Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “When were you going to tell me about the Grammys?” she asked, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice.

  He looked up at her. “I was going to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t want it to dominate our entire night together.”

  “Oh come on, Julian! You don’t want me to go, that’s why you didn’t say anything.”

  At this, Julian looked truly alarmed. “Why would you think that? Of course I want you to!”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound like Samara thinks so. She just told me she totally understands why I’m too busy with work to make it. Are you kidding? My husband is going to be performing at the Grammys and she thinks I can’t get off work for it?”

  “Brooke, I’m guessing she only thinks that because you couldn’t, uh, get off work for the Sony holiday party, you know? But I swear the only reason I didn’t tell you yet is because I thought we could use a night without talking shop. I’ll tell her you’re coming.”

  Brooke turned and headed back into the bedroom. “I’ll tell her myself.”

  She unmuted the phone and said, “Samara? There must have been some misunderstanding, because I’m definitely planning to accompany Julian.”

  There was a long pause before Samara said, “You know it’s a performance and not a nomination, right?”

  “I understand.”

  Another pause. “And you’re sure your own commitments won’t interfere this time?”

  Brooke wanted to scream at the girl that she didn’t understand anything, but she forced herself to remain silent.

  “Well, okay then. We’ll make that happen,” Samara said.

  Brooke tried to ignore the hesitation—disappointment?—in her voice. Why should she care what Samara thought? “Okay, great. So, what should I wear? I mean, I definitely don’t have anything that fancy. Do you think I should rent something?”

  “No! Let us handle everything, okay? We’ll just need you to show up six hours before and we’ll have a dress, shoes, undergarments, bag, jewelry, hair, and makeup. Don’t wash your own hair for twenty-four hours beforehand, no fake-baking unless our stylist specifically recommends an aesthetician, get a good manicure and use either Allure by Essie or Bubble Bath by OPI, get a full leg and arm wax five to seven days ahead of time, and get a deep-conditioning hair treatment seventy-two hours before. As for color, I’ll send you a recommendation for the salon we work with in New York. You’ll start a highlighting regimen next week.”

  “Oh, wow. Okay, do you—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll put this all in an e-mail and we’ll review it. Listen, you know the cameras will be all over Julian, and I know Leo mentioned a trainer for you both—have you had time to think about that?—so let me make you an appointment at the place we got Julian’s teeth done. The man’s a genius, you can never tell they’re caps, they really look so natural. You’ll be amazed what a difference it makes.”

  “Um, okay. You’ll just tell me what—”

  “We’ve got it covered. I’ll touch base soon, Brooke. We’ll work it all out. Can I talk to Julian? I promise it’s just a quick question.”

  Brooke nodded dumbly, completely unaware that Samara couldn’t see her, and handed the phone to Julian, who’d come into the bedroom to get undressed. He said, “yes,” “no,” and “Sounds good, I’ll call you tomorrow,” and then he turned to her.

  “Can you come get in the bath? Please?”

  His eyes were pleading, and she forced herself to put the Grammys out of her mind. They had been having such a lovely night; she decided she shouldn’t let any lingering weirdness ruin it. She followed him into the bathroom and stripped down. They wouldn’t ever sleep in Julian’s parents’ bed—way too creepy—but they did love using the master bathroom. It was heaven on earth, pure luxury. Heated floors, a massive soaking tub with a separate steam shower, and best of all, a small gas fireplace. Although he couldn’t bring himself to climb into the piping hot water, Julian always drew Brooke a bath and, after his own shower, turned on the fire and climbed onto the tub platform, clad only in a towel, to keep her company.

  Brooke spooned some more lavender salts into the water and lay back against the terry-cloth bath pillow. Julian was reminiscing about the first bath they’d taken together, on a weekend trip early in their relationship. He was recounting his misery over the scalding water, which he’d silently endured in an effort to impress, and Brooke could only gaze at him as he spoke, so overcome with that intense relaxation and utter exhaustion that comes from a piping-hot bath.

  Afterward, wrapped in a huge plush bath sheet, Brooke walked with Julian back to their bedroom, where he’d lit a candle on either night table and turned on some relaxing music. They made love softly, slowly, like two people who have been together for years and know everything about each other, and for the first time in ages, they fell asleep entwined.

  They slept until almost noon and woke to six inches of snow, a sure sign they’d be spending another night in the Hamptons. Delighted, Brooke gathered her mussed hair into a bun, pulled on her Uggs and her puffy winter coat, and climbed in the passenger side of the Jeep the Alters kept there year-round. Julian looked adorably dorky in one of his father’s winter hats he’d found in the closet; it was topped with a yarn ball, and extending from the earflaps were strings that could be tied under the chin. He pulled up to the East Hampton Starbucks so Brooke could run in for a Times, but then they headed to the Golden Pear Café, for breakfast.

  Ensconced in a booth with her hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee, Brooke sighed in happy contentment. If she could’ve scripted the most perfect New Year’s Eve ever, it would’ve looked exactly like their last twenty-four hours. Julian was reading aloud to her from the paper, an article about a man imprisoned for twenty-eight years before being exonerated by DNA evidence, when her phone rang.

  He looked up.

  “It’s Nola,” Brooke said, staring at the screen.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

  “You don’t mind? She’s going to want to tell me all about her night, I’m guessing.”

  Julian shook his head. “I’m happy to just sit here and read. I really don’t mind.”

  “Hey, Nol,” Brooke said as quietly as possible. She couldn’t stand people shouting into cell phones.

  “Brooke? Where are you?”

  “What do you mean, where are we? We’re in the Hamptons, you know that. I actually think with all this snow, we’re going to have to stay until—”

  “Have you seen the online edition of Last Night yet?” Nola interrupted.

  “Last Night? No, the Wi-Fi at the house was down. I have the Times right here. . . .”

  “Look, I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to hear it somewhere else. Last Night wrote this whole horrible column this morning, theorizing on all the possible reasons Julian canceled his New Year’s gig last night.”

  “They what?”

  Julian looked at her and raised his eyes questioningly.

  “Of course they’re all ridiculous. But I remember you said Leo was in South America somewhere, and, well, I just thought you guys might want to know if you didn’t already.”

  Brooke took a deep breath. “Great. That’s just great. Can you tell me what it said?”

  “Just pull it up on Julian’s phone, okay? I’m really sorry to ruin your morning, but it also says that you two are probably ‘hiding out’ in the Hamptons, so I wanted to give you the heads-up that you might get some company.”

  “Oh no,” Brooke moaned.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

  They said good-bye and Brooke only realized after they’d hung up that she hadn’t so much as asked about Nola’s night.

  Before she was even finished briefing Julian, he began searching for the Last Night article on his phone. “Here, I got it.”

  “Read it out loud.”

  Julian’s eyes skimmed back and forth. “Wow,” he murmured, flicking the screen wit
h his pointer finger. “Where do they get this stuff?”

  “Julian! Start reading or hand it over!”

  A timid young girl not a day over sixteen appeared at their table holding two plates. She looked at Julian, but Brooke wasn’t totally positive she recognized him. “Veggie egg white omelet with wheat?” she asked in a near-whisper.

  “Right here,” Brooke said, holding up a hand.

  “I guess that means you’re having the breakfast combo?” she said to Julian with a smile so huge there was no longer any doubt. “French toast with powdered sugar, two eggs sunny-side up, and well-done bacon. Can I get you guys anything else?”

  “Thanks, we’re good,” Julian said, immediately plunging his fork into the fluffy French toast. She had completely lost her appetite.

  He washed everything down with a swig of coffee and picked up his phone again. “You ready?”

  Brooke nodded.

  “Okay. The headline is ‘Where Is Julian Alter?’ and right next to it is a picture taken from god knows where of me looking sweaty and wasted.” He showed her the screen.

  Brooke chewed her dry toast, wishing she’d opted for the rye. “I recognize that one. It was taken thirty seconds after you walked offstage after your performance at Kristen Stewart’s party in Miami. It was ninety-five degrees that day and you’d been singing for nearly an hour.”

  Julian began reading. “‘Although sources tell us the famous singer is hiding out in his parents’ house in East Hampton after canceling a New Year’s Eve MTV performance last night, what no one seems able to agree on is why. Many suspect trouble in paradise for the sexy crooner who shot to fame with his debut album, For the Lost. One source with knowledge of the music industry claims that now is “temptation time” when so many quick-rising stars give in to the lure of drugs. Although there have been no specific reports of drug abuse, “rehab is one of the first places I look when a new artist goes off the radar,” said the music industry source.’”

  Julian looked up at her, his mouth agape, the phone hanging limply in his hand. “They’re suggesting I’m in rehab?” he asked.

  “I don’t think they’re suggesting you’re in rehab per se,” Brooke said, drawing out her words. “Actually, I’m not sure what they’re saying. Keep reading.”

  “‘A source with knowledge of the music industry’?” Julian read again. “Are they kidding?”

  “Keep reading.” Brooke ate a forkful of omelet and tried to look unworried.

  “‘Others claim Julian and his long-term love, nutritionist wife Brooke, have been feeling the strain of fame. “I can’t imagine any couple thriving under such trying circumstances,” said noted Beverly Hills psychiatrist Ira Melnick, who has not treated the Alters personally but has broad experience with such “inter-fame couples” (where one person is famous and the other is unknown). “If they are in fact receiving couples’ counseling right now,” Dr. Melnick continued, “they’ll at least have a fighting chance.”’”

  “‘A fighting chance’?” Brooke screeched. “Who the hell is Dr. Melnick and why is he commenting on our relationship when we’ve never met him?”

  Julian just shook his head. “And who said we’re ‘feeling the strain of fame’?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re referring to the whole Today show/pregnancy thing? Keep reading.”

  “Wow,” Julian said, clearly reading ahead. “I always knew these gossip rags were bullshit, but this just keeps getting better and better. ‘While rehab or couples’ counseling is the most likely cause of Julian’s disappearance’”—Julian spat out this last word dripping with sarcasm— “‘there is a third option. According to a close family source, the singer was being courted by famous Scientologists, most notably John Travolta. “I don’t know if it was just a friendly gesture or a recruiting reach-out, but I can say without doubt that they have been in touch,” the family source said. Which leads us all to wonder: will JBro go the way of TomKat and keep the faith? Stay tuned. . . . ’”

  “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say ‘JBro’?” Brooke asked, convinced he’d made that part up.

  “Scientology!” Julian nearly shouted before Brooke shushed him. “They think we’re Scientologists!”

  Brooke’s mind was racing to take it all in. Rehab? Couples’ counseling? Scientology? JBro? That all those thing were lies wasn’t so upsetting, but what about the small kernels of truth? What “family source” had mentioned anything about John Travolta, a person Julian had actually heard from, although not in relation to Scientology? And who was implying—for the second time in this very publication—that she and Julian were having relationship problems? Brooke almost asked just that, but seeing the look of devastation on Julian’s face, she forced herself to keep it light.

  “Look, I don’t know about you, but between Scientology, the world-renowned shrink who’s never met us, and JBro, you have totally made it. I mean, if those aren’t fame indicators, I don’t know what is.” She smiled widely but Julian still looked despondent.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke saw a flash of light and had a split-second thought of how strange it was to see lightning in the middle of a snowstorm. Before she could comment on it, the young waitress reappeared at their table.

  “I, uh, wow,” she mumbled, managing to appear both embarrassed and excited at the same time. “I’m sorry about the photographers out there. . . .” Her voice trailed off in time for Brooke to turn and see four men with cameras pressed against the café windows. Julian must have spotted them before she did, because he reached over, took her hand, and said, “We need to go now.”

  “The, uh, the manager told them they couldn’t come inside, but we can’t force them to leave the sidewalk,” the waitress said. She had that I’m two seconds from asking for your autograph look about her, and Brooke knew they had to leave immediately.

  She yanked two twenties from her wallet, thrust them at the girl, and said, “Is there a back door?” When the girl nodded, Brooke squeezed Julian’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

  They grabbed their coats and gloves and scarves and beelined toward the back of the café. Brooke tried not to think about how gross she looked, how desperately she didn’t want the entire world to see pictures of her in her sweatpants and ponytail, but even more than that, she wanted to protect Julian. By some lucky miracle, their Jeep was parked in the back lot, and they had managed to climb in, start the engine, and make a right turn out of the parking lot before the paparazzi spotted them.

  “What do we do?” Julian asked with more than a hint of panic. “We can’t go back to the house or they’ll follow us. They’ll stake it out.”

  “Don’t you think they probably know where it is already? Isn’t that why they’re here?”

  “I don’t know. We were in the middle of East Hampton Village. If you’re looking for someone you know is in the Hamptons in the middle of winter, it’s a damn good place to start. I think they were just lucky.” Julian drove east on Route 27, away from his parents’ house. At least two cars were following them.

  “We could drive straight back to the city. . . .”

  Julian smacked the steering wheel with his palm. “All our stuff is at the house. Besides, it’s too treacherous out—we’d kill ourselves.”

  They were silent for a moment before Julian said, “Dial the nonemergency number of the local police and put it on speaker.”

  Brooke didn’t quite know what his plan was, but she didn’t want to argue. She dialed and Julian began talking when a female dispatcher answered the phone.

  “Hello, my name is Julian Alter and I’m currently driving east on Route 27, just past East Hampton Village. There are a number of cars—photographers—chasing my car at unsafe speeds. I’m afraid if I go home, they’ll try to force their way into my house. Is there any way an officer could meet me at the house and remind them they would be trespassing?”

  The woman agreed to dispatch someone within twenty minutes and after giving her t
he address of his parents’ home, he hung up.

  “That was smart,” Brooke said. “What made you think of that?”

  “I didn’t. It’s what Leo told me to do if we were anywhere outside of Manhattan and we started getting followed. Let’s see if it actually works.”

  They continued driving in circles for the full twenty minutes before Julian checked his watch and made a right onto the smaller country road that led out to the open pasture land where the Alters’ home sat on an acre and a half. The front yard was large and prettily landscaped, but the house was simply not set far enough back to evade a telescopic lens. They were both relieved to see a police car sitting at the intersection of the farm road and the driveway. Julian pulled up next to it and lowered his window; the two cars following them had now become four, and all rolled to a stop following them. They could instantly make out the sound of cameras clicking as the officer made his way over to the Jeep.

  “Hello, sir. I’m Julian Alter and this is my wife, Brooke. We’re just trying to get home in peace. Can you please help us?”

  The officer was young, probably in his late twenties, and he didn’t look particularly annoyed at having his New Year’s Day morning interrupted. Brooke offered a silent prayer of thanks and found herself actually hoping the cop would recognize Julian.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  “Julian Alter, hey? My girlfriend’s a huge fan. Couple of us had heard a rumor your folks live out here, but we weren’t real sure. This their place?”

  Julian squinted at the man’s name tag. “It is, Officer O’Malley,” he said. “I’m happy to hear your girlfriend’s a fan. Do you think she’d like an autographed album?”

  The clicking from the cameras continued, and Brooke wondered how these pictures would be captioned. “Julian Alter Arrested in Drug-Fueled Drag Race”? Or “Officer to Alter: We Don’t Want Your Kind Out Here.” Or maybe everyone’s favorite, “Alter Tries to Convert Police Officer to Scientology.”

  O’Malley’s face lit up at the suggestion. “I’m sure she would,” he said, blowing on his hands, which looked red and chapped. “I think she’d love that.”