Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  Even harder than being strong was hearing the concern in Nisha’s voice. It was an odd but welcome relief. Nisha wasn’t exonerating her, not at all, but this was the very first time anyone close to her had shown even the smallest hint of understanding. What Peyton had done was morally and ethically inexcusable, possibly even unforgivable for what it was doing to the people she loved most. Given the chance for a do-over now, she never, ever would have made the same stupid decision. But she couldn’t go back, so now more than ever she needed to start working on a plan to make it right.

  The baby started to scream again. Peyton thanked Nisha profusely and told her she would call her back the following day. She immediately dialed Kenneth, but her call went straight to voicemail. She tried Isaac, but he didn’t answer either.

  The driver was about to turn onto the FDR so he could take the Midtown Tunnel, when Peyton said, “You know what? On second thought, I’m going to go to Seventy-sixth and Park. Thanks.”

  The car pulled up to her building, and Peter opened the car door. His eyes widened in surprise. “Mrs. Marcus,” he stated.

  “Thank you, Peter,” Peyton said breezily, as though she weren’t sneaking into her own building. She climbed out of the backseat, careful not to wrinkle or rip the Alexander McQueen dress, and headed directly for the elevator. She paused for a moment when the doors opened on her floor. Why hadn’t Isaac answered her call? There was no way he was sleeping already—it wasn’t even nine. Did he have friends over? A woman? Peyton shook the thought away, knowing it wasn’t true, but she couldn’t bring herself to type the code into the keypad. She knocked.

  The footsteps she heard were Isaac’s—she could tell he was wearing his old Adidas slides by the noise they made on the hardwood floor.

  “Who is it?” he asked, but the door swung open before she could respond. “Peyton?”

  She was relieved to see that he was wearing his usual summer pajamas—orange Princeton sweat shorts and a plain white undershirt—and holding the remote in his hand. “Hi. Can I, uh, come in?”

  Immediately he stepped back and opened the door wide, motioning for her to enter, but Peyton was certain she could see something else in his expression.

  “Why didn’t you call?” he asked, embracing her briefly and kissing her on the cheek, like she was a friend’s wife and not his own.

  “I did,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “You screened me.”

  He didn’t confirm or deny this. Peyton suddenly felt aware of the dampness under her arms.

  “That’s quite the dress.” He sounded noncommittal, aloof. So different from her Isaac, the one she often thought of as golden retriever–like in his general enthusiasm for life.

  “Tonight was Joseph’s birthday party,” she said, as though she hadn’t told him a half-dozen times over the phone.

  They walked into the kitchen. She could hear John Oliver’s voice coming from the TV in the living room and felt a momentary wash of relief that at least this, Isaac’s favorite show, had stayed the same.

  He pulled a chilled bottle of water from the fridge, carbonated it in the countertop machine, and poured himself a glass over ice. “Want some?” he asked.

  Peyton shook her head. He knew she hated seltzer. Had he already forgotten? Although she would have sworn a hundred times in a thousand ways that it was impossible at this point in their relationship to share an awkward silence, there it was.

  She stared at the kitchen floor.

  He studied the wall.

  “Sorry to, um, just stop by like this, but I wanted to tell you in person that I’ll be taking a leave from work the rest of the summer.”

  His eyes darted to hers. “Why would you do that?” he asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

  “It wasn’t my decision.”

  “Christ.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Here I am, taking the fall for an absolutely asinine decision you made against my advice—all to save your career—and now you’re taking a leave of absence?”

  “I didn’t choose this. Joseph told me in no uncertain terms that all the media attention surrounding your—our—situation isn’t good for the show’s ‘optics.’ He ordered me to lie low this summer and reassured me that I can come back as soon as it all blows over.”

  Finally, Isaac raised his gaze to meet hers. They’d only been apart a week, but he looked like he’d aged years. He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure if you’re in denial or what, but we need to be straight about something: this is not going to just ‘blow over.’ I am likely going to serve a jail sentence. Our daughter has been kicked out of college before she even had a chance to matriculate. Now, despite both our efforts to save it, it looks like your career is in serious jeopardy, and with it, our financial stability.”

  “We have enough saved to get through the summer!” Peyton cried. Her determination to remain strong was slipping away.

  “We do, yes. But after that? What if this isn’t a temporary leave? What if you can’t move to another network? You know how mortgaged we are now, how high our expenses are! Everything is dependent on your salary. I’m not saying this to make you feel worse, but we need to talk in real terms here.”

  The tears surprised her as much as they obviously shocked Isaac. Peyton almost never cried. But that night, standing in her own kitchen next to her husband who suddenly felt like a stranger, she couldn’t stop the surge of emotion, the guilt and sorrow all rolled into a painful ball deep in her throat.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “So, so sorry.”

  “What were you thinking?” Isaac asked. “I don’t understand—you’re so much smarter than this.”

  Peyton shook her head. “I know now how wrong it was, on every level.”

  “Yes, but why didn’t you know then? We talked about it! You covered this story when the first go-round happened two years ago. Why on earth wouldn’t you think the same rules—and consequences—applied to us, too?”

  “I wasn’t thinking! Or I was thinking about it all wrong. Here was this man, someone the producers vetted to come onto the show to discuss his widely acclaimed book, and he was offering us an edge. That’s all I saw it as—a little push. My god, there’s a girl in Max’s grade whose family hired an ex–professional water polo player from Russia and installed him in his own studio apartment in their building so he’d be available for on-call, twenty-four/seven training sessions. For four years! And all this reputable expert on college admissions wanted us to do was write a check to charity and he’d put in a good word with his friend, a trustee. You can’t tell me that everything isn’t done through personal connections: city private school admissions, internships, finance jobs. I convinced myself that this was the same thing.”

  “Well, obviously it’s not. Legally, ethically, or otherwise. It’s totally different.”

  “I know,” Peyton whispered, and for the first time, she did. Her tears started again. “I know you must think this is all an extension of my Ivy obsession, but you have to believe me when I tell you that I was blinded by wanting to help Max.”

  “But Max didn’t need—”

  “I see that, too. But I couldn’t then. She struggled in high school. Not academically, of course, but to find her place, to fit in. I know that was partially our fault too, by forcing her to go to Milford, but it’s hard to turn down the finest private school in the city when they want your kid. And I…I just kept thinking back to how it felt when I realized all my friends were leaving for big, beautiful campuses, all over the country, ready to start their lives, and I’d be staying behind, in town, because I hadn’t taken school seriously.”

  Isaac opened his mouth, but Peyton held up her hand. “I see now how unfair it is to put my childhood baggage on Max. She’s a great kid, and she had the brightest future before I stepped in and screwed it all up for her. And you.”

  “She still
does have a bright future. Not at Princeton, certainly, but that never really mattered to her in the first place. The only thing Max needs from you is unconditional love. That’s it. For you, her mother, the most important person in her world, to see who she is and to love her for it. Where she gets her degree…in the grand scheme of life, as you and I both know, it’s irrelevant. It’s about family, about sticking together, about loving each other.”

  “But…it’s not just about Max. I do think she’s going to be okay, in spite of everything I’ve done to screw it up for her. But what about for you? I know we agreed that it’s the quote-unquote ‘smart move’ for you to take the hit for this, but I can’t stand it! And not just what the media is saying, but our friends, our family! It makes me literally sick to my stomach that any of them would think you were capable of something like this. Your job, too. All for what? Preserving my career? How is that fair?”

  “It’s not fair. But it’s our only choice. It’s the right choice for our family. One day, not long from now, when we both decide the timing is right, we’re going to tell Max the truth about what happened. The one thing I can’t live with is lying to our daughter.”

  Peyton nodded. “I agree a hundred percent.” She was terrified of the idea—her relationship with Max was already fraught—but she wouldn’t let Isaac take the fall with their daughter. The mere thought of Max’s reaction to that development sent her into gasping sobs.

  Isaac stood and walked to her, his arms outstretched, and she fell into him like he was the last safe place on earth. It wasn’t until he wrapped himself around her that she realized it was the first physical contact they’d shared since before that hellish day of his arrest.

  “Shhhhh,” he murmured, the way he used to when Max skinned a knee. “We’re going to have to figure out a way forward through this.”

  “You mean together, right? Please tell me you mean together. I know this separation was supposed to be in name only, strictly for appearances, but it’s morphed into something real, and that scares me. It scares me so much. I don’t want—” Her voice broke, and she didn’t think she could finish, but she took a deep breath: “I don’t want to lose you.”

  His silence frightened her, maybe more than she’d ever been frightened before, but she exhaled when he said, “We’ll get through this. Together. Because we have no choice.”

  His arms around her felt warm and strong and safe. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, felt a dizzying joy when his familiar mouth yielded so easily into her own. Peyton was still crying as their mouths found each other, and it quickly grew more urgent, but then Isaac pulled away.

  “No,” he said.

  A wave of panic washed over Peyton. Never, ever had he refused her. She pulled away and looked at him, trying to hide her own surprise.

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Okay, of course, I understand,” she said, and she did. She missed him desperately, wanted nothing more than to lie next him in their bed, to fall asleep beside him. But she understood.

  Once again she stood on her tiptoes and tenderly pressed his upper lip between her own. “I’ll wait for you as long as I have to.”

  This time it was Isaac who nodded, looking too emotional to respond.

  “And not only that, but I’m going to fix this. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to make this better…for all of us.”

  Isaac looked at her, his face questioning, but he didn’t say anything else before he walked out of the room.

  Peyton watched him as he left, and prayed to the universe that she hadn’t ruined the very best thing in her life.

  17

  Like a Psycho

  Max stumbled into the cottage’s kitchen at 6:45 a.m. and found her mother curled up in one of the old wicker chairs, sipping coffee in a silk robe, ANN playing on the television.

  “Morning,” Max mumbled. She headed straight for the Keurig.

  “Hi, honey,” her mother said mindlessly, her eyes fixed on the television, where some smoking-hot woman was sitting in her mother’s usual anchor chair, and that repulsive co-anchor of hers was leering at her in the grossest possible way.

  “Mom, it’s been over a week. Why do you watch? Isn’t it torture?”

  “Sure is,” her mother murmured. She sipped her coffee and turned back to Max. “What’s your schedule today, sweetheart?”

  “Can we please lay off the questions until I’ve had one cup of coffee?” Max said.

  Her mom rinsed her cup in the sink. “I’m going to be meeting with a few local women who—” She stopped mid-sentence when the show returned from commercial break and Jim’s voice sounded like it was being piped directly into their kitchen.

  “We’re lucky enough to have an incredibly accomplished and gorgeous—am I allowed to say ‘gorgeous’?” he said. “Well, I hope so, because that’s exactly what she is, gorgeous. An accomplished and gorgeous guest who will be joining us to shed light on the stress caused by cyberbullying.”

  Max filled her cereal bowl and sat down next to her mother at the floral banquette. “Does it bother you that he objectifies women like that?” she asked, chewing a huge spoonful of granola.

  “Yes, it most certainly does. He’s a chauvinist pig, the very worst kind of good-old-boy media type for whom Me Too simply doesn’t apply. While I find him unpleasant to work with, at least he doesn’t hold any real power or influence over me. I’m far enough along in my career that I feel confident enough to brush him off. But I often think of the younger women who work on the show—many not much older than you. I’m sure I don’t even know half the ways he’s vile and possibly predatory toward them, but what I do see enrages me.”

  Max considered this. It was interesting to hear her mother talk like this: the woman was usually so focused on flowers and fitness. “So what can be done? Don’t you have to do something?”

  Peyton smiled at her daughter. “Yes, of course, we all do. I’ll continue to report any incidents I see to upper management. I’ll continue to mentor the young women in our offices, give them guidance and support for how to deal with male superiors like Jim. But so much of this is going to be on you—your generation, coming of age in this new and exciting time when women can finally demand what they deserve. That’s where you come in.”

  Max took a sip of her coffee. “I’m guessing you had to deal with a lot of Jims in your career,” she said.

  Her mom appeared to think about this. “Not so many, thankfully, but enough. You’ll have to as well, regardless of what field you go into. But hopefully they’ll be fewer and farther between, and the world will have continued to shift in the right direction.” Her mom paused. “I know it doesn’t feel this way, particularly now, in light of everything—but I’m so excited for your future. Whatever direction you choose to take it, I hope you’ll let me stand by your side, cheering you on.”

  “Sure, Mom,” Max said automatically, before getting up to refill her coffee. But as she stood at the machine, her mother’s words reverberated. For the first time in as long as Max could remember, her mom had said something authentically supportive. She smiled to herself.

  “I’m going to jump in the shower,” her mom said. She leaned over and kissed Max on the cheek. “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you, too.”

  The warmth from the chat didn’t last long. All it took was Max flopping back down at the table and reflexively opening Instagram to send her into an anxious spiral. Her classmates’ usual pictures had shifted into summer mode: all Hamptons, all the time. At the old-school Carvel on Route 27 upon arrival. Hitting up Drybar in Bridgehampton. SoulCycle in East. Intermix in South. The Hampton Coffee Company in Water Mill. Golf courses, tennis courts, riding stables. Polo. So much polo. Swim clubs. Wine tastings at Wölffer despite the fact that no one was legal. At the beach in string bikinis. At the beach in thong bikinis. At the beach in
$450 lemlem cover-ups. At the beach for a bonfire party. Max only knew one person in her entire class, Brandon Simmons, who was working an actual paying job, if one could reasonably call giving sailing lessons at the Southampton Yacht Club an actual paying job. And come end of summer, each of them would be packing their bags and heading to dorms all across the country—but mostly in the Northeast—where they’d begin the best four-year adventure of their lives. And she would be scooping ice cream.

  There was a knock at the front door.

  “Anyone here?” she heard Skye call out. She let her aunt in.

  “You look totally beautiful!” Max told her. Skye was wearing a pair of baggy linen pants that were cinched at the waist, a tight white ribbed tank, a tangle of super cool beaded necklaces, and a pair of beat-up Birkenstocks. Her tan skin literally glowed and her brown hair fell in the most amazing beachy waves down her back. And best of all, she wore no makeup. She was basically Max’s hero.

  “Ugh, I just can’t,” Skye said, running a hand through her waves as she followed Max into the kitchen. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s upstairs, supposedly taking a shower,” Max said. “But I suspect she’s actually watching her show. Her ex-show. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s a wreck. She doesn’t get dressed anymore. Like, leggings-all-day-long type of situation. She’s eating ice cream right from the container. Not drying her hair. Watching that damn show every single morning. It’s like she’s grieving. I feel badly for her, but I don’t know what to do.”

  Skye furrowed her brow. “Moping is not very your mother.”

  “Since that party where they canned her, for the summer, she’s barely left the house,” Max said, holding up a mug in question toward Skye, who nodded.