Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (180 page)

‘“A fighting chance”?' Brooke screeched. ‘Who the hell is Dr. Melnick and why is he commenting on our relationship when we've never met him?'

Julian just shook his head. ‘And who said we're “feeling the strain of fame”?' he asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe they're referring to the whole
Today
show/pregnancy thing? Keep reading.'

‘Wow,' Julian said, clearly reading ahead. ‘I always knew these gossip rags were bullshit, but this just keeps getting better and better. “While rehab or couples' counseling is the most likely cause of Julian's disappearance”' – Julian spat out this last word dripping with sarcasm – ‘“there is a third option. According to a close family source, the singer was being courted by famous Scientologists, most notably John Travolta. ‘I don't know if it was just a friendly gesture or a recruiting reach-out, but I can say without doubt that they have been in touch,' the family source said. Which leads us all to wonder: will JBro go the way of TomKat and keep the faith? Stay tuned …”'

‘Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say “JBro”?' Brooke asked, convinced he'd made that part up.

‘Scientology!' Julian nearly shouted before Brooke shushed him. ‘They think we're Scientologists!'

Brooke's mind was racing to take it all in. Rehab? Couples' counseling? Scientology?
JBro?
That all those thing were lies wasn't so upsetting, but what about the small kernels of truth? What ‘family source' had mentioned anything about John Travolta, a person Julian had actually heard from, although not in relation to Scientology? And who was implying – for the second time in this very publication – that she and Julian were having relationship problems? Brooke almost asked just that, but seeing the look of devastation on Julian's face, she forced herself to keep it light.

‘Look, I don't know about you, but between Scientology, the world-renowned shrink who's never met us, and JBro, you have totally made it. I mean, if those aren't fame indicators, I don't know what is.' She smiled widely but Julian still looked despondent.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke saw a flash of light and had a split-second thought of how strange it was to see lightning in the middle of a snowstorm. Before she could comment on it, the young waitress reappeared at their table.

‘I, uh, wow,' she mumbled, managing to appear both embarrassed and excited at the same time. ‘I'm sorry about the photographers out there …' Her voice trailed off in time for Brooke to turn and see four men with cameras pressed against the café windows. Julian must have spotted them before she did, because he reached over, took her hand, and said, ‘We need to go now.'

‘The, uh, the manager told them they couldn't come inside, but we can't force them to leave the sidewalk,' the waitress said. She had that
I'm two seconds from asking for your autograph
look about her, and Brooke knew they had to leave immediately.

She yanked two twenties from her wallet, thrust them at the girl, and said, ‘Is there a back door?' When the girl nodded, Brooke squeezed Julian's hand and said, ‘Let's go.'

They grabbed their coats and gloves and scarves and beelined toward the back of the café. Brooke tried not to think about how gross she looked, how desperately she didn't want the entire world to see pictures of her in her sweatpants and ponytail, but even more than that, she wanted to protect Julian. By some lucky miracle, their Jeep was parked in the back lot, and they had managed to climb in, start the engine, and make a right turn out of the parking lot before the paparazzi spotted them.

‘What do we do?' Julian asked with more than a hint of panic. ‘We can't go back to the house or they'll follow us. They'll stake it out.'

‘Don't you think they probably know where it is already? Isn't that why they're here?'

‘I don't know. We were in the middle of East Hampton Village. If you're looking for someone you know is in the Hamptons in the middle of winter, it's a damn good place to start. I think they were just lucky.' Julian drove east on Route 27, away from his parents' house. At least two cars were following them.

‘We could drive straight back to the city …'

Julian smacked the steering wheel with his palm. ‘All our stuff is at the house. Besides, it's too treacherous out – we'd kill ourselves.'

They were silent for a moment before Julian said, ‘Dial the nonemergency number of the local police and put it on speaker.'

Brooke didn't quite know what his plan was, but she didn't want to argue. She dialed and Julian began talking when a female dispatcher answered the phone.

‘Hello, my name is Julian Alter and I'm currently driving east on Route 27, just past East Hampton Village. There are a number of cars – photographers – chasing my car at unsafe speeds. I'm afraid if I go home, they'll try to force their way into my house. Is there any way an officer could meet me at the house and remind them they would be trespassing?'

The woman agreed to dispatch someone within twenty minutes and after giving her the address of his parents' home, he hung up.

‘That was smart,' Brooke said. ‘What made you think of that?'

‘I didn't. It's what Leo told me to do if we were anywhere outside of Manhattan and we started getting followed. Let's see if it actually works.'

They continued driving in circles for the full twenty minutes before Julian checked his watch and made a right onto the smaller country road that led out to the open pasture land where the Alters' home sat on an acre and a half. The front yard was large and prettily landscaped, but the house was simply not set far enough back to evade a telescopic lens. They were both relieved to see a police car sitting at the intersection of the farm road and the driveway. Julian pulled up next to it and lowered his window; the two cars following them had now become four, and all rolled to a stop behind them. They could instantly make out the sound of cameras clicking as the officer made his way over to the Jeep.

‘Hello, sir. I'm Julian Alter and this is my wife, Brooke. We're just trying to get home in peace. Can you please help us?'

The officer was young, probably in his late twenties, and he didn't look particularly annoyed at having his New Year's Day morning interrupted. Brooke offered a silent prayer of thanks and found herself actually hoping the cop would recognize Julian.

He didn't disappoint.

‘Julian Alter, hey? My girlfriend's a huge fan. Couple of us had heard a rumor your folks live out here, but we weren't real sure. This their place?'

Julian squinted at the man's name tag. ‘It is, Officer O'Malley,' he said. ‘I'm happy to hear your girlfriend's a fan. Do you think she'd like an autographed album?'

The clicking from the cameras continued, and Brooke wondered how these pictures would be captioned. ‘Julian Alter Arrested in Drug-Fueled Drag Race'? Or ‘Officer to Alter: We Don't Want Your Kind Out Here.' Or maybe everyone's favorite, ‘Alter Tries to Convert Police Officer to Scientology.'

O'Malley's face lit up at the suggestion. ‘I'm sure she would,' he said, blowing on his hands, which looked red and chapped. ‘I think she'd love that.'

Before Julian could even utter a word, Brooke opened the glove compartment and handed Julian a copy of
For the Lost.
They had stashed a brand-new copy in there to see if Julian's parents would actually listen to it before next summer, but she realized this was a far better use. She dug in her purse and unearthed a pen.

‘Her name is Kristy,' the officer said, carefully spelling it twice.

Julian tore the plastic wrap off the CD, removed the liner notes, and scrawled, ‘To Kristy, with love, Julian Alter.'

‘Hey, thanks. She's going to freak out,' O'Malley said, carefully placing the CD in his side jacket pocket. ‘Now, what can I do for you?'

‘Arrest those guys?' Julian said with a half smile.

‘'Fraid I can't do that, but I can definitely tell them to back off and remind them of private property rules. You two go on ahead. I'll brief your friends back here. Give a call if there are any other problems.'

‘Thank you!' both Brooke and Julian said at once. They said their good-byes to O'Malley and without looking back, pulled into the garage and closed the door.

‘He was nice,' Brooke said as they walked into the mudroom and kicked off their boots.

‘I'm calling Leo right now,' Julian said, already halfway to his father's study in the back of the house. ‘We're under siege and he's stretched out on some beach.'

Brooke watched him go and then walked from room to room, closing all the blinds. The early afternoon had grown dark gray already, and she could see the flashbulbs firing directly at her as she moved from window to window. From behind one of the guest room shades on the second floor, she peeked out front and nearly shrieked when she saw a man with a zoom lens the size of a football pointed directly at her. There was only one room with no window coverings – a small powder room no one ever used on the third floor – but Brooke wasn't taking any chances. She duct-taped an industrial-strength garbage bag over it and then headed back downstairs to check on Julian.

‘You okay?' she asked, pushing the study door open after receiving no response to her knock.

Julian glanced up from his laptop. ‘Yeah, fine. You? Sorry about all this,' he said, although Brooke couldn't quite identify the tone in his voice. ‘I know it's ruining everything.'

‘It's not ruining anything,' she lied.

Again, no response. He continued to stare at the screen.

‘Why don't I go build us a fire and we can watch a movie. How does that sound?'

‘Fine. Good. I'll be out in a few minutes, okay?'

‘Perfect,' she said with forced cheerfulness. She gently closed the door behind her and silently cursed those goddamn photographers, that miserable
Last Night
column, and – only partially – her husband for being famous in the first place. She would do her best to be strong for Julian, but he was right about one thing: their blissfully quiet, much-needed retreat was over. No one dared drive down the driveway or walk across the lawn, but the crowd on the street only continued to grow. They slept that night to the distant sounds of men talking and laughing, engines turning on and off, and although they tried their best to ignore it, neither of them succeeded. By the time the snow melted enough the next day to leave, they'd only dozed an hour or two and felt like they'd run two marathons, and they barely spoke at all on the drive back to the city. They were followed the whole way home.

‘Hello?' Brooke said into her phone.

‘It's me. Are you dressed yet? Which one did you choose?' Nola's voice sounded breathy, eager.

Brooke sneaked a look at the thirtysomething woman standing next to her and saw the woman sneaking a look right back. The security guards at the Beverly Wilshire were doing their best to keep out the paparazzi, but plenty of reporters and photographers had circumvented the rules by booking rooms at the hotel. She'd caught this same woman watching her in the lobby before when she'd run down to see if the gift shop had Altoids, and sure enough, she'd slid onto the elevator with Brooke just before the doors closed. Judging from her appearance – silk tank top tucked into well-tailored pants, expensive pumps, and elegantly understated jewelry – Brooke deduced she wasn't a blogger, gossip columnist, or secret paparazzo à la the guy who sat outside their building and the supermarket stalker. Which made her something even scarier: a real, live, thinking, observant reporter.

‘I'll be in my room in one minute. I'll call you back then.' Brooke clicked the phone off before Nola had a chance to utter another word.

The woman smiled at her and revealed a beautiful set of pearly white teeth. It was a gentle smile, one that said,
I understand what it's like! I too get pestering phone calls from my friend,
but Brooke had honed her instincts the past few months to perfection: despite her unthreatening appearance and her sympathetic ex-pression, this woman was a predator, a scoop-seeking, always-on-the-record vampire. Stay and you'll get bitten. Brooke was desperate to escape.

‘You here for the Grammys?' the woman asked kindly, as though she was all too familiar with the rigors of preparing for such an event.

‘Mmm,' Brooke murmured, unwilling to commit to anything more. She knew, just knew, this woman was about to spring a series of rapid-fire questions on her – she'd seen this disarm-and-attack routine before with a particularly aggressive blogger who'd approached her after Julian's
Today
show performance pretending to be an innocent fan – but she still couldn't bring herself to be preemptively rude.

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor and Brooke had to endure an ‘Oh, is this going up? Well, I'm going down' conversation between the woman and a couple who had that telltale European look (both the man and the woman were wearing capris, his tighter than hers, and each had a different version of the same neon-colored Invicta backpack). She held her breath and willed the elevator to move.

‘Must be exciting going to your first Grammys, especially considering your husband's performance is so highly anticipated.'

There. Brooke exhaled and felt, oddly, momentarily better. It was a relief having her suspicions confirmed; now neither of them had to fake it. She silently cursed herself for not letting Leo's assistant run the errand, but at least now she knew what was expected of her. She fixed her eyes on the button panel above the doors and did her best to pretend she hadn't heard a word the woman said.

‘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?'