Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Oh, hey, Michelle,” she said after the beep. “I’m, uh, not sure where you are, but I just wanted to touch base about a piece in ‘Page Six’ this morning. I know you and I have talked about this multiple times, but I’m really concerned that you may have, um, accidentally answered some reporter’s questions, or maybe told your friends something that found its way to the wrong person? I don’t know, but I’m asking you—actually, I’m begging you—to please just hang up if someone calls to ask any questions about Julian or me, and to not discuss our private lives with anyone, okay?” She paused for a moment, wondering first if she’d been firm enough and then if she’d been too firm, decided she’d probably gotten her point across, and hung up.

  She dragged Walter home and spent the rest of the day finalizing her already worked and reworked résumé, hopeful that she’d soon be ready to start sending it out. It was disappointing that Neha was out of a potential partnership, but she wasn’t going to let it derail her plans: another six months to a year of clinical experience, and then hopefully a chance at opening her own practice.

  Around six thirty, Brooke considered picking up the phone to cancel on Amber that night—the idea of meeting an entirely new group of women suddenly seemed like a very bad call—but when she realized she didn’t even have her number, she forced herself to shower and put on her jeans, boots, and blazer uniform. Worst case scenario, everyone will be hateful and horrible and I’ll make up an excuse and leave, she thought as the cab made its way from Times Square to the central Village. At the very least I’ll be leaving my apartment at night, something that hasn’t happened for quite some time. She thought she’d calmed herself, but Brooke felt a rush of nerves when she stepped out of the cab on Twelfth Street and saw a reasonably pretty girl with a pixieish blond bob smoking a cigarette on the stoop.

  “Brooke?” the girl asked, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to hang in the cold, damp air.

  “Hi. Are you Amber?” She gingerly stepped over some accumulated curb slush. Amber was standing two full steps above her, but Brooke was still an inch or two taller. She was surprised to see flame-red tights peeking out from under Amber’s coat, topped by a fabulous pair of sky-high heels. That, combined with the cigarette, was not what she was expecting from Heather’s description of her naive, sweet, churchgoing friend.

  Amber must have caught her looking. “Oh, these?” she asked, although Brooke hadn’t said a word. “Giuseppe Zanotti. I call them my man-stompers.” Her Southern accent was sweet, almost syrupy in its slowness, completely at odds with her appearance.

  Brooke smiled. “Let me know if you’re renting those out.”

  Amber motioned for her to follow her up the stairs. “You’re going to love everyone,” she said, pulling open the door to a small foyer with a mini Persian carpet and two mail slots. “It’s a great group of women. Added benefit being that whenever you think you have it bad, guaranteed someone here has had it so much worse.”

  “Gee, that’s great, I guess?” Brooke said, stepping onto a small elevator after Amber. “Although after that piece on ‘Page Six’ this morning, I’m not so sure. . . .”

  “Oh, that silly little bit with those amateur photos? Puh-lease! Wait until you meet Isabel. The poor girl’s had her cellulite circled in a full-page bikini shot. Now, that sucks.”

  Brooke cracked a smile. “Yeah, that definitely does suck. So, you, uh, saw the ‘Page Six’ piece?”

  The elevator opened into a plushly carpeted hallway softly lit with tinted glass sconces, and they both stepped out. “Oh, sweetheart, everyone read it. We all agree that it was nothing, a blip. The crying shot of you with your friend will be a total sympathy evoker—women everywhere can relate to that—and that ridiculous suggestion that your husband was getting it on in the back of a limo on his way to a very public performance? Come on. Everyone knows that must have been his publicist or hair and makeup girl. I wouldn’t worry about it for a second.”

  With that, Amber swung open the apartment door to reveal one massive open room that looked a whole lot like a . . . basketball court? There was what appeared to be a regulation-size basket at the far end, complete with a shiny hardwood floor, sidelines, and a free throw line. The wall nearest them looked painted for racquetball, or maybe squash, and a giant bin of various balls and rackets took up the street-facing side between two floor-to-ceiling windows. A sixty-inch flat-screen hung on the only remaining wall, and parked directly in front of it was a long green couch with two brown-haired, mesh-shorted teenage boys. They were eating pizza and playing a football video game Brooke should’ve been able to identify, and each looked more bored than the other.

  “Come on,” Amber said, traversing the basketball court. “Everyone else is already upstairs.”

  “Whose apartment is this again?”

  “Oh, you know Diana Wolfe? Her husband, Ed, was a congressman—I can’t remember what district, but Manhattan somewhere—and he also headed up the Ethics Committee, of course.”

  Brooke climbed the open staircase behind Amber. “Okay,” she murmured, although she knew exactly where this was going. You’d have needed to live in a cave for six weeks last summer to not know where this was going.

  Amber stopped, turned toward Brooke, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Yeah, well, you remember good old Ed had a thing for prostitutes? Not even high-end escorts, mind you, but full-on street-walking hookers. Double whammy because Diana was running for city attorney general. Not pretty.”

  “Welcome!” A woman in her early forties trilled from the top of the stairs. She wore an impeccably tailored mauve skirt suit, a truly gorgeous pair of black snakeskin heels, and the most elegant strand of chunky pearls Brooke had ever seen.

  Amber reached the top of the stairs. “Brooke Alter, this is Diana Wolfe, the owner of this lovely home. Diana, this is Brooke Alter.”

  “Th-thank you so much for having me,” Brooke stuttered, instantly intimidated by this older, extremely put-together woman.

  Diana waved her off. “Please, it’s nothing so formal. Come in, help yourself to some nibbles. As Amber surely filled you in, my husband has—had—or rather, I don’t know whether he had or currently has since he’s no longer my husband, but old habits die hard, so—my husband has a penchant for prostitutes.”

  Clearly Brooke was unable to disguise the shock, because Diana laughed. “Oh, darling, I’m not telling you anything the entire country doesn’t already know.” She leaned over and touched Brooke’s hair. “Actually, I’m not sure if everyone knew how much he loved redheads. Lord, I had no idea myself until I saw the undercover FBI videotapes. After the first twenty-five or so girls, you can really start to detect some patterns, and Ed definitely had a type.”

  Diana laughed at her own joke and said, “Kenya’s in the living room. Isabel can’t make it because her babysitter canceled. Go say hello, I’ll be in in a minute.”

  Amber led the way into the all-white living room and Brooke immediately recognized the statuesque African-American woman in stunning leather pants and a sumptuous fur vest as Kenya Dean, ex-wife of gorgeous leading man and lover of all underage girls Quincy Dean. Kenya immediately stood up and hugged Brooke.

  “It’s so nice to meet you! Come, sit down,” she said, pulling Brooke next to her on the white leather sectional.

  Brooke was about to say thank you when Amber poured Brooke a glass of wine and handed it to her. She took a long, grateful drink.

  Diana walked into the room carrying a large platter of fresh seafood on ice: shrimp cocktails, all different size oysters, crab claws, lobster tails, and scallops, accompanied by little dishes of butter and cocktail sauce. She set it down in the middle of the coffee table and said, “No putting Brooke on the hot seat! Now, why don’t we go around the room and tell her a little bit about our experiences, so she can feel at home, okay? Amber, why don’t you start?”

  Amber nibbled a large shrimp. “Everyone knows my story already. I married my high school sweetheart—who, by the
way, was a huge dork back then—and the year after we got married, he won Idol. Let’s just say Tommy didn’t waste any time enjoying his newfound fame, and by the time he finished the Hollywood round, he’d slept with more girls than Simon has V-necks. That was really just a warm-up, though, because if I had to guess, I’d put his current numbers well into the triple digits.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Brooke murmured, not really knowing what else to say.

  “Oh, don’t be,” Amber said, reaching for another shrimp. “It took a while to realize, but I am so clearly better off without him.”

  Diana and Kenya nodded.

  Kenya refreshed her own wineglass and took a sip. “Yeah, I’d have to agree, although I don’t think I would’ve when I was still as early on as you,” she said, looking pointedly at Brooke.

  “What do you mean?” Brooke asked.

  “Well, just that after the first girl, I didn’t believe it would happen again—or even that he’d done anything wrong. I thought maybe he was being framed by some fame chaser. But then, as the accusations kept rolling in and then the arrests, and the girls were getting younger by the second, sixteen, fifteen years old . . . let’s just say it’s harder to deny.”

  “Be honest, Kenya. You were like me—you didn’t believe anything was wrong after Quincy was arrested for the first time,” Diana said helpfully.

  “It’s true. I bailed him out. But when 48 Hours showed hidden-camera footage of my husband literally trolling a high school girls’ soccer game, trying to chat them up, I started to accept it.”

  “Wow,” Brooke said.

  “It wasn’t great. But at least most of the media horror show was focused on what a total and complete scumbag he was. Isabel Prince—she’s not here tonight—didn’t have it so easy.”

  Brooke knew she was referring to the sex tape that Isabel’s husband, world-famous rapper Major K, deliberately released to the public. Julian had seen it and described it to Brooke. Apparently it featured Isabel and Major K in a rooftop hot tub, naked, drunk, kinky, and uninhibited . . . caught on Major K’s professional-grade HD camera and soon thereafter sent by the Major himself to every media outlet in the continental United States. Brooke remembered reading interviews asking him why he’d betrayed his wife’s confidence and he’d answered, “She’s fucking hot, man, and I think everyone deserves to experience one time what I get to experience every night.”

  “Yeah, she really got killed,” Amber said. “I remember they were circling her fat in still shots from the sex tape. All the late-show hosts were joking about it for weeks. It must have been horrible for her.”

  There was a moment of silence as everyone thought about this, and Brooke realized she was starting to feel suffocated, trapped. The airy white apartment now seemed more like a cage, and these nice women—so welcoming and friendly just a few minutes earlier—were making her feel even more alone and misunderstood. She was sorry for their troubles, and they seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t anything like them. Julian’s biggest crime was a drunken make-out with a plain girl his own age—hardly the stuff of sex tapes, sex addiction, statutory rape, or prostitutes.

  Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts, because Diana made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “You’re thinking how different your situation is from ours, aren’t you? I know it’s difficult, dear. Your husband had a little hotel room tryst or two, and what man hasn’t had that, right? But please, don’t fool yourself. That may be how it begins”—she paused and waved her hand in a semicircle around the couch—“but this is how it ends.”

  That was it. She’d had enough. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that . . . um, look, I so appreciate your hospitality and your inviting me here tonight, but I think I have to go now,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as she gathered her purse and avoided eye contact with everyone. Brooke knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t stop herself; she needed to get out of there right then.

  “Brooke, I hope I didn’t offend you,” Diana said in a conciliatory tone, although Brooke could see she was annoyed.

  “No, no, not at all. I’m sorry, I’m just not . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rather than think of something to fill the silence, she stood and turned to face everyone.

  “We didn’t even give you a chance to tell us your story!” Amber said, looking distraught. “I told you we talk too much.”

  “I’m so sorry. Please don’t think it was anything anyone said. I’m just, uh, I guess I’m just not ready for this yet. Thank you all again. Amber, thank you. And I’m sorry,” she was mumbling now, clutching her coat and purse, and had reached the top of the staircase, where she could see one of the teenage boys making his way upstairs. She had the crazy thought that he was going to try to detain her. Pushing past him harder than necessary, she heard him say, “Uncool,” and then, a moment later, “Hey, Mom, is there any more Coke? Dylan drank it all.” It was the last thing she heard as she crossed the basketball court and took the building stairs instead of the elevator and then she was outside, the freezing cold air whipping against her skin, and she could breathe once again.

  An available cab passed her, and then another, and although it must’ve only been in the midtwenties, she ignored them all and began walking, almost running, toward her apartment. Her mind raced, going over every story she’d heard that night and discarding it, ignoring it, finding the holes or the details that didn’t fit her narrative with Julian. It was ridiculous to think that she and Julian would end up that way, just because of a single lapse, a lone mistake. They loved each other. Just because things were difficult didn’t mean they were doomed. Did it?

  Brooke crossed Sixth Avenue, and then Seventh, and then Eighth. Her cheeks and fingers were starting to go numb, but she didn’t care. She was out of that place and away from all those hideous stories, away from those predictions about her marriage that held no weight. Those women didn’t know her or Julian. She managed to calm herself, slowed her pace, took a deep breath, and told herself that everything was going to be fine.

  If only she could get rid of that small, stubborn thought in the very back of her mind: What if they’re right?

  18

  We Hit Crazy at Check-In

  THE phone beside the bed rang and Brooke wondered for the thousandth time why hotels didn’t provide caller ID. But since anyone else would call on her cell, she leaned over, plucked the handset from its cradle, and braced herself for the onslaught.

  “Hello, Brooke. Have you heard from Julian?” Dr. Alter’s voice sailed through the phone as if he were in the next room, which, despite Brooke’s best efforts, was exactly where he was.

  She forced herself to smile into the phone so she wouldn’t say anything truly nasty. “Oh, hi there!” she said brightly. Someone who actually knew her would have instantly recognized it as her fake friendly/professional tone. As she had been doing for the last five years, she avoided calling Julian’s father anything. “Dr. Alter” was too formal for a father-in-law, “William” somehow felt too familiar, and he certainly hadn’t ever invited her to call him “Dad.”

  “I did,” Brooke said evenly for the hundredth time. “He’s still in London, and he’ll probably be there until early next week.” They were aware of this information. She’d told them the moment they’d descended on her at the reception desk. They in turn told Brooke that although the hotel had tried to place them on the opposite side of the two-hundred-room hotel (Brooke’s request) they had insisted on being in adjoining rooms “for convenience’s sake.”

  It was her father-in-law’s turn to tsk with disapproval. “I can’t believe he’s missing the wedding! Those two were born less than six months apart. They’ve grown up together. Trent gave the most touching speech at your wedding, and now Julian’s not even going to be at his.”

  She had to smile at the irony of it. She’d given Julian such a hard time about missing the wedding, saying many of the same things to him that his father had just said to her, but the moment Dr. Alter u
ttered them, she felt compelled to leap to Julian’s defense.

  “It’s a pretty big deal, actually. He’s going to be performing in front of some incredible people, including the prime minister of England.” She left out the part about Julian getting paid two hundred thousand dollars for a four-hour event. “He didn’t want to steal attention from the bride and groom in light of, uh, well, everything that’s been happening.”

  That was as close as either of them had come to acknowledging the current situation. Julian’s father seemed content to pretend everything was fine, that he hadn’t seen the infamous pictures, or read the articles detailing the apparent crumbling of his son’s marriage. And now, despite having been informed a dozen times that Julian was not coming to Trent’s wedding, he refused to believe it.

  She heard her mother-in-law call out from the background. “William! What are you doing on the phone with her when she’s right next door?”

  Within moments there was a knock.

  She heaved herself off the bed and pumped both middle fingers at the door while silently screaming, “Fuck you!” then carefully arranged her face in a smile, unlatched the chain, and said, “Why, hello there, neighbor!”

  For the very first time since she’d met her mother-in-law, the woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps even ridiculous. Her fitted, cashmere sweater dress was a beautiful, rich shade of eggplant and looked like it had been custom-made for her trim figure. She’d paired it with the perfect shade of purplish stockings and a dynamite pair of high-heeled booties that, despite their edginess, did not make it seem like she was trying too hard. Her chunky gold necklace was cool but understated and her makeup appeared professionally done. All in all, she was the picture of urbane sophistication, a model for how women might aspire to look at fifty-five. The hat was the problem. Its brim was the circumference of a serving tray; while its color matched the dress exactly, it was hard to notice anything but the sprouting feathers, the sprays of fake flowers, and the crinoline pretending to be baby’s breath, all held together by a massive silk bow. It perched precariously on her head, the brim dipping down to artfully obscure her left eye.