Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (175 page)

The drive from their apartment to Rockefeller Center went quickly. There was no traffic that early in the morning, and the only sound came from Julian's fingers tap-tap-tapping against the wood grain of the armrest. Leo called to say he was waiting for them at the studio, but otherwise no one spoke. It wasn't until the car pulled up along side the talent entrance that Julian gripped Brooke's hand so tightly she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from calling out.

‘You're going to be great,' she whispered to him as a young man in a page uniform and a headset led them to the greenroom.

‘It's live and it's national,' Julian replied, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He looked even paler than he had this morning, and Brooke prayed he wouldn't throw up again.

She pulled a packet of chewable Pepto tablets from her purse, discreetly removed two from the wrapper, and pressed them into Julian's palm. ‘Chew those,' she said quietly.

They passed a couple studios, each emanating the telltale freezing cold air that kept the anchors cool under the blazing stage lights, and Julian tightened his grip. They rounded a corner, walked past a space that looked like a makeshift salon where three women were setting up hair and makeup supplies, and were deposited in a room with a few armchairs, two love seats, and a small breakfast buffet. Brooke had never been in an official greenroom of any kind before, and although this one said as much on the door, everything was done in shades of beige and mauve. Only Julian was tinted green.

‘There he is!' Leo boomed, his voice sounding at least thirty decibels louder than necessary.

‘I'll, uh, be back to take you into hair and makeup as soon as the rest of the band is here,' the page said, looking uncomfortable. ‘Just, um, have some coffee or something.' He quickly ducked out.

‘Julian! How we doing this morning? You ready? You're not looking ready, man. You okay?'

Julian nodded, looking every bit as unhappy to see Leo as Brooke felt. ‘Fine,' he murmured.

Leo clapped Julian's back and then pulled him into the hallway for some sort of pep talk. Brooke fixed herself a cup of coffee and took a seat in the corner farthest from everyone. She surveyed the room and took her best guess on the other guests that morning: a little girl who, judging from both the violin she clutched and her snotty attitude, was most likely a musical prodigy; the editor of a men's magazine who was rehearsing with his publicist the ten weight-loss tips he planned to discuss; a well-known chick-lit author holding her most recent novel in one hand and her cell phone in the other, looking supremely bored as she scrolled through her call list.

The other band members straggled in over the next fifteen minutes, each managing to appear exhausted and excited at the same time. They slurped coffee and took turns in the hair and makeup room, and before Brooke had another opportunity to gauge how Julian was holding up, they were whisked out to the promenade to greet the fans and do a final sound check. It was a crisp fall morning and the crowd was huge. By the time they began their performance, right around eight, the audience had swelled to over a thousand people, almost all female between the ages of twelve and fifty, and it seemed like nearly every one of them was screaming Julian's name. Brooke stared at the monitor in the greenroom, trying to remind herself that Julian was – at that very moment – on televisions across America, when the page came by and asked if she'd like to watch the interview portion from inside the studio itself.

Brooke jumped up and followed the boy down a flight of stairs and onto the familiar set she recognized from years of watching the show. The icy air hit her immediately.

‘Wow, it's a beautiful set. For some reason I just figured they'd interview him outside in front of the crowd.'

The page held a couple fingertips up to his earpiece, listened, and nodded. He turned back to Brooke but didn't seem to really see her. ‘Normally they would, but the wind today is wreaking havoc with the mics.'

‘Got it,' Brooke said.

‘You can sit right here,' he said, motioning to a folding chair between two of the massive cameras. ‘They'll be coming inside any second and will be on air' – he checked a stopwatch hanging from a lanyard around his neck – ‘in just under two minutes. Your cell phone's off, right?'

‘Yeah, I left it upstairs. Oh, this is just so cool!' Brooke said. She'd never been on a television set before, never mind one so famous. It was almost overwhelming just to sit there and watch all the camera guys and sound technicians and producers in headsets scurry around in preparation. She was watching as a man swapped out overstuffed couch cushions for smaller, tighter ones when there was a rush of outside air and a lot of commotion. About a dozen people walked through the studio door and Brooke saw Julian was flanked on either side by Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira. He looked a bit dazed and had a thin bead of sweat on his upper lip, but he was laughing at something and shaking his head.

‘One minute thirty seconds!' a female voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

The group walked right in front of her, and for a moment Brooke could only stare at the anchors' familiar faces. But then Julian caught her eye and gave her a nervous smile. He mouthed something to her, although Brooke couldn't tell what. She sat in the chair the page had pointed out. Immediately two more people descended on him, one showing him how to weave the microphone up the back of his shirt and clip it onto his collar, and the other applying pressed powder to his shiny face. Matt Lauer leaned in to whisper something to Julian, who laughed, and then walked off the stage. Meredith took the seat opposite Julian and although Brooke couldn't hear what they were saying, it looked like Julian was quite comfortable with her. She tried to imagine how nervous he must be right then, how utterly terrifying and surreal the whole thing must feel, and just the thought of it was enough to make her queasy. She dug her fingernails into her palms and prayed it would go well.

‘Forty-five seconds to live!'

It only felt like ten seconds had passed, but a deep quiet settled over the set and Brooke saw a Tylenol commercial on the monitors in front of her. It was probably on for about thirty seconds when the opening chords of the
Today
show song began to play, and the voice over the loudspeaker began to count down. Immediately, the entire room stood still, except for Meredith, who scanned her notes and ran her tongue over her front teeth to check for lipstick.

‘Five. Four. Three. Two. And live!' At the exact moment the voice called out the word ‘and,' someone flipped on the massive overhead studio lights and immediately the entire set was bathed in intense, hot light. At that same moment, Meredith smiled broadly, turned toward the camera with the blinking green light, and read from the teleprompter.

‘Welcome back, everyone! For those of you who are just joining us, we are lucky to have one of the hottest young stars on the musical scene today, singer-songwriter Julian Alter. He has already toured with Maroon 5 before embarking on his very own tour, and his first album debuted at number four on the
Billboard
chart.' She turned to Julian and her smile grew. ‘And he just gave us a terrific performance of his song “For the Lost.” You were great, Julian! Thanks for joining us today.'

He grinned, but Brooke could see the tightness in the lips and the way his left hand death-gripped the arm of the chair. ‘Thanks for having me. I'm thrilled to be here.'

‘I have to say, I really enjoyed that song,' Meredith said with lots of enthusiasm. Brooke was fascinated by the way the anchor's makeup looked spackled and fake in person but flawless and beautiful on the monitor. ‘Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to write it?'

Julian's face instantly came alive and he leaned forward in his chair. His entire body seemed to relax as he described his inspiration for ‘For the Lost.'

The next four minutes elapsed in a flash. Julian sailed through questions about how he got discovered, how long it took him to record the album, if he could believe all the incredible feedback and attention. The media training had definitely paid off: his answers were funny and charmingly self-deprecating without sounding like each had been scripted by a team of people (which they absolutely had). He maintained good eye contact, looked relaxed without being disrespectful, and at one point smiled so winningly for Meredith Vieira that she herself nearly giggled and said, ‘I can see why you're such a big hit with your younger female fans.' It wasn't until Meredith picked up a copy of an unidentifiable celeb magazine that must have been facedown on the table between them, and flipped to a bookmarked page, that Julian stopped smiling.

Brooke remembered the night Julian had come home from media training and told her it was the most important thing he'd learned. ‘You are not required to answer the question they ask you, and if you don't like the question, you go ahead and answer any question you feel like answering. It does not need to be related whatsoever to the asked question. The only requirement is that you convey information
you
want to share. Take back control of the interview. Don't let them bully you into answering anything unpleasant or uncomfortable. Just smile and change the subject. The onus is on the anchor to keep the interview moving forward, to make it appear smooth and seamless, and they're not going to call you out on refusing to answer a question. This is morning television, not the presidential debates, so as long as you're smiling and relaxed, you've succeeded. You'll never get cornered or pinned down if you only answer questions you like.'

That night felt like a year ago, and Brooke just prayed Julian could muster the same confidence right now.
Stick to the script,
she willed him,
and don't let her see you sweat
.

Meredith folded over the magazine, which Brooke could now see was
US Weekly,
and held a page toward Julian. She pointed to a photo in the upper-right-hand corner, which was Brooke's first indication this wasn't about the infamous Layla picture. Julian was smiling, but he looked confused.

‘Ah yes,' he said in response to nothing, since Meredith had not asked a question yet. ‘My beautiful wife.'

Oh no,
Brooke thought. Meredith was pointing to a picture of Brooke and Julian with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the cameras. The camera zoomed in on the picture and Brooke could make out the details now: her standby black sweater dress, Julian looking uncomfortable in a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, both of them holding wineglasses aloft … where were they? She leaned forward in her chair and stared at the nearest monitor and it hit her all at once. Her father's sixty-fifth birthday party. The picture must have been taken just after Brooke gave her toast, since she and Julian were standing in front of an otherwise seated table. Who on earth had taken that and, more to the point, why did
US Weekly
care?

Then the camera moved down just a touch and she was able to see that the photo had a caption that read, ‘A Bun in the Oven and a Drink in Hand?' She felt a horrible, anxious jolt in the middle of her stomach when she realized that the new issue of
US Weekly
had probably come out that very day, and no one on Julian's team had seen it yet.

‘Yes, I've read that you and your wife, Brooke, have been married for what, five years now?' Meredith asked, looking to Julian. He just nodded, clearly nervous about where this line of questioning was going.

Meredith leaned in close to Julian and, with a huge smile, said, ‘So can you confirm it here first?'

Julian peered back at her, meeting her eyes, but he looked just as confused as Brooke felt. Confirm what? Brooke knew he hadn't processed the whole ‘bun in the oven' thing and most likely thought he was being questioned about the state of his marriage.

‘Sorry?' It wasn't exactly articulate, but Brooke could hardly blame him. What, exactly,
was
she asking?

‘Well, we just couldn't help but wonder if that was a baby bump your wife is sporting.' Meredith smiled broadly, as though an answer in the affirmative was a mere formality, not really a question at all.

Brooke inhaled sharply. Definitely not what she was expecting, and poor Julian was about as likely to use the phrase ‘baby bump' as he was to answer the question in Russian. Not to mention that while she might not be in the absolute best shape of her life, she sure as hell didn't think she looked pregnant. It was just another awkward picture angle, taken from below and exposing the weird puffiness of fabric around the waist where the dress was cinched closed. So what?

He squirmed in his seat; his distress only seemed to confirm the truth of her question.

‘Oh come on, you can tell us here. That would be quite a big year for you – debut album and a new baby! I'm sure the fans would love to know for sure …'

It took Brooke a second to realize she wasn't breathing. Was this actually
happening
? Who the hell did she think they were? Brangelina? Did anyone actually care if they were pregnant? Was it anyone's business? Did she really look so huge in that picture that the only assumption could be she was with child? And most of all, if the whole goddamn world was going to assume she was pregnant, that picture made her look like a pregnant woman with a drinking problem. It was almost too much to believe.

Julian opened his mouth to say something, appeared to remember his instructions to smile and answer whatever he wanted, and said, ‘I love my wife very much. None of this would have ever happened without her incredible support.'

None of what?
Brooke wanted to scream.
The horrible timing of the pregnancy that didn't exist? The fact that his wife was drinking straight through her faux pregnancy?

There was an awkward silence that probably only lasted a couple seconds but felt endless, and then Meredith thanked Julian, looked directly at the camera, ordered everyone to buy his new album, and cut to commercial. Brooke was vaguely aware that the intense lights had been lowered and Meredith had unhooked her microphone and stood up. She extended a hand to Julian, who looked shell-shocked, offered a few words Brooke couldn't hear, and quickly walked off the set. A dozen people began scurrying around the studio, checking wires and pushing cameras and exchanging clipboards. Julian continued to sit there, looking like he'd just been whacked over the head with a shovel.