Neither of them said it was okay to come in, but Leo entered anyway. Samara stood by his side. Both peered at Brooke.

“Hey, Brooke, you okay?” Samara asked without the least bit of concern in her voice.

Brooke flashed a phony smile.

“Listen, guys, CBS wants to do a post-performance interview.”

“Samara—” Julian started but Leo cut him off.

“With both of you,” he said as though he’d just announced their execution date.

“Oh, come on, you guys.”

“I know, Julian, and I apologize, but I’m afraid I have to insist you go out there. It’s up to Brooke if she joins you”—Samara paused pointedly and looked at Brooke—“but let me go on the record as saying that everyone at Sony would really appreciate it if she could do this. There is obviously a lot of interest in those pictures. You two need to get out there and show the world that nothing’s wrong.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment until Brooke realized they were all looking at her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Julian, tell them that . . .”

Julian didn’t respond. When she worked up the nerve to look at him, he was staring at his hands.

“No,” Brooke said.

“Five more minutes of solidarity? We’ll go out there, we’ll smile, we’ll tell them everything’s great, and then we’ll be free.”

Leo and Samara were nodding at Julian’s wisdom and common sense.

Brooke noticed her dress was badly wrinkled. Her head ached powerfully. She stood, but still, she didn’t cry.

“Brooke, come here, let’s talk about this,” Julian said in his managing-my-crazy-wife voice.

She walked past Samara and stood face-to-face with Leo at the dressing room door. “Excuse me,” she said. When he didn’t step aside, she turned her body and slid past him to pull open the door. For the final time that day, she felt his sweaty hand touch her skin. “Brooke, wait a minute, okay?” His irritation was unmistakable. “You can’t leave like this. There are ten thousand cameras right outside the center. They’ll eat you alive.”

She turned and faced Leo, holding her breath as her face came within inches of his. “Considering what it’s like in here, I think I’ll take my chances. Now take your disgusting hand off my neck and get out of my way.”

And without another word to anyone, she left.

14

The Removal of Clothes

NOLA had arranged for the car to wait at a specific cross street behind the Staples Center, and through some miracle—or the fact that people didn’t generally leave midceremony—Brooke managed to slip out the back and into the waiting car undetected by any paparazzi. Her suitcase was open on the backseat, and everything was neatly folded, thanks to a helpful staffer at the Beverly Wilshire. The driver announced he would give her some privacy while she changed out of her dress and back into her street clothes.

She quickly changed and dialed Nola. “How did you make all this happen?” she asked without saying hello. “You’ve got a very bright future as an assistant.” It was easier to joke than even try to explain what the evening had really been like.

“Look, don’t think you’re getting off the hook—I want to hear everything—but there’s been a change of plan.”

“A change of plan? Please don’t tell me I have to stay here tonight.”

“You don’t have to stay there, but you can’t come here. The paparazzi have completely staked out my house. There must be eight, maybe ten of them. I already unplugged my landline. If this is my apartment, I can’t even imagine what yours looks like. I definitely don’t think you want to deal with this.”

“Nola, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, please! This is by far the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me, so just shut up. I’m only sorry I won’t get to see you. I booked you on a US Airways flight straight to Philadelphia, and I called your mom to tell her. You leave at ten tonight and arrive a little before six A.M. She’ll meet you at the airport. I hope that’s okay?”

“Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. That’s more than okay.”

The driver was still standing outside the car, talking on his cell phone, and Brooke wanted to get moving before anyone spotted them.

“Remember to wear cute socks for when you take your shoes off at security, because I guarantee there will be someone taking pictures. Smile as much as you possibly can and then get yourself to the business-class lounge—chances are they won’t be in there.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and leave all your borrowed stuff in the backseat of the car. The driver will return everything to the hotel, and they’ll make sure to get it back to the stylist.”

“I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Save it, Brooke. You would do the exact same thing for me if my husband became a megastar overnight and I was being hounded by the paparazzi. Of course, that would mean I actually had a husband, which we both know is highly unlikely, and that my hypothetical husband would have a modicum of talent, which is even more unlikely. . . .”

“I’m too tired to argue, but for the record, your current chances for happiness and relationship success outweigh mine by, like, a factor of ten thousand, so quit your bitching. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Remember—cute socks and call me.”

She spent the ride from the Staples Center to LAX carefully packing her dress into the provided garment bag, tucking her shoes into their dust bag, and arranging her jewelry and clutch neatly into the velvet-lined boxes stacked on the seat next to her. It was only when she pulled the giant rock off her left ring finger that she realized the stylist still had her plain wedding band, and she made a note to herself to remind Julian to get it back from the girl. She resisted the impulse to think of it as any kind of sign.

Two in-flight Bloodys and one Ambien guaranteed a much-needed five-hour blackout, but as her mother’s reaction at baggage claim revealed, it did not do wonders for her appearance. Brooke smiled and waved when she spotted her mom at the end of the escalator and nearly knocked over the man standing in front of her.

Her mother hugged her hard, then pushed her away and held her at arm’s length. She took in Brooke’s terry-cloth sweatsuit, sneakers, and ponytail and declared, “You look horrible.”