Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “I’m right here!” A cheerful voice trilled out behind them. Brooke’s boss was wearing a pair of black dress slacks, a light blue blouse, and black loafers, all topped by a perfectly starched and pressed lab coat that was embroidered with her name and credentials.

  “Hello, Margaret,” Rebecca and Brooke said in unison before Rebecca peeled out, claiming she was late for her first patient.

  “Brooke, why don’t you join me in my office for a minute? We can talk there.”

  Nightmare. She should’ve remembered that Margaret almost always put in an appearance on Sunday mornings just to make sure things were running smoothly.

  “O-oh, everything’s fine,” she stammered. “I, uh, I was just wondering if I was going to get to say hello to you.”

  Her boss had already begun walking down the long hallway toward her office. “Come now,” she called to Brooke, who had no choice but to follow her. The woman must have sensed Brooke was about to ask for more time off.

  Margaret’s office was located down a dark hallway, next to the supply closet and on the same floor as the maternity ward, which meant there was a pretty good chance the conversation would be punctuated by an errant scream or a groan. The only upside was getting to glance in the nursery as they walked by. Maybe she’d have a free second a little later to go in there and hold a baby or two. . . .

  “Come right in,” Margaret said as she swung open the door and turned on the lights. “You caught me at the perfect time.”

  Brooke tentatively walked in behind her and waited for her boss to clear a pile of papers off the guest seat before lowering herself into the chair.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Margaret smiled, but Brooke read between the lines. They’d always enjoyed an easy, natural relationship, but lately Brooke had begun to sense tension between them.

  She forced herself to smile and prayed this wasn’t an inauspicious start to a conversation she really needed to go well. “Oh, hardly an honor, I’m sure, I just wanted to talk to you about—”

  Margaret smiled. “It is a bit of an honor considering I haven’t seen much of you lately. I’m glad you’re here, because there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  Brooke took a deep breath and reminded herself to keep calm.

  “Brooke, you know how fond I am of you, and it goes without saying that I’ve been extremely pleased with your performance in all the years you’ve worked here. And of course, so have your patients, as evidenced by those terrific evaluations a few months ago.”

  “Thank you,” Brooke said, unsure how to respond but certain this wasn’t going somewhere good.

  “Which is why it’s upsetting to me that you’ve gone from having the second-best attendance record to having the second-worst in the entire program. Only Perry’s is worse than yours.”

  She didn’t need to finish. They’d finally been briefed on what was happening with Perry, and everyone had been relieved it wasn’t something worse. Apparently she’d suffered a late miscarriage six months earlier, which accounted for some of her absences. Now, pregnant again, she’d been put on mandatory bed rest in her second trimester. It meant that the remaining five full-time RDs on staff needed to work extra hours to cover for Perry, which, considering the circumstances, no one minded. Brooke was doing her best to cover her extra workday each week and her extra on-call weekend, now bumped from once every six weeks to once every five, but trying to keep up with Julian’s travel schedule—to share in the excitement with him—was making it almost unbearable.

  Don’t explain yourself; don’t apologize; just reassure her you’ll do better, Brooke told herself. A psychologist friend had once told her that women felt compelled to offer long explanations and excuses whenever they needed to deliver negative news, and that it was much more powerful to state it without an apology or an excuse. Brooke worked on this often, to little success.

  “I’m so sorry!” she blurted before she could stop herself. “I’ve been having, um, a lot of family issues recently, and I’m doing my best to handle them. I’m really hopeful that things should calm down soon.”

  Margaret raised a single eyebrow and peered intently at Brooke. “Do you think I’m not aware of what’s been happening?” she asked.

  “Why, no, of course not. It’s just that there is so much—”

  “One would have to live in a cave.” She smiled, and Brooke felt a little better. “But I do have a staff to run and I’m getting concerned. You’ve taken seven days off in the last six weeks—which isn’t even counting your three sick days from the first part of the year—and I’m assuming you’re here to request even more time. Am I correct?”

  Brooke quickly debated her options. Deciding she had none, she merely nodded.

  “When and for how long?”

  “In three weeks, just the Saturday. I know I’m scheduled to work all weekend, but Rebecca is going to switch with me and I’ll take her weekend in three weeks. So it’s, uh, technically just one day.”

  “Just one day.”

  “Yes. It’s an important, um, family event, or I wouldn’t even ask.” She made a mental note to be even more diligent than usual about avoiding the cameras at Kristen Stewart’s birthday party in Miami, where Julian had been invited to perform four songs. When he’d balked at appearing at a young starlet’s birthday party, Leo had pleaded with him. Brooke couldn’t help but feel a little queasy for Julian; the least she could do was be there to support him.

  Margaret opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind. She tapped her pencil against her chapped lower lip and stared at Brooke. “You do realize you’re already closing in on your total number of vacation days this year and it’s only June?”

  Brooke nodded.

  Margaret tapped her pencil against her desk. Tap-tap-tap, it went in unison with Brooke’s pounding headache.

  “And I don’t need to remind you that calling in sick to attend parties with your husband cannot happen anymore, right? I’m sorry, Brooke, but I can’t give you special treatment.”

  Ouch. Brooke had done that only once so far and was certain Margaret didn’t know, but she’d definitely been planning to dip into her ten remaining sick days once her vacation ran out. Now that was clearly not an option. Brooke did her best to look unruffled and said, “Of course not.”

  “Well, all right then. Saturday is yours. Is there anything else?”

  “Nothing else. Thank you for understanding.” Brooke stuck her feet back into her clogs underneath Margaret’s desk and stood up. She gave a little wave and disappeared through the office door before Margaret could say another word.

  7

  Betrayed by a Bunch of Tweens

  BROOKE walked into Lucky’s Nail Design on Ninth Avenue and found her mother already seated and reading a copy of Last Night. With Julian gone so often, her mother had volunteered to come into the city, take Brooke for a post-work mani and pedi, get some sushi for dinner, and spend the night before heading back to Philly in the morning.

  “Hi,” Brooke said, leaning over to kiss her. “Sorry I’m late. The train was weirdly slow today.”

  “Oh, you’re fine, dear. I just got here and was catching up on my celebrity gossip.” She held out the copy of Last Night. “Nothing about Julian or you, so don’t worry.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already read it,” she said, plunging her feet into the warm soapy water. “Comes in the mail a day earlier than it hits the newsstands. I think you can officially call me an authority on the subject.”

  Brooke’s mom laughed. “Maybe if you’re such an expert, you can explain these reality TV stars. I have a lot of trouble keeping them straight.”

  Mrs. Greene sighed and turned the page, revealing a double-page spread of the teenage actors from the latest vampire movie. “I miss the old days when Paris Hilton could be depended on to flash her panties and George Clooney would pull through with yet another cocktail waitress. I feel like I’ve been betrayed by a bunch of tweens.”

 
Brooke’s phone rang. She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but on the off chance it was Julian, she dug it out from her bag.

  “Hey! I hoped it might be you. What time is it there?” She checked her own watch. “What on earth are you doing calling now? Aren’t you setting up for tonight?”

  Although this was Julian’s fifth or sixth solo trip to Los Angeles since the Friday Night Lights party, Brooke still felt out of sorts with the time difference. By the time Julian woke up in the morning on the West Coast, Brooke had finished her lunch hour and was back at work for the rest of the afternoon. She’d call him the moment she got home in the evening, which usually put him right in the middle of meetings, and then he was always out to some dinner when she was going to bed and could never utter more than a whispered “good night” against the backdrop of glasses clinking and people laughing. It was only a three-hour difference, but to people working such opposite schedules, they may as well have been communicating across the international date line. She tried to be patient, but just last week, three nights had passed with little more than a bunch of texts and a quickie “Call you later.”

  “Brooke, it’s crazy, all kinds of things are happening here.” He sounded wired, like he’d been up for days.

  “Good things, I hope?”

  “Beyond good things! I wanted to call you last night but by the time I got back to the hotel, it was already four in the morning your time.”

  The pedicurist finished cutting the cuticles and yanked Brooke’s right foot into her lap. She squirted a bright green soap onto a pumice stone and raked it roughly over the sensitive middle of the foot. Brooke yelped.

  “Ow! Well, I could use some good news. What’s up?”

  “It’s official: I’m going on tour.”

  “What? No! I thought you said the chances of that happening before the album came out were slim to none. That record companies don’t really sponsor them anymore.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Julian sounded irritated when he said, “I know I said that, but this is different. I’ll be linking up with Maroon 5 in the middle of their tour. The lead singer of their first opener had some sort of breakdown, so Leo got in touch with some of his people at Live Nation, and guess who got the slot? Supposedly there’s a chance to become the second opener if that band goes on tour separately, but even if that doesn’t happen, the exposure is ridiculous.”

  “Oh, Julian, congratulations!” Brooke tried to gauge her own voice to make sure she sounded excited and not devastated. With the odd way her mother was staring at her it was difficult to tell if she was succeeding.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty insane. We’re going to spend this week in rehearsals, and then we’ll hit the road. The album will drop in the first few weeks, which is awesome timing. And, Rook? They’re talking real money.”

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “Real money. A percentage of all ticket sales. Which would jump even higher if we ever make second opener. Considering Maroon 5 is selling out places like MSG . . . it’s an insane amount of cash. And it’s weird”—his voice got lower—“it’s like people are always looking at me. Recognizing me.”

  The pedicurist slathered on warm cream and began to knead Brooke’s calves. Brooke wanted nothing more at that moment than to press End on her cell phone, recline her massage chair, and enjoy the foot rub. She felt nothing but anxiety. She knew she should’ve asked about the fans and the press, but all she could manage was, “So rehearsals start this week? Aren’t you coming home on the red-eye tonight? I thought I was going to see you tomorrow morning before work.”

  “Brooke.”

  “What?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Please don’t what? Ask when you’re coming home?”

  “Please don’t ruin this for me. I’m really, really excited—this is probably the biggest thing since the album deal last year. Bigger, maybe. In the grand scheme of my entire career, does another six or seven days really matter?”

  Six or seven days until he came home, maybe, but what about being on tour? The mere thought of it made her panicky with dread. How would they deal with that? Could they? But in the very same moment she remembered the night, years earlier in Sheepshead Bay, when only four people showed up and Julian could barely contain his tears. Not to mention all the hours they’d already logged apart during their hectic work schedules, all the stressing about money and time and the what-ifs they threw out when one of them was feeling particularly negative. That sacrifice, it was all for this, for right now.

  The old Julian would’ve asked about Kaylie. When she’d told him all about the girl’s hysterical phone call the month before and how she had researched fast-food alternatives and e-mailed them to her young patient, Julian had hugged her and told her how proud he was. Just last week Brooke had e-mailed Kaylie to check in with her and had been concerned to receive no reply. She followed up again a day later and Kaylie wrote back that she was starting on some sort of cleanse she’d read about in a magazine, and that she was certain this was the answer she’d been looking for. Brooke almost jumped through the computer screen.

  Those goddamn cleanses! They were a health risk for normal adults, but they were an all-out disaster for the still-growing teenage population who seemed forever drawn to their celeb testimonials and promises of quick and miraculous results. Brooke had immediately called Kaylie to read her the riot act—she had it memorized by now, since cleanses, fasts, and juice diets were such favored Huntley methods—and was relieved to discover that Kaylie, unlike most of her classmates, was actually receptive to what she had to say. She pledged to check in with her once a week throughout the summer, and she was hopeful that as long as she got back to their regular sessions once school resumed, she could really help this girl.

  But Julian didn’t ask about Kaylie, or her work at the hospital, or Randy, or even Walter, and Brooke held her tongue. She chose not to remind Julian that he’d only been home a handful of nights the past few weeks, and that most of those he’d spent either on the phone or at the studio in seemingly never-ending conversations with Leo or Samara. And, most challenging of all, she forced herself not to inquire about his tour dates or ask how long he might be on the road.

  Almost choking from the effort of it all, she simply said, “No, Julian, it only matters that you get this right. This is truly great news.”

  “Thanks, baby. I’ll call you later today when I have more details, okay? Love you, Rookie,” he said with more tenderness than she’d heard from him in a while. Julian had started calling Brooke “Rook” when they’d first started dating, which had naturally segued to “Rookie.” Her friends and family began using it themselves after they overheard Julian call her that, and although she often rolled her eyes or feigned some sort of displeasure, she felt an inexplicable gratitude to Julian for giving her this affectionate nickname. She tried to focus on that and not the fact that he’d hung up without so much as asking how she was doing.

  The manicurist slicked on the first coat of polish, and Brooke thought the color looked too garish. She thought about saying something but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Her mother’s toenails were painted a perfect shade of pinkish-white, a color that looked both chic and natural.

  “Sounds like Julian got some good news?” Mrs. Greene asked, placing the magazine facedown in her lap.

  “He sure did,” Brooke said, hoping her voice sounded brighter than she felt. “Sony’s sending him on a warm-up tour of sorts. They’re rehearsing in Los Angeles this week and then they’ll be opening for Maroon 5, so it’ll give them a chance to practice in front of audiences before they go on tour themselves. It’s a huge vote of confidence on their part.”

  “But it means he’ll be around even less.”

  “Yep. He’s staying out there the rest of this week to rehearse. Then maybe he’ll come home for a few days and then he’s off again.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “It’s pretty much the best news he
could’ve gotten.”

  Her mom smiled as she slid her finished feet into the salon-provided paper flip-flops. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Brooke’s phone pinged. “Saved by the bell,” she said cheerily.

  It was a text from Julian. It read: “Forgot to tell u: they want me to get new clothes! They say my look doesn’t work. Total nightmare!”

  Brooke laughed out loud.

  “What is it?” her mom asked.

  “Maybe there is justice after all. I guess the publicist or the marketing people or someone is saying that Julian’s ‘look’ doesn’t work. They want him to get new clothes.”

  “What do they want him in? I can’t exactly see Julian in Michael Jackson military jackets or MC Hammer pants.” She looked proud of her pop culture references.

  “Are you kidding? I have been married to him for five years and can count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen him in anything besides jeans and a white T-shirt. He’s going to struggle with this. Big-time.”

  “So let’s help him!” her mom said. She handed her credit card to the woman who presented her with the bill. Brooke tried to grab her own wallet, but her mother waved her away.

  “Trust me, there is no way on earth Julian is going to agree to a new ‘look.’ He’d rather die than go shopping, and he’s more attached to his jeans-and-white-T-shirt uniform than some men are to their children. I don’t think Sony knows what they’re up against, but they are definitely not going to convince him to start dressing like Justin Timberlake.”

  “Brooke, sweetie, this one can be fun. Since Julian’s never going to buy anything himself, let’s go shopping for him.” Brooke followed her mother out the door and directly into the subway stairs. “We’ll buy him stuff he already has, just nicer. I have a brilliant idea.”

  Two trains and two stops later, the women exited at Fifty-ninth Street and entered Bloomingdale’s from the basement level. Brooke’s mother confidently led the way to the men’s department.