Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (174 page)

Tonight was no different: she accepted a friend request from a childhood playmate whose family had moved away in middle school and then hungrily scanned the new profile, registering all the details (single, graduated from UC Boulder, currently living in Denver, appears to love mountain biking and guys with long hair), and sent the girl a quick, cheerily bland message that she knew would likely be the beginning and the end of their ‘reunion.'

She clicked the Home button and was transported back to the addictive Live News Feed, where she quickly scanned her friends' status updates on the Cowboys game, their babies' daily milestones, their Halloween costume ideas, their happiness that ‘TGIF!' and the photos they'd posted from various vacations they'd taken all over the world. It wasn't until she'd scrolled to the bottom of the second page that she saw Leo's update, in all caps, of course, as though he were screaming directly at her.

Leo Walsh … GETTING PUMPED FOR JULIAN ALTER'S PHOTO SHOOT TOMORROW!! SOHO. HOT MODELS. MESSAGE ME IF YOU WANT TO STOP BY …

Yuck. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Thankfully, her regular e-mail inbox pinged with a welcome distraction before she could dwell on the grossness of Leo's update.

The new e-mail was from Nola. It was the first (well, really the second: the very first had merely read: ‘SAVE ME FROM THIS HELL!!!') Brooke had heard from her since she'd left, and she opened it eagerly. Maybe there was a
chance
she was having fun? No, it was impossible. Nola's vacations trended more toward the skiing in the Swiss Alps/sunning in St. Tropez/partying in Cabo types. They were generally frequent, expensive, and almost always included a man extremely fond of sex whom she had only just met and most likely wouldn't see again once they returned home. Brooke literally hadn't believed Nola when she announced that she'd signed up for a group tour of Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos … alone. Staying in two-star hotels and guesthouses and traveling by bus. A single backpack for three weeks. A comprehensive lack of Michelin-starred restaurants, Town Car services, or hundred-dollar pedicures. Zero chance of partying on a new friend's yacht or wearing a single pair of Louboutins. Brooke had tried to talk her out of it by showing Nola her own honeymoon pictures to Southeast Asia, which were replete with close-ups of exotic insects, house pets as dinner, and a collage of all the squat toilets they'd encountered, but Nola insisted it would be fine right until the very end. Brooke wouldn't say I told you so, but judging from the e-mail, things were going exactly as expected.

Greetings from Hanoi, a city so crowded it makes the NYC subway at rush hour feel like a golf vacation. I'm only on day five and I'm not sure I'll make it to the end. The actual sightseeing has been great, but the group is killing me. They wake up every day with a brand-new lease on life – no bus trip is too long, no market too crowded, no lack of air-conditioning is too unbearable for this crew. Yesterday I broke down and told the group leader I'd be willing to pay the single supplement for my own room after five mornings of my roommate waking up an hour and a half early to jog six miles before breakfast. One of those ‘I just don't feel like myself if I don't exercise' types. It was sickening. Demoralizing. All-around toxic to my self-esteem, as you can well imagine. So she's been eliminated, which I think is the wisest way I have ever spent five hundred dollars. Otherwise, not too much to report. The country is beautiful, of course, and endlessly interesting, but for the record, the only single man under forty in my group is here with his mother (who, incidentally, I like a lot – maybe I should reconsider???). I'd ask you what's going on there, but since you haven't cared enough to write me once since I've been gone, I don't imagine this time will be any different. Regardless, I miss you and hope that at least in some small, insignificant way, you're having a worse time than I am. xoxo, me

It took mere seconds for Brooke to respond.

Dearest Nola,

I won't say I told you so. Actually, scratch that – I totally will. I TOLD YOU SO! Wtf were you thinking? Did my eight-by-ten of the clear-colored scorpion have no effect on you? Sorry for being the worst keeper-in-toucher in the world. I don't even have a good excuse. Not too much to report here. Work's been crazy for me – I'm covering a bunch of shifts for people on vacation, hoping I can collect at a later date when we can actually go away. Julian's been traveling all week, although I guess it's working because the album is doing incredibly well. Things are little weird. He seems distant. I'm chalking it up to … hell, I don't know. Where's my best friend when I need a good backstory? Help a girl out here!

Okay, I'm signing off and putting us both out of our misery. Already counting the days until you're home and we can go out for Vietnamese food. I'll bring a flask of murky mystery water and you'll feel like you're still on vacation. It'll be a blast. Stay safe and have some rice for me. Xoxo me

P.S. Have you found a use yet for those gross hand-me-down sarongs I insisted you bring just so you'd get them out of my apartment?

P.P.S. For the record, I strongly encourage you to go for the/any guy who travels with his mother.

She hit Send and heard Julian padding toward her.

‘Baby, what are you doing out here?' he asked sleepily as he poured himself some water. ‘Facebook will be here in the morning.'

‘I'm not on Facebook!' she said indignantly. ‘I couldn't sleep so I came out here to write Nola. I don't think she's loving her travel partners.'

‘Come back to bed.' He began to drink his water as he walked back to the bedroom.

‘Okay, I'll be right in,' she called out, but he was already gone.

Brooke awoke instantly from the noise in the apartment, bolted straight up in bed on full alert, terrified until she remembered that Julian was actually home that night. They hadn't gone to Italy; instead, Julian had been on a city-hopping tour of major radio stations, meeting DJs, doing brief in-studio performances, and answering callers' questions. Once again, he'd been gone for two straight weeks.

She leaned over to read the bedside clock, a task made harder by Walter's hot tongue on her face and her inability to find her glasses. Three nineteen
A.M
. What on earth was he doing awake when they had to be up so early?

‘All right, come along,' she crooned to Walter, who was wagging and jumping at this unexpected nighttime excitement. Brooke wrapped herself in a robe and padded to the living room, where Julian sat in the dark, clad only in boxers and a pair of headphones, playing his keyboard. He didn't appear to be practicing anything so much as zoning out – his gaze was fixed on the wall opposite the couch and his hands moved across the keys without a hint of awareness. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought he was sleepwalking or on drugs. She was able to sit down next to him before he was even aware of her presence.

‘Hey,' he said, pulling his headphones down around his neck like a scarf. ‘Did I wake you?'

Brooke nodded. ‘It's muted, though,' she said, pointing to the keyboard, which was hooked up to the headphones, ‘so I'm not sure what I heard.'

‘These,' Julian said, holding up a handful of CDs. ‘I knocked them over just a minute ago. Sorry.'

‘It's okay.' Brooke snuggled close. ‘You okay? What's going on?'

Julian wrapped his arms around her shoulders but seemed no less distracted. His eyebrows knit together. ‘I guess I'm just really nervous. I've done a lot of interviews by now, but none as big as the
Today
show.'

Brooke grabbed his hand, squeezed it, and said, ‘You're going to be great, baby. Seriously, you're a natural at this media stuff.' Maybe that wasn't exactly true – the few television interviews she'd seen Julian do so far had been a little on the awkward side – but if there was ever a time to lie …

‘You have to say that. You're my wife.'

‘You're absolutely right, I do have to say it. But I also happen to mean it. You're going to be amazing.'

‘It's live and it's
national.
Millions of people watch every single morning. How terrifying is that?'

Brooke nuzzled into his chest so he couldn't see her expression. ‘You're just going to go out there and do your thing. They'll have that stage set up outside and all the screaming tourists, and it won't feel any different than a tour performance. Far less people than that, actually.'

‘Fewer.'

‘What?'

‘Fewer. It's “far fewer” people, not “less.”' Julian smiled weakly.

Brooke punched him. ‘So that's what I get for trying to comfort you, huh? Grammar correction? Come on, let's go back to bed.'

‘What's the point? Don't we have to be there any minute?'

Brooke glanced at the clock on the DVD player. Three thirty-five. ‘We can sleep for another, oh, let's say fifty minutes before we have to start getting ready. They're sending a car at five fifteen.'

‘Jesus Christ. This is inhumane.'

‘Scratch that. I think we can only do forty-five minutes. Don't think because you're some celebrity now you don't have to walk your own dog.'

Julian groaned. Walter woofed.

‘Come on, you'll be better off if you lie down, even if you can't sleep,' Brooke said, standing and tugging on his arm.

Julian stood and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Go ahead, I'll be right in.'

‘Julian …'

He flashed another smile, this one real. ‘Don't be a tyrant, woman. Do I need permission to go to the bathroom? I'll be right in.'

Brooke feigned irritation. ‘“Tyrant”? Come on, Walter, let's go back to bed and leave Daddy in peace to sit on the toilet and download iPhone apps.' She pecked Julian on the lips and made a kissing noise so Walter would follow her.

The next thing Brooke knew, the clock radio was blaring ‘All the Single Ladies,' and she bolted upright in bed, convinced they'd somehow missed the whole thing. She was relieved when the clock read four fifteen
A.M
. and leaned over to shake Julian, but on his side of the bed she found only a tangle of blanket and a sprawled-out spaniel. Walter was stretched out on his back, all four paws straight in the air, head on Julian's pillow like a human. He looked at her with one eye that seemed to say,
I could get used to this,
before closing it again and letting out a contented sigh. Brooke buried her face in his neck and then tiptoed into the living room, certain she'd find Julian right where she'd left him. Instead, she saw a crack of light under the door of the guest half bathroom, and when she moved closer to ask if he was all right, she heard the unmistakable sound of retching.
Poor thing's a wreck,
she thought with a combination of sympathy for Julian and relief that she wasn't the one who had to give this interview right now. If the situation were reversed, she had no doubt she'd be right there in that bathroom, puking and praying for some divine intervention.

She heard the water run for a moment and then the door opened, revealing a pale, sweaty version of her husband. He ran the back of his hand along his mouth and offered her an expression that toed the line between nauseated and mildly amused.

‘How are you feeling, baby? Can I get you anything? Some ginger ale maybe?'

Julian slumped into a seat at their two-person kitchenette table and raked his fingers through his hair. Brooke noticed that his hair was looking fuller lately, almost like he wasn't thinning on top as much as he had been in the last year. It was probably the great haircuts he'd been getting from the hair and makeup people, who must have discovered a way somehow to conceal or camouflage it. Whatever they were doing, it was working. Without the distraction of the small bald spot, your eyes were immediately drawn to those ridiculous dimples.

‘I feel like shit,' he announced. ‘I don't think I can do this.'

Brooke knelt beside him, kissed him on the cheek, and took both his hands in hers. ‘You're going to be great, baby. This is going to help you and your album so tremendously.'

For a second Brooke thought he might cry. Thankfully, he plucked a banana from the centerpiece bowl and began taking long, slow chews.

‘And I really think the interview part is going to be a breeze. Everyone knows you're there to
perform.
You'll do “For the Lost,” the crowd will go crazy, you'll forget the cameras are even there, and then they'll come up to you on the stage and ask how it feels to be a sudden star or something like that. You'll give your bit about how much you love and adore all your fans, and then straight to Al for the weather. It'll be a cakewalk, I promise!'

‘You think?'

His imploring eyes reminded Brooke how long it had been since she had to soothe him like this, how much she missed doing it. Her husband the rock star could still be her husband the nervous guy.

‘I know! Come on, let's get you in the shower and I'll make you some eggs and toast. The car will be here in a half hour and we can't be late. Okay?'

Julian nodded. He rumpled her hair as he stood and took off for their bathroom without another word. He got nervous before every performance, regardless of whether it was a routine gig at a college bar or a small showcase in an intimate venue or a huge crowd in a Midwestern stadium, but Brooke couldn't remember ever seeing him like this.

She jumped in the shower as he was climbing out, and she thought about offering a few more words of encouragement but decided maybe a little silence would be better. By the time she finished, Julian had left with Walter for a walk, and she raced to pull on the easiest outfit she could find that was guaranteed comfortable without being hideous: a tunic-style sweater over black leggings paired with low-heel ankle boots. She had been a late adopter of the legging, but once she caved and bought her first gloriously stretchy and forgiving pair, Brooke had never looked back. After so many years of fighting to pour herself into skintight, low-rise jeans and binding pencil skirts and slacks that always felt like a vise around her waist, she found leggings were God's apology to women everywhere. For the first time, something that was in style actually flattered her figure perfectly by hiding her less-than-stellar mid- and rear section while accentuating her reasonably shapely legs. Every day she pulled a pair on she offered a silent thank-you to their inventor and a quiet prayer that they'd remain in fashion just a little bit longer.