Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 72
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Brooke drained her glass of water, set it down, and took as full an inhalation as the dress would allow. Next week she would show up at the hospital and plead, beg, and grovel until she convinced them that she was serious about her job—but for now, she had to try her best to put it out of her head. She dabbed at the melted mascara with a warm washcloth and vowed that she wouldn’t even hint to Julian that anything was wrong. Tonight was about honoring his success, sharing his excitement and anticipation, reveling in all the attention. It was about remembering to soak in every single moment.
She didn’t have to wait long. The suite’s bedroom door opened moments later and Julian appeared. He looked supremely stressed out and uncomfortable, probably due to nerves and the fact that he was wearing an extraordinarily shiny suit coupled with a tight, half-buttoned shirt that showed an alarming expanse of chest. Brooke forced herself to smile. “Hi!” She grinned, doing a little spin for him. “What do you think?”
Julian managed a tight, distracted smile. “Wow. You look great.”
Brooke was about to remind him that such effort on her part required far more enthusiasm on his when she looked closely at his face. He actually grimaced as though in pain and sat down on a velvet armchair.
“Oh, you must be so anxious!” she said, walking over to him. She tried to kneel beside him but her dress wouldn’t allow it, so she stood next to his chair. “You look hot.”
Julian was silent.
“Come here, love,” she crooned, taking his hand in hers. She felt a little bit fake pretending everything was fine, but she reminded herself it was the right thing to do. “It’s natural to be nervous, but tonight is going to be—”
The look in his eyes stopped her midsentence.
“Julian, what is it? What’s wrong?”
He raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. When he finally spoke, his deep, even voice gave her chills.
“I have something to tell you,” he said, his gaze directed at the floor.
“Okay. So tell me. What is it?”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly and at that moment Brooke knew this had nothing to do with his nerves. Her mind began to cycle through every horrible possibility. He was sick, with cancer or a brain tumor. One of his parents was sick. There’d been a horrific car accident. Maybe it was her family? Baby Ella? Her mother?
“Julian? What is it? I’m terrified. You have to tell me. Just say it.”
Finally, he met her gaze with what looked like new resolve. For a split second she thought the moment had passed and they could continue their preparations. But just as quickly that look returned and he motioned toward the bed.
“Brooke, I think you should sit down for this,” he said, somehow making her name sound ominous. “This is going to be very hard to hear.”
“Are you okay? Are our parents? Julian!” She was panicked, absolutely certain that something too horrible to fathom had happened.
He held his hand up and shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s about us.”
What? “About us? What about us?” Was he really choosing now to talk about their relationship?
Julian stared at the floor. Brooke pulled her hand away and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Julian, what the hell are you talking about? Enough qualifying. Just say it already, whatever it is.”
“Apparently some pictures have surfaced.” He stated this in the exact same tone he would have used to announce that he had three months to live.
“What kind of pictures?” Brooke asked, but she immediately knew what he meant. Her mind flashed to the reporter in the elevator earlier that afternoon. She’d seen how quickly the news about her nonexistent pregnancy had spread. She’d read about the “affair” with Layla Lawson for months. But there had never before been actual pictures.
“Pictures that don’t look good, but also don’t tell the true story.”
“Julian.”
He sighed. “They’re not good.”
“Better or worse than the Sienna pictures?” It had only been a couple weeks earlier that they’d discussed those infamous pictures. Ironically, Julian was the one who couldn’t understand how a married father of four could get photographed on the balcony of a hotel room with a topless actress hanging around his neck. Brooke had offered a number of perfectly logical explanations for how everything may not have been how it appeared, but eventually she agreed that there was no legit reason why Balthazar Getty was cradling Sienna’s breast in one shot and shoving his tongue down her throat in another. Why couldn’t he have stayed inside the hotel while half-naked, making out, and cheating on his wife?
“About the same. But, Brooke, I swear to you, it wasn’t as bad as it looks.”
“About the same? And what wasn’t as bad if nothing supposedly happened?” Brooke stared at Julian until he met her gaze. His expression was sheepish.
“Show me,” she said, holding her hand out for him to turn over the magazine that he was holding, rolled, in a tight fist.
He unrolled the magazine and she saw it was a copy of Spin. “No, this isn’t it. I was, uh, reading this before. Can you let me explain first, Brooke? They were taken at the Chateau Marmont, and you know how ridiculous—”
“When were you at the Chateau Marmont?” Brooke snapped, hating the sound of her own voice.
Julian looked like he’d been slapped: his eyes were wide with disbelief (or panic?) and the color drained from his cheeks. “When was I . . . I was there, let’s see, four, five . . . last Monday night. You remember? We played in Salt Lake that day and then all of us took a flight to L.A. together since we weren’t playing again until Wednesday? I told you that.”
“That’s not at all how it was presented last week,” she said quietly, her hands starting to tremble once again. “I distinctly remember you saying you were going to L.A. to meet with someone—I can’t remember who now—but you never said anything about having a night off.”
“Huh?”
“Well, only because you swear up and down that you always do everything in your power to get home whenever you can—even if it’s only for a night—but apparently that night was an exception.”
Julian jumped off the chair and walked over to Brooke. He tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away like a skittish deer. “Brooke, come here. I didn’t . . . have sex with her. It’s not the way it seems.”
She didn’t have to wait long. The suite’s bedroom door opened moments later and Julian appeared. He looked supremely stressed out and uncomfortable, probably due to nerves and the fact that he was wearing an extraordinarily shiny suit coupled with a tight, half-buttoned shirt that showed an alarming expanse of chest. Brooke forced herself to smile. “Hi!” She grinned, doing a little spin for him. “What do you think?”
Julian managed a tight, distracted smile. “Wow. You look great.”
Brooke was about to remind him that such effort on her part required far more enthusiasm on his when she looked closely at his face. He actually grimaced as though in pain and sat down on a velvet armchair.
“Oh, you must be so anxious!” she said, walking over to him. She tried to kneel beside him but her dress wouldn’t allow it, so she stood next to his chair. “You look hot.”
Julian was silent.
“Come here, love,” she crooned, taking his hand in hers. She felt a little bit fake pretending everything was fine, but she reminded herself it was the right thing to do. “It’s natural to be nervous, but tonight is going to be—”
The look in his eyes stopped her midsentence.
“Julian, what is it? What’s wrong?”
He raked his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. When he finally spoke, his deep, even voice gave her chills.
“I have something to tell you,” he said, his gaze directed at the floor.
“Okay. So tell me. What is it?”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly and at that moment Brooke knew this had nothing to do with his nerves. Her mind began to cycle through every horrible possibility. He was sick, with cancer or a brain tumor. One of his parents was sick. There’d been a horrific car accident. Maybe it was her family? Baby Ella? Her mother?
“Julian? What is it? I’m terrified. You have to tell me. Just say it.”
Finally, he met her gaze with what looked like new resolve. For a split second she thought the moment had passed and they could continue their preparations. But just as quickly that look returned and he motioned toward the bed.
“Brooke, I think you should sit down for this,” he said, somehow making her name sound ominous. “This is going to be very hard to hear.”
“Are you okay? Are our parents? Julian!” She was panicked, absolutely certain that something too horrible to fathom had happened.
He held his hand up and shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s about us.”
What? “About us? What about us?” Was he really choosing now to talk about their relationship?
Julian stared at the floor. Brooke pulled her hand away and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Julian, what the hell are you talking about? Enough qualifying. Just say it already, whatever it is.”
“Apparently some pictures have surfaced.” He stated this in the exact same tone he would have used to announce that he had three months to live.
“What kind of pictures?” Brooke asked, but she immediately knew what he meant. Her mind flashed to the reporter in the elevator earlier that afternoon. She’d seen how quickly the news about her nonexistent pregnancy had spread. She’d read about the “affair” with Layla Lawson for months. But there had never before been actual pictures.
“Pictures that don’t look good, but also don’t tell the true story.”
“Julian.”
He sighed. “They’re not good.”
“Better or worse than the Sienna pictures?” It had only been a couple weeks earlier that they’d discussed those infamous pictures. Ironically, Julian was the one who couldn’t understand how a married father of four could get photographed on the balcony of a hotel room with a topless actress hanging around his neck. Brooke had offered a number of perfectly logical explanations for how everything may not have been how it appeared, but eventually she agreed that there was no legit reason why Balthazar Getty was cradling Sienna’s breast in one shot and shoving his tongue down her throat in another. Why couldn’t he have stayed inside the hotel while half-naked, making out, and cheating on his wife?
“About the same. But, Brooke, I swear to you, it wasn’t as bad as it looks.”
“About the same? And what wasn’t as bad if nothing supposedly happened?” Brooke stared at Julian until he met her gaze. His expression was sheepish.
“Show me,” she said, holding her hand out for him to turn over the magazine that he was holding, rolled, in a tight fist.
He unrolled the magazine and she saw it was a copy of Spin. “No, this isn’t it. I was, uh, reading this before. Can you let me explain first, Brooke? They were taken at the Chateau Marmont, and you know how ridiculous—”
“When were you at the Chateau Marmont?” Brooke snapped, hating the sound of her own voice.
Julian looked like he’d been slapped: his eyes were wide with disbelief (or panic?) and the color drained from his cheeks. “When was I . . . I was there, let’s see, four, five . . . last Monday night. You remember? We played in Salt Lake that day and then all of us took a flight to L.A. together since we weren’t playing again until Wednesday? I told you that.”
“That’s not at all how it was presented last week,” she said quietly, her hands starting to tremble once again. “I distinctly remember you saying you were going to L.A. to meet with someone—I can’t remember who now—but you never said anything about having a night off.”
“Huh?”
“Well, only because you swear up and down that you always do everything in your power to get home whenever you can—even if it’s only for a night—but apparently that night was an exception.”
Julian jumped off the chair and walked over to Brooke. He tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away like a skittish deer. “Brooke, come here. I didn’t . . . have sex with her. It’s not the way it seems.”
