Killing Monica

CHAPTER ONE

PJ WALLIS! Is that really you? And what the hell are you wearing?” screamed Suzette as she came barreling into the loft, followed by a posse of Pandy’s twelve closest girlfriends.

“I’m back!” Pandy shrieked, removing the silver-sequined cardboard top hat from her head and giving a little bow. Suzette grabbed her around the shoulders, and they jumped up and down like ten-year-olds.

“I need a drink,” Meghan announced. “These divorce parties make me nervous. What if it happens to me?”

“It will inevitably happen to you, and then you will get one of these.” Suzette thrust her left hand under Meghan’s nose so she could get a closer look at the large yellow stone. “Ten carats. Unfortunately the guy who comes with it is eighty and has liver spots, but if he wants to pretend he’s younger than he is, who am I to object?”

“But you’re not young, either,” Meghan pointed out. “You’re nearly—”

“Shhhh.” Suzette glared at Meghan as Pandy—right on cue—cooed at the ring in wonder.

“You’re engaged?”

“Not all of us have been under a rock for the past two years,” Suzette quipped as the elevator doors opened and six more women spilled out.

“Champagne in the bathtub, cupcakes in the kitchen, cigarettes in the living room,” Pandy said by way of greeting.

“What about cock? Do we get cock in the bedroom?” one of the women screamed, sending the others into peals of nervous laughter.

“Do you think Jonny thought you spent too much time working?” asked Angie. Pandy laughed and put her arm around Angie’s slight shoulders. “Of course I spent too much time working,” she said loudly, as much for herself as for the benefit of the crowd. “What woman isn’t forced to spend ‘too much time working’ these days? And if men don’t like it, too bad. If you’re in a relationship with me, I come with a career. Just like Jonny came with his career.”

“And all those restaurants,” Nancy interjected, breezing by.

Pandy smiled stiffly. “He doesn’t actually own those restaurants.”

“Do you just totally hate him right now?” Amanda was on the verge of a gossip orgasm.

“Let’s just say I will never do that again.”

The elevator door opened and another gaggle of women rushed out.

“Pandy!” Portia screamed. “Look at you! You’re so brave. Standing there in that skintight silver dress and looking like a goddess!”

“Is it true?” shrieked Brittney. “I heard he tried to get money out of you from Monica. How could he do that? He didn’t even know you when you started writing Monica.”

“Ladies, please,” Pandy addressed her rapt audience. “When it comes to divorce, what’s fair and logical is the first thing that goes right out the window. Jonny was threatening to go after the rights to Monica. He thought I’d be so terrified he might get them, I’d give him the loft instead.”

“So what did you give him?” Portia chirped. “Not the loft. And certainly not Monica.”

“You gave him money, didn’t you?” Suzette scolded. “Oh, I knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” She looked around at the women closest to her, who nodded. “I predicted this,” she continued. “I said, ‘Pandy is such a softy, you just watch. She’ll end up giving him all her money.’”

For a moment, Pandy grimaced—if only her friends knew how true that was. But hopefully, with the success of her new book, no one would need to know the truth about anything, including her marriage.

“But he’s got tons of his own money!” Meghan cried.

“Not as much as you’d think,” Nancy chimed in. “Those chefs have all their income tied up in the real estate for their restaurants.”

“Do you think he was having an affair?” Angie asked breathlessly.

Pandy smiled queasily. Angie was the most naïve of her friends—surely she’d heard the rumors of Jonny’s infidelities. But Pandy had already had quite a bit of champagne, and feeling puckish, she said, “Let me put it this way. If he wasn’t having an affair, it wasn’t from lack of trying.” She guffawed loudly.

The party had officially begun.

By seven p.m., the loft was packed. The air was filled with steam from various inhalers, along with actual cigarette and marijuana smoke. Strewn around the loft were cracked plastic cocktail glasses, sticky napkins, and empty bottles of champagne. In the midst of their celebration, Henry arrived.

“Look, Cary Grant is here!” Pandy heard Portia shout. Followed by Suzette’s curt reply:

“Cary Grant is dead. That’s Pandy’s agent.”

“Any word?” Pandy screamed, rushing toward him with so much enthusiasm, she knocked over several drinks in the process.

“On what?” Henry asked, coolly raising his eyebrows as he surveyed the room. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

“On The Book. Hello? Remember The Book? That thing I’ve been writing for the last two years?” Pandy waved her hands in front of his face.

Henry didn’t blink. “If I had word, you’d be the first to know.” He squeezed Pandy’s shoulder reassuringly. He stayed another five whole minutes before he was forced to flee, claiming he didn’t want to end up in a meat sandwich between Suzette and Nancy.

“A new Monica book?” cried Angie. Despite the booty-shaking beat now blaring from the speakers, she’d somehow managed to overhear Pandy’s conversation.

“I knew it!” Brittney shrieked. “Now that Pandy’s divorced, Monica will have to get divorced, too.”

“Then she can try online dating.”

“And a matchmaker. That would be hilarious.”

“What would be even more hilarious would be watching Monica try to arrange a date by texting.”

“And then she can date some hot young studs. With their own hair and actual muscles.”

“I don’t know about you,” Amanda added, “but now that I’m dating younger guys, I personally can’t stand men my age anymore. It’s fine if you’re already with one, but otherwise—”

“I agree. If I want to look at an old guy, I can look at my husband!”

“I suppose you could, if you ever saw him!”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Texting? Divorce? A matchmaker? No. That isn’t Monica, Pandy thought.

She had to stop this.

“Hold on!” she shouted. “Monica isn’t getting divorced.”

“But everything that happens to you happens to Monica, right?” Brittney squawked.

“Not anymore,” Pandy declared, suddenly remembering her new, very un-Monica book and how it would force the critics to finally take her seriously. This was something that would never happen to Monica. No one took Monica seriously at all.

And could you blame them? Look at her right now. Look at her friends: Portia was sitting on the kitchen counter, her too-short dress riding up her thighs, while Nancy was inadvertently sloshing champagne on the front of Angie’s shirt and extolling the virtues of vaginal steaming.

Pandy held up her hand for order. “As a matter of fact, I do have a new book coming out.”

“When?”

“I don’t really know. I just finished it. Last week, as a matter of fact.”

“Pandemonia James Wallis,” Suzette crowed. “You naughty girl. Why didn’t you tell us before? Now we can stop celebrating your divorce, and start celebrating your new book.” She held up a bottle of champagne. “To PJ!”

“To Monica!”

“To PJ and Monica!”

Pandy groaned. She pushed through the crowd to the couch. “I have an announcement—”

“You have a new boyfriend!” Amanda gasped.

For a moment, Pandy put her face in her hands. Then she climbed onto the couch, standing precariously with one foot on the cushion and one foot on the arm for balance. As she was climbing, she noticed that the sun was about to set.

“Hello! Over here!” she said, waving her arms. Most of the women were no longer paying attention.

“Hello! Me here. Wanting to say something!”

Suzette heard her voice, turned around, and shushed the crowd. “Our hostess wants to say something.”

“Hey, Pandy’s talking.”

“Be polite.”

As the noise level dropped, Pandy was quite sure she heard the words “needs Botox” and “still totally naïve about Jonny,” although not necessarily in that order. Then Angie handed her an open bottle of champagne, and Pandy took a swig and gave it back. She touched her mouth with her fingertips.

“I have an announcement,” she repeated, scanning the room. Everyone was listening now. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re all here. You all know how much I love you!”

“Awww.”

“We love you, too, Goobers.”

Pandy bowed her head in thanks, waiting for them to settle down.

“I want to thank all of you for coming. Because this is a celebration. A celebration of not only moving forward, but also of letting go of the past.” Pandy glanced back at the billboard. The sun had set, and for the moment, Monica had disappeared.

“One of the things I learned during this divorce,” Pandy continued, “is that I probably never should have gotten married in the first place. But then my insecurities got the better of me. No matter how stupid it is, if you’ve never been married, it’s all you can think about. It’s always there, in the back of your mind: ‘What’s wrong with me? How come no one’s ever wanted me?’ And it’s important not to get caught up in society’s expectations—”

“Cock in the bedroom!” someone shouted.

Pandy laughed. “In any case, what I’ve realized is that I have to grow up. Which means I can’t keep on being Monica.”

“Oh, go on,” Nancy hooted. “You are Monica.”

Pandy shook her head. “Not anymore. I don’t want to be. Partly because if I stay like Monica, I’m going to end up with another Jonny.”

“Forget about Jonny. You were too good for him.”

“Men will be lining up to meet you. You’ll see,” Suzette cackled.

“No.” Pandy playfully pointed her finger at Suzette. “They line up to meet you. But that’s sort of the problem. If you have a man, great. But it shouldn’t have to be about men. And we already know this. But sometimes it takes getting divorced to learn that lesson all over again.”

Pandy’s mouth was suddenly dry. She motioned to Angie for the bottle. While she drank, she heard Brittney ask, “Did Jonny really have fourteen suitcases full of knives?”

“Shhhh,” Nancy said.

“And so,” Pandy said quickly, “I will keep this short. I do have a new book coming out, and it is not about Monica. It’s what I’m calling a ‘me’ book. Meaning it’s the book I’ve always wanted to write, and I’ve finally taken the chance to write it. I hope you’re not disappointed. About Monica.” She paused. “And the fact that I definitely don’t have a new man—”

“We’re almost out of champagne!” Portia screamed as if a nuclear bomb were about to go off.

“Music!” Meghan shouted. “What happened to the music?”

Pandy picked up her sequined top hat and placed it on her head. As she turned to step off the couch, the lights that bathed Monica’s image every evening at eight p.m. sharp suddenly flooded her face.

Pandy took a step backward. The heel of her shoe caught in one of the tears in the cracked leather.

She went down.

CHAPTER TWO

EYES FIRMLY shut, Pandy rolled over, determined not to face what she knew was out there: the light.

The morning. Why, oh why couldn’t morning ever come when you wanted it to? Why were these things always out of one’s control?

She felt around her face for her eye mask. Her fingers sensed padded foam covered in slick silk. But the straps felt wrong. For starters, there seemed to be too many. And the thing reeked. Of expensive perfume—

Pandy gasped, hinged upright into a sitting position, and flung the offending garment to the floor. She caught her breath and moaned. A band of pain radiated from the top of one ear to the other, as if her head were caught in a vise. The pain was bad, but that was to be expected. She’d had too much to drink—everyone had had too much to drink—and she hadn’t thrown a party in ages. She’d known she would wake up with a Godzilla of a hangover—one that, as she liked to say, could destroy tall buildings in New York. Mysteriously, however, this expected pain was accompanied by a more sinister sensation: a spongy, pulsating throb on the back of her head.

Like being tapped, again and again, by a small and very annoying elf wielding a tiny hammer.

Pandy’s exploring fingers discovered a lump the size of a large marble. She grimaced. She remembered falling off the couch. And then what?

She leaned over the side of the bed. What she’d thought was her eye mask was a hot pink bra with cups the size of cantaloupes. Suzette’s? Or Meghan’s? They’d both gone to the same plastic surgeon. Pandy dropped it back onto the floor. Damn friends. They’d gotten drunk, and all of a sudden they’d started trying on each other’s clothes.

The phone rang. The landline, not her device. Making it harder to ignore.

Pandy stared at the phone. Its incessant ringing was incomprehensible. Why was it so loud? Who was calling? She groaned and gritted her teeth. There was only one person who could possibly be calling this early in the morning after a major party the night before.

“Hello, Henry.” Her voice cracked on the first word, but by the time she got out “Henry,” she had managed to infuse his name with a passable imitation of the living.

Henry wouldn’t be fooled; he was all too familiar with how she lost her voice when she’d had too much to drink. He’d warned her about it many times on book tours: “If you have a glass of wine with every blogger who wants to interview you, not only will you have consumed the equivalent of six bottles of wine, but you will also have no voice. Meaning you cannot talk. Meaning you cannot tell all these journalists how fabulous your new Monica book is. Meaning, what is the point of you being on a book tour at all?”

“Funny, it never feels like six bottles,” she’d said musingly.

Henry had thrown up his hands at such idiocy.

“Good morning,” he said now. His greeting was surprisingly pleasant, but also, Pandy noted, slightly artificial.

“Henry?” She shifted on the sheet. Tiny unidentifiable particles were pressing into her thighs. She wriggled around and extracted something that looked like a colorful shard of plastic. She examined it while gripping the phone tightly in her other hand.

“What are you doing today?” he asked with unexpected cheer. “Are you busy?”

“Why?” Pandy asked cautiously as she examined the particle between her fingers. It was a dried piece of cupcake frosting. She flicked it away.

“I was thinking it might be nice to get together. Meet in my office for a change. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Today?” Pandy laughed. “But I just saw you last night.”

“Indeed you did. Sadly, I wasn’t there to witness what happened after I departed, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. Someone and their party are all over Instalife today.”

“You don’t say.” Pandy suppressed a hiccup.

Photos, she suddenly recalled. That’s why everyone was exchanging clothes.

A terrible possibility began to dawn as Pandy felt around the bed for her glasses. If what she feared were true, she would need to be upright for what Henry would no doubt tell her next. She found her glasses, untangled one leg from the sheet, and swung her foot off the bed.

“The pictures,” she hissed. “How bad are they?”

“Depends on what one calls ‘bad.’”

Pandy lowered her other foot and stepped on Suzette’s bra. “Damn.” She took another step. Crunch. Another spot of cupcake frosting. Her goddamned friends! “There wasn’t—nobody was—”

“Sober?” Henry chuckled nastily. “No. They certainly were not.”

Pandy sighed. “Not sober. Naked. No one was naked, were they?” She took a step toward the window and saw a pair of black Spanx draped over a lamp. Why would anyone take those off? “Because there seems to be a lot of clothing left behind.” She continued to move around the bedroom, just like an object that “once in motion, stays in motion.” An aphorism learned from the arthritis ads on daytime television. She took a breath.

“And really, Henry. What’s up with Suzette and that huge yellow diamond? Who needs ten carats? What’s wrong with three? Honestly, what can seven extra carats do that three can’t?”

Henry paused. Pandy gingerly lifted the edge of the Spanx between thumb and forefinger. “And don’t say ‘blow job,’” she added.

“I wasn’t going to say anything at all.”

“Good. I hope I’m not in these ridiculous pictures.” Picking up steam, she pulled on her plaid pajama pants. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she had a sudden new thought:

“That’s why you called,” she said, recalling that comment about Botox. “I look old, don’t I?”

“I didn’t call to talk about your wrinkles.”

“Good. Whose wrinkles should we talk about instead?”

Flames of sunlight were licking the edges of the blackout shades. “Listen to me,” Pandy groaned. “I’m a lousy human being.”

“All human beings are lousy by definition,” Henry said patiently. Then he added, “Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you about your new book.”

“My book?” Pandy had barely closed her mouth when Henry dropped the bomb.

“It’s all over Instalife.”

Pandy yanked open the shades. The sun shot into her eyes, momentarily blinding her. “Fuck.” She dropped the phone. A piece broke off, exposing the batteries. Pandy clamped her hand over the wiring and brought the phone back to her ear.

“It’s on Page Six. And People!” hollered Henry, who was given to random bursts of shouting.

Pandy was suddenly annoyed. “That’s it? I thought you were calling because you’d had word.”

Henry ignored this, continuing as he read the headlines aloud: “‘PJ Wallis: Uncoupled and Un-Monica’ed.’”

“Hey. That’s good!” Pandy exclaimed. “Very good. Word of the book is already spreading.”

She stuck her feet into a dusty pair of velvet loafers she hadn’t seen in ages. The loafers came from the far reaches of her closet—meaning the clothing exchange must have been more extensive than she’d imagined.

“Anyway,” she continued, shuffling into the living room, “who cares? In fact,” she added, “I’m glad. Maybe when my publishers see that the book is all over Instalife, they’ll actually get off their asses and read it. Christ. The school year isn’t even over. Surely everyone in publishing can’t already be on summer vacation?”

“They’re not on summer vacation,” Henry said ominously.

“Good. Then they can read it. It’s been over a week.” She was tempted to add, And don’t call me until they have read it, but she caught herself. She pressed her thumb sharply into her right temple. She mustn’t let her hangover turn her into a demanding ogre.

“Gotta go,” Pandy said quickly. She hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch, batteries dangling like viscera from the handset.

Moving slowly into the kitchen, Pandy encountered a telltale flat white box on the counter. It contained two slices of cold pepperoni pizza.

The sight of the pizza made Pandy unaccountably happy. Balancing a slice on her open palm, she slid the floppy triangle onto the rack in Jonny’s pizza oven. She turned the control to five hundred degrees and made herself a cup of tea. Discovering a cache of neatly folded plastic grocery bags in the pantry, she tried to stuff the pizza box into a bag, but it wouldn’t fit. She gave up and went to work on cleaning up the living room instead.

Plastic cups—some empty, others still containing fluid and floating cigarette butts—went into one empty grocery bag after another. Pandy discovered a couple of stray cigarettes behind one of the couch cushions. She lit a cigarette and leaned out the half-open window, trying to blow the smoke through the opening. The first rush of nicotine almost made her retch, but she fought the impulse and smoked it down to the filter. As she was lighting another, she smelled something burning. She raced to the kitchen and yanked open the pizza oven as black smoke billowed into her face. She coughed, slammed the door, turned the oven off, and ran the butt under the tap.

She grabbed another plastic bag and headed into the bathroom.

Several empty bottles of expensive pink champagne—both Pandy’s and, of course, Monica’s signature drink—were floating on a scrim of dirty water in what had been last night’s enormous ice bucket. Bobbing among the debris like a bad apple was a curious piece of cushioned green plastic. Pandy picked it up. It was a green cartoon frog with large yellow eyes and two flexible feet on either side.

The frog was attached to something stiff and unyielding. Pandy turned it over. On the other side was a black screen. The frog was a child’s waterproof cell phone cover.

But whose? Pandy frowned. Was it possible someone had brought a child to the party, and she hadn’t noticed?

She tapped the screen. An image appeared: Portia on a tropical beach, holding the hands of two adorable towheaded children.

Oh, right. Portia had children. Pandy suddenly pictured Portia at the beach with her kids. Portia was worried they might lose their cell phones in the water. And so she had bought them all these funny floating cell phone covers at the resort’s gift shop. Pandy could smell the fresh green scent of locally made straw hats hanging on a rack near the cash register; could feel the goose bumps rising on her upper arms as she walked from the stifling heat into the sharp cold of the shop’s air-conditioning.

When was the last time she’d gone on a tropical vacation?

Years ago. Six, to be exact. When she’d gone to that island with SondraBeth Schnowzer. And Doug Stone had turned up.

Water under the bridge, Pandy thought as she opened the tub drain and watched the dirty water disappear.

What wasn’t disappearing, however, was her hangover. She searched for aspirin and, finding none, realized she was going to have to venture outside.

Exiting her building, Pandy stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street. She caught a whiff of cotton candy, meaning the San Geronimo festival was in full swing. Continuing down Mercer Street, Pandy skirted a large patch of dirt from the never-ending construction of a nearby building. It had been under construction for so long, Pandy could remember making out with a guy in front of it when she’d first bought her loft and had yet to meet Jonny.

Belascue. That was the guy’s name. He was an artist; a painter. He’d been really good, too.

If only she’d ended up with Belascue instead of Jonny, she thought. But this fantasy was short-lived. When she’d finally had sex with Belascue, he’d freaked out and said he didn’t want to have a relationship. Now, at age forty-nine, she’d heard he still didn’t have a proper girlfriend.

Thank God she’d never gotten too involved with Belascue. This reminder—of having dodged at least one bullet from her past—gave Pandy renewed hope. Enough to encourage her to head down the deserted street.

Wandering past the still-darkened shop windows, Pandy realized it was not yet ten a.m. If she were still writing, the hour wouldn’t have mattered. Other than the fact that she always felt like there wasn’t enough of it, when she was writing, time wasn’t relevant.

But now that she’d finished her book, once again, time mattered. And the problem with time was that you had to do things with it.

She went into the pharmacy, bought a large bottle of Advil, and wondered if she ought to stop by her bank to begin the process of getting Jonny his check. How did that even work? Could you write out a personal check for such a large amount?

At the thought of the amount—seven figures—her stomach heaved, bringing up a rancid trickle of bile. What she could do with that money! The divorce settlement was twice the cost of Suzette’s ring; enough to buy a twenty-carat diamond instead. Possibly even a pink one. She could have the biggest pink diamond ring in all of New York City for the amount she was going to have to pay Jonny to be rid of him at last.

Pandy grimaced. Best not to think about it.

She strolled to the newsstand, where Kenny, the proprietor, was counting money behind a Plexiglas barrier. He grinned, exposing a gold tooth. “You’re back,” he said.

“Oh. I’ve been—” Pandy broke off, not sure how to explain the months that had disappeared while she’d been writing.

“I got the brand-new magazines. Hot gossip. Just came in this morning.”

Pandy nodded automatically. “That’s great.” And then remembering why she was at the newsstand in the first place—Jonny, his check, a massive hangover, all adding up to stress—she mumbled, “I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Lights.”

“You smoking again?” Kenny exclaimed.

“Only today.”

“One of those days, huh?” he asked.

Pandy nodded again, feeling an ache from the nasty bump on the back of her head. When Kenny turned away to get the cigarettes, she glanced down at the magazines. Besides Vogue and Elle, SondraBeth Schnowzer had made the covers of three tabloids. They were all proclaiming she’d been dumped again, this time by her latest love interest, a handsome French model. SondraBeth’s romantic transgressions were listed in bullet points on the side of her head: Spends all her time working; obsessed with her strict schedule; and worst of all: Has no friends. “Here you go,” Kenny said, beaming, as he handed her the cigarettes.

Pandy walked half a block before she stopped to light one. She looked up to find that she was standing smack in front of the former entrance to Joules. There was the bamboo curtain, now reduced to a few pieces of dirty string; behind it, the long and treacherous walk down the narrow alley and then down damp cellar stairs into what had once been the most fabulous nightclub in the world.

For a moment, Pandy could literally smell it.

That smell. It hit you as soon as you entered Joules Place. The odor of money. And drugs. The harsh metallic scent of a million chemicals in a million deals in a million grams of cocaine. The sweet-sour stink of tobacco and marijuana smoke absorbed into the walls and the carpets. The aroma that brought back a million memories, a million conversations, a million hopes and desires; the belief that maybe this time the meaning of life would be found at the end of a straw.

And flash: There was Joules himself to welcome you in his navy-blue blazer and cravat. Genuine Eurotrash, a true aristocrat whose father had left Joules his title and his pile of debts.

And flash: There was SondraBeth, her voice husky with drink and drugs and cigarettes, whispering, “Joules, it’s me,” on one of those long nights back when they were best friends. Back when they were called “PandaBeth.” Back when a legendary singer played with his band, and PandaBeth sang backup. Back when PandaBeth held court at the corner stall in the bathroom. Back when PandaBeth got free drinks from the mob guys like Freddie the Rat, who kept Joules supplied with everything from bar napkins to coke. Back when PandaBeth might do or say anything; when there was a razor-sharp edge to their riotous shenanigans; when Pandy would wake with a gluey disgust the next afternoon, racked with guilt over conduct that was clearly drunk and disorderly in the mind of any sane person.

She’d be wincing in shame—“I can’t believe I can’t believe”— and SondraBeth would be laughing, her hair a matted tangle, her outfit from the night before torn and covered with mysterious stains, as if at some point during the evening she literally had rolled in a gutter.

And SondraBeth would say, “Guilt is a useless emotion. The past is the past, even if it was just an hour ago…”

Pandy shook her head and laughed. Compared to those nights at Joules, last evening’s party was nothing. And thank God for that, she thought as she headed to the park.

The park was in full bloom, the leaves on the trees a brilliant emerald green. Daffodils blared their yellow trumpets from neat beds. Spring had passed into summer while she’d been holed up, wrestling with that bear of a book. There had been so many times when she’d wanted to give up. But she’d kept going, fueled by a fierce desire to prove herself. The fact that she was battling Jonny as well had only made her determination greater.

Pandy took a seat on a freshly painted bench near the dog run, inhaling the pungent odor of earth mixed with a vague chemical smell that rose from the dusty air. She absentmindedly rubbed the bump on the back of her head and heard a groan of frustration.

She looked up to see a young woman struggling to maneuver a baby stroller and a small dog through the gate. Pandy sprang up to help her, holding open the gate so they could pass.

“Thank you,” the woman said gratefully. Pandy smiled and went back to her bench, recalling the tired cliché that finishing a book was like giving birth. It wasn’t wrong: A friend had described the pain of childbirth as so intense as to be incomprehensible, during which there was no normal interpretation of time. What felt like ten minutes was actually ten hours. And then once you had the baby in your arms, you immediately forgot all about the agonizing process.

It was the same with writing a book. Once the manuscript was finished—once you’d printed the page with those final words, The End—you forgot about the struggle and felt only joy. Unlike a baby, however, your opinion about your “child” wasn’t the one that really mattered.

She wrinkled her nose, trying to prevent her sunglasses from falling off the tip. It wasn’t until the publisher had called your agent—or better, you—to say how much they loved the book and how brilliant it was and what a genius you were, that you could finally relax. Only then could you take a breath, knowing that soon they’d be processing your check.

The check that would then allow you to pay your asshole of an ex-husband to get out of your life forever.

Best not to think about it, Pandy reminded herself as she picked up her cell phone.

Immediately it began flashing and buzzing as a series of alerts and notifications rolled across the screen like a swarm of locusts.

She tapped on the pretty white bird in the blue square.

She had five hundred new Twitter followers. That was odd. It usually took weeks to accumulate that many new fans. She checked her notifications and suddenly understood why Henry had been in such a panic. There were dozens of tweets and retweets about her new, un-Monica novel—including several requests for interviews, along with encouraging missives from fans. “Can’t wait to bite into yur new book like a big crunchy chocolate chip cookie,” StripeSavage had tweeted.

What? Oh no, Pandy thought. It wasn’t that kind of book. Should she inform StripeSavage? Or leave it alone? She hoped StripeSavage wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Wonder what SondraBeth Schnowzer will think?” another fan had inquired.

To which Pandy was tempted to reply: No need to worry about SondraBeth Schnowzer. This was true. According to Google, SondraBeth was worth eighty million dollars. This Pandy believed, despite the fact that according to Google, she herself was worth the astronomical sum of forty million—when in fact, the truth was at least one decimal point away. This hadn’t stopped Jonny from trying to use this erroneous information against her at the beginning of their divorce, however.

“She’s worth forty million!” Jonny had screamed.

“There is no evidence of this money. There is no record of it in bank statements, tax returns, or payment stubs,” Hiram replied.

“It’s on the internet,” Jonny had retorted.

Pandy shook her head in disgust.

She looked down at her phone and tapped in her usual response regarding SondraBeth: “Luv Her!” followed by three sparkling emoji hearts in Day-Glo colors.

She moved on to her texts. Several friends had sent photos from the party; there were group shots, and one of Pandy lying on the floor with her legs up in the air. There was a close-up of Suzette’s enormous ring, which she in turn had posted to Instalife. The photo had more than ten thousand likes.

And finally, a text from Henry: “Where are you? Call me.”

Pandy rolled her eyes. She was still feeling annoyed with Henry.

The first few notes of the theme song from the Monica movies suddenly began playing, indicating that she had an actual phone call. Expecting Henry, she was relieved to see it was Suzette.

“Honey, is that you?” Suzette screeched.

“Who else would it be?”

Pandy suddenly remembered Portia’s phone. “I have Portia’s phone,” she announced.

“Good. You can bring it to the Pool Club.”

Pandy looked at the time: ten fifteen. “Are you already there?” She paused, considered the implications, then added, “Please don’t tell me you guys stayed up all night.”

“We didn’t.”

“I was in bed by midnight!” Portia screamed in the background.

“The question is, who was in bed with you?” Suzette quipped. “Honey, come to the pool. Now. We’ve already ordered a bottle of champagne.”

“I don’t have my bathing suit,” Pandy protested mildly.

“Then go buy one, silly,” Suzette hooted and hung up.

Pandy was barely out of the store when all of a sudden, there it was, roped to the top of a long flatbed truck that was blocking the street: Monica’s missing leg.

“Hey!” Pandy said, waving to the drivers. Two men in white coveralls had gotten out of the truck and were hoisting themselves onto the flatbed.

“What took you so long?” Pandy asked.

“Huh?” The older guy glared.

“Monica’s leg. It’s late.”

“You one of them Monica fans?” the older guy said, sounding slightly annoyed, as if he’d had his fill of Monica fans already.

“I am indeed,” Pandy said proudly. She considered telling them who she was—Monica’s creator—but decided against it. They probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. Instead, she said crisply, “Carry on, men,” as if she were a queen, and they were her loyal subjects.

The knot of pain in her solar plexus eased. Pandy expelled a great huff of air as she remembered that she didn’t need Monica anymore. She had her new book. Her entire future was riding on it and she hoped that, just like Monica, it would be a hit.

Meaning everything was going to be just fine, she thought happily as she raised her hand to hail a taxi.

CHAPTER THREE

THE POOL CLUB was located on the rooftop of a recently renovated flophouse hotel on the West Side Highway. Smiling to herself as she rode up in the sleek elevator, Pandy remembered when she’d first come to the city and her sunbathing had taken place on “Tar Beach”—the roof of her walk-up apartment building. Somehow, during the two years in which she’d been working on The Book, these pool clubs had sprung up like mushrooms all over lower Manhattan.

The club was already packed when Pandy arrived just after eleven—so much so that an unsuspecting tourist might think she was in another city, possibly Miami or Las Vegas.

“There you are!” Portia exclaimed as Pandy wove through lounge chairs covered with towels, bits of clothing, suntan lotion, and bags spilling computers and magazines. And so many young people. The girls in bikinis with flat stomachs and competitive breasts. The arrogant young men talking loudly on their devices, as if they were all so very important.

“Here.” Suzette picked up a pile of magazines from the chaise next to her and motioned for Pandy to sit down.

Pandy eased herself onto the terry-cloth cover. She took off her sunglasses and glowered at a skinny, hairy man with two doting young women a few feet away. “Why are there so many people here? It’s Thursday; doesn’t anyone have to work?”

“Thursday is the new Sunday.” Suzette passed Pandy a handful of necklaces made of plastic beads in gold, purple, and green. “San Geronimo festival,” she purred. “When I woke up this morning, my son had strung them all over the apartment.”

“It’s a celebration,” Portia said, sitting up. She twisted around to remove a bottle from an ice bucket on a stand next to her. “Champagne?” she asked.

“Of course she wants champagne,” Suzette said. “Look at her.”

“I have your phone,” Pandy said to Portia.

Portia pounced on it. “What about your agent?” she asked.

“My agent?” Pandy sputtered as she took a sip of the fizzy drink.

Suzette rolled her eyes and lay back. “All morning she’s been talking about Henry. And you. ‘Why doesn’t Pandy date her agent? He’s so cute,’” she said in a mimicking voice.

“Henry?” Pandy picked up several strands of beads and slung them around her neck.

“He’s a real pretty boy. You have to admit that,” Suzette said.

“When I saw you talking to him at the party, I said to Suzette, ‘Those two look like they could go together.’ You know?” Portia added.

“Henry?” Pandy screeched.

“He’s gay,” Suzette said. “Has to be.”

Pandy reddened and shrugged.

“And besides, she’s not going to date her agent,” Suzette added dismissively. “No one dates their agent. It isn’t done.”

“I thought SondraBeth Schnowzer dated her agent. The guy with the funny name. PP?”

Pandy sat up. “He wasn’t her agent,” she muttered. “He was the head of the studio.” Determined to get off the topic, Pandy turned to Portia. “How are you here in the middle of the day? I thought you had a job.”

“I was let go.” Portia shrugged.

Pandy gasped. “Again?”

“Again.” Portia smiled.

“How much time off do you have this time?”

“A year. At full salary. I’ll start looking for another job in nine months. In the meantime, I’m going to travel.”

“So far she’s only made it to the Pool Club, though,” Suzette said.

“Hey, guys. If it weren’t for you, I’d be in Rio right now.” Portia giggled.

“Oh, please.” Suzette rolled her eyes. “The South of France.”

“Saint-Tropez is totally boring in June,” Portia said dismissively.

“How about Switzerland?” Pandy asked.

Suzette stared at Pandy. “Who goes to Switzerland in the summer?”

“I do,” Pandy replied, rubbing suntan lotion on her arms. “Or I want to, anyway. I went there once in July. For a wedding. We stayed in one of those castle hotels. And the beds—triple down pillows and comforters. Like sleeping on a cloud. And the mountains! I kept thinking I was in The Sound of Music. There was this piano player, and I started singing Burt Bacharach songs. Johnny Depp was there, and supposedly he was so horrified by my singing that he left.”

“The room?” Portia asked.

“The hotel,” Pandy said. “Supposedly he checked out that evening.”

“What about your house in the country? Why don’t you go there?” Suzette asked.

“That place?” Portia said with a grimace.

“Come on, Portia,” Suzette said. “It’s Pandy’s family house. She grew up there.”

“I don’t mean to insult anyone’s family, but that place is creepy. No cell service, no Wi-Fi, not even cable. And nothing to do. And all those spooky portraits of your ancestors…”

“Portia. Please,” Suzette said sharply. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “In any case, I had a great time there. We dressed up in old clothes and played charades. And croquet. Remember?”

“Old-lady games.” Portia sneered.

“What’s the name of the town again?” Suzette asked in a polite tone intended to silence Portia.

“Wallis,” Pandy said. “But it’s not really a town. It’s a hamlet.”

“And isn’t it someplace historic, like your family seat?” Suzette asked encouragingly.

“Hello? Her last name is Wallis, and she comes from Wallis. What do you think?” Portia yawned, bored with the discussion.

“I’ve got a family seat,” Suzette cackled. “It’s called my big fat juicy ass.”

“Another bottle of champagne, ladies?” A harried young man in a white shirt and crisp khakis lifted the bottle and poured the last few drops into Pandy’s glass.

“Thank you,” Pandy said with excessive gratitude. She finished the glass and got up to change into her new bathing suit.

When she returned, Suzette and Portia were tearing through the pile of magazines. “Here,” Portia said, handing Pandy the magazine Connected. SondraBeth Schnowzer was on the cover, dressed in sharp white jeans and towering platform shoes, her hand held up to her face as if to block the paparazzi.

“Trash. All trash,” Portia added. She held up another magazine and shook it for emphasis. “I have to say, I do love reading my trash in an actual magazine, though, because then I can throw it out after I’ve read it. I can literally throw the trash into the trash, and that makes me feel good.”

“Maybe you should get a job with the city. Picking up trash,” Pandy murmured.

“What is up with this poor woman?” Suzette demanded, snatching up the tabloid with SondraBeth on the cover. “Why does everyone call her romantic poison? She’s gorgeous. Why can’t she find a man?”

“Doug Stone, remember?” Portia said. “I read that he dumped her right before the wedding. And when you’ve been rejected by one of the biggest movie stars in the world, there’s nowhere to go but down.” She chortled and turned to Pandy. “Didn’t you date Doug Stone once?”

Pandy flushed. “Not really.”

Suzette waved at the waiter. “That’s right, you and SondraBeth used to be friends.”

Pandy’s hand shook slightly as she poured herself more champagne. “Sort of,” she said vaguely.

“Doug Stone.” Portia sighed. “And what about his third leg?” she asked wickedly.

“What?” Pandy laughed.

Suzette sighed. “She wants to know how big his cock was.”

“You know, I honestly can’t remember.”

“Good girl.” Suzette lifted the hand with the yellow diamond and patted Pandy’s shoulder. “Don’t kiss and tell. It’s true for men and it’s true for ladies, too.” She looked sharply at Portia.

“I’m not the one who claims to be a lady.” Portia laughed. Pawing through the pile of magazines, she shook her head. “Christ. SondraBeth Schnowzer is everywhere. Everyone knows she’s Monica. You’d think she’d have enough with the endless publicity.”

“Pandy is Monica. SondraBeth is a pale imitation. Although I have to say, she does look good,” Suzette added, flipping through Vogue. She stopped at a photograph of SondraBeth and held up the magazine so they could all get a look.

SondraBeth was in a seemingly impossible position, half kneeling, her head ducked alluringly as her green-gold eyes twinkled at the camera. She was wearing a crystal-bejeweled catsuit, and there were sparkles in her hair. She looked like a gorgeous piece of jewelry.

Pandy couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Portia snatched the magazine out of Suzette’s hand. She looked from the image back to Pandy. “Well,” she said triumphantly. “You were right. You’re definitely not Monica anymore.” A beat, then she added: “You need airbrushing!”

“Can I get you ladies something else?” the waiter asked.

“How about some airbrushing?” Pandy asked, as Suzette and Portia screamed with laughter.

It was past two when Pandy picked up her phone and saw that she had three texts from Henry. She held up her phone so that it glinted annoyingly in the sun. “My goddamned agent,” she said loudly. “Why won’t he leave me alone? Doesn’t he know I’m busy?” Without bothering to read his texts, she wrote, “Yes?”

Henry immediately replied: “Have you read my texts?”

“No,” Pandy sent back. She put the phone down and lay on her stomach, resting her chin over the edge of the chaise. She closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to wander. The mechanical bleeps of other people’s devices turned into the sound of crickets; the hum of conversation became the lazy buzz of bees. As she was drifting off, a vision came to her of a smattering of reddish freckles marching like ants across the bridge of a turned-up nose.

She lifted her head with a start. The freckles belonged to SondraBeth Schnowzer.

She tried to push the image away, but it was too late. SondraBeth was lifting her gold aviator sunglasses, lowering her gaze to focus on Pandy. And there it was: the smile.

Monica’s smile.

Pandy shook it off and sat up sharply, her sudden movement causing the world to spin ever so slightly.

She glanced around. The pool was quieter now, the heat having driven away all but the die-hard sunbathers. Suzette was sleeping. Portia was at the bar, in the middle of an animated conversation with someone Pandy couldn’t see.

Suzette’s reading glasses had fallen into the space between the two chaises. Pandy picked them up, put them on, and read Henry’s texts.

“Call me.”

“Where are you?”

“We need to talk.”

And finally, “Where and when can I meet you?”

Pandy shot up. She was suddenly wide awake and stone-cold sober. Henry had had word. That was why he wanted to see her.

Her hand trembled as she tapped in his number, walking briskly to the shaded awning at the far end of the pool. The phone rang and rang, until it went to voice mail.

“Damn,” Pandy said aloud, hanging up. She immediately sent him a text: “Do they LOVE it?”

“Where are you?” came the reply.

“Pool Club.” She was tempted to add, “Answer your damn phone,” but couldn’t be bothered to tap in all the letters.

“On my way!” Henry wrote back. He’d added an exclamation point; that meant it had to be good news. Suddenly feeling giddy with anticipation, Pandy hurried toward her friends, waving her phone in the air.

The club was filling up again, this time with mothers and children who must have just gotten out of school. Pandy skipped around a toddler wearing so many flotation devices, he looked like a small astronaut.

“Henry’s coming!” Pandy said to Suzette, who was now awake due to the screams of the many children who appeared to have taken over the club. “I think it’s good news.”

Unable to contain her excitement, Pandy began pacing, circling around the nest of deck chairs as she mumbled incoherently. “After all this…I can’t believe…Ohmigod.” Overcome, she had to sit down.

“Honey, are you all right?” Suzette asked.

Pandy put her hand to her chest. She wished she could explain to her friends how important this was, but she knew they’d never quite understand. She vigorously nodded her head instead. “Where is Henry?” she cried out impatiently.

“Henry’s coming?” Portia asked, strolling over with a drink in a plastic martini glass sloshing onto her hand. She looked at Pandy assessingly. “Doll, you’re all sweaty. Why don’t you take a dip in the pool?”

“Don’t want Henry to see you all sweaty like that,” Suzette joked pointedly.

“Maybe I will,” Pandy replied, realizing that the excitement of her impending triumph had indeed made her perspire. She grabbed her cell phone and walked to the edge of the water. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she tapped in Henry’s number.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Henry,” she said eagerly. “They do love it, right?”

“We’ll talk about it when I get there.”

“When you get here? What’s that supposed to—”

What felt like a giant sponge slammed into the back of Pandy’s knees. She took a step forward, her arm swinging upward to correct her balance. The toddler in the astronaut suit rolled past her and splashed into the water as Pandy watched her cell phone plunge into the pool.

As her phone hit the bottom, the realization that Henry had bad news dropped like a brick into the pit of her stomach. Motioning wildly, she stumbled back to her friends. “I need a phone!” she screamed.

“Why?” Portia asked.

“I need to call Henry.”

“I thought he was coming here.”

“I need to know. Before he gets here.” Pandy choked out the words, reaching for Portia’s phone and dialing.

And then the sun must have gone behind a cloud because a shadow began to darken Pandy’s vision. A wave of nausea caused her knees to buckle as she dropped onto the chaise and Portia’s phone fell out of her hand.

“Sweetheart. Are you all right?” Portia bleated as Suzette picked up the phone and held it to her ear.

“Henry?” Suzette asked.

She looked over at Pandy and nodded. “I see. Yes, I will,” she said briskly, and hung up.

“Whadhesay?” Pandy screamed.

“He’ll be here any minute. He’s hired a car.”

“A car?” Pandy asked in confusion. Black and white squares began pinwheeling in front of her.

“I don’t understand. What just happened?” Portia demanded, talking over Pandy as if she weren’t there.

“I think her book just got rejected,” Suzette said in a stage whisper.

“What?” Portia gasped.

“Her new book,” Suzette hissed. She made a slicing motion across her throat.

“Ohmigod,” Portia screeched. She paused, then added, “Is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all? Isn’t that enough?” Suzette’s voice rose.

Portia shrugged. “I thought maybe Jonny wasn’t going to give her a divorce. Or he wanted even more money.”

Pandy struggled to sit up. “He’s giving me the divorce!” she shouted.

“Well, then. There’s no problem, is there?” Portia continued blithely as she draped a towel over Pandy’s shoulders. “If it’s only the book—you can just write another one, right?”

“Oh, good. Here comes Henry now,” Suzette exclaimed with false cheer.

“Pandy?” Henry asked, leaning over her.

Pandy was now frozen in place, her hands soldered over her eyes.

Henry peeled back her little finger and then slowly pulled her hands away.

“The book?” Pandy gasped.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, as Pandy’s throat closed in terror.

It took a stiff slug of vodka before Pandy was able to speak again.

She swayed on her barstool, alternating between sobs of grief and valiant reassurances. “It doesn’t matter!” “It’s all for a reason!” And most of all: “It will all be all right.” In between these statements were longer moments that felt like some sort of punctuation that would never end: a very long dash, for instance.

She wanted to crawl into the deepest and darkest of holes; to tunnel lower than she’d ever gone before—where, naturally, she would curl up and die.

But as the people around her wouldn’t allow that sort of behavior, Pandy went along with their plan:

Yes, she did agree that it might be a good time to take a couple of days off.

Yes, she had been holed up for a very long time.

And yes! She had been dealing with a huge amount of stress. Particularly with Jonny. People couldn’t believe what he had put her through.

So, yes, she would go to her house in Wallis to recover, especially after these last few months in New York. Henry would join her tomorrow morning at the latest.

And so she went willingly into the town car Henry had hired to transport her to Wallis.

She didn’t ask Henry how or why all this seemed to have been arranged in advance, being too confused to ask questions.

“Goodbye!” She waved out the window to her friends.

She raised the window and leaned back against the seat. The blast of cold air-conditioning in the car met the day’s heat, and a cloud of steam began to form. Pointing her finger, Pandy briefly held it to her temple. Then she lowered it. Aiming it at the foggy glass window instead, she wrote two words:

HELP ME.

Rescued by Suzette, her device came back to life and began vibrating, releasing those buoyant Monica notes into the air like happy-face balloons. Pandy put her hand over the machine to silence it. She looked past the angry line of cars on the other side of the West Side Highway. A sleek white boat, sails trimming the wind, raced across the spackled surface of the river.

For a moment, she pretended she was in Miami.

The fantasy was short-lived. Looming ahead was a second Monica billboard—another reminder of her disastrous failure.

What no one knew was that without her new book, she couldn’t pay Jonny.

Meaning she, PJ Wallis, was finished. Monica had won after all.

And then she frowned. Like the first billboard, this Monica also lacked her leg.

Despite the circumstances, the sight caused her to convulse with mad, wild laughter. She suddenly had a crazy urge to call SondraBeth Schnowzer to tell her that Monica’s leg was still missing.

SondraBeth was the only person in the world who would have appreciated the hilarity of the situation.

The car rounded the corner, and Pandy took one last look at the billboard as her laughter turned to tears. And for the first time in a long time, Pandy remembered how different it had once been, nine years ago when it was new and fresh and exciting…

And how it had all started when she’d said those four fateful words:

“I want that girl.”