“I have no idea, but let me tell you, that girl can move. Did you see the way she was dancing next to you, sort of shimmying and hip-switching? It was mesmerizing. It’s like the instant someone puts a microphone in her hands, she just can’t help it.”

There was a knock at the door.

Julian looked at Brooke, who shrugged. He walked over to answer it, and Leo barreled in without an invite. Brooke almost laughed out loud: his shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, and he had a smear of what looked suspiciously like lipstick on the inside collar.

“Hey, listen,” he said to Julian without so much as a hello or an apology for the interruption. “I know this is last-minute, but Samara just told me that she’s set up a bunch of stuff for you tomorrow in L.A. That Layla scene was fucking genius, and people are freaking out about it. We’ll leave for the airport at nine, okay?”

“Tomorrow?” Julian managed to say, looking as surprised as Brooke felt.

“Nine sharp, in the lobby. We’ve got the flights all taken care of. Probably get you back to New York in three, four days. Great job tonight, dude. See you in the morning,” he said, and hightailed it out. Brooke sent out a silent thank-you to whichever girl was waiting in his bed that night.

“Well,” Brooke said when the door slammed behind Leo.

“Well. Guess I’m going to L.A. tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Brooke said, because she didn’t know what else to say. She’d have to cancel the dinner plans they had the following night with college friends of Julian’s who were in from out of town. And he wouldn’t be able to come with her to the museum party Nola had invited them to, the one where she was on the junior committee and the tickets had cost them a small fortune.

There was another knock on the door.

Brooke groaned. “What now?”

It was Samara this time, and she was as animated as Brooke had ever seen her. She, too, marched right in without a hello, looked down at her leather-bound notebook, and said, “So, the Lawson photo op worked even better than I’d hoped—absolutely everyone has picked it up. Everyone.”

Both Julian and Brooke just stared at her.

“I’ve already gotten a hundred calls asking for interviews and photos. Brooke, I’m considering a story request for a feature on you, something like a ‘Who Is Mrs. Julian Alter?’ so stay tuned on that one. Julian, we’ll keep you pretty much booked solid for the next week. This is great news, just absolutely terrific results, and I’ll tell you now: everyone at Sony is thrilled.”

“Wow,” Julian said.

“Great,” Brooke added weakly.

“The paparazzi are actually already staking out the lobby, so be ready to face them in the morning. I can make some recommendations on people you can consult for privacy and security needs, all really terrific.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Brooke said.

“Uh-huh. You let me know. In the meantime, I suggest you both start checking into hotels under different names and being very careful about what you put in e-mails to anyone.”

“Um, is that really—”

Samara cut Julian off and clapped her notebook closed. Meeting officially adjourned.

“Brooke, Julian”—she said both their names slowly and with the sort of smile that gave Brooke chills—“welcome to the party.”

6

He Could Have Been a Doctah

“YOU want me to put these behind the existing shades or take the other ones down first?” the installation man asked, motioning behind him, toward Brooke and Julian’s bedroom.

It wasn’t a particularly important decision, but Brooke resented having to make it herself. Julian was somewhere in the Pacific Northwest—she had a hard time keeping track these days—and wasn’t much help lately with anything domestic.

“I don’t know, what do most people do?”

The guy shrugged. His expression said, I couldn’t care less either way, just pick one so I can get the hell out of here and enjoy my Saturday. Brooke knew exactly how he felt.

“Um, I guess put them behind the other shades? Those are probably nicer-looking anyway.”

He grunted and disappeared, Walter following disloyally at his heels. Brooke turned back to her book but was relieved when the phone rang.

“Hey, Dad, what’s up?” It felt like they hadn’t talked in ages, and when they did, he only wanted to talk about Julian.

“Oh, Brooke? Hi, it’s Cynthia.”

“Hey, Cynthia! I saw Dad’s number on the caller ID. How are you? Any chance you guys are coming to New York?”

Cynthia attempted a laugh. “Probably not so soon. Last time was . . . tiring. You’re always welcome here, you know.”

“Yeah, I do know.” It came out sounding ruder than she’d intended, although it was a little galling to receive an invitation to visit her own father in her own childhood home. Cynthia must have heard this because she quickly apologized, causing Brooke to feel immediate guilt for being unnecessarily bitchy.

“I’m sorry too,” Brooke said with a sigh. “Things are just a little crazy around here right now.”

“I can’t even imagine! Listen, I know it’s probably not possible, but I figure I had to ask. It’s for a good cause, you know?”

Brooke inhaled and held her breath. Here it came, the wholly unanticipated aspect of being close to someone newly famous—he was famous now, wasn’t he?—the part no one ever seemed to warn you about.

“I don’t know if you know or not, but I’m one of the co-presidents of the Women’s Board at Temple Beth Shalom.”

Brooke waited but Cynthia didn’t continue.

“Uh-huh, I think I knew that,” Brooke said, trying to convey as little enthusiasm as possible.

“Well, we have our annual Speaker’s Lunch fund-raiser coming up in a few weeks and our scheduled speaker just canceled on us. That woman who writes the kosher cookbooks? Actually, I don’t think they’re strictly kosher per se, just kosher style. She has one for Passover, one for Hanukkah, another just for kids.”

“Mmm.”

“Well, anyway, it turns out that she supposedly needs to have some sort of bunion surgery next week and won’t be able to walk for a while, although if you ask me it’s probably lipo.”

Brooke willed herself to be patient. Cynthia was a good woman and she was only trying to raise money for the less fortunate. She took a deep, slow breath, careful not to let Cynthia hear.