Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 58
He squirmed in his seat; his distress only seemed to confirm the truth of her question.
“Oh come on, you can tell us here. That would be quite a big year for you—debut album and a new baby! I’m sure the fans would love to know for sure. . . .”
It took Brooke a second to realize she wasn’t breathing. Was this actually happening? Who the hell did she think they were? Brangelina? Did anyone actually care if they were pregnant? Was it anyone’s business? Did she really look so huge in that picture that the only assumption could be she was with child? And most of all, if the whole goddamn world was going to assume she was pregnant, that picture made her look like a pregnant woman with a drinking problem. It was almost too much to believe.
Julian opened his mouth to say something, appeared to remember his instructions to smile and answer whatever he wanted, and said, “I love my wife very much. None of this would have ever happened without her incredible support.”
None of what? Brooke wanted to scream. The horrible timing of the pregnancy that didn’t exist? The fact that his wife was drinking straight through her faux pregnancy?
There was an awkward silence that probably only lasted a couple seconds but felt endless, and then Meredith thanked Julian, looked directly at the camera, ordered everyone to buy his new album, and cut to commercial. Brooke was vaguely aware that the intense lights had been lowered and Meredith had unhooked her microphone and stood up. She extended a hand to Julian, who looked shell-shocked, offered a few words Brooke couldn’t hear, and quickly walked off the set. A dozen people began scurrying around the studio, checking wires and pushing cameras and exchanging clipboards. Julian continued to sit there, looking like he’d just been whacked over the head with a shovel.
Brooke stood up and was about to make her way to Julian when Leo materialized in front of her.
“Our boy did pretty well, dontcha think, Brooke? Little weird on the last question, but nothing major.”
“Mmm.” Brooke was intent on getting to Julian, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Samara, the media trainer, and two PAs escorted Julian back outside to prepare for his next set. He still had two more songs to sing, one at eight forty-five and one at nine thirty, before this hellish morning would finally end.
“You wanna come outside or watch from the greenroom? Might want to take it easy, you know, put your legs up?” Leo leered, which felt grosser than usual right then.
“You think I’m pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.
Leo threw his hands in the air. “I’m not asking. That’s your deal, you know? Granted, it wouldn’t be the best timing in terms of Julian’s career, but hey, I guess babies come when they’re ready. . . .”
“Leo, I would really appreciate—”
Leo’s cell phone rang and he yanked it from his pocket and cradled it like it was the Bible. “Gotta take this,” he said, and turned to walk outside.
Brooke stood rooted to her spot. She couldn’t even begin to process what had happened. Julian had all but confirmed an imaginary pregnancy on live, national television. The page who had greeted them this morning appeared by Brooke’s side.
“Hi! Can I show you back to the greenroom? They’re getting set up for the next segment, so things are kind of crazy here,” he said, checking his clipboard.
“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks,” Brooke said gratefully.
She followed him in silence back up the stairs and down the long hallway. He opened the greenroom door for her and Brooke thought he may have said “congratulations” before he left, but she wasn’t sure. Her seat had been claimed by a man in full chef whites, so she took the only empty chair left.
The child prodigy with the violin looked up at her. “Do you know what it is?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched it sounded like she had just inhaled a helium balloon.
“Pardon me?” Brooke glanced at the child, uncertain she had heard her correctly.
“I asked,” the girl said excitedly, “if you know what you’re having yet. A boy or a girl?”
Brooke’s mouth dropped in shock.
The girl’s mother leaned over and whispered something in her ear, probably something about her question being rude or inappropriate, but the girl only glared back. “I just asked what she was having!” she screeched.
Brooke tried to relax. Might as well have a little fun—god knows her family and friends weren’t going to be quite as amused. She scanned the room to make sure no one else was listening and leaned over. “I’m having a girl,” she whispered, only feeling slightly evil for lying to a child. “And I can only hope she is every bit as lovely as you.”
The phone calls from friends and family began pouring in during the car ride home and continued nonstop for days. Her mother announced that while she was hurt she had to find out on television, she was nonetheless ecstatic that her only daughter would finally be a mother herself. Her father was delighted that the picture from his party had been posted on national television and wondered how he and Cynthia hadn’t figured it out earlier. Julian’s mother weighed in with the expected “Oh, well! We sure don’t feel old enough to be grandparents!” Randy kindly offered to include Brooke’s future son on the small football team of Greene children he was mentally drafting, and Michelle volunteered her services to decorate the little one’s nursery. Nola was livid that Brooke hadn’t confided in her first, although she admitted that she’d be more apt to forgive were the little girl named after her. And every single one of them—some more gently than others—commented on the wine.
That she had to convince her entire family, Julian’s entire family, all her coworkers and all their friends that first, she was not pregnant, and second, she would never drink during her purely hypothetical pregnancy, felt to Brooke like more than an insult. An affront. And she could still sense skepticism. The only thing that worked—that actually made people back off for half a second—was the following week’s US Weekly, which showed a paparazzi picture of Brooke grocery shopping at her neighborhood Gristedes. Her belly looked flatter, no doubt, but that wasn’t what did the trick. In the photo she held a basket with bananas, a four-pack of yogurt, a liter of Poland Spring, a bottle of Windex, and, apparently, a box of Tampax. The Pearl version, super absorbency, should the world be interested, and it was circled with a thick black marker and a caption that screamed “No Baby for the Alters!” as though the magazine, through some sort of savvy detective work, had really gotten to the bottom of the issue.
“Oh come on, you can tell us here. That would be quite a big year for you—debut album and a new baby! I’m sure the fans would love to know for sure. . . .”
It took Brooke a second to realize she wasn’t breathing. Was this actually happening? Who the hell did she think they were? Brangelina? Did anyone actually care if they were pregnant? Was it anyone’s business? Did she really look so huge in that picture that the only assumption could be she was with child? And most of all, if the whole goddamn world was going to assume she was pregnant, that picture made her look like a pregnant woman with a drinking problem. It was almost too much to believe.
Julian opened his mouth to say something, appeared to remember his instructions to smile and answer whatever he wanted, and said, “I love my wife very much. None of this would have ever happened without her incredible support.”
None of what? Brooke wanted to scream. The horrible timing of the pregnancy that didn’t exist? The fact that his wife was drinking straight through her faux pregnancy?
There was an awkward silence that probably only lasted a couple seconds but felt endless, and then Meredith thanked Julian, looked directly at the camera, ordered everyone to buy his new album, and cut to commercial. Brooke was vaguely aware that the intense lights had been lowered and Meredith had unhooked her microphone and stood up. She extended a hand to Julian, who looked shell-shocked, offered a few words Brooke couldn’t hear, and quickly walked off the set. A dozen people began scurrying around the studio, checking wires and pushing cameras and exchanging clipboards. Julian continued to sit there, looking like he’d just been whacked over the head with a shovel.
Brooke stood up and was about to make her way to Julian when Leo materialized in front of her.
“Our boy did pretty well, dontcha think, Brooke? Little weird on the last question, but nothing major.”
“Mmm.” Brooke was intent on getting to Julian, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Samara, the media trainer, and two PAs escorted Julian back outside to prepare for his next set. He still had two more songs to sing, one at eight forty-five and one at nine thirty, before this hellish morning would finally end.
“You wanna come outside or watch from the greenroom? Might want to take it easy, you know, put your legs up?” Leo leered, which felt grosser than usual right then.
“You think I’m pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.
Leo threw his hands in the air. “I’m not asking. That’s your deal, you know? Granted, it wouldn’t be the best timing in terms of Julian’s career, but hey, I guess babies come when they’re ready. . . .”
“Leo, I would really appreciate—”
Leo’s cell phone rang and he yanked it from his pocket and cradled it like it was the Bible. “Gotta take this,” he said, and turned to walk outside.
Brooke stood rooted to her spot. She couldn’t even begin to process what had happened. Julian had all but confirmed an imaginary pregnancy on live, national television. The page who had greeted them this morning appeared by Brooke’s side.
“Hi! Can I show you back to the greenroom? They’re getting set up for the next segment, so things are kind of crazy here,” he said, checking his clipboard.
“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks,” Brooke said gratefully.
She followed him in silence back up the stairs and down the long hallway. He opened the greenroom door for her and Brooke thought he may have said “congratulations” before he left, but she wasn’t sure. Her seat had been claimed by a man in full chef whites, so she took the only empty chair left.
The child prodigy with the violin looked up at her. “Do you know what it is?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched it sounded like she had just inhaled a helium balloon.
“Pardon me?” Brooke glanced at the child, uncertain she had heard her correctly.
“I asked,” the girl said excitedly, “if you know what you’re having yet. A boy or a girl?”
Brooke’s mouth dropped in shock.
The girl’s mother leaned over and whispered something in her ear, probably something about her question being rude or inappropriate, but the girl only glared back. “I just asked what she was having!” she screeched.
Brooke tried to relax. Might as well have a little fun—god knows her family and friends weren’t going to be quite as amused. She scanned the room to make sure no one else was listening and leaned over. “I’m having a girl,” she whispered, only feeling slightly evil for lying to a child. “And I can only hope she is every bit as lovely as you.”
The phone calls from friends and family began pouring in during the car ride home and continued nonstop for days. Her mother announced that while she was hurt she had to find out on television, she was nonetheless ecstatic that her only daughter would finally be a mother herself. Her father was delighted that the picture from his party had been posted on national television and wondered how he and Cynthia hadn’t figured it out earlier. Julian’s mother weighed in with the expected “Oh, well! We sure don’t feel old enough to be grandparents!” Randy kindly offered to include Brooke’s future son on the small football team of Greene children he was mentally drafting, and Michelle volunteered her services to decorate the little one’s nursery. Nola was livid that Brooke hadn’t confided in her first, although she admitted that she’d be more apt to forgive were the little girl named after her. And every single one of them—some more gently than others—commented on the wine.
That she had to convince her entire family, Julian’s entire family, all her coworkers and all their friends that first, she was not pregnant, and second, she would never drink during her purely hypothetical pregnancy, felt to Brooke like more than an insult. An affront. And she could still sense skepticism. The only thing that worked—that actually made people back off for half a second—was the following week’s US Weekly, which showed a paparazzi picture of Brooke grocery shopping at her neighborhood Gristedes. Her belly looked flatter, no doubt, but that wasn’t what did the trick. In the photo she held a basket with bananas, a four-pack of yogurt, a liter of Poland Spring, a bottle of Windex, and, apparently, a box of Tampax. The Pearl version, super absorbency, should the world be interested, and it was circled with a thick black marker and a caption that screamed “No Baby for the Alters!” as though the magazine, through some sort of savvy detective work, had really gotten to the bottom of the issue.
