Читать книгу Last Night at Chateau Marmont - Лорен Вайсбергер, Lauren Weisberger, Lauren Weisberger - Страница 9

‘Kaylie, sweetheart, I don’t know how else to say it: you do not need to lose weight. Look at your statistics; look at this chart. You are absolutely perfect just the way you are.’

‘No one else here looks like me,’ Kaylie said, lowering her eyes. The girl absently twisted her limp brown hair in circles around her forefinger, methodically wrapping and turning, wrapping and turning. Her face was filled with anxiety.

‘What do you mean?’ Brooke asked, although she knew what Kaylie meant.

‘I just … I never felt fat until I came here. At public school, I was totally normal, maybe even on the skinny side! And then this year rolls around and they stick me in this weird place because it’s supposed to be so fancy and special, and suddenly I’m obese.’ The girl’s voice cracked at the last word, and it was all Brooke could do not to hug her.

‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re no such thing! Come here, look at this chart. One hundred twenty-five pounds at five-one is well within the healthy range.’ Brooke held out her laminated chart showing the huge range of normal weights, but Kaylie barely glanced at it.

She knew it wasn’t particularly comforting in light of all the astonishingly thin girls in Kaylie’s ninth-grade class. Kaylie was a scholarship student from the Bronx, the daughter of an air-conditioning repairman who raised her alone after her mother was killed in a car accident. Her father was clearly doing something right, considering the girl’s straight-A record in middle school, success on the field hockey team, and, according to what Brooke heard from other teachers, an ability to play the violin that far surpassed that of her peers, and yet here was his lovely, accomplished daughter, and all she could see was that she didn’t fit in.

Kaylie tugged at the hem of her plaid skirt, which rested across thighs that were strong and muscular, but nowhere near fat, and said, ‘I guess I just have bad genes. My mom was really overweight, too.’

‘Do you miss her?’ Brooke asked, and Kaylie could only nod, the tears welling in her eyes.

‘She always told me I was perfect just the way I am, but I wonder what she would’ve said if she could see the girls here. They’re perfect. Their hair is perfect and their makeup is perfect and their bodies are perfect, and even though we all have the same exact uniform, even the way they wear it is perfect.’

It was one aspect of the job she had least expected but had grown to appreciate more than she could express, this crossover between nutritionist and confidante. They’d learned in grad school that anyone who came into regular contact with teenagers and was merely willing to listen could play an important role as a caring, involved adult, but Brooke hadn’t known what they meant until she started at Huntley.

Brooke spent a few more minutes explaining that although it might not have felt that way, Kaylie was well within a healthy weight limit. It was a hard argument, especially considering the girl’s muscular, athletic body was broader than most of her classmates’, but she tried. If only I could fast-forward her through four years of high school and send her straight to college, Brooke thought. She’d realize then that none of this ninth-grade nonsense means anything in the long run.

But Brooke knew from experience that this was impossible. She, too, had self-consciously been on the larger end of normal all through high school and Cornell, straight up until grad school, when she went on a drastic diet and lost almost twenty pounds. She couldn’t keep it off, though, and gained fifteen of it back almost immediately. Now, despite mostly healthful eating and a dedicated running program, Brooke was also on the outer limits of the healthy range for her height and, just like Kaylie, was acutely aware of that fact. She felt hypocritical even trying to tell Kaylie not to worry about it when she herself thought about it every day.

‘You are perfect, Kaylie. I know it doesn’t always feel that way, especially surrounded by girls with so many advantages, but believe me when I tell you that you’re absolutely beautiful. You’re going to make friends here, find the girls you connect with, and feel more at home. And then before you know it, you’ll kiss the SATs and prom and some dumb boyfriend from Dalton good-bye, and you’ll run off to a fantastic college where everyone’s perfect in their own way, in exactly the way they choose. And you’ll love it. I can honestly promise you that.’

Brooke’s phone rang, the special piano-sounding ring that she’d attached only to Julian’s number. He never called when she was at work, knowing she wouldn’t be able to answer, and even kept his texts to a minimum. She knew in an instant something was wrong.

‘Excuse me, Kaylie. This will just be a minute.’ She swiveled in her chair the best she could to get some privacy in the small office. ‘Hi. Is everything okay? I’m with a patient right now.’

‘Brooke, you are not going to believe this, but—’ He stopped and breathed in deeply, dramatically.

‘Julian, seriously, if this is not an emergency, I need to call you back.’

‘Leo just called. One of the main bookers from Leno was at the showcase last week. They want me to perform on the show!’

‘No!’

‘It’s true! It’s a hundred percent guaranteed done deal. Next week, Tuesday night. Taping at five. I’ll be the musical performance on the show, probably right after the interviews. Do you believe it?’

‘Ohmigod!’

‘Brooke, say something else.’

She forgot where she was for a moment. ‘I can’t believe it. I mean, of course I can believe it, but it’s just so incredible.’ She heard Julian laughing and thought how long it’d been. ‘When are you home tonight? We must celebrate. I have something in mind …’

‘Does it involve my favorite mesh thingy?’

Brooke smiled into the phone. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of that Dom Pérignon we got as a gift and can never justify opening.’

‘Mesh. Tonight deserves champagne and mesh. Meet you home at eight? I’ll take care of dinner.’

‘You don’t have to deal with dinner. Let me pick something up. Or we can go out! Why don’t we go somewhere and really celebrate?’

‘Let me handle it,’ Julian said. ‘Please? I have something in mind.’

Brooke’s heart surged. Maybe now he’d be able to ease up on his time at the studio and spend more time at home. She felt the familiar pangs of excitement and anticipation she’d felt earlier in their marriage, before anything had become routine. ‘Absolutely. I’ll see you at eight. And, Julian? I can’t wait.’

‘Me neither.’ He made a kissing sound into the phone – something he hadn’t done in years – and hung up. For the first time in five full minutes, Brooke remembered where she was.

‘Wow, sounds like some hot stuff,’ Kaylie said with a grin. ‘Big date tonight?’

It never failed to amaze Brooke how young these girls really were, despite all the confident backtalk and a distressing familiarity with everything from extreme dieting to the best blow-job techniques. (Brooke had read a highly detailed how-to list when one of the girls left behind a notebook – so detailed, in fact, she briefly considered making a few notes for herself before realizing that taking sex tips from a high school freshman was horrifying on too many levels.)

‘Big date with my husband.’ Brooke corrected her, trying to salvage at least a little professionalism. ‘I’m so sorry for the interruption. Now, back to what—’

‘Sounded pretty exciting,’ Kaylie said. She loosened her grip on her hair just long enough to gnaw a hangnail on her right index finger. ‘What happened?’

Brooke was so relieved to see the girl smile that she said, ‘Yeah, actually it is really exciting. My husband is a musician. He just got a call from Leno’s people inviting him to be on the show.’ Brooke could hear her voice surge with pride, and although she knew it was both unprofessional and even silly to be sharing the news with her teenage patient, she was too happy to care.

Kaylie’s head snapped to full attention. ‘He’s going to be on Leno?’

Brooke nodded and shuffled some papers around on her desk in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her pleasure.

‘That is the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard!’ the girl exclaimed, her ponytail bobbing as if to underscore her point.

‘Kaylie!’

‘Sorry, but it is! What’s his name and when’s he on? I want to make sure I see it.’

‘Next Tuesday night. His name is Julian Alter.’

‘That is so fuck— freaking cool. Congratulations, Mrs A. Your husband must be pretty awesome if Leno wants him. You’re going to go to LA with him, right?’

‘What?’ Brooke asked. She hadn’t had a second to think about the logistics, but Julian hadn’t mentioned them either.

‘Isn’t Leno in LA? You, like, have to go with him.’

‘Of course I’ll go with him,’ Brooke replied automatically, although she had a nagging, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach that Julian’s omission of an invitation wasn’t just a detail that got lost in all the excitement.

Brooke still had another ten minutes with Kaylie, then a full hour afterwards with a Huntley gymnast whose coach’s weigh-ins were having disastrous effects on the girl’s self-esteem, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate for one more second. Figuring she’d already acted inappropriately by oversharing and using their session time to talk about her personal life, Brooke turned back to Kaylie.

‘I’m sorry to do this, sweetheart, but I need to cut our session short this afternoon. I’ll be back on Friday; and I’ll notify your sixth-period teacher that we didn’t get a chance to finish so we can reschedule another full session for then. Is that okay?’

Kaylie nodded. ‘Hell, yeah, Mrs A. This is big news for you. Say congratulations to your husband for me, okay?’

Brooke smiled at her. ‘Thanks, I will. And, Kaylie? We’re going to continue talking about this. I can’t condone you losing weight, but if you want to talk about eating more healthfully, I’m happy to advise you. Does that sound good?’

Kaylie nodded and Brooke thought she may have even detected a small smile before the girl walked out of her office. Although she didn’t look the least bit fazed about cutting their session short, Brooke was overcome with guilt. It wasn’t easy to get these girls to open up, and she actually felt like she was starting to get somewhere with Kaylie.

Pledging to set things right with everyone on Thursday, Brooke sent a quick e-mail to Rhonda, her principal, claiming sudden sickness, threw all her stuff in a canvas tote bag, and jumped directly into the backseat of an idling taxi. Hell, if Leno wasn’t sufficient reason to splurge, nothing was.

Despite the fact that it was rush hour, the park crossing at Eighty-sixth Street wasn’t unbearable and the West Side Highway was moving at a brisk twenty miles an hour (downright dreamy for that time of night), and Brooke was delighted to find herself standing in her apartment by six thirty. She got down on the floor and let Walter lick her face for a few minutes and then gently replaced herself with a thickly braided, extra-smelly bully stick – Walter’s favorite. After pouring herself a glass of pinot grigio from an open bottle in the fridge and taking a long, deep swallow, Brooke toyed with the idea of posting Julian’s news as a Facebook status update but quickly dismissed it; she didn’t want to announce anything without running it by him first.

The first status update on her homepage was, unpleasantly, from Leo. Apparently, he had just linked his Twitter account to his Facebook page, and despite the fact he usually had not one redeeming tidbit to share, he was taking full advantage of the constant-update feature.

Leo Moretti … PUMPED JULIAN ALTER WILL BE ROCKING THE LENO SHOW NEXT TUESDAY. LA, HERE WE COME …

The update’s mere association with her husband made Brooke feel queasy, as did what it pointed out: that Julian was definitely planning a trip to Los Angeles, Leo was definitely joining him, and it was only Brooke who had not yet received an invitation.

Brooke showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, and toweled dry. Was it weird to assume she’d accompany Julian to Los Angeles for the taping? She had no clue if Julian wanted her there for the support, or if he figured that this was a business trip and he should be traveling with his manager, not his wife.

As she slathered a Julian-approved scent-free moisturizer on her freshly shaved legs – he couldn’t stand the smell of scented products – Brooke watched Walter watch her. ‘Did Daddy make a bad call hiring Leo?’ she asked him in a high-pitched voice.

Walter lifted his head from the fluffy bath mat that always made his fur smell like mildew, wagged his tail, and woofed.

‘Is that a no?’

Walter woofed again.

‘Or a yes?’

Another woof.

‘Thank you for that insight, Walter. I will surely treasure it.’

He rewarded her with an ankle lick and sank back into the mat.

A quick time check revealed it was ten to eight, so after taking a minute to psych herself up, Brooke pulled a crumpled pile of black fabric from the back of her underwear drawer. The last time she’d worn this getup had been over a year before, when she had accused Julian of not being interested in sex anymore and he had gone straight to that drawer, pulled out the jumpsuit, and said something to the effect of ‘It’s a crime to own this and not wear it.’ It had immediately broken the tension and Brooke remembered putting it on and dancing exaggerated stripper moves around their bedroom to Julian’s loud cheers and catcalls.

Somewhere along the way, that jumpsuit began to symbolize their sex life. She’d bought it in their first or second year of marriage, after a discussion where Julian confessed, as though it were some scandalous, shameful secret, that he just loved women in tight black lingerie … and maybe didn’t love all the brightly colored boy shorts and striped racerback tanks that Brooke wore each night to bed and would’ve sworn were sexy in their teenage girlness. Although she couldn’t remotely afford it back then, Brooke immediately set out on a lingerie-buying spree and, within two days, had acquired a super-soft black jersey chemise with spaghetti straps from Bloomingdale’s; a babydoll-style, ruffled black nightie from Victoria’s Secret; and a short black cotton nightshirt with ‘Juicy Sleeper’ splashed across the bum. Each one, in succession, had been met with barely tepid enthusiasm along the lines of ‘Mmm, that’s cute,’ before Julian turned back to his magazine each night. When not even the babydoll nightie elicited a modicum of interest, Brooke called Nola the very next morning.

‘Clear your Saturday afternoon,’ Nola had announced. ‘We’re going shopping.’

‘I already went shopping and spent a fortune,’ Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.

‘Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy nightshirt? Are you serious?’

‘What? He wasn’t exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It’s all black and short and tight. The “JUICY” part is even in rhinestones. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with that … if you’re a sophomore in college and you’re super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you’re all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy woman.’

Brooke sighed. ‘Okay, okay, I’m in your hands. What time Saturday?’

‘Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We’re hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.’

Although she’d looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise – not all that different from her Bloomie’s version – was $375. Where on earth was she – a graduate student! – going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn’t until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky’s to buy paraphernalia for another friend’s bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.

There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped ‘fantasy outfits.’ They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked.

Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.

‘I’d be happy to make some recommendations,’ he lisped. ‘On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.’

‘Thanks, I’m just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,’ she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.

‘Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.’

He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she’d lose her nerve if he came back – or anyone else walked into the room – she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn’t until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.

The picture featured a redheaded woman who didn’t look drastically different from Brooke – save the forty-two-inch legs – wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-length mesh bodysuit. The woman jutted out her hip provocatively and stared at the camera, but despite all the dramatic posturing, she managed to convey ‘sexy’ and ‘confident’ and not just ‘sleazy’ and ‘slutty.’ I can do this one, she thought to herself, and that very night, when she walked out of the bathroom wearing that bodysuit and a pair of heels, Julian had nearly fallen off the bed.

Brooke had donned the now-infamous jumpsuit over the years on some of Julian’s birthdays, their anniversaries, and the occasional warm-weather vacation, but lately, like all the old remnants of their pre-exhaustion sex life, it had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer. As she unrolled the material over her legs and shimmied first her hips and then her arms into the outfit, she knew it would send the message loud and clear: I’m so proud of you for this amazing accomplishment, now get over here so I can show you. No matter that the one-size-fits-all jumpsuit was digging tightly into her thighs and doing a weird thing on her upper arms; she felt sexy anyway. She had just shaken her hair out of her ponytail and reclined on top of the covers when the landline rang. Certain it was Julian calling to say he was on his way home, Brooke answered on the first ring.

‘Rook? Honey, can you hear me?’ Her mother’s voice rang through the receiver.

Brooke took a deep breath and wondered why the woman had an uncanny knack for calling at exactly the worst possible times. ‘Hey, Mom. I hear you.’

‘Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. Listen, I need you to grab your calendar and check a date for me. I know you hate planning ahead, but I’m trying to make some arrangements for—’

‘Mom! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but it’s not a great time right now. Julian’s going to be home any second, and I’m late getting ready,’ she lied.

‘Are you going out to celebrate? Such amazing news. You both must be so happy.’

Brooke opened her mouth to talk and then remembered she hadn’t yet told her mother Julian’s good news. ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

‘Randy, sweetheart. He saw some update on Julian’s fan page – is that what you call it? I wish I could say my daughter had called to tell me on her own, but luckily Randy remembered his dear old mom.’

‘Mmm, right. Facebook. I almost forgot. So yeah, we’re both really excited.’

‘So how are you two going to celebrate tonight? Going out to dinner?’

Brooke glanced down at her mesh-covered body; as if to emphasize the ludicrousness of talking to one’s mother while wearing a crotchless mesh jumpsuit, one of her nipples popped through the fabric. ‘Um, I think Julian’s bringing dinner home. We already have a bottle of good champagne, so we’ll probably have that.’

‘Sounds lovely. Give him a kiss for me. And as soon as you have a second, I’d really like to get a date nailed down—’

‘Uh-huh, okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Because it’ll only take a second, and—’

‘Mom …’

‘Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you, Rookie.’

‘Love you, too, Mom.’ She heard the door open just as she hung up the phone.

She knew he would take his coat off and greet Walter, which gave her just enough time to peel off the foil wrapper and unscrew the wire basket around the cork. She had remembered to bring two flutes, which she placed on her bedside table before stretching out, catlike, atop the made bed. Her nervousness lasted only a second, just until Julian opened the door.

‘Guess who’s staying at the Chateau Marmont?’ he said, his smile a mile wide.

‘Who?’ She sat up in bed, momentarily forgetting her outfit.

‘I am,’ he said, and instantly Brooke felt a wave of anxiety.

‘No way,’ she breathed. It was all she could manage.

‘Oh yes. In a suite. Where I’ll be picked up by limo and taken to the NBC studio for the Leno taping.’

She forced herself to focus on his good news and remind herself that it had nothing to do with her. ‘Wow, Julian, that’s amazing! They mention that place constantly in Last Night, US Weekly, all of them. Kate Hudson just hosted an all-night party in the bungalows. JLo and Marc Anthony ran into Ben Affleck by the pool and Marc supposedly made a scene. Belushi overdosed there, for chrissake. The place is absolutely legendary.’

‘And guess what else?’ Julian asked, sitting down beside her on the bed and running his hand over her mesh-covered thigh.

‘What?’

‘My extremely hot wife is going to be joining me, so long as she promises to bring this mesh outfit with her,’ he said, leaning in to kiss Brooke.

‘Stop it!’ she shrieked.

‘Of course, only if she wants to.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘I’m not. I spoke to Samara, my new publicist’ – his eyebrows shot up and he grinned at her – ‘and she said it’s fine so long as we pay for your plane ticket. Leo thought it’d be better if we went alone, just so I wouldn’t be distracted, but I told him I could never do something this big without you. So what do you say?’

She ignored the Leo part. ‘I think that’s freaking incredible!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘I think I can’t wait to canoodle with you by the bar and party all night in the bungalows.’

‘Is that really what it’s like?’ Julian asked, pushing her backward against the pillows and arranging himself, still fully dressed, on top of her.

‘Hell yes. From everything I’ve read, we can fully expect Cristal-filled pools, heaping mountains of cocaine, more cheating celebrities than a high-end escort service, and enough gossip on an hourly basis to fill ten tabloids. Oh, and orgies. I’ve never read that, but I’m sure they happen. Probably right in the restaurant.’

Walter jumped up on the bed and, chin to the air, began to howl.

‘That does sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it, Walter?’ Julian asked, kissing Brooke’s neck.

Walter howled in response and Brooke laughed.

Julian dipped his finger in his champagne glass, put it up to Brooke’s lips, and kissed her again.

‘What do you say to some practice?’ he asked.

Brooke kissed him back and pulled off his shirt, her heart swelling with the sense of possibility. ‘I’d say that’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long, long time.’

‘Can I get you another Diet Coke?’ the bermuda-clad waiter asked as he sidled up next to Brooke’s lounge chair, blocking her sun. In the direct sunlight it felt reasonably warm, and although she thought the low seventies was a bit too chilly for bikini weather, her fellow pool-goers apparently disagreed.

She glanced at the half-dozen or so people sipping delicious-looking cocktails around the pool, reminded herself that although it was only midafternoon on a Tuesday this was still a vacation of sorts, and said, ‘I’d love a Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and two stalks of celery.’

A long, lithe girl who, judging from her astonishing figure, was definitely a model lowered herself elegantly into the pool. Brooke watched as she swam a charming sort of doggie paddle to the side, taking great pains to keep her hair dry, and called out to her male companion in Spanish. Without glancing up from his laptop, the man answered her in French. The girl pouted, the man grumbled, and within thirty seconds he was walking toward the pool with her massive Chanel sunglasses in hand. When she thanked him, Brooke could’ve sworn she did so in Russian.

Her phone rang. ‘Hello?’ she said quietly, although no one seemed to care.

‘Rookie? How’s it going out there?’

‘Hey, Dad. I’m not going to lie, everything’s pretty damn great.’

‘Did Julian play yet?’

‘He and Leo just left so I’m guessing they’ll be in Burbank soon. I don’t think the actual taping starts until five or five thirty. It sounded like it was going to be a pretty long afternoon, so I’m waiting at the hotel for them.’

The waiter returned with her drink, the Bloody Mary in a glass every bit as tall and skinny as the women she’d spied so far in Los Angeles. He set it on the table beside her, along with a little three-part tray of snacks: marinated olives, mixed nuts, and baked vegetable chips. Brooke wanted to kiss him.

‘What’s the place like? Pretty swanky, I’d bet.’

Brooke took a small sip at first and then a gulp. Damn, that was good. ‘Yeah, it really is. You should see the people sitting by the pool. Each one is more gorgeous than the next.’

‘Do you know Jim Morrison tried to jump off the roof there? And that the members of Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby? From what I’ve heard, it is the place to be for badly behaved musicians.’

‘Where are you getting your information, Dad? Google?’ Brooke laughed.

‘Brooke, please! Don’t insult me by suggesting—’

‘Wikipedia?’

A pause. ‘Maybe.’

They chatted for a few more minutes while Brooke watched the gorgeous thing in the pool shriek like a child when her boyfriend jumped in and tried to splash her. Her father wanted to tell her all about the non-surprise surprise birthday party Cynthia was planning for him in a few months, how determined she was to celebrate his sixty-fifth since it was also his retirement year, but Brooke had a hard time focusing. After all, the woman-child had just climbed out of the water, and Brooke clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed that her white bikini was entirely transparent when wet. She glanced down at her own terry-cloth sweats and wondered what she would do to look that good in a bikini, even if just for an hour. She sucked in her stomach and continued to watch.

The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special – she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes – but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.

She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it was all Brooke could do not to whip out her BlackBerry and send a picture to Nola.

When she got back to their room – a one-bedroom suite in the main building, with gorgeous hillside views – she was delighted to discover a massive gift basket with a note that read, ‘Welcome, Julian! From your friends at Sony.’ Inside was a bottle each of Veuve Clicquot and Patrón; a box of those tiny, funkily painted chocolate truffles; an assortment of energy bars and snacks; enough Vitaminwaters to stock a grocery; and a dozen Sprinkles cupcakes. She took a picture of the whole thing splayed out on the coffee table and sent it to Julian with the caption, ‘They love you,’ and then she tore into it, demolishing a red velvet cupcake in under ten seconds.

It was the room’s landline that eventually woke her.

‘Brooke? You alive?’ Julian’s voice rang through the cordless handset.

‘I’m alive,’ she managed to say, looking around to get her bearings, surprised to discover that she was under the covers, wearing only her underwear, and the entire room was dark. Cupcake crumbs were scattered around her pillow.

‘I’ve been calling your cell phone for the last half hour. Where are you? Is everything okay?’

She bolted upright and looked at the clock. Seven thirty. She’d been asleep for nearly three hours. ‘Must’ve been that second Bloody Mary,’ she mumbled to herself, but Julian began to laugh.

‘I leave you alone for one afternoon and you get yourself drunk?’

‘It wasn’t like that! But whatever, how was the taping? How did it go?’

In the brief pause that followed, Brooke had a mental flash of all the potential things that could’ve gone wrong, but once again, Julian laughed. It was more than a laugh – he sounded downright giddy.

‘Rook, it was incredible! I nailed it, just absolutely nailed it, and the backup band was way better than I expected with so little practice.’ Brooke could hear other voices in the car and Julian lowered his to a whisper. ‘Jay came over to me as the song ended, put his arm around me, pointed me to the camera, and said how that was awesome, and he’d like for me to come back every night.’

‘No!’

‘He did! The audience was clapping like crazy, and then when the whole taping was over and we were hanging out backstage, Jay even thanked me, said he couldn’t wait to hear the whole album!’

‘Julian, that’s incredible. Congratulations! This is huge!’

‘I know, I’m just so relieved. Listen, we’ll be back at the hotel in twenty minutes or so. Meet me on the patio for a drink?’

The mere thought of alcohol made her head throb a bit more – when was the last time she was hungover at dinnertime? – but she sat straight up. ‘I’ve got to change. I’ll meet you down there as soon as I’m ready,’ she said, but the line had already been disconnected.

Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets wasn’t easy, but three Advils and a stint under the rainfall shower helped. She quickly pulled on a pair of legging-style skinny jeans, a silky tank top, and a blazer, but a closer inspection revealed that the jeans were doing hideous things to her butt. As hard as it was to pull the damn things on, it was hell trying to get them off, and Brooke nearly kneed herself in the face trying to yank them down her legs, inch by painful inch. Her stomach rolled and her legs flailed and still, they barely budged. Did White Bikini Girl ever have to suffer such indignity? She flung the jeans across the room in disgust. The only thing left in her suitcase was a sundress. It was too cold for it, but paired with the blazer, a cotton scarf, and a pair of flat boots, she’d have to suck it up.

Not terrible, she thought as she checked herself one last time. Her hair was mostly air-dried and – even Brooke had to admit – looked pretty damn good for requiring zero effort. She’d slicked on some mascara and a few dots of this glimmering liquid blush Nola had pressed into her palm a few weeks earlier and politely insisted she use. She grabbed her phone and her bag and ran. The lip gloss went on in the elevator. The blazer sleeves got rolled while walking across the lobby. She gave her hair a final shake and tousle and actually felt fresh and pretty by the time she saw Julian holding court at a prime patio table.

‘Brooke!’ He stood up and waved.

She could see his smile from fifty feet, and every inch of self-consciousness vanished as she ran toward him. ‘Congratulations!’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

‘Thanks, baby,’ he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, ‘Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.’

‘Hi!’ she sang, giving the general table area a wave. ‘I’m Brooke.’

The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.

Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman – fortysomething with great Botox? – with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who … Ohmigod, is that, could it be …

‘You already know Leo,’ Julian was saying as Leo smirked. ‘And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.’

Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. ‘Pleasure,’ she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.

‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. ‘It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, “Everyone says she’s the best.”’

‘Oh, that’s sweet of you,’ Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.’

‘Both of you need to stop,’ Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. ‘Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.’

Good god. It was him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke wracked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like ‘I’m a huge fan’ or ‘I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,’ she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar every day …

‘Hey,’ Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. ‘That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?’

Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi. Nola! she shouted to herself. I need you to hear this right now!

‘Yeah, it’s real,’ she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. ‘Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.’ She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.

‘Well I think it’s fucking awesome,’ Jon declared, and raised his tall, tapered beer glass. ‘A toast to fire cro—’ He stopped short and an adorably sheepish look crossed his face. Brooke wanted to tell him he could call her ‘fire crotch’ anytime.

‘A toast to hot redheads and first appearances on Leno. Congrats, man. That’s big.’ Jon held his glass aloft and everyone clinked it with his own. Brooke’s champagne flute was the last to touch it, and she wondered if there was any way she could smuggle the glass home with her.

‘Cheers!’ everyone called out. ‘Congratulations!’

‘So how was it?’ Brooke asked Julian, happy to give him the opening to shine once again in front of all these people. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘He was perfect,’ Samara announced in her clipped, professional voice. ‘His performance followed really solid guests.’ She paused and turned to Julian. ‘I thought Hugh Jackman was charming. Did you?’

‘Yeah, he was good. And so was that chick from Modern Family,’ Julian said, nodding.

‘We caught a break with that – two legitimately interesting and famous guests, none of the child performers or the magicians or the animal trainers,’ Samara said. ‘Trust me, nothing’s worse than getting upstaged by a studio full of chimpanzees.’

Everyone laughed. A waiter arrived at the table and Leo ordered for the group without consulting anyone. Brooke normally hated it when people did that, but even she couldn’t argue with his choices: another bottle of champagne, a round of tequila gimlets, and a bunch of snack plates, everything from truffled porcini bruschetta to mozzarella and arugula. By the time the first dish of crab cakes in an avocado puree arrived, Brooke had happily rediscovered her earlier buzz and was feeling almost euphoric from the excitement. Julian – her Julian, the same one who slept in socks every night – had just performed on The Tonight Show. They were staying in a gorgeous suite at the infamous Chateau Marmont, eating and drinking like rock royalty. One of the most famous musicians of the twentieth century had announced he loved her hair. Of course her wedding was the best day of her life (weren’t you required to say that no matter what?), but this was quickly clocking in as a very close second.

Her cell phone screeched from her bag on the ground, a shrill fire-alarm-like ring she’d chosen post-nap to ensure she didn’t oversleep again.

‘Why don’t you get it?’ Julian asked through a full mouth as Brooke stared at her phone. She didn’t want to answer it, but she was worried something was wrong; it was already after midnight back at home.

‘Hey, Mom,’ she said as quietly as she could. ‘We’re all in the middle of dinner right now. Is everything okay?’

‘Brooke! Julian’s on right now and he’s incredible! He looks adorable, and the band is playing perfectly, and my god, you just want to eat him up. I think it’s the best he’s ever been.’ Her mother’s words tumbled out in a frantic jumble, and it was all Brooke could do to put the pieces together.

She glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty California time, which meant The Tonight Show was airing that very second up and down the East Coast. ‘Really? He looks good?’ Brooke asked.

This got everyone’s attention.

‘Of course, it’s airing on the East Coast now,’ Samara said, pulling out her BlackBerry. Sure enough, it was vibrating with the intensity of a washing machine.

‘Amazing,’ her mother was saying through the receiver. ‘He looks absolutely amazing. And Jay gave him a really nice introduction. Wait – he’s just finishing up the song now.’

‘Mom, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m being really rude right now.’

‘All right, honey. It’s late here so call me in the morning. And congratulate Julian for me.’

Brooke clicked to disconnect the call, but her phone instantly rang again. Nola. She glanced around the table and noticed that with the exception of Jon, who had wandered over to say hello to another group, everyone else was on the phone, too.