Last Night at Chateau Marmont (10 page)

Kaylie nodded. “Hell, yeah, Mrs. A. This is big news for you. Say congratulations to your husband for me, okay?”

Brooke smiled at her. “Thanks, I will. And, Kaylie? We’re going to continue talking about this. I can’t condone you losing weight, but if you want to talk about eating more healthfully, I’m happy to advise you. Does that sound good?”

Kaylie nodded and Brooke thought she may have even detected a small smile before the girl walked out of her office. Although she didn’t look the least bit fazed about cutting their session short, Brooke was overcome with guilt. It wasn’t easy to get these girls to open up, and she actually felt like she was starting to get somewhere with Kaylie.

Pledging to set things right with everyone on Friday, Brooke sent a quick e-mail to Rhonda, her principal, claiming sudden sickness, threw all her stuff in a canvas tote bag, and jumped directly into the backseat of an idling taxi. Hell, if Leno wasn’t sufficient reason to splurge, nothing was.

Despite the fact that it was rush hour, the park crossing at Eighty-sixth Street wasn’t unbearable and the West Side Highway was moving at a brisk twenty miles an hour (downright dreamy for that time
of night), and Brooke was delighted to find herself standing in her apartment by six thirty. She got down on the floor and let Walter lick her face for a few minutes and then gently replaced herself with a thickly braided, extra-smelly bully stick—Walter’s favorite. After pouring herself a glass of pinot grigio from an open bottle in the fridge and taking a long, deep swallow, Brooke toyed with the idea of posting Julian’s news as a Facebook status update but quickly dismissed it; she didn’t want to announce anything without running it by him first.

The first status update on her homepage was, unpleasantly, from Leo. Apparently, he had linked his Twitter account to his Facebook page, and despite the fact he usually had
not one
redeeming tidbit to share, he was taking full advantage of the constant-update feature.

Leo Walsh. . . PUMPED JULIAN ALTER WILL BE ROCKING THE LENO SHOW NEXT TUESDAY. L.A., HERE WE COME. . . .

The update’s mere association with her husband made Brooke feel queasy, as did what it pointed out: that Julian was definitely planning a trip to Los Angeles, Leo was definitely joining him, and it was only Brooke who had not yet received an invitation.

She showered, shaved, brushed, flossed, and toweled dry. Was it weird to assume she’d accompany Julian to Los Angeles for the taping? She had no clue if Julian wanted her there for the support, or if he figured that this was a business trip and he should be traveling with his manager, not his wife.

As she slathered a Julian-approved scent-free moisturizer on her freshly shaved legs—he couldn’t stand the smell of scented products—Brooke watched Walter watch her. “Did Daddy make a bad call hiring Leo?” she asked him in a high-pitched voice.

Walter lifted his head from the fluffy bath mat that always made his fur smell like mildew, wagged his tail, and woofed.

“Is that a no?”

Walter woofed again.

“Or a yes?”

Another woof.

“Thank you for that insight, Walter. I will surely treasure it.”

He rewarded her with an ankle lick and sank back into the mat.

A quick time check revealed it was ten to eight, so after taking a minute to psych herself up, Brooke pulled a crumpled pile of black fabric from the back of her underwear drawer. The last time she’d worn this getup had been over a year before, when she had accused Julian of not being interested in sex anymore and he had gone straight to that drawer, pulled out the jumpsuit, and said something to the effect of “It’s a crime to own this and not wear it.” It had immediately broken the tension and Brooke remembered putting it on and dancing exaggerated stripper moves around their bedroom to Julian’s loud cheers and catcalls.

Somewhere along the way, that jumpsuit began to symbolize their sex life. She’d bought it in their first or second year of marriage, after a discussion where Julian confessed, as though it were some scandalous, shameful secret, that he just loved women in tight black lingerie . . . and maybe didn’t love all the brightly colored boy shorts and striped racerback tanks that Brooke wore each night to bed and would’ve sworn were sexy in their teenage girlness. Although she couldn’t remotely afford it back then, Brooke immediately set out on a lingerie-buying spree and, within two days, had acquired a super-soft black jersey chemise with spaghetti straps from Bloomingdale’s; a babydoll-style, ruffled black nightie from Victoria’s Secret; and a short black cotton nightshirt with “Juicy Sleeper” splashed across the bum. Each one, in succession, had been met with barely tepid enthusiasm along the lines of “Mmm, that’s cute,” before Julian turned back to his magazine each night. When not even the babydoll nightie elicited a modicum of interest, Brooke called Nola the very next morning.

“Clear your Saturday afternoon,” Nola had announced. “We’re going shopping.”

“I already went shopping and spent a fortune,” Brooke whined, shuffling through her receipts like they were toxic gin rummy cards.

“Can we backtrack for a minute, please? Your husband says he wants to see you in sexy black lingerie and you come home with a Juicy
nightshirt
? Are you serious?”

“What? He wasn’t exactly specific. He said he liked black and not the bright colors. It’s all black and short and tight. The ‘Juicy’ part is even in rhinestones. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that . . . if you’re a sophomore in college and you’re super-psyched to look cute at your first sleepover at his fraternity. Like it or not, you’re all grown up now. And what Julian is trying to tell you is that he wants you to look like a woman. A hot, sexy
woman.
”

Brooke sighed. “Okay, okay, I’m in your hands. What time Saturday?”

“Noon at the corner of Spring and Mercer. We’re hitting Kiki De Montparnasse, La Perla, and Agent Provocateur. The whole thing will take under an hour and you will be equipped with exactly what you need. See you then.”

Although she’d looked forward to the shopping expedition all week, it turned out to be a miserable failure. In all her banker-salary-and-massive-bonus glory, Nola had not told Brooke that the less material a piece of lingerie contained, the more expensive it would be. Brooke was dumbfounded to discover that the French maid outfit Nola raved about at Kiki was $650, and a simple black chemise—not all that different from her Bloomie’s version—was $375. Where on earth was she—a graduate student!—going when a single black lace thong cost $115 ($135 if she wanted the crotchless version)? After two of the three stores, she told Nola firmly that while she appreciated her help, there would be no purchasing that afternoon. It wasn’t until the following week, when Brooke found herself in the curtained-off room at Ricky’s to buy paraphernalia for another friend’s bachelorette party, that she stumbled on the solution.

There, in a floor-to-ceiling display between the vibrators and
the penis-themed paper plates, was a wall of individually wrapped “fantasy outfits.” They were in flat, envelope-like packets that reminded her of pantyhose packaging, but the pictures on the front depicted beautiful women in all manner of sexy outfits: French maid, schoolgirl, firefighter, jailbird, cheerleader, and cowgirl, plus a whole bunch of non-themed getups, almost all of which were short, tight, and black. Best of all, the most expensive among them was $39.99, and most of the packets were marked less than $25. She began to examine the pictures, trying to imagine what Julian would like most, when a blue-haired and heavily guylinered employee pushed aside the beaded curtains and walked right up to Brooke.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked.

Brooke quickly averted her attention to a cluster of penis straws and shook her head.

“I’d be happy to make some recommendations,” he lisped. “On the outfits, the sex toys, whatever. Tell you which are bestsellers.”

“Thanks, I’m just picking up some of this stupid stuff for a bachelorette party,” she said quickly, already mad at herself for being embarrassed.

“Uh-huh. Well, just let me know.”

He swished back into the main store area, and Brooke sprang into immediate action. Knowing she’d lose her nerve if he came back—or anyone else walked into the room—she grabbed the first non-themed outfit and tossed it into her shopping basket. She practically sprinted to the cash register, tossing in a bottle of shampoo, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex, and some refill razor blades on the way there, just to throw off the cashier. It wasn’t until she was on the subway home, sitting in the far back car, miraculously isolated from other people, that she allowed herself a peek in the bag.

The picture featured a redheaded woman who didn’t look drastically different from Brooke—save the forty-two-inch legs—wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved, full-length mesh bodysuit. The woman
jutted out her hip provocatively and stared at the camera, but despite all the dramatic posturing, she managed to convey “sexy” and “confident” and not just “sleazy” and “slutty.”
I can do this one,
she thought to herself, and that very night, when she walked out of the bathroom wearing that bodysuit and a pair of heels, Julian had nearly fallen off the bed.

Brooke had donned the now-infamous jumpsuit over the years on some of Julian’s birthdays, their anniversaries, and the occasional warm-weather vacation, but lately, like all the old remnants of their pre-exhaustion sex life, it had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer. As she unrolled the material over her legs and shimmied first her hips and then her arms into the outfit, she knew it would send the message loud and clear:
I’m so proud of you for this amazing accomplishment, now get over here so I can show you.
No matter that the one-size-fits-all jumpsuit was digging tightly into her thighs and doing a weird thing on her upper arms; she felt sexy anyway. She had just shaken her hair out of her ponytail and reclined on top of the covers when the landline rang. Certain it was Julian calling to say he was on his way home, Brooke answered on the first ring.

“Rook? Honey, can you hear me?” Her mother’s voice rang through the receiver.

Brooke took a deep breath and wondered why the woman had an uncanny knack for calling at exactly the worst possible times. “Hey, Mom. I hear you.”

“Oh, good. I was hoping I’d catch you. Listen, I need you to grab your calendar and check a date for me. I know you hate planning ahead, but I’m trying to make some arrangements for—”

“Mom! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but it’s not a great time right now. Julian’s going to be home any second, and I’m late getting ready,” she lied.

“Are you going out to celebrate? Such amazing news. You both must be so happy.”

Brooke opened her mouth to talk and then remembered she
hadn’t yet told her mother Julian’s good news. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Randy, sweetheart. He saw some update on Julian’s fan page—is that what you call it? I wish I could say my daughter had called to tell me on her own, but luckily Randy remembered his dear old mom.”

“Mmm, right. Facebook. I almost forgot. So yeah, we’re both really excited.”

“So how are you two going to celebrate tonight? Going out to dinner?”

Brooke glanced down at her mesh-covered body; as if to emphasize the ludicrousness of talking to one’s mother while wearing a crotchless mesh jumpsuit, one of her nipples popped through the fabric. “Um, I think Julian’s bringing dinner home. We already have a bottle of good champagne, so we’ll probably have that.”

“Sounds lovely. Give him a kiss for me. And as soon as you have a second, I’d really like to get a date nailed down—”

“Uh-huh, okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Because it’ll only take a second, and—”

“Mom . . .”

“Okay. Call me tomorrow. Love you, Rookie.”

“Love you, too, Mom.” She heard the door open just as she hung up the phone.

She knew he would take his coat off and greet Walter, which gave her just enough time to peel off the foil wrapper and unscrew the wire basket around the cork. She had remembered to bring two flutes, which she placed on her bedside table before stretching out, catlike, atop the made bed. Her nervousness lasted only a second, just until Julian opened the door.

“Guess who’s staying at the Chateau Marmont?” he said, his smile a mile wide.

“Who?” She sat up in bed, momentarily forgetting her outfit.

“I am,” he said, and instantly Brooke felt a wave of anxiety.

“No way,” she breathed. It was all she could manage.

“Oh yes. In a suite. Where I’ll be picked up by limo and taken to the NBC studio for the
Leno
taping.”

She forced herself to focus on his good news and remind herself that it had nothing to do with her. “Wow, Julian, that’s amazing! They mention that place constantly in
Last Night, US Weekly,
all of them. Kate Hudson just hosted an all-night party in the bungalows. J. Lo and Marc Anthony ran into Ben Affleck by the pool and Marc supposedly made a scene. Belushi
overdosed
there, for chrissake. The place is absolutely legendary.”

“And guess what else?” Julian asked, sitting down beside her on the bed and running his hand over her mesh-covered thigh.

“What?”

“My extremely hot wife is going to be joining me, so long as she promises to bring this mesh outfit with her,” he said, leaning in to kiss Brooke.

“Stop it!” she shrieked.

“Of course, only if she wants to.”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not. I spoke to Samara, my new
publicist
”—his eyebrows shot up and he grinned at her—“and she said it’s fine so long as we pay for your plane ticket. Leo thought it’d be better if we went alone, just so I wouldn’t be distracted, but I told him I could never do something this big without you. So what do you say?”

She ignored the Leo part. “I think that’s freaking incredible!” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “I think I can’t wait to
canoodle
with you by the bar and party all night in the bungalows.”

“Is that really what it’s like?” Julian asked, pushing her backward against the pillows and arranging himself, still fully dressed, on top of her.