Genre Fiction
![Lauren Weisberger - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001IOH6U4.jpg)
Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty: A Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • GOOD MORNING AMERICA BUZZ PICK • From the bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada and When Life Gives You Lululemons comes a highly entertaining, sharply observed novel about sisters, their perfect lives . . . and their perfect lies.
"Goes down like an ice-cold guilty pleasure on a hot beach-reading day."-USA Today
A seat at the anchor desk of the most-watched morning show. Recognized by millions across the country, thanks in part to her flawless blond highlights and Botox-smoothed skin. An adoring husband and a Princeton-bound daughter. Peyton is that woman. She has it all.
Until . . .
Skye, her sister, is a stay-at-home mom living in a glitzy suburb of New York. She has degrees from all the right schools and can helicopter-parent with the best of them. But Skye is different from the rest. She's looking for something real and dreams of a life beyond the PTA and pickup.
Until . . .
Max, Peyton's bright and quirky seventeen-year-old daughter, is poised to kiss her fancy private school goodbye and head off to pursue her dreams in film. She's waited her entire life for this opportunity.
Until . . .
One little lie. That's all it takes. For the illusions to crack. For resentments to surface. Suddenly the grass doesn't look so green. And they're left wondering: will they have what it takes to survive the truth?
"Goes down like an ice-cold guilty pleasure on a hot beach-reading day."-USA Today
A seat at the anchor desk of the most-watched morning show. Recognized by millions across the country, thanks in part to her flawless blond highlights and Botox-smoothed skin. An adoring husband and a Princeton-bound daughter. Peyton is that woman. She has it all.
Until . . .
Skye, her sister, is a stay-at-home mom living in a glitzy suburb of New York. She has degrees from all the right schools and can helicopter-parent with the best of them. But Skye is different from the rest. She's looking for something real and dreams of a life beyond the PTA and pickup.
Until . . .
Max, Peyton's bright and quirky seventeen-year-old daughter, is poised to kiss her fancy private school goodbye and head off to pursue her dreams in film. She's waited her entire life for this opportunity.
Until . . .
One little lie. That's all it takes. For the illusions to crack. For resentments to surface. Suddenly the grass doesn't look so green. And they're left wondering: will they have what it takes to survive the truth?
Editorial Reviews
"An entertaining page-turner filled with drama and scandal for when you're lounging poolside this summer . . . [an] enjoyable read."-Good Morning America online
"[Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls ArePretty] goes down like an ice-cold guilty pleasure on a hot beach-reading day."-USA Today
"Weisberger never loses her trademark beach-read breeziness as she tackles weighty problems of familial trust with a pitch-perfect blend of humor and poignancy."-Booklist
Praise for the novels of Lauren Weisberger
"Delicious . . . Underneath the shiny surface, both [When Life Gives You] Lululemons and [The Devil Wears] Prada are exploring what it's like to be a woman buffeted by conflicting messages about career, relationships and motherhood."-Lisa Scottoline, The Washington Post
"Fearless and hilarious . . . begs to be read poolside with a cocktail."-Emily Giffin, New York Times bestselling author of All We Ever Wanted
"Another fantastic read . . . a heap of delicious drama."-Bustle
"[Weisberger's] new novels . . . prove more adept at framing individual women as whole and human. . . . Hugely entertaining . . . Add laughs to all the warm-and-fuzzy female solidarity and it makes for a pretty great time."-Time
"Fast-paced, funny, and gossipy . . . the must-have accessory for your beach bag."-PopSugar
"Weisberger once again weaves a fun tale of how things aren't always as they seem, especially in the most dazzling neighborhoods."-Associated Press
"[Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls ArePretty] goes down like an ice-cold guilty pleasure on a hot beach-reading day."-USA Today
"Weisberger never loses her trademark beach-read breeziness as she tackles weighty problems of familial trust with a pitch-perfect blend of humor and poignancy."-Booklist
Praise for the novels of Lauren Weisberger
"Delicious . . . Underneath the shiny surface, both [When Life Gives You] Lululemons and [The Devil Wears] Prada are exploring what it's like to be a woman buffeted by conflicting messages about career, relationships and motherhood."-Lisa Scottoline, The Washington Post
"Fearless and hilarious . . . begs to be read poolside with a cocktail."-Emily Giffin, New York Times bestselling author of All We Ever Wanted
"Another fantastic read . . . a heap of delicious drama."-Bustle
"[Weisberger's] new novels . . . prove more adept at framing individual women as whole and human. . . . Hugely entertaining . . . Add laughs to all the warm-and-fuzzy female solidarity and it makes for a pretty great time."-Time
"Fast-paced, funny, and gossipy . . . the must-have accessory for your beach bag."-PopSugar
"Weisberger once again weaves a fun tale of how things aren't always as they seem, especially in the most dazzling neighborhoods."-Associated Press
Readers Top Reviews
Mr. Claude Siadou
Non seulement un excellent livre, passionnant, bien écrit, mais aussi, après tout ça compte, une belle impression très lisible sur papier très clair, un beau brochage et un design de couverture recherché.
soph12Cynthia Goo
Not a total flop like some of Lauren’s other books that I won’t name, but not great. She seems to do much better writing from a first person point of view. I’ve noticed a lot of her dialogue is awkward and seems like it was spit out by AI.. No one speaks like this!
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Spinning for Boys
"I think the reservation is under Marcus," Skye told the statuesque, Nordic-looking blonde who grudgingly acknowledged her at the door of Le Bilboquet. Presumably the hostess at this A-list restaurant didn't see a lot of people come in wearing maxi skirts and Birkenstocks.
"Mmm," the girl said, gazing at the screen in front of her, the kind that couldn't be read unless someone was standing at exactly the right angle. "Is that so?"
Skye flushed. An hour earlier she'd been happily sharing coffee with her old teacher friends in Harlem, but here she was nothing but an aging hippie. "It would be under Peyton Marcus, from ANN?" She hated the way she sounded as she said it.
The hostess's head shot up. "Oh! I'm sorry, did you say Peyton Marcus? All News Network?"
Skye forced a smile. "She's my sister."
"Of course!" The girl beamed. "We normally don't seat anyone until the full party has arrived. And naturally, we don't hold reservations for more than seven minutes, but please, follow me."
She led Skye past a cluster of tightly packed tables to a two-top positioned perfectly between the dining room and the sidewalk. With unobstructed people-watching on Madison Avenue, it was the type of table Skye would never, ever have been shown to on her own.
The hostess placed two menus on the table. "How funny," she said, smiling at Skye. "There isn't even a hint of a family resemblance."
"Yes, I hear that a lot," Skye replied.
"I mean, Ms. Marcus is just so fair! Her hair, her skin, her eyes . . ." "Mmm, isn't that true."
"Well, anyway! I'll send her over as soon as she arrives," the young woman said before finally leaving.
Skye maneuvered herself into the seat with the inferior view and dropped her bag on the ground next to her. Instantly a uniformed waiter produced a tiny wooden stool and proudly placed the worn suede bag on it. Then, in either a bad fake French accent or a completely charming authentic one-Skye could never tell-he dramatically revealed a champagne flute and filled it with a bubbling, golden liquid. "With our compliments," he crooned, before sashaying away.
Skye tasted the champagne: dry and unbelievably delicious. The fizz went to the back of her nose, the warmth hit her stomach, and she sat back to enjoy the all-too-rare feeling. She wondered why she didn't drink more. Every now and then she'd pour herself a glass of wine on a random Tuesday night and feel rebellious and crazy, but then she'd inevitably fall asleep or get a migraine or both, and her freewheeling drinking would end for another couple weeks.
Skye felt a tap on her back and jumped. At the adjacent table, a blond woman with bass lips smiled. "Pardon me," the woman said. "But is your bag Saint Laurent?"
It took Skye a moment to understand. "Oh, this?" Skye pulled her imitation suede bag from its throne. "No, it's actually from Urban Outfitters."
The woman raised her eyebrows and forced a chuckle. "Oh! My. Well, irregardless, it's lovely." She turned back to her dining companion, a man half her age who had used the fifteen-second interaction to check his phone.
It's "regardless," Skye thought, feeling the blush cover her neck. And you should get a full refund for those lips.
Finally, her sister hurried in. "Hello, darling!" she said, smiling and leaning across the table to kiss Skye's cheek. Twice.
"Seriously?" Skye asked.
"What? We're French, at least for the afternoon!" Peyton pulled out her AirPods. "How long has it been since you've heard ‘Don't Know What You Got'? Twenty years?"
"Is that Cinderella?" Skye laughed. "Way more than twenty. I made out with Harry Feldman in the temple coat closet at Samantha Weinstein's bat mitzvah to that song."
"Life was so much easier in the time of power ballads."
Skye laughed. "There was no emotion Whitesnake couldn't quantify."
"Exactly." Peyton sipped her champagne. "Now everything's gone to shit. My life is a hot mess."
Her sister looked more put together on a casual Saturday morning than Skye did ever. Peyton's coral-colored jacket, likely Chanel, topped a white silk T-shirt, skinny crop jeans, and peep-toe Louboutins in a gorgeous nude patent. Her blond hair looked freshly cut, colored, and blown straight so that the slightly turned-out ends grazed her chin and disguised her oversized ears, the one fault that Peyton hadn't yet corrected. She ...
Spinning for Boys
"I think the reservation is under Marcus," Skye told the statuesque, Nordic-looking blonde who grudgingly acknowledged her at the door of Le Bilboquet. Presumably the hostess at this A-list restaurant didn't see a lot of people come in wearing maxi skirts and Birkenstocks.
"Mmm," the girl said, gazing at the screen in front of her, the kind that couldn't be read unless someone was standing at exactly the right angle. "Is that so?"
Skye flushed. An hour earlier she'd been happily sharing coffee with her old teacher friends in Harlem, but here she was nothing but an aging hippie. "It would be under Peyton Marcus, from ANN?" She hated the way she sounded as she said it.
The hostess's head shot up. "Oh! I'm sorry, did you say Peyton Marcus? All News Network?"
Skye forced a smile. "She's my sister."
"Of course!" The girl beamed. "We normally don't seat anyone until the full party has arrived. And naturally, we don't hold reservations for more than seven minutes, but please, follow me."
She led Skye past a cluster of tightly packed tables to a two-top positioned perfectly between the dining room and the sidewalk. With unobstructed people-watching on Madison Avenue, it was the type of table Skye would never, ever have been shown to on her own.
The hostess placed two menus on the table. "How funny," she said, smiling at Skye. "There isn't even a hint of a family resemblance."
"Yes, I hear that a lot," Skye replied.
"I mean, Ms. Marcus is just so fair! Her hair, her skin, her eyes . . ." "Mmm, isn't that true."
"Well, anyway! I'll send her over as soon as she arrives," the young woman said before finally leaving.
Skye maneuvered herself into the seat with the inferior view and dropped her bag on the ground next to her. Instantly a uniformed waiter produced a tiny wooden stool and proudly placed the worn suede bag on it. Then, in either a bad fake French accent or a completely charming authentic one-Skye could never tell-he dramatically revealed a champagne flute and filled it with a bubbling, golden liquid. "With our compliments," he crooned, before sashaying away.
Skye tasted the champagne: dry and unbelievably delicious. The fizz went to the back of her nose, the warmth hit her stomach, and she sat back to enjoy the all-too-rare feeling. She wondered why she didn't drink more. Every now and then she'd pour herself a glass of wine on a random Tuesday night and feel rebellious and crazy, but then she'd inevitably fall asleep or get a migraine or both, and her freewheeling drinking would end for another couple weeks.
Skye felt a tap on her back and jumped. At the adjacent table, a blond woman with bass lips smiled. "Pardon me," the woman said. "But is your bag Saint Laurent?"
It took Skye a moment to understand. "Oh, this?" Skye pulled her imitation suede bag from its throne. "No, it's actually from Urban Outfitters."
The woman raised her eyebrows and forced a chuckle. "Oh! My. Well, irregardless, it's lovely." She turned back to her dining companion, a man half her age who had used the fifteen-second interaction to check his phone.
It's "regardless," Skye thought, feeling the blush cover her neck. And you should get a full refund for those lips.
Finally, her sister hurried in. "Hello, darling!" she said, smiling and leaning across the table to kiss Skye's cheek. Twice.
"Seriously?" Skye asked.
"What? We're French, at least for the afternoon!" Peyton pulled out her AirPods. "How long has it been since you've heard ‘Don't Know What You Got'? Twenty years?"
"Is that Cinderella?" Skye laughed. "Way more than twenty. I made out with Harry Feldman in the temple coat closet at Samantha Weinstein's bat mitzvah to that song."
"Life was so much easier in the time of power ballads."
Skye laughed. "There was no emotion Whitesnake couldn't quantify."
"Exactly." Peyton sipped her champagne. "Now everything's gone to shit. My life is a hot mess."
Her sister looked more put together on a casual Saturday morning than Skye did ever. Peyton's coral-colored jacket, likely Chanel, topped a white silk T-shirt, skinny crop jeans, and peep-toe Louboutins in a gorgeous nude patent. Her blond hair looked freshly cut, colored, and blown straight so that the slightly turned-out ends grazed her chin and disguised her oversized ears, the one fault that Peyton hadn't yet corrected. She ...
