Now, hugging herself and the fantastically comfortable sweatshirt, Skye frowned as she walked to the bus stop. Her sister was batshit crazy in so many ways, there was no denying it. But she loved her. And now, with everything that was happening to Isaac? The fallout for Peyton was going to be extensive, likely in ways they couldn’t yet fathom. After too many years and so much sacrifice, she would lose so much. Skye vowed to step up and be the decent, supportive sister Peyton had always been to her. She fired off a text to Peyton: Call you soon, and then knelt down to greet Aurora, who stepped off the bus and ran straight, blissfully, into her arms.
10
Brilliant Harvard Clichés
The irritating birdsong alarm drove her crazy. Peyton usually needed the rage to motivate her out of bed at three-thirty in the morning, but today she was already awake, unsure whether to be glad or horrified that it was Monday. Instinctively she rolled over to Isaac’s side and reached for him, but again, his side was empty. Hauling herself into the shower, Peyton allowed the scalding water to pound her shoulders as she gave herself a pep talk. Sunday had been…horrible. In a misguided attempt to smooth things over, Peyton had bustled around the apartment, desperately trying to please her family—pancakes for Max, lattes for Isaac—but both refused to speak to her. At one point Max tried to leave to go filming around the city, but a particularly determined paparazzo had sent her fleeing back home. Isaac had locked himself in their shared office for most of the day; Peyton could hear bits of his conversations with his best friend from childhood, who lived in Norway, and his elderly father, whose Alzheimer’s blessedly made the current situation—at least for him—a non-event. It seemed the only one who wanted to hear from her was Kenneth, who had called no fewer than four times to blurt out unhelpful and unsolicited advice along the lines of “Keep your head down and plan to be on air first thing Monday morning.” Peyton had barely slept. But today was a new day, and she was more determined than ever to make it a good one. No one knew better than she how quickly stories like this cycled in and out of the news. She would show up at work today and crush it, like she always did. What they were saying about Isaac—she still couldn’t quite bring herself to admit what she’d done—just didn’t stack up against the main news stories or even the previous admissions scandal. After a day with some space from one another, they could all have a good long family talk when she got home that afternoon.
Newly energized, Peyton pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and tiptoed to the kitchen, where the microwave read 3:45 a.m. She triple-checked her phone to make sure she’d read Sean’s text correctly, and was reassured by his firm, confident wording: You are confirmed for this morning. Business as usual. The coffee machine hissed out its last drop, exactly on schedule, and she poured herself a heaping mug with almond milk and a shake of cinnamon. A text popped up from the studio’s car service announcing that her ride had arrived. Moving quickly, Peyton printed out the briefing papers that one of the PAs emailed each night and stuffed them into her Goyard tote. She picked up her gym bag, grabbed a Greek yogurt and a plastic spoon, and peeked into Max’s darkened bedroom. Struck with an overwhelming urge to press her lips to Max’s warm cheek, she tiptoed in. Terrified of waking her, Peyton stood on the fuzzy area rug and watched her daughter sleep peacefully. How many times had she held vigils like this when Max was little? A hundred? A thousand? All the fevers and nightmares and recess dramas and homework anxieties. All the “I’m scared of the dark”s and the “there’s a monster under my bed”s blended right into each other, knitting together the fabric of Max’s childhood. And now Peyton sat and gazed at her beautiful, sleeping daughter and wondered—like every mother on the planet—where all the time had gone. Her thoughts flickered to the situation with Max and Isaac, but she pushed them away again.
“Mom? What are you doing?” Max groaned, rolling over, sounding slightly irritated but not excessively so. “You know it’s weird to just stand there and watch someone sleep.”
“You’re not someone,” Peyton said, wanting desperately to reach out and stroke Max’s hair the way she had when she was younger.
“Is everything okay?” Max pushed her mane of wild, wavy curls from her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, honey! I’m leaving now. I was only…looking at you.”
Max opened her other eye. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, honey,” Peyton said, sitting at the very edge of Max’s bed. “Everything’s fine! It’s a new day! I mean, it’s not fine as in resolved. But we will be fine.”
“Right,” Max said. “Everything’s great.”
“Go to sleep, sweetie, I didn’t mean to wake you. I have to go to work. I love you.”
Max pulled the covers over her head in response, and Peyton quietly pulled the door closed behind her. She made her way downstairs and into the waiting Town Car.
“Have a good show, Mrs. Marcus,” Peter, her doorman, said as he closed the car’s back door.
It wasn’t one of her usual drivers, but thankfully someone had told him that Peyton didn’t like to chat in the morning. As they flew down a mostly empty Park Avenue, Peyton propped her briefing papers on her lap and tried to concentrate. With any luck it would be a normal day: no breaking news, no emergencies, no office conflicts. The junior-level staff would glance away from her, feeling awkward and uncertain about what to say, but the more senior producers and execs would be their best blunt selves. She imagined them murmuring no-nonsense things like “Shit happens” and “We’re here for you,” before handing her a stack of updated papers and the outline for the morning’s show. Everyone would keep it tight and professional, exactly as it needed to be, regardless of what might or might not be happening in anyone’s personal life. There would be hair and makeup. A countdown from Sean, after which Peyton would say, “Good morning and thanks for joining us today,” with exactly the right amount of gravitas and enthusiasm before skillfully leading them into the day’s top stories. And there would be that feeling, the same one every day, that incredible high whenever the studio lights blazed hot on her face and the camera blinked green to indicate that she was being broadcast, live, into millions of American homes. The hours were barbaric and the workload crushing and the stress level sadistic, but she fucking loved it.
When the driver pulled into ANN’s gated drop-off carport, a PA opened the car door. “Good morning, Peyton,” chirped Sahara, a petite brunette with pockmarked skin but a winning smile. “This is for you.” She handed Peyton a piping hot latte and led the way through the cavernous basement hallways to the elevator that would whisk them to the ninth floor. Peyton sensed nothing amiss in the girl’s reaction to her.
“Thank you,” Peyton said, taking a sip. “Did you have a good weekend?”
“I did, thank you. Did you?” Sahara blushed.
“Yes, it was very nice,” Peyton lied.
Sahara stared at her feet. Suddenly, although they’d been having this same exchange for over a year now, the awkwardness between them was palpable. When the elevator doors opened, it felt like Sahara wanted to bolt.
“I’m just going to grab the latest briefings,” she said, again without meeting Peyton’s eyes. “I’ll bring them to hair and makeup?”
“My desk is fine,” Peyton said, and frowned as the girl speed-walked down the hall. Peyton dropped her bags in her corner office and walked into the adjoining closet, flipping on the lights as she did. Strange that no one had done that yet, she thought, as she approached the racks of jewel-toned dresses and suits. Although she was perfectly capable of choosing an outfit on her own, typically Bev or Roger liked to wander by and weigh in. From a rack toward the back, she pulled an emerald-green sheath dress in a heavy viscose with the slightest of sweetheart necklines and grabbed a pair of coordinating green pumps from the wall of shoeboxes. She changed quickly in her office and, grabbing the papers Sahara had left on her desk, walked to hair and makeup.
&nbs
p; People waved and said good morning, as usual, as she walked past their desks, but there was a certain tension she couldn’t ignore. One producer, an overconfident twenty-something man fresh from their rival network, also asked how her weekend was. Was he being friendly, or was that passive-aggressive? They were all polite and professional, but Peyton couldn’t escape the feeling that everyone from the interns to the senior producers was watching her, like she might crack at any moment. They’d always watched her—she was the talent, who typically got coddled and accommodated on set—but this was a different kind of watching, a careful, nervous one, and she could feel her back and chest grow damp with sweat.
When she got to hair and makeup, she paused at the door, surprised to hear Isaac’s name coming from inside.
“There’s no way they’re going to keep letting her on the air,” a woman said. “Talk about conflict of interest.” Peyton could tell from the voice that it was Bev, who’d been styling hair at ANN for a hundred years and had opinions on absolutely everything.
Roger, her assistant stylist, agreed. “I mean, Peyton covered the story the last go-round! And now Isaac…”
“It looks terrible,” chimed in a third voice, Karen, the senior makeup artist and Peyton’s favorite. “I feel so badly for her.”
“Oh, come on! You think she didn’t know?” Roger asked. “Does your spouse go around breaking the law without your knowing?”
Karen laughed. “If I could keep a spouse, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.”
Peyton glanced down at her dress, which suddenly looked garish in the bright hallway lights. She took a deep breath, plastered on her bright TV smile, and swept into the room.
“Good morning, everyone!” she sang in her cheeriest voice.
“Peyton!” Karen said with surprise, as though Peyton didn’t materialize at this exact time every morning.
“Happy Monday, everyone.” She looked around conspiratorially and, lowering her voice, said, “Anyone been sexually harassed by my co-host yet today? No? Well, the day’s still young.”
The three of them laughed politely.
Peyton shivered. “Roger, how’s your mother feeling? Happy to be out of the hospital?”
Roger nodded. “Much better. Thanks for asking.”
There was a beat of silence, long enough for the unusual formality to register.
“Come, sit!” Roger said, his voice higher than normal. “I know you have a headlines meeting today, so let’s get you in and out.”
Lowering herself into her usual chair, Peyton held her breath as Roger pumped the foot pedal and raised her up.
“How was everyone’s weekend?” Peyton asked, her eyes closed so Karen could start on her lids, as she usually did. “Give me all the dirt!”
No one responded. When Peyton opened her eyes, she saw Bev carefully examining her makeup brushes while Karen organized the already neat product bottles. The only sound was from one of the television monitors mounted on the ceiling, a commercial for Downy dryer sheets.
“Gorgeous Sunday, wasn’t it?” Roger said. “I mean, when is it ever that warm in June?”
Peyton swiveled her head around. “The weather? We’re really playing it like this?”
Roger giggled but wouldn’t look at her. “I just—”
“Look, you all obviously heard about Isaac. I mean, there is probably no one left in the country who didn’t hear about Isaac,” Peyton said, finally exhaling. “Let’s stop acting so weirdly. It’s fine! I assure you, the entire thing was a giant misunderstanding, and it will all be cleared up momentarily. You don’t have to feel awkward around me!”
Roger began to spray her hair with dry shampoo as Bev dabbed a contouring brush into a tray of deep plum eye shadow.
“You’re all good, girl!” Bev said, tapping Peyton’s brows with the back of her knuckle to indicate that Peyton should close her eyes. “We don’t judge here!”
“Of course you do!” Peyton said, sounding more screechy than she intended. “That’s why I love you all!”
“Fine,” Roger said, switching on his blow-dryer. “We do judge. But not you! Or Isaac! He’s a total sweetheart. There is no possible way that man would ever—”
Roger stopped talking mid-sentence, and the room went quiet enough that Peyton’s eyes flew open.
“Sean!” she called from the chair. “Why are you creeping around there? Come in!”
“Morning, P,” he said, looking pale.
“Sorry I texted you so late last night. I couldn’t sleep, surprise, surprise. Listen, I couldn’t stop thinking about Naomi. Did she…” Peyton stopped. Why was he looking at her like that?
“Come to my office for a quick minute?” Sean said.
“Can it wait until we’re done here?” Peyton asked. “I was already a tad behind, and if they don’t get a chance to really spackle it on today, I’m going to scare the viewers.”
“Sorry, P, it, uh, can’t wait.”
Before Peyton could react, Bev, Roger, and Karen all started rushing to the door.
“I’m going to grab some coffee. You two want?” Bev asked.
Roger and Karen each murmured something indistinguishable about either a bathroom visit or another urgent errand, and in a flash, all three had vanished.
Peyton peered at Sean. His red hair was nearly the same shade as Gabe’s, but Sean wore his close-cropped and neat, trimmed every three weeks to the day. Typically, he was an immaculate dresser, but today his button-down was already wrinkled and slightly untucked, and she noticed he had day-old stubble, something she had never seen before.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “Is it Naomi?” Judging from his grave expression, Peyton worried his daughter might be sick.
He shook his head.
“My god, you look like shit. Talk to me.”
“They’re pulling you.”
“Pulling me? When? You can’t be serious. Sean, are you serious?”
“Today. I just got the call, I’m so sorry, P, you know this isn’t my—”
“Wait—like, after today’s broadcast, right?” She checked her watch. “I’m on in nineteen minutes.”
Sean looked down.
“Joseph, that bastard,” she said through gritted teeth. “He did this on purpose. Had me come all the way in….I’m dressed! Sitting for hair and makeup and now he decides to pull the plug? Is that even legal?”
“I really don’t know anything beyond what they told me, which was: she doesn’t go on today.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I think they were still in a meeting about it until minutes ago.”
“A meeting? A goddamn meeting? At four-fucking-thirty in the morning?” Peyton started to pace. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Sean looked even more pained. “I guess go home? I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon.”
“Go home?”
“I’m sorry, P. I really am. I know Isaac and—”
She covered her eyes with one hand, held the other outstretched. “Please.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger—you know what our friendship means to me, which is why I’m giving it to you straight, why I always have: This may not be fair, or even legal—I’m not an expert on that end of it—but this”—he waved his hands—“shouldn’t be surprising. You are at the center of a national…story. You’re going to have to let it play itself out for a bit.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“Peyton, you’re upset, and I get it. This show is nothing without you, and everyone knows you’re the reason ANN moved into the top slot. The rapport you and Jim have on the air—which I recognize is horseshit in real life—is impossible to replicate. I’ve got to get back to the control room now, but I’ll tell Sahara to get you a car. Call me the second the show is over, okay? Or forget it, I’ll call you. Answer your phone!” He
squeezed her shoulder, and before she could say another word, Sean was gone.
Dizzy, almost drunk, Peyton stumbled out of makeup and nearly ran into Karen, who was rounding the corner.
“Everything okay?” Karen asked.
Peyton answered only with a maniacal laugh and wobbled toward her office on the nearly five-inch heels. The digital banner clock above her desk blared the time, 4:47 a.m., and both her office and cell phone were ringing insistently.
Leave, leave, leave, she urged herself, as she cast about her office, which typically felt like a sanctuary from the mayhem but in the last thirty seconds had started to feel like a coffin. Move, move, move. She grabbed her Goyard tote, spilling the small amount of coffee still left in her cup onto the floor. No matter. Someone else could deal with that. Into the tote she threw her phone, a bottle of kombucha from her mini fridge, and the framed photo of Max and Isaac that she’d kept on her desk through every job since Max was born: in it, Max was a week old and naked, and Isaac was holding her entire body in the palms of his two hands.
She careened into the hallway, where Sahara, looking terrified, waited.
“I’ve, um, called down for a car. It’s waiting on the Fifty-first Street side, and, uh—”
Peyton ignored her and practically dove into the open elevator, where she stood facing the back wall for what felt like an endless hour until the doors blessedly shut. In the last few minutes her phone had only stopped ringing long enough for whoever was calling to redial. Digging it out of her bag, she saw that it was Kenneth.
“What the fuck is going on here?” she asked, in lieu of hello.
“Peyton, I’ve been trying to reach you for—”
“They didn’t tell me until I was in makeup! Practically in front of the entire staff! Did you know about this?”
His voice was garbled, filled with static.
“Can you hear me? Ken?” She released a long, low guttural sound—an actual growl.
The elevator opened and she hobbled out, but there was never good reception on the windowless ground floor. “GRRRRRRRRR!”
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty Page 12
