Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 55
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“Hey,” he said, pulling his headphones down around his neck like a scarf. “Did I wake you?”
Brooke nodded. “It’s muted, though,” she said, pointing to the keyboard, which was hooked up to the headphones, “so I’m not sure what I heard.”
“These,” Julian said, holding up a handful of CDs. “I knocked them over just a minute ago. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Brooke snuggled close. “You okay? What’s going on?”
Julian wrapped his arms around her shoulders but seemed no less distracted. His eyebrows knit together. “I guess I’m just really nervous. I’ve done a lot of interviews by now, but none as big as the Today show.”
Brooke grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and said, “You’re going to be great, baby. Seriously, you’re a natural at this media stuff.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly true—the few television interviews she’d seen Julian do so far had been a little on the awkward side—but if there was ever a time to lie . . .
“You have to say that. You’re my wife.”
“You’re absolutely right, I do have to say it. But I also happen to mean it. You’re going to be amazing.”
“It’s live and it’s national. Millions of people watch every single morning. How terrifying is that?”
Brooke nuzzled into his chest so he couldn’t see her expression. “You’re just going to go out there and do your thing. They’ll have that stage set up outside and all the screaming tourists, and it won’t feel any different than a tour performance. Far less people than that, actually.”
“Fewer.”
“What?”
“Fewer. It’s ‘far fewer’ people, not ‘less.’” Julian smiled weakly.
Brooke punched him. “So that’s what I get for trying to comfort you, huh? Grammar correction? Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
“What’s the point? Don’t we have to be there any minute?”
Brooke glanced at the clock on the DVD player. Three thirty-five. “We can sleep for another, oh, let’s say fifty minutes before we have to start getting ready. They’re sending a car at five fifteen.”
“Jesus Christ. This is inhumane.”
“Scratch that. I think we can only do forty-five minutes. Don’t think because you’re some celebrity now you don’t have to walk your own dog.”
Julian groaned. Walter woofed.
“Come on, you’ll be better off if you lie down, even if you can’t sleep,” Brooke said, standing and tugging on his arm.
Julian stood and kissed her on the cheek. “Go ahead, I’ll be right in.”
“Julian . . .”
He flashed another smile, this one real. “Don’t be a tyrant, woman. Do I need permission to go to the bathroom? I’ll be right in.”
Brooke feigned irritation. “‘Tyrant’? Come on, Walter, let’s go back to bed and leave Daddy in peace to sit on the toilet and download iPhone apps.” She pecked Julian on the lips and made a kissing noise so Walter would follow her.
The next thing Brooke knew, the clock radio was blaring “All the Single Ladies,” and she bolted upright in bed, convinced they’d somehow missed the whole thing. She was relieved when the clock read four fifteen A.M. and leaned over to shake Julian, but on his side of the bed she found only a tangle of blanket and a sprawled-out spaniel. Walter was stretched out on his back, all four paws straight in the air, head on Julian’s pillow like a human. He looked at her with one eye that seemed to say, I could get used to this, before closing it again and letting out a contented sigh. Brooke buried her face in his neck and then tiptoed into the living room, certain she’d find Julian right where she’d left him. Instead, she saw a crack of light under the door of the guest half bathroom, and when she moved closer to ask if he was all right, she heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Poor thing’s a wreck, she thought with a combination of sympathy for Julian and relief that she wasn’t the one who had to give this interview right now. If the situation were reversed, she had no doubt she’d be right there in that bathroom, puking and praying for some divine intervention.
She heard the water run for a moment and then the door opened, revealing a pale, sweaty version of her husband. He ran the back of his hand along his mouth and offered her an expression that toed the line between nauseated and mildly amused.
“How are you feeling, baby? Can I get you anything? Some ginger ale maybe?”
Julian slumped into a seat at their two-person kitchenette table and raked his fingers through his hair. Brooke noticed that his hair was looking fuller lately, almost like he wasn’t thinning on top as much as he had been in the last year. It was probably the great haircuts he’d been getting from the hair and makeup people, who must have discovered a way to somehow conceal or camouflage it. Whatever they were doing, it was working. Without the distraction of the small bald spot, your eyes were immediately drawn to those ridiculous dimples.
“I feel like shit,” he announced. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Brooke knelt beside him, kissed him on the cheek, and took both his hands in hers. “You’re going to be great, baby. This is going to help you and your album so tremendously.”
For a second Brooke thought he might cry. Thankfully, he plucked a banana from the centerpiece bowl, peeled it, and began taking long, slow chews.
“And I really think the interview part is going to be a breeze. Everyone knows you’re there to perform. You’ll do ‘For the Lost,’ the crowd will go crazy, you’ll forget the cameras are even there, and then they’ll come up to you on the stage and ask how it feels to be a sudden star or something like that. You’ll give your bit about how much you love and adore all your fans, and then straight to Al for the weather. It’ll be a cakewalk, I promise!”
“You think?”
His imploring eyes reminded Brooke how long it had been since she had to soothe him like this, how much she missed doing it. Her husband the rock star could still be her husband the nervous guy.
“I know! Come on, let’s get you in the shower and I’ll make you some eggs and toast. The car will be here in a half hour and we can’t be late. Okay?”
Julian nodded. He rumpled her hair as he stood and took off for their bathroom without another word. He got nervous before every performance, regardless of whether it was a routine gig at a college bar or a small showcase in an intimate venue or a huge crowd in a Midwestern stadium, but Brooke couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this.
Brooke nodded. “It’s muted, though,” she said, pointing to the keyboard, which was hooked up to the headphones, “so I’m not sure what I heard.”
“These,” Julian said, holding up a handful of CDs. “I knocked them over just a minute ago. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Brooke snuggled close. “You okay? What’s going on?”
Julian wrapped his arms around her shoulders but seemed no less distracted. His eyebrows knit together. “I guess I’m just really nervous. I’ve done a lot of interviews by now, but none as big as the Today show.”
Brooke grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and said, “You’re going to be great, baby. Seriously, you’re a natural at this media stuff.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly true—the few television interviews she’d seen Julian do so far had been a little on the awkward side—but if there was ever a time to lie . . .
“You have to say that. You’re my wife.”
“You’re absolutely right, I do have to say it. But I also happen to mean it. You’re going to be amazing.”
“It’s live and it’s national. Millions of people watch every single morning. How terrifying is that?”
Brooke nuzzled into his chest so he couldn’t see her expression. “You’re just going to go out there and do your thing. They’ll have that stage set up outside and all the screaming tourists, and it won’t feel any different than a tour performance. Far less people than that, actually.”
“Fewer.”
“What?”
“Fewer. It’s ‘far fewer’ people, not ‘less.’” Julian smiled weakly.
Brooke punched him. “So that’s what I get for trying to comfort you, huh? Grammar correction? Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
“What’s the point? Don’t we have to be there any minute?”
Brooke glanced at the clock on the DVD player. Three thirty-five. “We can sleep for another, oh, let’s say fifty minutes before we have to start getting ready. They’re sending a car at five fifteen.”
“Jesus Christ. This is inhumane.”
“Scratch that. I think we can only do forty-five minutes. Don’t think because you’re some celebrity now you don’t have to walk your own dog.”
Julian groaned. Walter woofed.
“Come on, you’ll be better off if you lie down, even if you can’t sleep,” Brooke said, standing and tugging on his arm.
Julian stood and kissed her on the cheek. “Go ahead, I’ll be right in.”
“Julian . . .”
He flashed another smile, this one real. “Don’t be a tyrant, woman. Do I need permission to go to the bathroom? I’ll be right in.”
Brooke feigned irritation. “‘Tyrant’? Come on, Walter, let’s go back to bed and leave Daddy in peace to sit on the toilet and download iPhone apps.” She pecked Julian on the lips and made a kissing noise so Walter would follow her.
The next thing Brooke knew, the clock radio was blaring “All the Single Ladies,” and she bolted upright in bed, convinced they’d somehow missed the whole thing. She was relieved when the clock read four fifteen A.M. and leaned over to shake Julian, but on his side of the bed she found only a tangle of blanket and a sprawled-out spaniel. Walter was stretched out on his back, all four paws straight in the air, head on Julian’s pillow like a human. He looked at her with one eye that seemed to say, I could get used to this, before closing it again and letting out a contented sigh. Brooke buried her face in his neck and then tiptoed into the living room, certain she’d find Julian right where she’d left him. Instead, she saw a crack of light under the door of the guest half bathroom, and when she moved closer to ask if he was all right, she heard the unmistakable sound of retching. Poor thing’s a wreck, she thought with a combination of sympathy for Julian and relief that she wasn’t the one who had to give this interview right now. If the situation were reversed, she had no doubt she’d be right there in that bathroom, puking and praying for some divine intervention.
She heard the water run for a moment and then the door opened, revealing a pale, sweaty version of her husband. He ran the back of his hand along his mouth and offered her an expression that toed the line between nauseated and mildly amused.
“How are you feeling, baby? Can I get you anything? Some ginger ale maybe?”
Julian slumped into a seat at their two-person kitchenette table and raked his fingers through his hair. Brooke noticed that his hair was looking fuller lately, almost like he wasn’t thinning on top as much as he had been in the last year. It was probably the great haircuts he’d been getting from the hair and makeup people, who must have discovered a way to somehow conceal or camouflage it. Whatever they were doing, it was working. Without the distraction of the small bald spot, your eyes were immediately drawn to those ridiculous dimples.
“I feel like shit,” he announced. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Brooke knelt beside him, kissed him on the cheek, and took both his hands in hers. “You’re going to be great, baby. This is going to help you and your album so tremendously.”
For a second Brooke thought he might cry. Thankfully, he plucked a banana from the centerpiece bowl, peeled it, and began taking long, slow chews.
“And I really think the interview part is going to be a breeze. Everyone knows you’re there to perform. You’ll do ‘For the Lost,’ the crowd will go crazy, you’ll forget the cameras are even there, and then they’ll come up to you on the stage and ask how it feels to be a sudden star or something like that. You’ll give your bit about how much you love and adore all your fans, and then straight to Al for the weather. It’ll be a cakewalk, I promise!”
“You think?”
His imploring eyes reminded Brooke how long it had been since she had to soothe him like this, how much she missed doing it. Her husband the rock star could still be her husband the nervous guy.
“I know! Come on, let’s get you in the shower and I’ll make you some eggs and toast. The car will be here in a half hour and we can’t be late. Okay?”
Julian nodded. He rumpled her hair as he stood and took off for their bathroom without another word. He got nervous before every performance, regardless of whether it was a routine gig at a college bar or a small showcase in an intimate venue or a huge crowd in a Midwestern stadium, but Brooke couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this.
