Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  He laughed. “You never told me that.”

  “I didn’t want to put your life at risk.”

  “We’ll get through this together. Some appetizers, some dinner, a toast, and then we’re out. Okay?”

  “If you say so.” She pulled into the driveway of Randy’s condo, number 88, and immediately noticed that his highly worshipped two-seater Nissan 350Z was nowhere to be seen. She was about to say something to Julian about it, but his phone rang for the thousandth time in the last two hours, and he had already climbed out of the car.

  “I’ll come back for our bags, okay?” she called out to him, but he was at the end of the driveway, the handset pressed to his ear, nodding furiously. “Okay, great then,” she mumbled to herself and headed to the front door. She was about to walk up the stairs when Randy flung it open, rushed out, and enveloped her in a hug. “Hey, Rookie! So good to see you guys. Michelle’s coming out now. Where’s Julian?”

  “On the phone. Let me tell you, T-Mobile is not going to be happy they offered an unlimited plan when they see his bill.”

  They both watched as Julian smiled, pocketed his phone, and walked back to their open trunk.

  “You need some help with those bags?” Randy called out.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” Julian called, swinging both over his shoulder with ease. “You’re looking good, man. Lost weight?”

  Randy patted his ample-but-maybe-slightly-less-ample belly. “The old lady’s got me on a strict diet,” he said with unmistakable pride. Brooke wouldn’t have believed it a year ago, but Randy was obviously thrilled to have an adult relationship, a supposedly furnished home, and a baby on the way.

  “Might want to go stricter,” Brooke said, simultaneously sidestepping him so he couldn’t swat her.

  “Big talker over here. I admit, I’ve got a few pounds to lose, but you’re a nutritionist—what’s your excuse? Aren’t you supposed to be, like, totally anorexic?” Randy reached her across the sidewalk and mussed up her hair.

  “Wow, a weight comment and an insult to my profession all in the same breath. You’re on fire today.”

  “Oh come on, you know I’m just kidding. You look great.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe I should lose five pounds, but Michelle’s got her work cut out for her,” she said with a grin.

  “Trust me, I’m working on him,” Michelle called out as she gingerly stepped down the stairs. Her belly looked like it extended six feet in front of her despite the fact that she still had seven weeks to go, and her face broke into an instant sweat in the crushing August heat. Despite all of it, she looked happy, almost exhilarated. Brooke had always thought the whole pregnancy glow thing was a myth, but there was no denying something agreed with Michelle.

  “I’m working on Brooke, too,” Julian said as he kissed Michelle on the cheek.

  “Brooke’s gorgeous just the way she is,” Michelle immediately replied, her expression registering the hit.

  Brooke turned to face Julian, forgetting that Michelle and Randy were watching the whole thing.

  “What did you just say?”

  Julian shrugged. “Nothing, Rook. It was a joke. Just a joke.”

  “You’re ‘working on me’? Was that it? What, you’re trying to keep my morbid obesity in check?”

  “Brooke, can we talk about this another time? You know I was just kidding around.”

  “No, I’d like to talk about this right now. What exactly did you mean by that?”

  Julian was beside her in a second, instantly contrite. “Rookie, it was totally just a joke. You know I love the way you look and wouldn’t change a thing. I just, uh, don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  Randy reached out for Michelle’s hand and announced, “We’re going to get everything set up inside. Here, let me take these bags. Come in whenever you’re ready.”

  Brooke waited until they’d shut the screen door. “Why, exactly, would I be uncomfortable? I’m not a supermodel, I know, but who is?”

  “No, I know, it’s just that . . .” He kicked at the stoop with his Converse sneaker and then sat down.

  “It’s just what?”

  “Nothing. You know I think you’re gorgeous. It’s just that Leo thought you might feel uncomfortable in terms of publicity, and, you know, stuff like that.”

  He looked at her, waiting, but she was too stunned to speak.

  “Brooke—”

  She pulled a piece of gum from her purse and stared at the ground.

  “Rookie, come here. Christ, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not at all what I meant.”

  She paused and waited for him to explain what he had really meant, but there was only silence.

  “Come on, let’s go inside,” she said, trying to keep from tearing up. In a way, it’d be easier not knowing what he really meant.

  “No, wait a minute. Come here,” he said, pulling her down next to him on the stoop and taking both her hands in his.

  “Baby, I’m sorry I said that. Leo and I do not sit around and talk about you, and I know all this horseshit about my ‘image’ is nothing more than that, but I’m freaking out about all of this, and I need to listen to him right now. The album just dropped, and I’m trying not to let all this go to my head, but whichever way I think about it, I’m terrified: If it works and the album’s a hit—terrifying. If, more likely, this has all just been a lot of very lucky smoke and mirrors and nothing is really going to come of it—even more terrifying. Yesterday I was sitting in my safe little recording studio playing the music I love, totally able to pretend it was just me and a piano and no one else, and all of a sudden there’s this other stuff: TV appearances, dinners with executives, interviews. I’m just . . . not prepared. And if it means I’ve been kind of an asshole lately, I’m really, really sorry.”

  There were a million things Brooke wanted to say—how much she missed him now that he was gone so often; how nervous she was about all their recent fighting, the constant roller coaster of up and down; how thrilled she was that he had actually opened up a little and let her in—but instead of pushing him even more, of asking all her questions or airing all her feelings, she forced herself to appreciate the tiny step he’d just taken.

  She squeezed his hands and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes for the first time all day.

  “Thank you,” he replied, and kissed her cheek right back.

  With much still left unsaid and a lingering uneasy feeling, Brooke clasped her husband’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled up and escorted inside. She would do her best to forget the weight comment.

  Randy and Michelle were waiting for them in the kitchen, where Michelle was preparing a platter of food for make-your-own-sandwiches: sliced turkey, roast beef, rye bread, Russian dressing, tomatoes, lettuce, and pickles. There were cans of Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda and a liter of lime seltzer. Michelle handed them each a paper plate and motioned for them to get started.

  “So, what time do the festivities begin?” Brooke asked, helping herself to a few slices of turkey, no bread. She hoped both Randy and Julian would notice and feel guilty.

  “The party starts at seven, but Cynthia wants us there at six to help set up.” Michelle moved around with surprising grace considering her size.

  “Do you think he’s going to be surprised?” Brooke asked.

  “I can’t believe your father is turning sixty-five.” Julian spread Russian dressing on a piece of bread.

  “I can’t believe he finally retired,” Randy said. “It’s weird, but this September is going to be the first year in almost fifteen that we won’t be starting a school year together.”

  Brooke followed everyone else into the dining room and set her plate and a can of Dr. Brown’s next to her brother. “Aw, you’re going to miss him, aren’t you? Who are you going to eat lunch with?”

  Julian’s phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it.

  “He seems relatively calm considering the album only just dropped,” Ran
dy said, taking a huge bite of an even bigger sandwich.

  “He might seem it, but he isn’t. His phone’s ringing off the hook, and he’s constantly talking to people, but no one’s really sure of anything yet. I think we’ll know something later today, or maybe tomorrow? He says everyone’s hopeful that it’ll debut in the top twenty, but I guess you can never be sure,” Brooke said.

  “It’s incredible,” Michelle said, nibbling a piece of rye bread. “I mean, did you ever think you’d be saying that Julian’s album is going to debut in the top twenty? People try their whole lives for that, and this is only his first. . . .”

  Brooke swallowed her soda and wiped her mouth. “It hasn’t happened yet. . . . I just don’t want to jinx it. But yes, it’s just about the craziest thing ever.”

  “It’s actually not the craziest thing ever,” Julian said, walking back into the room with one of his signature grins. His smile was so enormous, it made Brooke forget their earlier tension.

  Michelle held up her hand. “Don’t be so modest, Julian. Objectively speaking, having your first album debut in the top twenty is the craziest thing ever.”

  “Actually, having your album debut at number four is the craziest thing ever,” he said quietly before breaking into yet another killer smile.

  “What?” Brooke asked, her mouth falling.

  “That was Leo. He said it’s not official, but it’s on track to hit at number four. Four! I can’t even process it.”

  Brooke leapt out of her chair and into Julian’s arms. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” she kept saying over and over. Michelle let out a little shriek and after giving both Brooke and Julian hugs, she went to retrieve a special bottle of whiskey to toast Julian.

  Randy returned with three highball glasses of brown liquid and one with orange juice for Michelle. “To Julian,” he said, holding his glass up. They all clinked and sipped. Brooke grimaced and set hers down on the table, but Randy and Julian downed both of theirs in single gulps.

  Randy clapped Julian on the back. “You know, I’m happy for you and all the success and blah, blah, blah, but man, I have to say—it’s pretty fucking cool having a rock star in the family.”

  “Oh, come on, guys, it’s not—”

  Brooke swatted Julian’s shoulder. “They’re right, baby. You’re a star. How many people can say they debuted at number four on the charts? Five? Ten? I mean, like, the Beatles and Madonna and Beyoncé and . . . Julian Alter? It’s total insanity!”

  They celebrated and talked and peppered Julian with questions for another forty-five minutes before Michelle announced that it was time to get ready, that they’d be leaving for the restaurant in an hour. The moment Michelle handed them a pile of towels and closed the guest room door behind her, Brooke tackled Julian in a hug so hard they both ended up falling onto the bed together.

  “Baby, it’s happening. It’s really, undeniably happening,” she said, kissing his forehead and then his eyelids, cheeks, and lips.

  Julian kissed her back and then propped himself up on his elbows. “You know what else it means?”

  “That you are now an official celebrity?” She kissed his neck.

  “It means you can finally quit Huntley. Hell, you can quit both jobs if you want.”

  She pulled back and looked at him. “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, for starters, you’ve been working like crazy the last couple of years and I think you deserve a break. And things are starting to fall together financially. Between the percentage I get from the Maroon 5 tour, the private parties Leo books, and now the proceeds from this album—well, I just think you should relax and enjoy it a little.”

  Everything he said was perfectly logical, but for reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, Brooke felt herself bristle. “I don’t do it only for the money, you know. The girls need me.”

  “It’s perfect timing, Brooke. The school year doesn’t start for another two weeks, so I’m sure they could find someone to replace you. Then even if you decide to stay at the hospital, you’ll hopefully have some free time.”

  “‘If’ I decide to stay at the hospital? Julian, this is my career. It’s what I went to grad school for, and even though it might not be as important as debuting at number four, I happen to love it.”

  “I know you love it. I just thought maybe you’d want to love it from afar for a little.” He nudged her and smiled.

  She peered at him. “What are you suggesting?”

  He tried to pull her back down on top of him, but Brooke squirmed away.

  He sighed. “I’m not suggesting anything horrible, Brooke. Maybe if you weren’t so stressed about your hours and your schedule, you’d enjoy being able to take a little time off. Maybe travel with me more, come to the events?”

  She was silent.

  “Are you upset?” he asked, reaching out for her hand.

  “I’m not upset,” she lied. “I feel like I’ve been making a huge effort to find a balance between my work and everything that’s going on with you. We went to Leno together, and the Friday Night Lights party, and Kristen Stewart’s birthday party in Miami and Bonnaroo. I stop by the studio on nights when you work late. I don’t know what else I can do, but I’m pretty sure the answer isn’t to quit on my career and follow you around. I don’t think you’d be happy with that no matter how much fun it might be in the beginning, and honestly, I don’t think I’d respect myself for doing it.”

  “Just think about it,” he said as he pulled off his shirt and walked toward the bathroom. “Promise me that.”

  The sound of the running shower drowned out her answer. Brooke resolved to put the issue out of her mind for the night; they didn’t need to decide anything, and just because they weren’t on exactly the same page didn’t mean anything was wrong.

  Brooke took off her clothes, pushed back the shower curtain, and climbed in.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Julian asked through squinted eyes. His entire face was covered in soap.

  “To the fact that we have less than a half hour to get ready,” Brooke said as she twisted the hot water handle a full turn.

  Julian yelped. “Show a little mercy!”

  She slid past him, enjoying the feel of his soapy chest against hers, and immediately hogged the stream of piping hot water. “Aaah. That feels great.”

  Julian feigned a sulk and retreated to the far end of the tub. Brooke laughed. “Come on over,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t tolerate anything hotter than lukewarm water. “There’s more than enough for both of us.”

  She squeezed some shampoo into her palm, changed the water temperature back to tepid, and kissed his cheek. “There you go, baby.” She slid past him again and smiled as he tentatively stepped under the stream. She lathered her hair and watched Julian enjoy the barely warm water.

  It was one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of tiny little details they knew about each other, and this knowledge never failed to make Brooke happy. She loved thinking that she was probably the only person on earth who knew that Julian hated submerging himself in very hot water—baths, showers, Jacuzzis, hot springs, he scrupulously avoided them all—but could withstand muggy, humid temperatures without complaint; that he was also a self-proclaimed “hot drink gulper” (put a cup of scorching hot coffee or a bowl of steaming soup in front of him, and Julian could pour the contents down his gullet without so much as a testing sip); that he had an impressive tolerance for pain, as evidenced by the time he’d broken his ankle and hadn’t reacted with more than a quick “Dammit!” but would squeal and squirm like a little girl whenever Brooke tried to pluck an errant eyebrow hair. Even now, as he lathered up, she knew he was grateful to have bar soap instead of a liquid body wash, and that as long as it didn’t smell like lavender or, worse, grapefruit, he would use anything handed to him.

  She leaned over to kiss his unshaven cheek and got a spray of water right in the eyes.

  “Serves you right,” Julian said, and patted her butt. “That’ll
teach you to mess with a number-four artist.”

  “What does Mr. Number Four think about a quickie?”

  Julian kissed her back but then stepped out of the shower. “I’m not explaining to your father that we’re late for his party because his daughter jumped me in the shower.”

  Brooke laughed. “You’re such a wuss.”

  Cynthia was already at the restaurant when they arrived, bustling around the private room in a frantic whirlwind of energy and orders. They were at Ponzu, which, according to Cynthia, was the new hippest restaurant in southeastern Pennsylvania. According to Randy, the place used “Asian fusion” to describe their overambitious attempt to tackle sushi and teriyaki dishes from Japan, Vietnamese-inspired spring rolls, a pad thai that few Thai people would recognize, and a “signature” chicken and broccoli dish that was no different from his cheapie Chinese delivery joint. No one seemed to mind the lack of any actual fusion dishes, so the four of them kept their mouths shut and immediately set to work.

  The guys hung two massive, matching foil signs that read, happy 65th! and congratulations on your retirement, while Brooke and Michelle arranged the flowers Cynthia had brought in the glass vases provided by the restaurant, enough for two arrangements per table. They’d only finished the first batch when Michelle said, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with all that money?”

  Brooke almost dropped her scissors she was so surprised. She and Michelle had never talked about anything personal before, and a conversation about Julian’s financial potential seemed totally inappropriate.

  “Oh, you know, we’ve still got tons of student loans and all sorts of bills to pay. Not as sexy as it seems.” She shrugged.

  Michelle switched out a rose for a peony and cocked her head to the side, examining her work. “Come on, Brooke, don’t kid yourself. You two are going to be rolling in it!”