Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 74
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The mere sound of concern in her friend’s voice started the tears flowing again. “Thanks. I’d appreciate that. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“Remember to find out if Fergie looks as old in person as she does in all the photos. . . .”
“I hate you.”
“I know. I love you, too. Don’t be afraid to sneak some pics and send them. I’d especially like to see a couple of Josh Groban. . . .”
Despite herself, Brooke smiled and hung up. She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and worked up enough nerve to open the door. Natalya looked ready to faint with stress; she physically launched herself at Brooke.
“Do you realize we only have twenty minutes and they need to completely redo you? Who fucking cries after their makeup is applied?” She mumbled the last part, but it was loud enough for Brooke to hear.
“You know what I need right now, Natalya?” she asked, reaching out to touch the girl’s forearm, her voice low but barely concealing a steely rage.
Natalya peered back at her with wide eyes.
“I need you to get my makeup fixed, find my shoes, and order me a vodka martini and a bottle of Advil from room service. And I need you to do those three things without speaking. Not one single, solitary word. Do you think you can do that?”
Natalya stared at her.
“Excellent. I just knew we could work it out! Thanks so much for your help.”
And with that, feeling just the tiniest bit of satisfaction, Brooke walked back into the bedroom. She was going to get through this.
13
Gods and Nurses Don’t Mix
“REMEMBER, you two: hold hands, smile, and relax. You’re happy and in love and you’re clearly not worrying about some two-bit, fame-seeking slut. She is not on your radar. Are we ready?” Leo all but shouted at them from his seat three feet away in the back of the limousine.
“We’re ready . . .” Julian mumbled.
“Are we psyched? We need to be psyched! Are you two feeling it?” He peered out the window to see if they were being motioned for yet by the woman with the clipboard who was timing artist arrivals. Julian was scheduled to begin his red carpet walk at exactly 4:25 P.M., which according to Brooke’s cell phone was in one terrifying minute.
Feeling what, exactly? Brooke wanted to ask. Like shit? Like I’m about to make a voluntary death march, and if I knew what was good for me I’d immediately turn around, but I’m way too conflict-averse to make waves like that, so instead I’ll just go quietly to the executioner’s? So yes, you jerk, I suppose I am “feeling it.”
“I’m not going to lie, guys—they’re going to be piranhas.” Leo held up his hands, palms out. “I’m just sayin’, so you’ll be prepared. But ignore ’em, smile, and soak in the moment. You two’ll be great.” His phone buzzed and after glancing at it for half a second, he clicked Unlock on the doors and turned to Brooke and Julian.
“It’s time. Let’s do this!” Leo shouted, and threw open the limo door, and before Brooke could even process what was happening, she was blinded by the flashbulbs. And while the flashes of light were piercing and painful, they were nothing compared to the questions.
“Julian! How does it feel to be attending your first Grammy ceremony?”
“Brooke! Do you have any comment on the pictures in the latest issue of Last Night?”
“Julian! Look over here! Here! Are you having an affair?”
“Brooke! Turn this way! Here, this camera! Who are you wearing?”
“Brooke! If you could say one thing to the Chateau bimbo, what would it be?”
“Julian! To your left! Yes, just like that! Will you stay in your marriage?”
“Julian! Is it surreal to be walking the red carpet when no one knew your name a year ago?”
“Brooke! Do you think it’s your fault because you don’t physically fit the Hollywood norm?”
“What would you say to all the young women watching right now?”
“Julian! Do you wish your wife traveled with you more?”
It was like having stadium lights suddenly turned on in your bedroom at three in the morning: her eyes wouldn’t—couldn’t—adjust, and every effort only resulted in more discomfort.
She briefly turned her back toward the camera-free zone behind them and caught a glimpse of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban climbing out of a stretch black Escalade. Why are you talking to us when there are real celebrities here? she wanted to scream. It was only when she turned back around again, her eyes finally able to handle the stunning flashes of light, that she saw an endless sea of red before them. Was it a mile long? Two? Ten? The people who had progressed farther up the carpet appeared casual, even relaxed. They were standing around in groups of three or five, idly chatting to reporters or one another, posing expertly for the cameras, offering megawatt, professionally engineered smiles at every turn. Was it possible to be like them? Could she do that too? More to the point, did she even stand a chance of surviving the next interminable stretch of carpet?
And then they were moving. She kept one sandaled foot directly in front of the other, chin held high, cheeks most likely flaming, and Julian ushered her through the throngs. When they’d traversed half of the distance to the entrance, Leo placed a hot, sweaty hand on each of their shoulders, leaned his head between theirs, and said, “E! entertainment news, upcoming on your right. If they approach you for an interview, stop and talk to them.”
Brooke looked to her right and saw the back of a short blond guy’s head. He was holding a microphone out to a trio of black-suited boys, none of whom looked older than fifteen. She had to rack her brain trying to think of their names, and when she finally remembered they were the Jonas Brothers, she felt very, very old. They were kind of cute, she thought, in a koala-bear-type way, but sexy? Seductive? Capable of bringing millions of tween girls to the brink of unconsciousness by merely smiling? Ridiculous. She thought all those screaming girls should look back at the old Tiger Beat photos of Kirk Cameron and Ricky Schroeder if they wanted to see some real teen heartthrobs. She shook her head to herself. Did she just think the word “heartthrob”? She added this to a mental list of things to tell Nola.
“Julian Alter? Can we have a word with you?” The short blond guy had finally bid good-bye to the Jonas children and turned toward Brooke and Julian. Seacrest! Looking every bit as tan as he always did on Idol, his smile warm and welcoming. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
“Remember to find out if Fergie looks as old in person as she does in all the photos. . . .”
“I hate you.”
“I know. I love you, too. Don’t be afraid to sneak some pics and send them. I’d especially like to see a couple of Josh Groban. . . .”
Despite herself, Brooke smiled and hung up. She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and worked up enough nerve to open the door. Natalya looked ready to faint with stress; she physically launched herself at Brooke.
“Do you realize we only have twenty minutes and they need to completely redo you? Who fucking cries after their makeup is applied?” She mumbled the last part, but it was loud enough for Brooke to hear.
“You know what I need right now, Natalya?” she asked, reaching out to touch the girl’s forearm, her voice low but barely concealing a steely rage.
Natalya peered back at her with wide eyes.
“I need you to get my makeup fixed, find my shoes, and order me a vodka martini and a bottle of Advil from room service. And I need you to do those three things without speaking. Not one single, solitary word. Do you think you can do that?”
Natalya stared at her.
“Excellent. I just knew we could work it out! Thanks so much for your help.”
And with that, feeling just the tiniest bit of satisfaction, Brooke walked back into the bedroom. She was going to get through this.
13
Gods and Nurses Don’t Mix
“REMEMBER, you two: hold hands, smile, and relax. You’re happy and in love and you’re clearly not worrying about some two-bit, fame-seeking slut. She is not on your radar. Are we ready?” Leo all but shouted at them from his seat three feet away in the back of the limousine.
“We’re ready . . .” Julian mumbled.
“Are we psyched? We need to be psyched! Are you two feeling it?” He peered out the window to see if they were being motioned for yet by the woman with the clipboard who was timing artist arrivals. Julian was scheduled to begin his red carpet walk at exactly 4:25 P.M., which according to Brooke’s cell phone was in one terrifying minute.
Feeling what, exactly? Brooke wanted to ask. Like shit? Like I’m about to make a voluntary death march, and if I knew what was good for me I’d immediately turn around, but I’m way too conflict-averse to make waves like that, so instead I’ll just go quietly to the executioner’s? So yes, you jerk, I suppose I am “feeling it.”
“I’m not going to lie, guys—they’re going to be piranhas.” Leo held up his hands, palms out. “I’m just sayin’, so you’ll be prepared. But ignore ’em, smile, and soak in the moment. You two’ll be great.” His phone buzzed and after glancing at it for half a second, he clicked Unlock on the doors and turned to Brooke and Julian.
“It’s time. Let’s do this!” Leo shouted, and threw open the limo door, and before Brooke could even process what was happening, she was blinded by the flashbulbs. And while the flashes of light were piercing and painful, they were nothing compared to the questions.
“Julian! How does it feel to be attending your first Grammy ceremony?”
“Brooke! Do you have any comment on the pictures in the latest issue of Last Night?”
“Julian! Look over here! Here! Are you having an affair?”
“Brooke! Turn this way! Here, this camera! Who are you wearing?”
“Brooke! If you could say one thing to the Chateau bimbo, what would it be?”
“Julian! To your left! Yes, just like that! Will you stay in your marriage?”
“Julian! Is it surreal to be walking the red carpet when no one knew your name a year ago?”
“Brooke! Do you think it’s your fault because you don’t physically fit the Hollywood norm?”
“What would you say to all the young women watching right now?”
“Julian! Do you wish your wife traveled with you more?”
It was like having stadium lights suddenly turned on in your bedroom at three in the morning: her eyes wouldn’t—couldn’t—adjust, and every effort only resulted in more discomfort.
She briefly turned her back toward the camera-free zone behind them and caught a glimpse of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban climbing out of a stretch black Escalade. Why are you talking to us when there are real celebrities here? she wanted to scream. It was only when she turned back around again, her eyes finally able to handle the stunning flashes of light, that she saw an endless sea of red before them. Was it a mile long? Two? Ten? The people who had progressed farther up the carpet appeared casual, even relaxed. They were standing around in groups of three or five, idly chatting to reporters or one another, posing expertly for the cameras, offering megawatt, professionally engineered smiles at every turn. Was it possible to be like them? Could she do that too? More to the point, did she even stand a chance of surviving the next interminable stretch of carpet?
And then they were moving. She kept one sandaled foot directly in front of the other, chin held high, cheeks most likely flaming, and Julian ushered her through the throngs. When they’d traversed half of the distance to the entrance, Leo placed a hot, sweaty hand on each of their shoulders, leaned his head between theirs, and said, “E! entertainment news, upcoming on your right. If they approach you for an interview, stop and talk to them.”
Brooke looked to her right and saw the back of a short blond guy’s head. He was holding a microphone out to a trio of black-suited boys, none of whom looked older than fifteen. She had to rack her brain trying to think of their names, and when she finally remembered they were the Jonas Brothers, she felt very, very old. They were kind of cute, she thought, in a koala-bear-type way, but sexy? Seductive? Capable of bringing millions of tween girls to the brink of unconsciousness by merely smiling? Ridiculous. She thought all those screaming girls should look back at the old Tiger Beat photos of Kirk Cameron and Ricky Schroeder if they wanted to see some real teen heartthrobs. She shook her head to herself. Did she just think the word “heartthrob”? She added this to a mental list of things to tell Nola.
“Julian Alter? Can we have a word with you?” The short blond guy had finally bid good-bye to the Jonas children and turned toward Brooke and Julian. Seacrest! Looking every bit as tan as he always did on Idol, his smile warm and welcoming. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
