IT TURNED OUT they were a thing.
Marty came back from Toronto, catching everyone off guard by returning a day early. Bare feet propped on desks returned to the ground at lightning speed; personal calls were dropped midsentence. Instead of walking straight to his office like usual, he strutted up and down the aisles of cubicles like a security guard doing rounds.
“Cass,” he said, reaching her workstation. “I’d like to speak to you about School of Rebels.”
“Okay,” she said, searching his face for clues as to where things stood between them, but his expression was a startling blank.
“Now.”
She popped up from her chair, sneaking a glance at her watch. Jonathan and Puddles were landing in an hour and she had planned to leave for the airport in five minutes to meet them. Hopefully this would be quick, or she would just tell him she had to leave. They headed toward his office, Marty a pace ahead of her. At PZA, Percy was fond of linking arms, and they’d amble around the office like school chums ready to break into a skip.
Behind the closed door, Marty reached his hand around her waist and pulled her in for a long kiss.
“I missed you, Cass. Did you miss me?” he asked, the upward lilt of his voice unmistakable.
“I did,” she said. And simple as that, by saying she felt the same way, she was part of a pair that didn’t include Jonathan. It was terrifying and thrilling all at once. She was unaccustomed to having so little agency. It was like reading from a script for the first time, uncertain how to modulate her voice because she didn’t know where the story was going.
“You know, Aidan emailed me your mock-ups of the School of Rebels posters and the web banners. You are a major talent, Cass Coyne. The one you did with the machine guns stowed in the lockers was genius. And I don’t throw that term around lightly.”
She beamed. He had singled out her favorite. It had come to her in the middle of the night and she’d gotten out of bed to sketch it.
“It’ll probably be the one we’re going to use for the Tribeca Film Festival and for Sundance.” He patted her on the back, now all business. “I’d like you to join the team working on Home Is Where the Heart Is. Their concept is too saccharine. I tore their mock-ups in half at the last marketing meeting.”
“Um, sure. I’m happy to see if I can help. I’m around to meet with them today, I just have to run out of the office for a bit to pick up my dog from the airport. My husband, I mean Jonathan, probably just landed and I know he has to catch a—”
“Cass?” He cut her off, not even flinching at the sound of Jonathan’s name. “Do you have a black-tie dress here?”
July, July, July . . . Which awards show was in July? The Tony Awards had just passed. None of her shows were winners this year, but she enjoyed watching it at home with Alexi. Out of habit, she had scanned the crowd for Percy’s face only to be cruelly reminded that he wouldn’t be there. She continued to rack her brain, heart pounding. The Golden Globes were January and the Oscars were February, but maybe this was something abroad? The BAFTAs? Or something more insidery, like the Directors Guild or amfAR?
She didn’t have any formal wear in Los Angeles and there was no way anything Alexi owned would fit her. She didn’t want to say no, fearing a Pretty Woman scene unfolding if she did: Marty calling the managers at the upscale boutiques on Rodeo Drive, her being treated with the forced courtesy of a charity case as a result. Or he’d just retract the invite and take one of the Bobbseys instead.
“I have something that could work,” she fibbed. “Why do you ask?” She was already calculating how quickly she could get to the stores. If there was no traffic getting to and from LAX (ha!), she could potentially make a quick stop before coming back to work.
“Mr. Spiegel,” came a voice from the doorway. It was Abby, his most sniveling assistant.
“Anything yet?” Marty asked her, looking up from his desk.
“Nothing,” she reported. “I combed every website and magazine. So did Minka and Brie. It’ll come.”
“Call Diller over at Tower Media. Find out what the fuck is going on. Tell him to call his Eurotrash friends and get this done already. It’s been more than a week.”
Cass had no idea what they were talking about, but their mysterious exchange gave Cass the necessary moment to consider Jonathan’s feelings when he flipped on the TV and saw her dangling off Marty’s arm, photographers snapping pictures. She ought to prep him in advance with a text saying he’d asked her the favor of accompanying him because he needed a “civilian” to avoid media spotlight. Jonathan might buy it, the idea of her and Marty together so unlikely that her alternate story was far more plausible. Then there was poor Luna to consider, who would probably faint if she saw.
“Okay, I’ll update you in an hour,” Abby said, and did her backward-walking thing again.
“And Abby,” Marty called out. She dashed back inside. “You need to pick up Cass’s dog from the airport. Better yet, get Minka to do it. Cass will give you all the information in a moment.”
What? Cass literally shook her head in disbelief. Was this meant to keep her from seeing Jonathan or just because he was trying to be helpful? She’d better text Jonathan to give him the heads-up.
“Of course,” Abby said, and retreated again.
“Well, I’m glad you have a dress. I’d like you to be my date to an upcoming event. What do you think?”
“Of course, I’d love to,” Cass said, hearing her words come out in a gush. “When is it?”
“Next Sunday evening at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Can’t wait,” she said, dialing back some of her enthusiasm. “What’s the event?”
Marty gave her a mischievous wink. “My youngest daughter with Bella, Jasmine—it’s her bat mitzvah. I hope you have another dress to wear to temple in the morning. It’s L.A., so don’t worry if your tits are showing.”
CASS: What the hell do I wear to a bat mitzvah? It’s black-tie.
Dahlia: Excuse me?
Cass: I’ve been invited to a bat mitzvah . . . by someone famous. SOS.
Dahlia: I will not continue this conversation over text. Calling you now.
“Hi, D,” Cass said when her phone rang a second later.
“Can I get some details, please? Whose bat mitzvah? Where are you?”
“I’m in a dressing room at Brentwood Gardens, deciding between a sequined black strapless and a one-shoulder gray lace. Basically a toss-up between looking like a cocktail waitress or a bridesmaid. I don’t need to tell you this is my first bat mitzvah.”
“Back up. Whose is it?”
“Marty Spiegel’s daughter. You know I’ve been working for him, right? Well, we kind of became involved, and he wants me to go with him to his daughter’s bat mitzvah this weekend.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“Aren’t you part Jewish?”
“I’m about as Jewish as your freshman-year roommate was Native American. You know how she said she was one-sixteenth Iroquois because of her fifth cousin named Winged Foot?”
“Right.” Dahlia chuckled. “I don’t think Maria DeSouza had much tribal experience in Parsippany, New Jersey. Text me pictures of your options and I’ll figure it out for you. And Jesus, you’re dating Marty Spiegel now? Isn’t his daughter your cleaning lady? Does Jonathan know?”
“Yes, she is, and no, he has no idea, and I’m hoping to keep it that way. I have the perfect dress back home, the silver Valentino I wore to the Tonys, but of course I can’t exactly ask Jonathan or Luna to ship it to me. Hence, my call to you.”
“Gotcha,” Dahlia said. “At least I’m not the only one dropping bombs.”
“Speaking of, how are you? And the boys?”
Cass heard Dahlia blowing her habitual raspberries, the way she released her frustration into the world.
“The divorce proceedings continue to be a nightmare. Roxanna transferred to another school, which is great, but Harris is out for blood. He is taking my sexuality as a personal assault on his masculinity, which is ridiculous because he has a slew of twentysomething girls lined up down the block. He’s the Caligula of Scarsdale. I swear only women age. I wanted to thank you for FaceTiming the boys so much the last few months. They love seeing their Auntie Cass. I’ve been so worried about Brady.”
“Is he still obsessed with the Golden State Warriors?”
“Beyond. Why?”
“Just asking.” She made a mental note to send Brady a new jersey. Team swag wasn’t going to make everything better, but it couldn’t hurt. A care package from just about anyone would have gone a long way with Cass back in the day.
“Listen, Cass, I’ve actually been meaning to call you about something. You know The Real Housewives show, right? Well, one of the producers lives in Scarsdale and asked me to be on the Westchester edition they’re getting ready to film.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You wouldn’t consider it, would you? Those shows make everyone look despicable.”
“Cass, I already owe my lawyer a hundred thousand dollars and Bravo pays really well. It’s not that easy to dust off my degree after twelve years and get a job, not to mention that I’m always tied up in depositions during the week. Harris is slowly poisoning me with paperwork. Do you know what discovery is? Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”
“I’m not telling you what to do, Dahlia. I just want you to consider it carefully before you make a decision. Brady and Toby, they are at a tough—”
“Well, how much consideration did you give your separation?” Dahlia interjected. “I feel like it came out of absolutely nowhere, unless you just weren’t being totally honest with how things were going all these years.”
“That’s different. My marriage isn’t getting broadcast on television,” Cass deflected, though the thought crossed her mind now how easily her trial separation would translate to prime-time entertainment: The Coynes: Better Together or Apart? Or better yet: Coyne Toss. Viewers could vote after each episode on whether they should stay married or get divorced. The final tally would determine their fate. In some ways it was appealing to hand off the decision to the American masses, whose collected sense might be better than hers and Jonathan’s meek attempts at choosing their future.
“And, to be perfectly honest now if I wasn’t before, I probably didn’t think about it enough. You talk about the women lining up for Harris. I’m sure Jonathan isn’t living like a monk either. I’m nauseous when I picture it, even though I’m the genius who said we should be free to see other people as though we’re a couple of horny teenagers.”
She said that partly to make Dahlia feel better. Maybe she was being naive, but Cass still believed her husband wasn’t taking much advantage of the freedom she’d bequeathed him. When she pictured him in New York, it was tethered to his desk. And if he wasn’t working, he was devoting his spare time to fantasy football and the Big Brother program. Speaking of which, she had to make sure to secure the free tickets for Kids Night on Broadway for Jonathan’s chapter. She’d told her husband that this year she’d arrange a meet-and-greet with some of the stars. No matter what, she’d still deliver on her promise, even if it meant FedExing the tickets to Jonathan at his office while she lived another life apart from him.
“You know I’m here for you, right? Cass—if you want to talk, I mean really talk, not just in sound bites and platitudes. You’ve always been private about your parents, but I have a feeling this has something to—”
“Miss?” There was a knock on the dressing room door. “Everything all right in there? Can I bring you another size?”
“I really appreciate that, D. I do. But I gotta go. I’ve been in the dressing room for twenty minutes. I’ll call you soon.”
JASMINE’S NAME WAS reflected on the dance floor in sparkling lights. The entire ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel had been transformed into an Arabian palace; all the servers were dressed in either turbans with Nehru jackets or midriff tops and harem pants. They were serving toothpicked bites off of gold trays. The bat mitzvah girl was dressed in a teal blue Herve Leger dress, four-inch gold Louboutins and a jeweled tiara. While a tarot card reader floated among the guests “predicting” their table assignments, a bare-chested man played the sitar during the cocktail hour, taking requests. He then joined a twenty-piece band that welcomed the guest of honor and her parents into the ballroom to the tune of “A Whole New World.” Marty caught sight of Cass in the waiting crowd and gave her one of his customary winks.
She headed off in the opposite direction from Marty to where the snake charmer was performing and did what she knew she had to do.
“Luna,” Cass said, breathless with anxiety as the two of them met face-to-face. They’d made eye contact early on despite Cass’s juvenile efforts to hide from Luna behind a flaming torch.
Marty’s daughter stared back at her coldly.
“Um, mazel tov,” Cass said. She’d nailed down that that was what she was supposed to say at this event, though she kept confusing the “bar” and “bat” before the “mitzvah.”
“I’m not the one having this incredibly cheesy thirteen-year-old’s birthday party,” Luna said flatly, looking Cass up and down.
After some back-and-forth with Dahlia, Cass had settled on a black strapless sheath that hit her legs just above the knee. It certainly wasn’t the nicest dress Cass owned, but there was no way she would use her and Jonathan’s joint American Express card to splurge on couture for the benefit of another man. Instead she used cash from her freshly deposited paycheck. Marty’s ex Bella Criss, the mother of the bat mitzvah girl, had muddled the Arabian theme and looked like a cross between Cleopatra and a 1920s flapper with her gold-sequined headdress and many strands of knotted pearls around her neck. She had breasts the size of floatation devices and lips that could double as airbags, her body obviously anticipating some type of accident before night’s end. At the very least, Cass was sure she looked better than Bella.
“Right,” Cass said. “I like your dress.” Luna was way off theme in a pink taffeta dress with a full skirt, irony dripping from each ruffle.
“Okay,” she answered.
Jesus, this was like pulling teeth.
“So I hear Puddles loves the new dog walker.” Cass prayed talk of her pet would neutralize the other issues silently dancing around them like a thousand waving arms flailing for attention.
“He’s happier than ever,” Luna said, finally animated. She took a big swig of her Jas-tini. “Puddles is obsessed with Maurice. He’s much better than that Stefania chick you hired off the street.”
“Great,” Cass said, through gritted teeth. Nobody dared insult Cass’s care of Puddles. “Have you seen Jonathan?”
Luna raised one eyebrow, suggesting she couldn’t believe Cass was really going there. A silence that felt endless followed, and then Luna offered a lazy shoulder shrug. It was either I-don’t-know or none-of-your-damn-business. Cass got the feeling it was the latter. It occurred to her that in the court of public opinion, she was the villain. That could explain why Jemima was barely texting her back. Why did nobody recognize the benevolence underlying her seemingly callous actions? This experiment was for Jonathan’s benefit as well—in the long run at least.
“Well, I hope he’s doing well. You’re not going to mention that you saw—”
Luna snorted.
“No, I’m not going to say anything to him. But not to protect you, trust me. I don’t want to hurt him. You must think you are really something special because the all-powerful Marty Spiegel is—”
“Luna, Cass,” Marty said, approaching them from behind. He awkwardly put an arm around each of them, squeezed them tightly so their profiles were almost touching. “Forgot you two knew each other. Cass, I’d love to introduce you to my mother. She’s sitting down over there.” He gestured off in the distance, near where the Bengal tiger was stationed in a cage alongside a worried-looking trainer with an exposed pistol. “And Luna—you could say hello to your grandmother at some point before she drops dead.”
Luna rolled her eyes and stalked off toward the bar.
“Having fun?” Marty asked Cass as they glided across the dance floor, which was now projecting baby pictures of Jasmine.
“It’s an experience,” she said, still shaky from the interrupted conversation with Luna. Had she been totally naive to think of her and Luna as friends in a way, the two of them occasionally blathering on about diet trends, Netflix shows and the Kardashians? When Luna straightened up the kitchen, Cass always helped bring the plates and cups to the sink—a gesture that they were in it together. “You certainly went all out.”
“Party cost half a million,” Marty said. He was indisputably bragging, like a small child hoisting a trophy in the air. While she was mostly turned off by the ostentatiousness of it all, a part of her liked how freely Marty talked about money. Betsy would sooner cut out her tongue than be so tactless. Jonathan too. When he and Cass would meet with Carmel to discuss furnishing their apartment, her husband would point to a table he liked and say, “Tell me more about this. Is it an important piece?” Anything to avoid, “How much does it cost?” Carmel seemed to catch his drift. It was like they spoke in code and Cass was left wondering why everything had to be so oblique. She didn’t like the way the Coyne clan was so formal and militant about being understated, but she also hated the gaucheness of tonight’s affair. What was wrong with her? When did she become this person who had a problem with everybody and everything? If preteen Cass with the bad glasses and terrible clothes could see glamorous, successful Cass now, well, she would slap her across the face for being so ungrateful.
“I didn’t want Jasmine missing out like you and I did.” Marty tucked a piece of Cass’s hair behind her ear. “You really look beautiful tonight.” Cass beamed. Next to Marty, she felt amazing in her own skin for the first time in ages. The other night after a late-night swim in the nude, after they had toweled off and were enjoying a glass of wine in his study, Cass had told Marty a bit more about her childhood. After he showed her a picture of the tiny house he’d grown up in, with its vinyl siding and air-conditioning unit dangling precariously out the window, she had decided to open up more to him.
Marty bent down to kiss the elderly woman examining her manicure a few feet away from the tiger. Mrs. Spiegel was that bizarre, surgically enhanced combination of old and young, what her own mother would look like if she had the money for this battery of cosmetic procedures. “Mom, this is Cass. Cass, this is my mother, Adele.”
“Sit down, honey,” Adele said to her. Her voice was croaky and coarse, what sandpaper would sound like if it could talk. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marty said, and headed in the direction of Ron Howard.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Cass said, pulling up a chair next to Adele, who took Cass’s hand in her own.
“My son loves shiksas,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Cass said, leaning in closer. The music was blasting.
“And I understand,” Adele continued. “Look at you with your blond hair, that tiny little ski-jump nose. And I bet you’re not mouthy either. No matter what, you’ve got to be better than the last one—that fashion designer with no talent. Who would wear any of her schmattas if Marty hadn’t made them? And this one?” Adele said, pointing at Bella with a hot-pink nail sailing half an inch past her fingertip. “Washed-up trash.” She eyed Cass again. “You’re very young, but it’s to be expected.”
“Mom, I think that’s enough,” Marty said, returning just in time to catch the tail end. “I’m going to steal this one away now. The show is about to start.”
“Show?” Cass couldn’t imagine what came next. The entire evening had felt like some kind of tacky performance art.
“Ariana Grande,” Marty explained. “She’s doing a short set after Jasmine lights her cake.”
“Let me tell you something,” Adele said, pulling Cass toward her just as she was rising to join Marty. Despite her expensive jewelry and designer suit, Mrs. Spiegel’s perfume had a cheap, old-lady scent. Inhaling it transported Cass to Hazel Park. It was the smell that Donna brought home with her after a day of work at the mall.
“Yes?” Cass asked, trying to breathe through her mouth.
“The champagne at this shindig cost three hundred dollars a bottle. I suggest you drink up.” She looked at Cass as though she were waiting for her jaw to drop. “And bring me a glass while you’re at it.”
“Sure,” Cass muttered. Might as well be a waitress too, she thought. She had enough different identities, so what was the trouble in adding one more?
THE NEXT MORNING, Cass and Marty stood side by side in his master bathroom, she applying makeup and he clipping nose hairs. CNBC blared in the background.
“It was fun last night,” Marty said. “I thought Jasmine’s friends looked like a bunch of hookers and Bella was shit-faced by the end of the party, but all things considered, I’m—”
“Shush!” Cass said, dropping her eyeshadow. Purplish-gray powder flew in charcoal bits across the milk glass vanity. She put her hand in Marty’s face to keep him from talking and ran into the bedroom, where the seventy-inch TV was mounted on the wall.
“—welcome Jonathan Coyne,” the morning anchor, Becky Quick, said. The camera panned to Jonathan, who looked like he’d been spray-tanned before going on air. He had on one of his slick suits, gray with a subtle windowpane pattern, narrow, expertly tailored, twenty-first-century Gordon Gekko. “Your boss, Jerry Winston, is in a lot of hot water. Can you tell us what the atmosphere is like at work?”
Jonathan looked confused as to whether he should look at Becky or the camera. His head darted side to side like a turtle checking if the coast is clear.
“To tell you the truth, Becky, it’s just business as usual. I cover natural gas, which, as you know, is having a tremendous quarter. We’ve been lucky, but we also do our homework. The allegations against my boss are absurd and totally without evidence. The SEC has it in for hedge fund managers and this is just simple vindictiveness and dirty politics.”
Becky’s cohost, Andrew Ross Sorkin, chimed in, further confusing Jonathan’s eye contact.
“You’re considered by many to be Jerry Winston’s right-hand man. Are you worried at all he might set you up to take the fall, like what happened to some of the top managers at Steven Cohen’s fund? It’s easier to go after the smaller fish, you must know that, and the SEC wants a win.”
“Jerry would never do that to me, and I have nothing to hide.”
Becky addressed the viewers.
“All right, you’ve just heard from Jonathan Coyne, senior analyst at Winstar Capital, two days after the SEC launched a major investigation into the fund due to allegations of fraudulent reporting, insider trading and price-fixing. Jonathan—thanks for joining us, and good luck.”
“Thanks, Becky,” Jonathan said, looking directly at the camera. Cass cringed. They should have prepped him a bit instead of bronzing him like a Jersey Shore cast member. The hosts probably wanted him to look like an idiot—better for ratings.
“So that’s your husband?” Marty asked. “Looks like he’s in deep shit.”
“I have to go to him,” Cass said, fumbling for her cell phone to book a flight. Jonathan had spoken confidently and kept his composure, but she saw the fear and hurt in his eyes that no other person watching CNBC would have been able to discern. She needed to support him. To tell him face-to-face that no matter what happened with Winstar and his career, it wouldn’t have any impact on her feelings toward him.
AS HER TAXI barreled through the streets of the Upper East Side heading to 75th Street, Cass kept her eyes glued to the window like a child. She breathed in the city smog, dizzied herself at the sights. The bodegas on every corner with the freshly cut flowers, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians weaving about like Tetris pieces, the blare of car horns making a symphony; God, she had missed home.
Like a burglar, Cass donned a baseball hat pulled low over her eyes to enter her apartment building. She didn’t want to be forced into chitchat with the doormen, who would gossip on their smoke breaks about her unexpected return. She slipped into the building with a group of nannies pushing strollers and went unnoticed into the elevator. At the front door she paused, running her finger over the grooves of the keys in her hand. She hadn’t turned that lock in months, or set her bag down on the coffee table, or grabbed a handful of pretzels from the jar on the kitchen counter. Foolishly, she considered if her key would still work. She didn’t waste too much time wondering, for fear Jemima would emerge from her next-door apartment at any second. Cass’s plan was to drop her overnight bag off and head to Midtown to see Jonathan, then buzz his beloved Gloria to ask him to come downstairs. She didn’t think he’d be shocked to find out she’d come. It was an unspoken rule of the separation: if the shit hit the fan for either of them, they’d be there for each other.
She expected to find the apartment returned to bachelor status: empty fridge, inside-out dirty boxers, depleted beer bottles stacked in the garbage. To her surprise, the place was neat and well stocked, the refrigerator and pantry filled with fresh produce and a wide variety of cereals and pastas. She felt a fleeting surge of pride that Jonathan was taking such good care of himself, until a feeling of being unneeded soured her mood. She went to see the state of the bedroom, which was also tidier than expected.
Exhausted from the flight, she lay down on her side of the bed for a short recharge. Removing her sweater and socks, she slipped under the covers. As she tossed and turned trying to get comfortable, her foot became entangled with something in the bed. It felt silky. Maybe it was one of the pocket squares Jonathan sometimes sported in his breast pocket. When was the last time these sheets had even been changed? Cass looped her big toe around it and shimmied it out from under the blanket.
She gasped.
Hanging off her foot was a lace thong. One that was definitely not hers. It had to be a size XS—with scalloped edges in the front and a strand of spaghetti in the back.
“Jesus,” she said, flinging them off of her. She staggered out of bed. What else had she missed? She swept the apartment a second time, collecting evidence. In the bathroom, she uncovered a cherry-flavored lip balm she couldn’t remember buying and a Venus razor. Years ago, Cass had lasered off every hair on her body other than the ones on her head and, until recently, a well-tended triangle below. In the kitchen, on second glance, she noticed an out-of-place container of soymilk. She and Jonathan were a strictly dairy couple. The hallway closet had a floral Vera Bradley bag tucked in a corner. Who was this lactose-intolerant, chapped-lip slut Jonathan was screwing in their bed?
She needed to sit down or she’d faint. The nearest landing spot was the chair tucked under their desk. She flopped onto it, noticing that their wedding photo had been nudged behind a stack of magazines. She shook the mouse to bring their computer to life. Minka or Brie could probably get her a flight back to L.A. for this evening, or maybe she’d nudge Marty and he’d send the company plane for her. With jittery fingers, she clicked open Gmail. As she went to log out of Jonathan’s account and into her own, she gasped again. On the screen she read the words: Are you sure you want to sign out of BrettGEddison @gmail.com?
Fuck him.
Fuck her.
Fuck everybody.