Last Night at Chateau Marmont (37 page)

“Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. That’s more than okay.”

The driver was still standing outside the car, talking on his cell phone, and Brooke wanted to get moving before anyone spotted them.

“Remember to wear cute socks for when you take your shoes off at security, because I guarantee there will be someone taking pictures. Smile as much as you possibly can and then get yourself to the business-class lounge—chances are they won’t be in there.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and leave all your borrowed stuff in the backseat of the car. The driver will return everything to the hotel, and they’ll make sure to get it back to the stylist.”

“I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Save it, Brooke. You would do the exact same thing for me if my husband became a megastar overnight and I was being hounded by the paparazzi. Of course, that would mean I actually had a husband, which we both know is highly unlikely, and that my hypothetical husband would have a modicum of talent, which is even more unlikely. . . .”

“I’m too tired to argue, but for the record, your current chances for happiness and relationship success outweigh mine by, like, a factor of ten thousand, so quit your bitching. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Remember—cute socks and call me.”

She spent the ride from the Staples Center to LAX carefully packing her dress into the provided garment bag, tucking her shoes into their dust bag, and arranging her jewelry and clutch neatly into the velvet-lined boxes stacked on the seat next to her. It was only when she pulled the giant rock off her left ring finger that she realized the
stylist still had her plain wedding band, and she made a note to herself to remind Julian to get it back from the girl. She resisted the impulse to think of it as any kind of sign.

Two in-flight Bloodys and one Ambien guaranteed a much-needed five-hour blackout, but as her mother’s reaction at baggage claim revealed, it did not do wonders for her appearance. Brooke smiled and waved when she spotted her mom at the end of the escalator and nearly knocked over the man standing in front of her.

Her mother hugged her hard, then pushed her away and held her at arm’s length. She took in Brooke’s terry-cloth sweatsuit, sneakers, and ponytail and declared, “You look horrible.”

“Thanks, Mom. I feel pretty lousy, too.”

“Let’s get you home. Did you check a bag?”

“Nope, just this,” Brooke said, motioning to her wheel-aboard. “When you have to give back your dress, shoes, bag, jewelry, and underwear, there’s not much left to pack.”

Her mother began weaving through people toward the elevator. “I promised myself I wouldn’t ask a single question until you’re ready to talk about it.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“So . . .”

“So what?” Brooke asked. They stepped off the elevator. The cold Philly air hit her hard, as though she needed a reminder that she was no longer in California.

“So . . . I’ll be there, waiting, should you want to talk. About anything.”

“Great, thanks.”

Her mother threw her hands in the air before pulling open the car door. “Brooke! You’re torturing me.”

“Torturing you?” Brooke feigned incredulousness. “I’m taking you up on your very kind offer of a little breathing room.”

“You know perfectly well that offer wasn’t genuine!”

Brooke hoisted her suitcase into the trunk and settled into the
passenger seat. “Can I just have the car ride to relax before the interrogation begins? Trust me, once you get me started, you’re not going to be able to shut me up.”

She was relieved when her mother chatted the entire car ride to her Center City apartment, telling Brooke all about the people she’d met in her new jogging club. Even once they parked the car in the building’s underground garage and took the elevator to her mother’s two-bedroom on the fifth floor, Mrs. Greene maintained a steady, upbeat soliloquy. It was only once they stepped inside and shut the door that she turned to Brooke, who braced herself.

Her mother, in a rare moment of intimacy, cupped Brooke’s cheek in her palm.

“First, you shower. There are clean towels in the bathroom and I put out some of this new lavender shampoo I’m in love with. After that, you eat. I’m going to make you an omelet—whites only, I know—and some toast. And then you sleep. Red-eyes are hell, and I’m guessing you didn’t sleep all that much on the plane. The second bedroom is all made up and I’ve already got the AC jacked up as high as it will go.” She took her hand away and began walking toward the kitchen.

Brooke exhaled, rolled her suitcase to the bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. She was asleep before she could take off her shoes.

When she finally woke with a need to pee so strong she couldn’t ignore it any longer, the sun had moved to its late afternoon position behind the building. The clock read four forty-five and she could hear her mother emptying the dishwasher. It took only about ten seconds for the night to come rushing back. She grabbed her cell phone and was both dismayed and satisfied to see twelve missed calls and as many text messages, each and every one from Julian, beginning at about eleven last night California time and continuing straight through the night and next morning.

She pulled herself off the bed and headed first to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, where her mother was standing in front of
the dishwasher, staring at the small television mounted underneath a cabinet. Oprah was hugging an unidentifiable guest as Brooke’s mother shook her head.

“Hey,” Brooke said, wondering for the umpteenth time what her mother would do when
Oprah
finally went off the air. “Who’s on?”

Mrs. Greene didn’t even turn around. “It’s Mackenzie Phillips,” she said.
“Again.
Can you believe it? Oprah’s checking in with her to see how she’s faring after the initial announcement.”

“And how’s she faring?”

“She’s a recovering heroin addict who had a ten-year sexual relationship with her father. You know, I’m not a shrink, but I wouldn’t say her prognosis for long-term happiness is terrific.”

“Fair enough.” Brooke grabbed a hundred-calorie pack of Oreos from the pantry and ripped it open. She popped a couple pieces in her mouth. “My god, these are good. How can they only be a hundred calories?”

Her mother snorted. “Because they only give you a few lousy crumbs. You have to eat five packs to feel even remotely satisfied. The whole thing is such a scam.”

Brooke smiled.

Her mother clicked the television off. She turned to face Brooke. “Let me make you those eggs and toast now, what do you say?”

“Sure. Sounds good. I’m actually starving,” she said as she emptied the remainder of the Oreos directly into her mouth.

“Remember when you kids were little and I’d make breakfast for dinner a couple times a month? You both loved it.” She pulled a frying pan from a sliding drawer and sprayed it so heavily with Pam that it looked like it had been dunked in water.

“Mmm, I sure do. Only I’m pretty sure you made it two or three times a week, not a month, and I’m positive I was the only one who liked it. Randy and Dad used to order a pizza every time you made eggs at night.”

“Oh come on, Brooke, it wasn’t that often. I cooked all the time!”

“Uh-huh.”

“I made a huge pot of turkey chili every week. You all loved
that.
” She cracked a half-dozen eggs into a bowl and began to whisk them. Brooke opened her mouth to object when her mother added her self-proclaimed “special sauce” into the mix—a splash of vanilla soy milk that gave the eggs a nauseatingly sweet taste—but thought better of it. She would just drown them in ketchup and choke them down, as usual.

“It was from a mix!” Brooke said, cracking open another packet of Oreos. “All you did was add turkey and a jar of tomato sauce.”

“It was delicious and you know it.”

Brooke smiled. Her mother knew she was an atrocious cook, never claimed to be anything but horrible, and they both enjoyed this little back-and-forth.

Mrs. Greene scraped the vanilla soy eggs from the nonstick pan using a metal fork and divided them up between two plates. She pulled four slices of bread from the toaster and divided those up too, failing to notice that she’d never pressed the Toast button. She handed a plate to Brooke and motioned toward the little table right outside the kitchen.

They took their plates to the table and claimed their usual seats. Her mom darted back to the kitchen and returned with two cans of Diet Coke, two forks, one knife, an ancient jar of grape Smucker’s, and a spray bottle of butter flavoring, all of which she unceremoniously dumped on the table. “Bon appétit!” she trilled.

“Yum!” Brooke said, pushing her vanilla-scented eggs around the plate. She spritzed her untoasted bread with the butter spray and held her can up high. “Cheers!”

“Cheers! To—” Brooke could see her mother stop herself, probably from saying something about being together, or new beginnings, or some other none-too-subtle reference to Julian. Instead she said, “To gourmet meals and good company!”

They ate quickly, and Brooke was pleasantly surprised that her mother still didn’t ask her any questions. Of course, it had the desired effect of making Brooke desperate to discuss the situation, something her mom must have known. Regardless, Brooke couldn’t get the electric kettle plugged in fast enough. By the time they both settled into the couch with mugs of Lipton and a plan to watch the last three episodes of
Brothers & Sisters
off the DVR, Brooke thought she might explode.

“So, you’re probably dying to know what happened last night,” she said after taking a sip.

Mrs. Greene pulled out the tea bag and let it drip for a second and then rested it on a napkin on the table. Brooke could tell she was taking great care not to look directly at her.
Things must be bad,
she thought to herself. Her mother was definitely not the no-pressure type. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said vaguely, waving her hand in a totally nonbelievable
I’m laid back
gesture.

“Well, I guess . . . my god, I don’t even know where to start. The whole thing is such a mess.”

“Start at the beginning. Last I spoke to you was around noon your time and you were getting ready to put on the dress. It sounded like everything was great then. So what happened?”

Brooke sat back on the couch and rested a foot on the edge of the glass coffee table. “Yeah, that’s about when everything went to hell. I had just put on the dress and the jewelry and everything when Margaret called.”

“Okay . . .”

“Well, there was some huge screwup that’s not worth getting into right now, but the long and the short of it is that she fired me.”

“She
what
?” Her mother snapped to attention. She had the same expression that she used to get when Brooke would come home from elementary school and explain how the mean girls had made fun of her at recess.

“She fired me. Told me they couldn’t count on me anymore. That the hospital wasn’t confident in my commitment to my career.”

“What?”

Brooke smiled and sighed. “It’s true.”

“That woman must be out of her mind,” her mother said, slamming her hand down on the table.

“Well, I appreciate that vote of confidence, Mom, but I have to admit that she’s got a point. I haven’t exactly been giving an A-plus performance these last few months.”

Her mother was quiet for a moment as if she were trying to figure out what to say. When she spoke, her voice was low and measured. “You know I’ve always liked Julian. But I’m not going to lie—seeing those pictures made me want to kill him with my bare hands.”

“What did you say?” Brooke whispered, feeling ambushed. She hadn’t exactly forgotten about the pictures—the ones her own husband had described as similar to the Sienna/Balthazar spread—but she had managed to push the idea of them to the far back recesses of her mind.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s none of my business, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t say anything, but you can’t just pretend nothing happened. You need to get some real answers.”

Brooke was irritated. “I think it’s pretty clear that he and I have a whole lot of things to figure out. I don’t recognize this Julian anymore, and it’s not just because of some horrible paparazzi pictures.”

Brooke looked to her mother and waited for a response, but she was quiet.

“What?” Brooke asked. “What are you thinking?”

“You haven’t seen them yet, have you?”

Brooke was quiet for a moment before she said, “I want to, but I can’t. It’ll all be so real as soon as I see them. . . .”

Mrs. Greene folded her legs up under her and reached across the
sofa to take Brooke’s hand. “Sweetheart, I hear what you’re saying. I do. You must feel like you’re on the ledge of a tall building. And it kills me to have to say this, but . . . I think you need to take a look.”

She turned and stared at her mother. “Really, Mom? Aren’t you always the one advising me to ignore all that crap? Haven’t you been reminding me all along, pretty much every time I get upset with something I read, that ninety-nine percent of what’s written in the tabloids is lies and distortions?”

“There’s a copy on my bedside table.”

“On your bedside table?” Brooke screeched, hating the sound of her own voice, a combination of shock and panic. “Since when do you subscribe to
Last Night
? I thought this was strictly an
O
magazine and
Newsweek
household.”

“I started subscribing when you and Julian began appearing in it regularly,” her mother said quietly. “It was exciting, and I wanted to know what everyone meant when they were talking about it.”

Brooke laughed mirthlessly. “Oh well, aren’t you glad you did? Isn’t it just a fount of fascinating information?”

“It kills me to do this, but I’d rather you see them here for the first time. I’ll be right here waiting for you. Go.”

Brooke looked at her mother and could see the pain on her face. She pushed herself up from the couch and tried to ignore the overwhelming feelings of fear and dread. The walk from the living room to her mother’s bedroom felt like an eternity, but before she could even process what was happening, Brooke sat on the edge of the bed. The cover featured the smiling faces of Justin Timberlake and Jessica Biehl with a long, jagged crack down the center. The words “It’s Over!” were splashed in bright red across the top.