Killing Monica Page 13

  His chest rose as he raised his palms to his face and tilted his visage. His profile was poised against the deep blue water. Dark. Unknowable. And just out of reach.

  Pandy wondered if he knew she was watching him.

  As if sensing her presence, he opened his eyes and jerked his head in her direction.

  His eyes widened slightly.

  And then he smiled at her knowingly, as if they shared a secret.

  Pandy slipped back behind the French door.

  * * *

  On the car ride home, Edith couldn’t stop talking about how furious Pope was at Jonny. Pandy, who was feeling no pain, laughed giddily. Edith asked Pandy if she found Jonny attractive, convinced that Jonny was interested in her. The Senator chimed in. “If you want him, take him,” he exhorted to Pandy, referring to Jonny as if he were a stuffed animal. The Senator then held up his hand and balled it into a fist. “But if you get him, don’t stop.”

  “Don’t stop what?” Pandy asked.

  The Senator shook his fist in front of Pandy’s face. “Squeezing,” he said. When Pandy continued to look confused, he flexed his fingers. “His balls,” the Senator said. “Don’t ever stop squeezing his balls.”

  * * *

  Pandy woke up on Monday morning to discover that Page Six had run with the item about how she and the Senator had been spotted together in Palm Beach and were rumored to be dating. Pandy shook her head; it was the kind of thing that would be quickly forgotten. Then her phone rang.

  “Are you really seeing that guy?” a male voice demanded. Pandy felt a rush of heat.

  “Who is this?” she asked sharply, despite knowing it was Jonny.

  “Who do you think it is?”

  Pandy hesitated as she tried to come up with a clever riposte.

  “Well?” Jonny insisted.

  “Of course I’m not dating him.” Pandy leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She yawned. “On the other hand, maybe I am dating him.”

  “Then stop. Unless you want to be labeled a cheater.”

  Pandy dropped her feet to the floor with a thump. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m inviting you to the preview of my new restaurant.”

  “Is that so?” Pandy was glad Jonny wasn’t there to see her. She could feel herself flushing. “How did you get my number?” she asked, stalling her answer.

  “Come on, Wallis. Can’t you give me more credit than that? Thursday. Eight o’clock. The name of the restaurant is—”

  “Let me guess,” Pandy said, cutting him off. “Chou Chou.”

  Jonny sniffed in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Because all your restaurants are named after French games, and Bilboquet is already taken.”

  “Clever,” Jonny purred in approval. “Most of the women I date wouldn’t know to put that together.”

  “That’s because most of the women you date have their mouths too stuffed with your foie gras to speak.”

  Jonny broke up in laughter. “You’re right. My skills are legendary. And the best thing about it?” he added.

  “What?” Pandy said.

  “I’ve yet to have a dissatisfied customer.”

  Pandy couldn’t help it; she laughed. And the next thing she knew, she was agreeing to go.

  As she hung up the phone, she recalled all those rumors she’d heard about Jonny.

  But then Henry called. He had good news.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WOULD turn out to be one of those rare weeks when the universe conspired in her favor. Two different women’s groups wanted to give her awards, and she was invited to sit at the head table at the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards. Those awards were given to five women for fierce, daring, and breakthrough work in the world of entertainment, and Pandy hoped to someday receive one herself. But most incredibly of all, Henry had gotten her publisher to agree to a million-dollar advance on the third Monica book. It was her first-ever million-dollar contract. As if in alignment with this event, American Express suddenly informed her that she was eligible for a Black Card.

  You’ve finally made it, the letter said. We now invite you to join the most exclusive club in the world.

  “And it’s all because of the million dollars,” Pandy exclaimed breathlessly to Henry. Henry’s call about the contract had caused her to shoot out of her apartment with the urgency of someone running from a fire, although it didn’t prevent her from pausing to carefully consider what she should wear. She pictured this “million-dollar moment” as very Breakfast at Tiffany’s, meaning it required some type of headgear. Rifling through her closet, she found an old hatbox with a black straw Philip Treacy boater.

  She’d had to take the hat off during the twenty-block speed-walk to Henry’s office—straw hats were simply not practical anymore, under any conditions—but she put it back on the moment she walked into the building.

  Henry now glanced curiously at the hat.

  “A million dollars!” Pandy exclaimed again. “I know a million isn’t what it used to be, but still. This is big,” she said, pacing in front of Henry’s desk. The pacing was slow and measured, due to the necessity of balancing the hat on her head.

  “Remember, you don’t get it all at once. It’s broken up into four payments. Over at least two years,” Henry admonished her.

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to say: ‘When it comes to money, prudence is a virtue.’ To which I will counter with a quote from Blake: ‘Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.’ Which might be a more apt description of myself than I would like to admit,” Pandy said. “But either way, it’s a hell of a lot better than a kick in the teeth. And God knows, we’ve had enough of those.”

  “It hasn’t been quite that bad,” Henry demurred.

  “I can only imagine what Father would have said: ‘A million dollars. That’s one thousand thousands.’”

  “‘Or one million ones,’” Henry added, finishing the thought for her. “Nevertheless,” he continued, “the income is two hundred and fifty thousand a year. After taxes, that’s a hundred and twenty thousand. Giving you an extra ten thousand a month.”

  “A fortune!” Pandy crowed.

  “Don’t go buying a private plane, okay?” Henry said with his usual sarcasm.

  His phone rang. “Yes?” he said. He smiled wickedly. “Hold on, I’ll find out.”

  “Well?” Pandy asked expectantly.

  “A young lady from the press. She wants to interview you.”

  “About the million dollars?” Pandy gasped.

  “About your upcoming fortieth birthday.”

  “But that’s not for four months!”

  “Shall I tell her to call back in four months, then? When you’re crying into your champagne?” Henry asked teasingly.

  “Nah. I’ll take it,” Pandy replied. “I just made a million bucks. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of—and certainly not age.” She took the receiver from Henry. “Hello?”

  “Oh, yes. Hi,” she said broadly, tossing her hat onto Henry’s Le Corbusier chaise. She fluffed her hair. “Yes, it certainly is a milestone. I don’t mind talking about it at all, but it’s not for four months.” Pandy winked at Henry and motioned for him to pass her a pen. Snatching a piece of paper from one of his manuscripts, she wrote: Milestone. One syllable away from both gravestone and millstone—significance? She passed the missive to Henry, who smiled.

  Pandy nodded her head. “Well, sure. I understand. Your boss wants it now. God knows, I’ve been in that position myself. How can I help you?”

  She smiled at Henry. “Well, you’re right. I have never been married, and I do not have children. And I’m about to hit forty. Do I regret not having children? Certainly not.” She looked at Henry, who gave her a sharp frown and a quick shake of his head.

  Pandy changed her tone. “I mean, of course children are wonderful. Who wouldn’t love having an adorable mini version of oneself under one’s feet all the time? But I really believe that if children a
re meant to be, they will be. I’ve accepted that having children may not be part of my fate. On the other hand, I’m not quite ready for the glue factory yet.” Clutching the phone to her ear, she made a foot-clomping motion in front of Henry.

  “Of course, it reminds me of how lucky I am to have my career. Because I think of my career as a relationship I have with myself.”

  She paused, glanced over at Henry, who was nodding, and suddenly remembered the million dollars. “In fact, I’ve just signed an enormous contract for my new Monica book.”

  Pandy held the phone away from her ear so Henry, too, could hear the young woman’s squeal of joy. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so excited that Monica is going to have all kinds of new adventures. Excuse me?” Pandy hesitated and then laughed naughtily. “I’m afraid my agent would kill me,” she said with a glance back at Henry, who was indeed looking displeased. “In fact, I know he would kill me if I ever revealed the amount of the advance. But let me just put it this way: It’s more than six inches.” She dropped her voice on the last word, hoping the journalist would understand that “inches” was a euphemism for “figures.”

  * * *

  PJ WALLIS SAYS MONEY IS BETTER THAN A MAN, screamed the blog later that afternoon.

  “What the hell is this? ‘Money is better than a man,’” Suzette scoffed loudly over the phone. “Say it ain’t so.”

  Pandy had returned to her apartment and was trying to work, but the thought of the million dollars had made her too overwhelmed to concentrate.

  “Aw, forget the headline,” Pandy said excitedly. “I was just going to call you. Something’s happened.” She paused dramatically. “I’m rich.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m so happy for you. How?” Suzette asked politely.

  “Well, Henry went back to my publishers and renegotiated, and now I’ve got a million-dollar contract.”

  “Good for you!” Suzette said. “Now tell me. What are you going to wear on this date with Jonny Balaga? And how did this happen, anyway?”

  “Jonny Balaga? Who cares about him?” Pandy snorted. She lowered her voice. “But in the meantime, American Express just offered me the Black Card. How do they know when someone signs a million-dollar contract? It makes you wonder if there are spies everywhere, or if it’s all just coincidence. You know—something good happens to you, and you let off a different energy that attracts other good things.”

  “Like Jonny,” Suzette said.

  “Jonny is just a side thing. Nothing is going to happen with Jonny,” Pandy scoffed. Thinking again of her good fortune, she added, “I’m also getting two awards. Will you come, please?”

  “I’ll come over and help you choose something to wear for your date with Jonny. Oh, by the way, I told Angie, Portia, and Meghan about Jonny. I thought it was best that way. I didn’t want Meghan to get upset and think the wrong thing.”

  “Ugh,” Pandy groaned. She’d forgotten about Meghan in her brief excitement over Jonny. “See? This is why I’m thinking I shouldn’t even go on this stupid date. If Meghan is upset, it’s not worth it.”

  “She’s not upset,” Suzette broke in. “In fact, she’s just the opposite. In fact,” she repeated, “we all agree that you and Jonny might not be a terrible thing. Meghan wanted me to be sure to tell you that while Jonny wasn’t right for her, it doesn’t mean he isn’t right for someone. And why shouldn’t that someone be you?”

  The question startled Pandy, enough so that it caused her to pause for several seconds while she considered which version of “Who cares?” Suzette might understand. The pause gave Suzette an opening; she blurted out: “We’re coming over right now to discuss it.”

  She hung up before Pandy could object.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Pandy opened the door to find Suzette, Portia, and Meghan standing there, each clutching a bottle of white wine.

  From the looks of them, Pandy guessed they’d been at one of those Upper East Side bistros when Suzette had called.

  “Hello, my darlings,” Pandy said. “Please tell me someone has brought cigarettes.”

  “Only five,” Meghan said.

  “Give me one,” Pandy said quickly. “I’m celebrating.”

  “What are you going to wear?” Portia asked breathlessly.

  “I’m going to wear sleeveless white wool and put my hair up into a bun. For shoes, I’m thinking an off-white textured kitten heel. Simple jewelry.”

  “Sleeveless white wool? On a date? That’s not very sexy,” Portia said.

  “Oh, I’m not talking about the date,” Pandy continued blithely. “Didn’t Suzette tell you about my contract? It’s a huge deal, so I’m heading up to Henry’s office first. He’s going to take photographs of me signing the papers. I’ll meet Jonny afterward.”

  She went into the kitchen to pour them each a nice tall glass of white wine.

  Why was everyone so excited about Jonny and not her good fortune, she wondered, removing four slightly warm glasses from the dishwasher. They all knew how important her career was to her; they were also well acquainted with Jonny’s questionable reputation. An image of the million dollars—two big gold dollar signs flashing in Monica’s pupils—came to mind, and she smiled. In the shadow of the money, Jonny’s allure had faded and now seemed slightly tarnished.

  Lining up the glasses, she wondered why she was even bothering to meet Jonny at all. Exiting the kitchen, she handed each of her friends a drink.

  “Listen,” she began. “Now that I’ve—” She considered bringing up the million dollars again, but thought better of it. “Now that I’ve had a bit of success, I’m suddenly realizing that I really don’t need a man. In fact, you could say that my career is my husband. Although unlike a man, it’s always there for me.”

  “Oh my lord. Don’t you ever say that. Especially to a man,” Meghan scolded, as if Pandy were a child.

  “Now, listen,” Portia said gently, looking at Suzette and Meghan, who both nodded. “You haven’t had a proper boyfriend for three years. You’re beginning to look—”

  “What?”

  “Desperate.” Meghan sighed grimly.

  “Oh, no.” Pandy groaned playfully. “Are we really having this conversation? Again? I had to have it ten years ago. Am I going to have to have it every ten years? I get it, okay? Maybe I never will be with a man again. But maybe I don’t want to be.”

  “Oh, pish,” Suzette said. “Of course you do.”

  “Please.” Pandy put down her glass. “I appreciate your concerns, but I don’t want you to be disappointed. Look at Jonny’s record: He’s slept with at least a hundred women, but hasn’t stayed with anyone for longer than two weeks. Not surprisingly, he has never managed to get married, although he, too, is nearly forty.

  “Now me. I’ve had several serious boyfriends, all lasting two to three years. I’ve practically lived with some of them. And after two years, what happens? I get bored. Not with them, but with the sex. I’m sorry, but after you’ve had sex with the same man hundreds of times—”

  “You know most women don’t feel that way, right?” Portia said nervously.

  “I have to agree with Pandy,” Meghan said. “It does get boring.”

  “It doesn’t if you’re really in love,” Suzette said. “And that, I’m afraid, is your problem,” she said victoriously to Pandy. “You’ve never been in love!”

  “You’re a love virgin,” Portia said. “You’re nearly forty years old, and you’ve never really been in love.”

  “But that’s not true!” Pandy exploded theatrically. “I was in love with every single one of those men I dated. Don’t you understand? That’s the problem. I think I’m in love with them and then all of a sudden, that ‘in love’ feeling goes away, and there’s no getting it back. Not to mention that I’m perfectly happy with my life right now. I don’t need the complications of a Jonny Balaga. Or any other man, for that matter.”

  “You see? There’s the problem,” Portia said triumphantly. “You�
��re not vulnerable. With men, you need to show your vulnerable side. That’s why no one’s ever asked you to get married. When you don’t show vulnerability, it makes men think you don’t need them.”

  “But I don’t need them,” Pandy insisted, thinking of her million dollars.

  “Every woman needs love,” insisted Suzette.

  “No, what every woman needs is a million dollars cash in her savings account. That she earned through her own hard work,” Pandy declared.

  * * *

  “Is it human nature or just female nature to keep hoping for love, beyond any evidence that such a thing is possible?” she groaned to Henry on the phone when the girls finally left at eleven.

  She hung up, fluffed her pillow, and leaned back against it with a mighty sigh.

  How she wished she could make her friends understand that not being married and not having children was a small price to pay—if, indeed, it even was a price—for the deep self-esteem and self-confidence gained by being a self-made woman.

  Society celebrated the self-made man, but the concept of the self-made woman hardly even existed. Probably because what society insisted defined a woman were her relationships to other people.

  The next morning, she was still riled. “Henry,” she said on the phone, “doesn’t anyone realize that for men, marriage and children aren’t considered achievements? Or even accomplishments? For men, marriage and children are a lifestyle. And that isn’t right!”

  Henry laughed. “And yet I’m assuming that none of this feminist talk is going to prevent you from going on that date with Jonny Balaga.”

  “You’re right,” Pandy conceded, rolling out of bed and pulling up the shade. “I’m a complete hypocrite. And I hate myself for it.”

  “Life makes hypocrites of us all, my dear,” Henry said kindly.

  “Oh, Henry.” Pandy plopped back onto the bed and sighed. “When it comes to love, I’m a lousy human being. I’m like Romeo. I’m in love with being in love.”