Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  “Peyton,” she said. “Wonderful to see you. How’s Isaac managing?”

  Peyton appreciated the directness. Most people had no idea what to say.

  “He’s taking it one day at a time,” Peyton said, as though they were talking about cancer.

  Dr. Bittman nodded. “And you? I haven’t seen you on TV for a bit now. Everything okay there?”

  Peyton clenched her jaws, no longer enjoying their little chitchat.

  “Fine, thanks so much. Just taking a little breather. It was my choice. I’ve barely taken any time off, so…” Stop talking! Peyton silently urged herself. Stop being so defensive!

  Dr. Bittman got the message. “Great. What brings you in today?”

  “Oh, just a little touch-up on the Botox, please. I’m afraid I’ve let it go too long this time.”

  Dr. Bittman slid next to her on the couch and produced an intensely bright light from the pocket of her pantsuit. She shone it directly on Peyton’s face.

  “Mmm,” the doctor said softly. “Yes.”

  “Let’s maybe do the same as last time? The forehead, the eleven, and the crow’s feet? I was happy with that.”

  Dr. Bittman was quiet. She squinted a bit more and said, “The Botox is a given. But I do think you’re ready for something a bit more…potent.”

  “What’s more potent than botulinum toxin?” Peyton asked.

  Not a hint of a smile from Bittman. Instead, she outlined Peyton’s jaw with her fingertips. “It’s not uncommon in my forty-something patients to see their jawlines slackening and their skin developing that crepey look. You have some darker-than-normal discoloration under your eyes and some fine lines and sunspots.”

  “What do you recommend?” Peyton asked, desperately wanting to know and not wanting to know.

  “A PRP facial.”

  “A what?”

  “It stands for ‘platelet-rich plasma’ and it’s the gold standard when it comes to increasing collagen production and skin elasticity. It will also reduce your fine lines and wrinkles and add volume where you need it. Colloquially called a vampire facial. I’ve been recommending them to all my patients over forty.”

  Peyton inhaled. “I’m not forty yet.”

  “It’s a simple, in-office procedure. We’ve had terrific results.”

  “What kind of plasma is it?” Peyton asked.

  Dr. Bittman frowned. “Your own. We draw blood from your arm and then use a centrifuge to separate out the platelet-rich plasma. Then we apply that to your face, and it works its magic. It’s like liquid gold.”

  “I, uh, don’t really like the sight of blood, especially my own. I’m not sure I could have it smeared all over my—”

  “We don’t smear anything. We use a micro-needling technique to get it under the skin, really allow it to soak in.”

  “Needles all over my face?”

  “If you can handle Botox, you can handle this. We’ll get you good and numbed. Monique will massage your feet during the procedure. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  It was all starting to sound a lot like the last treatment that Dr. Bittman insisted was imperative, some sort of facial laser. The doctor had promised—and provided—numbing and massage with that procedure too, but Peyton could still recall the exact sensation of having her face blasted by something that felt like a hot glue gun. The so-called anesthetic cream had been as effective at numbing her pain as a layer of freshly applied peanut butter.

  “And the downtime? What will that look like?”

  “A touch of redness and swelling at the time of injection. Perhaps some dryness and peeling a week later. That’s it. It’s nothing.”

  Peyton snorted. “That’s what you told me when I did the IPL.”

  “And?”

  “And it looked like I had full-blown syphilis for three weeks.”

  Dr. Bittman didn’t deny this. “Was it worth it?”

  “Yes,” Peyton said, with no hesitation. Every freckle, sunspot, red spot, brown spot—every tiny little skin imperfection or discoloration—had slowly grown darker and darker and darker. During that time, makeup artists at ANN would only use disposable application brushes. Isaac had wanted to book her an appointment with an infectious disease specialist. But then, slowly, the dark spots started flaking off, and within a week every single one was gone. Vanished! Like a cosmetic fairy had descended from the heavens and waved a giant magic eraser across Peyton’s face. She looked flawless. Eventually it all came back, and faster than she might have hoped, but for those glorious few months, Peyton knew what it felt like to attain the unattainable. She felt a wave of something like nostalgia: how long ago was it when she dealt with her so-called problems on air by looking better, tighter, younger? Now it all felt so empty, and not just empty, but hopeless and ridiculous, too. The despair came at her like a shovel: swift, surprising, almost physical. She inhaled sharply, all too aware of her new reality, and how absurdly she was behaving.

  “Well?” Dr. Bittman asked.

  “I’m in,” Peyton said, sticking out her right arm. She took another breath, trying not to cry. “Take whatever you need.”

  * * *

  —

  Hi. Going to swing by apt to shower before meeting the TV Moms for dinner. Ok by you? Any chance we can have a drink afterward?

  It felt strange to be texting Isaac like he was a new boyfriend instead of her long-married spouse, but it felt even stranger to show up unannounced and unexpected in her own home.

  He didn’t respond, which left Peyton sitting in her own lobby, wondering what to do. She’d give it five minutes, she decided, and then go up. When she hadn’t heard back from him after fifteen, and the new night doorman eyed her suspiciously, Peyton stepped into the mirrored elevator. Her hair still looked great with its fresh color and blowout, but predictably, her face was starting to swell.

  There was no response to her first doorbell ring or her second, and when she finally unlocked the door, she had the odd sensation of being both panicked and relieved to find the apartment darkened and empty. She’d been hopeful that that night in New York, after Joseph’s party, would have changed something between Isaac and her. If not fixed, then at least softened. But as soon as she’d awakened the next morning, he’d encouraged her to return to Paradise for Max, and the strange, emotional distance they’d been keeping between them returned. How weird was it to stand in your own home and not have any clue where your husband was? Again she shivered, hugging her arms tight to her chest.

  She was looking forward to seeing her TV Mom friends that night. Over the past few weeks they’d been quieter than usual, to the point where Peyton wondered if they hadn’t set up a side group without her. Eventually, all had offered some version of a supportive message, but they’d felt a little forced, a bit half-hearted at best. Dinner with the girls was exactly what the doctor ordered: they would bitch and laugh and gossip, confess and cry, and start all over again. How long had it been since she’d seen them? More than a month, she figured, doing the math. Certainly before the whole situation, as she’d taken to thinking of it. She’d had to push hard to get everyone to commit to dinner that night, especially considering that these women would usually do just about anything to escape their husbands and children.

  She made her way to the kitchen, and her phone pinged.

  Sorry this is so last minute but Roger has to stay late at work tonight. Have fun without me!

  Peyton felt a flash of irritation. Renee employed not only a full-time nanny whose sole responsibility was caring for one four-year-old child, but also a round-the-clock baby nurse to “tend to” their three-month-old. In what universe did it matter if her husband was going to stay at work or fly to Bangladesh?

  Whatever. Renee’s compulsive addiction to childcare staff wasn’t going to ruin the night; the remaining four of them would still have fun. />
  She replied a We’ll miss you! and pulled a Diet Coke from the fridge. Should she try Max? Check in and make sure she was okay? Was that caring or smothering? Helicoptering or appropriate? As she mentally debated this, the next cancellation text popped up.

  Ugh, so sorry. Crisis at work. Must deal. Will meet up later if anyone still out. xx

  Peyton stared at her phone on the bathroom sink. Kate was a jewelry designer with her own boutique on Madison Avenue. What kind of crisis, exactly? A broken clasp? But whatever, drinks for three was way more intimate, and the two women she liked the most were still in. Peyton headed to the master bath and began filling the tub.

  Her phone pinged again.

  Don’t kill me but I’m out too. Four girls in Harper’s camp group have LICE! Suddenly so itchy. I have the lice lady coming to check us all as soon as she can get here. Love you guys and sorry to miss.

  Marianne and Peyton knew each other from their stints as pages at NBC and had kept in touch all these years. At some point post-kids Marianne had given up anchoring and pursued a career as a segment producer at The View. Not even lice, merely the possibility of lice? This had to be some kind of joke.

  Dina, the last holdout, texted almost immediately, this time only to Peyton: Hey! Looks like we are last ones standing. Rain check? #exhausted #stressed #neednetflix

  Peyton stared at her phone. Exhausted? Hadn’t Dina just returned from a weeklong junket sans kids to the new luxury meditation spa in Northern California? What, exactly, was she so stressed about?

  Of course! Loving the idea of a night in too. xx

  Sighing, she trudged to the wine fridge, filled a massive water glass with rosé and some ice cubes, and headed back to the bathroom. Taking extreme care not to splash any water on her face, Peyton slowly submerged herself into the steaming water. Exhaling, she dried her hands on a washcloth and texted Max what she hoped was a casual Hello, how are you, did you find the salmon I left for you in the fridge?

  Peyton took a giant slug of her wine. This cancellation wasn’t a coincidence, it was coordination. She texted Skye:

  City mom friends all just canceled on me super last minute. It’s me, isn’t it? They don’t want to be seen with me now?

  She waited for a response, but none came. She texted Isaac again, two question marks this time, but nothing. Polishing off her rosé, she debated what to do.

  She added more hot water, scalding really, and groaned. Nothing, nothing, felt as good as the oversized soaking tub in her city apartment. She wore a terry-lined shower cap to protect her new blowout and kept the tub level lower than usual to reduce the chance that any moisture would dilute the potency of her freshly plasma’d face.

  What had she done? The apartment was empty, her phone was silent, and everyone else was getting on with their lives. Even Max, the most innocent victim in all of this, was doing her best to forge forward amidst impossible circumstances. How had she misjudged so badly? Acted so recklessly?

  She remembered, clear as day, the night after the discussion about the college fixer, after Isaac had told her—unequivocally—that it was a bad idea. That they’d gone home from the restaurant and made love, their conversation about the fixer all but forgotten. It stayed forgotten for weeks—months, even?—until Peyton got an email from Max’s guidance counselor about college tours, and the whole thing sent her into a tailspin of panic and anxiety. Even back then Max had occasionally murmured questions about why college was absolutely necessary. She wanted to go to film school. Travel the world. Take a gap year, which any sane person could see would significantly reduce the chance that her daughter ever made it back to a college campus. Suddenly, with that one email, Peyton was thrown back to Max’s entire childhood, and her own. The hoops they’d jumped through to get Max into the “right” preschool. The classes, courses, tutors, coaches, extracurriculars, volunteer opportunities, camps, trips, and lessons they’d endlessly researched and debated, trying to choose exactly the “right” things for their daughter. The memories of that fateful day, twenty-two years earlier, when seventeen-year-old Peyton had opened her seventh—and final—college rejection letter and understood, for the very first time, that she had no one to blame but herself. All of it had come rushing at her like a river of remorse and regret and fear…so much fear. She hadn’t planned to call the guy, truly, she’d intended to honor her promise to Isaac, but when he called her to “check in,” it didn’t sound like a big deal. It was a three-minute conversation, if that. Write this check, mail it here, you’ll be helping a great cause and I, in turn, will help your kid. Did she know as she jotted out the amount, first in numbers and then in letters, that something wasn’t right? Of course. But then the ever-tightening lump in her throat started to loosen as she signed her name, and it relaxed even more as she sealed and addressed the envelope. The night he’d cashed the check and sent her a thumbs-up text emoji, Peyton slept seven consecutive hours for the first time in three weeks.

  As she stared at her perfectly pedicured toes, in the silence of the empty apartment, her family estranged, Peyton could no longer hide from the truth. With the conviction that she knew best, with one moment in time where she couldn’t stand another second of worrying, she’d gone and ruined all their lives. Before she could help herself an ugly sob escaped, and tears streaked down her cheeks. It was only when Peyton went to wipe her eyes with her wet hands that she realized she’d dragged water all over her preciously plasma’d face. She laughed a kind of seal-like bark. Slowly, she lowered herself deeper into the water until it covered her head completely, and then, knowing full well what she was doing, she scratched at her face with her fingernails until every last inch of flesh was clean.

  20

  Rainbow Blow Jobs

  Max rolled the gigantic yellow broom-and-mop-combo contraption into the back room and shoved it against the wall. “Done,” she said, wiping her forehead. “The front of the store is spotless.”

  Oliver was sitting at the owner’s desk with a pile of cash and credit card slips next to him, reconciling the night’s sales. “I’m just about…” Oliver leaned his freakishly long torso over his notebook and squinted at it. He scratched out a few things with his pencil. “…finished. Let’s get out of here.”

  He placed the sorted envelopes in the store’s safe and locked the door behind them. The best part of the Ice Cream Shoppe was that they closed early, at nine, on Monday nights.

  “What are you doing now?” Oliver asked, as they walked to the four-spot parking lot adjacent to the store.

  Max shrugged. She knew he was just being nice. Their weeks of working together had confirmed beyond any doubt for both of them that they were only friends. Not so much as a hint of romantic or sexual tension between them. And Oliver was exactly the friend she needed now: smart, sarcastic, irreverent, and self-deprecating. He read the newspaper every day. Had opinions on politics and current events and pop culture. But he wasn’t only interesting, he was also interested. In other things and people besides himself and his appearance. Brynn had been like that, too. And then she’d left.

  “I’m meeting some friends. Why don’t you come?” Oliver asked, pulling open the driver’s-side door of his beat-up Toyota Camry.

  “My mom is waiting for me to watch tonight’s Below Deck,” she said.

  “So? Watch it tomorrow. A bunch of us are meeting at the diner. It’s a fun group.”

  Max considered this. She felt guilty bailing on her mother, who she had started to suspect was actually lonely out here in the suburbs, with no husband and no friends, but Oliver had a point. They could watch TV any night. It wasn’t like either of them had anything resembling a life. “Let me text her,” Max said and typed out: Work friend invited me to hang out with him and his friends. Do you care? I’m fine to come home too.

  The three dots appeared instantly. Go, honey! Have fun!!!!! her mother replied. Max sighed. It was obvious
that even her mom thought she was a loser.

  K. Thanks.

  Another instantaneous three dots. No curfew, just enjoy and keep in touch, ok, lovie??? She added three red hearts and two kissing emojis at the end.

  Her phone beeped with an incoming call. Her father. Again. Part of her loved that he called every day, and the other part found it infuriating. Her decision to answer or screen never had any rhyme or reason—it was entirely dependent on her mood at the moment—and their conversations so far hadn’t been particularly productive.

  Oliver looked over her shoulder. “Answer it!”

  “It’s not a good time right now,” Max said.

  “He’s your father! Just answer.”

  Even though the timing was terrible, Max swiped to answer.

  “Hey, Dad,” she said quietly.

  “Max! Oh my god, how are you?” His excitement was so tangible that it instantly made her feel guilty.

  “I’m okay. Just finished up with work, and I’m about to meet a few friends.”

  “Wow, that sounds great. I don’t, um…I wanted to say hi. To hear your voice.”

  Oliver poked her in the arm. “Talk to him for a minute,” he urged. “I forgot something inside.”

  “Sure you did,” Max murmured.

  “What was that, honey?” her dad asked.

  “No, nothing. Sorry. So…how are you?”

  “I’m fine, fine. I’m much more interested in you. How’s work going? Are you still watching Aurora? How did you meet your new friends?”

  When Max didn’t respond, he apologized. “Sorry, I don’t mean to barrage you with questions. I’m just…surprised you answered. Happy surprised.”