Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special—she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes—but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra-cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.

  She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it was all Brooke could do not to whip out her BlackBerry and send a picture to Nola.

  When she got back to their room—a one-bedroom suite in the main building, with gorgeous hillside views—she was delighted to discover a massive gift basket with a note that read, “Welcome, Julian! From your friends at Sony.” Inside was a bottle each of Veuve Clicquot and Patrón; a box of those tiny, funkily painted chocolate truffles; an assortment of energy bars and snacks; enough Vitaminwaters to stock a grocery; and a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes. She took a picture of the whole thing splayed out on the coffee table and sent it to Julian with the caption, “They love you,” and then she tore into it, demolishing a red velvet cupcake in under ten seconds.

  It was the room’s landline that eventually woke her.

  “Brooke? You alive?” Julian’s voice rang through the cordless handset.

  “I’m alive,” she managed to say, looking around to get her bearings, surprised to discover that she was under the covers, wearing only her underwear, and the entire room was dark. Cupcake crumbs were scattered around her pillow.

  “I’ve been calling your cell phone for the last half hour. Where are you? Is everything okay?”

  She bolted upright and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She’d been asleep for nearly three hours. “Must’ve been that second Bloody Mary,” she mumbled to herself, but Julian began to laugh.

  “I leave you alone for one afternoon and you get yourself drunk?”

  “It wasn’t like that! But whatever, how was the taping? How did it go?”

  In the brief pause that followed, Brooke had a mental flash of all the potential things that could’ve gone wrong, but once again, Julian laughed. It was more than a laugh—he sounded downright giddy.

  “Rook, it was incredible! I nailed it, just absolutely nailed it, and the backup band was way better than I expected with so little practice.” Brooke could hear other voices in the car and Julian lowered his to a whisper. “Jay came over to me as the song ended, put his arm around me, pointed me to the camera, and said how that was awesome, and he’d like for me to come back every night.”

  “No!”

  “He did! The audience was clapping like crazy, and then when the whole taping was over and we were hanging out backstage, Jay even thanked me, said he couldn’t wait to hear the whole album!”

  “Julian, that’s incredible. Congratulations! This is huge!”

  “I know, I’m just so relieved. Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel in twenty minutes or so. Meet me on the patio for a drink?”

  The mere thought of alcohol made her head throb a bit more—when was the last time she was hungover at dinnertime?—but she sat straight up. “I’ve got to change. I’ll meet you down there as soon as I’m ready,” she said, but the line had already been disconnected.

  Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets wasn’t easy, but three Advils and a stint under the rainfall shower helped. She quickly pulled on a pair of legging-style skinny jeans, a silky tank top, and a blazer, but a closer inspection revealed that the jeans were doing hideous things to her butt. As hard as it was to pull the damn things on, it was hell trying to get them off, and Brooke nearly kneed herself in the face trying to yank them down her legs, inch by painful inch. Her stomach rolled and her legs flailed and still, they barely budged. Did White Bikini Girl ever have to suffer such indignity? She flung the jeans across the room in disgust. The only thing left in her suitcase was a sundress. It was too cold for it, but paired with the blazer, a cotton scarf, and a pair of flat boots, she’d have to suck it up.

  Not terrible, she thought as she checked herself one last time. Her hair was mostly air-dried and—even Brooke had to admit—looked pretty damn good for requiring zero effort. She’d slicked on some mascara and a few dots of this glimmering liquid blush Nola had pressed into her palm a few weeks earlier and politely insisted she use. She grabbed her phone and her bag and ran. The lip gloss went on in the elevator. The blazer sleeves got rolled while walking across the lobby. She gave her hair a final shake and tousle and actually felt fresh and pretty by the time she saw Julian holding court at a prime patio table.

  “Brooke!” He stood up and waved.

  She could see his smile from fifty feet, and every inch of self-consciousness vanished as she ran toward him. “Congratulations!” she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Thanks, baby,” he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, “Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.”

  “Hi!” she sang, giving the general table area a wave. “I’m Brooke.”

  The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.

  Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman—fortysomething with great Botox?—with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who . . . Ohmigod, is that, could it be . . .

  “You already know Leo,” Julian was saying as Leo smirked. “And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

  Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. “Pleasure,” she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. “It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, ‘Everyone says she’s the best.’”

  “Oh, that’s sweet of you,” Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.”

  “Both of you need to stop,” Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. “Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.”

  Good god. It was him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a glass of beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke r
acked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like “I’m a huge fan” or “I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,” she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar every day. . . .

  “Hey,” Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. “That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?”

  Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi. Nola! she shouted to herself. I need you to hear this right now!

  “Yeah, it’s real,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. “Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.” She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.

  “Well I think it’s fucking awesome,” Jon declared, and raised his tall, tapered beer glass. “A toast to fire cro—” He stopped short and an adorably sheepish look crossed his face. Brooke wanted to tell him he could call her “fire crotch” anytime.

  “A toast to hot redheads and first appearances on Leno. Congrats, man. That’s big.” Jon held his glass aloft and everyone clinked it with his own. Brooke’s champagne flute was the last to touch it, and she wondered if there was any way she could smuggle the glass home with her.

  “Cheers!” everyone called out. “Congratulations!”

  “So how was it?” Brooke asked Julian, happy to give him the opening to shine once again in front of all these people. “Tell me everything.”

  “He was perfect,” Samara announced in her clipped, professional voice. “His performance followed really solid guests.” She paused and turned to Julian. “I thought Hugh Jackman was charming. Did you?”

  “Yeah, he was good. And so was that chick from Modern Family,” Julian said, nodding.

  “We caught a break with that—two legitimately interesting and famous guests, none of the child performers or the magicians or the animal trainers,” Samara said. “Trust me, nothing’s worse than getting upstaged by a studio full of chimpanzees.”

  Everyone laughed. A waiter arrived at the table and Leo ordered for the group without consulting anyone. Brooke normally hated it when people did that, but even she couldn’t argue with his choices: another bottle of champagne, a round of tequila gimlets, and a bunch of snack plates, everything from truffled porcini bruschetta to mozzarella di bufala and arugula. By the time the first dish of crab cakes in an avocado puree arrived, Brooke had happily rediscovered her earlier buzz and was feeling almost euphoric from the excitement. Julian—her Julian, the same one who slept in socks every night—had just performed on The Tonight Show. They were staying in a gorgeous suite at the infamous Chateau Marmont, eating and drinking like rock royalty. One of the most famous musicians of the twentieth century had announced he loved her hair. Of course her wedding was the best day of her life (weren’t you required to say that no matter what?), but this was quickly clocking in as a very close second.

  Her cell phone screeched from her bag on the ground, a shrill fire-alarm-like ring she’d chosen post-nap to ensure she didn’t oversleep again.

  “Why don’t you get it?” Julian asked through a full mouth as Brooke stared at her phone. She didn’t want to answer it, but she was worried something was wrong; it was already after midnight back at home.

  “Hey, Mom,” she said as quietly as she could. “We’re all in the middle of dinner right now. Is everything okay?”

  “Brooke! Julian’s on right now and he’s incredible! He looks adorable, and the band is playing perfectly, and my god, you just want to eat him up. I think it’s the best he’s ever been.” Her mother’s words tumbled out in a frantic jumble, and it was all Brooke could do to put the pieces together.

  She glanced at her watch. Nine twenty California time, which meant The Tonight Show was airing that very second up and down the East Coast. “Really? He looks good?” Brooke asked.

  This got everyone’s attention.

  “Of course, it’s airing on the East Coast now,” Samara said, pulling out her BlackBerry. Sure enough, it was vibrating with the intensity of a washing machine.

  “Amazing,” her mother was saying through the receiver. “He looks absolutely amazing. And Jay gave him a really nice introduction. Wait—he’s just finishing up the song now.”

  “Mom, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m being really rude right now.”

  “All right, honey. It’s late here so call me in the morning. And congratulate Julian for me.”

  Brooke clicked to disconnect the call, but her phone instantly rang again. Nola. She glanced around the table and noticed that with the exception of Jon, who had wandered over to say hello to another group, everyone else was on the phone, too.

  “Hey, can I call you later? We’re just eating.”

  “He’s ridiculously good!” Nola screeched.

  Brooke smiled. Nola had never before been that enthusiastic about any of Julian’s performances, not even close. “I know.”

  “Holy shit, Brooke, I’m like at the edge of my seat. When he really lets go and sings that last stanza or whatever you call it, with his eyes closed and his head back like that? Good god, it gave me the chills.”

  “I’ve told you. He’s the real deal.”

  Brooke overheard Julian thanking someone with an embarrassed but proud smile. Leo was shouting something about Julian being “fucking awesome,” and Samara was saying that she’d check on Julian’s availability and call back in the morning. Brooke’s phone was blowing up with incoming text messages and e-mails, little notifications popping up on her screen even as she talked to Nola.

  “Look, I’ve got to run right now, things are crazy here. Are you up for another hour?” She lowered her voice to a barely discernible whisper. “I’m having dinner at the Chateau with Jon Bon Jovi. And apparently, he loves redheads.”

  “Shut up. Shut. The. Hell. Up!” Nola hissed into the phone. “First of all, when on earth did my best friend become so fabulous? ‘Dinner at the Chateau’? Are you kidding me? And second . . . I need to hang up right this second so I have enough time to book a flight to L.A. and then dye my hair red.”

  Brooke laughed.

  “Seriously, Brooke, don’t be surprised if I show up there first thing tomorrow morning, ginger hair and all, and crash on your couch. Consider yourself warned.”

  “I love you, Nol. I’ll call you in a little.”

  She hung up, but it didn’t matter. Each of their phones kept ringing, buzzing, and singing, and each of them kept answering, eager to hear the next round of praise and adulation. By far the winning e-mail of the evening came from Julian’s mother, addressed to both of them, which simply read: Your father and I saw you on Leno this evening. While we weren’t impressed with the other guests he interviewed, we thought your performance was quite good. Of course, with the kind of opportunities and support you’ve had since childhood, we knew anything was possible. Congratulations on your accomplishment! Brooke and Julian read it at the same time on different devices and laughed so hard they couldn’t speak for many minutes.

  It was only after another hour that things calmed down, and by then, Jon had wandered back to them, Samara had booked Julian on two other shows, and Leo had ordered their third bottle of champagne. Julian just sat back in his chair, looking equal parts stunned and elated.

  “Thank you guys so much,” he finally said, holding his flute up and nodding to each of them. “I can’t even find the words, but this, this is, uh, just the most amazing night ever.”

  Leo cleared his throat and held up his own glass. “Sorry, buddy, but I think you’re wrong there,” he said with a wink to the rest of them. “This night is just the beginning.”

  5

  They’ll Swoon for You


  IT wasn’t yet ten thirty on a late May morning and already the Texas heat was crushing. Julian had already sweated through his T-shirt and Brooke was chugging water by the liter, convinced they were both seriously dehydrated. She’d tried to go for her run that morning but had given up after ten minutes when she felt light-headed, starving, and nauseated at the same time. When Julian had suggested for possibly the very first time in five years of marriage that they spend a couple hours shopping, she couldn’t climb into the ugly green rental car fast enough. Shopping meant air-conditioning, and she’d take it.

  They drove first through the hotel’s residential neighborhood, followed by a long stretch of highway, and then, after nearly twenty minutes, a few miles down a winding country road that was paved in some parts and little more than dust and gravel in others. All through the trip Brooke begged to be told where they were going, and each time Julian smiled wider and refused to answer her.

  “Would you have ever guessed it looks like this just ten minutes outside of Austin?” Brooke asked as they passed fields of wildflowers and, on the other side of it, a dilapidated barn.

  “Never. It’s straight out of a movie for how you’d envision a rural Texas ranchers’ town, not a suburb of a major cosmopolitan city. But I guess that’s exactly why they film here.”

  “Yeah, no one at work believed they shoot Friday Night Lights here.”

  Julian turned to look at her. “Everything okay at work? You haven’t said much about it lately.”