Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
March 2024
Montecito, California
Margot
The end, when it started, was fast. Margot had never been punched in the face, but she imagined it was a similar feeling. Painful in an extremely specific way.
Brutal.
It was a normal Wednesday morning. Jack came into the kitchen, his face creased from the pillowcase, his salt-and-pepper hair messy and not in the styled way. She always liked him best like this. So human and flawed.
“Good morning,” she said, pulling cinnamon rolls out of the oven. He kissed her neck and then her cheek. “Coffee is made.”
“You were up early,” he said, beelining for the pot.
“The team is coming over for breakfast,” she said, and belatedly realized not one of them would eat those cinnamon rolls. Oh, well. Skye could have one after school. Margot had been so excited about cooking for more than three people she might have overdone it.
“To talk about the book?” he asked, grinning over his shoulder. He was so proud of her, it made all her reservations seem ridiculous.
“The first of many—is what I’ve been told,” was all she said.
He poured coffee into a mug and winced. “I think I hurt myself sleeping,” he laughed, rolling his shoulder. “How is that possible?”
“We’re not as young as we think we are,” she said, and brought her mug over for a refill. He turned to her, her husband of over twenty years who just happened to be one of the most famous men in the world, and stroked the hair back from her face. She was still strawberry blonde. Painstakingly strawberry blonde.
One of the great Hollywood injustices. Men could age. Women could not.
He cupped her cheeks in his hands and smiled. “You are timeless. You always have been,” he said, and kissed her lips.
Oh, she thought, her skin waking up. Her bones melting. Maybe they had time before the team came over? It had been so long, they’d both been so busy . . . She wrapped her hands around his wrists and kissed him back.
He groaned and lifted his head. “I wish,” he said. “But I’ve got to meet my trainer in . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Shit. I gotta go. Dinner tonight? Tacos in Carpentaria?”
“Mi Fiesta?”
“Yeah, and a picnic on the beach.”
“How can I say no?” It was her very favorite date night. He’d wear glasses and a hat and no one would expect the Jack Cooper to be eating on the beach, so they’d be left alone.
He poured his coffee out of a regular mug and into a travel mug and was gone in a whirl of hightech workout gear. Smiling, she washed the mug he’d left in the sink.
An hour later her team arrived: Noelle, Rosa, and Paval.
“Good morning!” she cried when they’d been buzzed in the gate and finally made it into her kitchen. Rosa hugged her. Paval kissed her cheek. Noelle nodded professionally. They brought noise and chaos and shoes at the door. It made Margot so happy. Even if this meeting made her nervous.
The book.
The View from Here was the proposed title.
So pretentious, right? Ridiculous, even. This whole thing. She wanted to ask everyone in her kitchen if they thought it was ridiculous, but everyone’s jobs were her and this book so they wouldn’t say yes. With straight faces, they would say this book was the book people needed right now.
Her sister, Julia, would say yes. Julia would tell Margot that this coffee table book full of her thoughts on motherhood, marriage, gardening, food, and elegant hosting while rich and white was a terrible idea.
Julia would say, They only care because your husband is Jack Cooper.
When you are married to Jack Cooper, the world thinks that’s the most interesting thing about you.
But for years she’d written popular pieces for magazines and newspapers about parenting and motherhood. It started with sneaky ways to get your toddler to eat more vegetables and the perfect menu for a little girl’s tea party. That grew into stories about how hard it was to be a mom. Breastfeeding in change rooms. The foreign, weeping, sagging thing her body had turned into. What she made for dinner parties. Raising teenagers. Raising a teenager on the spectrum. Feeding teenagers. The essays morphed into guest appearances on morning shows, a popular Substack, and an elegant but affordable line of serving dishes at Target.
Her banana bread TikTok (using her mother’s recipe) had over seventeen million views.
Accidentally, she’d become a brand.
As a brand, she was approached by publishers every few years. And every few years she had several reasons to say no. She didn’t have any book ideas. She was already so busy.
Jack urged her to do the book, and she wanted to ask him, in all seriousness, didn’t they have enough? Enough wealth, fame. Enough attention.
The social media videos and Substack were fine. Fun.
A book was officially too much.
But now her house was nearly empty and it was just Skye in high school and that was only for a few more months and Margot’s days were . . . well, they were longer. Emptier. So when the book idea got pitched to her again, she’d had one clear thought:
What else are you going to do?
The “brand” barely needed her. She hated Pilates. Wasn’t interested in being on nonprofit boards or doing whatever else it was that the wives of very famous men did once their kids were grown up and out of the house.
So she didn’t say no to the book, and that was as good as a yes.
“This is beautiful,” said Paval as he took pictures of the frittata she’d made with tomatoes from her garden, the citrus salad with pistachios, and the cinnamon buns no one was going to eat.
Paval tilted the camera so she could look at the shot. The cinnamon rolls looked amazing in the syrupy California light.
“That’s not for artwork,” Margot said.
“What’s it for?” Paval asked.
“Eating,” Margot laughed and, humoring her, Paval picked a pistachio off the salad and ate it.
Noelle Kim, Margot’s assistant turned manager turned, she didn’t even know what—CEO?—got everyone to the table and started the meeting.
Thank God for Noelle, Margot thought for the hundredth time that week.
When Jack’s career had exploded with the first Code Name movie, and he was gone for months at a time, she found it uncomfortable to have other people doing the work of her life. She’d shocked her friends and the tabloids by refusing a nanny for the twins, for all of her kids, really.
But when the kids were older and there were invitations to daytime talk shows and newspaper interviews and guest editor gigs at iconic websites—she couldn’t say no. And didn’t want to.
It was heady and exciting to be someone other than a mom to four kids and a wife to Jack Cooper. At that time, her oldest was in college and she was ready to put on lipstick a few times a month and step out of her house. And to talk about being a mom to four kids and a wife to Jack Cooper. It was fun to project the image of a woman who could do it all. And do it well.
But she knew she needed help.
Despite what her mother made look so easy, Margot could not.
And, as Jack liked to joke, once you got one assistant, you got twenty. They were a Hollywood crop.
Margot didn’t believe him, but once she hired Noelle, Noelle insisted Margot needed a social media manager, so they hired Rosa. Rosa insisted Margot needed a photographer and video editor, so they hired Paval.
“Let’s talk about scheduling,” Noelle said, scrolling up on her iPad. Her ebony hair was cut in a bob so sharp it could cut glass. The only makeup she wore was MAC Ruby Woo lipstick.
Noelle was iconic. Far more than Margot.
Margot sat, coffee in hand, at her husband’s seat at the big farm table, looking out onto the sunlit Montecito garden being taken care of by its own team. Outside, the trees Jack had planted for the birth of each of their children were starting to bud tiny green leaves. A cherry for Alex. Two apples for the twins. And a plum for Skye. Jack pruned and cared for those trees as he had their children. And every late summer and early fall, he picked the fruit and she made jam that wasn’t very good.
But the tradition was good. Jack was good. And she was feeling good about all of it.
Except this book? The essays and articles she wrote were very personal and revealing, but in a way that felt comfortable. The way she talked to her friends. Her sister and mom. She wasn’t an actual writer like her sister Julia. Margot was just an expert on her children, channeling her mother, and being married to Jack Cooper.
This book felt . . . contrived.
“Photography starts in August, and the publisher would like Jack in some of the photos,” Noelle said. “I’ve pushed back on the cover—”
“They want him on the cover?” Margot asked.
“God, socials would love it,” Rosa said without looking up from her phone, where, it seemed, she was constantly making TikToks.
“I’ve pushed back,” Noelle repeated.
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