Last Night at Chateau Marmont by Lauren Weisberger Page B

was still a vacation of sorts, and said, “I’d love a Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and two stalks of celery.”
    A long, lithe girl who, judging from her astonishing figure, was definitely a model lowered herself elegantly into the pool. Brooke watched as she swam a charming sort of doggie paddle to the side, taking great pains to keep her hair dry, and called out to her male companion in Spanish. Without glancing up from his laptop, the man answered her in French. The girl pouted, the man grumbled, and within thirty seconds he was walking toward the pool with her massive Chanel sunglasses in hand. When she thanked him, Brooke could’ve sworn she did so in Russian.
    Her phone rang. “Hello?” she said quietly, although no one seemed to care.
    “Rookie? How’s it going out there?”
    “Hey, Dad. I’m not going to lie, everything’s pretty damn great.”
    “Did Julian play yet?”
    “He and Leo just left so I’m guessing they’ll be in Burbank soon. I don’t think the actual taping starts until five or five thirty. It sounded like it was going to be a pretty long afternoon, so I’m waiting at the hotel for them.”
    The waiter returned with her drink, the Bloody Mary in a glass every bit as tall and skinny as the women she’d spied so far in Los Angeles. He set it on the table beside her, along with a little three-part tray of snacks: marinated olives, mixed nuts, and baked vegetable chips. Brooke wanted to kiss him.
    “What’s the place like? Pretty swanky, I’d bet.”
    Brooke took a small sip at first and then a gulp.
Damn, that was good.
“Yeah, it really is. You should see the people sitting by the pool. Each one is more gorgeous than the next.”
    “Do you know Jim Morrison tried to jump off the roof there? And that the members of Led Zeppelin rode their motorcycles through the lobby? From what I’ve heard, it is
the
place to be for badly behaved musicians.”
    “Where are you getting your information, Dad? Google?” Brooke laughed.
    “Brooke, please! Don’t insult me by suggesting—”
    “Wikipedia?”
    A pause. “Maybe.”
    They chatted for a few more minutes while Brooke watched the gorgeous thing in the pool shriek like a child when her boyfriend jumped in and tried to splash her. Her father wanted to tell her all about the non-surprise surprise birthday party Cynthia was planning for him in a few months, how determined she was to celebrate his sixty-fifth since it was also his retirement year, but Brooke had a hardtime focusing. After all, the woman-child had just climbed out of the water, and Brooke clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed that her white bikini was entirely transparent when wet. She glanced down at her own terry-cloth sweats and wondered what she would do to look that good in a bikini, even if just for an hour. She sucked in her stomach and continued to watch.
    The second Bloody Mary went down just as smoothly as the first, and she was soon so happily tipsy that she almost didn’t recognize Benicio Del Toro when he emerged from a poolside bungalow and collapsed into a lounger directly opposite her. Unfortunately he didn’t remove either his jeans or his T-shirt, but Brooke was content to stare at him through her sunglasses. The pool area itself wasn’t anything special—she’d seen many grander pools in ordinary suburban homes—but it had a discreet, quiet sexiness that was hard to pinpoint. Despite being only a few hundred feet above Sunset Boulevard, everything felt hidden, like it was carved out of a jungly tangle of towering trees, hemmed in on all sides by plants in huge terra-cotta pots and black-and-white striped umbrellas.
    She could’ve sat by that pool downing Bloodys all afternoon, but as the sun got lower in the sky and the air grew chillier, she packed up her book and iPod and headed to the room. A quick spin through the lobby on her way to the elevator revealed a jeans-clad LeAnn Rimes having a drink with an older, well-dressed woman, and it