Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (171 page)

There had been the occasional floral arrangement, the kinds that all women received at one time or another – the sunflowers from her parents when she had her wisdom teeth removed her freshman year, the requisite dozen roses from various uncreative boyfriends on Valentine's Days, the bodega-bought bunches friends brought over as hostess gifts – but never in her life had she gotten something like this. A sculpture. An object of art. Brooke heaved it inside and yanked the tiny envelope from the discreet spot where it was taped to the base. Walter bounded over to sniff this new fragrant acquisition.

Dear Brooke,

I miss you so much. Counting the days until I can see you this weekend. Love, J

She smiled and leaned forward to smell the gorgeous lilies, a joy that lasted exactly ten seconds until all her doubts rushed forward. Why had he written
Brooke
when he almost always called her Rookie, especially when he was trying to be romantic or intimate? Was this his way of apologizing for being an inconsiderate jerk the last few weeks, and if so, why hadn't he actually said he was sorry? Could someone who prides himself on having a way with words – a songwriter, for chrissake – have possibly written something so generic? And most of all, why would he choose now of all times to send his very first flower arrangement when Brooke knew how much he hated the very idea of retail flowers? According to Julian, they were a clichéd, overpriced, commercialized crutch for people who couldn't adequately express their emotions creatively or verbally, not to mention the fact that they died quickly, and what kind of symbol was that? Brooke had never cared much either way, but she understood where Julian was coming from, and she always treasured the letters and the songs and the poems he so carefully took the time to make for her before. So what was up with this ‘counting the days' crap?

Walter nudged her knee and let out a mournful howl.

‘Why can't your daddy walk you?' Brooke asked as she leashed him and went right back outside. ‘Oh, I know why. Because he's never here!' Despite feeling tremendous guilt for leaving Walter alone so long, she dragged him back inside the moment he finished and bribed him with extra kibble for dinner and a particularly fat carrot for dessert. She picked up the card again, reread it twice more, and then gently placed it on top of the pile in the garbage can before walking right back over and retrieving it. It may not have been the loveliest thing Julian had ever written, but still, it was a gesture.

She dialed Julian's cell, already working out what she would say, but the call went straight to voice mail.

‘Hey, it's me. I just got home and got the flowers. My god, they're … incredible. I barely know what to say.'
At least you're being honest,
she thought. She thought about asking him to call her so they could talk, but it suddenly seemed too exhausting. ‘All right, then. Um, have a good night. Love you.'

Brooke filled the tub with the hottest water she could stand, grabbed the latest copy of
Last Night
that had just arrived, and gently eased her way in, taking almost five full minutes until she could tolerate having her entire body submerged. As soon as the water washed over her shoulders, she breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Thank god this day is about to end.

In the days Before the Picture, nothing was better than settling into a bath with a fresh-off-the-presses
Last Night.
Now she was always vaguely terrified of what she might stumble across, but old habits were tough to break. She worked her way through the first few pages, pausing for a moment to reflect on how so many married celebs were willing to dish on their sex lives with gems like, ‘Our secret to keeping things sexy? He brings me breakfast in bed on Sundays and then I
really
show him my appreciation,' and ‘What can I say? I'm a lucky guy. My wife is seriously hot stuff in the bedroom.' The page where they showed stars doing ‘normal people' things was unusually boring: Dakota Fanning shopping at a mall in Sherman Oaks, Kate Hudson hanging on her guy du jour, a shot of Cameron Diaz picking a bikini wedgie, Tori Spelling clutching a blond child and exiting a salon. There was a mildly interesting spread on what had become of eighties childhood stars (who knew Winnie Cooper was a math genius!), but it wasn't until she turned to the so-called features section that she forgot to breathe. There she found a multipage spread titled ‘Soulful Songwriters Who Rock Our World,' and it featured write-ups and pictures on probably a half dozen artists. Her eyes flew across the page, searching intently. John Mayer, Gavin DeGraw, Colbie Caillat, Jack Johnson. Nothing. She flipped the page. Bon Iver, Ben Harper, Wilco. Nothing again. But wait!
Oh my god.
There, at the bottom of the fourth page was a yellow box.
WHO IS JULIAN ALTER?
the purple headline screamed. That hideous picture of Julian and Layla Lawson occupied the top half of the box and the bottom was filled with text.
Ohmigod,
Brooke thought, and noticed in an oddly out-of-body way that her heart was pounding and she was holding her breath. She was simultaneously desperate to read it and desperate for it to evaporate, vanish, completely disappear from her consciousness forever. Had anyone read this yet? Had
Julian
read this yet? As a subscriber, she knew she received the magazine a day before it hit the newsstands, but was it really possible no one had managed to tell her about this beforehand? She grabbed a towel to blot the sweat from her forehead and dry her hands, took a deep breath, and began to read.

Not only did Julian Alter make a splash earlier this summer with a rocking Leno performance and a super-steamy photo, but he's got the goods to back it up: his first album debuted at number 4 on the
Billboard
charts last week. Now everyone can't help but wonder … who is this?

Brooke used her feet to push herself into more of a sitting position. She was aware of a growing queasiness and she quickly blamed it on the combination of too much wine and steaming hot water.
And if you believe that …
she thought to herself. Deep breath. It was natural to feel a little strange reading a surprise article about your own husband in a national magazine. She willed herself to keep going.

Early years: Born on Manhattan's Upper East Side in 1979, he attended the prestigious Dalton School and spent summers in the south of France. Positioned to be the perfect prepster, Alter's interest in music didn't jibe well with his society parents.

At the very bottom of the box was a photo of herself and Julian, taken by one of the professional photographers at the
Friday Night Lights
party, one that she hadn't seen yet. Her eyes hungrily devoured it, and she breathed an enormous sigh of relief: somehow, miraculously, they both looked good. Julian was leaning down and kissing her shoulder, and you could see the hint of a smile on his face. Brooke had one arm draped across the back of his neck and the other was holding a brightly colored margarita; her head was thrown back a bit and she was laughing. Despite the cocktail, the two cowboy hats, and the pack of cigarettes rolled up in Julian's shirtsleeve as part of his costume, Brooke was thrilled they looked happy and carefree, not drunk or sloppy. Were she forced to find something wrong with the picture, she probably would've pointed to her midsection, where, due to a perfect storm of her body contorting in an unusual angle, the shadows cast off from the dark room, and a bit of a breeze from the back patio, her plaid shirt puffed out like she had a potbelly. Nothing egregious, just the suggestion of a little spare tire that in reality didn't exist. But the truth was, she could live with a bad camera angle. All things considered – and there were myriad other ways each could've looked horrifically bad – she was pretty pleased.

But then there was that article. Where to even begin? Julian sure wasn't going to be happy about all the prep school stuff. No matter how many times Brooke tried to reassure him that no one cared where anyone went to high school, he couldn't stand even the mildest suggestion that his accomplishments were somehow the result of his extremely privileged upbringing. There was that bit about Julian's passions including spending time with his dog – a little humiliating for all involved, considering they didn't mention how much he loved hanging with her or his family, nor were there any real hobbies listed. The suggestion that girls across America were upset that Julian and Layla wouldn't be getting together soon was alternately flattering and disconcerting. And that quote about her being supportive but stressed by the attention? It was certainly true, so why was it worded like a nasty accusation? Did one of their friends really give that quote, or do these magazines just make things up and credit them to anonymous sources whenever it suits them? Of everything written in the entire article, the single line that really got her heart pounding was the part about how she and Julian were supposedly looking to upgrade their apartment.
What?
Julian knew full well that Brooke was desperate to get back to Brooklyn, but they certainly hadn't started looking.

Brooke tossed the magazine on the floor, stood up slowly to avoid the hot-water head rush, and climbed out of the tub. She hadn't washed her body or her hair, but that didn't matter now. The only thing that counted was reaching Nola before she turned off her phone for the night and went to sleep. With a towel wrapped around her chest and Walter licking the excess water from her ankles, Brooke grabbed the portable and dialed Nola's number from memory.

She answered after four rings, just before the voice mail usually picked up. ‘What? Didn't we talk enough earlier tonight?'

‘Did I wake you?'

‘No, but I'm in bed. What's up? Are you filled with regret at implying that I'm the world's biggest whore tonight?'

Brooke snorted. ‘Not in the least. Did you see
Last Night
?'

‘Oh no. What?'

‘You subscribe, don't you?'

‘Tell me what it says.'

‘Can you please go get it?'

‘Brooke, don't be ridiculous! I am literally under the covers, night cream applied, Lunesta swallowed. Nothing on earth can convince me to go down to the
mailroom
right now.'

‘There's a huge box called “Who Is Julian Alter?” and a picture of the two of us on page twelve.'

‘Call you back in two minutes.'

Despite her anxiety, Brooke smiled to herself. She only had time to hang up her towel and climb naked under the covers before the phone rang.

‘Did you get it?' Brooke asked.

‘Did I ever.'

‘Now you're freaking me out. Is it really that bad?'

Silence.

‘Nola! Say something! I'm panicking here. It's worse than I even thought, isn't it? Am I going to get fired for being an embarrassment to the hospital? Margaret is not going to love this …'

‘This has got to be the coolest thing I've ever seen.'

‘Are we reading the same page?'

‘“Who is this sexy singer?” Yeah, we're reading the same thing. And it's awesome!'

‘Awesome?' Brooke nearly shouted. ‘What's awesome about the line that says Julian and my marriage is on the rocks? Or the part where we're supposedly already looking at apartments and I don't know the first thing about it?'

‘Shhh,' Nola said. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down. I won't let you twist this into something negative like you always do. Take just a second and remember the fact that your husband –
your husband
– is famous enough to warrant an entire box in
Last Night,
and one that in my opinion is extremely flattering. It basically states that the entire country wants him, but he's
yours.
Think about it for a second.'

Brooke was quiet while she considered this. She hadn't really thought about it like that.

‘Look at the big picture here. Julian's the real deal now, and you're not shallow or evil if you're pretty fucking psyched about that.'

‘I guess …'

‘I know! He got to where he is right now in large part because of
you.
Just like we talked about earlier.
Your
support,
your
hard work,
your
love. So go ahead and be proud of him. Be excited about the fact that your husband is famous and young girls all across the country are jealous of you right now. It's okay, it really is. Enjoy it!'

Brooke was silent as she took it all in.

‘Because all the other stuff is bullshit. It doesn't really matter what they're writing, just that they're writing it at all. If you think this is crazy, what's going to happen when he's on the cover of
Vanity Fair
next month? Huh? Now, what does Julian think about it? I bet he's euphoric.'

It only occurred to her then.