Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 57
“Forty-five seconds to live!”
It only felt like ten seconds had passed, but a deep quiet settled over the set and Brooke saw a Tylenol commercial on the monitors in front of her. It was probably on for about thirty seconds when the opening chords of the Today show song began to play, and the voice over the loudspeaker began to count down. Immediately, the entire room stood still, except for Meredith, who scanned her notes and ran her tongue over her front teeth to check for lipstick.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. And live!” At the exact moment the voice called out the word “and,” someone flipped on the massive overhead studio lights and immediately the entire set was bathed in intense, hot light. At that same moment, Meredith smiled broadly, turned toward the camera with the blinking green light, and read from the teleprompter.
“Welcome back, everyone! For those of you who are just joining us, we are lucky to have one of the hottest young stars on the musical scene today, singer-songwriter Julian Alter. He has already toured with Maroon 5 before embarking on his very own tour, and his first album debuted at number four on the Billboard chart.” She turned to Julian and her smile grew. “And he just gave us a terrific performance of his song ‘For the Lost.’ You were great, Julian! Thanks for joining us today.”
He grinned, but Brooke could see the tightness in the lips and the way his left hand death-gripped the arm of the chair. “Thanks for having me. I’m thrilled to be here.”
“I have to say, I really enjoyed that song,” Meredith said with lots of enthusiasm. Brooke was fascinated by the way the anchor’s makeup looked spackled and fake in person but flawless and beautiful on the monitor. “Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to write it?”
Julian’s face instantly came alive and he leaned forward in his chair. His entire body seemed to relax as he described his inspiration for “For the Lost.”
The next four minutes elapsed in a flash. Julian sailed through questions about how he got discovered, how long it took him to record the album, if he could believe all the incredible feedback and attention. The media training had definitely paid off: his answers were funny and charmingly self-deprecating without sounding like each had been scripted by a team of people (which they absolutely had). He maintained good eye contact, looked relaxed without being disrespectful, and at one point smiled so winningly for Meredith Vieira that she herself nearly giggled and said, “I can see why you’re such a big hit with your younger female fans.” It wasn’t until Meredith picked up a copy of an unidentifiable celeb magazine that must have been facedown on the table between them, and flipped to a bookmarked page, that Julian stopped smiling.
Brooke remembered the night Julian had come home from media training and told her it was the most important thing he’d learned. “You are not required to answer the question they ask you, and if you don’t like the question, you go ahead and answer any question you feel like answering. It does not need to be related whatsoever to the asked question. The only requirement is that you convey information you want to share. Take back control of the interview. Don’t let them bully you into answering anything unpleasant or uncomfortable. Just smile and change the subject. The onus is on the anchor to keep the interview moving forward, to make it appear smooth and seamless, and they’re not going to call you out on refusing to answer a question. This is morning television, not the presidential debates, so as long as you’re smiling and relaxed, you’ve succeeded. You’ll never get cornered or pinned down if you only answer questions you like.”
That night felt like a year ago, and Brooke just prayed Julian could muster the same confidence right now. Stick to the script, she willed him, and don’t let her see you sweat.
Meredith folded over the magazine, which Brooke could now see was US Weekly, and held a page toward Julian. She pointed to a photo in the upper-right-hand corner, which was Brooke’s first indication this wasn’t about the infamous Layla picture. Julian was smiling, but he looked confused.
“Ah yes,” he said in response to nothing, since Meredith had not asked a question yet. “My beautiful wife.”
Oh no, Brooke thought. Meredith was pointing to a picture of Brooke and Julian with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the cameras. The camera zoomed in on the picture and Brooke could make out the details now: her standby black sweater dress, Julian looking uncomfortable in a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, both of them holding wineglasses aloft . . . where were they? She leaned forward in her chair and stared at the nearest monitor and it hit her all at once. Her father’s sixty-fifth birthday party. The picture must have been taken just after Brooke gave her toast, since she and Julian were standing in front of an otherwise seated table. Who on earth had taken that and, more to the point, why did US Weekly care?
Then the camera moved down just a touch and she was able to see that the photo had a caption that read, “A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand?” She felt a horrible, anxious jolt in the middle of her stomach when she realized that the new issue of US Weekly had probably come out that very day, and no one on Julian’s team had seen it yet.
“Yes, I’ve read that you and your wife, Brooke, have been married for what, five years now?” Meredith asked, looking to Julian. He just nodded, clearly nervous about where this line of questioning was going.
Meredith leaned in close to Julian and, with a huge smile, said, “So can you confirm it here first?”
Julian peered back at her, meeting her eyes, but he looked just as confused as Brooke felt. Confirm what? Brooke knew he hadn’t processed the whole “bun in the oven” thing and most likely thought he was being questioned about the state of his marriage.
“Sorry?” It wasn’t exactly articulate, but Brooke could hardly blame him. What, exactly, was she asking?
“Well, we just couldn’t help but wonder if that was a baby bump your wife is sporting.” Meredith smiled broadly, as though an answer in the affirmative was a mere formality, not really a question at all.
Brooke inhaled sharply. Definitely not what she was expecting, and poor Julian was about as likely to use the phrase “baby bump” as he was to answer the question in Russian. Not to mention that while she might not be in the absolute best shape of her life, she sure as hell didn’t think she looked pregnant. It was just another awkward picture angle, taken from below and exposing the weird puffiness of fabric around the waist where the dress was cinched closed. So what?
It only felt like ten seconds had passed, but a deep quiet settled over the set and Brooke saw a Tylenol commercial on the monitors in front of her. It was probably on for about thirty seconds when the opening chords of the Today show song began to play, and the voice over the loudspeaker began to count down. Immediately, the entire room stood still, except for Meredith, who scanned her notes and ran her tongue over her front teeth to check for lipstick.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. And live!” At the exact moment the voice called out the word “and,” someone flipped on the massive overhead studio lights and immediately the entire set was bathed in intense, hot light. At that same moment, Meredith smiled broadly, turned toward the camera with the blinking green light, and read from the teleprompter.
“Welcome back, everyone! For those of you who are just joining us, we are lucky to have one of the hottest young stars on the musical scene today, singer-songwriter Julian Alter. He has already toured with Maroon 5 before embarking on his very own tour, and his first album debuted at number four on the Billboard chart.” She turned to Julian and her smile grew. “And he just gave us a terrific performance of his song ‘For the Lost.’ You were great, Julian! Thanks for joining us today.”
He grinned, but Brooke could see the tightness in the lips and the way his left hand death-gripped the arm of the chair. “Thanks for having me. I’m thrilled to be here.”
“I have to say, I really enjoyed that song,” Meredith said with lots of enthusiasm. Brooke was fascinated by the way the anchor’s makeup looked spackled and fake in person but flawless and beautiful on the monitor. “Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to write it?”
Julian’s face instantly came alive and he leaned forward in his chair. His entire body seemed to relax as he described his inspiration for “For the Lost.”
The next four minutes elapsed in a flash. Julian sailed through questions about how he got discovered, how long it took him to record the album, if he could believe all the incredible feedback and attention. The media training had definitely paid off: his answers were funny and charmingly self-deprecating without sounding like each had been scripted by a team of people (which they absolutely had). He maintained good eye contact, looked relaxed without being disrespectful, and at one point smiled so winningly for Meredith Vieira that she herself nearly giggled and said, “I can see why you’re such a big hit with your younger female fans.” It wasn’t until Meredith picked up a copy of an unidentifiable celeb magazine that must have been facedown on the table between them, and flipped to a bookmarked page, that Julian stopped smiling.
Brooke remembered the night Julian had come home from media training and told her it was the most important thing he’d learned. “You are not required to answer the question they ask you, and if you don’t like the question, you go ahead and answer any question you feel like answering. It does not need to be related whatsoever to the asked question. The only requirement is that you convey information you want to share. Take back control of the interview. Don’t let them bully you into answering anything unpleasant or uncomfortable. Just smile and change the subject. The onus is on the anchor to keep the interview moving forward, to make it appear smooth and seamless, and they’re not going to call you out on refusing to answer a question. This is morning television, not the presidential debates, so as long as you’re smiling and relaxed, you’ve succeeded. You’ll never get cornered or pinned down if you only answer questions you like.”
That night felt like a year ago, and Brooke just prayed Julian could muster the same confidence right now. Stick to the script, she willed him, and don’t let her see you sweat.
Meredith folded over the magazine, which Brooke could now see was US Weekly, and held a page toward Julian. She pointed to a photo in the upper-right-hand corner, which was Brooke’s first indication this wasn’t about the infamous Layla picture. Julian was smiling, but he looked confused.
“Ah yes,” he said in response to nothing, since Meredith had not asked a question yet. “My beautiful wife.”
Oh no, Brooke thought. Meredith was pointing to a picture of Brooke and Julian with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the cameras. The camera zoomed in on the picture and Brooke could make out the details now: her standby black sweater dress, Julian looking uncomfortable in a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, both of them holding wineglasses aloft . . . where were they? She leaned forward in her chair and stared at the nearest monitor and it hit her all at once. Her father’s sixty-fifth birthday party. The picture must have been taken just after Brooke gave her toast, since she and Julian were standing in front of an otherwise seated table. Who on earth had taken that and, more to the point, why did US Weekly care?
Then the camera moved down just a touch and she was able to see that the photo had a caption that read, “A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand?” She felt a horrible, anxious jolt in the middle of her stomach when she realized that the new issue of US Weekly had probably come out that very day, and no one on Julian’s team had seen it yet.
“Yes, I’ve read that you and your wife, Brooke, have been married for what, five years now?” Meredith asked, looking to Julian. He just nodded, clearly nervous about where this line of questioning was going.
Meredith leaned in close to Julian and, with a huge smile, said, “So can you confirm it here first?”
Julian peered back at her, meeting her eyes, but he looked just as confused as Brooke felt. Confirm what? Brooke knew he hadn’t processed the whole “bun in the oven” thing and most likely thought he was being questioned about the state of his marriage.
“Sorry?” It wasn’t exactly articulate, but Brooke could hardly blame him. What, exactly, was she asking?
“Well, we just couldn’t help but wonder if that was a baby bump your wife is sporting.” Meredith smiled broadly, as though an answer in the affirmative was a mere formality, not really a question at all.
Brooke inhaled sharply. Definitely not what she was expecting, and poor Julian was about as likely to use the phrase “baby bump” as he was to answer the question in Russian. Not to mention that while she might not be in the absolute best shape of her life, she sure as hell didn’t think she looked pregnant. It was just another awkward picture angle, taken from below and exposing the weird puffiness of fabric around the waist where the dress was cinched closed. So what?
