“I was just wondering, Brooke”—at the sound of her name, Brooke’s head reflexively snapped up—“if you had any comment on the recent photographs?”
Recent photographs. What was she talking about? Brooke once again stared at the elevator doors and reminded herself that these people would say anything to elicit a single sentence from you—a sentence they’d then twist and turn to fit whatever garbage they’d just dreamed up. She pledged she wouldn’t fall into the trap.
“It must be so difficult to endure all those awful rumors about your husband and other women—I can’t even imagine it. Do you think it will keep you from enjoying tonight’s festivities?”
The elevator doors finally whooshed open on the penthouse floor. Brooke stepped out into the foyer that led to their three-bedroom suite, currently ground zero of Grammy Preparation Madness. She wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes and say that if Julian was actually sleeping with the number of women the tabs suggested, he would not only have Tiger beat by a mile, but he wouldn’t have a second left to perform a single song. She wanted to say that after you’d read countless detailed accounts from unnamed sources about how your husband has fetishes for everything from tattooed strippers to overweight men, claims of regular old infidelity barely even registered. Most of all, she wanted to tell this woman what she knew beyond all doubt to be true: that her husband, while superbly talented and now undeniably famous, still puked before every performance, visibly sweated when teenage girls shrieked in his presence, and had an inexplicable affinity for clipping his toenails on the toilet. He just wasn’t the cheating type, and it was obvious to anyone who really knew him.
But of course she couldn’t say any of this, so, as usual, she said nothing at all and merely watched as the elevator doors closed.
I’m not thinking about any of that tonight, Brooke instructed herself as she unlocked the door with her key card. Tonight is all about Julian. Nothing more, nothing less. It was the night that would make all the invasions of privacy and the scheduling horrors and the carnival aspect of their lives worth it. No matter what happened—a new, vile rumor about Julian and other women, a humiliating paparazzo shot, a nasty comment made by someone on Julian’s staff trying to be “helpful”—she was determined to enjoy every second of such a momentous evening. Only a couple hours earlier her mother had waxed poetic about how a night like this was “once-in-a-lifetime stuff,” and it was her obligation to experience it as fully as she could. Brooke vowed to do just that.
She strode into the suite and smiled at one of the assistants—who could keep them straight these days?—who ushered her directly into a makeup chair without so much as a hello. The anxiety that hung over the room like a wet blanket didn’t mean the night itself wasn’t going to be fabulous. She wouldn’t let the preparations get her down.
“Time check!” one of the assistants called out in an irritatingly screechy voice, made even worse by a thick New York accent.
“Ten after one!” “A little after one!” “One ten!” Three other people answered simultaneously, all with hints of panic.
“Okay, people, let’s step it up! We are T-minus one hour and fifty minutes, which means, judging from the look of things”—she paused and surveyed the room with an exaggerated swivel and locked eyes with Brooke, maintaining full eye contact as she finished—“we are not even close to presentable here.”
Brooke gingerly raised her hand, careful not to disturb the pair of people working on her eyes, and motioned for the assistant to come over.
“Yes?” Natalya asked, making no effort to hide her irritation.
“When do you expect Julian back? There’s something I need to—”
Natalya jutted her barely there hip out and consulted a Lucite clipboard. “Let’s see, he’s just finishing up with his relaxation massage and is en route to his hot shave. He’s due back here at exactly two o’clock, but he’ll need to meet with the tailor to make sure we finally have the lapel situation under control.”
Brooke smiled sweetly at the harried girl and decided to take a different tack. “You must be so looking forward to having this day be over. From the looks of it, you haven’t stopped running for a second.”
“Is that your way of saying I look like shit?” Natalya snapped back, her hand automatically flying to her hair. “Because if it is, you should just say it.”
Brooke sighed. Why was it impossible to say anything right around these people? Just fifteen minutes earlier, when she’d gamely asked Leo if the Beverly Hills hotel they were staying in was the same one where they filmed Pretty Woman, he’d snapped back that she should sightsee on her own time.
“I wasn’t saying that at all. Just that I know it’s super-crazy today, and I think you’re doing an amazing job handling it all.”
“Well someone has to,” Natalya said, and walked away.
Brooke was tempted to call her back and have a little conversation about common courtesy, but she reconsidered when she remembered the reporter observing everything from eight feet away. This one, unfortunately, had been approved to follow them for the hours leading up to the Grammys, as research for a long feature piece the magazine was doing on Julian. Leo had negotiated some sort of deal whereby he would grant unfettered access to Julian over the course of a week if New York magazine would guarantee the cover, and so now, four days into the week, Julian’s entire entourage was working hard to maintain an all-smiles-we-love-our-job facade—and failing miserably. Every time Brooke caught a glimpse of the reporter—a nice enough guy, it seemed—she fantasized about killing him.
She was impressed by how skillfully a good reporter could blend into the background. Back in her civilian days, it always seemed ridiculous that a couple would fight or reprimand an employee or even answer their cell phone in the presence of a scoop-hunting journalist; now she had nothing but sympathy for the subjects. The man from New York magazine had been shadowing them for the last four days, but by acting blind, deaf, and mute, he felt as threatening as wallpaper. Which, Brooke knew, was exactly when he was most dangerous.
She heard the sound of the doorbell but couldn’t turn around without risking curling iron mutilation. “Any chance that’s lunch?” Brooke asked.
One of the makeup artists snorted. “Not likely. Doesn’t really look like the Schedule Nazi thinks food is a priority. Now, no more talking while I work on hiding your laugh lines.”