Greetings from Hanoi, a city so crowded it makes the NYC subway at rush hour feel like a golf vacation. I’m only on day five and I’m not sure I’ll make it to the end. The actual sightseeing has been great, but the group is killing me. They wake up every day with a brand-new lease on life – no bus trip is too long, no market too crowded, no lack of air-conditioning is too unbearable for this crew. Yesterday I broke down and told the group leader I’d be willing to pay the single supplement for my own room after five mornings of my roommate waking up an hour and a half early to jog six miles before breakfast. One of those ‘I just don’t feel like myself if I don’t exercise’ types. It was sickening. Demoralizing. All-around toxic to my self-esteem, as you can well imagine. So she’s been eliminated, which I think is the wisest way I have ever spent five hundred dollars. Otherwise, not too much to report. The country is beautiful, of course, and endlessly interesting, but for the record, the only single man under forty in my group is here with his mother (who, incidentally, I like a lot – maybe I should reconsider???). I’d ask you what’s going on there, but since you haven’t cared enough to write me once since I’ve been gone, I don’t imagine this time will be any different. Regardless, I miss you and hope that at least in some small, insignificant way, you’re having a worse time than I am. xoxo, me
It took mere seconds for Brooke to respond.
Dearest Nola,
I won’t say I told you so. Actually, scratch that – I totally will. I TOLD YOU SO! Wtf were you thinking? Did my eight-by-ten of the clear-colored scorpion have no effect on you? Sorry for being the worst keeper-in-toucher in the world. I don’t even have a good excuse. Not too much to report here. Work’s been crazy for me – I’m covering a bunch of shifts for people on vacation, hoping I can collect at a later date when we can actually go away. Julian’s been traveling all week, although I guess it’s working because the album is doing incredibly well. Things are little weird. He seems distant. I’m chalking it up to … hell, I don’t know. Where’s my best friend when I need a good backstory? Help a girl out here!
Okay, I’m signing off and putting us both out of our misery. Already counting the days until you’re home and we can go out for Vietnamese food. I’ll bring a flask of murky mystery water and you’ll feel like you’re still on vacation. It’ll be a blast. Stay safe and have some rice for me. Xoxo me
P.S. Have you found a use yet for those gross hand-me-down sarongs I insisted you bring just so you’d get them out of my apartment?
P.P.S. For the record, I strongly encourage you to go for the/any guy who travels with his mother.
She hit Send and heard Julian padding toward her.
‘Baby, what are you doing out here?’ he asked sleepily as he poured himself some water. ‘Facebook will be here in the morning.’
‘I’m not on Facebook!’ she said indignantly. ‘I couldn’t sleep so I came out here to write Nola. I don’t think she’s loving her travel partners.’
‘Come back to bed.’ He began to drink his water as he walked back to the bedroom.
‘Okay, I’ll be right in,’ she called out, but he was already gone.
Brooke awoke instantly from the noise in the apartment, bolted straight up in bed on full alert, terrified until she remembered that Julian was actually home that night. They hadn’t gone to Italy; instead, Julian had been on a city-hopping tour of major radio stations, meeting DJs, doing brief in-studio performances, and answering callers’ questions. Once again, he’d been gone for two straight weeks.
She leaned over to read the bedside clock, a task made harder by Walter’s hot tongue on her face and her inability to find her glasses. Three nineteen A.M. What on earth was he doing awake when they had to be up so early?
‘All right, come along,’ she crooned to Walter, who was wagging and jumping at this unexpected nighttime excitement. Brooke wrapped herself in a robe and padded to the living room, where Julian sat in the dark, clad only in boxers and a pair of headphones, playing his keyboard. He didn’t appear to be practicing anything so much as zoning out – his gaze was fixed on the wall opposite the couch and his hands moved across the keys without a hint of awareness. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was sleepwalking or on drugs. She was able to sit down next to him before he was even aware of her presence.
‘Hey,’ he said, pulling his headphones down around his neck like a scarf. ‘Did I wake you?’
Brooke nodded. ‘It’s muted, though,’ she said, pointing to the keyboard, which was hooked up to the headphones, ‘so I’m not sure what I heard.’
‘These,’ Julian said, holding up a handful of CDs. ‘I knocked them over just a minute ago. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ Brooke snuggled close. ‘You okay? What’s going on?’
Julian wrapped his arms around her shoulders but seemed no less distracted. His eyebrows knit together. ‘I guess I’m just really nervous. I’ve done a lot of interviews by now, but none as big as the Today show.’
Brooke grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and said, ‘You’re going to be great, baby. Seriously, you’re a natural at this media stuff.’ Maybe that wasn’t exactly true – the few television interviews she’d seen Julian do so far had been a little on the awkward side – but if there was ever a time to lie …
‘You have to say that. You’re my wife.’
‘You’re absolutely right, I do have to say it. But I also happen to mean it. You’re going to be amazing.’
‘It’s live and it’s national. Millions of people watch every single morning. How terrifying is that?’
Brooke nuzzled into his chest so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘You’re just going to go out there and do your thing. They’ll have that stage set up outside and all the screaming tourists, and it won’t feel any different than a tour performance. Far less people than that, actually.’
‘Fewer.’
‘What?’
‘Fewer. It’s “far fewer” people, not “less.”’ Julian smiled weakly.
Brooke punched him. ‘So that’s what I get for trying to comfort you, huh? Grammar correction? Come on, let’s go back to bed.’
‘What’s the point? Don’t we have to be there any minute?’
Brooke glanced at the clock on the DVD player. Three thirty-five. ‘We can sleep for another, oh, let’s say fifty minutes before we have to start getting ready. They’re sending a car at five fifteen.’
‘Jesus Christ. This is inhumane.’
‘Scratch that. I think we can only do forty-five minutes. Don’t think because you’re some celebrity now you don’t have to walk your own dog.’
Julian groaned. Walter woofed.
‘Come on, you’ll be better off if you lie down, even if you can’t sleep,’ Brooke said, standing and tugging on his arm.
Julian stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Go ahead, I’ll be right in.’
‘Julian …’
He flashed another smile, this one real. ‘Don’t be a tyrant, woman. Do I need permission to go to the bathroom? I’ll be right in.’
Brooke feigned irritation. ‘“Tyrant”? Come on, Walter, let’s go back to bed and leave Daddy in peace to sit on the toilet and download iPhone apps.’ She pecked Julian on the lips and made a kissing noise so Walter would follow her.
The next thing Brooke knew, the clock radio was blaring ‘All the Single Ladies,’ and she bolted upright in bed, convinced they’d somehow missed the whole thing. She was relieved when the clock read four fifteen A.M. and leaned over to shake Julian, but on his side of the bed she found only a tangle of blanket and a sprawled-out spaniel. Walter was stretched out on his back, all four paws straight in the air, head on Julian’s pillow like a human. He looked at her with one eye that seemed to say, I could get used to this, before closing it again and letting out a contented sigh. Brooke buried her face in his neck and then tiptoed into the living room, certain she’d find Julian right where she’d left him. Instead, she saw a crack of light under the door of the guest hal
f bathroom, and when she moved closer to ask if he was all right, she heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Poor thing’s a wreck, she thought with a combination of sympathy for Julian and relief that she wasn’t the one who had to give this interview right now. If the situation were reversed, she had no doubt she’d be right there in that bathroom, puking and praying for some divine intervention.
She heard the water run for a moment and then the door opened, revealing a pale, sweaty version of her husband. He ran the back of his hand along his mouth and offered her an expression that toed the line between nauseated and mildly amused.
‘How are you feeling, baby? Can I get you anything? Some ginger ale maybe?’
Julian slumped into a seat at their two-person kitchenette table and raked his fingers through his hair. Brooke noticed that his hair was looking fuller lately, almost like he wasn’t thinning on top as much as he had been in the last year. It was probably the great haircuts he’d been getting from the hair and makeup people, who must have discovered a way somehow to conceal or camouflage it. Whatever they were doing, it was working. Without the distraction of the small bald spot, your eyes were immediately drawn to those ridiculous dimples.
‘I feel like shit,’ he announced. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’
Brooke knelt beside him, kissed him on the cheek, and took both his hands in hers. ‘You’re going to be great, baby. This is going to help you and your album so tremendously.’
For a second Brooke thought he might cry. Thankfully, he plucked a banana from the centerpiece bowl and began taking long, slow chews.
‘And I really think the interview part is going to be a breeze. Everyone knows you’re there to perform. You’ll do “For the Lost,” the crowd will go crazy, you’ll forget the cameras are even there, and then they’ll come up to you on the stage and ask how it feels to be a sudden star or something like that. You’ll give your bit about how much you love and adore all your fans, and then straight to Al for the weather. It’ll be a cakewalk, I promise!’
‘You think?’
His imploring eyes reminded Brooke how long it had been since she had to soothe him like this, how much she missed doing it. Her husband the rock star could still be her husband the nervous guy.
‘I know! Come on, let’s get you in the shower and I’ll make you some eggs and toast. The car will be here in a half hour and we can’t be late. Okay?’
Julian nodded. He rumpled her hair as he stood and took off for their bathroom without another word. He got nervous before every performance, regardless of whether it was a routine gig at a college bar or a small showcase in an intimate venue or a huge crowd in a Midwestern stadium, but Brooke couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this.
She jumped in the shower as he was climbing out, and she thought about offering a few more words of encouragement but decided maybe a little silence would be better. By the time she finished, Julian had left with Walter for a walk, and she raced to pull on the easiest outfit she could find that was guaranteed comfortable without being hideous: a tunic-style sweater over black leggings paired with low-heel ankle boots. She had been a late adopter of the legging, but once she caved and bought her first gloriously stretchy and forgiving pair, Brooke had never looked back. After so many years of fighting to pour herself into skintight, low-rise jeans and binding pencil skirts and slacks that always felt like a vise around her waist, she found leggings were God’s apology to women everywhere. For the first time, something that was in style actually flattered her figure perfectly by hiding her less-than-stellar mid- and rear section while accentuating her reasonably shapely legs. Every day she pulled a pair on she offered a silent thank-you to their inventor and a quiet prayer that they’d remain in fashion just a little bit longer.
The drive from their apartment to Rockefeller Center went quickly. There was no traffic that early in the morning, and the only sound came from Julian’s fingers tap-tap-tapping against the wood grain of the armrest. Leo called to say he was waiting for them at the studio, but otherwise no one spoke. It wasn’t until the car pulled up along side the talent entrance that Julian gripped Brooke’s hand so tightly she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from calling out.
‘You’re going to be great,’ she whispered to him as a young man in a page uniform and a headset led them to the greenroom.
‘It’s live and it’s national,’ Julian replied, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He looked even paler than he had this morning, and Brooke prayed he wouldn’t throw up again.
She pulled a packet of chewable Pepto tablets from her purse, discreetly removed two from the wrapper, and pressed them into Julian’s palm. ‘Chew those,’ she said quietly.
They passed a couple studios, each emanating the telltale freezing cold air that kept the anchors cool under the blazing stage lights, and Julian tightened his grip. They rounded a corner, walked past a space that looked like a makeshift salon where three women were setting up hair and makeup supplies, and were deposited in a room with a few armchairs, two love seats, and a small breakfast buffet. Brooke had never been in an official greenroom of any kind before, and although this one said as much on the door, everything was done in shades of beige and mauve. Only Julian was tinted green.
‘There he is!’ Leo boomed, his voice sounding at least thirty decibels louder than necessary.
‘I’ll, uh, be back to take you into hair and makeup as soon as the rest of the band is here,’ the page said, looking uncomfortable. ‘Just, um, have some coffee or something.’ He quickly ducked out.
‘Julian! How we doing this morning? You ready? You’re not looking ready, man. You okay?’
Julian nodded, looking every bit as unhappy to see Leo as Brooke felt. ‘Fine,’ he murmured.
Leo clapped Julian’s back and then pulled him into the hallway for some sort of pep talk. Brooke fixed herself a cup of coffee and took a seat in the corner farthest from everyone. She surveyed the room and took her best guess on the other guests that morning: a little girl who, judging from both the violin she clutched and her snotty attitude, was most likely a musical prodigy; the editor of a men’s magazine who was rehearsing with his publicist the ten weight-loss tips he planned to discuss; a well-known chick-lit author holding her most recent novel in one hand and her cell phone in the other, looking supremely bored as she scrolled through her call list.
The other band members straggled in over the next fifteen minutes, each managing to appear exhausted and excited at the same time. They slurped coffee and took turns in the hair and makeup room, and before Brooke had another opportunity to gauge how Julian was holding up, they were whisked out to the promenade to greet the fans and do a final sound check. It was a crisp fall morning and the crowd was huge. By the time they began their performance, right around eight, the audience had swelled to over a thousand people, almost all female between the ages of twelve and fifty, and it seemed like nearly every one of them was screaming Julian’s name. Brooke stared at the monitor in the greenroom, trying to remind herself that Julian was – at that very moment – on televisions across America, when the page came by and asked if she’d like to watch the interview portion from inside the studio itself.
Brooke jumped up and followed the boy down a flight of stairs and onto the familiar set she recognized from years of watching the show. The icy air hit her immediately.
‘Wow, it’s a beautiful set. For some reason I just figured they’d interview him outside in front of the crowd.’
The page held a couple fingertips up to his earpiece, listened, and nodded. He turned back to Brooke but didn’t seem to really see her. ‘Normally they would, but the wind today is wreaking havoc with the mics.’
‘Got it,’ Brooke said.
‘You can sit right here,’ he said, motioning to a folding chair between two of the massive cameras. ‘They’ll be coming inside any second and will be on air’ – he checked a stopwatch hanging from a lanyard around his neck – ‘in just under two minutes. Your cell phone’s off, r
ight?’
‘Yeah, I left it upstairs. Oh, this is just so cool!’ Brooke said. She’d never been on a television set before, never mind one so famous. It was almost overwhelming just to sit there and watch all the camera guys and sound technicians and producers in headsets scurry around in preparation. She was watching as a man swapped out overstuffed couch cushions for smaller, tighter ones when there was a rush of outside air and a lot of commotion. About a dozen people walked through the studio door and Brooke saw Julian was flanked on either side by Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira. He looked a bit dazed and had a thin bead of sweat on his upper lip, but he was laughing at something and shaking his head.
‘One minute thirty seconds!’ a female voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
The group walked right in front of her, and for a moment Brooke could only stare at the anchors’ familiar faces. But then Julian caught her eye and gave her a nervous smile. He mouthed something to her, although Brooke couldn’t tell what. She sat in the chair the page had pointed out. Immediately two more people descended on him, one showing him how to weave the microphone up the back of his shirt and clip it onto his collar, and the other applying pressed powder to his shiny face. Matt Lauer leaned in to whisper something to Julian, who laughed, and then walked off the stage. Meredith took the seat opposite Julian and although Brooke couldn’t hear what they were saying, it looked like Julian was quite comfortable with her. She tried to imagine how nervous he must be right then, how utterly terrifying and surreal the whole thing must feel, and just the thought of it was enough to make her queasy. She dug her fingernails into her palms and prayed it would go well.
Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know Page 133