Page 22 of Bad Summer People
Susan Steinhagen—9:00 a.m–10:00 a.m.
Lisa Metzner—10:00 a.m.–11:00 a.m.
Claire Laurell—11:00 a.m.–11:30 a.m.
Doubles clinic—11:30 a.m.–1:00 p.m.
Lunch
Larry Higgins—2:00–3:00 p.m.
Lauren Parker—3:30–4:30 p.m.
He ripped that page out of the ledger, crumpled it into a ball, and put it in his pocket to throw away later. He turned to a fresh sheet and wrote:
July 5—Lesson Schedule
Susan Steinhagen—9:00 a.m.–10:00 a.m.
Claire Laurell—11:00 a.m.–11:30 a.m.
Doubles clinic—11:30 a.m.–1:00 p.m.
Lunch
Larry Higgins—2:00–3:00 p.m.
Lauren Parker—3:30–4:30 p.m.
He’d still give Lisa her lesson, charge her card (to him), and no one would be the wiser. No one was tracking his every move. Even Susan Steinhagen went to the beach and played bridge. With that extra $20,000, he’d feel a lot better about heading into this fall, jobless, in New York City.
Robert closed his ledger and left his hut, heading away from the club before turning on Harbor to loop back to his place. It was darker now, and he could hear pops of fireworks going over the bay. He passed Rachel’s house; the light on the front porch was on, though he could tell no one was home. He hated all these people. Robert felt lighter as he continued down the quiet boardwalk.Fuck all of them,he thought. He was excited to take their money. Then he headed back to his kitchen filled with ants.
11Paul Grobel
Paul Grobel pitied the other men in Salcombe. They were all so lame. At the July 4 cocktail party that night, he’d heard some dude describe himself as “passionate about finance.” Passionate about finance! Ha! “Yes, my name is Jackass, and I just love moving money from one account to another and taking it for myself.” Paul couldn’t believe someone could be so vapid.
Paul worked in music, at Atlantic Records, in marketing, where he helped to promote various musicians and projects across platforms. In truth, it sounded cooler than it was. He was basically a glorified publicist and wasn’t even the head of his department (he only made a couple of hundred thousand a year. Emily had no idea. He allowed her to think he made at least half a million, which was acceptable, given the creative nature of his work.) But he enjoyed what it sounded like to say he worked “in music,” and Emily’s family paid for everything, anyway.
He and Emily had met at a gallery opening ten years ago, and he’d impressed her with his knowledge of the artist. Even though Paul was short, he’d never had much trouble getting women to date him. Emily was small, too. She didn’t seem to mind. His penis was big for his size. He was pretty sure that saved him. And he loved her, for real. He thought she was sweet and pretty and that she had good taste. (Case in point: out of all the men in Manhattan, she’d picked him to marry.) He liked the smell of her hair and the way she gave the boys kisses on their noses before they went to sleep.
He’d known she was wealthy but didn’t realize quite how rich shewas until they signed their prenup paperwork. It was funny for Paul, who’d grown up upper-middle-class on Long Island, well-off but not set for life… to be set for life. They’d decided to stay downtown, at Paul’s behest, for “the culture,” and Emily made a nice group of similar mom friends—creatives with parental support.
They’d built the Salcombe house next. Paul had nixed the Hamptons—too expected—and they’d settled on Fire Island for its quirkiness and charm. None of the homes there were quite right, so they’d decided to buy a house right on Clam Pond, an inlet on the bay, knock it down, and create their own from scratch. The process was truly a pain; the permits involved, the town zoning board drama. But now the Grobels lived in the biggest, chicest house in Salcombe. The sunset views were incredible. Paul had bought a large motorboat last year, which he kept at their personal dock.
Emily loved coming out for the summer. She said Salcombe was “normal” compared to their life in the city. Paul supposed this meant she liked playing tennis with her friends and going to the beach with the kids (Hayden, four, and Dash, six). Fine by him. He liked aspects of it—the house, the laid-back lifestyle, the fact that everyone started drinking at 5:00 p.m. every night. But he didn’t really click with the men in town. They were all too macho, too sporty, too tall. They were lawyers and bankers, the kind of people who said they had a “passion for finance.” That wasn’t Paul’s type. He could tell they all looked at his clothes, which cost a shit-ton of money, by the way, with a side-eye. Paul liked to talk about art and movies and music. He felt like this made him a more interesting person. Did he really want to talk to Brian about how often he rode his Peloton? No, he didn’t. But it was just a couple of months, and so Paul could deal.
He was sitting on his back deck, sipping a glass of expensive pinot. Emily came out and sat down across from him. The kids were asleep; their nanny, Lucia, had gotten them down while Paul and Emily were at the cocktail party at the club.
It was dark and warm, and the bay was lapping on their dock. Lights from boats dotted the horizon.
“I feel like all my friends hate their husbands,” said Emily.
She looked nice in the dim light. Paul hoped they’d have sex tonight.
“Do you hate me?” he said.
She smiled. “Sometimes,” she said lightly. “You shouldn’t talk about how Black people are getting promoted at work. It’s offensive.”
