chapped. “I think she’d love that.”

Before Julian could even utter a word, Brooke opened the glove compartment and handed Julian a copy of
For the Lost.
They had stashed a brand-new copy in there to see if Julian’s parents would actually listen to it before next summer, but she realized this was a far better use. She dug in her purse and unearthed a pen.

“Her name is Kristy,” the officer said, carefully spelling it twice.

Julian tore the plastic wrap off the CD, removed the liner notes, and scrawled, “To Kristy, with love, Julian Alter.”

“Hey, thanks. She’s going to freak out,” O’Malley said, carefully placing the CD in his side jacket pocket. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Arrest those guys?” Julian said with a half smile.

“ ’Fraid I can’t do that, but I can definitely tell them to back off and remind them of private property rules. You two go on ahead. I’ll brief your friends back here. Give a call if there are any other problems.”

“Thank you!” both Brooke and Julian said at once. They said their good-byes to O’Malley and without looking back, pulled into the garage and closed the door.

“He was nice,” Brooke said as they walked into the mudroom and kicked off their boots.

“I’m calling Leo right now,” Julian said, already halfway to his father’s study in the back of the house. “We’re under siege and he’s stretched out on some beach.”

Brooke watched him go and then walked from room to room, closing all the blinds. The early afternoon had grown dark gray already, and she could see the flashbulbs firing directly at her as she moved from window to window. From behind one of the guest room shades on the second floor, she peeked out front and nearly shrieked when she saw a man with a zoom lens the size of a football pointed directly at her. There was only one room with no window coverings—a small powder room no one ever used on the third floor—but Brooke wasn’t taking any chances. She duct-taped an industrial-strength garbage bag over it and then headed back downstairs to check on Julian.

“You okay?” she asked, pushing the study door open after receiving no response to her knock.

Julian glanced up from his laptop. “Yeah, fine. You? Sorry about all this,” he said, although Brooke couldn’t quite identify the tone in his voice. “I know it’s ruining everything.”

“It’s not ruining anything,” she lied.

Again, no response. He continued to stare at the screen.

“Why don’t I go build us a fire and we can watch a movie. How does that sound?”

“Fine. Good. I’ll be out in a few minutes, okay?”

“Perfect,” she said with forced cheerfulness. She gently closed the door behind her and silently cursed those goddamn photographers, that miserable
Last Night
column, and—only partially—her husband for being famous in the first place. She would do her best to be strong for Julian, but he was right about one thing: their blissfully quiet, much-needed retreat was over. No one dared drive down the driveway or walk across the lawn, but the crowd on the street only continued to grow. They slept that night to the distant sounds of men talking and
laughing, engines turning on and off, and although they tried their best to ignore it, neither of them succeeded. By the time the snow melted enough the next day to leave, they’d only dozed an hour or two and felt like they’d run two marathons, and they barely spoke at all on the drive back to the city. They were followed the whole way home.