Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 59
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Thanks to that stellar journalism, the entire world knew she was not pregnant but she did have heavier-than-average periods. Nola found the entire thing hysterically funny; Brooke couldn’t stop thinking that everyone from her tenth-grade boyfriend to her ninety-one-year-old grandfather—not to mention every single teenager, housewife, frequent flyer, grocery shopper, salon visitor, manicure seeker, and subscriber in North America—was privy to the details of her menstrual cycle. She hadn’t even seen the photographer! From that day on, she ordered all products that were sex, period, or digestion related online.
Thankfully, Randy and Michelle’s baby, Ella, proved to be the ultimate distraction. She arrived, like a blessing from above, two weeks after the Today show drama, and she had the courtesy to arrive right on Halloween, thereby giving them a perfect excuse to bail on Leo’s costume party. Brooke couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude toward her new niece. Between all the retellings of the birthing story (Michelle’s water breaking while they were out at an Italian restaurant, the race to the hospital only to wait another twelve hours, the offer of free lifetime meals for Ella from the owner of Campanelli’s), the swaddling lessons, and the counting of fingers and toes, the focus had shifted away from Brooke and Julian. At least, within their own family.
They were the model aunt and uncle, making it to the hospital with time to spare before the baby was born, remembering to bring with them two dozen New York bagels and enough lox to feed the entire maternity ward. Even Julian had seemed pleased by the whole event, cooing in Ella’s ear that her tiny hands looked like they were made to play the piano. She would forever think of baby Ella as the last delicious calm before the hell storm to come.
10
Boy-Next-Door Dimples
BROOKE’s cell phone rang just as she’d lugged the twenty-two-pound turkey into the apartment and managed to heave it on top of the counter.
“Hello?” she said as she began clearing her fridge of every nonessential item to make room for the gigantic bird.
“Brooke? It’s Samara.”
She was caught off guard. Samara had never, ever called her before. Did she want to check in and see what they thought of the Vanity Fair cover? It had just hit the stands and Brooke couldn’t stop staring at it. She thought of it as vintage Julian, in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, wearing one of his favorite knit caps and smiling in just that way that showed off his astonishingly endearing dimples. He was by far the cutest of the gang.
“Oh, hi! Doesn’t he just look amazing on the Vanity Fair cover? I mean, I’m not surprised, but he just looks so—”
“Brooke, do you have a minute?”
Obviously, this wasn’t a social call about a magazine cover, and if that woman was even going to try to tell Julian that he couldn’t make it home for the very first Thanksgiving they were hosting, well, she’d kill her.
“Um, yeah, just hold on one sec.” She closed the fridge and sat down at their tiny table, which reminded her that she needed to call and check on the status of the table and chair rental. “Okay, I’m settled now. What’s going on?”
“Brooke, there’s been an article written, and it’s not pleasant,” Samara announced in that clipped, curt way she always had, although with news like this there was something comforting about it.
Brooke tried to laugh it off. “Well, seems like these days there’s always an article written. Hey, I’m the hard-drinking pregnant lady, remember? What did Julian say?”
Samara cleared her throat. “I haven’t told him yet. I suspect he’ll be very upset, and I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Oh, Christ. What do they say about him? Do they make fun of his hair? Or his family? Or did some creepy attention whore from his past surface with claims that—”
“It’s not about Julian, Brooke. It’s about you.”
Silence. Brooke felt her fingernails digging into her palms, but she couldn’t consciously stop it from happening.
“What about me?” she finally asked, her voice a near whisper.
“It’s a collection of offensive lies,” Samara said coolly. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. And I also want you to know that we have our legal team on it, refuting the entirety of it. We’re taking this very seriously.”
Brooke couldn’t bring herself to speak. No question it must be pretty horrible if Samara was going to such lengths over some tabloid piece. Finally she said, “Where is it? I need to see it.”
“It will be in tomorrow’s issue of Last Night, but you can read it online right now. Brooke, please understand that everyone here is behind you, and we promise—”
For possibly the first time since she was a teenager—and certainly for the first time involving anyone but her mother—Brooke hung up midsentence and moved to the computer. She found the page within seconds and did a double take when a huge picture on the homepage showed her and Julian having dinner at an outdoor table. She racked her brain, trying to figure out where they were, before she noticed a street sign in the background. Of course, the Spanish meal they’d shared the night Julian came home shortly after leaving in the middle of her father’s birthday party. Then she began to read.
The couple sharing an order of paella at an outdoor table in Hell’s Kitchen might look like anyone else, but those in the know recognized them as America’s favorite new singer-songwriter Julian Alter and his longtime wife, Brooke. Alter’s debut album has crushed the charts, and his boy-next-door dimples have wowed female fans from coast to coast. But just who is the woman by his side? And how are they weathering Julian’s newfound fame?
Not well, according to a source close to the couple. “They married very, very young, and, yes, they’ve made it five years so far, but they are on the verge of collapse,” the source said. “His schedule is demanding, and Brooke hasn’t been very accommodating.”
The two met shortly after the terrorist attacks of September 11 and clung to each other in the aftermath that rocked New York. “Brooke practically stalked Julian for months, following him all over Manhattan and sitting alone at all his gigs until he had no choice but to notice her. They were both just lonely,” the source explained. A close family friend of the Alters’ agrees. “Julian’s parents were devastated when he announced his engagement to Brooke after less than two years of dating. What was the rush?” However, the couple tied the knot in a small, no-frills ceremony at the Alter family home in the Hamptons despite the fact that the Drs. Alter “always suspected that Brooke, a girl from some nowhere town in Pennsylvania, was trying to hitch her wagon to Julian’s star.”
Thankfully, Randy and Michelle’s baby, Ella, proved to be the ultimate distraction. She arrived, like a blessing from above, two weeks after the Today show drama, and she had the courtesy to arrive right on Halloween, thereby giving them a perfect excuse to bail on Leo’s costume party. Brooke couldn’t help but feel immense gratitude toward her new niece. Between all the retellings of the birthing story (Michelle’s water breaking while they were out at an Italian restaurant, the race to the hospital only to wait another twelve hours, the offer of free lifetime meals for Ella from the owner of Campanelli’s), the swaddling lessons, and the counting of fingers and toes, the focus had shifted away from Brooke and Julian. At least, within their own family.
They were the model aunt and uncle, making it to the hospital with time to spare before the baby was born, remembering to bring with them two dozen New York bagels and enough lox to feed the entire maternity ward. Even Julian had seemed pleased by the whole event, cooing in Ella’s ear that her tiny hands looked like they were made to play the piano. She would forever think of baby Ella as the last delicious calm before the hell storm to come.
10
Boy-Next-Door Dimples
BROOKE’s cell phone rang just as she’d lugged the twenty-two-pound turkey into the apartment and managed to heave it on top of the counter.
“Hello?” she said as she began clearing her fridge of every nonessential item to make room for the gigantic bird.
“Brooke? It’s Samara.”
She was caught off guard. Samara had never, ever called her before. Did she want to check in and see what they thought of the Vanity Fair cover? It had just hit the stands and Brooke couldn’t stop staring at it. She thought of it as vintage Julian, in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, wearing one of his favorite knit caps and smiling in just that way that showed off his astonishingly endearing dimples. He was by far the cutest of the gang.
“Oh, hi! Doesn’t he just look amazing on the Vanity Fair cover? I mean, I’m not surprised, but he just looks so—”
“Brooke, do you have a minute?”
Obviously, this wasn’t a social call about a magazine cover, and if that woman was even going to try to tell Julian that he couldn’t make it home for the very first Thanksgiving they were hosting, well, she’d kill her.
“Um, yeah, just hold on one sec.” She closed the fridge and sat down at their tiny table, which reminded her that she needed to call and check on the status of the table and chair rental. “Okay, I’m settled now. What’s going on?”
“Brooke, there’s been an article written, and it’s not pleasant,” Samara announced in that clipped, curt way she always had, although with news like this there was something comforting about it.
Brooke tried to laugh it off. “Well, seems like these days there’s always an article written. Hey, I’m the hard-drinking pregnant lady, remember? What did Julian say?”
Samara cleared her throat. “I haven’t told him yet. I suspect he’ll be very upset, and I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Oh, Christ. What do they say about him? Do they make fun of his hair? Or his family? Or did some creepy attention whore from his past surface with claims that—”
“It’s not about Julian, Brooke. It’s about you.”
Silence. Brooke felt her fingernails digging into her palms, but she couldn’t consciously stop it from happening.
“What about me?” she finally asked, her voice a near whisper.
“It’s a collection of offensive lies,” Samara said coolly. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. And I also want you to know that we have our legal team on it, refuting the entirety of it. We’re taking this very seriously.”
Brooke couldn’t bring herself to speak. No question it must be pretty horrible if Samara was going to such lengths over some tabloid piece. Finally she said, “Where is it? I need to see it.”
“It will be in tomorrow’s issue of Last Night, but you can read it online right now. Brooke, please understand that everyone here is behind you, and we promise—”
For possibly the first time since she was a teenager—and certainly for the first time involving anyone but her mother—Brooke hung up midsentence and moved to the computer. She found the page within seconds and did a double take when a huge picture on the homepage showed her and Julian having dinner at an outdoor table. She racked her brain, trying to figure out where they were, before she noticed a street sign in the background. Of course, the Spanish meal they’d shared the night Julian came home shortly after leaving in the middle of her father’s birthday party. Then she began to read.
The couple sharing an order of paella at an outdoor table in Hell’s Kitchen might look like anyone else, but those in the know recognized them as America’s favorite new singer-songwriter Julian Alter and his longtime wife, Brooke. Alter’s debut album has crushed the charts, and his boy-next-door dimples have wowed female fans from coast to coast. But just who is the woman by his side? And how are they weathering Julian’s newfound fame?
Not well, according to a source close to the couple. “They married very, very young, and, yes, they’ve made it five years so far, but they are on the verge of collapse,” the source said. “His schedule is demanding, and Brooke hasn’t been very accommodating.”
The two met shortly after the terrorist attacks of September 11 and clung to each other in the aftermath that rocked New York. “Brooke practically stalked Julian for months, following him all over Manhattan and sitting alone at all his gigs until he had no choice but to notice her. They were both just lonely,” the source explained. A close family friend of the Alters’ agrees. “Julian’s parents were devastated when he announced his engagement to Brooke after less than two years of dating. What was the rush?” However, the couple tied the knot in a small, no-frills ceremony at the Alter family home in the Hamptons despite the fact that the Drs. Alter “always suspected that Brooke, a girl from some nowhere town in Pennsylvania, was trying to hitch her wagon to Julian’s star.”
