Last Night at Chateau Marmont (48 page)

“There’s more?”

“Just open it.”

It was yet another printout. This one featured a smiling headshot of a man named Richard Goldberg, who looked to be around forty-five and who worked for a company called Original Artist Management. “And this lovely gentleman?” she asked with a smile.

“Is my new manager,” Julian said. “I made a few calls, and I found someone who understands what I’m hoping to achieve.”

“Dare I ask what?” she asked.

“A way to have a successful career without losing what matters to me most—you,” he said quietly. He pointed to Richard’s picture. “I spoke to him, and he got it immediately. I don’t need to maximize my financial potential—I need
you.
”

“We can still buy that town house in Brooklyn, right?” she said with a grin.

“Yes. We sure can. And apparently, if I’m willing to forgo a few paychecks, I can decide to tour once a year, and even then put a cap on it. Six, eight weeks, max.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I feel good. You’re not the only one who hates me touring—it’s no kind of life. But I think we could both handle six or eight weeks of it every twelve months if it’s going to give us freedom otherwise. Do you?”

Brooke nodded. “I do, I think that’s a good compromise. So long as you won’t feel like you’re cheating yourself . . .”

“It’s not perfect—nothing’s ever going to be—but I think it sounds like a damn good start. And for the record, I don’t expect you to drop everything to come with me. I know you’ll have another job you love by then, maybe a baby. . . .” He raised his eyebrows in her direction and she laughed. “I can install a recording studio in our basement so I can be home with our family. I checked, and every one of these listings has a basement.”

“Julian. My god, this—” She waved at all the printouts and marveled at all the thought and effort he’d put into it. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes, Brooke. We can make it work, I know we can. Wait—don’t say anything yet.” He pulled open the jacket she was hugging tightly around herself and reached into the inside pocket. In his open palm was a small velvet jewelry box.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She was about to ask Julian what was inside, but before she could say a word, he scooted off the bench and knelt beside her, his other hand resting on her knee.

“Brooke, will you make me the happiest guy in the world and marry me again?”

He flipped open the box. Inside was not some new fancy engagement ring with a huge diamond or a pair of sparkly studs, as she sus
pected. Tucked between two folds of velvet was Brooke’s plain gold wedding band, the one the stylist had ripped off her finger the night of the Grammys, the same band she’d worn every day for nearly six years now but thought she might never see again.

“I’ve been wearing this on a chain ever since I got it back,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to,” she rushed to say, “it just got lost in all the confusion, I swear it wasn’t some sort of symbol. . . .”

He stretched up and kissed her. “Do me the honor of wearing it again?”

She threw her arms around his neck, crying once again now, and nodded. She tried to say yes, but she couldn’t get the word out. He laughed and rocked her and hugged her back.

“Here, look,” he said, plucking the ring from the box. He pointed to its underside where, right beside their wedding date, he had engraved today’s date. “So we’ll never forget that we’re making a promise to each other to start over.” He took her left hand and slid her own wedding band on her finger, and she didn’t realize until it was back in place how naked she’d felt without it.

“Hey, Rook, I hate to stand on ceremony here, but you haven’t actually agreed yet.” He gave her a sheepish look, and she could see he was still a little nervous.

She took it as a very good sign.

They couldn’t solve everything in one conversation, but tonight she didn’t care. They still loved each other. She couldn’t possibly know what the next months or years would bring, or if their plans would work, but she
knew
—for the first time in a long, long while—that she wanted to try.

“I love you, Julian Alter,” she said, reaching out to hold his hands. “And yes, I will marry you again. Yes, yes, yes.”

First and foremost I want to thank my agent, Sloan Harris. I’m forever indebted to him for his tireless advocacy, his invaluable advice, and the calm, levelheaded way he handles every situation I throw at him. I wake each day thankful to be on Sloan’s team. I also deeply admire the way he can work the word “kabuki” into almost every conversation.

Thank you to my very own Editorial Dream Team, in order of appearance: Marysue Rucci, Lynne Drew, and Greer Hendricks. Every author should know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of such smart, savvy, and sensitive feedback. Sending a special hug to Lynne for her above-and-beyond cross-Atlantic voyage (annual tradition?).

Thanks to Judith Curr, whose energy and enthusiasm are contagious, and to David Rosenthal for always believing in me (and who surely loathes the phrase “always believing in me”). A huge thank-you to everyone at Atria, especially: Carolyn Reidy, Chris Lloreda, Jeanne Lee, Lisa Sciambra, Mellony Torres, Sarah Cantin, Lisa Keim, Nancy Inglis, Kimberly Goldstein, Aja Pollock, Rachel Bostic, Natalie White, Craig Dean, and the entire sales force. I’m thrilled to be part of the family!

Betsy Robbins, Vivienne Schuster, Alice Moss, Kate Burke, Cathy Gleason, Sophie Baker, Kyle White, and Ludmilla Suvorova: thank you. I simply adore you all. Special thanks to Kristyn Keene for of
fering wise and spot-on advice on everything from plot development to stilettos. You are always right. A big hug to Cara Weisberger for brilliant brainstorming sessions. Thanks to Damian Benders for my music industry briefing and Victoria Stein for educating me on all things nutritionist-related. Any mistakes in these areas are entirely my own.

Lots of love to Mom and Dad and the rest of my incredible family: Dana, Seth, Grandma, Papa, Bernie, Judy, Jonathan, Brian, Lindsey, Dave, Allison, Jackie, and Mel for enduring endless hours of blather about this book and doing it with so much love and support. Nanny, I know you’re reading this somewhere, and I miss you so much.

And lastly, the biggest thanks of all to my husband, Mike. This novel (or my sanity) wouldn’t exist without him. We talked characters at breakfast, plot at lunch, and structure at dinner, and not only did he never threaten divorce, he also made me laugh every step of the way. MC, I love you.

Lauren Weisberger is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Devil Wears Prada,
which was made into a major motion picture starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway;
Everyone Worth Knowing;
and
Chasing Harry Winston.
A graduate of Cornell University, she lives in New York City with her husband. To learn more, visit
www.laurenweisberger.com
.