Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 93
There was no stopping the vicious anger-and-nausea combo that felt so familiar now, but Brooke tried to take deep breaths and think through it. She suspected there was a perfectly logical explanation for that girl—delusional or not, she was absolutely positive that Julian would never be that disrespectful, or just plain stupid—but the rest of it was enraging. She looked at the photo of herself again and realized from the angle and graininess that it was probably taken by a fellow patron using a cell phone. Disgusted, she pummeled the couch with her fist so hard that Walter yelped and jumped down.
The landline rang and the caller ID showed that it was Samara.
“Samara, I can’t take this anymore!” she said in lieu of hello. “Aren’t you supposed to be managing his publicity? Can’t you do something about pieces like these?” Brooke had never before shown even an inkling of rudeness to the girl, but she couldn’t keep quiet for another second.
“Brooke, I understand why you’re upset. I was actually hoping to reach you before you saw the piece, but—”
“Before I saw it?” she screeched. “Some scumbag already called my cell phone asking for my comment on it. How do they have this number?”
“Look, there are two things I need to tell you. One, that girl in the back of Julian’s limo was his hair and makeup person. His flight from Edinburgh was delayed and there wasn’t time to get him ready before his performance, so she worked on him in the car. A gross misrepresentation.”
“Okay,” Brooke said. She was surprised by how much relief she felt considering her certainty that there was a logical explanation.
“Second, there is not much I can do when your people are talking to the press. I can only control so much, and it certainly doesn’t extend to chatty friends and family.”
Brooke felt like she’d been slapped. “What are you saying?”
“That someone is obviously giving out your unlisted number, and knows about the wedding this weekend, and is going on the record discussing your life. Because I can assure you, it’s not coming from our end.”
“But that’s impossible. I know for a fact that—”
“Brooke, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got another call coming in and I need to run. Talk to your people, okay?” And with that, Samara hung up.
Too keyed up to concentrate on anything—not to mention feeling guilty from not having done it sooner—Brooke leashed Walter, dug her Uggs and some gloves from the hallway closet, and hit the pavement almost running. She didn’t know if it was the pom-pom hat or the massively puffy coat, but neither of the two paparazzi she spied on the corner so much as glanced in her direction, and she felt a surge of pride for this small victory. They cruised over to Eleventh Avenue and then uptown, moving as quickly as they could through the weekday crowds. She paused only to let Walter drink from a water bowl outside a grooming shop, and he was panting by the time they hit Sixty-fifth Street. Brooke, however, was only just getting started.
In the span of twenty minutes, she managed to leave semihysterical messages for her mother, father, Cynthia, Randy, and Nola (Nola was the only one who answered; her response: “Good god, Brooke, if I were really going to tattle about your life to the press, I’d have far juicier stories to share than freaking Trent and Intern Fern’s wedding. Come on now!”), and was getting ready to dial Michelle’s cell phone.
“Oh, hey, Michelle,” she said after the beep. “I’m, uh, not sure where you are, but I just wanted to touch base about a piece in ‘Page Six’ this morning. I know you and I have talked about this multiple times, but I’m really concerned that you may have, um, accidentally answered some reporter’s questions, or maybe told your friends something that found its way to the wrong person? I don’t know, but I’m asking you—actually, I’m begging you—to please just hang up if someone calls to ask any questions about Julian or me, and to not discuss our private lives with anyone, okay?” She paused for a moment, wondering first if she’d been firm enough and then if she’d been too firm, decided she’d probably gotten her point across, and hung up.
She dragged Walter home and spent the rest of the day finalizing her already worked and reworked résumé, hopeful that she’d soon be ready to start sending it out. It was disappointing that Neha was out of a potential partnership, but she wasn’t going to let it derail her plans: another six months to a year of clinical experience, and then hopefully a chance at opening her own practice.
Around six thirty, Brooke considered picking up the phone to cancel on Amber that night—the idea of meeting an entirely new group of women suddenly seemed like a very bad call—but when she realized she didn’t even have her number, she forced herself to shower and put on her jeans, boots, and blazer uniform. Worst case scenario, everyone will be hateful and horrible and I’ll make up an excuse and leave, she thought as the cab made its way from Times Square to the central Village. At the very least I’ll be leaving my apartment at night, something that hasn’t happened for quite some time. She thought she’d calmed herself, but Brooke felt a rush of nerves when she stepped out of the cab on Twelfth Street and saw a reasonably pretty girl with a pixieish blond bob smoking a cigarette on the stoop.
“Brooke?” the girl asked, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to hang in the cold, damp air.
“Hi. Are you Amber?” She gingerly stepped over some accumulated curb slush. Amber was standing two full steps above her, but Brooke was still an inch or two taller. She was surprised to see flame-red tights peeking out from under Amber’s coat, topped by a fabulous pair of sky-high heels. That, combined with the cigarette, was not what she was expecting from Heather’s description of her naive, sweet, churchgoing friend.
Amber must have caught her looking. “Oh, these?” she asked, although Brooke hadn’t said a word. “Giuseppe Zanotti. I call them my man-stompers.” Her Southern accent was sweet, almost syrupy in its slowness, completely at odds with her appearance.
Brooke smiled. “Let me know if you’re renting those out.”
Amber motioned for her to follow her up the stairs. “You’re going to love everyone,” she said, pulling open the door to a small foyer with a mini Persian carpet and two mail slots. “It’s a great group of women. Added benefit being that whenever you think you have it bad, guaranteed someone here has had it so much worse.”
The landline rang and the caller ID showed that it was Samara.
“Samara, I can’t take this anymore!” she said in lieu of hello. “Aren’t you supposed to be managing his publicity? Can’t you do something about pieces like these?” Brooke had never before shown even an inkling of rudeness to the girl, but she couldn’t keep quiet for another second.
“Brooke, I understand why you’re upset. I was actually hoping to reach you before you saw the piece, but—”
“Before I saw it?” she screeched. “Some scumbag already called my cell phone asking for my comment on it. How do they have this number?”
“Look, there are two things I need to tell you. One, that girl in the back of Julian’s limo was his hair and makeup person. His flight from Edinburgh was delayed and there wasn’t time to get him ready before his performance, so she worked on him in the car. A gross misrepresentation.”
“Okay,” Brooke said. She was surprised by how much relief she felt considering her certainty that there was a logical explanation.
“Second, there is not much I can do when your people are talking to the press. I can only control so much, and it certainly doesn’t extend to chatty friends and family.”
Brooke felt like she’d been slapped. “What are you saying?”
“That someone is obviously giving out your unlisted number, and knows about the wedding this weekend, and is going on the record discussing your life. Because I can assure you, it’s not coming from our end.”
“But that’s impossible. I know for a fact that—”
“Brooke, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got another call coming in and I need to run. Talk to your people, okay?” And with that, Samara hung up.
Too keyed up to concentrate on anything—not to mention feeling guilty from not having done it sooner—Brooke leashed Walter, dug her Uggs and some gloves from the hallway closet, and hit the pavement almost running. She didn’t know if it was the pom-pom hat or the massively puffy coat, but neither of the two paparazzi she spied on the corner so much as glanced in her direction, and she felt a surge of pride for this small victory. They cruised over to Eleventh Avenue and then uptown, moving as quickly as they could through the weekday crowds. She paused only to let Walter drink from a water bowl outside a grooming shop, and he was panting by the time they hit Sixty-fifth Street. Brooke, however, was only just getting started.
In the span of twenty minutes, she managed to leave semihysterical messages for her mother, father, Cynthia, Randy, and Nola (Nola was the only one who answered; her response: “Good god, Brooke, if I were really going to tattle about your life to the press, I’d have far juicier stories to share than freaking Trent and Intern Fern’s wedding. Come on now!”), and was getting ready to dial Michelle’s cell phone.
“Oh, hey, Michelle,” she said after the beep. “I’m, uh, not sure where you are, but I just wanted to touch base about a piece in ‘Page Six’ this morning. I know you and I have talked about this multiple times, but I’m really concerned that you may have, um, accidentally answered some reporter’s questions, or maybe told your friends something that found its way to the wrong person? I don’t know, but I’m asking you—actually, I’m begging you—to please just hang up if someone calls to ask any questions about Julian or me, and to not discuss our private lives with anyone, okay?” She paused for a moment, wondering first if she’d been firm enough and then if she’d been too firm, decided she’d probably gotten her point across, and hung up.
She dragged Walter home and spent the rest of the day finalizing her already worked and reworked résumé, hopeful that she’d soon be ready to start sending it out. It was disappointing that Neha was out of a potential partnership, but she wasn’t going to let it derail her plans: another six months to a year of clinical experience, and then hopefully a chance at opening her own practice.
Around six thirty, Brooke considered picking up the phone to cancel on Amber that night—the idea of meeting an entirely new group of women suddenly seemed like a very bad call—but when she realized she didn’t even have her number, she forced herself to shower and put on her jeans, boots, and blazer uniform. Worst case scenario, everyone will be hateful and horrible and I’ll make up an excuse and leave, she thought as the cab made its way from Times Square to the central Village. At the very least I’ll be leaving my apartment at night, something that hasn’t happened for quite some time. She thought she’d calmed herself, but Brooke felt a rush of nerves when she stepped out of the cab on Twelfth Street and saw a reasonably pretty girl with a pixieish blond bob smoking a cigarette on the stoop.
“Brooke?” the girl asked, exhaling a plume of smoke that seemed to hang in the cold, damp air.
“Hi. Are you Amber?” She gingerly stepped over some accumulated curb slush. Amber was standing two full steps above her, but Brooke was still an inch or two taller. She was surprised to see flame-red tights peeking out from under Amber’s coat, topped by a fabulous pair of sky-high heels. That, combined with the cigarette, was not what she was expecting from Heather’s description of her naive, sweet, churchgoing friend.
Amber must have caught her looking. “Oh, these?” she asked, although Brooke hadn’t said a word. “Giuseppe Zanotti. I call them my man-stompers.” Her Southern accent was sweet, almost syrupy in its slowness, completely at odds with her appearance.
Brooke smiled. “Let me know if you’re renting those out.”
Amber motioned for her to follow her up the stairs. “You’re going to love everyone,” she said, pulling open the door to a small foyer with a mini Persian carpet and two mail slots. “It’s a great group of women. Added benefit being that whenever you think you have it bad, guaranteed someone here has had it so much worse.”
