Killing Monica

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE DREAM was always the same:

It was Pandy’s birthday, and SondraBeth Schnowzer was there, her face pressed next to Pandy’s as they laughed in the flickering orangish light from the hundreds of birthday candles on Pandy’s cake.

The dream vanished as Pandy gasped and hinged upright, the afghan clutched under her chin.

Where was she?

She took in the gloomy atmosphere and sighed. She was in the den. In Wallis. Her book about Lady Wallis was dead, and now the boathouse had blown up. Another great beginning to another fabulous day, she thought bitterly as she went into the kitchen.

She filled the electric kettle and clicked it on. She opened the cabinet, and, from among several different types of tea, she and Henry being aficionados, removed a sachet of double-bergamot Earl Grey.

Strong tea. She had that tiny thread of Englishness in her bones that believed the right cup of tea might possibly make everything better, no matter what the situation. Catching a whiff of the still-burned strands of her hair, she realized that in this case, “the situation” was as simple as being alive.

And that has to be something, right? she reminded herself as she poured hot water over the tea bag. In any case, for the first time in a long time, she was happy to feel her body. It actually felt like a bonus, as opposed to a large steamer trunk.

She sighed and dropped the tea bag into the garbage. She was alive, but the boathouse was gone. There had been an explosion. The volunteer firemen had come. And now she was supposed to go on some website to report that she was dead. Except, of course, she wasn’t.

It was just like life, she thought, meandering back into the den with her tea. Bad things came in threes.

What’s next? she wondered, plopping down on the couch and absentmindedly pulling out the knob on the TV. As the old television sprang to life, Pandy gathered the afghan around her and wished she could go back to sleep.

Forever. She yawned as her eyes slid toward the screen…

And once again, she was wide awake. And here came bad thing number three:

She was dead.

For there, on the screen of the old black-and-white TV, was that old black-and-white author photograph of her from ten years ago, when—she realized with a start—she had been so much younger.

“PJ Wallis, a longtime Connecticut resident, has died at her home in Wallis,” said the announcer; the same announcer Pandy recognized from when she was a child. “She was known to many as the creator of the popular character Monica. She was forty-six years old—”

“Forty-five!” Pandy shouted automatically.

And then her image was gone, replaced by a package of Depends.

“That did not just happen,” Pandy said aloud.

She stood up, uncertain about what to do. Surely, what she’d just seen had to be a mistake. Otherwise, Henry would have called.

Or would he? As she went into the mudroom to pick up the receiver, she remembered that the TV only got the local station. Apparently that nice fireman had filed his report, but perhaps the news hadn’t spread. Henry likely didn’t know she’d been declared dead.

She dialed Henry’s number. He answered with his usual drawling “Hellooooo?”

“Hello?” she demanded. “Have you noticed that I am dead?”

“Now why on earth should something that convenient happen to you?” Henry asked. “I saw a tweet from Publisher’s Daily that the author PJ Wallis has been reported dead by her sister, Hellenor…”

“And?” Pandy continued.

“That was it. Since we both know that Hellenor is in Amsterdam, I could only conclude this particular ‘Hellenor Wallis’ was actually PJ Wallis playing dead.”

“And why would I do that?” Pandy asked archly.

“To remind me of how wonderful you are, and how terrible it would be if you really had died.”

Pandy laughed. And then she remembered the boathouse. “Actually, Henry, there is a tragedy. The boathouse. It was struck by lightning, and now it’s burned to the ground. I know how much you loved that boathouse. Remember that scene in The Philadelphia Story?”

“That’s one of your favorite movies, not mine. In any case, the boathouse doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you, my dear, are alive.” Henry gave a low chuckle. “Although I can’t say your publishers feel the same.”

“What do you mean?” Pandy’s eyes narrowed.

Henry cleared his throat. “Based on their reactions, it’s rather a shame you’re not dead. Your demise seems to have caused a small stir. One actually called at seven this morning to discuss it. Of course, he expressed his condolences. But he also pointed out how good it would be for your sales.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t see the need to get into the details about Hellenor’s likely identity. I simply said that I’d get back to him when I found out more about the accident. It won’t hurt him to think you’re dead for a few hours.”

“You’re such a sneak,” Pandy said admiringly. “Of course my death would be good for my sales.”

“Now, darling. Don’t get too excited. You’re not actually dead—yet.”

“It’s almost a shame I’m not,” she said, reminded of Jonny. She glanced in the mirror and sighed. She seemed to have aged two decades overnight. She was literally gray. Her skin was still smeared with soot, and her hair—her hair—

She turned quickly away from the glass. She had worse things to worry about than her hair. “I need money, Henry. And fast.”

“You have money.”

“No, I do not. I need money desperately.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Henry.” She grimaced at the mirror and noticed that her teeth were also sooty. She sighed. She was going to have to tell Henry the truth: She hadn’t made Jonny sign a prenup, and Jonny had lost all the money she’d given him in a bad restaurant deal.

Henry would be furious. And it would turn out that he would have been right about Jonny all along.

“Pandy?” Henry coaxed.

“It’s just…” Pandy took another look in the mirror and noticed her charred bra strap was showing through where her T-shirt had torn. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here, okay? And can you please bring up my clothes? I can’t fit into my old ones, and the clothes I’m wearing have been literally turned to ash.”

With a grim goodbye, she hung up and made her way up the back stairs to her bathroom. She plugged the sink and ran the hot water, grabbing a washcloth and soap and scrubbing her face and head until all the blackened clumps came away.

The sight of her once-beautiful hair, now charred and smeared on the damp washcloth, almost made her cry. She threw the washcloth into the trash, and spotting the bottle of the whiskey next to the tub where she’d left it the night before, picked it up and took a swig.

She dried her head and looked in the mirror.

A charred sort of frizzle stood up along the top of her head like a rooster’s comb.

She took another slug of whiskey. The second shot made her fight down the urge to vomit.

When that passed, she opened the cabinet and took out a can of shaving cream and a razor. She aimed the can at her head and pressed the button.

The shaving foam made a cap. A clownish kind of cap that reminded her of the Marx Brothers. If she added Hellenor’s safety glasses, she’d look just like Groucho. She took another swig of whiskey. She ran the water, picked up the razor, and began shaving.

As the razor drew lines in the foam, she realized that the first thing she would have to do when she got back to New York was to buy a wig.

She put down the razor, tipped her head, and splashed water over her scalp. The slick surface under her hands nearly made her sick again. She dried the top of her head.

And lifting her face while she mentally braced for the inevitable, she looked in the mirror.

She gasped.

She was expecting it to be bad. But this?

Who was she?

No one. Without her hair, she looked anonymous. She could be anyone, really. She could even be a man.

Grabbing the towel, she pulled it over her head. This was the final indignity. “Bad thing number four,” she howled aloud, throwing herself onto her bed.

She rolled into the dip of the old feather mattress. And then, as generations of little girls had no doubt done before her, she cried and cried and cried.

Sometime later, she sat up and dried her tears.

She’d had her emotional indulgence. Like every Wallis child, she’d been taught that feelings, no matter how bad, were unlikely to change reality. Meaning, don’t just sit there feeling sorry for yourself. “Take action,” her father would have said.

Besides, it was relatively simple: She was bald. She needed hair.

It was possible that in the jumble of old costumes in the Victorian theater there was a wig. Possibly several. But they would be like Old Jay’s bed: You wouldn’t want to sleep in them.

She would have to wear a hat instead. The best selection of hats could be found in one of Hellenor’s old rooms; specifically, in the room Hellenor had once dubbed “the lab.”

Panting slightly—a reminder that she was in terrible shape—Pandy made her way down the long second-floor corridor, then up another flight of stairs to the children’s wing, where she opened the door to the schoolroom.

At one time, if something was burning, exploding, or boiling over, chances were it was coming from this room. Pandy would burst in screaming to find Hellenor, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing safety glasses, holding a smoking test tube.

“Yes?” she would ask curtly.

“Mom’s worried you’re about to burn down the house.”

And Hellenor would say, “Maybe someday I will.”

Back in the days when Hellenor was so angry.

And maybe, because of Hellenor, Pandy had been angry, too. Because of Hellenor, she didn’t see the world the way little girls were supposed to—all sugar and spice and everything nice.

Indeed, while the other girls at school were busy learning how to be girls, she and Hellenor were busy learning how to be feminists. They were determined to rail against a world in which being a woman meant being a second-class citizen, without proprietary rights over your body, your thoughts, your soul, or your very being.

They hated what they would come to know as sexism so much that after “Monica,” Pandy had begun another series called “World Without Men.” But then she discovered boys.

Hellenor didn’t. Instead, she decided to annoy everyone and dress like a boy. Hence the collection of men’s hats for nearly every occasion, along with an assortment of other “manly” garments she’d dug up from one of the attics and hung from a pegboard on the wall.

Pandy picked out a gray fedora and put it on. She wandered over to Hellenor’s lab table and picked up a pair of safety glasses. Trying them on, she glanced in the mirror and frowned, reminded that her clothes were burned and she was going to be reduced to wearing not just one of Hellenor’s hats, but her clothes as well.

Walking to the closet, she extracted a flannel shirt and a pair of the men’s black suit pants Hellenor used to favor. Hellenor had been a little taller, so Pandy had to roll the trouser legs up over her knees. Discovering an old pair of Hellenor’s construction boots, she figured she might as well put those on as well. They’d be useful when Henry arrived and they went out to inspect what was left of the boathouse.

Once again, she looked in the mirror. And here was more irony: Now she really did look like Hellenor. Or what Hellenor might look like now.

This was the final insult. She hoped Henry would get there soon.

She marched into the library and, standing in front of the painting of Lady Wallis Wallis, shook her head. People were stupid. How could someone not want a book about Lady Wallis? She had all the courage—if not more—of a modern-day heroine, but her life had been real, and she’d actually had a hand in shaping the future of America.

And she was beautiful. That still wasn’t enough?

The whole world sucked, she decided. No one had any imagination anymore. Feeling impatient for Henry’s company, she decided to go up into the cupola to see if she could spot his car.

She went up three flights of steps, around a landing, and then up another flight. Above her dangled a white rope with a carved wooden pull. Pandy tugged it, and a wooden ladder unfolded.

Pandy climbed up and looked around. Old Jay’s lookout, as they used to call it, was built inside the enormous eight-sided cupola. Posted in front of each large round window was a telescope.

The views were amazing. Through one telescope, you could see two states away, to the still-snowy tip of a mountain. You could also see down to the gas station, which was handy, because then you knew if anyone was coming up Wallis Road.

Pandy lowered her eye to one of the telescopes.

She froze.

Coming from between two pine-covered hilltops were what appeared to be helicopters.

She lifted her head and took a step back. That was strange. No helicopters ever came to Wallis. There was no place for them to land.

Perhaps there had been some kind of terrorist attack?

She bent down to look through another telescope. Several cars and what looked like two white news vans were pulling into the parking lot of the gas station.

And then she saw SondraBeth’s custom navy-blue Porsche coming up the drive.

Monica.

In the frenzy of trying to deal with her own problems, Pandy had forgotten about Monica. She’d forgotten about SondraBeth Schnowzer. But apparently they hadn’t forgotten about her. And just like Frankenstein’s monster, here came disaster.

Apparently word of Pandy’s death had spread after all. SondraBeth—Monica—in mourning, paying her respects to the family of the deceased, would make for a dramatic photograph and, without having to speak a word, would send the proper message: She was grief-stricken over the death of her creator, PJ Wallis. Which would have been enormously flattering—if PJ Wallis actually were dead.

Pandy hurried down the staircase, and reaching the second floor, peeked out the front window. A cameraman and a woman with a device in her hand were standing in the middle of the rose garden. Now, this was just too much. Henry would be furious. Incensed, Pandy went through the French doors that opened onto a deck shaped like the prow of a ship. She walked to the edge and shouted down angrily. “Excuse me!”

“Yes?” The woman looked up.

“You’re standing in my rose garden.”

“So?” the cameraman asked, resting his camera on his shoulder.

“So you’re standing on at least two hundred years of history. Now will you please move.”

The woman gave Pandy a dismissive look and rolled her eyes.

“Hello?” Pandy repeated sharply. “I asked you to get out of my rose garden.”

The cameraman swung around, and out of habit or aggressiveness, took several shots of her in rapid succession, as if Pandy were the target in a video game.

“We’re trying to get a photograph of Monica,” he said pointedly, lowering his camera.

The woman looked up at Pandy curiously. “Are you PJ Wallis’s sister? Hellenor Wallis?”

Hellenor? For a second, Pandy could only gape at the woman. Then she felt the breeze on the back of her neck. She’d forgotten she was bald. No wonder they hadn’t recognized her. “No,” she snapped. “I most certainly am not Hellenor—”

She broke off and frowned past the intruders to the hill beyond. A squad of cameramen and reporters were now pounding up the rise like soldiers about to plant a flag on enemy territory.

And then the Porsche swung back into view. The mob suddenly organized, pointing their lenses at SondraBeth’s car and snapping away until the car disappeared around another hillock. Then they lowered their cameras and relaxed.

Pandy, on the other hand, didn’t.

She was going to have to greet the world looking like this?

She ran into the bathroom and peered again in the mirror. Was this fate’s ultimate insult?

And suddenly, she was furious. She pulled the fedora over her ears and strode out into the corridor. Now, thanks to SondraBeth Schnowzer and Monica, the whole world, including Jonny, was going to see her looking like this. The photos would be everywhere—and Jonny would laugh his head off.

And then, word would get out about the truth regarding their marriage, and the whole world would jeer about that as well…

Christ. Where was Henry when she needed him?

“Hellenor Wallis?” she heard a voice call out.

Pandy jumped. She hurried to the window at the end of the hall and yanked it open. Leaning out, she spotted SondraBeth’s navy-blue Porsche parked in the kitchen lot reserved for family and deliveries.

Unlike the press, SondraBeth knew where to park. Back when they were friends, Pandy and SondraBeth used to come up to Wallis and have a ball.

Pandy banged down the back stairs, went through the den, and flung open the door to the mudroom.

Sure enough, SondraBeth was already in the mudroom, on the phone. She was wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt and skinny black jeans. Slung over her shoulder was some kind of loose, baggy, unconstructed garment that swirled behind her like a shadow. Wrapped around her face like insect eyes were multifaceted iridescent sunglasses.

“I wish I could fire someone for this. I really do,” she was saying.

Pandy cleared her throat. SondraBeth turned her head and raised her dark glasses. She looked briefly at Pandy and quickly held up one finger. She went back to her call. “Can you hold on for a second? Pandy’s sister, Hellenor, just walked in. Thanks.” She turned back to Pandy and put her palm over the receiver. “I’m so sorry, Hellenor. I probably should have called to let you know I was coming, but I wasn’t expecting to be followed by all this press. Apparently my phone has a tracking device. I’m just trying to clear a couple of things up. I won’t be more than five seconds.” She nodded at her assistant, who was standing respectfully at the other end of the room.

She went back to her call. “I need to speak to PP, okay?” she said sharply, and hung up.

SondraBeth looked Pandy up and down and smiled. Stepping forward, she took Pandy by the shoulders. Bending her knees slightly to stare into her face, she said, “Hellenor. I’m so honored to meet you, and so sorry about your sister.”

Pandy’s jaw dropped. Was she joking? SondraBeth didn’t recognize her?

Pandy moved her face closer. She squinted at SondraBeth. “Squeege?” she asked cautiously.

“Squeege!” SondraBeth exclaimed. “That’s what Pandy used to call me. And I used to call her Peege. But of course you would know that. I’m sure she’s told you everything.”

SondraBeth looked straight at Pandy as her eyes narrowed knowingly. Pandy wondered if SondraBeth was trying to give her a message. Trying to somehow hint to Pandy that she recognized her but couldn’t acknowledge it.

SondraBeth smiled grimly. “In that case, I suppose you know all about Jonny.”

“Jonny!” Pandy said, emitting a harsh laugh. Her lips drew back into a tight line, and in a voice that insinuated that she understood, she said, “You could say I do.”

SondraBeth paused, again peering at Pandy closely. Seeming satisfied by what she saw, she nodded briskly. “Then you know what a bad guy Jonny is.”

“You could say that.” Pandy followed SondraBeth out of the mudroom and into the kitchen.

“I tried to warn Pandy before she married him that he was a bad seed.” SondraBeth swung open the refrigerator door, took out a bottle of water, and unscrewed the cap. “But you know how stubborn she could be when it came to men. And now she’s gone, and it’s too late. I’m never going to forgive myself for letting a stupid fight over a guy get in the way of our friendship.”

“SondraBeth?” the assistant was now cautiously standing in the doorway.

“Yes, Judy?” SondraBeth asked.

“PP in three.”

“Thanks.” SondraBeth began walking back to the mudroom. “The upshot is that all kinds of awful shit is going to come out about Jonny. I know you can handle it, but I just want you to be prepared. Pandy always said you were the kind of woman who would never get taken in by a man. And you’re exactly as Pandy described you.” SondraBeth gave Pandy another quick up-and-down look, reminding Pandy that she was dressed in Hellenor’s clothes. “A true individual.” SondraBeth picked up the phone. “PP?” she barked.

Did SondraBeth really think she was Hellenor? Pandy frowned and went past SondraBeth to the fuzzy orange armchairs. She sat down with a plop and stared through the back window at the makeshift camp that had been set up outside. She glanced back at SondraBeth, who was still on the phone with PP. PP, she remembered, probably knew a ton of stuff about Jonny. And recalling what SondraBeth had just said about her ex-husband…She looked up to find SondraBeth’s assistant leaning toward her with an outstretched hand.

“Hi, I’m Judy.” Judy was pretty, with round cheeks, brown eyes, and long hair that appeared to be natural. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”

Bemused, Pandy shook the young woman’s hand.

“If you need anything—” The young woman broke off to tap the piece in her ear as she turned away.

Pandy leaned back in her chair and shook her head. For a moment, she felt like she’d been thrust into some kind of alternate universe. Where she actually wasn’t Pandy. She closed her eyes briefly and laughed at the idea.

Then she sat up straight.

Because the thought was sickeningly scary. Flashing back to the explosion, she could taste the metallic grit of dirt in her mouth, smell the scent of scorched earth and scorched hair. She took a deep breath. The fact was, she very well might have died. But somehow, she had not. And now it was like the universe was playing a joke on her: What would happen if you tried to tell everyone that you were you, and no one recognized you? Who would you be then?

She reminded herself that she must still be shaky from the explosion. There was SondraBeth talking on the phone. And at the other end of the room, two men in dark suits and earbuds had come in, asking Judy for the bathroom.

Everything was fine. This was simply a case of mistaken identity. One that Pandy was going to clear up right now. She pushed up from the armchair and went over to Judy.

“Actually, I’m Pandy,” she said. Judy smiled at her indulgently. Pandy turned to the two bodyguards, who were also looking at her, amused.

“I’m PJ Wallis.”

The bodyguards shrugged and looked at Judy, who also shrugged. Pandy rolled her eyes and went outside.

This was interesting. No one cared if she was Pandy, because all they cared about was Monica.

Pandy frowned as she took in the scene in the parking lot. Two SUVs were parked next to SondraBeth’s car; black-clad assistants were bustling in and out of them, and a couple of people were on walkie-talkies. If it weren’t for the fact that PJ Wallis had supposedly just died, the scene would be exactly like another boring day on the set of Monica.

In which case, she might as well have a cigarette. Or two. She inhaled the fresh morning air and detected the harsh scent of tobacco smoke.

One of the chauffeurs was smoking next to an SUV. Pandy went up to him, giving him her very best smile, and said, “Excuse me. I am PJ Wallis. And I would like a cigarette.”

The man smiled at her like she was a dotty old thing, which reminded Pandy again that she was bald. Apparently, no one was going to believe that she was Pandy until Henry arrived. The man handed her his pack. He cupped his hands for her to catch the flame from his lighter. “You the sister?” he asked.

Pandy took a step back, inhaled, exhaled, and smiled.

“The sister’s lover, then?” the man said.

Pandy shrugged. It didn’t matter. Henry would come, and everyone would know the truth.

She took another drag on the cigarette and began wandering down the drive. Perhaps she could meet up with Henry before he arrived, unprepared, at this mess. She strolled past some photographers who were milling about on the lawn. She supposed she and Henry could gather them together and announce that she was indeed Pandy, but this particular breed of press were like herd animals. You had to know how to control them.

She took another pull on the cigarette, continuing down the drive. The lady reporter and the cameraman were now standing off to the side.

The woman turned and saw her. “Oh, hi there, Hellenor,” she drawled, as if they were now best friends. “So I hear you’re a big Monica fan?” she asked in a friendly manner.

Was she kidding? “The biggest,” Pandy said, annoyed. “You could say that I know every sentence and each line by heart.”

“Is that so?” the woman asked.

“Actually, yes,” Pandy said. She dropped her cigarette, grinding out the butt beneath her construction boot. “Because the fact of the matter is that I am PJ Wallis—”

“Hellenor?”

Pandy turned to find Judy coming down the drive.

Judy touched her arm. “Listen. Would you mind doing one thing? Can you walk to the place where PJ Wallis blew up?”

Pandy squinted down the drive. The whole squad of paparazzi had moved down to where the boathouse had been. This really was too much. It was one thing for her publisher to think she was dead for a couple of hours, but quite a different matter to announce it to the world.

“Now, listen, Judy,” Pandy said firmly.

“I know, I know,” Judy said quickly. “You’re not happy about all this press. But neither is SondraBeth. She wanted this to be private. She was hoping you and she could have a long visit. Reminisce about Pandy. Talk about the old days and the future of Monica. Maybe even plan a special memorial. But then the studio got word, and the press, and now PJ’s death is out of control—”

Pandy cleared her throat. “Judy,” she tried again. “PJ Wallis isn’t dead. There’s been a huge mistake and I’m PJ Wallis.”

“Oh, I get it,” Judy said with a knowing laugh. In the husky tones of a former college party girl, she added, “Like what you did back there with the reporters? That was hilarious, fucking with their heads like that.” Judy raised her palm to give Pandy a high five. “You, Hellenor, are fucking crazy. I’m so glad you’re cool. It makes everyone’s job so much easier.”

She tapped her earpiece and nodded once, then took Pandy’s arm and began leading her firmly down the hill.

Where the hell is Henry? Pandy thought angrily as Judy pushed through the paparazzi that were circled around SondraBeth like pagan priests around a sacrificial lamb.

She was standing on a patch of grass near what was left of the structure: a few charred pieces of wood scattered around a large rectangular patch of mud. The piece of fabric Pandy had seen SondraBeth holding earlier was now covering her body like a shroud. She jerked her arm back to take Pandy’s hand.

Pandy looked around at the camera lenses aimed in her direction like faceless black eyes and decided she’d better go along with the charade. She tore her eyes away from the cameras and looked at SondraBeth instead.

SondraBeth was staring at her with those shining green-gold eyes. And suddenly, Pandy realized this was going to be just like that time on the island when Pandy had caught SondraBeth in the marsh with the herons. She was going to do what she needed to do, and she was going to act like nobody else was there.

SondraBeth dipped her head. She pulled Pandy forward a step or two into the mud. Hissing under her breath, she said, “Your sister meant everything to me, Hellenor. The two of us used to be best friends. The best friends two girls could ever be.” She paused and looked Pandy straight in the eye. “And now I’m hoping we can be friends, too.”

Pandy stared back. Was it possible SondraBeth honestly didn’t know she was Pandy? Pandy decided to try to give SondraBeth a message back:

“I think that can be arranged,” she said, with a meaningful nod.

SondraBeth gave Pandy’s hand a quick squeeze before she dropped it and strode, silent and alone, through the mud to the center of the rectangle where the boathouse had been. She raised her arms, and suddenly, the flashes stopped. The crowd held their collective breath, as if wondering what she might do next.

Into the silence came the lone caw of a crow.

SondraBeth lay down on her back. She extended her arms and, sweeping them up and down, made angel wings. Then she rolled forward onto her knees, and with her head bowed, slowly stood up. She turned around and began walking back toward the driveway. As she walked, she peeled the fabric from her body, carefully folding the muddy material in her hands.

Reaching the grass, she stopped for a moment to allow her people to catch up with her.

“Did you know she was going to do that?” Pandy heard someone whisper as they hurried toward SondraBeth.

“No,” someone else whispered back.

SondraBeth turned her head and looked back at Pandy. And then, as if making a sudden decision, she walked toward her.

“Come with me,” she said. Her voice was quiet and splintery.

She disappeared into her swirl of assistants, and suddenly Judy was by Pandy’s side. She touched Pandy’s arm in a friendly girl-to-girl manner. “We’ve just heard from PP. He wants you to come back to New York with SondraBeth. He wants to meet you.”

Judy began drawing Pandy along with her, nodding her head and smiling conspiratorially. “You’ll stay in the basement guest room in SondraBeth’s townhouse. It’s fantastic; it has its own separate entrance.”

And the next thing Pandy knew, the bodyguards had surrounded her, and she was being bundled into the back of an SUV. I need to call Henry! she thought wildly as the doors slammed shut and the car started forward with a jerk. As Wallis House disappeared around the mountain, she had a startling thought:

She had just been kidnapped by her own creation.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A GOOD OLD New York City pothole woke her up.

She bounced and hit the back of the seat. Once again, it felt like her head was on fire.

It wasn’t, but the place where she had hit her head two nights before, when she had fallen off the couch during the party in her apartment, was suddenly reinflamed.

That had happened on Wednesday. Was it a mere forty-eight hours ago when she was still innocent? When she was still happy?

When she was still PJ Wallis?

“Hellenor, are you awake?” Judy asked. She was seated in the row ahead. She turned and looked at Pandy across the top of the seat.

The lump on the back of Pandy’s head throbbed. She winced. Pain. Good, sharp, come-to-your-senses pain. There was nothing like it in an emergency.

“Yes,” she answered, through gritted teeth.

“Would you like some water?” Judy asked.

When Pandy nodded, Judy motioned to someone in the second row to hand her a bottle. Of course. Everyone was trying to be nice. Trying to make poor, bereaved, weird Hellenor feel better.

If only people had treated Hellenor like that before.

Pandy grabbed the bottle of water and drank thirstily.

“Hey, I’ve got good news for you,” Judy said. “Your sister’s first Monica book is number one on Amazon’s bestseller list.”

“Is it?” Pandy asked. She rubbed the back of her head, and nearly screamed when she felt only the slightest stubble. Its texture was like velvet. It would take years for her hair to grow back.

“I think that would have made your sister so happy. Don’t you?”

Pandy took a deep breath. “Would you mind if I used your phone?”

“Of course not,” Judy said. “Please, call anyone you like. But if it beeps, will you hand it right back to me? Because it could be SondraBeth.”

Pandy nodded. She touched Henry’s number on the keypad, but it went right to voice mail. Of course. Henry wasn’t going to answer his phone, especially from an unknown number. She groaned. He must have arrived in Wallis by now. Looking out the window, she spotted those outlying brown brick buildings in the marshes of the Bronx.

Judy’s phone began singing: an aria. “It’s SondraBeth,” Judy said, holding out her hand for the device.

Pandy handed it back. She couldn’t believe that SondraBeth had allowed her former best friend to be taken back by van while she drove her goddamned custom Porsche to Manhattan. If she and SondraBeth had remained friends, Pandy would have been traveling in the front seat with her.

But apparently SondraBeth either still didn’t know Pandy was Pandy, or had a reason to keep up the ruse.

Road trip, she thought ironically as she tapped Judy on the shoulder for the phone. Judy looked back at her, mystified, then spoke into the phone to SondraBeth. “I think Hellenor wants to speak to you. Do you mind?”

Does she mind? Pandy thought. She had better not mind, she thought as Judy handed her the phone.

“Squeege?” she demanded. “Now listen. I’m happy to see your townhouse. In fact, I’ve been dying to see it ever since it came out in Architectural Digest. But someone needs to get in touch with Henry. He’s probably at Wallis House by now—”

“Shhhh,” came a soft whisper.

“Excuse me?” Pandy said.

“Breathe with me, Hellenor.”

“I am breathing.”

“No. I mean, really breathe with me. Inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.”

“SondraBeth,” Pandy said, in a panic, “is this a yoga thing? You know how much I hate yoga. I can’t even touch my toes!”

“You sound just like your sister. I have to go now.”

“But—”

SondraBeth clicked off, and Pandy was left staring at a blank screen. She handed the phone to Judy, slid down in her seat, and crossed her arms. For a moment, she was truly speechless. How long was she going to have to play this game?

Pandy looked back out the window and glared. The SUV was now on the Henry Hudson Bridge. Down below, the water was twisting and shining like a Mardi Gras snake. Then it disappeared behind a hump of green, and they were turning a corner.

And once again, there it was: the Monica billboard.

Judy leaned across the seat and held up several strings of glittering gold, green, and purple beads.

“San Geronimo festival,” she said as she lowered the beads over Pandy’s head. “Welcome to Manhattan.”

“Thanks.” Pandy turned her head to stare at Monica until she once again disappeared.

She fingered the beads around her neck.

Monica was still missing her leg.

Twenty minutes later, the van arrived at SondraBeth’s townhouse: a white cube famously designed in the 1960s by a now-forgotten architect. Located on East Sixty-Third Street, it could be reached via a parking garage a block away, thereby allowing its resident to avoid detection by the paparazzi. It was this route that the van took, pulling into a space under the townhouse marked PRIVATE.

Judy led Pandy to an inconspicuous metal door with a code pad. The door opened into a short cement corridor. At one end was another door; across the landing was a flight of steps leading up to the first floor of the townhouse.

“The basement,” Judy said, pressing a metal card onto the lock.

The door buzzed open, revealing what appeared to be a sort of bachelor pad. The carpet was an industrial gray, as was the fabric on the large, squishy couch and two overstuffed armchairs. On the wall was a large-screen TV; neatly arranged on the shelves below were a variety of clickers and gaming consoles. Two heavy glass ashtrays were stacked next to a digital clock.

“I think you’ll be really comfortable here,” Judy said. Her headset beeped. “SondraBeth will be back in fifteen. In the meantime, Peter Pepper would like a word. He’s the head of the studio.”

“I know who he is,” Pandy snapped. “And in the meantime, I would like to use the facilities.”

Annoyed once again by this Hellenor business, Pandy stomped down the hall to where Judy had pointed. She passed through a bedroom with the requisite king-sized mattress and even larger TV and into a bathroom the size of a small spa. Good old PP, Pandy thought, looking around at the sunken Jacuzzi tub, steam room, and separate his-and-hers toilet stalls.

Now he was an interesting development, she decided, going into the “his” stall. She supposed his presence made sense. Naturally the head of the studio would need to be on-site to stage-manage any potential situations concerning Monica. On the other hand…

Pandy went to the sink and washed her hands. Patting her face with water, she shook her head.

He might be here because of the clause in her Monica contract.

It stated that in the event of the death of PJ Wallis, the rights to Monica would revert back to her sister, Hellenor. It had been Henry’s idea to insert the clause, his worry being that if Pandy happened to die young, like her parents had, there would be no preventing someone from someday being able to do whatever they wanted with Monica—including using her to sell soap.

She and Henry had dubbed it “the Golden Ticket.” But in any case, it didn’t matter. Because she wasn’t dead. And she certainly wasn’t Hellenor.

“Hellenor?” Judy asked, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so,” Pandy said, glaring at her still-unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.

Now all she had to do was convince everyone else.

PP was waiting for her upstairs, seated on a stool in front of a long island in the center of an open-plan kitchen.

“Hellenor,” he said, springing to his feet. He clapped her right hand in both of his and squeezed. Hard.

“Ow,” Pandy said.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“Sure. I’ll take a glass of champagne,” she said sarcastically, taking the stool next to him.

“That sounds good. Chookie?” PP called out. A guy wearing a white chef’s uniform came through a swinging door. “Would you mind getting Ms. Wallis and me a glass of that nice pink champagne SondraBeth always has lying around? And something to eat, perhaps.”

Chookie nodded and vanished into the kitchen, but not before surreptitiously giving Pandy a horrified look, reminding her that she was still dressed in Hellenor’s clothes.

It didn’t matter. PP, she was sure, would soon understand that she was Pandy.

Glaring at Chookie’s retreating back, she turned to PP. He, too, was looking at her curiously, beaming with the sort of forced grin people slapped on their faces when they didn’t know what to think. “Tell me about you, Hellenor,” he said. “I’m told you live in Amsterdam?”

Pandy smiled sardonically. Apparently PP had been briefed about Hellenor. “You know I do. So why are you asking?”

“Excuse me?” PP said.

“I suppose you’re going to ask next if I wear wooden shoes.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you spoke Dutch. But then I remembered that most Dutch people speak English.”

Pandy rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure exactly what PP was up to, but he seemed to really think she was Hellenor. She needed to straighten him out on that one right away.

“Now, listen—”

PP held up his hand. “Of course, we can talk about Pandy. If you’d like.”

“Well, I—”

“Your sister was funny. And…pretty.” PP cleared his throat. “In any case, that was her problem. You can’t be funny and pretty in Hollywood. Because if you’re going to be funny, you have to be willing to risk looking stupid. Or even ugly. But then, you’re no longer pretty. Get what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I most certainly do.” Pandy crossed her arms as Chookie came back through the swinging door bearing the champagne, placed a glass in front of each of them, and disappeared again.

Pandy breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up her glass and held it to her lips. Pink champagne was her favorite drink, and now it was a reminder that she was not Hellenor. That all would be fine.

PP lifted his glass. “To Monica,” he said.

Pandy nearly choked, but PP didn’t notice. He kept on smiling away, as if nothing were strange. “Tell me,” he said conversationally, “how much do you know about Monica?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Were you a fan?” he asked cautiously.

“I guess you could say that,” Pandy snapped.

“Good. What was your favorite Monica movie?”

“Movie? What about book?” Pandy demanded. She took a larger gulp of champagne. As usual when it came to PP, she was feeling increasingly insulted.

“Book, then. That’s even better. You’re a real fan.” PP smiled and put down his glass. “I assume you’ve read them all.”

For a second, Pandy could only gape at him in disbelief. “I know them inside and out.”

PP nodded.

Pandy put down her glass as well. “Now, listen, PP,” she repeated. “You do realize—”

“Shhhh.” PP patted her hand and glanced at the swinging doors.

Right on cue, Chookie came through, setting down a silver tray with tiny sandwiches before retreating once more. Pandy pushed the tray away and looked at PP imploringly. “I am PJ Wallis. I created Monica.”

PP stared at her briefly. Then he shook his head.

“I’m—” Pandy tried again, but PP put his hand on her arm to stop her from talking. “There’s been a huge mix-up,” Pandy said desperately. “And no one will believe me.”

Suddenly she had a terrible thought: If she couldn’t be PJ Wallis, she might as well be dead. She slumped onto the counter. When would this nightmare end?

PP patted her on the back. “There, there,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “It’s going to be okay. You were so overcome by the death of your sister, for a moment, you thought you were her.” He stared at her curiously and then smiled knowingly. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You were joking. You’re funny, too. Just like your sister.”

Pandy wanted to cry. She reminded herself to stay calm. SondraBeth would arrive soon, and she would know that she was Pandy.

“I truly am sorry about your loss. I always liked your sister,” PP said.

Pandy lifted her head and sat up. “Well, that’s funny. Because SondraBeth always said you hated Pandy.”

PP suddenly looked incensed, as if he’d been caught out. So he had complained about her to SondraBeth after all.

“I don’t know where SondraBeth got that idea,” PP said. “In any case, I knew her well. Your sister, I mean. She and her husband—that is, her ex-husband—were friends of mine.”

Pandy’s expression froze. Perhaps being Hellenor wasn’t such a bad idea after all. For a few minutes, anyway. In which she might be able to extract information about Jonny from PP.

“Are you still friends with Jonny?” she asked casually.

PP leaned forward conspiratorially. “Frankly, I’d like to strangle the guy. He owes me money.”

“You too, huh?” Pandy said, nodding. Apparently Jonny’s grifting was more extensive than she’d thought.

“Why do women like Pandy marry men like that? She was so…spunky. Confident. Smart. But then she met Jonny and…” PP shrugged. “Why don’t women know to avoid that type of guy?”

“You tell me,” Pandy said, sipping her champagne while thinking that PP was cut from very much the same cloth as Jonny.

“Your sister was quite attractive,” PP said, clearing his throat.

“Yes, she was…” Pandy suddenly became acutely aware of her appearance: dressed in Hellenor’s construction boots and flannel shirt, with her bald pate, she must look like something out of an old Saturday Night Live sketch. She flushed in annoyance as she realized that PP was trying to flatter “Hellenor” in order to sway her. Pandy wondered just how far he was willing to go to keep his precious Monica franchise safe.

“Okay, PP,” she said. “Let’s say I am Hellenor Wallis. What then?” She reached for the champagne bottle.

“Well, you’re going to be a very rich woman.”

Pandy smirked as she refilled her glass, wondering if PP knew about all the money Jonny had taken from her.

“But what about Jonny?” she asked. “What about all that money Pandy supposedly owes him in the settlement?”

“Oh, jeez. That,” PP said. “Jonny is a bit of a problem, and believe me, I understand. But eventually he’ll go away. And in the meantime, we’re planning to make lots and lots of Monica movies.”

“More Monica!” Pandy said with false cheer.

PP patted her on the shoulder. “As I said, eventually you’ll be a very rich woman. Thank God for Monica, right?” he added as Judy came through the door.

Pandy sighed.

Judy turned to Pandy. “Hellenor? Can I bring you back to the suite? SondraBeth will be down to see you in ten.”

Back in the basement, Pandy flopped onto the bed. She turned on the TV, figuring she might as well catch up on her so-called death while she was waiting for SondraBeth.

It was the usual news loop: a live report from the San Geronimo festival, and then there it was, an update on her demise: PJ Wallis, creator of Monica, reported dead in a tragic fire at her childhood home in Wallis, Connecticut.

And suddenly, there she was on the screen…with Jonny at a black-tie event—the same event where SondraBeth had warned her against him. And she was so naïve that she was actually smiling…

The screen cut to a close-up of a fan laying a pink plastic champagne glass on an already large pile that also contained stuffed animals. The camera pulled back to reveal her building.

“Hundreds of fans gathered outside her apartment…”

“No!” Pandy shouted at the TV. This could not be happening. Her so-called death was not supposed to be her next big moment. Her next big moment was supposed to have been about her new book, Lady Wallis. And there he was again: the cause of all this trouble—Jonny.

Now he was pushing through the crowd outside her building, trying to get in. Pandy groaned. Of course he would know that Pandy had left the Monica rights to Hellenor. His lawyers had been over every single one of her contracts with a fine-tooth comb.

Jonny would know that if Hellenor decided to execute her rights, there would be no more Monica—and no more money for Jonny.

And now Jonny knew Hellenor could ruin him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AS PROMISED, we’re going back live to the San Geronimo festival,” said the voice from the screen.

Right now, Jonny must be furious, Pandy thought gleefully. And for a second, she was happy. Then she looked back at the monitor. Three young women were jumping up and down and screaming, raising glasses of pink champagne to Monica.

“Hellenor?” Judy’s voice came over the intercom. “SondraBeth in one.”

“Thanks,” Pandy said. Remembering that Jonny’s fury over her supposed death would be short-lived, she went out into the living room. The suite had a damp smell, as if someone had just turned on the air-conditioning. It was still stuffy, so Pandy tugged open the window.

The view was of a small stairwell. Pandy heard voices and stuck her head out.

SondraBeth’s back was to her. She was having a heated discussion with a rubbery-faced man in a T-shirt. SondraBeth said something and the man laughed, his man-boobs jiggling under the fabric.

Pandy frowned, recognizing the man’s voice. He was Freddie the Rat, part of the old Joules crowd. Apparently SondraBeth had remained in touch with him.

Pandy withdrew her head. She heard a short knock and went to the door.

SondraBeth was standing on the threshold. She had changed her outfit, and was now wearing high-tech white workout gear with silver piping. In each hand was a shopping bag bearing the Monica logo.

“Hellenor,” she said, striding into the room.

Oh no. Pandy sighed. Not this again. She clomped to the door in Hellenor’s old construction boots and shut it firmly behind her. “Squeege,” she began.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” SondraBeth said warmly.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” Pandy said as SondraBeth turned away to head into the bedroom. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Pandy said, annoyed. “We need to clear some things up. Like the fact that I’m—”

“I don’t have long.” SondraBeth dropped the shopping bags on the bed and gave Pandy her most brilliant Monica smile. “There’s been a change of plans. The Woman Warrior of the Year Awards are today, and thanks to your sister’s sudden death, they want me to present the award to you.”

“To me?” Pandy gasped. She looked at SondraBeth. Was it possible SondraBeth really didn’t know she was Pandy? “That is not going to happen.”

“Why not? It happens all the time,” SondraBeth said. She pawed through one of the shopping bags and held out a tissue-wrapped package to Pandy. “People die, and other people start giving them awards for having once been alive.”

“But that’s just the problem. I’m still alive.”

SondraBeth pushed the package toward her. “Of course you’re still alive, Hellenor. But it’s Pandy who’s getting the award. You’re accepting it on her behalf.”

Pandy groaned.

“First things first,” SondraBeth chirped, pushing the package into Pandy’s hands. In her friendliest Monica voice, she said, “In appreciation of how special you are, I’d like to gift you with a few of my favorite items from the Monica line.”

Pandy threw the package back onto the bed. “Now, listen—” she snapped, unable to contain her frustration.

“Here, let me help you.” SondraBeth picked up the package and inspected her incredibly sharp nails. Using her middle finger, she neatly sliced through the tissue paper and then, with a flourish, held up a garment.

It was a beautiful white hooded robe, made of the softest, lightest, coziest material Pandy had ever seen. She picked up the sleeve and felt the fabric. “It’s beautiful,” she said with a sigh.

“Isn’t it?” SondraBeth said mournfully, at last dropping the Monica routine. “It’s just the kind of thing your sister would have loved. I remember all those times when the two of us would be lounging around in our robes—”

“Still hung over,” Pandy added.

SondraBeth shot her a sharp glance. “Will you try it on? For me?” She smiled imploringly.

“Okay,” Pandy said. She wasn’t sure what SondraBeth was up to, but the robe was too tempting to resist.

She draped the hood over her head, went into the bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror as SondraBeth came in behind her. The hood did not disguise the fact that she was bald, and now she looked like some kind of newt. Or rather like a spa refugee with huge, scared eyes.

And suddenly, she was sick to death of this farce.

“Now listen, Squeege,” she said, tearing off the robe and throwing it onto the floor. “If you have to tell me something about Jonny—”

“Jonny.” SondraBeth grimaced. “Now you listen. The truth is that in the last few years—well, your sister and I weren’t exactly friends. I’ll explain why, someday. But in the meantime, I never got the chance to tell her the truth about Jonny.”

SondraBeth leaned past her to reach into the top of the medicine cabinet. “It’s nasty stuff, but Pandy always said you were the kind of person who wouldn’t be swayed by sentiment. Unlike Pandy herself. I always told her she was too emotional about men, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“Is that so?” Pandy said archly.

SondraBeth laughed as she removed a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, which she shook at Pandy. Pandy took one.

“But since you already know Jonny’s a bad guy…” SondraBeth stuck a cigarette into her mouth, lit it, and then lit Pandy’s. SondraBeth inhaled and exhaled quickly, like someone who hasn’t had a smoke for a while. “I happen to know that Jonny owes the mob a lot of money.”

“What?” Pandy began coughing. SondraBeth patted her on the back.

“I know. It sounds shocking, but you have to remember that Jonny was in the restaurant business. He borrowed all this money from the mob. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“There’s more?”

SondraBeth nodded, and with the guilt of someone who knew she shouldn’t be smoking, she took another furtive drag. “That guy who was just here, Freddie the Rat? Your sister and I used to hang out with him. A long time ago.”

“I know all about Freddie,” Pandy sighed.

“Well, Freddie knows all about Jonny. And he told me that if there weren’t any more Monica movies…if Monica were, to say, die”—SondraBeth took another drag—“the mob would go after Jonny for the money he owes them, because they’d know his source of funds had dried up.”

“What are they going to do? Kill him?” Pandy asked sarcastically.

“Don’t be silly,” SondraBeth said. “They’re not going to kill a famous person. They don’t operate like that.”

“How do you know?” Pandy asked.

“Because they do business with famous people. It’s like being a drug dealer, okay? You don’t want to kill your clients.”

“Holy shit,” Pandy said, remembering the Vegas guys Jonny had mentioned; those mumbled phone calls in the bathroom.

“But it’s way more than that,” SondraBeth continued. “He’s been cheating the union guys, too. Who are part of the mob.”

“You mean those people who make deliveries to his restaurants?” Pandy gasped.

“Hey.” SondraBeth’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re in the restaurant business, too.”

“I’m not. I know all about it because I was married to Jonny.”

“What?” SondraBeth nearly dropped her cigarette. “You too?”

“I’m Pandy!” Pandy shouted. “Christ, Squeege. We’ve seen each other naked. Remember that time on the island? You invited me to come and visit you, and then you convinced me to invite Doug there. And then you stole him,” she shrieked.

“I did not!” SondraBeth jumped back in shock.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not the way it happened. Technically, he wasn’t her boyfriend,” she said quickly.

“What difference does it make? Because after you had sex with Doug, you sent him to me as a present.” Pandy’s voice rose to a screech. “And then, you acted like it was no big deal and I was crazy. Like I was the crazy one who fucks their best friend’s boyfriend behind their back! And you want to know another thing?”

“There’s more?” SondraBeth demanded.

“The last time I looked at you, I saw evil. Pure evil. I saw a serpent come out of your head and swoop down toward me. Well?” Pandy demanded in reaction to SondraBeth’s still-startled expression.

And at last, SondraBeth’s eyes widened in recognition. She took a deep breath. “Well, yourself,” she said. She took another cigarette from the pack. As she raised her hand to light it, Pandy saw her hand was shaking.

And suddenly, Pandy felt dizzy, too, as if she was about to swoon in fear, anger, and excitement. The history she and SondraBeth had between them could fill a novel—yet, at this point, they might as well have been bookends on the opposite ends of the longest bookshelf in the world.

She looked at SondraBeth, who was looking back at her as if she couldn’t comprehend what Pandy had become.

What she’d done.

“Why?” SondraBeth asked, her voice full of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me go on like a fool, acting like you were Hellenor?”

“I never said I was Hellenor,” Pandy said sharply. “It was everyone else—”

“Oh, please.” SondraBeth crossed her arms in disgust.

“I seem to recall that you were the one who invaded my space, ‘sista,’” Pandy continued. “If you remember, I was happily alone in Wallis, waiting for Henry to arrive so I could change my clothes, find a wig, and get back to being Pandy, when you showed up with your paparazzi circus.”

“So it’s my fault, huh? I interrupted your plans?”

“What plans?” Pandy shouted.

“Pretending to be Hellenor. How long were you planning to keep it up?”

“I wasn’t planning to keep it up at all!”

“You knew about the mob, and you were planning to kill Monica!”

“Of course I wasn’t,” Pandy replied. “Why would I want to kill Monica?”

“You tell me.”

When Pandy continued to shake her head, SondraBeth spoke to her like she was an idiot. Stating the obvious, she said, “You wanted to kill Monica to get even with Jonny.”

“Honestly,” Pandy said, “it never even crossed my mind.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not going to happen now,” SondraBeth said, frowning. “Now that I know you’re Pandy.”

Pandy lit up another cigarette. “You sound kind of disappointed.”

“I’m just shocked, that’s all.” SondraBeth took another cigarette and looked at Pandy assessingly. “I do understand why you did it. If I had a husband like Jonny—”

“Well, aren’t you lucky. You never have,” Pandy replied. Now it all made sense. This wasn’t about Jonny. It was about Monica. SondraBeth had believed she was Hellenor and, knowing that Hellenor had the rights to Monica, had obviously brought her here to convince her to make more Monica movies. Just like PP.

“Either way, what difference does it make? Because I’m alive.” Pandy took a mournful drag. “Why should you care about what happened between me and Jonny anyway?” she asked suddenly. “After all, you certainly didn’t care about me and Doug.”

SondraBeth took a step back and sniffed. Looking as if she was recalling that terrible moment on the island when they’d fought about Doug, she said, “Oh, I get it. You’re still mad.”

“About what?”

“Doug Stone?” SondraBeth said tauntingly.

Pandy laughed snidely in return. “Of course I’m still mad. It’s not the kind of thing I’d ever forget.”

“Of course it isn’t,” SondraBeth said.

Pandy laughed this off. “Why did you do it?”

“You really want to know?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Pandy crossed her arms.

“Oh, Peege,” SondraBeth said. “You always made these things bigger than they were. There was no conspiracy, nothing. I was just jealous. Don’t tell me you haven’t been jealous of me.” She tossed her head.

“When?” Pandy challenged.

“The mayor’s party? When I was invited and you weren’t?”

“I guess Doug told you,” Pandy said. “Well, so what? Maybe I was jealous. But that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to steal my guy.”

“Of course not,” SondraBeth sneered. “Because as usual, you, PJ Wallis, are a far better person than I am. Because you grew up with all the manners.”

“Not this again,” Pandy said warningly.

“Listen, I made a mistake,” SondraBeth said. “I honestly didn’t think you’d be that angry about it. You said that you were done with him. I thought you felt the way I did. Like he was kind of a PandaBeth toy.”

“What?” Pandy screeched.

“Oh, calm down, Peege,” SondraBeth said. “I’m joking. Haven’t you learned to stop being such an idealist? Surely you know that these kinds of things happen in life. You just hate it when they happen to you. Anyway, I was never in love with Doug.”

“I thought you two were supposed to be soul mates,” Pandy sneered.

“Well, I found out pretty quickly that we weren’t,” SondraBeth said, marching back into the bedroom as Pandy followed her. “Especially when I discovered that my so-called soul mate was fucking everything, everywhere, and everyone was covering up for him. And then, it was too late. It was all over the tabloids that we were together. And then you went and married Jonny.”

Pandy frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing,” SondraBeth said, leaning back on the bed. “It’s just that when you and Jonny got married, the studio decided it would be a great idea if Monica got married as well.”

“Are you saying your getting engaged to Doug was the studio’s idea?”

“Did you think it was mine?” SondraBeth asked.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

“Because I liked having sex with him, and it was good publicity. For Monica. In fact, I almost went along with it—for Monica. But in the end, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t love him, and I couldn’t go through with that much of a lie.

“Why did Monica have to get married, anyway?” SondraBeth continued in exasperation. “What happened to the old PJ Wallis? The PJ who said Monica would never get married, because she’d never get married.”

Pandy winced. “I fell in love, I guess. And now, because of Jonny and his debts, I have to write another Monica book. And now that I’m divorced, Monica is going to have to get divorced, too. And then she’s going to have to try online dating.”

“Dating again? She’s forty-five, for Christ’s sake,” SondraBeth said. “How much more of her life does she have to devote to dating? The woman who plays her certainly doesn’t have time to date. She doesn’t even have time to pick her teeth with a toothpick.”

“I fucked up. Okay?” Pandy snapped.

“How?”

“I can’t say,” Pandy said between gritted teeth.

“What did you do?” SondraBeth demanded.

“Something incredibly stupid.” Pandy glared. “I never made Jonny sign a prenup, and then I gave him hundreds of thousands of dollars for his restaurant in Vegas. And now I’m broke and will probably have to sell my loft and write a million more Monica books.”

“Why did you give him all your money?” SondraBeth said as Pandy began to cry.

“I knew I shouldn’t have, but I felt guilty,” Pandy sobbed. “Because my career was going great, and Jonny’s…well, it should have been going great, and he was acting like it was going great, but it wasn’t. He was losing money. And then, when he couldn’t pay it back, I was forced to write another Monica book. And then Monica had to get married, and now she’ll have to get divorced…” She hiccuped as she glanced at the TV, which was running the news loop of PJ Wallis’s death again. “Or worse. Maybe now that I’m dead, Monica will have to die, too.”

“So this is all Jonny’s fault.”

“And now I still can’t do anything about Jonny. Because I’m not dead,” Pandy said, shaking her fist at the screen.

SondraBeth looked at the monitor and back at Pandy.

And then she got that look in her eye.

“Peege,” she said in that familiar wheedling tone of voice that had been the beginning of so many misadventures. “You don’t know how badly the union guys want to teach Jonny a lesson.”

“SondraBeth?” Judy’s voice came over the intercom. “I need you to get ready.”

“Thanks, Judy,” SondraBeth called out gaily as she pressed the button.

She picked up her phone and smiled. “I’m going to call Freddie. I think I know how you can still be Pandy and get back at Jonny.” And as she pressed his number, she gave her the old PandaBeth grin. “All you have to do is stay Hellenor for a few hours.”

Five minutes later, they were still arguing.

“No.” Pandy got up and stubbed out her cigarette. “It would never work,” she added sharply. “Besides the fact that it’s ka-ray-zee, I could never get away with being Hellenor.”

“But you already have,” SondraBeth pointed out. “Even I thought you were Hellenor, until you mentioned that snaky thing coming out of my head.” She paused and looked at Pandy sympathetically. “Sista, you’re bald. Do you know how different that makes people look? It totally changes the proportions of the face. Even the photographers didn’t recognize you.”

“Which was annoying,” Pandy admitted. She crossed her arms. “On the other hand, even if I were Hellenor—”

“Freddie said the union guys have a big surprise planned for Jonny at the leg.”

Pandy moaned and flopped into an armchair. The leg. In addition to the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards, which Pandy had forgotten about, given her rotten last few months, the unveiling of Monica’s shoe was also today. It was a new thing the studio was trying. According to SondraBeth, this was the reason Monica’s leg had been late:

It was getting its own day.

“SondraBeth.” Judy’s voice came through the intercom. “We need you to get ready.”

“We don’t have much time,” SondraBeth hissed. “All you have to do is go to the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards as Hellenor, accept the award, announce that you’re killing Monica, and then, while the mob grabs Jonny, we’ll go to the leg event, where you go back to being Pandy.”

Pandy groaned.

“You, PJ Wallis, have picked a very good day to die,” SondraBeth said, sounding as if Pandy were the one who had hatched up this plan in the first place.

“Can I at least call Henry?” Pandy asked.

“Sure.” SondraBeth tossed her the phone. And in her very best Wicked Witch of the West voice, she added, “Remember, you only have five minutes to decide.”

And then she was gone.

Fucking Squeege, Pandy thought, stomping back to the bedroom. This was perhaps the real reason they hadn’t seen each other for so many years: When they did, crazy things happened. Bad things. Embarrassing things. Things that almost made you glad you didn’t have a mother to tell.

She plopped down on the bed and looked at the packages. At least they hadn’t done any cocaine. So all in all, nothing was that bad, yet.

And then she quickly pawed through the packages, just to make sure SondraBeth hadn’t hidden a little “surprise” in the bag. After all, she had just seen Freddie the Rat, and it was the kind of thing…

But she was happy to see that the bags only contained more of those luxuriously soft workout clothes.

“Hellenor?” Judy sounded more urgent this time. “We need you upstairs in three.”

Right, Pandy thought. She stripped off Hellenor’s clothes and pulled on a set of navy-blue workout gear with MONICA outlined in silver on the back.

And then she heard Jonny’s voice. It was coming from the TV. There he was, again, in front of her building. But this time he was talking to a reporter.

“Who is Hellenor Wallis?” he asked. “That’s what I want to know.” Turning to face the camera, his still-handsome face arranged into his trademark sneer, he added, “I know you’re out there, Hellenor. And I’m looking for you.”

Jonny was looking for Hellenor? Well, he was about to find out that some people were looking for him, too.

Pandy clicked off the TV. She was going to pocket the phone when she remembered Henry.

She had to call Henry. At least to let him know where she was. She tapped in his number, preparing to lie her ass off.

While the phone rang and rang, Pandy found herself praying that Henry wouldn’t answer. But he picked up just before it went to voice mail.

“SondraBeth?” he asked cautiously.

“Henry! It’s me,” Pandy squealed with, she realized, way too much enthusiasm.

“You’re kidding,” Henry said drily. “I thought you were dead.”

“So does everyone else,” Pandy chortled. “It’s all been a huge, huge mistake.”

“Yes. So I can see from the devastation at Wallis. No wonder you fled. As you’re calling from SondraBeth’s phone, I assume she’s in the vicinity?”

“Oh yes,” Pandy said reassuringly. “She’s upstairs. And I’m downstairs in the guest suite of her townhouse.”

“And does this mean you and SondraBeth are once again fast friends?”

“What makes you say that?” she asked casually.

“That misadventure the two of you had in the mud this morning? Just like two little pigs.”

“You saw that?” Pandy acted surprised.

“How could I not have seen it? It’s been broadcast all over Instalife. SondraBeth Schnowzer rolling in the mud with you standing behind her, dressed like the construction worker from the Village People.”

“I had to wear Hellenor’s clothes. Because I couldn’t fit in my own,” Pandy said, beginning to get annoyed. “Not to mention the fact that I am bald.” She took a breath and added contritely, “In any case, I did try to tell everyone I was Pandy. But no one believed me. It was like one of those really awful what-if games. Like what if everyone thought you were dead, but you weren’t?”

“This day just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?” Henry said. “I have only just left Wallis. It took me an hour to get the paparazzi off the property. Can you imagine what it would be like if you really had died?”

“I’m beginning to have a very good idea.”

“Hellenor?” Judy’s voice came over the intercom.

“Sorry, Henry, but I have to go.”

“Sit tight,” Henry said. “And don’t do anything until I get there.”

“I won’t,” Pandy said as he clicked off. She felt bad about lying to him, but hopefully it would all work out and Henry wouldn’t have to know how foolish she’d been about Jonny.

She knew how disappointed he would be in her if he did find out.

“Judy?” she said. “It’s Hellenor. I’m ready.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SHE WAS more than ready an hour and a half later, when the SUV was speeding down the West Side Highway on the way to the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards. Having put herself into the capable hands of the in-house Monica wardrobe and makeup team, she was now wearing a black leather jacket, black pants, and black patent leather loafers.

Judy was seated next to her in the third row. In the second row were SondraBeth and PP. In the first row, meaning the operational part of the operation, were a bodyguard and a chauffeur who could double as another bodyguard if necessary.

“Meaning he carries a gun,” PP had informed her.

Pandy had nodded solemnly. Normally, this sort of information would have upset her. She would have had to ask what sort of person she was, to allow herself to be transported around Manhattan with two men bearing arms. There seemed to be something ethically off about it. But she was in no position to ask questions. Indeed, she ought to be grateful she was around men with guns, after that threat Jonny had made on TV.

Which hadn’t gone unnoticed by the team. “Hellenor?” Judy asked, looking down worriedly at her device. “What’s this thing on Instalife about Pandy’s ex-husband looking for you?”

“Jonny is a real scumbag,” SondraBeth replied smoothly, jumping in before Pandy could answer. Ever since Pandy had gone up to wardrobe and makeup as Hellenor, SondraBeth had barely let her out of her sight. She seemed to have her ear tuned to any potential conversation in which Pandy might inadvertently reveal the truth.

“It’s just that he seems like a real crazy person. Like an actually insane, psychologically challenged kind of person,” Judy said.

“Well, he is. Wouldn’t you say so, PP? After all, you were friends with him,” SondraBeth said smugly.

“I wasn’t exactly friends with him,” PP said. “We were friendly. I was just doing business with him, that’s all. Trying to make some money.”

“And how’d that work out for you?” Pandy asked snidely.

SondraBeth snickered under her breath. “Exactly.”

“Frankly, if you were any kind of man at all, I’d think you’d want to punch the fucker,” Pandy said, just loud enough so that SondraBeth could hear and PP probably couldn’t.

“Har har har,” SondraBeth laughed loudly. Dressed in her full Monica regalia, she could barely turn her head. She was so decorated with hairpieces and layers of Spanx and silicone cutlets that she might as well have been a marquess in the court of Louis XIV. “Hellenor didn’t mean that,” she added. “She’s totally against violence. As we all are.”

She shot Pandy a warning look. “In any case, I’m sure karma will get Jonny. No one can escape from it.”

“Actually, it’s the tax man,” Pandy said. “No one can escape from the tax man.”

“Which reminds me,” PP said, scrolling through his device. “Thanks to that little stunt you two pulled this morning—that rolling-in-the-mud thing—you’re going to have to be sure to emphasize that Monica is very much alive.”

“Of course she’s alive,” SondraBeth tittered. “Why would anyone think she wasn’t?”

“The Instaverse is claiming that when you rolled in the mud, you said, ‘I buried Monica.’”

“What? Like John Lennon and the White Album?” Pandy snorted derisively.

“‘I buried Paul.’ Very good, Hellenor,” PP said approvingly. “Maybe you can be a studio head someday.” He turned back to SondraBeth. “When you give Hellenor the award, be sure to state specifically that Monica is alive.”

“She is alive. She lives!” SondraBeth called back to Pandy jokingly.

The light turned green and the car started forward with a jerk.

“Ow.” Pandy touched the bump on the back of her bald head and winced.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV was at last pulling in through the gates of Chelsea Piers. After being stopped by several guards, they were told to wait. The event didn’t begin for another hour, but there were already hundreds of photographers on the bleachers along the carpet, sitting like Hitchcock’s black crows on the telephone wires outside the children’s school. Cordoned off behind metal barricades was a bigger mob of fans, some, Pandy noted, with plastic champagne glasses strapped to their heads.

This was going to be interesting.

Eager for a glimpse of Monica, a splinter group had broken through the barricades and was now approaching the car.

Sensing danger, the bodyguard got out and stood with his arms crossed in front of SondraBeth’s door.

“What do we do now?” Pandy asked.

“Wait,” SondraBeth said.

“For what?”

“For someone to come and get us.”

Pandy looked out the window and grimaced. The group was now surrounding the car. A face was squished up against her window for a second before it was swept away by the bodyguard. Pandy almost thought she’d imagined it, but for the greasy smudge left on the glass.

The horizon began tilting as Pandy started to feel the beginnings of a panic attack. Big crowds scared her; she always imagined being trampled.

“Hellenor? Are you all right?” SondraBeth’s voice seemed to be coming from too far away.

“Have some water,” PP said, handing her a bottle.

“It’s all the fans,” SondraBeth said, turning a quarter of the way to address PP. “I used to feel that way, too, remember? Like a fraud. I’d be in the car, my heart pounding, sweat pouring from my underarms, and I’d think, what if I get out there and they see that I’m a fraud? That I’m not really Monica? What if the crowd thinks they’re getting Monica, and discover they’re getting SondraBeth Schnowzer instead? What if—”

“They tear you limb from limb?” Pandy asked, half jokingly. The question wasn’t necessarily facetious. Another group had squeezed between the metal barricades and was now approaching the car.

Plink! A plastic champagne glass hit the rear window.

Pandy screamed.

“Check your face. That’s what I always do,” SondraBeth advised, looking in the vanity mirror.

And then the police came and shooed the crowds away, directing the driver to a guardhouse where the backstage entrance was protected by a metal gate in a chain-link fence. Pandy breathed a sigh of relief as the SUV pulled up to a loading dock that led to the backstage area. The water she’d chugged had made its way to her bladder, and now she had to pee. She sat up in anticipation of bolting from the car.

The door to the SUV swung open. SondraBeth rose slightly on bent knees and, ratcheting herself around to face the open door, assessed the situation.

“I’m going to need a ramp,” she said.

“She needs a ramp. Someone get her a ramp,” came the sound of male voices shouting from below.

Pandy sighed deeply and pushed back into her seat, squeezing her thighs together. This was annoying. SondraBeth was blocking the door. Pandy couldn’t go forward or backward until someone got that damn ramp.

This was why she hated showbiz.

“Maybe you could change your shoes?” Pandy asked, wondering how much longer she could hold out for the bathroom. “Maybe if you had on different shoes, you could get the hell out, and then we could all get the hell out.”

“No,” SondraBeth hissed angrily. “This is it. This is the outfit. I can put it on once, and then it has to stay on as is until I take the whole thing off. Get it?”

At that moment, the ramp arrived.

“Got it!” shouted a voice, and slowly, helped on either side by two burly men with shaved heads, SondraBeth inched forward onto the loading dock.

And then she unfolded, snapping open black metallic panels on her long skirt. Pandy watched, mesmerized, as she slowly raised her arms, the fabric undraping to reveal what looked like two iridescent black wings.

“Christ,” PP said, coming up behind Pandy. “She looks like a giant fly.”

Judy spoke into her headset and in the next second they were surrounded by various crew and producers and assistants. SondraBeth was led to her dressing room.

Hellenor Wallis was shown to the green room.

Bypassing the spread of fruit, candy, and sandwiches, Pandy ran to the ladies’. Just as she was pulling up her pants, there was a knock on the door. “Hellenor? It’s Judy. They need you to do press. Are you ready?”

Pandy smiled.

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Do you think when your sister sat down to write Monica, she ever in a million years imagined it would be like this?” asked one of the journalists who were clustered around Pandy in the green room.

“No, I don’t think she did. I don’t think anyone could,” Pandy said, looking, she hoped, appropriately sad.

“She would have loved it, don’t you think?” the journalist asked.

“Yes, she really would have.” Pandy’s eyes slid over to the large-screen TV, on which there was a shot of the Monica billboard, now covered in cloth and a series of ropes and pulleys. MONICA SHOE UNVEILING, read the caption.

“And what did PJ Wallis have in store for Monica? Besides her new shoe?” the journalist asked.

Pandy tore her eyes away from the image of the billboard. “The truth is, Pandy had just finished a book that wasn’t about Monica.”

“I see. And what about this rumor that Pandy’s ex-husband, Jonny, thinks you’re not really Hellenor?”

Pandy cocked her head. She knew Jonny was looking for her, but this last piece of information was new. “I’ve heard he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“If you had a message from PJ Wallis to all those Monica fans out there today, what do you think it would be?”

Pandy stared straight into the camera and glared. “That’s easy: Don’t ever get married.”

“Thank you, Hellenor.”

“Hellenor?” someone else said. “Can we get a shot of you with the Monica shoe?”

“The Monica shoe is here?” Pandy asked.

“From now on, those shoes go everyplace SondraBeth goes. She’s got to wear them to the unveiling,” Judy explained. She spoke into her mike. “Can someone bring me the Monica shoes, please?”

In the next moment, the stylist’s assistant appeared, holding a pair of fringed red suede spike-heeled booties stuffed with tissue paper. Pandy held the booties up on either side of her face and smiled into the flashes.

“What do you think about the big memorial service SondraBeth is planning for your sister’s funeral?” another journalist asked.

Pandy’s smile stiffened.

The photographers shot off a few obligatory snaps and turned away.

“A memorial service?” Pandy said to Judy. She spun on her heel and began marching down the hall to SondraBeth’s dressing room.

“Hellenor?” Judy said, hurrying after Pandy. “You can put down the booties. I need to return them to wardrobe.”

Pandy ignored her, rapping on the door with the cruelly sharp heel of one of the booties. “SondraBeth? I need to talk to you.”

“Come in,” SondraBeth purred.

“Hellenor?” Judy said, catching up to her. “Is everything okay?”

“I need to talk to SondraBeth alone. It’s about my sister, and her death.” She turned the knob, pushed inside, and shut the door firmly behind her.

SondraBeth was standing in the middle of the room. The hinged skirt was attached to a stiff black bodice covered with tiny rhinestone M’s.

“Oh, good.” SondraBeth reached out her arms for the booties. “You’ve brought me my shoes.”

“Monica’s shoes,” Pandy said. SondraBeth took the shoes and toddled the few steps to the makeup counter to deposit them. She turned stiffly and swayed back toward Pandy, slowly lowering her arms. “So talk,” she said as she held up her nails and examined them.

The sight made Pandy gasp. Each of SondraBeth’s fingers sprouted a different miniature masterpiece of a famous building. Pandy picked out the Chrysler Building, the Eiffel Tower, and the Space Needle. She tore her eyes away and plopped herself onto a folding chair. “What’s this I’ve just heard about you planning a memorial service for Pandy?”

“Oh, that.” SondraBeth smiled and pointed the Empire State Building at her. “It was just something that popped into my head.”

“When?” Pandy glared.

“Just at that moment. The journalist asked me if I knew anything about a memorial service, and I—”

“Well, pop that idea right back out of your head. Because at the end of the day, I will once again be alive. Meaning there isn’t going to be any memorial service.”

“Of course there isn’t. But if I told the journalist that, it would look fairly suspicious, don’t you think? PJ Wallis dies, and there’s no funeral?”

“I guess.” Pandy narrowed her eyes. “I just want to make sure that we’re both on the same page. Right after the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards, I go back to being Pandy.”

“SondraBeth?” Judy knocked on the door, then opened it an inch and stuck her nose in the crack. “They need you in rehearsal.”

SondraBeth slowly made her way out into the hallway.

“How’s she going to walk across the stage in that getup?” Pandy hissed to Judy.

“She doesn’t have to. The stage is revolving.”

“Like a turntable?” Pandy was aghast.

“They call it a lazy Susan. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You only have to be onstage for a minute or two,” she said over her shoulder. Quickly she walked away to where SondraBeth was being lifted onto a trolley to be driven to the stage. Judy hopped into the seat next to the driver. “Don’t go far, Hellenor. We may need you as well.”

“Okay,” Pandy agreed.

She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself as Judy and SondraBeth sped around the corner. She took a step to follow, but her legs felt as if they were made of rubber. How big was this production going to be? It had to be large if there was a revolving stage. Heart pounding at the thought of having to get up in front of all those people, Pandy decided she’d better have a cigarette to relax. Stumbling through the nearest exit, she nearly knocked over a girl holding a tray of champagne.

“I’m sorry,” Pandy said.

“I probably shouldn’t be standing in front of the door. Come in. Would you like a glass of champagne?”

“Well, sure.” Pandy took a glass and stepped to the side, nearly bumping into a mannequin dressed as Wonder Woman.

Pandy laughed as she straightened the dummy. She smiled fondly at the mannequin of Joan of Arc placed next to Marilyn Monroe. She was in the Woman Warrior Hall of Fame, a somewhat hokey display that was a traditional part of the awards. Attendees were meant to wander through the hall during the cocktail hour.

The crowd was beginning to trickle in. Pandy stopped to shake her head at poor old Mother Teresa’s ragged costume. She and SondraBeth had come to these awards together, years and years ago when they were still friends. They’d done a tiny line of cocaine in the bathroom, “for Dutch courage,” SondraBeth had said, and then they’d strolled into the display.

There was a tap on Pandy’s shoulder. Three young women were standing behind her.

“Sorry to bother you—”

“But are you Hellenor Wallis?”

“You are. We saw you on Instalife this morning!”

“Can we get a photo?”

“Well, sure.” Pandy smiled, and then remembered to wipe the smile from her face.

“Your sister meant everything to me,” the first girl murmured, tilting her head next to Pandy’s and holding out her device for a selfie. “She was my idol. I wanted to be just like her.”

“I need a picture, too!”

“Just one more? I’ll die if I don’t get a photo.”

A crowd of women was gathering around her. Two handlers broke through, trying to shoo them away. “Ladies, please.”

“But I came all the way from Philadelphia!”

“I don’t mind.” Pandy smiled reassuringly. For a brief moment, she was back in her element. Motion the woman closer, arm around the shoulders, heads cocked together, smile! Next.

And the ladies kept coming. “I love Monica. I love her so much.” Their eyes a little glazed. “I hope you love yourself just as much,” Pandy replied, wanting to shake them and tell them not to hold too tightly to a fantasy.

She imagined this was how SondraBeth must feel every day—literally heady—her head swelling from the attention, the frenzied excitement, the irresistible fawning. And in the middle of this bubble, the oddest feeling—the guilt of a hypocrite.

“Hellenor.” Judy was suddenly beside her, pulling at her arm. “We have to go. They need you in rehearsal, too.”

“Right this way,” said the PA, leading Pandy along a ridged mat secured with reflective green tape. She guided Pandy to a set of metal stairs and quickly ushered her to a small platform, in front of which was an enormous round disk covered in tape.

The dreaded lazy Susan.

“You’ll step here,” said the PA, hustling Pandy onto the disk.

“Hello,” SondraBeth called out. She was standing in the center of the disk, waving stiffly.

“Hi,” Pandy called back. SondraBeth looked like a bride on a wedding cake, save for the fact that she was dressed in black.

“You will walk to SondraBeth,” the PA said briskly, as if she was not in the mood for any nonsense. Urging Pandy along, she said, “And then you will stop and accept the award from her.”

Pandy halted in front of SondraBeth, who pantomimed giving her the statuette.

“And then,” the PA barked, “you will turn and walk forward to the podium—” She walked a few steps ahead to demonstrate where Pandy should go. “And you will stop. And you will say…”

“I am Hellenor Wallis…,” SondraBeth said from behind her.

“I am Hellenor Wallis,” Pandy repeated.

“And all the screens will be lit up in a circle around the room—”

“There are screens?” Pandy asked nervously.

“So we can take questions.” The tech producer’s voice came through a speaker that sounded like it was right above her head.

“There will be questions?” Pandy called out to this invisible man.

“Not for your segment. All you have to do is accept the award, and say thank you on behalf of your sister.”

“That’s it? I don’t get to say a few nice words about her?” Pandy asked.

“We’re on a tight schedule,” the PA said, taking her arm once again. She walked Pandy to the other side of the platform. “The stage will be revolving. You’ll stand here, so we can broadcast you on the screens, and then when you reach the platform where you got on, you’ll get off and head backstage through the Hall of Fame, which will be closed off to the public by then. Got it?” she asked sharply.

“Hellenor?” Judy said, motioning from the platform. “There’s someone here who needs to see you.”

“Jonny,” Pandy gasped, recalling how he’d threatened to find her. By now he must know she was with SondraBeth at the awards; it was all over Instalife.

Judy smiled. “It’s Pandy’s agent.”

And there he was: Henry. Standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Henry asked, circling around her. Pandy grimaced and automatically put her hand over her bald head.

“Excuse me, Ms.—” Henry turned to Judy.

“Judy,” Judy said. “I’m SondraBeth’s right hand.”

“Is there someplace”—Henry glared at Pandy—“that Hellenor and I can go to speak privately?”

“You can use SondraBeth’s dressing room. They need to keep her next to the stage until the show begins. It takes too long to move her,” Judy said over her shoulder as she led them back into the Hall of Fame.

This time the hall was packed. The high-pitched screeches of women who’d already had a bit too much champagne filled the room like the calls of exotic birds.

“Henry!” a voice shouted.

Pandy turned to find Suzette barreling toward them, with Meghan, Nancy, and Angie in tow. Judging from the way they were tottering on their heels, Pandy guessed they’d already had a couple of glasses of champagne. And then Suzette threw her arms around Henry as tears sprang from her eyes.

Within seconds, they were surrounded. Pandy was being pulled in all directions by her grieving friends.

“PJ Wallis’s sister!”

“Poor Pandy. She was so alive.”

“Impossible to think she’s gone.”

“How could this happen?”

“So young, too.”

“Literally the best woman—the best woman in New York—”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

The buzz in the hall grew louder. PJ Wallis. Icon. Great loss.

Hellenor Wallis. Pandy’s sister. Over there. You can see the resemblance.

“Excuse me,” Henry said, yanking on Pandy’s arm, bringing her back to reality. Following Judy, he marched her through the exit door and into the backstage hallway.

“Here you go,” Judy said, unlocking the door to SondraBeth’s dressing room.

“Thank you,” Henry said. He pushed Pandy into the room, closed the door, and locked it. He crossed his arms. “Explain.”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“Try.”

“SondraBeth convinced me. It’s only for a couple of hours. She said if I killed Monica, the mob would go after Jonny—”

Henry looked away, held up his hand, and gave a quick shake of his head. “You’re going to exercise the clause because of Jonny?”

“It’s only for a couple of hours,” she said pleadingly. “In between the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards and the leg event. Look,” she said, pointing at the red booties. “There they are. Monica’s shoes.”

“You are going to kill Monica at the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards and then bring her back to life at the Shoe Unveiling?” Henry’s voice was beginning to sound thunderous.

“Yes,” Pandy said quietly.

“Who is she, Tinker Bell?”

Pandy shrugged.

“You can’t just go around killing creations and then bringing them back to life,” Henry snapped.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s cheap. It’s soap opera—”

“It’s drama. Monica will die, Jonny will get a talking-to from the mob, and when all that is taken care of, PJ Wallis and Monica will rise up like two phoenixes from the ashes, and everyone will love them again!”

“You’re sacrificing Monica and risking everything you’ve ever achieved for a man?”

“I’m doing it for me.”

“No, you are not. You’re doing it to get even with a man. Meaning, once again, you have allowed your actions to be dictated by a man.”

Pandy had had enough. “You’re a fine one to talk.”

Henry paused. He inhaled, exhaled, and then glowered threateningly. “So you’re going to use that as an excuse.”

“Why not?” she said sharply.

“If that’s so, then you, my dear, are pitiful. You’re not the Pandemonia James Wallis I know.”

“Maybe that Pandemonia James Wallis doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe she’s been too beaten down to continue. Just like her sister, Hellenor.”

Henry drew himself up to his full height. Pandy’s heart sank. She and Henry hadn’t had a fight like this for years. Perhaps ever.

Henry held up his hand. “I can see you’ve made up your mind. In that case, I suppose congratulations are in order. Your publisher has agreed to publish Lady Wallis, but only because you are dead.”

“You were the one who told me to stay dead for a couple of hours.”

“I told you to do nothing. Now, because of this spectacle, your publishers will cry fraud. So if you don’t clear this up immediately, as far as I’m concerned, you are dead.”

“Fine,” Pandy said coldly, crossing her arms. “They weren’t going to publish the book anyway. Which gives me more of a reason to get even with Jonny.”

“And how do I fit into this scheme?”

“Just go along with it for a couple of hours. Remember—you owe me.”

“Very well,” Henry said. He turned his back and opened the door. He shot one more warning glance over his shoulder. “Don’t say I didn’t caution you. And when things don’t work out as you’ve planned, don’t come running to me!”

He went out, slamming the door behind him.

“Henry!” Pandy said. She opened the door and looked up and down the hallway, but he was gone.

Judy, on the other hand, was right there. “Hellenor?” she said. “We’re going to need you onstage in ten minutes.”

Pandy shrank back into the dressing room. She leaned over the makeup counter and stared at herself in the mirror. Who was she? Henry was right, she thought despondently. By killing Monica, she was once again making her life all about Jonny.

She glanced at Monica’s shoes.

Henry was wrong, she decided. And grabbing Monica’s shoes, she took off her own shoes and put them on.

She stood up. The curved heel was tricky, but the booties themselves were light, embracing the foot like a glove. Pandy turned to stare at herself in the mirror. Thanks to the six-inch heels, she was now towering.

Leaving the dressing room, she crossed the corridor and strode confidently into the Hall of Fame. She swung open the door, and was again surrounded by her friends.

“There’s Hellenor,” Nancy called out, pointing and sloshing champagne over her hand.

“Hellenor! Hellenor Wallis.” Suzette’s enormous yellow diamond was suddenly glittering in her face.

“We were Pandy’s best friends.”

“And we need to be best friends with you, Hellenor.”

“We need to talk to you.”

“You need to listen.”

“It’s about Jonny.”

“He called every single one of us this morning. Wanting to know if we’d seen you.”

“He kept saying he was going to find you, and that when he did…”

“He was going to make sure you spent time in jail.”

“He said you’d committed fraud.”

“But in the meantime, he’s looking for you.”

“Now listen, if you need us, we’ll be at the Pool Club right after this.”

“Hellenor!” Judy screamed from the just-opened doorway.

“I’ll leave your name at the door,” Suzette hissed.

“I gotta go,” Pandy said desperately. Her friends! How she missed them. And yes, she would meet up with them at the Pool Club afterward. After the leg thing. Where she would come back to life.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BY ENTERING this area, you agree to be photographed and recorded. You acknowledge that your image and likeness may be distributed throughout the universe into all eternity including, but not limited to, the past, present, and future. You also acknowledge that you have no privacy, at least not by any current definition of privacy.

A dark, velvety mist, lightly perfumed—sweet lily of the valley and white clover—wafted through the air. Standard party space reconfigured into a fantasyland where women ruled. Where they made the decisions. Always the good ones. Where they celebrated each other in the way the world—meaning the men—should celebrate them, but didn’t. Meaning for their strength and their courage and their hard work and their contributions. But not, goddammit, for what the world—meaning the men—tried to tell them was their only value; namely, their beauty and their ability to bear children.

“And now, it’s time for the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards,” the announcer said.

The rest was a blur. Pandy wasn’t sure how much time passed, but the next thing she knew, she was being pushed toward the stairs by two men, who helped her up. And then, somehow, she was on the stage. Except that this time, it actually was revolving. The lazy Susan. The crossing of which required every skill, it seemed, but laziness to survive.

Like balance.

Standing with her arms out and legs slightly apart, she tried to do what the stage manager had told her to do: focus solely on what was in front of her. Namely, SondraBeth. Or rather, Monica. Turning around and around on the center of the platform, like the pretty black bride on a black wedding cake.

A spotlight lit up the path to Monica, who was beckoning, Come with me. It was just like in her dream; she and Monica were going to be together again…

Pandy took a couple of tentative steps forward and heard a smattering of kindhearted laughter from the crowd. The sound brought her back to earth. She was on a revolving platform and she was about to receive an award for her sister, PJ Wallis, because she, PJ Wallis, was dead.

She must move toward the light. Focus on what was in front of her…

She heard the crowd laughing again. She lifted her head and looked around, taking in the neo-dark audience lit up with neon flashes from a thousand silent devices. And she remembered: She was funny onstage.

She—PJ Wallis—was funny. Even PP had said she was funny. And not only that, he’d said Hellenor Wallis was funny, too. Funny was the one thing Pandy and Hellenor had in common. Remembering that she was funny made Pandy feel more confident. She could do this. She took another few steps, and once again, the crowd chuckled in encouragement. Pandy gave up on the stately approach in favor of the comedic, and SondraBeth picked up on it. She was smiling down on Pandy with her most beatific Monica grin.

“Hello, Hellenor,” she said in her rich timbre. The audience exhaled a blast of approving applause.

“Hello,” Pandy said to the crowd, holding up her palm in a stiff wave. The platform lurched. “Wow. This is like being on one of those Japanese game shows. Takeshi’s Castle,” she said.

Titters of appreciation; not everyone understood the reference. She should have named one of those network shows instead.

“Yes, it is, Hellenor,” SondraBeth said. And taking a beat to absorb the positive energy in the room, she sang out to the audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Hellenor Wallis.”

A roar. Pandy’s first impression was of how different it was to be on the receiving end. The rush of love she felt. The happiness. And all of a sudden, the statuette was in her hands.

It was surprisingly cool. Smooth and cold, like a cube of ice. And heavy. A crystal sculpture of a woman wearing armor, bow and arrow raised above her head. As if leading the charge into the future.

And then she was standing in front of the lectern.

Two words came to her: “Non serviam.” She tried to look out into the audience, but between the camera flashes and the screens, the room was now a womb of darkness. She could see only the microphones. “I will not serve. Especially not a man. Thank you.”

“Speech!” came a cry from the audience.

She turned to look back at SondraBeth, who was beaming encouragement like sunshine. Suddenly, Pandy found her footing.

“This is so unexpected,” Pandy said into the mike. She held the statuette briefly against her cheek, then carefully placed the Woman Warrior on the Plexiglas podium. As she took a deep breath and looked out at the expectant audience, she realized what SondraBeth had meant in the car about playing Monica: She was the ultimate impostor.

But every woman feels like an impostor, she reminded herself, glancing down at the statuette. Probably even the original Warrior Woman herself had. Until someone showed her she wasn’t.

And suddenly Pandy knew what she was going to say: yes.

Yes to the accolades:

“Thank you for this award.”

Yes to the acclaim:

“My sister really deserved this.”

And yes to seizing the moment:

“I wish—” She looked up, her eyes beginning to adjust, seeing forms and faces. “I wish my sister, PJ Wallis, were here to accept this. This award would have meant everything to her.”

Would have? Did. Does mean everything. She was giving her own eulogy. She didn’t have to guess how she might feel. She knew.

“Most of you knew my sister as the creator of Monica. Or even as the real-life Monica. And while she was that, she was so much more. An artist. A writer. A person who lived and died by her work. A person who gave everything to her work. And, like so many of you who give it your all, she also knew about the struggles. And the disappointments.”

She took a breath and hearing murmurs of approval from the audience, she continued.

“But PJ Wallis never gave up. And that is why this award would have meant so much to her.”

On the screens around the room, a close-up of the statuette, the Warrior Woman’s bow and arrow raised high, followed by a shuffling of images of herself—PJ Wallis—through the years. Followed by that iconic image of Monica.

“Monica!” someone cried out.

Pandy sighed. “Good old Monica,” she said as she looked at Monica—hair flowing, striding across the top of the New York City skyline. “Monica meant everything to Pandy.” Pandy paused, allowing for the smattering of applause to die down, and continued.

“Sometimes, Pandy wondered who she would be without Monica. But then she realized, when you ask yourself that question, what you’re really asking is: Who would you be without a label? And we all have them: Mother. Wife. Single Girl. Career Woman. Soccer Mom. But what do we do when we find that our label no longer applies? Who do we become when our label expires?”

A gasp swept through the audience like a fresh breeze.

“Well, ladies, it’s time to let go. It’s time to let go of those labels. It’s time to let go and let grow.”

“Let go and let grow!” came several shouts from the audience, as the words “Let go and let grow” appeared on the screens.

“Let go and let grow,” Pandy repeated, her hand resting on the top of the statuette. “And while Monica isn’t real, PJ Wallis was. A real woman with real aspirations. A real woman who aspired to what women aren’t supposed to aspire to: to be the best. And to be recognized for her talents. And not by the standards of male hubris, but by the standards of excellence. To be free from the confines of what society and culture say a woman may or may not be. Can a woman be ambitious without apology? Can a woman dedicate her life to her work without apology?”

“And can a woman say thank you?”

SondraBeth’s voice was right in her ear.

Pandy turned her head. Glaring into a white-hot spotlight, she realized the black chess piece that was Monica had moved across the board and was now leaning next to her, clapping.

The audience, Pandy noted, was also clapping, politely, with a sense of relief.

Pandy took a step back. She understood: Her fifteen seconds were over. She turned to look for the steps.

“Hold on,” SondraBeth said, coming forward and taking Pandy’s arm. And then cocking her head as if she had a hidden earpiece, she said into the crowd, “Mira from Mumbai would like to comment.”

Mira’s face appeared on all the screens. “Hello, ladies.”

“Hello, Mira,” the audience called back.

“I am the head of the international feminist organization Women for Women. And I would like to say that after a while, Monica no longer belonged to PJ Wallis. Nor does she belong to SondraBeth Schnowzer. Nor does she belong to even the audience, which is mostly women.”

“What do you mean by that, Mira?” SondraBeth asked.

“I am saying that Monica now belongs to a corporation. She is owned and controlled by an entertainment corporation that decides whether or not and how to make money off this entity that was created by PJ Wallis. I hope PJ Wallis made a lot of money from her own creation, but I suspect she did not.”

Knowing murmurs from the audience.

Mira continued. “We have done many studies that show us that when a woman contributes in the entertainment industry, she is not rewarded justly. Because women may do what they do and be geniuses, but it is still men at the top who make the decisions, including how much money the women will be paid. It is the men who are lining their pockets with the efforts of women. It is men who have made millions, maybe billions, from Monica.”

Close-up on SondraBeth, face as still and proud as the features on the Warrior Woman statuette.

“Wow,” SondraBeth said. “That’s a very interesting take. And here is Juanita from South America.”

“I would like us to consider what men do with that money. Here, they use money to make war.”

“Thank you, ladies,” SondraBeth said emphatically. “It takes a very brave woman to point out how the system really works. Money is to men as cheese is to mice. If you’re missing some cheese, you’ll usually discover a man’s been eating it.”

The screens were now blinking like Christmas lights: women from all over the world eager to weigh in.

“And let’s remind the audience that even though PJ Wallis is dead, it’s still a man who will continue to profit,” SondraBeth said scoldingly. She turned to Pandy.

Every eye was now on Pandy, and the attention was like a blow. And then she felt a rush. Like her soul had literally drained out of the soles of her feet and she was now merely a thin, hardened shell.

“And that is why Hellenor has something very important to announce,” she heard SondraBeth say.

Pandy tried to open her mouth and found that she couldn’t. She realized she was in the throes of a particularly bad case of stage fright, and now all she wanted to do was get off the stage. Somehow, she managed to lean into the microphone and whisper, “Due to the death of PJ Wallis and to unfortunate circumstances, there will be no more Monica.”

“In other words,” SondraBeth said, leaning into the microphone next to her, “Monica is dead.”

“We have to…” Pandy’s chest squeezed tight. She couldn’t breathe. “Kill Monica, please…” She was having a heart attack. No, she was having a panic attack.

The frenzied roar of the crowd spun away into silence as a time balloon inflated inside Pandy’s head. She saw lips moving in slow motion, a pink plastic champagne glass suspended in the air above the stage. Her own arms raised in triumph, clutching the Warrior Woman statuette in her hands. Around and around she went. Monica. Finished. Jonny. Ruined. And for one brief moment, she actually believed she had won.

And suddenly—pop. The balloon in her head exploded and the noise and reality came thundering back, engulfing her in an enormous wave of rage.

“Let Monica live!”

The pink plastic champagne glass landed on the stage. Then another. And another. One hit the back of SondraBeth’s head. She didn’t move. Her always-perfect Monica smile was now slightly lopsided, as if arranged by the hand of a mortician who couldn’t quite get the expression right.

Pandy took a step back in confusion as the roar of the crowd came racing toward her like a tsunami. “Long live Monica!”

“Let Monica live!”

Pandy looked again to SondraBeth. Her Monica smile was back in place, but her eyes had a life of their own, darting from screen to screen.

And suddenly, Pandy did understand.

The crowd was going to kill them. Tear them both limb from limb. Which meant—she was going to die twice? In one day? Was that even possible?

Another champagne glass whizzed by her head and landed on the stage behind her. SondraBeth caught Pandy’s eye.

“Run, Doug, run!” she hissed.

And they did.

Or tried to, anyway. They shuffled to the edge of the platform, where, thank God, Judy and a posse of men were waiting. People were moving rapidly, the way they do when they sense a storm is coming but have yet to discover how bad it’s going to be.

“Now listen,” SondraBeth whispered into Pandy’s ear as the posse moved to get them out of the theater and back to the dressing room. “Make a stop in the Hall of Fame. Grab two costumes, and meet me back in my dressing room.”

“But—” Pandy broke off as the heel of a man’s shoe ground into her ankle. She was being trampled.

“My dressing room. In five,” SondraBeth said as she went through the door.

Pandy ran toward Mother Teresa, grabbed the head scarf, and put it over her own head. She lifted the robes of the old mannequin, and they came off in a swirl of loosened threads. She spied a burka on another mannequin. She tugged on the headpiece and the garment flew off in a single stroke. Clutching the fabric, she ran down the hallway and into SondraBeth’s dressing room.

SondraBeth was standing with one bare leg up on the counter. Following her gaze to the end of SondraBeth’s leg, Pandy suddenly understood why SondraBeth could barely walk: her boots were taped to her ankles with electrical tape.

Pandy gasped as SondraBeth cried out, “Shut the door!”

While SondraBeth’s body was still cocooned in her Spanx, her Monica costume was hanging in shreds from her shoulders.

“How’d you—” Pandy gasped.

“Get out of the costume?” SondraBeth held up her fingers and displayed her buildings. “These.” She went back to doing what she’d been doing before Pandy walked in—expertly slicing away the electrical tape to free her feet. “We need to get out of here,” she said calmly.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take off that leather jacket and put on Mother Teresa’s robe.” She fell back slightly as her foot came out of the boot. “And hand me that burka,” she added.

Pandy had the burka in one hand and the robe in the other. “Which should I do first?” she asked, terrified.

“It’s like the air mask on an airplane. Put your own mask on first. And then help others.”

“Okay,” Pandy said, taking off her leather jacket. Her pulse was beating at the base of her throat. She slipped the tattered blue robe over her shoulders and handed SondraBeth the burka.

“Good,” SondraBeth said, sliding it over her head and freeing her other foot at the same time.

“Are we going to the SUV?” Pandy whispered. Already the Monica shoes were killing her.

“We’re making an emergency exit.” SondraBeth looked around quickly, as if making sure she wasn’t leaving anything important behind.

“What about the Warrior Woman?” Pandy asked.

“She stays here. A PA will get it.” SondraBeth slid her feet into a pair of running shoes.

“Knock knock,” Judy said urgently.

“Coming,” SondraBeth said. She unlocked the door and Judy opened it, holding it just wide enough for the two of them to slip out.

“Food court,” Judy said into her microphone. She walked briskly ahead of them, talking into her mike while beckoning them along. There were more people in the hallway now, and they looked worried. The way people look when something bad has happened and all they can think about is how not to get blamed for it.

“Keep your head down and stay next to me,” SondraBeth whispered.

Judy opened another door, and they were hit by the sweet smell of meat and dough and cheese. Suddenly they were in a bustle of humanity; paparazzi shoving food into their mouths while tapping their screens and hastily gathering up equipment for the next assault. A man shoved Pandy so hard, she nearly fell. “Out of the way, granny.”

Next to her, SondraBeth was chugging along determinedly. “Keep moving,” she said, steering straight into the crowd massing toward the main entrance.

Pandy heard the bellowing shouts of policemen trying to control the unruly crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of them yelled, trying to get the crowd to turn away. “Monica has left the building!”

“Monica collapsed,” she heard someone say. “Ambulance on its way.”

“Missing, I heard—” said someone else.

And then they were being pushed. Shoved and bumped and stepped on as the crowd spun them out the revolving doors and into another mass of angry, screaming fans, holding up their devices and craning their necks for a better view—of what, Pandy couldn’t say. But the crowd wanted something, and she was a mere impediment to their view.

She was going to be crushed.

Pandy felt her rib cage implode as her knees buckled beneath her. And then her face was pressed into an endless pillow of flesh; it was up over her ears, suffocating her—

“Get off me. Off of me!” A terrified shriek, followed by the push of two greasy hands the size of small pizzas. Pandy rocked back, thrusting her own hands at SondraBeth, whose hands were right there to grab hers—her razor-sharp nails digging into Pandy’s flesh like a predatory bird.

Pandy screamed. And then something came over her. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. Seizing SondraBeth’s arm, she lowered her head and twisted forward and out like a corkscrew, until, with a mighty push, she broke through the pack.

They emerged into more chaos: sirens and the pounding whoop, whoop, whoop of emergency vehicles. “Step away from the entrance!” blasted through a loudspeaker. Cops and firemen were running into the crowd. The driveway was clogged with vans and town cars; the SUV that had brought them here was nowhere in sight. Up ahead, two men were trying to close the gate in the chain-link fence.

“Run!” Pandy shouted.

Her legs, supported only by the cruelly curved heels of the red booties, felt like she was running on matchsticks.

CHAPTER TWENTY

WATER. I need water!” Pandy gasped minutes later, lurching after SondraBeth. They were in one of those new parks that had seemingly sprung up overnight on the Hudson River. “What the fuck?” Pandy said, slowing down to a laborious clop.

She looked around. The grass was fresh and clean, as were the hard plastic forms molded into table and chair configurations. Lowering herself onto her hands and knees, she attempted to crawl across the grass to the chair forms, but gave up halfway and flopped down on her stomach instead.

“I need water,” she groaned.

SondraBeth was standing above her, the top of the burka pulled back from her head like a priestess’s robe. “We did it!” she shouted.

“We did?” Pandy sat up.

“We killed Monica!”

“Are you sure?” Pandy asked. The knob of pain on the back of her head was pulsating again, as if it had a life of its own.

“Give me my phone,” SondraBeth commanded.

Pandy struggled to her feet and reached into her front pocket. “Water?” she asked, holding out the phone in exchange for information.

“Drinking fountain—that way,” SondraBeth said, grabbing the device and pointing in the direction of the Hudson.

“What the hell just happened back there?” Pandy asked, making her way to the fountain. “The audience was loving us. And then you said Monica was dead…and all of a sudden they went wild. We could have been killed back there.”

Pandy pressed the button on the stand. The fact that water came out at all felt like a small miracle. She drank thirstily.

Directly ahead was the Hudson: a sparkling expanse of greenish brown. On the other side were the gleaming high-rises of Hoboken. It was a warm enough day for a large sailboat to be making its way down the river, skimming over the wake of the clanging Circle Line ferry, its passengers arranged like wooden toy people in the top. Then one helicopter passed overhead, while another rose up from behind the George Washington Bridge. Tilting forward with mechanical determination, the second one began speeding its way down the Hudson.

Pandy turned back to SondraBeth. “It’s a good thing we’re really not killing Monica. I don’t think either one of us could survive the bad news.” She patted her face with Mother Teresa’s head scarf. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“What?” SondraBeth asked, not looking up from the device.

“That mayhem,” Pandy said as the helicopter flitted down to Chelsea Piers and then turned around, heading back in their direction.

“I hope you’re calling Judy,” Pandy said anxiously, hurrying to SondraBeth’s side.

“Judy knows where we are,” SondraBeth said distractedly. “The phone has a tracking device.”

“Then what are you doing?” Pandy demanded.

“I’m checking the Instalife feed.” SondraBeth grinned wickedly as she read the headlines aloud: “‘Real-Life Monica Missing: Possibility of Foul Play’…‘Is Monica a Feminist?’…and wait for it…” She held up her hand. “Here it is: ‘Monica Declared Dead!’”

She held the phone out to Pandy. There was the classic shot of Monica striding over the skyline of Manhattan, but someone had cleverly drawn a coffin around her. And for the first time in her life, Monica didn’t look so happy.

“Ding-dong, the witch is dead! The wicked old witch. The Monica witch,” SondraBeth sang out.

Pandy frowned and handed the device back to SondraBeth. “Do you have to be that happy about it?” she asked, sitting down to loosen the laces of the booties.

“What do you mean?” SondraBeth asked.

“I don’t know. Monica is dead. I sort of feel like we should be sadder.”

“Oh, Peege,” SondraBeth said, sitting down next to her. “Monica isn’t dead. Or won’t be in a couple of hours, when she comes back to life at the leg. And in the meantime, we should be celebrating.”

Monica’s shoe suddenly came away from her foot and Pandy smiled victoriously. “Because now the mob goes after Jonny!”

“He’s gonna get his!” SondraBeth set the phone down and gave her a high five.

“Excellent,” Pandy said, picking up the phone to check the headlines.

And then all of a sudden, it was out of her hand and SondraBeth was running pell-mell toward the end of the pier, the phone banged into her splayed left hand like a ball in a catcher’s mitt. She came to an abrupt halt, and winding her arm behind her back, she hurled it into the river. It sliced through the air for a good forty feet before reaching its apex and plunging unceremoniously to its watery grave.

“What the fuck?” Pandy shrieked.

“The tracking device. How do you think the paparazzi followed me to Wallis?” SondraBeth shouted as the helicopter roared overhead. “We’re too visible here. Come on.”

SondraBeth pulled the hood of the burka over her head as she knelt to help Pandy get Monica’s boot back on.

Pandy’s feet were screaming. “Are we going to have to run again? I should have changed back into my own shoes,” she shouted, glancing up at the helicopter. Apparently they hadn’t been recognized, as it began spinning away.

“No. This time we walk,” SondraBeth said. “Keep your head down and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

A cavalcade of police cars came racing down the West Side Highway toward Chelsea Piers, flashing blue, white, blue, white, blue, like a flag. Pandy froze. She had a vision of herself being arrested dressed as Mother Teresa. There would really be no explaining that one.

“Are we going to be arrested?” she gasped, drawing back.

“What are you talking about?” SondraBeth said as the police cars sped by. “I’m a very valuable asset. But I’d like to keep the paparazzi off our trail. So far no one is looking for Mother Teresa and her burka friend. Not yet, anyway.”

And glancing quickly over her shoulder, she hustled Pandy across the West Side Highway.

Unfortunately, Pandy wasn’t able to get far. She managed to make it half a block, to the loading dock of one of the storage joints, before she had to pull up short to catch her breath.

“I don’t understand,” Pandy said, loosening the laces on the shoes again. “We have no money and no cell phone. And I cannot walk any farther in these goddamned Monica shoes. Can we please borrow a phone from someone and call Judy?”

“Don’t worry. We will. Hey,” SondraBeth said. “Remember the Alamo? Remember Jonny? We should be painting the town red.”

“Now?” Pandy asked, looking around. This part of Manhattan was so deserted, there wasn’t even a deli.

“Not here.” SondraBeth laughed. She walked to the corner of Tenth Avenue and put her hands on her hips. “Someplace no one will know us. What about one of those Irish bars?”

“You mean one of those places where they use that stinky rag to wipe the bar? And the peanuts contain traces of male urine?”

“That’s the ticket, sista,” SondraBeth said, slinging her arm around Pandy’s shoulders. She looked down at Pandy’s feet. “But first, we need to get rid of those shoes.”

And with Pandy wincing along, they passed through three long blocks of crumbly brown buildings standing stubborn against the sea of change. At last reaching Seventh Avenue, they headed south, hugging the storefronts that offered everything from homeopathic remedies to tandoori specialties. SondraBeth stopped suddenly in front of a store with two dusty mannequins in the window, one wearing a 1950s ball gown and the other a sagging silk peignoir.

Pandy held her breath as they entered the slightly humid air of the shop. She looked around cautiously, then exhaled. The place was largely unchanged from all those years ago, when she and SondraBeth used to shop there for vintage clothing that they could turn into party dresses. Pandy looked up at the shelf over the glass case that held the cash register. Even that old stuffed toy monkey was still there, dressed in his dusty red felt shorts.

“Hey,” Pandy said, grabbing SondraBeth’s arm. “Look. The monkey in the moleskin.”

“PandaBeth!” SondraBeth hissed, looking around for the proprietor. Dressed in a frayed Japanese robe and smelling strongly of cigarettes, he was the sort of New York City person who has seen better days, and yet continues on in a determined time warp.

SondraBeth slipped past him, and motioning for Pandy to follow, began piling various items on her outstretched arms. A glittery skirt, a denim shirt. Two feather boas. “Whatever happened to PandaBeth, anyway?” she asked.

“Well, I’m not the one to say,” Pandy said, frowning at the growing pile, especially when SondraBeth added a blue wig. “You were the one who ran off with Doug Stone. Who, by the way, had the temerity to inform me that you hated me.”

“Ha!” SondraBeth snorted. “He told me you were trashing me all over town. He was more like a girl than I was. He was constantly in front of the mirror. He would go over his schedule every evening and plan his outfit for the next day!”

“Asswipe,” Pandy exclaimed, yanking back the curtain to the dressing room. It contained two rusty folding chairs and an old mirror propped up against the wall.

“When our engagement ended,” SondraBeth continued, lifting her arms and wriggling out of the burka, “there was so much bad press, I didn’t even know if I should play Monica anymore.”

“I know,” Pandy said, completely distracted by the act of trying to squeeze herself into a tattered sequined party dress and a pair of ancient silver dancing shoes.

“But of course, I knew that was never going to happen,” SondraBeth went on. “And I thought about calling you then, but you seemed to be so happy with Jonny.” SondraBeth slid her feet into a pair of cowboy boots. “I knew there was no way you’d ever want to be friends again—I mean, what girl wants to be friends with the girlfriend who told her that her husband was a shit?”

Pandy frowned at the blue wig SondraBeth had tugged onto her head. “But why didn’t you call me after? When Jonny and I did split up?”

SondraBeth clapped a cowboy hat onto her head. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked. She met Pandy’s eyes in the mirror. Pandy suddenly felt guilty.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.” Pandy frowned at the blue wig. “Because of the stupid way I’d acted with Doug. And then, according to the press, you and Doug were the ideal couple. And then after you guys split up, you were so busy. With Monica. And Doug said you hated me.”

“I never said I hated you.”

“Then what did you say?” Pandy asked, thinking about what Doug had told her about how without Monica, SondraBeth would have been nothing. “After all, if it was only about Doug, why didn’t you get back in touch?”

“Because I guessed Doug had said something about what I said about you.”

“Which was?”

“Nothing,” SondraBeth snapped. “But you have to remember, I was the one who was working her ass off for Monica. And meanwhile, you never even came to the set. You had Monica, but you still had a life. Even if Jonny was a scumbag, at least you had the chance to act like you were in love with him.”

“Act like it?” Pandy asked.

“Don’t you understand?” SondraBeth glared at her. “Because of Monica, you were the last girlfriend I had. The last girlfriend I had time to make. And after that…” She shrugged. “I had no time. I was scheduled. Am scheduled.”

She tossed Pandy a couple of feather boas as she yanked open the curtain and went out.

Pandy took one last glance at herself in the mirror before she hurried after her.

The proprietor was standing behind the glass counter, his gaze focused on the small TV above his head. “And how are you going to pay?” he asked, briefly tearing his eyes away from the screen.

“With these,” Pandy said, heaving Monica’s shoes onto the counter.

The proprietor glanced at the shoes and looked back to the news loop. He picked up one of the shoes and asked casually, “Is Monica dead?”

Pandy could barely glance at SondraBeth, who gave her a warning look as she held out her hand for the pile of twenties the proprietor was counting out.

Pandy tried to hold it, but a terrible eruption, an explosion, was rising up through her insides…She fell onto the glass door and swung out onto the sidewalk, convulsing with laughter.

Five minutes later, they were sliding up to the bar at McWiggins’s. The interior was shaded and, as most of these places were, somewhat gloomy.

Pandy looked around and wondered if this was indeed the best place to kill a couple of hours. The Pool Club would definitely be better. On the other hand, she was tired and thirsty. “I’ll have a beer,” she said to the bartender.

“What kind?” The bartender looked at her challengingly. Pandy wasn’t sure if it was because she was a bald middle-aged woman, or because she was a bald middle-aged woman wearing a blue wig and a tattered sequined dress.

“Two Heinies, draft,” SondraBeth said. “And two shots of Patrón. Silver.”

“Coming right up,” the bartender said in a surly tone of voice.

“What would you do if there were no more Monica, anyway?” SondraBeth asked, leaning over the bar to rest her head in her hand. “With that speech you gave at the Woman Warrior Awards, it sounds like you’re ready to move on.”

The bartender slid two shots and two beers in front of them. SondraBeth lifted one to her lips and, giving Pandy a thumbs-up, sent it down the hatch.

Pandy sighed as she held her own shot up to her lips. “I love Monica as much as you do, but while Jonny was trying to take me for every penny I’d ever made from her, I did create a new character.” She frowned, thought of Lady Wallis, and downed the shot, which caused her to cough into her napkin. “But because of Monica, no one wants her. And the weird thing is, she’s sort of like Monica. I mean, she’s pretty glamorous. She was friends with Marie Antoinette. Can you imagine what it would be like to find out that your best friend had her head chopped off?”

Pandy grimaced and motioned for another shot.

“I think it sounds fabulous,” SondraBeth said as the bartender gave them refills.

Pandy laughed. “In any case, Henry said that they would only publish it if I were dead. And since I’m not—” Pandy shrugged. “Having a book rejected is horrible. It’s like having a baby and when you show it to people, they tell you to stick it back in your uterus.” She snorted, realizing she must be feeling the effects of the shot. “What would you do if there were no more Monica?”

“I’d go live on my ranch in Montana.”

“Wha—?” Pandy said into her beer.

“That’s right.” SondraBeth nodded. “I wouldn’t even be an actress anymore.”

Pandy wrinkled her nose. “You wouldn’t?”

“Nah,” SondraBeth said, motioning for another round of shots. She emitted an ironic laugh. “Thanks to Monica, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

“Really?” Pandy asked as the new round arrived.

“Sure,” SondraBeth said, taking a shot. “If it hadn’t been for you and Monica, who knows how my life would have ended up? But then Monica came along. And it was such a great opportunity. And then it was all about Monica…”

“But Montana?” Pandy asked, slurring slightly. “I thought you said you hated the place.”

“I did. But I went back a couple of years ago when my father died. And my mother and I kind of made up. Mom, as it turns out, loves Monica. And when I was finally successful…” SondraBeth put down her empty glass. “She kind of had to admit that she was wrong about me as a child. I wasn’t going to end up in jail after all.”

Pandy laughed. “You were never going to end up in jail.”

SondraBeth raised her eyebrows. “I got pretty close a couple of times. I ran away from home, remember? I became a stripper. It could have turned out that Mom was right.”

“I remember,” Pandy said gently. “You told me about it. That night on the Vineyard.”

SondraBeth laughed and sipped at her beer. “I was so afraid to tell you because I thought if you knew, you’d think there was no way I could be Monica.”

“You know better than that,” Pandy said. “Come on, sista. Remember how I told you I didn’t have the best childhood myself? How my sister tried to kill herself when she was sixteen? And then my parents died. And then—” Pandy inhaled sharply, catching herself before she said more. Just like that time on the Vineyard, she’d almost spilled her biggest secret. Which wasn’t hers to tell.

“You never told me that story about Hellenor,” SondraBeth said.

“It was nothing,” Pandy said quickly, waving it away. “It was a long time ago. She’s fine now.”

SondraBeth shook her head musingly. “I always thought it was going to be you and me, you know? That somehow, we’d be the ones steering this Monica thing. How’d we lose control?”

“Men,” Pandy said.

“Men.” SondraBeth’s eyes narrowed.

And then they both looked up at the bar’s TV.

This time, they didn’t look away. It was the same news loop, but now it was all about Hellenor.

“Last seen with SondraBeth Schnowzer—” A shot of SondraBeth in her black wedding dress, staring blankly into the camera, then a close-up of Pandy, looking terrified—“An outbreak of chaos”—wide shot of hundreds of women shouting into their devices, handbags swinging, ankles buckling, tablecloths torn from tables as they ran toward the exit…

And then another close-up of Pandy at the Woman Warrior Awards: “Authorities seeking information about the woman who claims to be Hellenor Wallis—”

And then to Jonny again, in a new clip: “I’m onto you, Hellenor. I’m looking for you—”

And finally, a live shot of the Monica billboard. “Due to the mysterious disappearance of SondraBeth Schnowzer, the studio is considering canceling the Shoe Unveiling.”

“Now that really would be a shame,” said the announcer.

“And now, live, back to the San Geronimo festival.”

SondraBeth didn’t look at Pandy as she casually put down three twenty-dollar bills. “Keep the change,” she called out to the bartender, who nodded.

And once again, they were running. The lyrics from the Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” played over and over in Pandy’s mind as she dodged hot dog stands, small fuzzy animals attached to leashes, zombie humans attached to their devices, old people on bicycles, electrically silent taxis, flattened cardboard boxes, trucks, police cars, and an ambulance or two.

They ran all the way to Union Square, darting between the booths in the farmers’ market, into the center of the square. Where, finally, Pandy stopped panting heavily as she tried to catch her breath. Above her head, screens mounted on the tall buildings flashed tickertapes of useless information. The national debt. What was trending. The most famous person on Instalife. The number one photograph. And with the exception of the national debt—insurmountable, immutable, and dependably growing—Monica was at the top of the list.

Monica was everywhere. Pandy could never outrun her, never outgrow her, and most of all, never kill her.

Monica was totally fine.

Monica was safe.

On the other hand, with Jonny still on the loose and blabbing to the press about Hellenor, Hellenor might not be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SONDRABETH caught up with Pandy on Eighth Street. “What the fuck?” she shouted.

“Jonny.” Pandy turned, her eyes blazing. “He’s still on the loose.”

She began walking again, heading diagonally through Washington Square Park, past the old men playing their endless games of chess. Jonny looking into Hellenor’s background was the one part of the equation she hadn’t considered when they’d cooked up this scheme to get even with him. In her attempt at revenge, she’d stupidly put Hellenor at risk. Jonny asking who Hellenor was; the authorities looking into Hellenor’s background? That was not good.

SondraBeth grabbed her arm. “What’s this about?”

“I can’t say,” Pandy said stubbornly.

SondraBeth looked at her closely. “It’s about Hellenor, isn’t it? What’s the big secret? Is Hellenor some kind of axe murderer?”

“Please,” Pandy said. “She’s just someone who wants to live her life a certain way, and I’ve always tried to respect her wishes. She’s my sister.” Pandy reached Houston and, looking left and right, began crossing against the light.

SondraBeth walked briskly next to her. “Okay. I get it,” she said. “I won’t ask questions.”

“Great. Just help me find Jonny before he says anything more about Hellenor.”

“What about the leg?”

“This is more important than those union guys,” Pandy muttered.

Jonny, she figured, must still be in front of her building, looking for her. At least he had been ten minutes ago, when she’d seen him on one of the screens.

Halfway down her block, however, she was forced to stop. The base of her building was cluttered with the debris of flowers, Monica dolls, and pink plastic champagne glasses. A large group of women were holding up hand-lettered LET MONICA LIVE! posters.

“Are you a Monica fan?” one of them asked Pandy.

“Yes, actually I am.”

“Will you sign the petition?”

“For what?” Pandy said, looking around for Jonny.

“To let Monica live.”

A black town car pulled up to the curb. The back window slid down and Freddie the Rat stuck his head out.

“Freddie!” SondraBeth exclaimed, rushing the car. She and Freddie had a brief conversation, and then the window went up.

“Well?” Pandy demanded as the car drove away.

“Freddie says he’s sure Jonny will be back. I mean, where else would he go, right? He’s looking for Hellenor. Naturally, he would think that you’d come here.”

Pandy frowned, recalling what he’d said on the screen. “He’s at Gay Street,” she said quickly.

Gay Street. Where Henry lived. Where Jonny had been before. On the day of that fateful snowstorm. When they fell in love.

Jonny knew Pandy would go there to hide out. It was the perfect place for a showdown.

Sure enough, there he was, on the stoop of Henry’s house.

“Look at him,” SondraBeth said, flattening herself around the curve of the street so Jonny couldn’t see them. “He’s just standing there. He’s like a sitting duck.”

Pandy peeked around the corner at Jonny. He was as handsome as ever. It was such a shame he was so pathetic.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” SondraBeth said. And straightening her cowboy hat, she turned into Monica. Monica, with her country-girl swagger. Her confidence. Her innate belief that everything would always go her way. In her very best Monica voice, SondraBeth started toward him, saying, “Oh, Jonny? It’s me. It’s Monica…”

“No, wait!” Pandy said. She marched down the sidewalk in her sequined dress. As she ripped off the wig, she got right in Jonny’s face and said, “Now look here, Diaper Boy. It’s me, Pandy. So when it comes to Hellenor—”

Jonny’s eyebrows shot up. And then he smiled, as if he’d known this was going to happen all along.

“I knew you’d come here.” He started circling her like a boxer.

“Because I know my own fucking wife, right?” he continued. “And what a creep she is. I knew you’d pull a stunt like this to get out of paying me. You’re a big fucking cheat. And I’m going to make sure all the world finds out. That, and the fact that the only reason I married you was because I thought you were Monica.” He broke off, gave her one last vicious sneer, and began walking away.

“Huh?” Pandy said, gobsmacked.

Jonny stopped, turned around, and strode back to ridicule her further. “And what are you going to do about it?” he jeered. “Nothing, right? Because you never do anything. You’re just what I said you were—a weak, judgmental woman. You think you’re so high and mighty, like you’d never make a mistake. Well, you just made a huge mistake, baby. Who is Hellenor Wallis?”

Pandy blanched.

“Well?” Jonny demanded. He took her by the shoulders and shook her, hard. “Does Hellenor Wallis even exist? Or did you make her up, too?”

“I—” Thoughts spun around in her head while Jonny went on mercilessly:

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did she die, too? How convenient.” He gave her another violent shake that made her teeth rattle.

The edges of Pandy’s vision went black. “It wasn’t like that,” she choked out.

“Then where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Jonny emitted a harsh laugh. “What were you planning to do when they tracked down the real Hellenor?”

Thwack! A pointy-toed cowboy boot hit Jonny square in the forehead. He let go of Pandy and spun around. And there was good old Squeege with her arm pulled back, ready to give Jonny another thunk if necessary.

“Come on,” SondraBeth said as she hailed a taxi.

Pulling Jonny from the front while Pandy pushed him from behind, they bundled him into the backseat, where he was lodged between the two of them.

Just like the ham in one of his famous jambon sandwiches, Pandy thought smugly.

“What the hell!” Jonny snarled.

Heading toward Soho, Pandy took in the colorful beads of the San Geronimo revelers reeling past the car. “You know what?” Jonny blared, like a megaphone at a parade. “You were a really bad fucking wife. Did I ever tell you that? Okay, you were good in bed. At first. But that’s about it.”

“I can’t take this,” SondraBeth said. “Hey, driver, can you turn up the radio?”

“You turned into a goddamn nag,” Jonny continued. “And then, when I saw where you came from…you fucking Puritan bitch! Pretending to be broke, when you had that estate in Connecticut!”

He continued cursing her until three blocks later, when they reached the backstage loading dock of the billboard on Spring Street. As they emerged from the taxi, Pandy saw Freddie the Rat edging forward through the crowd. She and SondraBeth got out, and Freddie quickly came forward. The two men who were with him unceremoniously yanked Jonny from the backseat.

“We got it worked out,” Freddie the Rat said to SondraBeth as the men hustled Jonny away, the heels of his Italian loafers leaving skid tracks along the pavement.

Freddie turned to Pandy. “Nice to meet you, Hellenor,” he said with a wink. He hurried after his guys. “Hey, Jonny,” he called out. “You ready to take a little ride?”

And suddenly, Judy was there. “SondraBeth? Hellenor?” she asked. “We need you to get ready.”

They emerged on the roof of the building, where the Monica billboard rose straight up above under a murky, darkening sky.

Judy handed Pandy a paper cup of coffee. “You’ve unleashed a monster,” she said. She gestured toward the front of the building, at the crowd that was massed on the streets below.

“Look at all those people!” SondraBeth said.

And turning to look, Pandy discovered PP running across the rooftop toward them.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted at SondraBeth. And then, spotting Pandy next to her, he turned on her.

“And you, Hellenor Wallis,” he said, all puffed up like a plastic G.I. Joe doll. “I was wrong about you. You are just as bad as your sister.” PP looked from Pandy to SondraBeth as he took another deep breath. “And this time,” he said threateningly, “you’d both better make sure to tell everyone that Monica is alive…”

“Or else what?” SondraBeth demanded.

“I have a list of infractions from the police department,” PP bleated, shaking his device. “Jaywalking, fencing stolen items…I’m going to take these expenses out of your Monica money.”

SondraBeth gave him a nasty smile. “Oh, can it, PP. It’s not up to you. It’s up to Hellenor, remember?”

“Are you ready?” Judy said, tapping the mike.

And then they were on the elevator platform that would take them up to the stage. Pointing to a panel, Judy reminded everyone that they should press the green button to go up and the red button to go down.

Someone pressed the green button, and with a small lurch, they were suddenly moving up, up, up into the sky, satellites twinkling like stars across the landscape. SondraBeth stood on the edge, gripping the railing and staring fiercely out over the landscape. For one second, Pandy saw the girl she’d fallen in love with on the billboard all those years ago…

And suddenly, she knew.

The platform bounced slightly as it came to rest against the back of the small stage.

“You planned this,” Pandy said as they were hustled out of the elevator and onto the narrow backstage platform.

“Planned what?” SondraBeth blanched.

“This whole killing Monica thing. That’s why Freddie the Rat was at your townhouse. You still thought I was Hellenor back then. You were going to convince Hellenor to kill Monica.”

“What are you talking about?” SondraBeth gasped.

“You did all that staging—rolling in the mud, murmuring that Monica was dead, while thinking I was Hellenor…” Pandy shook her head. “Why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to play Monica anymore?”

“Because I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You know that’s not true,” Pandy hissed.

“So what?” SondraBeth said. “I didn’t have the courage to admit it. I don’t want to be Monica anymore.”

“Are you ready?” Judy asked. A section of the billboard dropped down in front, opening Monica’s mouth to reveal the stage. Pandy felt a gust of wind, and then it grew into a wave of approval from the audience below.

“In any case, it doesn’t matter,” SondraBeth hissed. “When I realized you were Pandy, I knew it was over. Still, we got even with Jonny. And that’s all that counts.”

“But why not just tell PP that you don’t want to play Monica anymore?” Pandy asked as someone put a microphone in her hand.

“You know why.” SondraBeth laughed harshly. “It’s in my contract. The studio can fire me, but I can’t quit. My contract with Monica is like the worst marriage ever. Monica can get rid of me anytime she likes, but I can’t leave her. Ever.”

“Welcome to the first annual Monica Shoe Unveiling!” Pandy heard the announcer’s voice boom out into the open crowd.

And then Pandy was on the stage. She took one look back at SondraBeth as she was drowned out by the shouts, whistles, and cheers from the audience below. The roar of the crowd was like an animal demanding attention.

And Pandy was happy to give it to them. Buoyed by the crowd’s rush of expectation, their desire to witness a miracle, Pandy raised one arm like the Warrior Woman herself. Holding the mike to her lips, she screamed, “Kill Monica. Please!”

And just as promised, Monica’s leg began to rise. First the hard shiny toe, and then the cruelly curved heel, and then there it came: yards and yards of red fringe waving like triumphant streamers in the air. And as the leg rose, so, too, did Jonny. For suddenly, there he was, dangling from a harness attached to several pieces of fringe.

The crowd began to laugh. And laugh. Suddenly, Pandy was laughing, too. The leg rose up another five feet, and jerked Jonny like a puppet, his arms and legs flailing.

SondraBeth came to stand next to Pandy, and the crowd went crazy, hooting and cheering as she clapped, the microphone between her hands. Eventually, when the noise died down, she walked to the edge of the stage. Taking a wide stance in her cowboy boots, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen. Let me introduce you to Jonny Balaga. Resident scumbag!”

Deafening boos. Pink plastic champagne glasses were tossed in Jonny’s direction.

“And just to make the event even more special, this, by the way, is not Hellenor Wallis,” SondraBeth said, turning to Pandy. Raising her arms in triumph, she shouted, “This is PJ Wallis—the creator of Monica—in disguise!”

Another huge roar of approval, like the crowd was about to witness a boxing match. SondraBeth paused to let the rustling die down to a hush. She put her arm around Pandy’s shoulder. Looking out over the crowd, Pandy followed her gaze, right across the rooftops to a huge screen that had been set up to project their images.

On the screen, Pandy saw SondraBeth lift the microphone to her mouth. “My best friend PJ Wallis and I cooked up this little plot to get even with Jonny, who is Pandy’s ex-husband.”

“Ooooooh.” Wide panning shot of the vengeful crowd. Then another close-up of SondraBeth. And in her very best, naughtiest Monica voice, she said, “Because Jonny has been a very, very bad boy. Isn’t that right, Jonny?”

Spotlight on Jonny. And there he was, up on the screen, dangling like a marionette. What could he do? He waved.

“I think Pandy has some things she’d like to say to him,” SondraBeth said, her voice echoing against the tall buildings. Before Pandy could refuse, SondraBeth passed the microphone off to her and returned to stage left.

And once again, Pandy was all by herself. Staring out into the hot, salty lights.

As if in encouragement for what she was preparing to say, the leg jerked, and Jonny bounced and swung, holding on to the straps. The crowd laughed again as Pandy looked at Jonny and thought:

There’s your happy ending.

“Hey!” Jonny shouted, waving.

“Boooo!” the crowd shouted back. Pandy looked at Jonny, dangling like the fool in the failed deus ex machina, and realized that once again, Henry was right. This was all about Jonny.

And then the strangest thing happened. She looked again at Jonny and felt absolutely nothing. Like she’d never even known him. Like they’d never been married. Like he simply didn’t belong. Not in her life, anyway.

And then, like water rushing in to fill an empty space, she felt sorry for him.

She looked at SondraBeth, smiling out at the crowd, dressed in her cowgirl spangles, and felt sorry for her, too. And then, gazing across the rooftops, she caught sight of herself on-screen, and felt most of all sorry for herself.

She walked to the end of the platform and leaned over the edge, toward Jonny, the height causing her stomach to clench in terror. “The truth is, I did disguise myself as Hellenor. And I did try to kill Monica. And I did do it for revenge. On that man.”

A large burst of applause. Pandy nodded in acknowledgment. “I was weak, and I fell in love. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did. Because even though I knew better, some part of me felt that I deserved that happy ending.” She pointed to Jonny. “And for a short time, I thought I had found it. Until I realized that that man could never give it to me.”

“Boooo,” the crowd said, throwing pink plastic champagne glasses at Jonny. The leg jerked higher, and Jonny grabbed at the straps.

“And when that man didn’t give me my happy ending, I thought the right answer was revenge.”

An intake of breath, like the dry rustling of leaves as the crowd considered this information.

Pandy continued, strolling to the other side of the platform, grateful to be away from the sight of Jonny. “And while revenge might seem like the right answer, at some point during the past forty-eight hours—in which I’ve been involved in an explosion, suffered a case of mistaken identity, and accepted an award for being dead—somewhere along that journey, I realized that revenge against a man because he didn’t give me my happy ending wasn’t the answer. Because a happy ending with a man is never going to be my happy ending. Nor is it going to be Monica’s happy ending. But that’s okay, because every woman’s happy ending doesn’t have to be the same. And it doesn’t have to involve a man.”

Heart pumping in her chest, Pandy looked across the stage at SondraBeth. SondraBeth caught her glance and threw it back to her with that old PandaBeth smile.

“Because there are some things that matter more than a man,” Pandy said, gaining momentum as she walked across what felt like miles and miles of stage to reach SondraBeth’s side. “And those things are friendship—and being true to yourself.”

Gazing out past the shimmering screens and into the bright lights of the city, she saw herself as an eager young woman taking it all in, her heart and soul aching to belong, believing she could conquer all obstacles. It had been a long struggle, but she had painted the town every color of the rainbow.

And then she knew what she had to do.

Pandy looked up at the giant image of Monica and smiled ruefully.

“And so, as much as we both love Monica, we’ve allowed ourselves to be Monica for too long,” she continued. “Maybe it was because we wanted too much. Or maybe it was because we were scared. Or maybe it was because we fell in love with the wrong men.”

Pandy shook her head at Jonny, who was still dangling from his straps as a fireman on a ladder tried to grab his ankle.

“But none of those reasons matter,” she said, slinging her arm around SondraBeth’s shoulder. “Because the truth is that this woman—SondraBeth Schnowzer, whom most of you know only as Monica—doesn’t want to play Monica anymore. And I don’t want her to, either.”

The crowd, at last, went silent.

Into the silence came a lone voice. Perhaps it was the voice of a Hellenor, or even of a SondraBeth or perhaps of a Pandy herself—the voice of any woman who was sure she didn’t belong and was sick of trying: “Kill Monica. Please.”

And then, like the fresh breeze that presages the arrival of better weather, a tinkle of laughter came from the audience. It grew and grew until it was rushing like the gathering waters of spring, racing downriver from the mountains to the sea. The noise of laughter commingled with those cheery notes from the Monica theme song, and SondraBeth and Pandy began singing along. And for one last moment, it was all a blur…

Until reality came flooding back in. Specifically in the form of wincing foot pain. Pandy’s feet felt like those of a young girl after a long, exhausting day spent pounding the pavement. Back then, her feet had been able to go on forever. With a sigh of relief, she realized that unlike the young woman she’d once been, it was okay to leave the party before the blisters set in.

She turned to Judy.

“Are you ready?” Judy asked, glancing quickly over her shoulder to where SondraBeth was still onstage, and probably would be for quite a bit longer. “Do you mind going down alone?” she asked, motioning for the stage manager to help Pandy onto the elevator.

“No,” Pandy said. “I don’t mind.”

She stepped onto the platform and, pressing the red button, went back down to earth.

Where PP was waiting. “Goddammit, PJ Wallis. I should have known this so-called ‘Hellenor’ was you. Now let me tell you something. If you think you and SondraBeth are going to get away with this little stunt, you’re wrong. You have absolutely no authority to kill a creation that no longer legally belongs to you. The studio already has a pack of lawyers lined up to deal with the two of you…”

Pandy held up her hand. “You know what, PP?” she asked. She paused to think of what she really wanted to say. And just like the Senator squeezing those imaginary balls, she realized the message was simple but effective:

“Fuck you!” she said with an exuberant shout.

And feeling quite pleased with herself, despite knowing that her career in the movies was probably over, she exited the building through the same door she’d entered. Where she ran right into Henry on the sidewalk.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” he asked, looking her up and down appraisingly.

Pandy glared at him. “I thought I was dead to you.”

“I said if you went through with it, you would be dead to me.”

“You know what?” Pandy said. “I’m too tired for this. You should be grateful to me. I may not be Lady Wallis, but at least I managed to keep your secret.”

“And I managed to keep yours as well.” Henry reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded letter. “While you were busy prancing around Manhattan like a moldy Monica, I was busy making us money. From your new character.”

“Lady Wallis?” Pandy gasped.

“This, my dear, is a commitment letter from your publisher to publish Lady Wallis, whether or not you yourself are alive.”

“Oh, Henry!” Pandy flung open her arms and hugged his narrow shoulders. “I knew you could sell Lady Wallis if you just tried!”

Henry sighed. “I suppose I have as much invested in her as you do.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re an angel,” Pandy declared. She started to head up West Broadway.

“And where,” Henry demanded, starting after her, “do you think you’re going?”

“To the Pool Club, to see Suzette and the others,” Pandy said innocently over her shoulder. “Now that I’m Pandy again, I’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do.”

“I would like to remind you that now that you’ve sold your Lady Wallis novel, they’re going to want another one. Immediately. Which means it’s a school night.”

Pandy stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Now listen, Henry. I told you, I’ve had enough. I’ve been rejected, blown up, blown off, and most of all, I’ve had to pretend to be you. And as much as I love you and as far as I’m willing to go to keep your secret, I want a night off.”

Henry paused. Then he shook his head and laughed. “That old secret? The next thing I know, you’ll be claiming that I’m the reason you did all this.”

“You are one of the reasons”—Pandy paused for effect—“Hellenor.”

Henry sighed. “Hellenor was such a long time ago.”

Pandy rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that long ago. Okay, maybe you’re right. It was twenty-five years ago when Hellenor went to Amsterdam—”

“From whence I emerged,” Henry said proudly. “You have to admit it is silly,” he added, taking her arm. “You pretending to be me. And then trying to kill Monica. It’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done.”

Pandy laughed, looking over her shoulder at the Monica billboard. Jonny had been removed, and Monica at last had her leg.

“In any case, I’m not looking for my happy ending anymore. In fact, I think I’d like to avoid endings of any kind for a while.” Pandy reached the corner and sniffed. Smelling the sweet childhood perfume of cotton candy, she exclaimed, “It’s the San Geronimo festival.”

“Don’t tell me you just noticed. Oh no,” Henry said, balking at the corner like a mule.

“Why not?” Pandy insisted. “I want to go. And remember, you still owe me.”

Henry sighed. “I suppose I could accompany you. As long as I’m not dragged to that dreadful watering hole known as the Pool Club.” He shuddered. “Compared to that, I suppose having my craw stuffed with cotton candy is preferable to being forced to listen to the caw of those crows you call your friends.”

“At least you didn’t say ‘crones.’ Come on, Henry.” Pandy laughed. And possessed of that spirit in which one could take as many acts as necessary to complete a full life, she grabbed her former sister’s arm, and together they went into the glittering neon lights.