Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 46
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He sighed. “I’ll try and take a night and get home before Miami this weekend, okay? Would that make things better? It’s just not so easy two weeks after your album drops.”
She wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but instead she took a deep breath, counted to three, and said, “That would be great if you could manage it. I’d love to see you.”
“I’m going to try, Rook. Look, I’ve got to run, but please know I love you. And I miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Before she could say another word, he hung up.
“He hung up on me!” she yelled, before slamming her cell phone into the cushiony couch, where it bounced off a pillow before landing on the floor.
“You okay?” Nola’s voice was soft and soothing. She stood in the doorway of the living room, holding a handful of takeout menus and a bottle of wine. “For the Lost” began playing from the TV’s radio station, and both Nola and Brooke turned toward the set.
He was a brother’s dream, he was a fist of sandHe slipped away with the second hand . . .
“Can you turn that off, please?” Brooke collapsed onto the couch and covered her eyes, although she wasn’t crying. “What am I going to do?” she moaned.
Nola swiftly changed the channel. “First, you’re going to decide whether you want lemongrass chicken or jumbo prawn curry from the Vietnamese place, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you guys.” Nola seemed to remember the bottle in her hand. “Scratch that. First, we’re going to have a drink.”
She quickly cut the foil wrapper with the tip of the wine opener and was about to plunge it into the cork when she said, “Are you still upset about that stupid Layla picture?”
Brooke snorted and accepted a glass of red from Nola that, in more polite company, would’ve been considered overfilled but for tonight looked exactly right. “What, you mean the one where my husband has his arm wrapped around her twenty-six-inch waist with a smile so massive, so positively beatific, that he looks like he’s in the throes of an orgasm?”
Nola sipped her wine and put her feet up on the table. “Some dumb starlet was looking to take advantage of a little press time with the next big thing. She couldn’t care less about Julian.”
“I know that. And it’s not the picture so much as . . . He went from Nick’s and a part-time internship to this? It all changed overnight, Nola. I wasn’t ready.”
There was no point in denying it anymore: Julian Alter, her husband, was officially and undeniably famous. Intellectually, Brooke was aware that it had been an impossibly long and difficult road; so many years of daily practice and gigs and songwriting (not including the countless gigs and hours Julian had logged before they’d even met). There’d been demo tapes, promo tracks, singles that almost worked but never did. Even once he’d scored the long-shot record deal that was never supposed to go anywhere, there had been weeks and months of poring over contract books, hiring and working with entertainment lawyers, contacting more experienced artists for their advice and possible mentoring. There were the many months that followed spent in a Midtown recording studio, tweaking the keyboard and the vocals hundreds, maybe thousands of times to get the sound just right. The endless meetings with producers and A&R guys and intimidating executives that knew—and acted like—they held the golden keys to his future. There was the Sony casting call for new band members and then the interviewing and auditioning that followed; the nonstop travel between Los Angeles and New York to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly; the consultations with PR people who could guide the public’s perception; and the instructions from the media trainers on how to behave in front of the cameras. And of course the stylist in charge of Julian’s image.
For years Brooke had willingly worked two jobs to support them despite the confusing twinges of resentment she sometimes felt when she was exhausted and alone, a studio widow in the apartment. There were her own dreams—sidelined for now by choice—the wish to really carve out a niche for herself at work, travel more, have a baby. There was the financial strain from having to invest and reinvest every last dollar into different areas of Julian’s career. The hideously long hours in the studio. All the late nights away from home, when both of them were in loud, smoky bars for Julian’s gigs instead of curled up on the couch or away for the weekend with other couples. And now the travel! The constant, unrelenting, endless travel for Julian, moving from city to city, coast to coast. They both tried, they really did, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder. An uninterrupted phone conversation these days felt like a luxury.
Nola refilled both their glasses and picked up her phone. “What do you want?”
“I’m not really hungry,” Brooke said, and was surprised herself that she actually meant it.
“I’m ordering us a shrimp and a chicken to share and a bunch of spring rolls. That okay?”
Brooke waved her glass, nearly spilling her wine. The first one had gone down so quickly. “Fine, that’s fine.” She thought for a moment and remembered she was doing to Nola exactly what Julian always did to her. “So what’s going on with you? Anything new with . . .”
“Drew? He’s done. I had a little . . . distraction this past weekend, and it reminded me that there are a lot more exciting men out there than Drew McNeil.”
Brooke once again covered her eyes. “Oh no. Here we go.”
“What? It was just a little fun.”
“When did you find the time?”
Nola feigned looking hurt. “Remember after dinner on Saturday, you wanted to go home and Drew and I were going out?”
“Oh, god. Please don’t tell me this was another threesome. My weak heart can’t handle another threesome.”
“Brooke! Drew left right after you did, but I wanted to stay for a little. I had another drink and then left all by my lonesome around one thirty and went outside to hail a cab.”
“Aren’t we a little too old for late-night booty calls? Do the kids even still call them that these days?”
Nola covered her eyes. “My god, you’re such a prude. I was about to get into the first open cab in twenty minutes when this guy tries to steal it from me. He just jumped into the other side.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, well, he was pretty cute and I told him he could share with me as long as I got dropped off first, and before I even knew what was happening, we were making out.”
She wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but instead she took a deep breath, counted to three, and said, “That would be great if you could manage it. I’d love to see you.”
“I’m going to try, Rook. Look, I’ve got to run, but please know I love you. And I miss you. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Before she could say another word, he hung up.
“He hung up on me!” she yelled, before slamming her cell phone into the cushiony couch, where it bounced off a pillow before landing on the floor.
“You okay?” Nola’s voice was soft and soothing. She stood in the doorway of the living room, holding a handful of takeout menus and a bottle of wine. “For the Lost” began playing from the TV’s radio station, and both Nola and Brooke turned toward the set.
He was a brother’s dream, he was a fist of sandHe slipped away with the second hand . . .
“Can you turn that off, please?” Brooke collapsed onto the couch and covered her eyes, although she wasn’t crying. “What am I going to do?” she moaned.
Nola swiftly changed the channel. “First, you’re going to decide whether you want lemongrass chicken or jumbo prawn curry from the Vietnamese place, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you guys.” Nola seemed to remember the bottle in her hand. “Scratch that. First, we’re going to have a drink.”
She quickly cut the foil wrapper with the tip of the wine opener and was about to plunge it into the cork when she said, “Are you still upset about that stupid Layla picture?”
Brooke snorted and accepted a glass of red from Nola that, in more polite company, would’ve been considered overfilled but for tonight looked exactly right. “What, you mean the one where my husband has his arm wrapped around her twenty-six-inch waist with a smile so massive, so positively beatific, that he looks like he’s in the throes of an orgasm?”
Nola sipped her wine and put her feet up on the table. “Some dumb starlet was looking to take advantage of a little press time with the next big thing. She couldn’t care less about Julian.”
“I know that. And it’s not the picture so much as . . . He went from Nick’s and a part-time internship to this? It all changed overnight, Nola. I wasn’t ready.”
There was no point in denying it anymore: Julian Alter, her husband, was officially and undeniably famous. Intellectually, Brooke was aware that it had been an impossibly long and difficult road; so many years of daily practice and gigs and songwriting (not including the countless gigs and hours Julian had logged before they’d even met). There’d been demo tapes, promo tracks, singles that almost worked but never did. Even once he’d scored the long-shot record deal that was never supposed to go anywhere, there had been weeks and months of poring over contract books, hiring and working with entertainment lawyers, contacting more experienced artists for their advice and possible mentoring. There were the many months that followed spent in a Midtown recording studio, tweaking the keyboard and the vocals hundreds, maybe thousands of times to get the sound just right. The endless meetings with producers and A&R guys and intimidating executives that knew—and acted like—they held the golden keys to his future. There was the Sony casting call for new band members and then the interviewing and auditioning that followed; the nonstop travel between Los Angeles and New York to make sure everything was proceeding smoothly; the consultations with PR people who could guide the public’s perception; and the instructions from the media trainers on how to behave in front of the cameras. And of course the stylist in charge of Julian’s image.
For years Brooke had willingly worked two jobs to support them despite the confusing twinges of resentment she sometimes felt when she was exhausted and alone, a studio widow in the apartment. There were her own dreams—sidelined for now by choice—the wish to really carve out a niche for herself at work, travel more, have a baby. There was the financial strain from having to invest and reinvest every last dollar into different areas of Julian’s career. The hideously long hours in the studio. All the late nights away from home, when both of them were in loud, smoky bars for Julian’s gigs instead of curled up on the couch or away for the weekend with other couples. And now the travel! The constant, unrelenting, endless travel for Julian, moving from city to city, coast to coast. They both tried, they really did, but it seemed to be getting harder and harder. An uninterrupted phone conversation these days felt like a luxury.
Nola refilled both their glasses and picked up her phone. “What do you want?”
“I’m not really hungry,” Brooke said, and was surprised herself that she actually meant it.
“I’m ordering us a shrimp and a chicken to share and a bunch of spring rolls. That okay?”
Brooke waved her glass, nearly spilling her wine. The first one had gone down so quickly. “Fine, that’s fine.” She thought for a moment and remembered she was doing to Nola exactly what Julian always did to her. “So what’s going on with you? Anything new with . . .”
“Drew? He’s done. I had a little . . . distraction this past weekend, and it reminded me that there are a lot more exciting men out there than Drew McNeil.”
Brooke once again covered her eyes. “Oh no. Here we go.”
“What? It was just a little fun.”
“When did you find the time?”
Nola feigned looking hurt. “Remember after dinner on Saturday, you wanted to go home and Drew and I were going out?”
“Oh, god. Please don’t tell me this was another threesome. My weak heart can’t handle another threesome.”
“Brooke! Drew left right after you did, but I wanted to stay for a little. I had another drink and then left all by my lonesome around one thirty and went outside to hail a cab.”
“Aren’t we a little too old for late-night booty calls? Do the kids even still call them that these days?”
Nola covered her eyes. “My god, you’re such a prude. I was about to get into the first open cab in twenty minutes when this guy tries to steal it from me. He just jumped into the other side.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, well, he was pretty cute and I told him he could share with me as long as I got dropped off first, and before I even knew what was happening, we were making out.”
