Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 75
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“Hey,” Julian said, the recognition dawning on his face at the exact same time. “Uh, sure. We’d love to.”
Seacrest motioned to the cameraman behind him and positioned himself slightly to the left of Brooke and Julian. He nodded and the cameraman switched on a powerfully bright light, which instantly cast off a surprising amount of heat. He then spoke into the microphone while looking at the camera.
“Joining me now, Julian Alter and his beautiful wife, Brooke.” He turned toward them and waved his free hand expansively. “Thanks for taking a moment to say hello to us, you two. I have to say, you’re both looking great tonight.”
They each reflexively fake-smiled. Brooke had a brief, panic-inducing moment where she remembered that millions of people were watching this right now, all across the country and possibly the world.
“Thanks, Ryan,” Julian said, and Brooke was relieved he’d remembered to use his first name. “We’re both so excited to be here.”
“So tell me, Julian. Your very first album goes platinum in less than eight weeks. As of today”—he paused and glanced at a small square of paper tucked into his palm—“four million copies sold worldwide. Now you’re performing at the Grammys. Tell me, what’s going through your mind?”
He thrust the microphone under Julian’s mouth and smiled. Julian, cooler than she’d ever seen him, smiled back and said, “Well, Ryan, I have to say, it’s been one hell of an incredible ride. I’ve been blown away by the response to the album, and now this? What an honor. What a truly phenomenal honor.”
Seacrest appeared to like this and rewarded them with another smile and an attentive nod. “Julian, you write a lot about love in your music. Even ‘For the Lost,’ which at first seems like a nod to your lost brother, is really a song about the redemptive power of love. What’s your inspiration?”
A layup if there ever was one. Brooke concentrated on keeping her gaze fixed on Julian, hoping she projected the look of a loving, supportive, attentive wife who hung on his every word instead of the shell-shocked mess she really was.
Julian went right up for the ball and dunked it easily. “You know, it’s funny, Sea—Ryan. When I first started out, so much of my music was dark, pretty heavy. I was going through a lot in my own life, and of course I think the music always mirrors what the artist is dealing with. But now?” With this, he turned to face Brooke, gazed directly into her eyes, and said, “Now it’s a completely different story. Thanks to my beautiful wife, both my life and my music are infinitely better. She’s more than my inspiration—she’s my motivation, my influence, my . . . my everything.”
Despite all that had happened back at the hotel, despite the lost job and the supposedly horrible pictures, despite the tiny little voice in the back of her head that wondered if he was merely playing it up for his audience, Brooke felt a surge of love for her husband. At that moment, in front of the cameras and wearing ridiculous clothes and getting quoted and photographed and feted, she felt the exact same way toward Julian as she did the day they met.
Seacrest made an awww sound and then thanked them both for chatting and wished Julian good luck. The moment he turned toward his next guest—someone who looked exactly like Shakira, although Brooke couldn’t be sure it was her—Julian turned toward her and said, “See? Seacrest didn’t even bother asking about those dumb pictures. Any responsible journalist knows they’re complete bullshit.”
Just the mere mention of those pictures brought her right back to the hotel room, negating all her loving feelings. Not knowing what else to do, and acutely aware there were cameras and microphones spread out over every square inch of red carpet, she merely smiled at nothing and nodded. It didn’t take long for Leo to jam his face between theirs again—Brooke almost jumped when she felt his hand on the back of her neck.
“Julian, Layla Lawson is right up ahead. I want you to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and then introduce her to Brooke. Brooke, it would be a big help if you could look pleased to meet her.”
Brooke glanced up and caught sight of Layla in a surprisingly elegant short black dress, hanging on the arm of Kid Rock. According to the tabs she read, Kid was just a friend, as Layla hadn’t been dating much since her messy breakup with her famous quarterback boyfriend a year earlier. Before she had a chance to say anything snotty to Leo, they had reached the couple. Flashbulbs went off with the intensity of a firefight.
“Julian Alter!” Layla squealed and flung her arms around Julian’s neck. “I can’t wait for your performance!”
Brooke thought she would’ve felt something more upon meeting this girl she’d disliked for so long, but she had to admit that Layla exuded a certain kind of charm in person that didn’t come across so well on television or in the pages of the gossip magazines. Even with her body pressed tightly against Julian’s, there was something appealing about her, something sweeter and more vulnerable—perhaps even a little dumber, which didn’t hurt either—that instantly put Brooke at ease.
Julian did his best to extract himself from Layla’s embrace and looked sheepish when he introduced her to Brooke.
“Hi there!” she said in her rich, honeyed Southern accent. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Brooke smiled and offered her hand, but Layla had already come in for the hug.
“Oh, come here, darling, I feel like I’ve known you for ages! Your husband is one lucky guy!”
“Thanks,” Brooke said, instantly feeling ridiculous for ever feeling threatened. “I love your dress.”
“Oh, you’re a doll-baby. Hey, y’all, I’d like you to meet my friend Kid.” With that, she grabbed his hand and tried to direct his attention to Brooke and Julian, but he seemed distracted by a small army of models (backup singers? dancers? plus-ones?) who were parading past. After an awkwardly long moment, his face flashed a glimmer of recognition and he clapped Julian on the back.
“Dude, sweet album,” he said, clamping both his hands around Julian’s like all the politicians did. “Congrats! Listen, I was wondering if I could ask who you use to . . .”
Brooke didn’t get a chance to hear what Kid Rock was asking of her husband because Layla was nudging her to the side and leaning in so close Brooke could smell her citrusy perfume.
Seacrest motioned to the cameraman behind him and positioned himself slightly to the left of Brooke and Julian. He nodded and the cameraman switched on a powerfully bright light, which instantly cast off a surprising amount of heat. He then spoke into the microphone while looking at the camera.
“Joining me now, Julian Alter and his beautiful wife, Brooke.” He turned toward them and waved his free hand expansively. “Thanks for taking a moment to say hello to us, you two. I have to say, you’re both looking great tonight.”
They each reflexively fake-smiled. Brooke had a brief, panic-inducing moment where she remembered that millions of people were watching this right now, all across the country and possibly the world.
“Thanks, Ryan,” Julian said, and Brooke was relieved he’d remembered to use his first name. “We’re both so excited to be here.”
“So tell me, Julian. Your very first album goes platinum in less than eight weeks. As of today”—he paused and glanced at a small square of paper tucked into his palm—“four million copies sold worldwide. Now you’re performing at the Grammys. Tell me, what’s going through your mind?”
He thrust the microphone under Julian’s mouth and smiled. Julian, cooler than she’d ever seen him, smiled back and said, “Well, Ryan, I have to say, it’s been one hell of an incredible ride. I’ve been blown away by the response to the album, and now this? What an honor. What a truly phenomenal honor.”
Seacrest appeared to like this and rewarded them with another smile and an attentive nod. “Julian, you write a lot about love in your music. Even ‘For the Lost,’ which at first seems like a nod to your lost brother, is really a song about the redemptive power of love. What’s your inspiration?”
A layup if there ever was one. Brooke concentrated on keeping her gaze fixed on Julian, hoping she projected the look of a loving, supportive, attentive wife who hung on his every word instead of the shell-shocked mess she really was.
Julian went right up for the ball and dunked it easily. “You know, it’s funny, Sea—Ryan. When I first started out, so much of my music was dark, pretty heavy. I was going through a lot in my own life, and of course I think the music always mirrors what the artist is dealing with. But now?” With this, he turned to face Brooke, gazed directly into her eyes, and said, “Now it’s a completely different story. Thanks to my beautiful wife, both my life and my music are infinitely better. She’s more than my inspiration—she’s my motivation, my influence, my . . . my everything.”
Despite all that had happened back at the hotel, despite the lost job and the supposedly horrible pictures, despite the tiny little voice in the back of her head that wondered if he was merely playing it up for his audience, Brooke felt a surge of love for her husband. At that moment, in front of the cameras and wearing ridiculous clothes and getting quoted and photographed and feted, she felt the exact same way toward Julian as she did the day they met.
Seacrest made an awww sound and then thanked them both for chatting and wished Julian good luck. The moment he turned toward his next guest—someone who looked exactly like Shakira, although Brooke couldn’t be sure it was her—Julian turned toward her and said, “See? Seacrest didn’t even bother asking about those dumb pictures. Any responsible journalist knows they’re complete bullshit.”
Just the mere mention of those pictures brought her right back to the hotel room, negating all her loving feelings. Not knowing what else to do, and acutely aware there were cameras and microphones spread out over every square inch of red carpet, she merely smiled at nothing and nodded. It didn’t take long for Leo to jam his face between theirs again—Brooke almost jumped when she felt his hand on the back of her neck.
“Julian, Layla Lawson is right up ahead. I want you to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and then introduce her to Brooke. Brooke, it would be a big help if you could look pleased to meet her.”
Brooke glanced up and caught sight of Layla in a surprisingly elegant short black dress, hanging on the arm of Kid Rock. According to the tabs she read, Kid was just a friend, as Layla hadn’t been dating much since her messy breakup with her famous quarterback boyfriend a year earlier. Before she had a chance to say anything snotty to Leo, they had reached the couple. Flashbulbs went off with the intensity of a firefight.
“Julian Alter!” Layla squealed and flung her arms around Julian’s neck. “I can’t wait for your performance!”
Brooke thought she would’ve felt something more upon meeting this girl she’d disliked for so long, but she had to admit that Layla exuded a certain kind of charm in person that didn’t come across so well on television or in the pages of the gossip magazines. Even with her body pressed tightly against Julian’s, there was something appealing about her, something sweeter and more vulnerable—perhaps even a little dumber, which didn’t hurt either—that instantly put Brooke at ease.
Julian did his best to extract himself from Layla’s embrace and looked sheepish when he introduced her to Brooke.
“Hi there!” she said in her rich, honeyed Southern accent. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Brooke smiled and offered her hand, but Layla had already come in for the hug.
“Oh, come here, darling, I feel like I’ve known you for ages! Your husband is one lucky guy!”
“Thanks,” Brooke said, instantly feeling ridiculous for ever feeling threatened. “I love your dress.”
“Oh, you’re a doll-baby. Hey, y’all, I’d like you to meet my friend Kid.” With that, she grabbed his hand and tried to direct his attention to Brooke and Julian, but he seemed distracted by a small army of models (backup singers? dancers? plus-ones?) who were parading past. After an awkwardly long moment, his face flashed a glimmer of recognition and he clapped Julian on the back.
“Dude, sweet album,” he said, clamping both his hands around Julian’s like all the politicians did. “Congrats! Listen, I was wondering if I could ask who you use to . . .”
Brooke didn’t get a chance to hear what Kid Rock was asking of her husband because Layla was nudging her to the side and leaning in so close Brooke could smell her citrusy perfume.
