“Start spending that money immediately,” Layla said directly into Brooke’s ear. “It’s every bit as much yours as it is his—hell, he probably wouldn’t have a dime of it if it weren’t for you, am I right?—so don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”
“Money?” was all Brooke could manage.
“Brooke, love, that’s what I most regret about the whole Patrick situation. I sat through, what, hundreds of college and professional games, flew to every godforsaken, freezing stadium in this country, supported him through all the crap until he finally landed that eighty-million-dollar contract? Then when he cheats on me with that, that porn star, I was the one who thought it was too crass to buy myself a decent house. Well, learn from my mistakes, sweetheart. Buy the damn house. You earned it.”
Before Brooke could even respond, Julian and Kid Rock sauntered back over to her and Layla; all four of them automatically stood shoulder to shoulder, smiled, and waved to the cameras.
Brooke didn’t even have a chance to address Layla again before Leo hustled them closer to the entrance of the Staples Center. She was just about to congratulate herself on surviving the red carpet when a woman in a sequined tank dress and death-defyingly high heels thrust a microphone under her chin and practically screamed, “Brooke Alter, how does it feel to see pictures of your husband with another woman after you’ve supported him for so long?”
A hush fell over the area. In the two seconds it took the woman to ask that question, every single other artist, handler, journalist, anchor, cameraman, and fan seemed to go dead quiet. For just a moment, Brooke wondered if the deafening silence was a sign that she was going to faint, but she immediately realized she wasn’t that lucky. She saw dozens—hundreds?—of heads turn to watch at the exact same time she felt Julian squeezing her hand so hard that she was certain multiple bones were breaking under the pressure. She had the odd sensation of wanting to scream and laugh at the same time. She wondered what everyone’s reaction would be if she merely smiled and said, Well you know, it’s funny you asked. Because it really does feel wonderful. I mean, what girl wouldn’t love being told about her husband supposedly having an affair with another woman and having the whole thing play out on national television thanks to people like you? Are there any other brilliant questions you’d like to ask before we make our way inside? No? Well then, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. That thought was followed by a single-second fantasy of taking scissors to the woman’s sequins and then clobbering her with her own spiked heels. She could barely breathe.
But of course she didn’t scream or puke or laugh or assault anyone. She inhaled through her nose, did her best to pretend that no one else was watching, and calmly said, “I’m extremely proud of my husband for his accomplishments, and I’m so excited to be here tonight to watch him perform. Wish him luck!” She squeezed Julian’s hand right back and, not having any clue where she’d found such composure, she turned to him and said, “Shall we?”
Julian kissed her and gallantly offered her his arm, and before anyone else could materialize in front of them, she, Julian, and Leo were through the front doors.
“Brooke, you were brilliant!” Leo crowed triumphantly, clamping his still-sweaty palm around the back of her neck.
“Seriously, Rook, that was first-rate media wrangling,” Julian said in agreement. “You handled that bitch like a pro.”
She dropped Julian’s arm. The way he congratulated her made her sick. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
“Wait! Brooke, we need to get seated right away so Julian can get backstage to warm up with—”
“Rook? Can you wait just—”
She left them both behind without so much as a second glance and made her way through the throngs of the gorgeous and gorgeously dressed. She reassured herself that no one knew who she was, that no matter how nauseated she felt, no one was staring at her or talking about her. She beelined toward the restroom sign, desperate to hide and compose herself for just a couple minutes. The ladies’ room was surprisingly basic—what one would expect from the Staples Center but hardly befitting the Grammys ceremony—and Brooke tried hard not to touch anything as she closed the stall door behind her. She concentrated on taking deep breaths as the other women in the bathroom chitchatted.
One woman was going on and on about how she’d spotted Taylor Swift and Kanye West talking to each other off to the side of the red carpet, and she just couldn’t understand why cute little Taylor would be giving Kanye—“that total douchebag!”—the time of day. Her friend weighed in on whether Taylor or Miley looked better in their near-matching black dresses (the vote was split), and each of them named their pick of hottest guy in attendance (one chose Jay-Z; the other insisted on Josh Duhamel). One of them wondered who was watching Jennifer Hudson’s son that evening. Another wanted to know why, exactly, Kate Beckinsale was in attendance when neither she nor her husband had anything to do with the music industry. It was precisely the kind of idle chatter she and Nola would’ve made if they’d been standing in that bathroom, and she found it oddly comforting. Right up until they started in on their next topic.
“So have you seen the Julian Alter pictures yet?” the one with the annoying voice asked her friend.
“No, are they really that bad?”
“Christ, are they ever. The girl is, like, grinding all over him. They could be having actual sex under her skirt in one of them.”
“Who is she? Have they found out?”
“Some nobody. A civilian. Just some party girl out looking for a good time at the Chateau.”
For what felt like the thousandth time that night, Brooke stopped breathing. The bathroom was busy—women constantly rotated in and out, washing their hands and adjusting imaginary flyaways and refreshing their already-perfect lipstick—but she only had ears for those two voices. It was a bad idea, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Double-checking the stall door to make sure it was locked, she lined her eyes up with the crack along the hinges and peeked outside. Standing at the sink were two women, both probably in their mid- to late twenties, probably starlets, though neither of them looked familiar.
“What was he thinking, doing that at the Chateau? I mean, if you’re going to cheat on your wife, shouldn’t you at least try to be discreet?”