Last Night at Chateau Marmont (35 page)

“So tell me, Julian. Your very first album goes platinum in less than eight weeks. As of today”—he paused and glanced at a small square of paper tucked into his palm—“four million copies sold worldwide. Now you’re performing at the Grammys. Tell me, what’s going through your mind?”

He thrust the microphone under Julian’s mouth and smiled. Julian, cooler than she’d ever seen him, smiled back and said, “Well, Ryan, I have to say, it’s been one hell of an incredible ride. I’ve been blown away by the response to the album, and now this? What an honor. What a truly
phenomenal
honor.”

Seacrest appeared to like this and rewarded them with another smile and an attentive nod. “Julian, you write a lot about love in your music. Even ‘For the Lost,’ which at first seems like a nod to your lost brother, is really a song about the redemptive power of love. What’s your inspiration?”

A layup if there ever was one. Brooke concentrated on keeping her gaze fixed on Julian, hoping she projected the look of a loving, supportive, attentive wife who hung on his every word instead of the shell-shocked mess she really was.

Julian went right up for the ball and dunked it easily. “You know,
it’s funny, Sea—Ryan. When I first started out, so much of my music was dark, pretty heavy. I was going through a lot in my own life, and of course I think the music always mirrors what the artist is dealing with. But now?” With this, he turned to face Brooke, gazed directly into her eyes, and said, “Now it’s a completely different story. Thanks to my beautiful wife, both my life and my music are infinitely better. She’s more than my inspiration—she’s my motivation, my influence, my . . . my everything.”

Despite all that had happened back at the hotel, despite the lost job and the supposedly horrible pictures, despite the tiny little voice in the back of her head that wondered if he was merely playing it up for his audience, Brooke felt a surge of love for her husband. At that moment, in front of the cameras and wearing ridiculous clothes and getting quoted and photographed and feted, she felt the exact same way toward Julian as she did the day they met.

Seacrest made an
awww
sound and then thanked them both for chatting and wished Julian good luck. The moment he turned toward his next guest—someone who looked exactly like Shakira, although Brooke couldn’t be sure it was her—Julian turned toward her and said, “See? Seacrest didn’t even bother asking about those dumb pictures. Any responsible journalist knows they’re complete bullshit.”

Just the mere mention of those pictures brought her right back to the hotel room, negating all her loving feelings. Not knowing what else to do, and acutely aware there were cameras and microphones spread out over every square inch of red carpet, she merely smiled at nothing and nodded. It didn’t take long for Leo to jam his face between theirs again—Brooke almost jumped when she felt his hand on the back of her neck.

“Julian, Layla Lawson is right up ahead. I want you to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and then introduce her to Brooke. Brooke, it would be a big help if you could look pleased to meet her.”

Brooke glanced up and caught sight of Layla in a surprisingly elegant short black dress, hanging on the arm of Kid Rock. According
to the tabs she read, Kid was just a friend, as Layla hadn’t been dating much since her messy breakup with her famous quarterback boyfriend a year earlier. Before she had a chance to say anything snotty to Leo, they had reached the couple. Flashbulbs went off with the intensity of a firefight.

“Julian Alter!” Layla squealed and flung her arms around Julian’s neck. “I can’t wait for your performance!”

Brooke thought she would’ve felt something more upon meeting this girl she’d disliked for so long, but she had to admit that Layla exuded a certain kind of charm in person that didn’t come across so well on television or in the pages of the gossip magazines. Even with her body pressed tightly against Julian’s, there was something appealing about her, something sweeter and more vulnerable—perhaps even a little dumber, which didn’t hurt either—that instantly put Brooke at ease.

Julian did his best to extract himself from Layla’s embrace and looked sheepish when he introduced her to Brooke.

“Hi there!” she said in her rich, honeyed Southern accent. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Brooke smiled and offered her hand, but Layla had already come in for the hug.

“Oh, come here, darling, I feel like I’ve known you for ages! Your husband is one lucky guy!”

“Thanks,” Brooke said, instantly feeling ridiculous for ever feeling threatened. “I love your dress.”

“Oh, you’re a doll-baby. Hey, y’all, I’d like you to meet my friend Kid.” With that, she grabbed his hand and tried to direct his attention to Brooke and Julian, but he seemed distracted by a small army of models (backup singers? dancers? plus-ones?) who were parading past. After an awkwardly long moment, his face flashed a glimmer of recognition and he clapped Julian on the back.

“Dude, sweet album,” he said, clamping both his hands around
Julian’s like all the politicians did. “Congrats! Listen, I was wondering if I could ask who you use to . . .”

Brooke didn’t get a chance to hear what Kid Rock was asking of her husband because Layla was nudging her to the side and leaning in so close Brooke could smell her citrusy perfume.

“Start spending that money immediately,” Layla said directly into Brooke’s ear. “It’s every bit as much yours as it is his—hell, he probably wouldn’t have a dime of it if it weren’t for you, am I right?—so don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”

“Money?” was all Brooke could manage.

“Brooke, love, that’s what I most regret about the whole Patrick situation. I sat through, what, hundreds of college and professional games, flew to every godforsaken, freezing stadium in this country, supported him through all the crap until he finally landed that eighty-million-dollar contract? Then when
he
cheats on
me
with that, that
porn star,
I was the one who thought it was too crass to buy myself a decent house. Well, learn from my mistakes, sweetheart. Buy the damn house. You earned it.”

Before Brooke could even respond, Julian and Kid Rock sauntered back over to her and Layla; all four of them automatically stood shoulder to shoulder, smiled, and waved to the cameras.

Brooke didn’t even have a chance to address Layla again before Leo hustled them closer to the entrance of the Staples Center. She was just about to congratulate herself on surviving the red carpet when a woman in a sequined tank dress and death-defyingly high heels thrust a microphone under her chin and practically screamed, “Brooke Alter, how does it feel to see pictures of your husband with another woman after you’ve supported him for so long?”

A hush fell over the area. In the two seconds it took the woman to ask that question, every single other artist, handler, journalist, anchor, cameraman, and fan seemed to go dead quiet. For just a moment, Brooke wondered if the deafening silence was a sign that she
was going to faint, but she immediately realized she wasn’t that lucky. She saw dozens—hundreds?—of heads turn to watch at the exact same time she felt Julian squeezing her hand so hard that she was certain multiple bones were breaking under the pressure. She had the odd sensation of wanting to scream and laugh at the same time. She wondered what everyone’s reaction would be if she merely smiled and said,
Well you know, it’s funny you asked. Because it really does feel wonderful. I mean, what girl wouldn’t love being told about her husband supposedly having an affair with another woman and having the whole thing play out on national television thanks to people like you? Are there any other brilliant questions you’d like to ask before we make our way inside? No? Well then, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.
That thought was followed by a single-second fantasy of taking scissors to the woman’s sequins and then clobbering her with her own spiked heels. She could barely breathe.

But of course she didn’t scream or puke or laugh or assault anyone. She inhaled through her nose, did her best to pretend that no one else was watching, and calmly said, “I’m extremely proud of my husband for his accomplishments, and I’m so excited to be here tonight to watch him perform. Wish him luck!” She squeezed Julian’s hand right back and, not having any clue where she’d found such composure, she turned to him and said, “Shall we?”

Julian kissed her and gallantly offered her his arm, and before anyone else could materialize in front of them, she, Julian, and Leo were through the front doors.

“Brooke, you were brilliant!” Leo crowed triumphantly, clamping his still-sweaty palm around the back of her neck.

“Seriously, Rook, that was first-rate media wrangling,” Julian said in agreement. “You handled that bitch like a pro.”

She dropped Julian’s arm. The way he congratulated her made her sick. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

“Wait! Brooke, we need to get seated right away so Julian can get backstage to warm up with—”

“Rook? Can you wait just—”

She left them both behind without so much as a second glance and made her way through the throngs of the gorgeous and gorgeously dressed. She reassured herself that no one knew who she was, that no matter how nauseated she felt, no one was staring at her or talking about her. She beelined toward the restroom sign, desperate to hide and compose herself for just a couple minutes. The ladies’ room was surprisingly basic—what one would expect from the Staples Center but hardly befitting the
Grammys
ceremony—and Brooke tried hard not to touch anything as she closed the stall door behind her. She concentrated on taking deep breaths as the other women in the bathroom chitchatted.

One woman was going on and on about how she’d spotted Taylor Swift and Kanye West talking to each other off to the side of the red carpet, and she just couldn’t understand why cute little Taylor would be giving Kanye—“that total douchebag!”—the time of day. Her friend weighed in on whether Taylor or Miley looked better in their near-matching black dresses (the vote was split), and each of them named their pick of hottest guy in attendance (one chose Jay-Z; the other insisted on Josh Duhamel). One of them wondered who was watching Jennifer Hudson’s son that evening. Another wanted to know why, exactly, Kate Beckinsale was in attendance when neither she nor her husband had anything to do with the music industry. It was precisely the kind of idle chatter she and Nola would’ve made if they’d been standing in that bathroom, and she found it oddly comforting. Right up until they started in on their next topic.

“So have you seen the Julian Alter pictures yet?” the one with the annoying voice asked her friend.

“No, are they really that bad?”

“Christ, are they
ever.
The girl is, like, grinding all over him. They could be having actual sex under her skirt in one of them.”

“Who is she? Have they found out?”

“Some nobody. A civilian. Just some party girl out looking for a good time at the Chateau.”

For what felt like the thousandth time that night, Brooke stopped breathing. The bathroom was busy—women constantly rotated in and out, washing their hands and adjusting imaginary flyaways and refreshing their already-perfect lipstick—but she only had ears for those two voices. It was a bad idea, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Double-checking the stall door to make sure it was locked, she lined her eyes up with the crack along the hinges and peeked outside. Standing at the sink were two women, both probably in their mid- to late twenties, probably starlets, though neither of them looked familiar.

“What was he thinking, doing that at the Chateau? I mean, if you’re going to cheat on your wife, shouldn’t you at least
try
to be discreet?”

The other one scoffed. “Oh,
whatever.
Like it matters where they do it! They always get caught. Look at Tiger! Men are just
that
stupid.”

This caused the other one to laugh. “Julian Alter is no Tiger Woods, and trust me, his wife is no Swedish supermodel.”

She knew full well she wasn’t a Swedish supermodel, but she didn’t need to hear other people say it. She desperately wanted to leave but she dreaded going back to Julian and Leo every bit as much as she dreaded continuing her bathroom eavesdropping. The woman pulled out a cigarette.

“Do you think she’ll actually leave him?” the girl with the too-short trendy bangs asked her friend Screech Voice.

There was a snort. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere . . . unless he says so.”

“What is she, a teacher or something?”

“A nurse, I think.”

“Can you imagine? You’re just a regular civilian one day and then your husband is a superstar the next.”

Screech laughed particularly hard at this. “I don’t see Martin at risk of being super-anything. I guess that puts it all on me, huh?”

Bangs exhaled a final smoke ring and stamped her cigarette out in the sink. “They’re dead in the water,” she announced with the confidence of someone who’s seen everything, been everywhere, met everyone. “She’s sweet and mousy, and he’s a god. Gods and nurses don’t mix.”

Nutritionist!
she wanted to scream.
At least get it fucking right when you’re dissecting my marriage and assassinating my character!

They each gingerly deposited gum past their freshly glossed lips, closed their purses, and left without another word. Brooke’s relief was palpable, so much that when she finally left the stall, she didn’t even notice the woman who was leaning against the far end of the sink, her back to the mirror, typing something into her phone.

“Forgive me for intruding, but are you Brooke Alter?”

Brooke inhaled sharply at the sound of her name. At this point she would’ve chosen a firing squad over another conversation.

The woman turned to face her and extend her hand and Brooke recognized her immediately as a well-respected and hugely famous movie and television actress. Brooke tried to mask the fact that she knew everything on earth about this woman—from all the characters she played in romantic comedies over the years to the horrible fact that her husband left her when she was six months pregnant for a barely legal professional tennis player—but it was useless trying to pretend she didn’t recognize Carter Price. Did people ever not recognize Jennifer Aniston or Reese Witherspoon? Please.