“Oh my.”
“He claims he didn’t sleep with her. As if I’m supposed to believe that.” Her cell phone rang but she immediately silenced it. “Oh, Nola, I just can’t get the picture of the two of them naked together out of my mind! And you want to know the weirdest part? The fact that she is ordinary looking makes me feel even worse. Like, he can’t even claim he was sooo wasted and this hot model just fell into his bed.” She held up a copy of Last Night and shook it. “I mean, she’s average. At best! And let’s not lose sight of the fact that he spent the entire evening courting her. Seducing her. You expect me to believe he didn’t actually sleep with her?”
Nola looked down at her lap.
“Even if he didn’t, he was obviously trying.” Brooke stood up and paced the room. She felt exhausted and keyed up and nauseated at the same time. “He’s having an affair, or wants to be. I’d be an idiot not to accept that.”
Nola remained silent.
“We hardly see each other, and when we do, we fight. We barely ever have sex anymore. While he’s traveling, he’s always out somewhere, with girls and music in the background, and I never even know where. There have been so many rumors. I know every jilted wife on the planet wants to believe her situation is different, but I’d be a fool to think this couldn’t happen to me.” She exhaled and shook her head. “My god, we’re just like my parents. I always thought we’d be different, and here we are. . . .”
“Brooke, you need to talk to him.”
Brooke threw her hands up. “I couldn’t agree more, but where is he? Grabbing sushi in West Hollywood before his late-night-talk-show circuit? Isn’t it hard to ignore the small, simple fact that if he really wanted to be, he would be here right now?”
Nola swirled the contents of her glass and appeared to think about that. “Could he be?”
“Of course he could! He’s not the president, he’s not performing life-saving surgery, and he’s not guiding the shuttle through the atmosphere to a safe landing. He’s a singer, for chrissake, and I think he could figure it out.”
“Well, when will he be back?”
Brooke shrugged and scratched Walter’s neck. “The day after tomorrow. Not for me, mind you. New York is already on the schedule. Apparently the dissolution of your marriage doesn’t warrant a line on the itinerary.”
Nola set her drink down and turned to Brooke. “The dissolution of your marriage? Is that really what’s happening here?”
That phrase hung in the air. “I don’t know, Nola. I really hope not. But I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.”
Brooke tried to suppress the nausea that washed over her. For all her talk the last couple days of “taking time” and “needing space” and “figuring things out,” she’d never allowed herself to really consider the possibility that she and Julian wouldn’t make it through this.
“Look, Nol, I hate to do this, but I’m kicking you out now. I need to sleep.”
“Why? You’re unemployed. What in the world do you have to do tomorrow?”
Brooke laughed. “Thanks for the sensitivity. I’ll have you know, I’m not unemployed, just underemployed. I still have the twenty hours a week at Huntley.”
Nola poured herself another inch of vodka and didn’t bother with the olives this time. “You don’t have to be there until tomorrow afternoon. You really need to go to sleep this minute?”
“No, but I need a couple hours to sob in the shower, try not to Google the Chateau girl, and then cry myself to sleep when I do it anyway,” Brooke answered. She was mostly joking, of course, but it didn’t end up sounding that way.
“Brooke . . .”
“I’m kidding. I’m not really a shower sobber. Besides, I’ll probably take a bath.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Well then you’re sleeping on my couch, because I’m headed to bed. Seriously, Nola, I really am fine. I think I could use a little time alone. My mother was shockingly nonintrusive, but I haven’t had a second to myself yet. Not that there won’t be plenty of time for that . . .”
It took another ten minutes to convince Nola to leave, and when she finally did, Brooke wasn’t as relieved as she’d predicted. She took a bath and put on her coziest cotton pajamas and her rattiest robe and climbed on top of the covers, yanking her laptop into bed with her. They’d agreed early on in their marriage never to have a television in the bedroom—which they carried over to computers as well—but considering Julian was nowhere to be found, it felt almost right for her to download 27 Dresses or something equally chick-flickish and zone out. She briefly entertained the idea of bringing in some ice cream but decided it was just too Bridget Jones. The movie proved an excellent distraction, due mostly to her discipline in keeping focused on the screen and not allowing her mind to wander, but as soon as it ended, she made a crucial mistake. Two, actually.
Her first disastrous decision was to listen to her voice mail. It took almost twenty minutes to get through the thirty-three messages that had been left since the day of the Grammys. The shift from Sunday, when friends and family were calling to wish her good luck, to today—when nearly every message sounded like a condolence call—was astonishing. The majority were from Julian, and all included some halfhearted version of “I can explain.” While they were appropriately pleading, none, noticeably, included an “I love you.” There was one each from Randy, her father, Michelle, and Cynthia, all offering support and encouragement; four from Nola at various times wanting to know what was happening and giving updates on Walter; and one from Heather, the guidance counselor at Huntley she’d run into at the Italian bakery. The rest were from old friends, (ex) colleagues, and random acquaintances, and each made it sound as though someone had died. Although she hadn’t felt like crying before she listened, there was a knot in her throat when she finished.
Her second, and possibly worse, amateur move was to check Facebook. She’d predicted that many of her friends would have posted excited status updates about Julian’s performance—it wasn’t every day someone they knew from high school or college performed at the Grammys. What she hadn’t anticipated, perhaps naively, was the outpouring of support directed in her direction: her wall was papered with everything from “You’re strong, you’ll get through this” from one of her friends’ mothers to “it just goes to show that all men are as*holes. don’t worry, mrs. a, we r all rooting for u!!!” from Kaylie. Under any other, less humiliating circumstances, it would’ve been wonderful to feel so much love and encouragement, but this was just plain mortifying. With it came the incontrovertible proof that her private misery was being conducted very publicly, and not just in front of strangers. In a way she couldn’t quite explain, it had been easier to think of the masses of nameless, faceless Americans examining the pictures of her husband and the Chateau girl, but the moment she realized it was also her friends and family, coworkers and acquaintances, it became almost unbearable.
The double dose of Ambien she took that night prophylactically was sufficient to make her groggy and hungover the next day but not quite strong enough to launch her into the blackout sleep she desperately wanted. The morning and early afternoon passed by in a fog with only Walter and the constantly ringing (but ignored) phone punctuating it, and were she not terrified of losing the Huntley job, too, she would have seriously considered calling in sick. Instead, she forced herself to shower, eat a peanut butter sandwich on whole wheat toast, and move toward the subway in plenty of time to get to the Upper East Side by three thirty. She arrived at the school fifteen minutes early and, after admiring for just a moment the ivy-covered stone facade of the town house, noticed a giant ruckus to the left of the entrance.
There was a small cluster of photographers and what looked like two reporters (one with a microphone, the other with a notebook), and they were surrounding a petite blond woman wearing an ankle-length shearling coat, a neat bun, and an ugly grimace. The photographers were so focused on the woman they didn’t notice Brooke.
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“No, I wouldn’t say it’s anything personal,” the woman said while shaking her head. She listened for a moment and then shook it again. “No, I have never had any interaction with her—my daughter doesn’t require any nutrition counseling, but . . .”
Brooke stopped listening for a split second upon realizing this strange woman was talking about her.
“Let me say that I’m not alone in thinking this kind of attention is inappropriate in a school environment. My daughter should be concentrating on algebra and field hockey, and instead she’s fielding calls from reporters asking her to comment for a national gossip tabloid. It’s unacceptable, and it’s why the Parents’ Association is calling for the immediate resignation of Mrs. Alter.”
Brooke gasped. The woman caught Brooke’s eye. The dozen or so other people in the circle—she could see now that there were another two mothers standing with the blond lady—all looked at her. The shouting commenced immediately.
“Brooke! Have you ever met the woman who appeared in the photographs with Julian?”
“Brooke, will you be leaving Julian? Have you seen him since Sunday night?”
“What are your thoughts on the Huntley Parents’ Association calling for your resignation? Do you blame your husband for that?”
It was like the Grammys all over again, only this time without the dress, the husband, or the rope line that separated her from the paparazzi. Thankfully, she did have the school security guard, a kindly man in his late sixties who barely cleared five-six but who nonetheless held up an arm toward the crowd and ordered them to stand back, reminding everyone that while the sidewalk was public property, the stairs leading up to the front door were not. Brooke shot him a grateful look and bolted inside. She was equal parts angry and shocked, mostly at herself for not predicting—for never even suspecting—that all this hellish, unwanted attention would follow her to school.
She took a deep breath and headed directly to her office on the ground floor. Rosie, the administrative assistant for all counseling-related programming, glanced up from her desk when Brooke entered the anteroom to the suite where she, Heather, and the other three guidance counselors all had their offices. Rosie had never excelled at minding her own business, but Brooke guessed today would be worse than usual. She braced herself for the inevitable reference to the Julian photographs, the mob outside, or both.
“Hey, Brooke. Let me know when you’re settled from all the, um, craziness outside. Rhonda wants to come in for a few minutes before your appointments begin,” Rosie said, sounding nervous enough to make Brooke nervous.
“Really? Any idea why?”
“Nope,” Rosie replied, clearly lying. “She asked me to let her know when you got here.”
“Okay, can I take my coat off and check the machine? Two minutes?”
She stepped inside her office, only big enough to house a desk, two chairs, and a coat stand, and she quietly shut the door. Through the glass door, she could see Rosie pick up the phone, letting Rhonda know that she had arrived.
Barely thirty seconds had passed when she heard a knock. “Come in!” Brooke called, trying to sound welcoming. She genuinely liked and respected Rhonda, and while a visit from her principal wasn’t the least bit unusual, she had been hoping to avoid any unnecessary contact that day.
“I’m glad you’re here. I want to give you an update on Lizzie Stone,” Brooke said, hoping to co-opt the conversation by bringing up one of the students she counseled. Brooke barreled on. “I can’t believe that Coach Demichev is trusted with the well-being of these girls. I mean, I think it’s great he can just create Olympians out of thin air—no pun intended—but it’s really only a matter of time before one of them starves to death.”
“Brooke,” Rhonda said, drawing out her name in an unusually long way, “I want to hear this; maybe you can write me a memo. But we need to talk.”
“Oh? Is everything okay?” she asked, her heart rattling in her chest.
“I’m afraid not. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. . . .”
She knew from the look on Rhonda’s face. Of course it wasn’t her decision, Rhonda said; she might have been the principal but she answered to so many others, especially the parents, who thought all this attention Brooke was receiving didn’t reflect well on the school. Everyone understood it wasn’t Brooke’s fault, that of course she couldn’t be pleased about the media scrutiny, which is why they wanted her to take some time off—paid, of course—until everything calmed down.
By the time Rhonda said, “I do hope you understand this is only temporary, and it’s a last resort that none of us is happy about,” Brooke had mentally checked out. She didn’t suggest to Rhonda that the hostile mother currently holding court for press outside the school was the person drawing all the media attention, not her. She refrained from reminding her principal that she had never mentioned the school by name in a single interview and had never, ever compromised her students’ privacy by so much as explaining her responsibilities to anyone outside her immediate circle of friends and family. Instead, she forced herself into appropriate-response autopilot, assuring Rhonda she understood, that she knew it wasn’t her decision, that she’d be on her way as soon as she tied up a few loose ends. Less than an hour later, Brooke walked back into the anteroom with her coat on and bag slung over her shoulder and ran into Heather.
“Hey, are you done for the day already? I’m jealous.”
Brooke felt a lump growing in her throat and coughed. “More like done for the foreseeable future.”
“I heard what happened,” Heather whispered, although they were alone in the room. Brooke wondered how she already knew and then remembered how fast rumors spread in a high school.
Brooke shrugged. “Yeah, well, that’s part of the deal. If I were a parent paying forty grand a year for my daughter to go to school here, I guess I wouldn’t be thrilled to have her harassed by paparazzi every time she stepped outside. Rhonda told me that some of the girls had been contacted by tabloid reporters via their Facebook accounts, asking what I was like at school and if I ever talked about Julian. Can you imagine?” She sighed. “If that’s really the case, I probably should be dismissed.”
“Vile. They are absolutely vile people. Listen, Brooke, I really think you should meet my friend. The one I was telling you about whose husband won American Idol? I’m guessing not a lot of people know what you’re going through, but trust me, she gets it. . . .” Heather’s voice trailed off, and she looked anxious, like she was afraid she’d pushed too hard.
Brooke had less than zero interest in meeting Heather’s significantly younger friend from Alabama and comparing husband woes, but she nodded. “Sure, get me her e-mail and I’ll shoot her a note.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll have her get in touch with you if that’s okay?”
It was absolutely not okay, but what could she say? She just wanted to get out of there before she ran into anyone else. “Sure, sounds good,” she said awkwardly.
Brooke forced a smile and a little wave and bolted for the front door. She passed a group of girls in the hall and one of them called her name. She thought about pretending she hadn’t heard, but she couldn’t just ignore it. When she turned around, Kaylie was walking toward her.
“Mrs. A? Where are you going? Don’t we have our appointment today? I heard there are a bunch of reporters outside.”
Brooke looked at the girl, who was, as usual, twisting frizzy strands of hair nervously around her fingers, and felt a surge of guilt. “Hey, sweetheart. It looks like I’m, well, I’m going to be taking a little time off.” When Kaylie’s face fell, she rushed on. “But don’t worry, it’s only temporary, I’m sure, and you’re doing so great.”
“But, Mrs. A., I don’t think that—”
Brooke interrupted her and leaned in closer to the girl, so none of the other students could hear them. “Kaylie, you’ve graduated beyond me,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “You’re strong and hea
lthy and you know—probably better than any girl here—how to take care of yourself. Not only do you fit in, but you’re one of the stars of the school play. You look great and you feel great . . . hell, I don’t know what more I could do with you.”
Kaylie smiled back at her and leaned in for a hug. “I won’t tell anyone you just cursed,” she said.
Brooke swatted the girl’s arm and grinned, although she could feel her throat constricting. “You take care. And call if you need anything. But trust me, you’re not getting rid of me that quickly. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
Kaylie nodded and Brooke tried not to cry. “And promise me: no more moronic cleanses, okay? We’re over that, right?”
“We’re over it,” Kaylie said with a smile.
Brooke gave a small wave and turned back toward the building’s exit, determined to keep moving past the handful of lingering photographers who launched into a shouting, questioning frenzy when they saw her, and she didn’t slow down until she hit Fifth Avenue. She checked to make sure no one had followed her and then tried to hail a cab, a completely fruitless endeavor at four in the afternoon. After twenty frustrating minutes, she hopped a crosstown bus on Eighty-sixth Street and rode west to the 1 train, where she was grateful to find a seat in the very last car.
She closed her eyes and sat back, not caring that her hair was touching the place on the wall where so many people had rubbed their greasy locks. So this was what it felt like to get fired not once but twice in the same week. She was just beginning to feel really sorry for herself when she opened her eyes and saw Julian smiling down at her from an advertisement.
It was the same publicity headshot she’d seen a thousand times, framed by a photo of his album cover and the line “For the Lost,” but she’d never seen it on the subway before, and she hadn’t noticed how his eyes seemed to stare directly into hers. The irony that he was there with her, on that subway, despite never being anywhere with her, did not go unnoticed. Brooke walked to the opposite end of the car and took a seat where the only advertisements were for cosmetic dentistry and ESL classes. She sneaked a look back toward Julian and felt her stomach roil when, once again, he stared back at her. No matter which way she turned her body or angled her head, his eyes always found hers and, combined with his dimpled smile, made her more miserable. At the next station, Brooke quickly switched cars, choosing one without her husband.
Last Night at Chateau Marmont Page 31