Brooke stared at them both before walking back into the living room. Natalya pounced on her immediately. “Jesus Christ, Brooke! What the hell happened to your makeup? Someone fucking find Lionel!” she screamed as she raced toward the back bedroom. Brooke took the opportunity to slip into the third, blessedly empty bedroom, lock the door, and dial Nola.
“Hello?” The sound of her friend’s voice almost made her cry all over again.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Are you in the dress yet? Can you have Julian take a picture with your BlackBerry and send it? I’m dying to see you!”
“Listen, I only have two seconds before they find me, so—”
“Find you? Are you being stalked by some sort of awards show killer?” she laughed.
“Nola, please just listen to me. Everything turned into a horror show. Pictures of Julian and some girl. I haven’t seen them yet so I don’t really know, but they sound bad. And I got fired for missing so much work. Look, I can’t explain it all now, but I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to get on a red-eye right after the ceremony, and I was hoping I could come to your place? I have a feeling our apartment is going to be completely staked out.”
“Pictures of Julian and some girl? Oh, Brooke, I’m sure it’s nothing. Those magazines will print any trash that floats by their desk, true or not. . . .”
“Can I stay with you, Nola? I have to get out of here. But I’ll totally understand if you don’t want the drama right now.”
“Brooke! Shut up this minute. I’ll call and book your flight myself. I remember from a project I did in L.A. that the last red-eye to New York is at eleven on American. Do you want that one? Is it enough time? I’ll also book you cars to and from the airport.”
The mere sound of concern in her friend’s voice started the tears flowing again. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“Remember to find out if Fergie looks as old in person as she does in all the photos. . . .”
“I hate you.”
“I know. I love you, too. Don’t be afraid to sneak some pics and send them. I’d especially like to see a couple of Josh Groban. . . .”
Despite herself, Brooke smiled and hung up. She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and worked up enough nerve to open the door. Natalya looked ready to faint with stress; she physically launched herself at Brooke.
“Do you realize we only have twenty minutes and they need to completely redo you? Who fucking cries after their makeup is applied?” She mumbled the last part, but it was loud enough for Brooke to hear.
“You know what I need right now, Natalya?” she asked, reaching out to touch the girl’s forearm, her voice low but barely concealing a steely rage.
Natalya peered back at her with wide eyes.
“I need you to get my makeup fixed, find my shoes, and order me a vodka martini and a bottle of Advil from room service. And I need you to do those three things without speaking. Not one single, solitary word. Do you think you can do that?”
Natalya stared at her.
“Excellent. I just knew we could work it out! Thanks so much for your help.”
And with that, feeling just the tiniest bit of satisfaction, Brooke walked back into the bedroom. She was going to get through this.
13
Gods and Nurses Don’t Mix
“REMEMBER, you two: hold hands, smile, and relax. You’re happy and in love and you’re clearly not worrying about some two-bit, fame-seeking slut. She is not on your radar. Are we ready?” Leo all but shouted at them from his seat three feet away in the back of the limousine.
“We’re ready . . .” Julian mumbled.
“Are we psyched? We need to be psyched! Are you two feeling it?” He peered out the window to see if they were being motioned for yet by the woman with the clipboard who was timing artist arrivals. Julian was scheduled to begin his red carpet walk at exactly 4:25 P.M., which according to Brooke’s cell phone was in one terrifying minute.
Feeling what, exactly? Brooke wanted to ask. Like shit? Like I’m about to make a voluntary death march, and if I knew what was good for me I’d immediately turn around, but I’m way too conflict-averse to make waves like that, so instead I’ll just go quietly to the executioner’s? So yes, you jerk, I suppose I am “feeling it.”
“I’m not going to lie, guys—they’re going to be piranhas.” Leo held up his hands, palms out. “I’m just sayin’, so you’ll be prepared. But ignore ’em, smile, and soak in the moment. You two’ll be great.” His phone buzzed and after glancing at it for half a second, he clicked Unlock on the doors and turned to Brooke and Julian.
“It’s time. Let’s do this!” Leo shouted, and threw open the limo door, and before Brooke could even process what was happening, she was blinded by the flashbulbs. And while the flashes of light were piercing and painful, they were nothing compared to the questions.
“Julian! How does it feel to be attending your first Grammy ceremony?”
“Brooke! Do you have any comment on the pictures in the latest issue of Last Night?”
“Julian! Look over here! Here! Are you having an affair?”
“Brooke! Turn this way! Here, this camera! Who are you wearing?”
“Brooke! If you could say one thing to the Chateau bimbo, what would it be?”
“Julian! To your left! Yes, just like that! Will you stay in your marriage?”
“Julian! Is it surreal to be walking the red carpet when no one knew your name a year ago?”
“Brooke! Do you think it’s your fault because you don’t physically fit the Hollywood norm?”
“What would you say to all the young women watching right now?”
“Julian! Do you wish your wife traveled with you more?”
It was like having stadium lights suddenly turned on in your bedroom at three in the morning: her eyes wouldn’t—couldn’t—adjust, and every effort only resulted in more discomfort.
She briefly turned her back toward the camera-free zone behind them and caught a glimpse of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban climbing out of a stretch black Escalade. Why are you talking to us when there are real celebrities here? she wanted to scream. It was only when she turned back around again, her eyes finally able to handle the stunning flashes of light, that she saw an endless sea of red before them. Was it a mile long? Two? Ten? The people who had progressed farther up the carpet appeared casual, even relaxed. They were standing around in groups of three or five, idly chatting to reporters or one another, posing expertly for the cameras, offering megawatt, professionally engineered smiles at every turn. Was it possible to be like them? Could she do that too? More to the point, did she even stand a chance of surviving the next interminable stretch of carpet?
And then they were moving. She kept one sandaled foot directly in front of the other, chin held high, cheeks most likely flaming, and Julian ushered her through the throngs. When they’d traversed half of the distance to the entrance, Leo placed a hot, sweaty hand on each of their shoulders, leaned his head between theirs, and said, “E! entertainment news, upcoming on your right. If they approach you for an interview, stop and talk to them.”
Brooke looked to her right and saw the back of a short blond guy’s head. He was holding a microphone out to a trio of black-suited boys, none of whom looked older than fifteen. She had to rack her brain trying to think of their names, and when she finally remembered they were the Jonas Brothers, she felt very, very old. They were kind of cute, she thought, in a koala-bear-type way, but sexy? Seductive? Capable of bringing millions of tween girls to the brink of unconsciousness by merely smiling? Ridiculous. She thought all those screaming girls should look back at the old Tiger Beat photos of Kirk Cameron and Ricky Schroeder if they wanted to see some real teen heartthrobs. She shook her head to herself. Did she just think the word “heartthrob”? She added this to a mental list of things to tell Nola.
“Julian Alter? Can we have a word with you?” The short blond guy had fi
nally bid good-bye to the Jonas children and turned toward Brooke and Julian. Seacrest! Looking every bit as tan as he always did on Idol, his smile warm and welcoming. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
“Hey,” Julian said, the recognition dawning on his face at the exact same time. “Uh, sure. We’d love to.”
Seacrest motioned to the cameraman behind him and positioned himself slightly to the left of Brooke and Julian. He nodded and the cameraman switched on a powerfully bright light, which instantly cast off a surprising amount of heat. He then spoke into the microphone while looking at the camera.
“Joining me now, Julian Alter and his beautiful wife, Brooke.” He turned toward them and waved his free hand expansively. “Thanks for taking a moment to say hello to us, you two. I have to say, you’re both looking great tonight.”
They each reflexively fake-smiled. Brooke had a brief, panic-inducing moment where she remembered that millions of people were watching this right now, all across the country and possibly the world.
“Thanks, Ryan,” Julian said, and Brooke was relieved he’d remembered to use his first name. “We’re both so excited to be here.”
“So tell me, Julian. Your very first album goes platinum in less than eight weeks. As of today”—he paused and glanced at a small square of paper tucked into his palm—“four million copies sold worldwide. Now you’re performing at the Grammys. Tell me, what’s going through your mind?”
He thrust the microphone under Julian’s mouth and smiled. Julian, cooler than she’d ever seen him, smiled back and said, “Well, Ryan, I have to say, it’s been one hell of an incredible ride. I’ve been blown away by the response to the album, and now this? What an honor. What a truly phenomenal honor.”
Seacrest appeared to like this and rewarded them with another smile and an attentive nod. “Julian, you write a lot about love in your music. Even ‘For the Lost,’ which at first seems like a nod to your lost brother, is really a song about the redemptive power of love. What’s your inspiration?”
A layup if there ever was one. Brooke concentrated on keeping her gaze fixed on Julian, hoping she projected the look of a loving, supportive, attentive wife who hung on his every word instead of the shell-shocked mess she really was.
Julian went right up for the ball and dunked it easily. “You know, it’s funny, Sea—Ryan. When I first started out, so much of my music was dark, pretty heavy. I was going through a lot in my own life, and of course I think the music always mirrors what the artist is dealing with. But now?” With this, he turned to face Brooke, gazed directly into her eyes, and said, “Now it’s a completely different story. Thanks to my beautiful wife, both my life and my music are infinitely better. She’s more than my inspiration—she’s my motivation, my influence, my . . . my everything.”
Despite all that had happened back at the hotel, despite the lost job and the supposedly horrible pictures, despite the tiny little voice in the back of her head that wondered if he was merely playing it up for his audience, Brooke felt a surge of love for her husband. At that moment, in front of the cameras and wearing ridiculous clothes and getting quoted and photographed and feted, she felt the exact same way toward Julian as she did the day they met.
Seacrest made an awww sound and then thanked them both for chatting and wished Julian good luck. The moment he turned toward his next guest—someone who looked exactly like Shakira, although Brooke couldn’t be sure it was her—Julian turned toward her and said, “See? Seacrest didn’t even bother asking about those dumb pictures. Any responsible journalist knows they’re complete bullshit.”
Just the mere mention of those pictures brought her right back to the hotel room, negating all her loving feelings. Not knowing what else to do, and acutely aware there were cameras and microphones spread out over every square inch of red carpet, she merely smiled at nothing and nodded. It didn’t take long for Leo to jam his face between theirs again—Brooke almost jumped when she felt his hand on the back of her neck.
“Julian, Layla Lawson is right up ahead. I want you to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and then introduce her to Brooke. Brooke, it would be a big help if you could look pleased to meet her.”
Brooke glanced up and caught sight of Layla in a surprisingly elegant short black dress, hanging on the arm of Kid Rock. According to the tabs she read, Kid was just a friend, as Layla hadn’t been dating much since her messy breakup with her famous quarterback boyfriend a year earlier. Before she had a chance to say anything snotty to Leo, they had reached the couple. Flashbulbs went off with the intensity of a firefight.
“Julian Alter!” Layla squealed and flung her arms around Julian’s neck. “I can’t wait for your performance!”
Brooke thought she would’ve felt something more upon meeting this girl she’d disliked for so long, but she had to admit that Layla exuded a certain kind of charm in person that didn’t come across so well on television or in the pages of the gossip magazines. Even with her body pressed tightly against Julian’s, there was something appealing about her, something sweeter and more vulnerable—perhaps even a little dumber, which didn’t hurt either—that instantly put Brooke at ease.
Julian did his best to extract himself from Layla’s embrace and looked sheepish when he introduced her to Brooke.
“Hi there!” she said in her rich, honeyed Southern accent. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Brooke smiled and offered her hand, but Layla had already come in for the hug.
“Oh, come here, darling, I feel like I’ve known you for ages! Your husband is one lucky guy!”
“Thanks,” Brooke said, instantly feeling ridiculous for ever feeling threatened. “I love your dress.”
“Oh, you’re a doll-baby. Hey, y’all, I’d like you to meet my friend Kid.” With that, she grabbed his hand and tried to direct his attention to Brooke and Julian, but he seemed distracted by a small army of models (backup singers? dancers? plus-ones?) who were parading past. After an awkwardly long moment, his face flashed a glimmer of recognition and he clapped Julian on the back.
“Dude, sweet album,” he said, clamping both his hands around Julian’s like all the politicians did. “Congrats! Listen, I was wondering if I could ask who you use to . . .”
Brooke didn’t get a chance to hear what Kid Rock was asking of her husband because Layla was nudging her to the side and leaning in so close Brooke could smell her citrusy perfume.
“Start spending that money immediately,” Layla said directly into Brooke’s ear. “It’s every bit as much yours as it is his—hell, he probably wouldn’t have a dime of it if it weren’t for you, am I right?—so don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”
“Money?” was all Brooke could manage.
“Brooke, love, that’s what I most regret about the whole Patrick situation. I sat through, what, hundreds of college and professional games, flew to every godforsaken, freezing stadium in this country, supported him through all the crap until he finally landed that eighty-million-dollar contract? Then when he cheats on me with that, that porn star, I was the one who thought it was too crass to buy myself a decent house. Well, learn from my mistakes, sweetheart. Buy the damn house. You earned it.”
Before Brooke could even respond, Julian and Kid Rock sauntered back over to her and Layla; all four of them automatically stood shoulder to shoulder, smiled, and waved to the cameras.
Brooke didn’t even have a chance to address Layla again before Leo hustled them closer to the entrance of the Staples Center. She was just about to congratulate herself on surviving the red carpet when a woman in a sequined tank dress and death-defyingly high heels thrust a microphone under her chin and practically screamed, “Brooke Alter, how does it feel to see pictures of your husband with another woman after you’ve supported him for so long?”
A hush fell over the area. In the two seconds it took the woman to ask that question, every single other artist, handler, journalist, anchor, cameraman, and fan seemed to go dead quiet. For just a mo
ment, Brooke wondered if the deafening silence was a sign that she was going to faint, but she immediately realized she wasn’t that lucky. She saw dozens—hundreds?—of heads turn to watch at the exact same time she felt Julian squeezing her hand so hard that she was certain multiple bones were breaking under the pressure. She had the odd sensation of wanting to scream and laugh at the same time. She wondered what everyone’s reaction would be if she merely smiled and said, Well you know, it’s funny you asked. Because it really does feel wonderful. I mean, what girl wouldn’t love being told about her husband supposedly having an affair with another woman and having the whole thing play out on national television thanks to people like you? Are there any other brilliant questions you’d like to ask before we make our way inside? No? Well then, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. That thought was followed by a single-second fantasy of taking scissors to the woman’s sequins and then clobbering her with her own spiked heels. She could barely breathe.
But of course she didn’t scream or puke or laugh or assault anyone. She inhaled through her nose, did her best to pretend that no one else was watching, and calmly said, “I’m extremely proud of my husband for his accomplishments, and I’m so excited to be here tonight to watch him perform. Wish him luck!” She squeezed Julian’s hand right back and, not having any clue where she’d found such composure, she turned to him and said, “Shall we?”
Julian kissed her and gallantly offered her his arm, and before anyone else could materialize in front of them, she, Julian, and Leo were through the front doors.
“Brooke, you were brilliant!” Leo crowed triumphantly, clamping his still-sweaty palm around the back of her neck.
Last Night at Chateau Marmont Page 27