Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 95
“Be honest, Kenya. You were like me—you didn’t believe anything was wrong after Quincy was arrested for the first time,” Diana said helpfully.
“It’s true. I bailed him out. But when 48 Hours showed hidden-camera footage of my husband literally trolling a high school girls’ soccer game, trying to chat them up, I started to accept it.”
“Wow,” Brooke said.
“It wasn’t great. But at least most of the media horror show was focused on what a total and complete scumbag he was. Isabel Prince—she’s not here tonight—didn’t have it so easy.”
Brooke knew she was referring to the sex tape that Isabel’s husband, world-famous rapper Major K, deliberately released to the public. Julian had seen it and described it to Brooke. Apparently it featured Isabel and Major K in a rooftop hot tub, naked, drunk, kinky, and uninhibited . . . caught on Major K’s professional-grade HD camera and soon thereafter sent by the Major himself to every media outlet in the continental United States. Brooke remembered reading interviews asking him why he’d betrayed his wife’s confidence and he’d answered, “She’s fucking hot, man, and I think everyone deserves to experience one time what I get to experience every night.”
“Yeah, she really got killed,” Amber said. “I remember they were circling her fat in still shots from the sex tape. All the late-show hosts were joking about it for weeks. It must have been horrible for her.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone thought about this, and Brooke realized she was starting to feel suffocated, trapped. The airy white apartment now seemed more like a cage, and these nice women—so welcoming and friendly just a few minutes earlier—were making her feel even more alone and misunderstood. She was sorry for their troubles, and they seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t anything like them. Julian’s biggest crime was a drunken make-out with a plain girl his own age—hardly the stuff of sex tapes, sex addiction, statutory rape, or prostitutes.
Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts, because Diana made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “You’re thinking how different your situation is from ours, aren’t you? I know it’s difficult, dear. Your husband had a little hotel room tryst or two, and what man hasn’t had that, right? But please, don’t fool yourself. That may be how it begins”—she paused and waved her hand in a semicircle around the couch—“but this is how it ends.”
That was it. She’d had enough. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that . . . um, look, I so appreciate your hospitality and your inviting me here tonight, but I think I have to go now,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as she gathered her purse and avoided eye contact with everyone. Brooke knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t stop herself; she needed to get out of there right then.
“Brooke, I hope I didn’t offend you,” Diana said in a conciliatory tone, although Brooke could see she was annoyed.
“No, no, not at all. I’m sorry, I’m just not . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rather than think of something to fill the silence, she stood and turned to face everyone.
“We didn’t even give you a chance to tell us your story!” Amber said, looking distraught. “I told you we talk too much.”
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t think it was anything anyone said. I’m just, uh, I guess I’m just not ready for this yet. Thank you all again. Amber, thank you. And I’m sorry,” she was mumbling now, clutching her coat and purse, and had reached the top of the staircase, where she could see one of the teenage boys making his way upstairs. She had the crazy thought that he was going to try to detain her. Pushing past him harder than necessary, she heard him say, “Uncool,” and then, a moment later, “Hey, Mom, is there any more Coke? Dylan drank it all.” It was the last thing she heard as she crossed the basketball court and took the building stairs instead of the elevator and then she was outside, the freezing cold air whipping against her skin, and she could breathe once again.
An available cab passed her, and then another, and although it must’ve only been in the midtwenties, she ignored them all and began walking, almost running, toward her apartment. Her mind raced, going over every story she’d heard that night and discarding it, ignoring it, finding the holes or the details that didn’t fit her narrative with Julian. It was ridiculous to think that she and Julian would end up that way, just because of a single lapse, a lone mistake. They loved each other. Just because things were difficult didn’t mean they were doomed. Did it?
Brooke crossed Sixth Avenue, and then Seventh, and then Eighth. Her cheeks and fingers were starting to go numb, but she didn’t care. She was out of that place and away from all those hideous stories, away from those predictions about her marriage that held no weight. Those women didn’t know her or Julian. She managed to calm herself, slowed her pace, took a deep breath, and told herself that everything was going to be fine.
If only she could get rid of that small, stubborn thought in the very back of her mind: What if they’re right?
18
We Hit Crazy at Check-In
THE phone beside the bed rang and Brooke wondered for the thousandth time why hotels didn’t provide caller ID. But since anyone else would call on her cell, she leaned over, plucked the handset from its cradle, and braced herself for the onslaught.
“Hello, Brooke. Have you heard from Julian?” Dr. Alter’s voice sailed through the phone as if he were in the next room, which, despite Brooke’s best efforts, was exactly where he was.
She forced herself to smile into the phone so she wouldn’t say anything truly nasty. “Oh, hi there!” she said brightly. Someone who actually knew her would have instantly recognized it as her fake friendly/professional tone. As she had been doing for the last five years, she avoided calling Julian’s father anything. “Dr. Alter” was too formal for a father-in-law, “William” somehow felt too familiar, and he certainly hadn’t ever invited her to call him “Dad.”
“I did,” Brooke said evenly for the hundredth time. “He’s still in London, and he’ll probably be there until early next week.” They were aware of this information. She’d told them the moment they’d descended on her at the reception desk. They in turn told Brooke that although the hotel had tried to place them on the opposite side of the two-hundred-room hotel (Brooke’s request) they had insisted on being in adjoining rooms “for convenience’s sake.”
“It’s true. I bailed him out. But when 48 Hours showed hidden-camera footage of my husband literally trolling a high school girls’ soccer game, trying to chat them up, I started to accept it.”
“Wow,” Brooke said.
“It wasn’t great. But at least most of the media horror show was focused on what a total and complete scumbag he was. Isabel Prince—she’s not here tonight—didn’t have it so easy.”
Brooke knew she was referring to the sex tape that Isabel’s husband, world-famous rapper Major K, deliberately released to the public. Julian had seen it and described it to Brooke. Apparently it featured Isabel and Major K in a rooftop hot tub, naked, drunk, kinky, and uninhibited . . . caught on Major K’s professional-grade HD camera and soon thereafter sent by the Major himself to every media outlet in the continental United States. Brooke remembered reading interviews asking him why he’d betrayed his wife’s confidence and he’d answered, “She’s fucking hot, man, and I think everyone deserves to experience one time what I get to experience every night.”
“Yeah, she really got killed,” Amber said. “I remember they were circling her fat in still shots from the sex tape. All the late-show hosts were joking about it for weeks. It must have been horrible for her.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone thought about this, and Brooke realized she was starting to feel suffocated, trapped. The airy white apartment now seemed more like a cage, and these nice women—so welcoming and friendly just a few minutes earlier—were making her feel even more alone and misunderstood. She was sorry for their troubles, and they seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t anything like them. Julian’s biggest crime was a drunken make-out with a plain girl his own age—hardly the stuff of sex tapes, sex addiction, statutory rape, or prostitutes.
Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts, because Diana made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “You’re thinking how different your situation is from ours, aren’t you? I know it’s difficult, dear. Your husband had a little hotel room tryst or two, and what man hasn’t had that, right? But please, don’t fool yourself. That may be how it begins”—she paused and waved her hand in a semicircle around the couch—“but this is how it ends.”
That was it. She’d had enough. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that . . . um, look, I so appreciate your hospitality and your inviting me here tonight, but I think I have to go now,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as she gathered her purse and avoided eye contact with everyone. Brooke knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t stop herself; she needed to get out of there right then.
“Brooke, I hope I didn’t offend you,” Diana said in a conciliatory tone, although Brooke could see she was annoyed.
“No, no, not at all. I’m sorry, I’m just not . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rather than think of something to fill the silence, she stood and turned to face everyone.
“We didn’t even give you a chance to tell us your story!” Amber said, looking distraught. “I told you we talk too much.”
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t think it was anything anyone said. I’m just, uh, I guess I’m just not ready for this yet. Thank you all again. Amber, thank you. And I’m sorry,” she was mumbling now, clutching her coat and purse, and had reached the top of the staircase, where she could see one of the teenage boys making his way upstairs. She had the crazy thought that he was going to try to detain her. Pushing past him harder than necessary, she heard him say, “Uncool,” and then, a moment later, “Hey, Mom, is there any more Coke? Dylan drank it all.” It was the last thing she heard as she crossed the basketball court and took the building stairs instead of the elevator and then she was outside, the freezing cold air whipping against her skin, and she could breathe once again.
An available cab passed her, and then another, and although it must’ve only been in the midtwenties, she ignored them all and began walking, almost running, toward her apartment. Her mind raced, going over every story she’d heard that night and discarding it, ignoring it, finding the holes or the details that didn’t fit her narrative with Julian. It was ridiculous to think that she and Julian would end up that way, just because of a single lapse, a lone mistake. They loved each other. Just because things were difficult didn’t mean they were doomed. Did it?
Brooke crossed Sixth Avenue, and then Seventh, and then Eighth. Her cheeks and fingers were starting to go numb, but she didn’t care. She was out of that place and away from all those hideous stories, away from those predictions about her marriage that held no weight. Those women didn’t know her or Julian. She managed to calm herself, slowed her pace, took a deep breath, and told herself that everything was going to be fine.
If only she could get rid of that small, stubborn thought in the very back of her mind: What if they’re right?
18
We Hit Crazy at Check-In
THE phone beside the bed rang and Brooke wondered for the thousandth time why hotels didn’t provide caller ID. But since anyone else would call on her cell, she leaned over, plucked the handset from its cradle, and braced herself for the onslaught.
“Hello, Brooke. Have you heard from Julian?” Dr. Alter’s voice sailed through the phone as if he were in the next room, which, despite Brooke’s best efforts, was exactly where he was.
She forced herself to smile into the phone so she wouldn’t say anything truly nasty. “Oh, hi there!” she said brightly. Someone who actually knew her would have instantly recognized it as her fake friendly/professional tone. As she had been doing for the last five years, she avoided calling Julian’s father anything. “Dr. Alter” was too formal for a father-in-law, “William” somehow felt too familiar, and he certainly hadn’t ever invited her to call him “Dad.”
“I did,” Brooke said evenly for the hundredth time. “He’s still in London, and he’ll probably be there until early next week.” They were aware of this information. She’d told them the moment they’d descended on her at the reception desk. They in turn told Brooke that although the hotel had tried to place them on the opposite side of the two-hundred-room hotel (Brooke’s request) they had insisted on being in adjoining rooms “for convenience’s sake.”
