Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “I know, you’re right. About all those things.” She tilted her head. “I think the stress from the financing is bleeding into everything else. Not only are the girls and their families depending on this for the school year, but I’m depending on it to save my sanity in this town. Is that awful to say?”

  “It’s not awful at all. It’s honest, and I get it.”

  “I’m just not sure how we ended up here.”

  Gabe was quiet for a moment. “Maybe it’s time for you to go back to teaching? It didn’t make sense when Aurora was younger, but now that she’s in school for full days, and we’re done with the baby stage…”

  She felt like she’d been punched. “We’re not a hundred percent done, are we? I mean, it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that we would have another baby.”

  “We’re not?” Gabe put his spoon down.

  “I don’t know. We weren’t planning on another. But it’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Gabe said, his easy, affable laugh returning. “But that doesn’t mean it’s probable.”

  “Who knows? It could just be as easy as me going off the pill. We’ve never actually tried to get pregnant. Maybe it wouldn’t be a problem at all.”

  “Honey.” Gabe’s voice was low, soothing. Like he was talking down an agitated toddler. “We’ve always agreed that neither of us felt the need for biological children, what with how many kids are already out there who need families. Has something changed for you?”

  Skye considered this. Her commitment to adoption as the right answer for their family hadn’t changed—they both felt so strongly about adopting a child in need rather than having their own—but she couldn’t help feeling the baby pangs. Maybe it was hormones? The dwindling fertility that came with turning forty? Or the sadness of realizing that an entire phase of parenthood was behind them, never to return again. Gabe was an only child, so it had always seemed natural to him, but Skye often wondered if they were doing her a disservice by not giving her a sibling. Whenever she brought it up, Gabe assured her that their love and attention was all Aurora needed, that their family was perfect the way it was, and for the most part Skye agreed.

  “Nothing’s changed,” she said, although she wasn’t sure. “I…I can’t believe our baby is almost seven. It doesn’t feel real.”

  Later that night, after they’d made love and Gabe’s breathing had softened to a steady, quiet snore, Skye thought back on the night. Was her recent baby fever nothing more than anxiety over Aurora growing up? Or was it her body telling her that yes, maybe they should try, that they weren’t actually finished yet, that their family wasn’t complete? To fill the void that she couldn’t possibly fill with the PTA and the Girl Scouts? Despite her policy never to surf in the middle of the night, she pulled out her phone. A text notification from Esther on her lock screen read: Ugh, just read the email. I’m so, so sorry. Mourn tonight, back to work tomorrow!

  Instantly a dull thudding started in her chest. Skye shivered as she opened her email and held her breath as she clicked open the email from Henry, her investor. Her eyes scanned so quickly that she missed whole sentences, but it didn’t take long to get the gist. Due to the current legal situation with Skye’s family…no longer moving forward…the appearance of impropriety…unfortunate circumstances…too risky at the present time.

  Her hands were shaking and hot tears fell from her face. She read and reread the email, hoping that she’d missed something the first time, but it was all right there, in writing. Over. All her hard work, for nothing. And worst of all, eight families whose dreams she would now have to shatter.

  16

  Character Clause

  The row of Town Cars outside of Hudson Yards stretched more than a block long, waiting to deposit their well-dressed couples at the red carpet. Peyton examined them all as her own car inched forward. There were Mika and Joe, in coordinating black suits, and Rachel Maddow in a dapper tuxedo, and that blowhard from Fox whose name she could never remember with his WASPy-looking wife, and Anderson Cooper with Andy Cohen as his date for the evening. There were at least a dozen other anchors, and Peyton had to remind herself that after forty years in the business, Joseph, the network head of ANN, knew everyone. She was still reeling from Skye’s call earlier that morning, telling her that Henry had yanked the funding; her sister was devastated, and Peyton was nauseated by it. She had to figure out a way to help—she would straight-up hand her sister the money if she had it—but she felt horribly responsible for this unexpected ripple effect of misery. When it was finally her turn to climb out of the car, Peyton’s anxiety spiked even more: she desperately wished Isaac were with her. But she took a deep breath and talked herself down: She went to work events alone all the time. She could make conversation with a piece of furniture. And most importantly, she looked freaking amazing in her borrowed McQueen dress, which had a black corset covered with a hundred tiny red rosettes and a full, floor-length skirt that was adorned with small, silver…what? Brackets? Studs? Some sort of hardware that sounded awful in description but in reality made the dress look like the perfect juxtaposition of European princess and Hollywood glam.

  Three young women she knew from ANN’s PR department were waiting outside the door with clipboards and earpieces, and each turned to watch Peyton walk the carpet. There were no paparazzi—this was still a media party, after all—but Peyton, with the designer dress and the splurge-worthy Louboutins and the random passersby all turning to stare, felt like she was headed into the Met Ball. She would show all of them! It had been one week off-air, and it was enough already. The paps had long left their New York apartment, the news cycle had moved on to cover the latest Supreme Court drama, and even Kenneth, when pressed by Peyton, conceded there was a chance—however slight—that Joseph would confirm her return to the show at the party that evening. Why else would her invitation remain both extended and encouraged? she’d asked. She was still part of the team, an indispensable part. It would be proven tonight, she hoped, when her exhausting daily calls with Kenneth, Nisha, and Isaac’s attorney would all be worth it. She’d return to her rightful seat at the anchor desk, and she could focus one hundred percent of her efforts on continuing to needle, beg, and persuade Princeton to change their mind. Thrusting her shoulders back, Peyton reminded herself to smile, to laugh, to radiate confidence. To show no weakness. She strolled the carpet like she was head of network and waved to the PR girls.

  “Have a wonderful night, Peyton,” one of them said as she held the elevator door open.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling.

  The momentary respite of the quiet elevator was shattered the instant the doors opened on the fifth floor.

  “Well, look who it is!” Jim boomed, taking a giant slug of his cranberry-colored cocktail. “Gentlemen, please excuse me.”

  Don’t worry, they’re thrilled to get rid of you, Peyton thought.

  “Well, don’t you look gorgeous,” he drawled, putting both his hands directly on her hips, something Peyton—and all women—hated. “Very fashionable.”

  “Thanks, Jim. You look nice yourself.”

  “I’m glad you showed up, P. It’s a real classy move, I have to say.”

  “Showed up? To our boss’s sixtieth birthday party? That we’ve known about for five months?”

  “Well, you know, with everything…”

  They faced each other silently. Finally, Jim grinned, leaned in close enough that Peyton could smell the booze on his breath, and said, “Tell Isaac we’re all supporting him. I mean, we certainly can’t say so on air, but I challenge you to find me one person in this room who wouldn’t do anything to help their kid. Am I right?”

  Peyton furrowed her brow. Was Jim being supportive? Or a dick? It was so hard to tell. “Thanks, Jim.”

  “That said, you better be really careful. Not everyone here is as understanding of your�
�predicament as I am.”

  Dick. She should have known.

  “Time for a cocktail, Jim. I’ll see you soon,” she said, and bolted.

  Thankfully, Sean and his husband, Booker, were chatting at the bar. Sean whistled when he saw her. “Gorge. Like seriously, A-list, top-of-the-line, cliché-worthy hot,” he announced.

  “Agreed,” Booker said. “That dress! McQueen?”

  Peyton kissed each of their cheeks. A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne flutes, and she took one.

  “Thank you both. Jim just made some veiled threat. Or maybe it was a warning? I, for one, think viewers are sophisticated enough to understand my husband and I are actually two separate beings. Apparently Jim does not.” She drained her champagne.

  Sean gave her a weird look.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Sean and Booker exchanged a glance, and Booker said, “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit,” before practically running away.

  “What was that all about?” Peyton asked.

  Sean coughed. He looked uncomfortable.

  “What? Tell me!”

  He exhaled. “Look, P, I don’t want you to think that this has been some sort of discussion at work, or something formal, or anything like that. It’s just me, as your friend, looking out for you. As a friend.”

  “Okaaaay.” Peyton’s throat constricted just the smallest bit: Sean wasn’t just a friend, he was her work husband. If something was going on behind the scenes, he needed to provide all the details.

  “Look, this is totally off the record, but I think you should know that there’s been talk….”

  “What kind of talk?”

  Sean glanced around. “The kind that says the network may not cycle through this…hiatus as quickly as we’d hoped. And…”

  “Please continue.”

  “And they may want you to take a little time.”

  “A little time? I took a little time.”

  “More than a week.”

  “They can’t do that. I have a contract!”

  Sean gave her a pointed look.

  “Well, don’t I? My ratings for the last six months are higher than ever, they can hardly claim it’s performance based….”

  Sean cleared his throat. “Look, I’m only the EP and certainly not privy to the conversations taking place on the twenty-second floor. As far as I know, nothing’s been decided. But I thought you’d want to know what I’d heard.”

  Peyton nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Sean held out his hand. “Come on, let’s put in some face time so we can get out of here as fast as possible.”

  Peyton took it and squeezed. “Thanks for telling me. A lot of people wouldn’t have had the nerve.”

  Sean led her straight to the host’s table, where Joseph was holding court. An inappropriately young model hung on his arm.

  “There she is!” Joseph called out. His tuxedo somehow shimmered. His smile was somewhere between benevolent and leering, and as usual, Peyton couldn’t decide if he was a brilliant, supportive mentor or a closeted sexual predator with a predilection for teenage girls. “My favorite morning person! Darling, do you need another drink?” He turned toward a bow-tied waiter and made a motion with his hand.

  “Happy birthday,” Peyton said, leaning in to kiss Joseph on his itchy gray beard. “What a spectacular party! I love this space. Hudson Yards got so much flak in the beginning, but I really think it’s come into its own. Don’t you?” Peyton knew she was rambling, but it’s what she did in awkward social situations, and mostly, people were appreciative. Joseph, however, merely gave her a grin that could have meant “I adore you for making such an effort at my party” or “I’m a pervert at heart who can’t be rehabilitated.”

  Joseph shook off the gorgeous young thing who was clinging to his arm like a barnacle.

  “Peyton, let’s take a walk,” Joseph said, ignoring Sean. He navigated his way around the table without spilling a drop of his martini, and Peyton marveled: he was sober. Totally sober, completely in control, and, judging from his completely inscrutable expression, either going to fire her, promote her, or molest her.

  “Everything okay?” Peyton forced herself to ask. It was better to get this over with; the not knowing was torture.

  “Fine, fine, darling. It’s just that—how do I say this?” Joseph stopped walking, not seeming to notice that the crowd had parted and collectively moved backward, creating a ring of space around them both. No one could hear what he was saying over the music, but she prayed there weren’t any lip-readers in the room.

  “You’re scaring me,” Peyton laughed, and it sounded hollow, and terrified, to her own ears.

  “I’m going to be direct here. Your husband is fucking up our optics.” He raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, my husband is…”

  “It’s a cluster fuck, Peyton. Look, any remotely intelligent human being understands that these things happen. He didn’t kill anyone, I get that. But the rest of America is not pleased that their morning sunshine is married to a felon.”

  Peyton felt like she’d been sucker punched. No one had dared use that word yet. Isaac wasn’t a felon—he was the guy who had an endless supply of cringe-worthy dad jokes. Who didn’t ever remember to match his belt to his shoes. Who wrote her sappy, singing cards on her birthday.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. But certainly you know that I’m still the same person, Joseph. And I think our viewers understand that, too.”

  “Oh, cut the horseshit, Peyton. That mom in Kansas who tunes in every morning to see the smart and sassy Peyton Marcus now sees a woman who talks to a convict in an orange jumpsuit through a plexiglass wall.”

  “Joseph, nobody is in jail. I don’t think that—”

  He cut her off. “Look, you know how I feel about you. How everyone feels about you. You’re primed for prime time, love. You’re on the short list. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I want our audience talking about how you nailed the coverage on the school admissions scandal, not about how your hubby bought your kid’s way into school. You understand?”

  Peyton stared, too shocked to speak. She could feel the mounting sense of dread wash like a cold wave across her neck and arms.

  “The summer, that’s it. Take the rest of the summer, go to the Hamptons, rest and relax. You’ll be back, better than ever, in the fall, and this will have all blown over by then.”

  “The entire summer?” Peyton knew she’d been reduced to a bumbling idiot, but even with Sean’s warning, she felt blindsided. Joseph couldn’t have known—or cared—that she was already commuting from Paradise, and this wasn’t really about location: she could barely process that he planned to bench her for the next six weeks.

  “Exactly,” Joseph said, smiling. “A little break will be good for everyone.”

  Suddenly the shifting landscape started to solidify. A “break” was the first step toward something more permanent. Morning anchors with massive ratings didn’t take sabbaticals. Hell, they rarely even took sick days. Come to think of it, happily married couples also didn’t take “breaks” either, regardless of how their crisis managers—or husbands—framed them. The sinking feeling in her stomach was starting to intensify, like she was on the downward curve of a too-steep coaster. This was horrible, all of it. She forced a deep breath and stepped closer to Joseph.

  “Joseph, I appreciate your looking out for my mental health and well-being, I really do. But let me be the first to assure you. I’m fine. I’ve got this. You’ve known me long enough now to know that the last thing I need or want is a summer off. I have some great ideas for the type of human-interest segments we discussed in our last meeting, and I’m in the process of compiling a comprehensive list of experts with good on-air personalities who can take us through
each one of them.”

  He stroked his beard dreamily, and Peyton wondered if he was listening. But then Joseph leaned in close enough that she could smell his cologne and said, “Peyton, sweetheart. Let me be a touch more transparent: your needs and wants are not, at this moment, my primary concern. This leave of absence is not optional. Now go, enjoy the party. Did you try the mini lobster rolls? Flown in fresh from Maine this morning!” He offered her a little salute as he floated away, and Peyton didn’t know which felt worse, her cold, clammy dread or her seething hatred for the man who controlled her future.

  * * *

  —

  “To Paradise, please,” she told her driver as she scrambled into the backseat, yanking her studded skirt with her.

  “Then, into her phone: “Nisha? It’s me.”

  “Peyton. Wait—hold on one second.” A baby wailed in the background.

  “I’m sorry. You must be right in the middle of bedtime. We can talk later if—”

  “It’s perfect timing! I’m in my office. My nanny brought the baby here to nurse because I couldn’t get home in time. What’s up?”

  Peyton breathlessly explained what had transpired at the party. “That can’t be allowed, can it?”

  Nisha sighed. “Obviously I haven’t seen your contract, and I’m not an entertainment lawyer, but I would imagine that the network left a few loopholes for situations that arise. They can claim just about anything—likely they’d invoke the character clause if you tried to fight it—but of course you won’t fight this if you want to keep your job.”

  “Character clause? Are they allowed to do that? Invoke that for something, um, Isaac did?”

  “I know this is terrible, P, I really do.” She paused for a moment. “We’ve known each other a really long time, and whatever happened—however this all went down—I’m sure neither you nor Isaac ever expected it would look like this. You’re both good people. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s especially hard that yours—and that’s the collective ‘you’ I’m using—has to get played out in the court of public opinion.”