Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 27
“Well, I’m glad you found out before we got there tonight. . . .” She noticed Julian looked anxious, eager for her to be appreciative. “I’m definitely grateful you saved me from that fate. Thanks for going to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Julian said, his relief obvious.
“You were supposed to practice today.”
“There’s still time, that’s why we came early. I’m just happy you’re here with me at all.” He gave her a sweet peck and held his hand up and gave the salesgirl a little wave. She bounded over, all smiles.
“Are we ready?” the girl asked.
“We’re ready,” Brooke and Julian said simultaneously.
When they finally left nearly an hour later, Brooke was flushed with excitement. The shopping had been a thousand times better than she imagined, an exhilarating combination of enjoying Julian’s approval when she tried on short shorts and tight tops and sexy boots, and the sheer regressive fun of playing dress-up. The salesgirl, Mandy, had expertly guided Brooke to the perfect party outfit: a cut-off jean skirt, when Brooke felt too self-conscious in the shorts; a plaid shirt identical to the one she was wearing, sexily knotted above her navel (but in Brooke’s case, paired with a white tank so she wouldn’t have to reveal the soft flesh of her belly); a massive brass belt buckle in the shape of a sheriff’s star; a cowboy hat with the sides rolled up and a jaunty chin tassel; and a pair of the sassiest stitched cowboy boots Brooke had ever seen. Mandy suggested Brooke wear her hair in low pigtail braids and handed her a red bandana to tie around her neck. “And don’t forget to go really, really heavy on the mascara,” Mandy said with a finger waggle. “Cowgirls love their smoky eyes.” Although Julian wouldn’t get in full costume for the performance, Mandy taught him how to roll a pack of cigarettes into his T-shirt sleeves and equipped him with the matching men’s version of Brooke’s cowgirl hat.
They laughed the whole way back to the hotel. When Julian leaned over to kiss her and told her he’d be back at six to shower, Brooke wanted to beg him to stay, but she gathered her shopping bags and kissed him back. “Good luck,” she said. “I had a great time today.” And she couldn’t keep herself from grinning when Julian said that he had, too.
He was late getting back to the room and had to rush to shower and dress, and she could feel him start to get jittery when they stepped into the waiting Town Car.
“You nervous?” Brooke asked.
“Yeah, a little, I guess.”
“Just remember: of all the songs in the universe, they chose yours. Every single solitary time someone tunes in to watch an episode, they’re going to hear your song. It’s incredible, baby. It really is.”
Julian placed his hand on top of hers. “I think we’re going to have a great time. And you look like a model. The cameras are going to go crazy.”
Brooke had barely gotten the question out of her mouth—“What cameras?”—before the car pulled up to the entrance of the Hula Hut, a famous local dive reputed to have the best queso north of the border, and they were met with a dozen or so paparazzi.
“Omigod, are they going to take our picture?” Brooke asked, suddenly terrified by this possibility she had failed to consider. She looked up and noticed a long runner in a cow print—the Texas version of a red carpet, she guessed. A few feet down, between the street and the door of the restaurant, she glimpsed a couple of the cast members posing for the cameras.
“Wait there, I’ll open your door,” Julian said, climbing out his side and walking around to hers. He opened it and leaned in, offering his hand. “Don’t worry, they don’t care much about us.”
Brooke was relieved to discover he was absolutely right. The photographers swarmed them at first, eager to see if they were anyone important, and then faded into the background as quickly as they appeared. Only one of the snappers asked if they could pose for a picture in front of the large black step-and-repeat that was emblazoned with Friday Night Lights and NBC near the door. After he’d halfheartedly shot a few frames, he asked them to spell their names into a tape recorder and then wandered off. They made their way to the door, Brooke clutching Julian’s hand, when she spotted Samara across the room. Brooke took one look at the girl’s elegantly simple silk dress, gladiator sandals, and tinkling chandelier earrings and felt ridiculous. Why was Brooke dressed for a hoedown when this girl looked like she’d just stepped off a runway? What if there had been some horrible mix-up and Brooke was going to be the only person in full costume tonight? She could feel her breath slow and a wave of panic set in.
It was only then Brooke braved a look around the rest of the room. There were Daisy Dukes and ten-gallon hats as far as the eye could see.
She accepted a fruity-looking cocktail from a tray that passed in their direction and floated happily through the next hour of introductions and mingling, drinking and laughing. It was one of those rare parties where everyone seemed genuinely excited to be there—not just the cast and crew, who obviously knew one another well and got along, but all their spouses and friends and the smattering of celebrities that some of the actors were dating or whom their PR people had wrangled into coming for publicity’s sake. Brooke spotted Derek Jeter hovering over a heaping plate of nachos and tried to remember which of the Friday Night Lights girls he was engaged to, and Julian reported that he’d glimpsed a half-naked Taylor Swift holding court on the terrace. But mostly it was just a boisterously fun crowd in chaps and plaid and cutoffs, drinking beer and eating queso and jamming to the eighties music that played over the speakers. It was the least self-conscious Brooke had ever felt at any of Julian’s gigs, and she reveled in it, enjoying that all-too-rare feeling of being buzzed and charming and just generally on. By the time Julian and his band took the makeshift stage, Brooke was part of the gang, having gotten pulled into an impromptu margarita taste test by a bunch of the show’s writers. It occurred to her only then that aside from watching the taped Leno appearance, she hadn’t yet seen Julian play with his new backup band.
Brooke studied them as they climbed onstage to assemble and test their instruments and was somewhat surprised to discover that they looked less like a rock band and more like a group of twentysomethings who’d all been best friends at their elite New England boarding school. The drummer, Wes, had the requisite long hair, only his didn’t hang in greasy strings around his face. Wes’s mahogany locks were thick and wavy and lush, hair only a girl deserved. He wore a sporty green polo shirt with clean, pressed jeans and a pair of classic gray New Balance sneakers. He looked like the kind of guy who’d caddied during the summers in high school—not to earn money, but to “build character”—and then didn’t work again until it was time to join his father’s law firm. The lead guitarist was the oldest of the crew, probably in his early thirties, and although not quite as preppy as Wes, his beat-up old chinos, black Converse sneakers, and just do it! T were hardly rebellious. Unlike his drummer colleague, Nate didn’t fit any of the lead-guitarist stereotypes—he was chunky and had a shy smile and downcast eyes. Brooke remembered how shocked Julian had been to hear Nate at the audition after sizing him up when he first walked onstage. “This guy walks up onstage and immediately you just know he’s the kid who got the shit kicked out of him his whole life. He’s, like, afraid of his own shadow. And then he starts to play, and man, he just rips it. It was out of this world.” Their trio was rounded out by Zack, the bassist, who looked more like a musician than his counterparts but whose cool spiky hair and wallet chain and subtle swipe of eyeliner actually made him seem more poseurish. He was the only band member Julian didn’t love, but Sony thought his first choice for bassist—a girl—would overshadow him, and Julian didn’t feel like arguing. It was an odd grouping, this band of seeming misfits, but no one could say it wasn’t an intriguing one. Brooke looked around the room and noticed everyone had quieted down.
“It’s no trouble,” Julian said, his relief obvious.
“You were supposed to practice today.”
“There’s still time, that’s why we came early. I’m just happy you’re here with me at all.” He gave her a sweet peck and held his hand up and gave the salesgirl a little wave. She bounded over, all smiles.
“Are we ready?” the girl asked.
“We’re ready,” Brooke and Julian said simultaneously.
When they finally left nearly an hour later, Brooke was flushed with excitement. The shopping had been a thousand times better than she imagined, an exhilarating combination of enjoying Julian’s approval when she tried on short shorts and tight tops and sexy boots, and the sheer regressive fun of playing dress-up. The salesgirl, Mandy, had expertly guided Brooke to the perfect party outfit: a cut-off jean skirt, when Brooke felt too self-conscious in the shorts; a plaid shirt identical to the one she was wearing, sexily knotted above her navel (but in Brooke’s case, paired with a white tank so she wouldn’t have to reveal the soft flesh of her belly); a massive brass belt buckle in the shape of a sheriff’s star; a cowboy hat with the sides rolled up and a jaunty chin tassel; and a pair of the sassiest stitched cowboy boots Brooke had ever seen. Mandy suggested Brooke wear her hair in low pigtail braids and handed her a red bandana to tie around her neck. “And don’t forget to go really, really heavy on the mascara,” Mandy said with a finger waggle. “Cowgirls love their smoky eyes.” Although Julian wouldn’t get in full costume for the performance, Mandy taught him how to roll a pack of cigarettes into his T-shirt sleeves and equipped him with the matching men’s version of Brooke’s cowgirl hat.
They laughed the whole way back to the hotel. When Julian leaned over to kiss her and told her he’d be back at six to shower, Brooke wanted to beg him to stay, but she gathered her shopping bags and kissed him back. “Good luck,” she said. “I had a great time today.” And she couldn’t keep herself from grinning when Julian said that he had, too.
He was late getting back to the room and had to rush to shower and dress, and she could feel him start to get jittery when they stepped into the waiting Town Car.
“You nervous?” Brooke asked.
“Yeah, a little, I guess.”
“Just remember: of all the songs in the universe, they chose yours. Every single solitary time someone tunes in to watch an episode, they’re going to hear your song. It’s incredible, baby. It really is.”
Julian placed his hand on top of hers. “I think we’re going to have a great time. And you look like a model. The cameras are going to go crazy.”
Brooke had barely gotten the question out of her mouth—“What cameras?”—before the car pulled up to the entrance of the Hula Hut, a famous local dive reputed to have the best queso north of the border, and they were met with a dozen or so paparazzi.
“Omigod, are they going to take our picture?” Brooke asked, suddenly terrified by this possibility she had failed to consider. She looked up and noticed a long runner in a cow print—the Texas version of a red carpet, she guessed. A few feet down, between the street and the door of the restaurant, she glimpsed a couple of the cast members posing for the cameras.
“Wait there, I’ll open your door,” Julian said, climbing out his side and walking around to hers. He opened it and leaned in, offering his hand. “Don’t worry, they don’t care much about us.”
Brooke was relieved to discover he was absolutely right. The photographers swarmed them at first, eager to see if they were anyone important, and then faded into the background as quickly as they appeared. Only one of the snappers asked if they could pose for a picture in front of the large black step-and-repeat that was emblazoned with Friday Night Lights and NBC near the door. After he’d halfheartedly shot a few frames, he asked them to spell their names into a tape recorder and then wandered off. They made their way to the door, Brooke clutching Julian’s hand, when she spotted Samara across the room. Brooke took one look at the girl’s elegantly simple silk dress, gladiator sandals, and tinkling chandelier earrings and felt ridiculous. Why was Brooke dressed for a hoedown when this girl looked like she’d just stepped off a runway? What if there had been some horrible mix-up and Brooke was going to be the only person in full costume tonight? She could feel her breath slow and a wave of panic set in.
It was only then Brooke braved a look around the rest of the room. There were Daisy Dukes and ten-gallon hats as far as the eye could see.
She accepted a fruity-looking cocktail from a tray that passed in their direction and floated happily through the next hour of introductions and mingling, drinking and laughing. It was one of those rare parties where everyone seemed genuinely excited to be there—not just the cast and crew, who obviously knew one another well and got along, but all their spouses and friends and the smattering of celebrities that some of the actors were dating or whom their PR people had wrangled into coming for publicity’s sake. Brooke spotted Derek Jeter hovering over a heaping plate of nachos and tried to remember which of the Friday Night Lights girls he was engaged to, and Julian reported that he’d glimpsed a half-naked Taylor Swift holding court on the terrace. But mostly it was just a boisterously fun crowd in chaps and plaid and cutoffs, drinking beer and eating queso and jamming to the eighties music that played over the speakers. It was the least self-conscious Brooke had ever felt at any of Julian’s gigs, and she reveled in it, enjoying that all-too-rare feeling of being buzzed and charming and just generally on. By the time Julian and his band took the makeshift stage, Brooke was part of the gang, having gotten pulled into an impromptu margarita taste test by a bunch of the show’s writers. It occurred to her only then that aside from watching the taped Leno appearance, she hadn’t yet seen Julian play with his new backup band.
Brooke studied them as they climbed onstage to assemble and test their instruments and was somewhat surprised to discover that they looked less like a rock band and more like a group of twentysomethings who’d all been best friends at their elite New England boarding school. The drummer, Wes, had the requisite long hair, only his didn’t hang in greasy strings around his face. Wes’s mahogany locks were thick and wavy and lush, hair only a girl deserved. He wore a sporty green polo shirt with clean, pressed jeans and a pair of classic gray New Balance sneakers. He looked like the kind of guy who’d caddied during the summers in high school—not to earn money, but to “build character”—and then didn’t work again until it was time to join his father’s law firm. The lead guitarist was the oldest of the crew, probably in his early thirties, and although not quite as preppy as Wes, his beat-up old chinos, black Converse sneakers, and just do it! T were hardly rebellious. Unlike his drummer colleague, Nate didn’t fit any of the lead-guitarist stereotypes—he was chunky and had a shy smile and downcast eyes. Brooke remembered how shocked Julian had been to hear Nate at the audition after sizing him up when he first walked onstage. “This guy walks up onstage and immediately you just know he’s the kid who got the shit kicked out of him his whole life. He’s, like, afraid of his own shadow. And then he starts to play, and man, he just rips it. It was out of this world.” Their trio was rounded out by Zack, the bassist, who looked more like a musician than his counterparts but whose cool spiky hair and wallet chain and subtle swipe of eyeliner actually made him seem more poseurish. He was the only band member Julian didn’t love, but Sony thought his first choice for bassist—a girl—would overshadow him, and Julian didn’t feel like arguing. It was an odd grouping, this band of seeming misfits, but no one could say it wasn’t an intriguing one. Brooke looked around the room and noticed everyone had quieted down.
