Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “For the most part everything’s good. You know the patient at Huntley, the freshman scholarship student? Remember, the one who has a totally different background from most of the other girls? Well, she feels like she doesn’t fit in, in a million ways, but the one that’s the hardest for her is the weight. She’s now convinced she’s morbidly obese, even though she’s pretty close to normal.”

  “What can you do for her?”

  She sighed. “You know, not that much. Besides listen to her and reassure her, I just need to keep an eye on her and make sure nothing gets out of hand. I’m absolutely certain I’m not dealing with a serious eating disorder, but it’s scary when someone is so preoccupied with weight, especially when that someone is a teenage girl. With school ending for the summer next month, I’m worried about her.”

  “And everything at the hospital?”

  “It’s okay. Margaret wasn’t thrilled with me for taking off these two days, but what can you do?”

  He turned to look at her. “Is two days really such a big deal?”

  “Not by itself, but I took three days for L.A. and Leno, that half day for your round of follow-up interviews in New York, and a day to go to your album cover shoot. And that was all in the last six weeks. But whatever. I’ve barely seen you since then—I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

  “Rook, I don’t think it’s fair to say we’ve barely seen each other. Things have just been hectic. In a good way.”

  She disagreed—no one could say that catching glimpses of each other for an hour here or there as Julian passed through their apartment every few days was seeing each other—but she really hadn’t intended to sound so critical.

  “That’s not what I meant, I promise,” she said in her most soothing tone. “Look, we’re together now, so let’s just enjoy it, okay?”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Brooke touched her fingertips to her forehead and said, “I cannot believe I’m going to meet Tim Riggins.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “Oh, please. Just stop.”

  “Is he the coach? Or the quarterback? I get confused,” Julian said, smiling. As if anyone didn’t know Tim Riggins.

  “Uh-huh, whatever. When he walks into the party tonight and every woman in the room faints with lust, you’ll know. Trust me.”

  Julian slapped the steering wheel in mock outrage. “Aren’t they supposed to be swooning because of me? I mean, I’ll be the rock star.”

  Brooke leaned across the seat divider and kissed his cheek. “Of course they’ll swoon for you, baby. If they can stop staring at Riggins long enough to notice you, they’ll swoon like crazy.”

  “Now I’m really not telling you where we’re going,” Julian said.

  His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked to avoid the potholes every ten feet or so, most of which were filled with water from the previous night’s thunderstorms. Her husband was simply not used to driving. Brooke panicked that they were going for a hike or a nature walk or some sort of rafting or fishing expedition, but she quickly reminded herself that her husband was a born-and-bred New Yorker, and his idea of communing with nature was the weekly watering of a small bonsai tree that sat on his nightstand. His knowledge of wildlife was limited: he could distinguish between a small rat and a large mouse on any subway platform, and he seemed to possess an instinctive sense of which bodega-dwelling cats were friendly and which would hiss and scratch if you got too close. Other than that, he liked to keep his shoes clean and his bed indoors and would venture outside—say, to Central Park for SummerStage or the Boat Basin when friends threw parties there—only when armed with fistfuls of Claritin and a fully charged cell phone. He hated when Brooke called him a city prince, but he could never successfully deny the charge.

  The sprawling, ugly complex seemed to rise directly out of a cleared thicket and advertised itself in glaring neon: Lone Star Western Wear. There were two buildings, not quite adjoining but sharing an unpaved parking lot, and a couple of cars idled outside.

  “Here we are,” Julian said, pulling off one dirt path and onto another.

  “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

  “What? Shopping, just like I said.”

  Brooke looked toward the squat buildings and the cluster of pickup trucks in front of them. Julian got out of the car, came around to the passenger side, and held his hand out to help Brooke step over the mud puddles in her thong sandals.

  “When you said shopping, I was thinking something more like Neiman’s.”

  The first thing Brooke noticed after the welcome blast of air-conditioning was a pretty young girl in tight jeans; a fitted, short-sleeved plaid shirt; and a pair of cowboy boots. Immediately she came over and said, “Good mornin’! Y’all just let me know if you need any help now!”

  Brooke smiled and nodded. Julian grinned. Brooke punched him on the arm. A twangy guitar sound emanated from speakers in the ceiling.

  “Actually, we’d love some help,” Julian said to the blonde.

  The girl clapped her hands together placed one on Julian’s shoulder and the other on Brooke’s. “Well alrighty then, let’s get started. What are we looking for today?”

  “Yes, what are we looking for today?” Brooke asked.

  “We’re looking for a Western-style outfit for my wife to wear to a party,” Julian said, refusing to make eye contact with Brooke.

  The salesgirl smiled and said, “Well, that’s great, I know just the thing!”

  “Julian, I have my outfit all picked out for tonight. That black dress I tried on for you? With the cute purse Randy and Michelle got me for my birthday? Remember?”

  He twisted his hands. “I know . . . it’s just that I was up early this morning, and I was catching up on e-mail. I finally got around to opening that attachment with the invite to the party tonight, and I saw that the dress code is something called ‘Cowboy Couture.’”

  “Oh my god.”

  “Don’t panic! See, I knew you’d panic, but—”

  “I brought a black strapless dress and gold sandals!” Brooke screeched loud enough that a few fellow shoppers turned to look.

  “I know, Rook. That’s why I immediately e-mailed Samara and asked her if she could elaborate. Which she did. In great detail.”

  “She did?” Brooke cocked her head, surprised but slightly mollified.

  “Yes.” Julian pulled out his iPhone and scrolled for a second before touching the screen and beginning to read. “‘Hey sweetheart’—she calls everyone that—‘the Friday Night Lights people planned a costume party to stay true to their Texas roots. Don’t be afraid to go all-out—cowboy hats, boots, chaps, and some very tight sexy jeans will all be on display tonight. Tell Brooke she needs a great pair of Daisy Dukes. Coach Taylor himself is going to pick the winner, so do it up right! Can’t wait to . . . ’” Julian’s voice drifted off as he stopped himself from reading aloud. “The rest is boring scheduling stuff. That was the important part. So . . . that’s why we’re here. Aren’t you happy?”

  “Well, I’m glad you found out before we got there tonight. . . .” She noticed Julian looked anxious, eager for her to be appreciative. “I’m definitely grateful you saved me from that fate. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Julian said, his relief obvious.

  “You were supposed to practice today.”

  “There’s still time, that’s why we came early. I’m just happy you’re here with me at all.” He gave her a sweet peck and held his hand up and gave the salesgirl a little wave. She bounded over, all smiles.

  “Are we ready?” the girl asked.

  “We’re ready,” Brooke and Julian said simultaneously.

  When they finally left nearly an hour later, Brooke was flushed with excitement. The shopping had been a thousand times better than she imagined, an exhilarating combination of enjoying Julian’s approval when she tried on short shorts and tight tops and sexy boots, and the sheer regressiv
e fun of playing dress-up. The salesgirl, Mandy, had expertly guided Brooke to the perfect party outfit: a cut-off jean skirt, when Brooke felt too self-conscious in the shorts; a plaid shirt identical to the one she was wearing, sexily knotted above her navel (but in Brooke’s case, paired with a white tank so she wouldn’t have to reveal the soft flesh of her belly); a massive brass belt buckle in the shape of a sheriff’s star; a cowboy hat with the sides rolled up and a jaunty chin tassel; and a pair of the sassiest stitched cowboy boots Brooke had ever seen. Mandy suggested Brooke wear her hair in low pigtail braids and handed her a red bandana to tie around her neck. “And don’t forget to go really, really heavy on the mascara,” Mandy said with a finger waggle. “Cowgirls love their smoky eyes.” Although Julian wouldn’t get in full costume for the performance, Mandy taught him how to roll a pack of cigarettes into his T-shirt sleeves and equipped him with the matching men’s version of Brooke’s cowgirl hat.

  They laughed the whole way back to the hotel. When Julian leaned over to kiss her and told her he’d be back at six to shower, Brooke wanted to beg him to stay, but she gathered her shopping bags and kissed him back. “Good luck,” she said. “I had a great time today.” And she couldn’t keep herself from grinning when Julian said that he had, too.

  He was late getting back to the room and had to rush to shower and dress, and she could feel him start to get jittery when they stepped into the waiting Town Car.

  “You nervous?” Brooke asked.

  “Yeah, a little, I guess.”

  “Just remember: of all the songs in the universe, they chose yours. Every single solitary time someone tunes in to watch an episode, they’re going to hear your song. It’s incredible, baby. It really is.”

  Julian placed his hand on top of hers. “I think we’re going to have a great time. And you look like a model. The cameras are going to go crazy.”

  Brooke had barely gotten the question out of her mouth—“What cameras?”—before the car pulled up to the entrance of the Hula Hut, a famous local dive reputed to have the best queso north of the border, and they were met with a dozen or so paparazzi.

  “Omigod, are they going to take our picture?” Brooke asked, suddenly terrified by this possibility she had failed to consider. She looked up and noticed a long runner in a cow print—the Texas version of a red carpet, she guessed. A few feet down, between the street and the door of the restaurant, she glimpsed a couple of the cast members posing for the cameras.

  “Wait there, I’ll open your door,” Julian said, climbing out his side and walking around to hers. He opened it and leaned in, offering his hand. “Don’t worry, they don’t care much about us.”

  Brooke was relieved to discover he was absolutely right. The photographers swarmed them at first, eager to see if they were anyone important, and then faded into the background as quickly as they appeared. Only one of the snappers asked if they could pose for a picture in front of the large black step-and-repeat that was emblazoned with Friday Night Lights and NBC near the door. After he’d halfheartedly shot a few frames, he asked them to spell their names into a tape recorder and then wandered off. They made their way to the door, Brooke clutching Julian’s hand, when she spotted Samara across the room. Brooke took one look at the girl’s elegantly simple silk dress, gladiator sandals, and tinkling chandelier earrings and felt ridiculous. Why was Brooke dressed for a hoedown when this girl looked like she’d just stepped off a runway? What if there had been some horrible mix-up and Brooke was going to be the only person in full costume tonight? She could feel her breath slow and a wave of panic set in.

  It was only then Brooke braved a look around the rest of the room. There were Daisy Dukes and ten-gallon hats as far as the eye could see.

  She accepted a fruity-looking cocktail from a tray that passed in their direction and floated happily through the next hour of introductions and mingling, drinking and laughing. It was one of those rare parties where everyone seemed genuinely excited to be there—not just the cast and crew, who obviously knew one another well and got along, but all their spouses and friends and the smattering of celebrities that some of the actors were dating or whom their PR people had wrangled into coming for publicity’s sake. Brooke spotted Derek Jeter hovering over a heaping plate of nachos and tried to remember which of the Friday Night Lights girls he was engaged to, and Julian reported that he’d glimpsed a half-naked Taylor Swift holding court on the terrace. But mostly it was just a boisterously fun crowd in chaps and plaid and cutoffs, drinking beer and eating queso and jamming to the eighties music that played over the speakers. It was the least self-conscious Brooke had ever felt at any of Julian’s gigs, and she reveled in it, enjoying that all-too-rare feeling of being buzzed and charming and just generally on. By the time Julian and his band took the makeshift stage, Brooke was part of the gang, having gotten pulled into an impromptu margarita taste test by a bunch of the show’s writers. It occurred to her only then that aside from watching the taped Leno appearance, she hadn’t yet seen Julian play with his new backup band.

  Brooke studied them as they climbed onstage to assemble and test their instruments and was somewhat surprised to discover that they looked less like a rock band and more like a group of twentysomethings who’d all been best friends at their elite New England boarding school. The drummer, Wes, had the requisite long hair, only his didn’t hang in greasy strings around his face. Wes’s mahogany locks were thick and wavy and lush, hair only a girl deserved. He wore a sporty green polo shirt with clean, pressed jeans and a pair of classic gray New Balance sneakers. He looked like the kind of guy who’d caddied during the summers in high school—not to earn money, but to “build character”—and then didn’t work again until it was time to join his father’s law firm. The lead guitarist was the oldest of the crew, probably in his early thirties, and although not quite as preppy as Wes, his beat-up old chinos, black Converse sneakers, and just do it! T were hardly rebellious. Unlike his drummer colleague, Nate didn’t fit any of the lead-guitarist stereotypes—he was chunky and had a shy smile and downcast eyes. Brooke remembered how shocked Julian had been to hear Nate at the audition after sizing him up when he first walked onstage. “This guy walks up onstage and immediately you just know he’s the kid who got the shit kicked out of him his whole life. He’s, like, afraid of his own shadow. And then he starts to play, and man, he just rips it. It was out of this world.” Their trio was rounded out by Zack, the bassist, who looked more like a musician than his counterparts but whose cool spiky hair and wallet chain and subtle swipe of eyeliner actually made him seem more poseurish. He was the only band member Julian didn’t love, but Sony thought his first choice for bassist—a girl—would overshadow him, and Julian didn’t feel like arguing. It was an odd grouping, this band of seeming misfits, but no one could say it wasn’t an intriguing one. Brooke looked around the room and noticed everyone had quieted down.

  Julian didn’t introduce himself or the song the way he normally did when performing, just nodded his head toward his bandmates and began to sing his own version of “Achy Breaky Heart.” It was a risky decision but a brilliant calculation. He had chosen a trite, corny song, changed it so it sounded serious, almost profound, and ended up with a completely fresh version that was conspiratorially cool and ironic. It said: You expected us to come up here and sing an earnest rendition of the song you chose as your show’s opener, or maybe something off the future album, but we’re not here to take ourselves too seriously. The crowd laughed and cheered and sang along, and when it was over, broke into mad applause.

  Brooke clapped along with everyone else and reveled in all the people she could hear around her saying how talented Julian was, how they could listen to him all night. Hearing the others’ excitement didn’t surprise her in the least; how could they not feel that way? But it never, ever got old. Now, when Julian sidled up next to the microphone stand and flashed a huge, adorable smile, Brooke could feel the entire room smile back at him.

  “Hey, y’all,”
he said, making an exaggerated tip of his cowboy hat. “Thanks for welcoming this Yankee boy to town.”

  The crowd hollered and clapped. Brooke saw Tim Riggins raise his bottle of beer to Julian, and she tried not to scream. Derek Jeter put both his hands around his mouth and made a “whoo-hoo!” sound. A couple of the writers, the female ones, with whom Brooke had been taste-testing margaritas earlier, formed a line in front of the stage and catcalled to the band. Julian rewarded them all with another killer smile.

  “I think I speak for all of us when I say how proud and honored I am that you’ve made my song your song.” More cheers and catcalls ensued, but Julian held up his hand. “And I can’t wait to sing that tonight, here with all of you. But I hope you won’t mind indulging me for just a few minutes before I play ‘For the Lost.’ Right now I’d like to sing a little something for my lovely wife, Brooke. She’s been a really good sport lately—trust me, a really good sport—and it’s been a while since I’ve said thank you. Rookie, this one’s for you.”

  At the sound of her nickname, Brooke could feel herself blush, and for a split second she was taken aback that Julian had called her that in public. But before she even had time to consider it, she heard the opening chords to “Crazy Love” by Van Morrison—the first song they’d danced to at their wedding—and in a second, she was transfixed by his performance. Julian gazed directly at her as he allowed the song to grow and build, and it wasn’t until he hit the chorus and threw his head back to wail the words that Brooke snapped out of their private reverie and noticed that every single person in the room was staring at her. Scratch that. The men in the room were shifting their weight from foot to foot, taking pulls of their beers, and watching the band as they worked over their instruments—it was the women who were staring at Brooke with looks of sheer envy and admiration. It was a surreal feeling; she’d certainly witnessed her fair share of Julian-worship at his other gigs, but she’d never before felt the spotlight focused so directly on her. She smiled and danced a little and watched Julian as he serenaded her and somehow, despite the fact that it was witnessed by hundreds, it felt like one of the most intimate moments they’d ever shared. One of the best she could ever remember.