“Got it,” Brooke said.
“You can sit right here,” he said, motioning to a folding chair between two of the massive cameras. “They’ll be coming inside any second and will be on air”—he checked a stopwatch hanging from a lanyard around his neck—“in just under two minutes. Your cell phone’s off, right?”
“Yeah, I left it upstairs. Oh, this is just so cool!” Brooke said. She’d never been on a television set before, never mind one so famous. It was almost overwhelming just to sit there and watch all the camera guys and sound technicians and producers in headsets scurry around in preparation. She was watching as a man swapped out overstuffed couch cushions for smaller, tighter ones when there was a rush of outside air and a lot of commotion. About a dozen people walked through the studio door and Brooke saw Julian was flanked on either side by Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira. He looked a bit dazed and had a thin bead of sweat on his upper lip, but he was laughing at something and shaking his head.
“One minute thirty seconds!” a female voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
The group walked right in front of her, and for a moment Brooke could only stare at the anchors’ familiar faces. But then Julian caught her eye and gave her a nervous smile. He mouthed something to her, although Brooke couldn’t tell what. She sat in the chair the page had pointed out. Immediately two more people descended on him, one showing him how to weave the microphone up the back of his shirt and clip it onto his collar, and the other applying pressed powder to his shiny face. Matt Lauer leaned in to whisper something to Julian, who laughed, and then walked off the stage. Meredith took the seat opposite Julian and although Brooke couldn’t hear what they were saying, it looked like Julian was quite comfortable with her. She tried to imagine how nervous he must be right then, how utterly terrifying and surreal the whole thing must feel, and just the thought of it was enough to make her queasy. She dug her fingernails into her palms and prayed it would go well.
“Forty-five seconds to live!”
It only felt like ten seconds had passed, but a deep quiet settled over the set and Brooke saw a Tylenol commercial on the monitors in front of her. It was probably on for about thirty seconds when the opening chords of the Today show song began to play, and the voice over the loudspeaker began to count down. Immediately, the entire room stood still, except for Meredith, who scanned her notes and ran her tongue over her front teeth to check for lipstick.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. And live!” At the exact moment the voice called out the word “and,” someone flipped on the massive overhead studio lights and immediately the entire set was bathed in intense, hot light. At that same moment, Meredith smiled broadly, turned toward the camera with the blinking green light, and read from the teleprompter.
“Welcome back, everyone! For those of you who are just joining us, we are lucky to have one of the hottest young stars on the musical scene today, singer-songwriter Julian Alter. He has already toured with Maroon 5 before embarking on his very own tour, and his first album debuted at number four on the Billboard chart.” She turned to Julian and her smile grew. “And he just gave us a terrific performance of his song ‘For the Lost.’ You were great, Julian! Thanks for joining us today.”
He grinned, but Brooke could see the tightness in the lips and the way his left hand death-gripped the arm of the chair. “Thanks for having me. I’m thrilled to be here.”
“I have to say, I really enjoyed that song,” Meredith said with lots of enthusiasm. Brooke was fascinated by the way the anchor’s makeup looked spackled and fake in person but flawless and beautiful on the monitor. “Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to write it?”
Julian’s face instantly came alive and he leaned forward in his chair. His entire body seemed to relax as he described his inspiration for “For the Lost.”
The next four minutes elapsed in a flash. Julian sailed through questions about how he got discovered, how long it took him to record the album, if he could believe all the incredible feedback and attention. The media training had definitely paid off: his answers were funny and charmingly self-deprecating without sounding like each had been scripted by a team of people (which they absolutely had). He maintained good eye contact, looked relaxed without being disrespectful, and at one point smiled so winningly for Meredith Vieira that she herself nearly giggled and said, “I can see why you’re such a big hit with your younger female fans.” It wasn’t until Meredith picked up a copy of an unidentifiable celeb magazine that must have been facedown on the table between them, and flipped to a bookmarked page, that Julian stopped smiling.
Brooke remembered the night Julian had come home from media training and told her it was the most important thing he’d learned. “You are not required to answer the question they ask you, and if you don’t like the question, you go ahead and answer any question you feel like answering. It does not need to be related whatsoever to the asked question. The only requirement is that you convey information you want to share. Take back control of the interview. Don’t let them bully you into answering anything unpleasant or uncomfortable. Just smile and change the subject. The onus is on the anchor to keep the interview moving forward, to make it appear smooth and seamless, and they’re not going to call you out on refusing to answer a question. This is morning television, not the presidential debates, so as long as you’re smiling and relaxed, you’ve succeeded. You’ll never get cornered or pinned down if you only answer questions you like.”
That night felt like a year ago, and Brooke just prayed Julian could muster the same confidence right now. Stick to the script, she willed him, and don’t let her see you sweat.
Meredith folded over the magazine, which Brooke could now see was US Weekly, and held a page toward Julian. She pointed to a photo in the upper-right-hand corner, which was Brooke’s first indication this wasn’t about the infamous Layla picture. Julian was smiling, but he looked confused.
“Ah yes,” he said in response to nothing, since Meredith had not asked a question yet. “My beautiful wife.”
Oh no, Brooke thought. Meredith was pointing to a picture of Brooke and Julian with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the cameras. The camera zoomed in on the picture and Brooke could make out the details now: her standby black sweater dress, Julian looking uncomfortable in a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, both of them holding wineglasses aloft . . . where were they? She leaned forward in her chair and stared at the nearest monitor and it hit her all at once. Her father’s sixty-fifth birthday party. The picture must have been taken just after Brooke gave her toast, since she and Julian were standing in front of an otherwise seated table. Who on earth had taken that and, more to the point, why did US Weekly care?
Then the camera moved down just a touch and she was able to see that the photo had a caption that read, “A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand?” She felt a horrible, anxious jolt in the middle of her stomach when she realized that the new issue of US Weekly had probably come out that very day, and no one on Julian’s team had seen it yet.
“Yes, I’ve read that you and your wife, Brooke, have been married for what, five years now?” Meredith asked, looking to Julian. He just nodded, clearly nervous about where this line of questioning was going.
Meredith leaned in close to Julian and, with a huge smile, said, “So can you confirm it here first?”
Julian peered back at her, meeting her eyes, but he looked just as confused as Brooke felt. Confirm what? Brooke knew he hadn’t processed the whole “bun in the oven” thing and most likely thought he was being questioned about the state of his marriage.
“Sorry?” It wasn’t exactly articulate, but Brooke could hardly blame him. What, exactly, was she asking?
“Well, we just couldn’t help but wonder if that was a baby bump your wife is sporting.” Meredith smiled broadly, as though an answer in the affirmative was a mere formality, not really a question at all.
Brooke inhaled sharply. Definitely not what she was expe
cting, and poor Julian was about as likely to use the phrase “baby bump” as he was to answer the question in Russian. Not to mention that while she might not be in the absolute best shape of her life, she sure as hell didn’t think she looked pregnant. It was just another awkward picture angle, taken from below and exposing the weird puffiness of fabric around the waist where the dress was cinched closed. So what?
He squirmed in his seat; his distress only seemed to confirm the truth of her question.
“Oh come on, you can tell us here. That would be quite a big year for you—debut album and a new baby! I’m sure the fans would love to know for sure. . . .”
It took Brooke a second to realize she wasn’t breathing. Was this actually happening? Who the hell did she think they were? Brangelina? Did anyone actually care if they were pregnant? Was it anyone’s business? Did she really look so huge in that picture that the only assumption could be she was with child? And most of all, if the whole goddamn world was going to assume she was pregnant, that picture made her look like a pregnant woman with a drinking problem. It was almost too much to believe.
Julian opened his mouth to say something, appeared to remember his instructions to smile and answer whatever he wanted, and said, “I love my wife very much. None of this would have ever happened without her incredible support.”
None of what? Brooke wanted to scream. The horrible timing of the pregnancy that didn’t exist? The fact that his wife was drinking straight through her faux pregnancy?
There was an awkward silence that probably only lasted a couple seconds but felt endless, and then Meredith thanked Julian, looked directly at the camera, ordered everyone to buy his new album, and cut to commercial. Brooke was vaguely aware that the intense lights had been lowered and Meredith had unhooked her microphone and stood up. She extended a hand to Julian, who looked shell-shocked, offered a few words Brooke couldn’t hear, and quickly walked off the set. A dozen people began scurrying around the studio, checking wires and pushing cameras and exchanging clipboards. Julian continued to sit there, looking like he’d just been whacked over the head with a shovel.
Brooke stood up and was about to make her way to Julian when Leo materialized in front of her.
“Our boy did pretty well, dontcha think, Brooke? Little weird on the last question, but nothing major.”
“Mmm.” Brooke was intent on getting to Julian, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Samara, the media trainer, and two PAs escorted Julian back outside to prepare for his next set. He still had two more songs to sing, one at eight forty-five and one at nine thirty, before this hellish morning would finally end.
“You wanna come outside or watch from the greenroom? Might want to take it easy, you know, put your legs up?” Leo leered, which felt grosser than usual right then.
“You think I’m pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.
Leo threw his hands in the air. “I’m not asking. That’s your deal, you know? Granted, it wouldn’t be the best timing in terms of Julian’s career, but hey, I guess babies come when they’re ready. . . .”
“Leo, I would really appreciate—”
Leo’s cell phone rang and he yanked it from his pocket and cradled it like it was the Bible. “Gotta take this,” he said, and turned to walk outside.
Brooke stood rooted to her spot. She couldn’t even begin to process what had happened. Julian had all but confirmed an imaginary pregnancy on live, national television. The page who had greeted them this morning appeared by Brooke’s side.
“Hi! Can I show you back to the greenroom? They’re getting set up for the next segment, so things are kind of crazy here,” he said, checking his clipboard.
“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks,” Brooke said gratefully.
She followed him in silence back up the stairs and down the long hallway. He opened the greenroom door for her and Brooke thought he may have said “congratulations” before he left, but she wasn’t sure. Her seat had been claimed by a man in full chef whites, so she took the only empty chair left.
The child prodigy with the violin looked up at her. “Do you know what it is?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched it sounded like she had just inhaled a helium balloon.
“Pardon me?” Brooke glanced at the child, uncertain she had heard her correctly.
“I asked,” the girl said excitedly, “if you know what you’re having yet. A boy or a girl?”
Brooke’s mouth dropped in shock.
The girl’s mother leaned over and whispered something in her ear, probably something about her question being rude or inappropriate, but the girl only glared back. “I just asked what she was having!” she screeched.
Brooke tried to relax. Might as well have a little fun—god knows her family and friends weren’t going to be quite as amused. She scanned the room to make sure no one else was listening and leaned over. “I’m having a girl,” she whispered, only feeling slightly evil for lying to a child. “And I can only hope she is every bit as lovely as you.”
The phone calls from friends and family began pouring in during the car ride home and continued nonstop for days. Her mother announced that while she was hurt she had to find out on television, she was nonetheless ecstatic that her only daughter would finally be a mother herself. Her father was delighted that the picture from his party had been posted on national television and wondered how he and Cynthia hadn’t figured it out earlier. Julian’s mother weighed in with the expected “Oh, well! We sure don’t feel old enough to be grandparents!” Randy kindly offered to include Brooke’s future son on the small football team of Greene children he was mentally drafting, and Michelle volunteered her services to decorate the little one’s nursery. Nola was livid that Brooke hadn’t confided in her first, although she admitted that she’d be more apt to forgive were the little girl named after her. And every single one of them—some more gently than others—commented on the wine.
That she had to convince her entire family, Julian’s entire family, all her coworkers and all their friends that first, she was not pregnant, and second, she would never drink during her purely hypothetical pregnancy, felt to Brooke like more than an insult. An affront. And she could still sense skepticism. The only thing that worked—that actually made people back off for half a second—was the following week’s US Weekly, which showed a paparazzi picture of Brooke grocery shopping at her neighborhood Gristedes. Her belly looked flatter, no doubt, but that wasn’t what did the trick. In the photo she held a basket with bananas, a four-pack of yogurt, a liter of Poland Spring, a bottle of Windex, and, apparently, a box of Tampax. The Pearl version, super absorbency, should the world be interested, and it was circled with a thick black marker and a caption that screamed “No Baby for the Alters!” as though the magazine, through some sort of savvy detective work, had really gotten to the bottom of the issue.
Thanks to that stellar journalism, the entire world knew she was not pregnant but she did have heavier-than-average periods. Nola found the entire thing hysterically funny; Brooke couldn’t stop thinking that everyone from her tenth-grade boyfriend to her ninety-one-year-old grandfather—not to mention every single teenager, housewife, frequent flyer, grocery shopper, salon visitor, manicure seeker, and subscriber in North America—was privy to the details of her menstrual cycle. She hadn’t even seen the photographer! From that day on, she ordered all products that were sex, period, or digestion related online.
Thankfully, Randy and Michelle’s baby, Ella, proved to be the ultimate distraction. She arrived, like a blessing from above, two weeks after the Today show drama, and she had the courtesy to arrive right on Halloween, thereby giving them a perfect excuse to bail on Leo’s costume party. Brooke couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude toward her new niece. Between all the retellings of the birthing story (Michelle’s water breaking while they were out at an Italian restaurant, the race to the hospital only to wait another twelve hours, the offer of free lifetime meals for Ella from the owner of Campanelli’s), the swaddling l
essons, and the counting of fingers and toes, the focus had shifted away from Brooke and Julian. At least, within their own family.
They were the model aunt and uncle, making it to the hospital with time to spare before the baby was born, remembering to bring with them two dozen New York bagels and enough lox to feed the entire maternity ward. Even Julian had seemed pleased by the whole event, cooing in Ella’s ear that her tiny hands looked like they were made to play the piano. She would forever think of baby Ella as the last delicious calm before the hell storm to come.
10
Boy-Next-Door Dimples
BROOKE’s cell phone rang just as she’d lugged the twenty-two-pound turkey into the apartment and managed to heave it on top of the counter.
“Hello?” she said as she began clearing her fridge of every nonessential item to make room for the gigantic bird.
“Brooke? It’s Samara.”
She was caught off guard. Samara had never, ever called her before. Did she want to check in and see what they thought of the Vanity Fair cover? It had just hit the stands and Brooke couldn’t stop staring at it. She thought of it as vintage Julian, in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, wearing one of his favorite knit caps and smiling in just that way that showed off his astonishingly endearing dimples. He was by far the cutest of the gang.
“Oh, hi! Doesn’t he just look amazing on the Vanity Fair cover? I mean, I’m not surprised, but he just looks so—”
“Brooke, do you have a minute?”
Obviously, this wasn’t a social call about a magazine cover, and if that woman was even going to try to tell Julian that he couldn’t make it home for the very first Thanksgiving they were hosting, well, she’d kill her.
“Um, yeah, just hold on one sec.” She closed the fridge and sat down at their tiny table, which reminded her that she needed to call and check on the status of the table and chair rental. “Okay, I’m settled now. What’s going on?”
Last Night at Chateau Marmont Page 21
