Candace Bushnell - Killing Monica

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pandy shook her head in disgust.

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

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

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

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

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

“Honey, is that you?” Suzette screeched.

“Who else would it be?”

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

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

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

“We didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

“What took you so long?” Pandy asked.

“Huh?” The older guy glared.

“Monica’s leg. It’s late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Henry?” Pandy screeched.

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

Pandy reddened and shrugged.

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

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

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

“I was let go.” Portia shrugged.

Pandy gasped. “Again?”

“Again.” Portia smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about Switzerland?” Pandy asked.

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

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

“The room?” Portia asked.

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

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

“That place?” Portia said with a grimace.

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

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

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