Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  Brooke allowed herself a moment of hopeful excitement before deciding that it was probably only Rebecca asking for clarification on a chart. She cleared her throat and said hello.

  “Brooke? Can you hear me?” Margaret’s voice boomed through the line.

  “Hello, Margaret. Is everything all right?” Brooke asked, trying to make her voice as calm and assured as possible.

  “Oh, hi there. I can hear you now. Listen, Brooke, I was just wondering if everything is okay. I was starting to get a little worried.”

  “Worried? Why? Everything’s great here.” Could Margaret have read whatever trash the reporter from the elevator had been referring to? She prayed that wasn’t it.

  Margaret sighed heavily, almost sadly. “Look, Brooke. I know this is a huge weekend for you, for Julian. There’s nowhere else you should be, and I hate having to call you right now. But I still have a staff to run, and I can’t do it when I’m short on people.”

  “Short on people?”

  “I know this is probably the last thing you were thinking about in light of everything that’s going on, but if you’re going to miss work, it’s imperative that you find someone to cover for you. Your shift began at nine this morning and it’s already after ten.”

  “Ohmigod. I’m so sorry, Margaret. I know I can clear this all up. Please just give me five minutes. I’ll call you right back.”

  Brooke didn’t wait for an answer. She disconnected the call and scrolled through her phone to find Rebecca’s number. She prayed as the phone rang and felt a surge of relief when she heard Rebecca answer.

  “Rebecca? Hi. It’s Brooke Alter.”

  There was a second’s hesitation. “Oh, hi! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but Margaret just called wondering where I was, and since we switched shifts today . . .” Brooke let her words trail off, fearful that she’d say something irreparably unkind if she continued.

  “Oh yes, we were supposed to,” Rebecca said brightly, her voice all sugar and cheer, “but I left you a message saying I wasn’t able to after all.”

  Brooke felt like she’d been slapped. She heard a young man screech in glee from the suite’s living room and she wanted to kill him, whoever he was. “You left me a message?”

  “Sure did. Let’s see, today is Sunday . . . hmm, I would have left you a message early Friday afternoon.”

  “Friday afternoon?” Brooke had left for the airport around two. Rebecca must have called her home phone and left a message on her answering machine. She could feel herself grow more nauseated.

  “Yes, now I remember exactly. It would have been about two fifteen, two thirty, because I’d just picked up Brayden at kindergarten, and Bill called to see if we could make it to my in-laws’ on Sunday for a family reunion of sorts. His sister and her husband were flying in with their new baby, a little girl they adopted from Korea, and well—”

  “Got it,” Brooke interrupted, again exerting every ounce of willpower to keep from snapping at Rebecca. “Okay, well, thanks for clearing that up. Sorry to hang up, but I’ve got to call Margaret back this minute.”

  Brooke pulled the phone away from her ear, but not before hearing “I’m really sorry” from the receiver before she clicked it off.

  Fuck. This was even worse than she thought. She forced herself to dial the number, not wanting to waste another second of such a great night.

  Margaret picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Margaret, I really can’t apologize enough, but it seems there’s been a huge misunderstanding. I had arranged for Rebecca to cover me today—I hope you know I would never just leave you in a bind like this—but it sounds like she had some sort of last-minute emergency and couldn’t make it. I suppose she left me a message, but I didn’t—”

  “Brooke.” The sadness in her voice was unmissable.

  “Margaret, I know this is a terrible inconvenience for you, and I’m so sorry for that, but you must believe me when—”

  “Brooke, I’m sorry. I know I’ve told you before, but with all the budget cuts, they are breathing down my neck about performance and attendance. They examine each and every person’s time card and record.”

  Brooke wasn’t at all unclear on what was happening. She knew she was being fired, and she was absolutely terrified by it, but the only thing going through her mind was, Please don’t say it! So long as you don’t say it, it’s not really happening. Please don’t do this now. Please! Please! Please!

  Instead she said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Brooke, I’m asking for your resignation. I think your frequent absences and emphasis on your private life have gotten in the way of your commitment to the program, and I feel you’re no longer a good fit.”

  The knot in her throat was almost choking her, and she could feel a single, hot tear slide down her cheek. The makeup girl would surely ream her for this transgression.

  “You think I’m no longer a good fit?” she said, her voice revealing that she was crying. “I scored the highest of the whole team in the randomized patient evaluations. I had the second-highest graduating GPA at NYU for my year. Margaret, I love my job and I think I’m good at it. What do I do?”

  Margaret exhaled, and for a moment Brooke was aware that this was almost as hard for her boss as it was for her. “Brooke, I’m sorry. Due to your . . . extenuating circumstances . . . I will be willing to accept your resignation and confirm with any future employers that you left, uh, voluntarily. I know that’s hardly comforting, but it’s the best I can do.”

  Brooke struggled to think of something to say next. There’s not a script for how to end a phone call after you’ve been fired, especially when you’re not letting yourself scream “Screw you!” a half-dozen times. There was an awkwardly long moment of silence.

  Margaret recovered first. “Brooke, are you still there? Why don’t we talk more when you come in to clean out your locker?”

  The tears were really flowing now, and all Brooke could think about was the imminent temper tantrum of the makeup artist. “Okay. I guess I’ll come by next week?” She didn’t know what else to say. “Uh, thanks for everything.” Why was she thanking the woman who’d just fired her?

  “Take care, Brooke.”

  She disconnected the phone and stared at it for almost a full minute until the reality of the situation set in.

  Fired. For the first time in her entire life, including the countless children she’d babysat in middle school, her stint as a TCBY yogurt scooper in high school, a summer waitressing job at TGI Friday’s, three semesters as a campus tour guide at Cornell, and what felt like a thousand hours’ worth of internship as a graduate student. Now she was finally a full-time, salaried professional, and she was unceremoniously fired. Brooke noticed her hands were trembling and she reached gratefully for the nearby glass of water.

  Resentful, uncharitable thoughts popped into her head, making her feel even worse. None of this would have ever happened if it weren’t for Julian. She always had to follow him, accompany him, support him. The alternative being they’d never see each other. It was an impossible situation. She felt a lump in her throat.

  Brooke drained her glass of water, set it down, and took as full an inhalation as the dress would allow. Next week she would show up at the hospital and plead, beg, and grovel until she convinced them that she was serious about her job—but for now, she had to try her best to put it out of her head. She dabbed at the melted mascara with a warm washcloth and vowed that she wouldn’t even hint to Julian that anything was wrong. Tonight was about honoring his success, sharing his excitement and anticipation, reveling in all the attention. It was about remembering to soak in every single moment.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The suite’s bedroom door opened moments later and Julian appeared. He looked supremely stressed out and uncomfortable, probably due to nerves and the fact that he was wearing an extraordinarily shiny suit coupled with a tight, half-buttoned shirt that showed an alarming expans
e of chest. Brooke forced herself to smile. “Hi!” She grinned, doing a little spin for him. “What do you think?”

  Julian managed a tight, distracted smile. “Wow. You look great.”

  Brooke was about to remind him that such effort on her part required far more enthusiasm on his when she looked closely at his face. He actually grimaced as though in pain and sat down on a velvet armchair.

  “Oh, you must be so anxious!” she said, walking over to him. She tried to kneel beside him but her dress wouldn’t allow it, so she stood next to his chair. “You look hot.”

  Julian was silent.

  “Come here, love,” she crooned, taking his hand in hers. She felt a little bit fake pretending everything was fine, but she reminded herself it was the right thing to do. “It’s natural to be nervous, but tonight is going to be—”

  The look in his eyes stopped her midsentence.

  “Julian, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. When he finally spoke, his deep, even voice gave her chills.

  “I have something to tell you,” he said, his gaze directed at the floor.

  “Okay. So tell me. What is it?”

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly and at that moment Brooke knew this had nothing to do with his nerves. Her mind began to cycle through every horrible possibility. He was sick, with cancer or a brain tumor. One of his parents was sick. There’d been a horrific car accident. Maybe it was her family? Baby Ella? Her mother?

  “Julian? What is it? I’m terrified. You have to tell me. Just say it.”

  Finally, he met her gaze with what looked like new resolve. For a split second she thought the moment had passed and they could continue their preparations. But just as quickly that look returned and he motioned toward the bed.

  “Brooke, I think you should sit down for this,” he said, somehow making her name sound ominous. “This is going to be very hard to hear.”

  “Are you okay? Are our parents? Julian!” She was panicked, absolutely certain that something too horrible to fathom had happened.

  He held his hand up and shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s about us.”

  What? “About us? What about us?” Was he really choosing now to talk about their relationship?

  Julian stared at the floor. Brooke pulled her hand away and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Julian, what the hell are you talking about? Enough qualifying. Just say it already, whatever it is.”

  “Apparently some pictures have surfaced.” He stated this in the exact same tone he would have used to announce that he had three months to live.

  “What kind of pictures?” Brooke asked, but she immediately knew what he meant. Her mind flashed to the reporter in the elevator earlier that afternoon. She’d seen how quickly the news about her nonexistent pregnancy had spread. She’d read about the “affair” with Layla Lawson for months. But there had never before been actual pictures.

  “Pictures that don’t look good, but also don’t tell the true story.”

  “Julian.”

  He sighed. “They’re not good.”

  “Better or worse than the Sienna pictures?” It had only been a couple weeks earlier that they’d discussed those infamous pictures. Ironically, Julian was the one who couldn’t understand how a married father of four could get photographed on the balcony of a hotel room with a topless actress hanging around his neck. Brooke had offered a number of perfectly logical explanations for how everything may not have been how it appeared, but eventually she agreed that there was no legit reason why Balthazar Getty was cradling Sienna’s breast in one shot and shoving his tongue down her throat in another. Why couldn’t he have stayed inside the hotel while half-naked, making out, and cheating on his wife?

  “About the same. But, Brooke, I swear to you, it wasn’t as bad as it looks.”

  “About the same? And what wasn’t as bad if nothing supposedly happened?” Brooke stared at Julian until he met her gaze. His expression was sheepish.

  “Show me,” she said, holding her hand out for him to turn over the magazine that he was holding, rolled, in a tight fist.

  He unrolled the magazine and she saw it was a copy of Spin. “No, this isn’t it. I was, uh, reading this before. Can you let me explain first, Brooke? They were taken at the Chateau Marmont, and you know how ridiculous—”

  “When were you at the Chateau Marmont?” Brooke snapped, hating the sound of her own voice.

  Julian looked like he’d been slapped: his eyes were wide with disbelief (or panic?) and the color drained from his cheeks. “When was I . . . I was there, let’s see, four, five . . . last Monday night. You remember? We played in Salt Lake that day and then all of us took a flight to L.A. together since we weren’t playing again until Wednesday? I told you that.”

  “That’s not at all how it was presented last week,” she said quietly, her hands starting to tremble once again. “I distinctly remember you saying you were going to L.A. to meet with someone—I can’t remember who now—but you never said anything about having a night off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, only because you swear up and down that you always do everything in your power to get home whenever you can—even if it’s only for a night—but apparently that night was an exception.”

  Julian jumped off the chair and walked over to Brooke. He tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away like a skittish deer. “Brooke, come here. I didn’t . . . have sex with her. It’s not the way it seems.”

  “You didn’t have sex with her? Am I supposed to sit here now and guess what did actually happen?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s not like that.”

  “Not like what? What the hell happened, Julian? Clearly something, because we’ve never had a conversation like this before.”

  “It’s just that . . . it’s complicated.”

  She felt her breath catch in her throat. “Tell me nothing happened. Say, ‘Brooke, they’re a total scam, a complete distortion,’ and I’ll believe you.”

  She looked at him, and he looked away. It was all she needed to know.

  For a reason she didn’t understand herself, Brooke felt all the rage disappear in an instant. She didn’t feel better or at all comforted, but it was like someone had drained her of all her anger and replaced it with a deep, cold hurt. She couldn’t bring herself to speak.

  They sat in silence, neither one of them daring to say a word. Brooke was shaking now, her hands, her shoulders, everything, and Julian was staring at his lap. She thought she might puke.

  Finally, she said, “I got fired.”

  His head snapped up. “What?”

  “Yeah, just now. Margaret said the higher-ups question my ‘commitment to the program.’ Because I’m never there. Because I’ve taken more days off and switched more shifts in the last six months than people do in ten years. Because I’m too busy following you all over the country, staying in gorgeous hotel suites and wearing diamonds.”

  Julian dropped his head in his hands. “I had no idea.”

  There was a knock at the door. When neither of them said anything, Natalya stuck her head in. “We need to do a final run-through with both of you and then start moving out. You’re due on the red carpet in twenty-five minutes.”

  Julian nodded and she closed the door again. He looked at Brooke. “I’m so sorry, Rook. I can’t believe they actually, uh, laid you off. They were lucky to have you, and they know it.”

  There was another knock at the door.

  “We’ll be right out!” she shouted, louder than she’d planned.

  The door opened anyway, and Leo appeared. Brooke watched as he carefully arranged his expression to one of peacemaker, consensus builder, understanding confidant during hard times, and she immediately wanted to puke.

  “Leo, can you give us a minute?” She didn’t bother hiding her dislike.

  He walked in and closed the door behind him as though he hadn�
��t heard her. “Brooke, I know this can’t be easy right now, trust me, but you two have to be on that red carpet in less than thirty minutes, and it’s my job to make sure you’re prepared.”

  Julian nodded. Brooke could do nothing but stare.

  “Now, of course we all know those pictures are a load of crap, but until I can get to the bottom of it and force a retraction”—he paused here to give everyone a chance to process his power and influence—“I would like you both to be ready.”

  “Okay,” Julian said, and looked at Brooke. “I guess we should probably work out our official response to any questions as a couple. Show a united front.”

  Brooke realized the anger she’d been feeling at the beginning of their conversation had slowly become a deep sadness. What happens when you barely recognize your husband anymore? she wondered. Julian, who used to complete her thoughts, now seemed incapable of understanding her at all.

  She took a deep breath. “You two can decide on your own ‘official response,’ and I don’t particularly care what it is. I’m going to finish getting dressed right now.” She turned to Julian and looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll go with you tonight, and I’ll smile for the cameras and hold your hand on the red carpet, but the moment that ceremony is over, I’m going home.”

  Julian stood up and came to sit next to her on the bed. He pulled her hands into his and said, “Brooke, I beg you, please don’t let—”

  She pulled her hands back and moved a few inches away. “Don’t you dare try to put this on me. I’m not the reason we need a huddle and an official statement to the press. You two work it out.”

  “Brooke, really, can we just—”

  “Let her do her thing, Julian,” Leo announced in a voice rich with wisdom and experience, accompanied by a look that said, At least she agreed to go—can you imagine the PR nightmare if she bailed? Take it easy, give the crazy wife a little space, and you’ll be on your way to the stage in no time. . . . “Do what you need to do, Brooke. Julian and I will get everything straightened out here.”