Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 45
“Why should you hate her?” Brooke asked. “She actually seems like one of the more normal ones.”
“Even more of a reason you should hate her. Not only is she insanely attractive—including when she’s completely bald—but she’s also a Harvard graduate, she speaks like fifteen languages, she’s traveled all over the world encouraging people to support microfinance, and she’s so in love with the environment that she won’t wear leather shoes. And on top of all that, everyone who’s ever worked with her or so much as sat next to her on a plane swears she’s the coolest, most down-to-earth person they’ve ever met. Now, tell me, please, how can you possibly not hate someone like that?”
Nola finally left her window perch and Brooke followed her. They both flopped down on opposite slipcovered love seats and each turned on her side to face the other.
Brooke took a gulp and shrugged, thinking about the photographer outside their apartment. “Good for Natalie Portman, I guess?”
Nola shook her head slowly from side to side. “My god, you’re a piece of work.”
“What did I say? I don’t understand. Am I supposed to be obsessed with her? Jealous of her? She’s not even real.”
“Of course she’s real! She’s sitting right across the street, and she looks amazing.”
Brooke draped an arm across her forehead and moaned. “And now we’re stalking her, which I’m not feeling great about. Leave her be.”
“Feeling a little sensitive about Natalie’s privacy?” Nola asked more gently.
“Yeah, I guess. It’s weird; the part of me that’s been reading these magazines for years and has seen every movie she’s ever been in and can name every dress she’s worn to the awards show makes me want to sit at that window and stare at her all night. Then there’s the part of me . . .”
Nola pointed the remote control to the TV and scrolled through the channels until she found the alternative rock station. She propped herself up on her elbow. “I hear you. What else is going on? Why are you in such a shitty mood?”
Brooke sighed. “I had to ask for another day off for next weekend in Miami, and let’s just say that Margaret was less than thrilled.”
“She can’t expect her staff not to have personal lives.”
Brooke snorted. “It’s probably not unfair for her to expect us to show up every now and then.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. Can I change the topic to something a little more fun? No offense.”
“What, the party this weekend?”
“Am I invited?” Nola grinned. “I could be your date.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love it, but I didn’t think it was an option.”
“What, would I rather be in New York having drinks with some loser when I could be nibbling caviar with a fledgling rock star’s wife?”
“Done. I’m sure Julian will be thrilled he won’t have to babysit me all night.” Brooke’s phone vibrated on the coffee table. “Speak of the devil . . .”
“Hey!” Brooke said into the receiver. “Nola and I were just talking about the party this weekend.”
“Brooke? Guess what? I just spoke to Leo who heard from the VP at Sony. They said that the album’s initial numbers are far exceeding their expectations.”
Brooke could hear music and some general clattering in the background, but she couldn’t remember where Julian was that afternoon. Maybe Atlanta? Or were they playing in Charleston that night? Yes, that was definitely it. Atlanta was last night—she remembered speaking to Julian when he called around one in the morning, and he sounded drunk but in generally good spirits. He’d been calling from the Ritz in Buckhead.
“No one wants to commit to anything yet since the airplay-tracking week still has three days to go, but the sales-tracking week ended today and supposedly it’s on pace.”
Brooke had spent two hours the night before reading up on all the other singers and groups who had released albums in the last couple weeks, but she still didn’t understand how the tracking worked. Should she ask? Or would he just get annoyed at her ignorance?
“For at least a move from number four to number three. Possibly even higher!”
“I’m so proud of you! Are you guys having fun in Charleston?” she asked brightly.
There was silence. She panicked for a second. Were they not in Charleston? But then he said, “Believe it or not, we’re all busting our asses down here. Practicing, performing, breaking down, setting up, staying in a different hotel every night. Everyone’s working here.”
Brooke was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t suggesting that all you’re doing is partying.” Brooke somehow managed to refrain from reminding him about his drunken, very late call last night.
Nola caught Brooke’s eye and motioned that she’d be in the other room, but Brooke waved and gave her a look that said, Don’t be ridiculous.
“Is this about leaving in the middle of your dad’s party? How many times have I apologized about that? I can’t believe you’re still punishing me.”
“No, it’s not about that, although for the record you walked out with about six seconds’ warning and you haven’t been home since and that was almost two weeks ago.” She softened her voice. “I guess I thought you’d be back for a day or two after the shoot, before you resumed the tour.”
“What’s with the attitude?”
It felt like a slap. “The attitude? Is it really so horrible that I said I hoped you were having fun? Or asked when we might see each other? Gee, I’m an awful person.”
“Brooke, I don’t have time for a tantrum right now.”
The way he said her full name gave her a chill.
“A ‘tantrum,’ Julian? Really?” She almost never told him how she really felt—he was too stressed, too busy, too distracted, or too far away—so she tried hard not to complain. To be upbeat and understanding, just like her mother said, but it wasn’t easy.
“Well then what exactly are you so worked up about? I’m sorry I can’t get home this week. How many times do you want me to apologize? I’m doing this for us, you know. You might want to remember that sometimes.”
Brooke felt that all-too-anxious feeling. “I don’t think you understand,” she said quietly.
“Even more of a reason you should hate her. Not only is she insanely attractive—including when she’s completely bald—but she’s also a Harvard graduate, she speaks like fifteen languages, she’s traveled all over the world encouraging people to support microfinance, and she’s so in love with the environment that she won’t wear leather shoes. And on top of all that, everyone who’s ever worked with her or so much as sat next to her on a plane swears she’s the coolest, most down-to-earth person they’ve ever met. Now, tell me, please, how can you possibly not hate someone like that?”
Nola finally left her window perch and Brooke followed her. They both flopped down on opposite slipcovered love seats and each turned on her side to face the other.
Brooke took a gulp and shrugged, thinking about the photographer outside their apartment. “Good for Natalie Portman, I guess?”
Nola shook her head slowly from side to side. “My god, you’re a piece of work.”
“What did I say? I don’t understand. Am I supposed to be obsessed with her? Jealous of her? She’s not even real.”
“Of course she’s real! She’s sitting right across the street, and she looks amazing.”
Brooke draped an arm across her forehead and moaned. “And now we’re stalking her, which I’m not feeling great about. Leave her be.”
“Feeling a little sensitive about Natalie’s privacy?” Nola asked more gently.
“Yeah, I guess. It’s weird; the part of me that’s been reading these magazines for years and has seen every movie she’s ever been in and can name every dress she’s worn to the awards show makes me want to sit at that window and stare at her all night. Then there’s the part of me . . .”
Nola pointed the remote control to the TV and scrolled through the channels until she found the alternative rock station. She propped herself up on her elbow. “I hear you. What else is going on? Why are you in such a shitty mood?”
Brooke sighed. “I had to ask for another day off for next weekend in Miami, and let’s just say that Margaret was less than thrilled.”
“She can’t expect her staff not to have personal lives.”
Brooke snorted. “It’s probably not unfair for her to expect us to show up every now and then.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. Can I change the topic to something a little more fun? No offense.”
“What, the party this weekend?”
“Am I invited?” Nola grinned. “I could be your date.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love it, but I didn’t think it was an option.”
“What, would I rather be in New York having drinks with some loser when I could be nibbling caviar with a fledgling rock star’s wife?”
“Done. I’m sure Julian will be thrilled he won’t have to babysit me all night.” Brooke’s phone vibrated on the coffee table. “Speak of the devil . . .”
“Hey!” Brooke said into the receiver. “Nola and I were just talking about the party this weekend.”
“Brooke? Guess what? I just spoke to Leo who heard from the VP at Sony. They said that the album’s initial numbers are far exceeding their expectations.”
Brooke could hear music and some general clattering in the background, but she couldn’t remember where Julian was that afternoon. Maybe Atlanta? Or were they playing in Charleston that night? Yes, that was definitely it. Atlanta was last night—she remembered speaking to Julian when he called around one in the morning, and he sounded drunk but in generally good spirits. He’d been calling from the Ritz in Buckhead.
“No one wants to commit to anything yet since the airplay-tracking week still has three days to go, but the sales-tracking week ended today and supposedly it’s on pace.”
Brooke had spent two hours the night before reading up on all the other singers and groups who had released albums in the last couple weeks, but she still didn’t understand how the tracking worked. Should she ask? Or would he just get annoyed at her ignorance?
“For at least a move from number four to number three. Possibly even higher!”
“I’m so proud of you! Are you guys having fun in Charleston?” she asked brightly.
There was silence. She panicked for a second. Were they not in Charleston? But then he said, “Believe it or not, we’re all busting our asses down here. Practicing, performing, breaking down, setting up, staying in a different hotel every night. Everyone’s working here.”
Brooke was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t suggesting that all you’re doing is partying.” Brooke somehow managed to refrain from reminding him about his drunken, very late call last night.
Nola caught Brooke’s eye and motioned that she’d be in the other room, but Brooke waved and gave her a look that said, Don’t be ridiculous.
“Is this about leaving in the middle of your dad’s party? How many times have I apologized about that? I can’t believe you’re still punishing me.”
“No, it’s not about that, although for the record you walked out with about six seconds’ warning and you haven’t been home since and that was almost two weeks ago.” She softened her voice. “I guess I thought you’d be back for a day or two after the shoot, before you resumed the tour.”
“What’s with the attitude?”
It felt like a slap. “The attitude? Is it really so horrible that I said I hoped you were having fun? Or asked when we might see each other? Gee, I’m an awful person.”
“Brooke, I don’t have time for a tantrum right now.”
The way he said her full name gave her a chill.
“A ‘tantrum,’ Julian? Really?” She almost never told him how she really felt—he was too stressed, too busy, too distracted, or too far away—so she tried hard not to complain. To be upbeat and understanding, just like her mother said, but it wasn’t easy.
“Well then what exactly are you so worked up about? I’m sorry I can’t get home this week. How many times do you want me to apologize? I’m doing this for us, you know. You might want to remember that sometimes.”
Brooke felt that all-too-anxious feeling. “I don’t think you understand,” she said quietly.
