Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 82
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She took a deep breath and turned to page eighteen. Whoever claimed that horrible things took a while to process had obviously never faced a double-sided spread of her husband seducing another woman. Brooke’s mind took it all in seamlessly. Without the least bit of effort, she saw another version of the first photo, only in this one, Julian appeared to be listening intently as the girl whispered something into his ear. It was time-stamped 11:38 P.M. The next one, stamped with a neon-red 12:22 A.M., showed him throwing his head back in laughter; the girl laughed, too, and now she had her palm planted firmly against his chest. Was she playfully pushing him away? Just looking for an excuse to touch him? The third and final picture on the left-hand side of the page was the worst: it showed the girl pressed right up against Julian, sipping what looked like rosé champagne. Julian was still holding his beer bottle in one hand, but his other hand appeared to be up the girl’s dress. You could tell from his arm’s angle that he wasn’t doing anything more X-rated than touching her upper thigh, but there was no denying that both hand and wrist were completely obscured by fabric. Julian was winking at the girl, giving her that mischievous smile Brooke loved so much, as she gazed at him adoringly through big brown eyes. It was 1:03 A.M.
And then the whammy, no doubt Last Night’s crowning glory. On the right-hand side of the page was a full-bleed photo that may as well have been the size of a billboard. The time read 6:18 A.M. And it featured the girl, wearing the exact same drab blue dress from a few hours earlier, walking out of a poolside bungalow room. Her hair was disastrously mussed and she looked every bit the part of a morning-after cliché. She clutched her bag to her chest as though protecting herself from the surprise of the flashbulb, and her eyes were wide, shocked, but there was something else there, too. Pride? Accomplishment? Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t shame.
Brooke couldn’t keep from examining each photo with the care of a scientist studying a specimen, looking for clues and signs and patterns. It took a few more sickening minutes, but after staring intently at the last photo, Brooke knew what bothered her the most. The girl wasn’t a famous actress or supermodel or pop star, at least not as far as Brooke could tell. She looked ordinary. She had limp, slightly too-long reddish-brown hair, a nondescript blue dress, and a figure so unmemorable—so stunningly average—that it almost took Brooke’s breath away when she realized: the girl sort of looked like her. From the extra five pounds to the inexpertly applied eye makeup to not-quite-right sandals (the heels just a little too clunky for a night out and the leather just slightly too worn), Julian’s Chateau fling and Brooke could have been sisters. And, almost most distressing of all, Brooke was fairly certain she would be considered the more attractive one.
It was all too weird. If your husband was going to cheat on you with some stranger he met at a Hollywood hotel, couldn’t he at least have the self-respect to choose someone hot? Or, at the very least, someone plastic and cheesy? Where were the huge fake boobs and the skintight skinny jeans? The airbrushed spray tan and the five-hundred-dollar highlights? How’d she even get into the Chateau? Brooke wondered. Maybe a famous musician couldn’t always score a Giselle-level model, but couldn’t he at least have found someone who looked better than his own wife? Brooke tossed the magazine aside in disgust. It was easier to focus on the absurdity of your husband cheating on you with a less attractive version of yourself than it was to acknowledge the actual cheating part.
“You okay?” Her mother’s voice surprised her. Mrs. Greene was leaning in the doorway, her face wearing the same pained expression as before.
“You were right,” Brooke said. “Those would not have been fun to see on the Amtrak train home tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. I know it must seem impossible right now, but I think you have to hear Julian out.”
Brooke snorted. “You mean listen to something like, ‘Honey, I technically could’ve come home and spent that night with you, but instead I got wasted and hooked up with your less attractive twin sister? Oh, and I just happened to get photographed doing it?” Brooke could hear the anger in her voice, the dripping sarcasm, and was surprised she didn’t feel like crying.
Mrs. Greene sighed and joined her on the bed. “I don’t know, sweetheart. He certainly needs to do better than that. But let’s be clear on one thing: that tramp is no twin of yours. She’s just some pathetic girl who threw herself at your husband. You outshine her in every imaginable way.”
The sound of Julian’s single, “For the Lost,” rang out from the other room. Brooke’s mother looked at her questioningly.
“It’s my ringtone,” Brooke said, pulling herself up. “I downloaded it a few weeks ago. Now I can spend the night trying to figure out how to make it go away.”
She located her phone in the guest bedroom and saw it was Julian calling. She wanted to screen him but couldn’t.
“Hey,” she said, assuming the same position on this bed.
“Brooke! My god, I’ve been panicked. Why weren’t you answering my calls? I didn’t even know if you made it home or not.”
“I’m not at home, I’m at my mom’s.”
She thought she heard a muffled curse and then he said, “Your mom’s? I thought you said you were going home?”
“Yeah, well, that was my plan until Nola informed me that our apartment was under siege.”
“Brooke?” She heard a horn honking in the background. “Goddammit, we almost just got rear-ended. Dude, what’s up with that guy behind us?”
Then, to her: “Brooke? Sorry. I almost died there.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Brooke . . .”
“Yes?”
There was a pause before he said, “Please hear me out.”
There was another moment of silence. She knew he was waiting for her to say something about the pictures, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Which, incidentally, was upsetting in its own way. How sad was it to be playing such juvenile don’t-show-your-feelings games with your own husband.
“Brooke, I—” He stopped and coughed. “I, uh, I can’t even imagine how hard it was to look at those pictures. How absolutely, utterly horrible it must have been . . .”
Her hand gripped the phone so tightly she was afraid she might break it, but she couldn’t make herself say anything. All of a sudden, her throat had seized shut and the tears began streaming down her face.
And then the whammy, no doubt Last Night’s crowning glory. On the right-hand side of the page was a full-bleed photo that may as well have been the size of a billboard. The time read 6:18 A.M. And it featured the girl, wearing the exact same drab blue dress from a few hours earlier, walking out of a poolside bungalow room. Her hair was disastrously mussed and she looked every bit the part of a morning-after cliché. She clutched her bag to her chest as though protecting herself from the surprise of the flashbulb, and her eyes were wide, shocked, but there was something else there, too. Pride? Accomplishment? Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t shame.
Brooke couldn’t keep from examining each photo with the care of a scientist studying a specimen, looking for clues and signs and patterns. It took a few more sickening minutes, but after staring intently at the last photo, Brooke knew what bothered her the most. The girl wasn’t a famous actress or supermodel or pop star, at least not as far as Brooke could tell. She looked ordinary. She had limp, slightly too-long reddish-brown hair, a nondescript blue dress, and a figure so unmemorable—so stunningly average—that it almost took Brooke’s breath away when she realized: the girl sort of looked like her. From the extra five pounds to the inexpertly applied eye makeup to not-quite-right sandals (the heels just a little too clunky for a night out and the leather just slightly too worn), Julian’s Chateau fling and Brooke could have been sisters. And, almost most distressing of all, Brooke was fairly certain she would be considered the more attractive one.
It was all too weird. If your husband was going to cheat on you with some stranger he met at a Hollywood hotel, couldn’t he at least have the self-respect to choose someone hot? Or, at the very least, someone plastic and cheesy? Where were the huge fake boobs and the skintight skinny jeans? The airbrushed spray tan and the five-hundred-dollar highlights? How’d she even get into the Chateau? Brooke wondered. Maybe a famous musician couldn’t always score a Giselle-level model, but couldn’t he at least have found someone who looked better than his own wife? Brooke tossed the magazine aside in disgust. It was easier to focus on the absurdity of your husband cheating on you with a less attractive version of yourself than it was to acknowledge the actual cheating part.
“You okay?” Her mother’s voice surprised her. Mrs. Greene was leaning in the doorway, her face wearing the same pained expression as before.
“You were right,” Brooke said. “Those would not have been fun to see on the Amtrak train home tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. I know it must seem impossible right now, but I think you have to hear Julian out.”
Brooke snorted. “You mean listen to something like, ‘Honey, I technically could’ve come home and spent that night with you, but instead I got wasted and hooked up with your less attractive twin sister? Oh, and I just happened to get photographed doing it?” Brooke could hear the anger in her voice, the dripping sarcasm, and was surprised she didn’t feel like crying.
Mrs. Greene sighed and joined her on the bed. “I don’t know, sweetheart. He certainly needs to do better than that. But let’s be clear on one thing: that tramp is no twin of yours. She’s just some pathetic girl who threw herself at your husband. You outshine her in every imaginable way.”
The sound of Julian’s single, “For the Lost,” rang out from the other room. Brooke’s mother looked at her questioningly.
“It’s my ringtone,” Brooke said, pulling herself up. “I downloaded it a few weeks ago. Now I can spend the night trying to figure out how to make it go away.”
She located her phone in the guest bedroom and saw it was Julian calling. She wanted to screen him but couldn’t.
“Hey,” she said, assuming the same position on this bed.
“Brooke! My god, I’ve been panicked. Why weren’t you answering my calls? I didn’t even know if you made it home or not.”
“I’m not at home, I’m at my mom’s.”
She thought she heard a muffled curse and then he said, “Your mom’s? I thought you said you were going home?”
“Yeah, well, that was my plan until Nola informed me that our apartment was under siege.”
“Brooke?” She heard a horn honking in the background. “Goddammit, we almost just got rear-ended. Dude, what’s up with that guy behind us?”
Then, to her: “Brooke? Sorry. I almost died there.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Brooke . . .”
“Yes?”
There was a pause before he said, “Please hear me out.”
There was another moment of silence. She knew he was waiting for her to say something about the pictures, but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Which, incidentally, was upsetting in its own way. How sad was it to be playing such juvenile don’t-show-your-feelings games with your own husband.
“Brooke, I—” He stopped and coughed. “I, uh, I can’t even imagine how hard it was to look at those pictures. How absolutely, utterly horrible it must have been . . .”
Her hand gripped the phone so tightly she was afraid she might break it, but she couldn’t make herself say anything. All of a sudden, her throat had seized shut and the tears began streaming down her face.
