Last Night at Chateau Marmont

by Lauren Weisberger

  Brooke’s mouth fell open.

  “What do you think?” Elizabeth asked, touching the brim. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

  “Wow,” she breathed, uncertain how to proceed. “What’s it, uh, for?”

  “What do you mean, what’s it for? It’s for Tennessee!” She laughed before switching to her best mocking approximation of a Southern accent, one that sounded like a weird combination of someone who spoke English as a second language and a cowboy from an old Western. “We are in Chay-duh-noogah, Bruck! Y’all must re-a-lize that re-ahl Southern ladies wear hats like this.”

  She wanted to curl up under the covers and die. This was humiliating beyond belief.

  “They do?” she squeaked. It was all she could manage.

  Thankfully, Elizabeth reverted back to her normal, slightly nasal New York pronunciation. “Of course they do. Haven’t you ever seen the Kentucky Derby?”

  “Well, yeah, but we’re not in Kentucky. And isn’t that, like, a special situation to wear the hats? I’m not sure it translates to other, uh, social occasions. . . .” She allowed her voice to drift off to soften her words, but her mother-in-law barely noticed.

  “Oh, Brooke, you have no idea what you’re talking about. We’re in the South now, sweetheart! The one I brought for the actual wedding is even better. We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to go buy you one, so don’t worry about a thing.” She paused and, still standing in the doorway, looked Brooke up and down. “You’re not dressed yet?”

  Brooke glanced first at her sweats and then at her watch. “I thought we weren’t leaving until six.”

  “Yes, but it’s already five. You hardly left yourself enough time.”

  “Wow, right you are!” she exclaimed in a faux-surprised voice. “Let me run. I’m going to jump in the shower.”

  “Okay, knock when you’re ready. Better yet, come on over and have a cocktail. William sent out for some decent vodka, so you won’t have to drink that dreadful hotel sludge.”

  “Why don’t we just meet in the lobby at six? As you can see”—Brooke stepped back and motioned to her ripped T-shirt and messy hair—“I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Mmm,” her mother-in-law said, clearly agreeing. “All right then. See you at six. And, Brooke? Maybe consider a little eye makeup? It does a face wonders.”

  The hot shower and the episode of Millionaire Matchmaker that she had playing in the background didn’t help her feel much better, though the single-serving bottle of white wine in the minibar helped a bit. It didn’t last for long, though. By the time she’d put on her standby black wrap dress, slapped on some eye shadow like an obedient daughter-in-law, and headed to the lobby, she was back to being supremely stressed.

  The drive to the restaurant was only a couple of miles, but it felt like an eternity. Dr. Alter complained bitterly the entire time: what kind of hotel doesn’t have a valet, how could Hertz rent only American cars, who called dinner for six thirty in the evening, for chrissake, it was practically lunchtime? He even managed to complain that there wasn’t enough traffic for a Friday night in Chattanooga—after all, what kind of respectable city had clear streets and plenty of available parking? Where on earth were other drivers so goddamn polite, what with everyone sitting at stop signs for ten minutes, frantically waving each other through? Nowhere he wanted to be, that was for sure. Real cities had congestion, dirt, crowds, snow, sirens, potholes, and other assorted miseries, he insisted in the most ridiculous rant Brooke had ever heard. By the time the three of them made their way inside, it felt like they’d been out all night.

  To her enormous relief, Trent’s parents were standing right by the door. Brooke wondered what they thought of her mother-in-law’s absurd derby hat. Trent’s father and Julian’s father were brothers, extremely close despite a large age difference, and the four of them immediately retreated to the bar at the far end of the room. Brooke begged off by saying she was going to call Julian. She noted the relieved looks; women who called their husbands just to say hello didn’t turn around and divorce them, right?

  She scanned the room for Trent or Fern but didn’t see them. Outside, it was in the fifties, which, compared to February in New York, was downright tropical, and she didn’t even bother rebuttoning her coat. She was certain Julian wouldn’t answer—it was midnight in the UK and he would’ve just finished his set—but she dialed anyway and was surprised when she heard his voice.

  “Hi! I’m so glad you called,” he said, sounding as shocked as she felt. There was no background noise. She could hear the excitement in his voice. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?” she asked, hating the insecurity in her voice. They’d been talking once a day for the last two weeks, but each time it was Julian who initiated.

  “It kills me to think of you at that wedding without me.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s killing your parents, too.”

  “Are they driving you crazy?”

  “Understatement of the century. We hit crazy at check-in. We are now on our way to self-annihilation.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Do you think you’re doing the right thing, Julian? I haven’t seen Trent or Fern yet, but I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

  Julian cleared his throat. “Just tell them again that I didn’t want to turn his special night into a media circus.”

  Brooke was quiet for a second. If she had to bet, she’d guess that Trent would rather risk a nosy reporter or two than have his cousin and lifelong friend miss his wedding, but she didn’t say anything.

  “So, uh, how’d it go tonight?”

  “Oh my god, Rook, it was incredible. Just incredible. There’s a town near the property, and it has this amazing medieval old city way up on a hill, overlooking the modern town below it. The only way to get up there was to take a little funicular to the top, like fifteen people at a time, and then when you step off, it’s like a maze—all these huge stone walls with torches extending from the top, and little alcoves hiding shops and homes. There was an ancient amphitheater right in the middle with the most outrageous views of the expansive Scottish hillside, and I performed in the dark, with everything lit only by candles and torches. They served these hot, spiked lemon drinks, and there was something about the cold air and the hot drinks and the creepy lighting and the view . . . I’m not explaining it well, but it was awesome.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “It was! And then when it ended, they took everyone back to the hotel . . . resort? Country estate? I don’t know what to call it, but this place is incredible, too. Picture an ancient farmhouse surrounded by hundreds of acres of rolling hills, but it’s got all the flat-screens and heated floors in the bathrooms and the most insane infinity pool you’ve ever seen. The rooms are, like, two thousand a night and they each have a private fireplace with a separate little library, and they come with your own butler.” He paused for a minute and then said, very sweetly, “It would be absolutely perfect if you were here.”

  It was nice to hear him so happy—really, it was—and so talkative. He was clearly taking the share approach; maybe he did have a crisis of conscience about their communications lately. But it was a little hard to stomach considering her own current circumstances: accompanied by her in-laws, rather than heads of state or international supermodels; strip malls instead of bucolic fields; a cookie-cutter hotel room at the local Sheraton with a decided lack of butlers. And on top of it all, she was attending his cousin’s wedding—alone. So while it was great to hear him enjoying himself so much, she would not be opposed to hearing fewer details about his current abundance of fabulousness.

  “Look, I should run. The rehearsal dinner is about to start.”

  A couple about her age walked past her on their way to the restaurant’s entrance, and they all exchanged smiles.

  “Seriously, how are my parents?”

  “I don’t know, they seem fine.”

  “Are they behaving themselves?”


  “They’re trying, I guess. Your dad’s all fired up about the rental car—don’t ask—and your mother seems to think this is a costume party, but, yeah, they’re fine.”

  “You’re a hero, Brooke,” he said quietly. “So above and beyond the call of duty. I’m sure Trent and Fern appreciate it.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “But that doesn’t mean a lot of people would’ve done it. I hope I did the right thing, too.”

  “It’s not about us and what we’re going through,” she said quietly. “It’s our responsibility to put on a happy face and celebrate their night. Which is what I’m going to try to do.”

  She was interrupted again by another couple walking past. Something about the way they looked at her indicated they recognized her. There would be assumptions when everyone saw she was there alone.

  “Brooke? I’m sorry, I really am. But I miss you and I can’t wait to see you. I really think that—”

  “I’ve got to run,” she said, aware that others were listening to her. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, and she could hear that he was hurt. “Say hi to everyone for me, and try to have fun tonight. I miss and love you so much.”

  “Uh-huh. You too. Bye.” She disconnected the call and was met with the all-too-familiar feeling of wanting to crumple to the floor and cry, and she may have done just that had Trent not walked outside. He was wearing what Brooke thought of as Boarding School Chic: white shirt, blue blazer, cranberry-colored tie, Gucci loafers, and—as a nod to the changing times—a daring pair of khakis (flat front instead of pleated). Even now, all these years later, she still flashed back to their date at the bland Italian restaurant and that intense, fluttery feeling she got when Trent took her to the bar where she spotted Julian.

  “Hey, I heard a rumor you were here,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Was that Julian?” He nodded toward the phone.

  “Yeah, he’s in Scotland. I know he would rather be here,” she said weakly.

  Trent smiled. “Well then he would be. I tried to tell him a thousand times that this is a private residence and we would gladly hire security to keep away any paparazzi, but he kept insisting he didn’t want to create a circus. Nothing I said could convince him. So . . .”

  She took Trent’s hand. “I really am sorry about all this,” she said. “It’s pretty hideous timing on our part.”

  “Come inside, let’s get you a drink,” Trent said.

  She squeezed his forearm. “Let’s get you a drink.” She smiled. “This is your night. And I still haven’t said hello to your lovely bride.”

  Brooke walked through the door Trent held open for her. The room was buzzing now, with people milling around with cocktails in hand, making the usual small talk. The only person she recognized aside from her in-laws and the bride and groom was Trent’s younger brother, Trevor, a sophomore in college who was currently slumped in the corner, praying no one approached him, staring intently at his iPhone. With the exception of Trevor, it felt like the entire room stopped moving for a split second and looked up just as they entered; her presence—and Julian’s absence—had been noted.

  Unconsciously she squeezed Trent’s hand. Trent squeezed hers back and Brooke said, “Go, go meet your public! Enjoy it—it goes by really fast.”

  The rest of the dinner was blessedly uneventful. Fern had been kind enough, without being asked, to move Brooke’s seat away from the Alters and next to her. Brooke immediately saw her appeal: she told adorable stories and jokes, asked everyone questions about themselves, and had self-deprecation down to a science. Fern even managed to diffuse the awkwardness when one of Trent’s med school friends drunkenly toasted Trent’s past penchant for girls with fake boobs by laughing and pulling her dress away from her chest while glancing down and saying, “Well, he’s certainly gotten over that!”

  When the dinner was over and the Alters had come to fetch her for the ride back to the hotel, Fern linked her arm through Brooke’s, batted her eyelashes at Julian’s father, and turned on the Southern charm. “Oh, no you don’t!” she drawled exaggeratedly, Brooke noticed with amusement. “This one is staying right here with us. We’re sending all you old fogies back to your rooms, and we’re going to stay and have a little party. We’ll make sure she gets back safely.”

  The Alters smiled and air-kissed Fern and then Brooke. The moment they’d left the dining room, Brooke turned to Fern. “You saved my life. They would’ve made me get a drink with them back at the hotel. After that they would’ve walked straight into my room to ask another six thousand questions about Julian. There’s a decent chance she would’ve commented about my weight, my marriage, or both. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Fern waved her off. “Please. I couldn’t let you leave with someone wearing a hat like that. What if people saw?” She laughed and Brooke was more charmed than ever. “Besides, I’m selfishly happy you can stay. My friends all love you.”

  She knew Fern only said it to make her feel good—after all, she’d barely had the chance to speak to anyone all night, although Trent and Fern’s friends all did seem nice—but who really cared? It worked. She felt good. Good enough to do a tequila shot with Trent “in Julian’s honor,” and still good enough to down a couple lemon drops with Fern and her sorority sisters (who, incidentally, could drink like no women she’d ever seen). She was still feeling good when the lights got turned off around midnight and someone figured out how to hook up an iPhone to the restaurant’s stereo system, felt good all the way through another two hours more of drinking, dancing, and—were she to be completely honest—some fun, old-fashioned flirting with one of Trent’s fellow residents. Completely innocent, of course, but she’d forgotten what it felt like to have an extremely cute guy focus on her the entire night, fetch her drinks, and try to make her laugh; that, too, felt good.

  What didn’t feel good, naturally, was the excruciating hangover the next morning. Despite not getting back to the room until almost three, she woke at seven and stared at the ceiling, knowing she would surely vomit and wondering how long she would have to suffer before it happened. A half hour later, she was on the floor of her bathroom, gasping for breath and praying the Alters wouldn’t knock. Thankfully, she was able to crawl back under the covers and fall back asleep until nine.

  Despite a crushing headache and a disgusting taste in her mouth, Brooke smiled when she opened her eyes and checked her phone. Julian had called and texted half a dozen times, continually asking where she was and why she wasn’t picking up the phone—he was on his way to the airport for his flight home, he missed her and loved her and couldn’t wait to see her back in New York. It was nice to have the tables turned, if only for a night. She’d finally been the one to drink too much, stay up too late, and party too long.

  Brooke showered and headed to the lobby for some coffee, praying she wouldn’t run into the Alters on their way out. They’d told her the night before that they were planning to spend the day with Trent’s parents; the women had hair and makeup appointments scheduled and the men were playing squash. When Elizabeth invited Brooke to join them, she’d blatantly lied, saying she was thinking of heading over to Fern’s house and having lunch with her and the bridesmaids. She’d just sat down with the paper and an extra-large latte when she heard her name. Standing next to her table was Isaac, the cute resident she’d been flirting with the night before.

  “Brooke? Hey! How are you? I was hoping I’d see you!”

  She couldn’t help but feel flattered at this.

  “Hey, Isaac. Good to see you.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty banged up after last night.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, last night was tough. But I had a great time.”

  She was pretty sure this sounded as innocent as she’d intended it to—after all, the flirting was fun but she was married—so just in case, she blurted out, “My husband’s going to be so upset he missed it.”

&n
bsp; A strange expression appeared on his face. Not surprise, but more like relief that she’d finally said something. Then she understood.

  “So, your husband is Julian Alter, right?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers. “I’d heard everyone talking about it last night, but I wasn’t sure if it was true.”

  “The one and only,” Brooke said.

  “That’s the craziest thing ever! I can’t even tell you, I’ve been following him since he used to play at Nick’s on the Upper East Side. Then all of a sudden, he was everywhere! Couldn’t open a magazine or turn on the TV and not see Julian Alter. Wow. You must be so excited.”

  “Thrilled,” she said automatically, the realization dawning on her sickeningly. . . . She wondered how long she had to wait before she could get up without being overtly rude and figured a minimum of three more interminable minutes.

  “So, I really hope you don’t mind me asking. . . .”

  Oh no! He was going to ask her about the pictures, she was certain of it. She’d had eighteen blissful hours where not a single person had mentioned them, and now Isaac was going to go ruin everything.

  “Don’t you want some coffee?” Brooke blurted out in a desperate attempt to distract him from the inevitable.

  He looked confused for a moment and then shook his head no. He reached into the canvas messenger bag resting at his feet, pulled out a manila envelope, and said, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving this to Julian for me? I mean, I can’t even imagine how busy he is and everything—and let me say right off that I’m not nearly as talented as he is—but I’ve been dedicating what little free time I have to my music, and, well . . . I’d love to hear what he thinks.” With that, he reached into the envelope, pulled out a CD encased in a sleeve, and held it out to Brooke.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.