Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  Not only did Julian Alter make a splash earlier this summer with a rocking Leno performance and a super-steamy photo, but he’s got the goods to back it up: his first album debuted at #4 on the Billboard charts last week. Now everyone can’t help but wonder . . . who is this singer?

  Brooke used her feet to push herself into more of a sitting position. She was aware of a growing queasiness and she quickly blamed it on the combination of too much wine and steaming hot water. And if you believe that . . . she thought to herself. Deep breath. It was natural to feel a little strange reading a surprise article about your own husband in a national magazine. She willed herself to keep going.

  EARLY YEARS: Born on Manhattan’s Upper East Side in 1977, he attended the prestigious Dalton School and spent summers in the south of France. Positioned to be the perfect prepster, Alter’s interest in music didn’t jibe well with his society parents.

  CAREER: After graduating from Amherst in 1999, Alter turned down med school to pursue his musical ambitions. He signed with Sony in 2008 after a two-year stint as an A&R intern. Alter’s first album is projected to be one of the most successful debuts of the year.

  PASSIONS: When he’s not in the studio, Alter likes to spend quality time with his pooch, Walter Alter, and hang out with friends. High school classmates claim he was quite the tennis star at Dalton but doesn’t play anymore because tennis doesn’t “gel with his image.”

  LOVE LIFE: Don’t get your hopes up for a hookup with Layla Lawson any time soon! Alter has been married to longtime love Brooke for five years, despite whispers of trouble in paradise due to Julian’s new scheduling demands. “Brooke was incredibly supportive when he was a nobody, but she’s having a really hard time with all the attention,” said a source who knows both Julian and Brooke. The couple live in a modest one-bedroom near Times Square, although friends say they’re looking to upgrade.

  At the very bottom of the box was a photo of herself and Julian, taken by one of the professional photographers at the Friday Night Lights party, one that she hadn’t seen yet. Her eyes hungrily devoured it, and she breathed an enormous sigh of relief: somehow, miraculously, they both looked good. Julian was leaning down and kissing her shoulder, and you could see the hint of a smile on his face. Brooke had one arm draped across the back of his neck and the other was holding a brightly colored margarita; her head was thrown back a bit and she was laughing. Despite the cocktail, the two cowboy hats, and the pack of cigarettes rolled up in Julian’s shirtsleeve as part of his costume, Brooke was thrilled they looked happy and carefree, not drunk or sloppy. Were she forced to find something wrong with the picture, she probably would’ve pointed to her midsection, where, due to a perfect storm of her body contorting in an unusual angle, the shadows cast off from the dark room, and a bit of a breeze from the back patio, her plaid shirt puffed out like she had a potbelly. Nothing egregious, just the suggestion of a little spare tire that in reality didn’t exist. But the truth was, she could live with a bad camera angle. All things considered—and there were myriad other ways each could’ve looked horrifically bad—she was pretty pleased.

  But then there was that article. Where to even begin? Julian sure wasn’t going to be happy about all the prep school stuff. No matter how many times Brooke tried to reassure him that no one cared where anyone went to high school, he couldn’t stand even the mildest suggestion that his accomplishments were somehow the result of his extremely privileged upbringing. There was that bit about Julian’s passions including spending time with his dog—a little humiliating for all involved, considering they didn’t mention how much he loved hanging with her or his family, nor were there any real hobbies listed. The suggestion that girls across America were upset that Julian and Layla wouldn’t be getting together soon was alternately flattering and disconcerting. And that quote about her being supportive but stressed by the attention? It was certainly true, so why was it worded like a nasty accusation? Did one of their friends really give that quote, or do these magazines just make things up and credit them to anonymous sources whenever it suits them? Of everything written in the entire article, the single line that really got her heart pounding was the part about how she and Julian were supposedly looking to upgrade their apartment. What? Julian knew full well that Brooke was desperate to get back to Brooklyn, but they certainly hadn’t started looking.

  Brooke tossed the magazine on the floor, stood up slowly to avoid the hot-water head rush, and climbed out of the tub. She hadn’t washed her body or her hair, but that didn’t matter now. The only thing that counted was reaching Nola before she turned off her phone for the night and went to sleep. With a towel wrapped around her chest and Walter licking the excess water from her ankles, Brooke grabbed the portable and dialed Nola’s number from memory.

  She answered after four rings, just before the voice mail usually picked up. “What? Didn’t we talk enough earlier tonight?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, but I’m in bed. What’s up? Are you filled with regret at implying that I’m the world’s biggest whore tonight?”

  Brooke snorted. “Not in the least. Did you see Last Night?”

  “Oh no. What?”

  “You subscribe, don’t you?”

  “Tell me what it says.”

  “Can you please go get it?”

  “Brooke, don’t be ridiculous! I am literally under the covers, night cream applied, Lunesta swallowed. Nothing on earth can convince me to go down to the mailroom right now.”

  “There’s a huge box called ‘Who Is Julian Alter?’ and a picture of the two of us on page twelve.”

  “Call you back in two minutes.”

  Despite her anxiety, Brooke smiled to herself. She only had time to hang up her towel and climb naked under the covers before the phone rang.

  “Did you get it?” Brooke asked.

  “Did I ever.”

  “Now you’re freaking me out. Is it really that bad?”

  Silence.

  “Nola! Say something! I’m panicking here. It’s worse than I even thought, isn’t it? Am I going to get fired for being an embarrassment to the hospital? Margaret is not going to love this. . . .”

  “This has got to be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Are we reading the same page?”

  “‘Who is this sexy singer?’ Yeah, we’re reading the same thing. And it’s awesome!”

  “Awesome?” Brooke nearly shouted. “What’s awesome about the line that says Julian’s and my marriage is on the rocks? Or the part where we’re supposedly already looking at apartments and I don’t know the first thing about it?”

  “Shhh,” Nola said. “Take a deep breath and calm down. I won’t let you twist this into something negative like you always do. Take just a second and remember the fact that your husband—your husband—is famous enough to warrant an entire box in Last Night, and one that in my opinion is extremely flattering. It basically states that the entire country wants him, but he’s yours. Think about it for a second.”

  Brooke was quiet while she considered this. She hadn’t really thought about it like that.

  “Look at the big picture here. Julian’s the real deal now, and you’re not shallow or evil if you’re pretty fucking psyched about that.”

  “I guess . . .”

  “I know! He got to where he is right now in large part because of you. Just like we talked about earlier. Your support, your hard work, your love. So go ahead and be proud of him. Be excited about the fact that your husband is famous and young girls all across the country are jealous of you right now. It’s okay, it really is. Enjoy it!”

  Brooke was silent as she took it all in.

  “Because all the other stuff is bullshit. It doesn’t really matter what they’re writing, just that they’re writing it at all. If you think this is crazy, what’s going to happen when he’s on the cover of Vanity Fair next month? Huh? Now, what does Julian think about it? I bet he’s euphoric.”

  It only occurr
ed to her then.

  “I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”

  “Well in that case, let me give you a word of advice. Call him up and congratulate him. This is exciting. It’s a milestone! The clearest indication that he’s made it. Don’t get caught up in the small stuff, okay?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Take that magazine, get in bed, and think about the fact that girls across America are wishing they could trade places with you right now.”

  Brooke laughed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “It’s true. Okay, I’ve got to go to sleep. Stop stressing and just enjoy, okay?”

  “Thanks, I will. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Brooke picked up the magazine and examined the picture again, only this time she focused on Julian. It was true, there was no denying that in the moment this photo was snapped, he looked like he was filled with love for her, doting and happy and sweet. What more could she ask for? And although she’d never admit it to anyone, it was pretty heady stuff to see yourself in a magazine like that and know your husband was a heartthrob. Nola was right—she should just let herself enjoy it for a little. No harm in that.

  She picked up her cell phone and typed a quick text to Julian:

  Just saw Last Night—so awesome, I’m so proud of you. Thanks for the ridic flowers, love them, love you. xoxo

  There. That’s what Julian needed right now—some love and support, not more criticism and freaking out. Proud of herself for fighting through her initial panic, Brooke set her phone aside and picked up her book. There were ups and downs in every marriage, she told herself as she began to read. Theirs were heightened a bit by extraordinary circumstances, no doubt, but with some dedication and effort on both their parts, it was nothing they couldn’t get through.

  9

  A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand

  WALTER Alter rested his chin on Brooke’s ankle and let out a contented sigh. “This is cozy, isn’t it?” she asked him, and he blinked. When she handed him a fat piece of popcorn, he sniffed it and then gently plucked it from her fingertips with his mouth.

  It felt so good to be curled up on the couch, looking forward to Julian’s arrival and a chance to spend some real time together, but her mind kept drifting back to Kaylie. She’d been shocked when she first laid eyes on her patient at the start of the new school year. It turned out Heather had been right: Kaylie had lost too much weight, enough that it nearly took Brooke’s breath away when the girl had first walked in her office. They’d immediately had a long conversation about the difference between healthful food choices and dangerous crash dieting—talks that had continued over the past few weeks—and Brooke was starting to feel hopeful that she was making progress.

  Her cell phone buzzed and snapped her back to reality. It was a text from Julian saying he was twenty minutes away. She raced into the bathroom, tearing off her clothes as she ran, intent on at least rinsing away the lingering Windex smell from her hair and hands after a particularly intense, slightly OCD housecleaning fit. She had just stepped under the water when she heard Walter begin to bark with a franticness that could only mean one thing.

  “Julian? I’ll be out in two minutes!” she called in vain, knowing from experience he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the living room.

  A moment later, she felt the rush of cold air before she even saw the door open. He materialized out of the steam almost immediately, and despite the fact that he’d seen her naked thousands upon thousands of times before, Brooke had an intense, almost desperate desire to cover herself. The clear plastic curtain made her feel as exposed as she would have been showering in the middle of Union Square.

  “Hey, Rook,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the running water and Walter’s frenzied barks.

  She first turned her back to him and then berated herself for being so ridiculous. “Hey,” she said. “I’m almost done here. Why don’t you wait for me . . . uh, grab a Coke and I’ll be right out.”

  She was met with silence before he said okay, and Brooke knew he was probably hurt. Again, she reminded herself that she was entitled to her feelings and she didn’t have to apologize for them or explain herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she called while keeping her back to the door, although she could sense he’d already left. Don’t apologize! She berated herself again.

  She rinsed as quickly as possible and toweled off even faster. Julian was not in the bedroom, thankfully, and she furtively—as though there were company over who might accidentally walk in at any moment—threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. There was no choice but to quickly comb out her wet hair and gather it into a ponytail. She glanced in the mirror and hoped that the ruddiness of her makeup-free face would look like some sort of healthy, happy glow to Julian, although she suspected this was unlikely. It wasn’t until she stepped into the living room and saw her husband settled on the sofa, reading last Sunday’s real estate section of the Times with Walter by his side, that the excitement hit her.

  “Welcome home,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound as fraught as it felt. She sat next to him on the couch. He looked at her, smiled, and gave her what felt like a rather lukewarm hug.

  “Hey, baby. I’m so happy to be here, you can’t even imagine. If I never see another hotel room . . .”

  After leaving in the middle of her dad’s party, Julian had come home for two nights in late September, one of which was spent at the studio. He’d left to promote the new album, hitting the road for another three weeks, and although they’d both been good about e-mail, Skype, and phone calls, the distance was beginning to feel insurmountable.

  “Finding anything good?” she asked, sitting next to him on the couch. She wanted to kiss him but couldn’t get past the lingering awkwardness.

  He pointed to a listing titled “Tribeca Luxury Loft.” It boasted three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a home office, a shared roof deck, a gas fireplace, a full-time doorman, and a tax abatement for the “Best Downtown Value” price of $2.6 million. “Look at this one. Prices are falling like crazy.”

  Brooke tried to ascertain whether or not he was kidding. Like every New York couple, they often participated in Sunday-morning real estate porn by circling listings that were astronomically out of their price range and wondering aloud what it would be like to actually own them. But something about this felt different.

  “Yeah, it’s a total bargain. We should buy two and combine them. Maybe three,” she laughed.

  “Seriously, Brooke, two point six is very reasonable for a full-service three-bedroom in Tribeca.”

  She stared at the person sitting next to her and wondered where on earth her husband had gone. Was this the same man who ten months earlier had fought vigorously to re-sign the lease on the Times Square apartment they both loathed because he didn’t want to spend the extra thousand dollars it would cost to pay a moving company?

  “You know, Rook,” he said, continuing despite the fact that she’d said nothing, “I know it must feel surreal when you really think about it, but we can afford a place like this. With everything that’s starting to come in, we could easily put twenty percent down. And with all the paid performances I have lined up, plus the record royalties, the monthly payments would be more than manageable.”

  Once again she didn’t know what to say.

  “Wouldn’t you love to live in a place like this?” he asked, pointing to the picture of an ultramodern loft with exposed-pipe ceilings and an overall industrial-chic feel. “It’s freaking awesome.”

  Every fiber of her wanted to scream no. No, she didn’t want to live in a converted warehouse. No, she didn’t want to live in faraway, hyper-trendy Tribeca with its world-class galleries and fancy restaurants and nowhere to get a cup of bodega coffee or a basic burger. No, if she had two million dollars to spend on an apartment, that was absolutely, positively not what she would choose. It almost felt like she was having this conversation with a complete
stranger, considering the number of times they’d dreamed together of owning a town house in Brooklyn or, if that was out of reach—and it always had been—then maybe a floor-through in a town house on a quiet, tree-lined street, perhaps with a little garden out back and lots of great molding. Something warm and cozy, prewar preferably, with high ceilings and charm and character. A home for a family in a real neighborhood with independent bookstores and cute coffee shops and a couple of cheap but good restaurants where they could be regulars. The exact opposite, actually, of that steely cold Tribeca loft in the picture. She couldn’t help but wonder when Julian’s ideal had shifted so drastically and, more to the point, why.

  “Leo just moved into a new building on Duane Street with a hot tub on the roof deck,” he continued. “He said he’s never seen more attractive people in one place in his entire life. And he eats at Nobu Next Door like three times a week. Can you imagine?”

  “Do you want some coffee?” she blurted out, desperate to change the subject. Every word he uttered managed to upset her even more.

  He glanced up at her and appeared to study her face. “You okay?”

  She turned her back and headed to the kitchen, where she spooned coffee into the filter basket. “I’m fine,” she called.

  Julian’s iPhone whooshed as he sent texts or IMs from the next room. Overcome with an inexplicable sadness, she leaned against the counter and watched the coffee drip into the pot, bit by bit. She prepared their mugs as she always did. Julian took the coffee, but he didn’t look up from his phone.

  “Hello?” she said, trying unsuccessfully to mask her irritation.

  “Sorry, just a text from Leo. He asked me to call him right away.”

  “By all means . . .” She knew her tone made it clear she meant the exact opposite.