Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Seriously, Rook, that was first-rate media wrangling,” Julian said in agreement. “You handled that bitch like a pro.”

  She dropped Julian’s arm. The way he congratulated her made her sick. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  “Wait! Brooke, we need to get seated right away so Julian can get backstage to warm up with—”

  “Rook? Can you wait just—”

  She left them both behind without so much as a second glance and made her way through the throngs of the gorgeous and gorgeously dressed. She reassured herself that no one knew who she was, that no matter how nauseated she felt, no one was staring at her or talking about her. She beelined toward the restroom sign, desperate to hide and compose herself for just a couple minutes. The ladies’ room was surprisingly basic—what one would expect from the Staples Center but hardly befitting the Grammys ceremony—and Brooke tried hard not to touch anything as she closed the stall door behind her. She concentrated on taking deep breaths as the other women in the bathroom chitchatted.

  One woman was going on and on about how she’d spotted Taylor Swift and Kanye West talking to each other off to the side of the red carpet, and she just couldn’t understand why cute little Taylor would be giving Kanye—“that total douchebag!”—the time of day. Her friend weighed in on whether Taylor or Miley looked better in their near-matching black dresses (the vote was split), and each of them named their pick of hottest guy in attendance (one chose Jay-Z; the other insisted on Josh Duhamel). One of them wondered who was watching Jennifer Hudson’s son that evening. Another wanted to know why, exactly, Kate Beckinsale was in attendance when neither she nor her husband had anything to do with the music industry. It was precisely the kind of idle chatter she and Nola would’ve made if they’d been standing in that bathroom, and she found it oddly comforting. Right up until they started in on their next topic.

  “So have you seen the Julian Alter pictures yet?” the one with the annoying voice asked her friend.

  “No, are they really that bad?”

  “Christ, are they ever. The girl is, like, grinding all over him. They could be having actual sex under her skirt in one of them.”

  “Who is she? Have they found out?”

  “Some nobody. A civilian. Just some party girl out looking for a good time at the Chateau.”

  For what felt like the thousandth time that night, Brooke stopped breathing. The bathroom was busy—women constantly rotated in and out, washing their hands and adjusting imaginary flyaways and refreshing their already-perfect lipstick—but she only had ears for those two voices. It was a bad idea, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Double-checking the stall door to make sure it was locked, she lined her eyes up with the crack along the hinges and peeked outside. Standing at the sink were two women, both probably in their mid- to late twenties, probably starlets, though neither of them looked familiar.

  “What was he thinking, doing that at the Chateau? I mean, if you’re going to cheat on your wife, shouldn’t you at least try to be discreet?”

  The other one scoffed. “Oh, whatever. Like it matters where they do it! They always get caught. Look at Tiger! Men are just that stupid.”

  This caused the other one to laugh. “Julian Alter is no Tiger Woods, and trust me, his wife is no Swedish supermodel.”

  She knew full well she wasn’t a Swedish supermodel, but she didn’t need to hear other people say it. She desperately wanted to leave but she dreaded going back to Julian and Leo every bit as much as she dreaded continuing her bathroom eavesdropping. The woman pulled out a cigarette.

  “Do you think she’ll actually leave him?” the girl with the too-short trendy bangs asked her friend Screech Voice.

  There was a snort. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere . . . unless he says so.”

  “What is she, a teacher or something?”

  “A nurse, I think.”

  “Can you imagine? You’re just a regular civilian one day and then your husband is a superstar the next.”

  Screech laughed particularly hard at this. “I don’t see Martin at risk of being super-anything. I guess that puts it all on me, huh?”

  Bangs exhaled a final smoke ring and stamped her cigarette out in the sink. “They’re dead in the water,” she announced with the confidence of someone who’s seen everything, been everywhere, met everyone. “She’s sweet and mousy, and he’s a god. Gods and nurses don’t mix.”

  Nutritionist! she wanted to scream. At least get it fucking right when you’re dissecting my marriage and assassinating my character!

  They each gingerly deposited gum past their freshly glossed lips, closed their purses, and left without another word. Brooke’s relief was palpable, so much that when she finally left the stall, she didn’t even notice the woman who was leaning against the far end of the sink, her back to the mirror, typing something into her phone.

  “Forgive me for intruding, but are you Brooke Alter?”

  Brooke inhaled sharply at the sound of her name. At this point she would’ve chosen a firing squad over another conversation.

  The woman turned to face her and extend her hand and Brooke recognized her immediately as a well-respected and hugely famous movie and television actress. Brooke tried to mask the fact that she knew everything on earth about this woman—from all the characters she played in romantic comedies over the years to the horrible fact that her husband left her when she was six months pregnant for a barely legal professional tennis player—but it was useless trying to pretend she didn’t recognize Carter Price. Did people ever not recognize Jennifer Aniston or Reese Witherspoon? Please.

  “I’m Brooke,” she said so quietly and with such softness that she sounded sad even to herself.

  “I’m Carter Price. Oh, my . . . I didn’t even realize . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. . . .”

  Brooke’s hands immediately flew to her face. Carter was staring at her with a look of such intense sympathy, she was certain something was very wrong.

  “You heard everything those cows said, didn’t you?”

  “I, uh, I don’t really . . .”

  “You can’t listen to them, to anyone even like them! They’re petty, silly, ridiculous people, and they think they understand, think they have the tiniest notion of what it’s like to have your marriage play out in public, but they don’t know a damn thing. About anything.”

  Huh. Not what she was expecting, but very welcome.

  “Thanks,” Brooke said, reaching out to accept a tissue from Carter. She told herself to remember to tell Nola that Carter Price had given her a tissue, and then she immediately felt stupid thinking it.

  “Look, you don’t know me at all,” Carter said, her long, graceful fingers gesticulating through the air, “but I wish someone would’ve told me that it really does get better. Every story, no matter how juicy or horrible it is, eventually goes away. The vultures always need fresh misery to feed on, so if you just keep your cool and refuse to comment, it will get better.”

  Brooke was so focused on the fact that Carter Price was standing next to her and confiding in her about her ex—conceivably the most gorgeous, talented, revered actor of their generation—that she forgot to speak.

  She must have been quiet for longer than she realized, because Carter turned back to the mirror, concealer stick in hand, and said, “God, that was none of my business, was it?” while dabbing at an imaginary circle under her left eye.

  “No! That was so, so helpful, and so appreciated,” Brooke said, quite aware that she sounded like an illiterate teenager.

  “Here,” Carter said, handing over her still-full glass of champagne. “You need this more than I do.”

  Under any other circumstances, Brooke would have politely refused, but tonight she agreed with Carter, movie star extraordinaire, and drained it in one easy swallow. She couldn’t say what she would’ve paid for another—it was within new-car territory.

  Carter gave her an approving look and nodded. “It feels like the ent
ire world has been invited into your home and every one of them has something to say about it.”

  She was so nice! So normal! Brooke felt guilty for all the times she’d speculated with Nola about whether it was Carter’s shrewishness or her botched boob job that had driven her ex into the arms of that tennis player. Never again would she be such a judgmental bitch about someone she didn’t know.

  “Yes, exactly,” Brooke said, smacking her palm against the sink to underscore her point. “And the worst part is, they think it’s all true. To just automatically assume that whatever gets printed in those things is accurate, well, it’s ridiculous.”

  With this last sentence, Carter stopped nodding and cocked her head. A moment later, her face registered recognition. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

  “Didn’t realize what?”

  “That you think he didn’t do it. Sweetheart, those photos . . .” She trailed off. “Look, I know it’s heartbreaking—trust me, I’ve been through all of it before—but it doesn’t help anything to live in denial.”

  It felt like Carter Price had punched her in the gut. “Look, I haven’t even seen the pictures yet, but I know my husband, and I—”

  The bathroom door swung open and a young woman materialized. She was wearing a sleek skirt suit, a Bluetooth earpiece, and a badge on a lanyard around her neck. “Carter? We need to get you seated right away.” She turned and looked at Brooke. “Are you Brooke Alter?”

  Brooke merely nodded, praying this woman wasn’t going to add in her two cents about Julian. She couldn’t handle another opinion.

  “Julian’s manager asked me to tell you that they had to get Julian backstage, but to proceed to your seat in the audience and he’ll send someone to get you right before Julian goes on.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She was relieved she wouldn’t be seeing Leo or Julian but nervous about entering the theater area by herself.

  She didn’t need to worry. “I’ll escort you both now if you’re ready.”

  Carter shot Brooke a quick look and a huge smile. “We’re ready,” she said, linking her arm with Brooke’s. “Aren’t we?”

  It was surreal. In the space of a single minute, one of the most famous actresses on earth had announced she thought Brooke’s husband was cheating and then linked arms with her to stroll through the crowd together as though they’d been friends for twenty years. Brooke’s face must have revealed her confusion and nausea and all-around discomfort; as the badge lady pointed to Brooke’s seat in the fourth row from the stage, Carter leaned in and whispered, “It was real nice meeting you. And you’ll survive this, I promise. If I can, anyone can. As for the show right now, remember to smile, smile, smile. Those cameras are going to be all over you tonight, just praying for a breakdown, so don’t give it to them, okay?”

  Brooke nodded, wishing more than anything that she could press a magic button and be transported back to Nola and Walter and her favorite fleece sweatpants. Instead, she took her seat. And she smiled.

  She grinned maniacally through Jimmy Kimmel’s opening monologue, Carrie Underwood’s performance, a song-and-dance duet with Justin Timberlake and Beyoncé, a prerecorded video montage, and a quirky little number by Katy Perry. Her cheek muscles were starting to throb when the girl sitting beside her, a Kardashian, she thought, although she didn’t know one from the next or why they were famous, leaned in and said, “You look hot tonight, FYI. Don’t let those pictures get you down.”

  It had seemed impossible enough when it was just her and Julian in a hotel room together, but this? This was unbearable.

  She heard the master of ceremonies announce that they’d gone to commercial, and before she could respond to the girl’s comment, Leo materialized at the end of her aisle, crouching down so as not to block anyone’s view, and motioned for her to follow him. You know things are grim when you’re happy to see him, she thought to herself. Smiling, smiling, smiling all the way despite feeling a strange light-headedness, Brooke ignored Potential Kardashian and politely excused herself as she climbed over people’s legs (was that just Seal she’d almost straddled?) and followed Leo backstage.

  “How’s he doing?” She desperately wanted not to care, but knowing Julian and his stage fright, she couldn’t help but feel for him. Instantly, despite everything that had happened, she was transported back to the countless times she’d held his hand and rubbed his back and reassured him that he’d be great.

  “He only puked, like, seventeen times, so I think we’re good to go.”

  She glared at Leo, who stared at the ass of an extremely young girl as he walked Brooke to the viewing area at stage left. “Really?”

  “He’s fine. A little nervous, but fine. He’s going to rock it tonight.”

  She caught a split-second view of Julian before a PA, who was listening intently to an earpiece, nodded and gave Julian’s shoulder a little shove. He and his bandmates quickly took their positions at their instruments. They were still behind the curtain, and Brooke could hear Jimmy Kimmel joking with the audience, keeping them warm during the commercial break. The monitor in the viewing area was counting down from twenty seconds, and the hand that Julian had wrapped around the microphone was clearly shaking.

  Just when she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore, Jimmy Kimmel announced Julian’s name and the curtain rose on all sides, revealing a crowd of people so huge and so loud, Brooke wondered if Julian would even be able to make himself heard. But then the drummer began with a soft tap-tap-tap, the guitarist played a few mournful notes, and Julian pressed the microphone to his lips and began to sing the words that had made him famous. The sound of his baritone voice reverberated around the stadium, causing the audience to quiet almost immediately; to Brooke, it felt like nothing short of an electric jolt.

  She flashed back to the first time she’d heard Julian perform “For the Lost,” on that balmy Tuesday night at Nick’s. He’d already played Brooke’s favorite cover material plus two or three of his original songs, but when he played his brand-new song for the very first time, Brooke got chills. Since then, she had witnessed countless performances, but nothing could have prepared her for the experience of watching her husband sing his heart out for millions of people.

  What felt like only seconds later, the crowd had erupted into ecstatic, frantic cheers. Julian was bowing and gesturing a thank-you toward his bandmates, and the very next minute he was walking offstage, the microphone still clutched in his hand. Brooke could see he was exultant, trembling with the excitement and pride of a man who brought down a house of his peers and his heroes. His eyes shone and he moved to pull Brooke into a hug.

  She pulled away and he looked like someone had slapped him.

  “Come with me,” he said, taking her by the hand. People backstage were swarming around, offering their congratulations and admiration, but Julian clasped Brooke’s hand and led her into his dressing room. He closed the door behind them and smiled widely.

  Brooke looked directly into his eyes. “We need to talk about those pictures. It’s not a good time, I know, but I can’t stand wondering anymore. If you could hear what people are saying . . . what they’ve been saying to me . . .”

  “Shh,” he said, putting a finger across her lips. “We’ll talk about everything, we’ll figure it all out. Let’s enjoy this here now. Let’s pop some champagne! Leo said he got us into Usher’s post-party at Geisha House, and I’m telling you, it’s going to be incredible.”

  A million images flashed through her mind at the same time, and they all included reporters, flashbulbs, and a rotating retinue of scorned women offering unsolicited advice on how to survive the devastation and humiliation. Before she could tell Julian that she needed the truth and she needed it now, there was a knock on the door.

  Neither of them said it was okay to come in, but Leo entered anyway. Samara stood by his side. Both peered at Brooke.

  “Hey, Brooke, you okay?” Samara asked without the least bit of concern in her voice.

  Brooke fla
shed a phony smile.

  “Listen, guys, CBS wants to do a post-performance interview.”

  “Samara—” Julian started but Leo cut him off.

  “With both of you,” he said as though he’d just announced their execution date.

  “Oh, come on, you guys.”

  “I know, Julian, and I apologize, but I’m afraid I have to insist you go out there. It’s up to Brooke if she joins you”—Samara paused pointedly and looked at Brooke—“but let me go on the record as saying that everyone at Sony would really appreciate it if she could do this. There is obviously a lot of interest in those pictures. You two need to get out there and show the world that nothing’s wrong.”

  Everyone was quiet for a moment until Brooke realized they were all looking at her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Julian, tell them that . . .”

  Julian didn’t respond. When she worked up the nerve to look at him, he was staring at his hands.

  “No,” Brooke said.

  “Five more minutes of solidarity? We’ll go out there, we’ll smile, we’ll tell them everything’s great, and then we’ll be free.”

  Leo and Samara were nodding at Julian’s wisdom and common sense.

  Brooke noticed her dress was badly wrinkled. Her head ached powerfully. She stood, but still, she didn’t cry.

  “Brooke, come here, let’s talk about this,” Julian said in his managing-my-crazy-wife voice.

  She walked past Samara and stood face-to-face with Leo at the dressing room door. “Excuse me,” she said. When he didn’t step aside, she turned her body and slid past him to pull open the door. For the final time that day, she felt his sweaty hand touch her skin. “Brooke, wait a minute, okay?” His irritation was unmistakable. “You can’t leave like this. There are ten thousand cameras right outside the center. They’ll eat you alive.”

  She turned and faced Leo, holding her breath as her face came within inches of his. “Considering what it’s like in here, I think I’ll take my chances. Now take your disgusting hand off my neck and get out of my way.”