“Brooke, there’s been an article written, and it’s not pleasant,” Samara announced in that clipped, curt way she always had, although with news like this there was something comforting about it.
Brooke tried to laugh it off. “Well, seems like these days there’s always an article written. Hey, I’m the hard-drinking pregnant lady, remember? What did Julian say?”
Samara cleared her throat. “I haven’t told him yet. I suspect he’ll be very upset, and I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Oh, Christ. What do they say about him? Do they make fun of his hair? Or his family? Or did some creepy attention whore from his past surface with claims that—”
“It’s not about Julian, Brooke. It’s about you.”
Silence. Brooke felt her fingernails digging into her palms, but she couldn’t consciously stop it from happening.
“What about me?” she finally asked, her voice a near whisper.
“It’s a collection of offensive lies,” Samara said coolly. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. And I also want you to know that we have our legal team on it, refuting the entirety of it. We’re taking this very seriously.”
Brooke couldn’t bring herself to speak. No question it must be pretty horrible if Samara was going to such lengths over some tabloid piece. Finally she said, “Where is it? I need to see it.”
“It will be in tomorrow’s issue of Last Night, but you can read it online right now. Brooke, please understand that everyone here is behind you, and we promise—”
For possibly the first time since she was a teenager—and certainly for the first time involving anyone but her mother—Brooke hung up midsentence and moved to the computer. She found the page within seconds and did a double take when a huge picture on the homepage showed her and Julian having dinner at an outdoor table. She racked her brain, trying to figure out where they were, before she noticed a street sign in the background. Of course, the Spanish meal they’d shared the night Julian came home shortly after leaving in the middle of her father’s birthday party. Then she began to read.
The couple sharing an order of paella at an outdoor table in Hell’s Kitchen might look like anyone else, but those in the know recognized them as America’s favorite new singer-songwriter Julian Alter and his longtime wife, Brooke. Alter’s debut album has crushed the charts, and his boy-next-door dimples have wowed female fans from coast to coast. But just who is the woman by his side? And how are they weathering Julian’s newfound fame?
Not well, according to a source close to the couple. “They married very, very young, and, yes, they’ve made it five years so far, but they are on the verge of collapse,” the source said. “His schedule is demanding, and Brooke hasn’t been very accommodating.”
The two met shortly after the terrorist attacks of September 11 and clung to each other in the aftermath that rocked New York. “Brooke practically stalked Julian for months, following him all over Manhattan and sitting alone at all his gigs until he had no choice but to notice her. They were both just lonely,” the source explained. A close family friend of the Alters’ agrees. “Julian’s parents were devastated when he announced his engagement to Brooke after less than two years of dating. What was the rush?” However, the couple tied the knot in a small, no-frills ceremony at the Alter family home in the Hamptons despite the fact that the Drs. Alter “always suspected that Brooke, a girl from some nowhere town in Pennsylvania, was trying to hitch her wagon to Julian’s star.”
Over the last few years, Brooke worked two jobs to help support her husband’s musical aspirations, but one of her friends explains that “Brooke would’ve done anything necessary to help Julian seek the fame she’s always so desired. Two jobs, ten jobs—none of it mattered, so long as she was married to a celebrity.” The mother of a student enrolled at the elite Upper East Side private school where Brooke offers nutritional counseling reports, “She seems like a perfectly nice person, although my daughter did tell me that she often leaves early or cancels appointments.” The work problems don’t stop there. A colleague at NYU Medical Center explains that “Brooke used to be the number one performer in our entire program, but she’s really slipped lately. Whether she’s distracted by her husband’s career or just bored of her own, it’s been sad to watch.”
As for those pregnancy rumors that were started on the Today show and quickly quashed by US Weekly the following week with photographic evidence that the Alters are not expecting? Well, don’t expect that to change any time soon. An old friend of Julian’s claims that Brooke has been “pushing for a baby since the day they met, but Julian keeps putting her off because he’s still not positive she’s the One.”
And with trouble brewing like that, who can blame him?
“I have complete faith that Julian will do the right thing,” a source close to Julian said recently. “He’s an amazing kid with such a solid head on his shoulders. He’ll find the right path.”
She didn’t know when the tears began, but by the time she finished reading, they had puddled near the keyboard and dampened her cheeks, chin, and lips. There were no words to describe how it felt to read something like that about yourself, to know that it was patently untrue but to wonder—because how couldn’t you?—if there weren’t tiny kernels of truth. Of course all that stuff about how she and Julian met, and why, was ridiculous, but did his parents really hate her? Was her reputation at both her jobs being compromised by how much work she’d missed? Could there be any sliver of truth to the story’s supposed reason why Julian didn’t want a baby right now? It was horrifying beyond comprehension.
Brooke read it a second time and then a third. She may have sat there reading and rereading it all day long, but her phone rang again. It was Julian this time.
“Rook, I can’t even tell you how pissed I am! It’s one thing if they want to write a bunch of trash about me, but when they start in on you . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she lied. She wanted nothing more than to talk about it, to ask Julian point by point if he agreed with any of the twisted claims the article made, but she didn’t have the energy.
“I’ve already spoken to Samara, and she promised me that the legal team at Sony was preparing to—”
“Julian, I really don’t want to talk about it,” she repeated. “It’s horrible and hateful and universally untrue—I hope—and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. We are hosting nine people including ourselves for Thanksgiving tomorrow, and I need to start preparing.”
“Brooke, I don’t want you to think for a single second that—”
“Okay, I know. You’re still coming home tomorrow, right?” She held her breath.
“Of course! I’m on the first flight out, so I’ll land around eight and come directly from LaGuardia. Do you need me to pick up anything?”
Brooke clicked the hateful article closed and opened her Thanksgiving shopping list. “I think I’ve got everything . . . actually, a couple more bottles of wine. Maybe one more red and one more white.”
“Of course, baby. I’ll be home in just a little bit and we can work through this, okay? Call you later.”
“Mmm. Okay.” Her voice sounded cold and distant, and even though it wasn’t Julian’s fault, she couldn’t help feeling resentful.
They hung up and she thought first about phoning Nola and then her mother, but decided the only way to deal with this was not to deal with it. She called to check on the table rentals, brined the turkey, washed the potatoes for mashing the next day, made the cranberry sauce, and trimmed the asparagus. After that, it was time for a massive apartment clean and reorganization, which she tackled to the blasting sounds of an old hip-hop CD from high school. She’d planned to go for a manicure around five, but when she peeked out the window, at least two and maybe four men with Escalades and cameras were lurking on the street below. Brooke glanced at her cuticles and back at the men: so not worth it.
By the time she crawled into bed that night with Walter, she had manag
ed to delude herself into believing that the whole thing would just go away. Even though it was the very first thing that popped into her mind when she woke up on Thanksgiving morning, she managed to force the thought back. There was so much to do to get ready, and people would be there in five hours. When Julian arrived home a little after nine, she insisted they change the subject.
“But, Rook, I just don’t think it’s healthy not to discuss this,” he said as he helped push all their living room furniture against the walls to make room for the rented table.
“I just don’t know what there is to say. It’s all a massive bunch of lies, and yes, it’s upsetting—mortifying—to read stuff like that about myself and my marriage, but unless any of it’s actually true, I just don’t see what hashing and rehashing this is going to do. . . .” She looked at him questioningly.
“Not a single word of it is true. Not that crap about my parents, or me not thinking you’re ‘the one’—none of it.”
“So let’s focus on today, okay? What time did your parents say they’re leaving? I won’t have Neha and Rohan come over until they’re gone. I just don’t think we’ll be able to fit everyone at the same time.”
“They’re coming at one for a drink, and I told them they had to be gone by two. Does that work?”
Brooke picked up a stack of magazines and hid them in the hallway closet. “That’s perfect. Everyone else is arriving at two. Tell me again I shouldn’t feel guilty that we’re kicking them out.”
Julian snorted. “We’re hardly kicking them out. They’re going to the Kamens’. Trust me, they won’t want to stay a minute longer.”
She shouldn’t have been worried. The Alters arrived exactly on time, agreed only to drink the wine they’d brought (“Oh, dears, save your bottles for your other guests—why don’t we drink the good stuff now?”), made only one disparaging comment about the apartment (“It certainly is charming, isn’t it? It’s just a wonder you two have been able to live here for as long as you have”), and left fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Thirty seconds after they left, their buzzer rang again.
“Come on up,” she called into the intercom.
Julian squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be great.”
Brooke opened the hallway door and her mother swooped in with barely a hello. “The baby’s sleeping,” she declared, as though she were announcing the arrival of the president and first lady. “Where should we put her?”
“Well, let’s see. Being that we’re all eating in the living room, and I’m guessing you don’t want her in the bathroom, that only leaves one option. Can you just put her on our bed?” Brooke asked.
Randy and Michelle materialized holding baby Ella in a portable carry seat. “She’s still way too young to roll so it’s probably fine,” Michelle said, leaning over to kiss Julian hello.
“No way!” Randy said, dragging what looked like a folded-up tent. “That’s exactly why I brought the Pack ’n Play. You are not putting her on a bed.”
Michelle gave Brooke a look that said, Well, who can argue with the overprotective daddy? and they both laughed. Randy and Mrs. Greene took Ella back to the bedroom and Julian began to pour glasses of wine.
“So . . . are you doing okay?” Michelle asked.
Brooke closed the oven, set the baster down, and turned to Michelle. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
Her sister-in-law looked instantly contrite. “Oh, sorry, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up, but that article was just so . . . so vicious.”
Brooke inhaled sharply. “Oh, yeah, I guess I figured no one else had read it yet. Since it’s not even out, you know?”
“Oh, I’m sure no one else has!” Michelle said. “A friend of mine forwarded it to me online, but she’s a total freak about the gossip websites. No one reads as much as she does.”
“Got it. Hey, would you mind bringing this to the living room?” Brooke asked, handing Michelle a cheese platter with miniature bowls of fig jam and assorted crackers.
“Of course,” Michelle said. Brooke figured she got the message, but Michelle took two steps out of the kitchen, turned around, and said, “You know, someone keeps calling and asking me questions about you guys, but we don’t say a word.”
“Who?” Brooke asked, her voice filled with the panic she’d successfully suppressed until now. “Remember, I’ve asked you guys not to talk to any reporters about us. Not on the phone, in person, not ever.”
“Oh, we know that. And we never would. I just thought you should know that there are people out there hunting around.”
“Yeah, well, judging from their accuracy, they haven’t done a terrific job with sources,” Brooke said, pouring herself another glass of white wine.
Her mother’s voice broke the awkward silence and Michelle scurried out with the cheese. “What’s going on in here?” she asked, kissing Brooke’s hair. “I’m so relieved you’ve taken over the hosting! It was getting lonely year after year when all you kids went to your father’s.”
Brooke didn’t tell her that the only reason she’d volunteered to make Thanksgiving dinner this year was because her father and Cynthia were going to Cynthia’s family’s place in Arizona. Besides, it was nice to feel like a proper grown-up, even if it was only for an afternoon.
“Yeah, well, let’s see if you’re still saying that when you try the turkey,” Brooke said.
The doorbell rang, and Ella began to wail from the bedroom.
Everyone dispersed: Randy and Michelle to tend to Ella, Julian to open another bottle of wine, and Mrs. Greene to trail Brooke to the door.
“Remind me who these friends are again?” she asked. “I know you’ve told me before, but I can’t remember.”
“Neha and I went to grad school together and she now does prenatal nutrition at a gynecologist’s office in Brookline. Her husband, Rohan, is an accountant, and they’ve been living in Boston for about three years now. Both of their families are still in India, so they don’t really celebrate Thanksgiving, but I thought it’d be nice to include them,” Brooke whispered as they stood in the foyer.
Her mother nodded. Brooke knew she wouldn’t remember half of it and would end up asking Neha and Rohan for the whole story again.
Brooke opened the door and Neha immediately leaned in for a hug. “I can’t believe how long it’s been! Why don’t we see each other more often?”
Brooke hugged her back and then stood on her tiptoes to kiss Rohan on the cheek. “Come in, you guys. Neha, Rohan, this is my mom. Mom, these are friends from way back.”
Neha laughed. “Like, back when we were in our twenties and still hot?”
“Yeah, we do lab coats and clogs better than anyone. Here, let me take your coats,” Brooke said as she ushered them inside.
Julian emerged from the tiny galley kitchen. “Hey, man,” he said, shaking Rohan’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “Great to see you. How is everything?” Julian looked especially adorable in a pair of black jeans, a cashmere gray waffle sweater, and a pair of vintage sneakers. His skin glowed with a subtle L.A.-acquired tan and despite being exhausted, his eyes were bright and he moved with a relaxed confidence Brooke had only recently noticed.
Rohan glanced at his own navy chino pants, dress shirt, and tie and actually blushed. He and Julian had never been close friends—Julian found Rohan way too quiet and conservative—but they’d always managed to make small talk in the presence of their wives. Now Rohan could barely meet Julian’s eyes, and he mumbled, “Oh, same old for us. Not nearly as exciting as you. We actually saw your face on a billboard the other day.”
There was an awkward pause until Ella, no longer crying and sporting the cutest little cow onesie Brooke had ever seen, made an appearance, and everyone could ooh and aah over her for a bit.
“So, Neha, how do you like Boston?” Brooke’s mother asked. She smeared a small hunk of blue cheese on a cracker and popped it in her mouth.
Neha smiled. “Well, we love our neighborhood and we’ve met some nice
people. I like our apartment a lot. The city really does have a great quality of life.”
“What she wants to say is that it’s boring beyond description,” Brooke said, spearing an olive with a toothpick.
Neha nodded. “She’s right. It’s spirit crushing.”
Mrs. Greene laughed and Brooke could tell her mother was charmed. “So why don’t you two move back to New York? I know Brooke would be thrilled.”
“Rohan will be done with his MBA next year, and if I have any say at all, we’ll sell our car—I hate the driving—give up our perfectly lovely apartment, say good-bye to our extremely polite neighbors, and hightail it right back here where we can only afford a walk-up in a sketchy neighborhood surrounded by rude, aggressive people. And I will love every minute of it.”
“Neha . . .” Rohan overheard this last part and gave his wife a look.
“What? You can’t expect me to live there forever.” She turned to Brooke and Mrs. Greene and lowered her voice. “He hates it, too, but he feels guilty about hating it. Who ever hates Boston, you know?”
By the time everyone had gathered around the cloth-draped card table to start the meal, Brooke had all but forgotten about the hideous article. There was plenty of wine, and the turkey was moist and perfectly cooked, and although the mashed potatoes were a little bland, her guests protested that they were the best damn mashed potatoes they’d ever eaten. They chatted easily about the new Hugh Grant movie and the upcoming trip to Mumbai and Goa that Neha and Rohan were planning over the holidays to visit their families. Things were so relaxed, in fact, that when Brooke’s mother leaned over and quietly asked her how she was holding up, she almost dropped her fork.
“You’ve read it?” Brooke spat, staring at her mother.
“Oh, honey, of course I read it. Four different women forwarded it to me this morning. Gossip hounds, each and every one of them. I can’t even imagine how devastating it is to read—”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Last Night at Chateau Marmont Page 22
