* * *
The sun was now high behind Monica’s head. Pandy realized that her image was still not complete. They had yet to attach her leg.
Perhaps they were changing her shoe.
Pandy smiled, suddenly feeling sentimental about Monica. She remembered the first time she’d watched the billboard go up. She’d been so excited, she’d insisted that SondraBeth Schnowzer, the actress who played Monica in the film versions of the books, come over and watch with her as it progressed. The two of them had sat there for hours, as rapt as if the universe had conspired to give them this gift—their own private movie about their very own lives.
And when the billboard was finally complete, when Monica’s leg had at last been raised, revealing her famous neon blue spike-heeled bootie, they had looked at each other and screamed:
“It’s you! It’s you!”
“No, it’s you! That part is definitely you!”
Leading to the inevitable conclusion: “It’s both of us!”
And then SondraBeth had walked to the window and said, “Monica? I’ve a feeling we’re not in Montana anymore.”
Pandy felt a sudden stab of yearning, not just for Monica, but for SondraBeth Schnowzer, too. This desire to see her former best friend again—to laugh giddily as if the entire world were their playground—was confusing. SondraBeth had dealt her a terrible blow, and they hadn’t spoken for years. Ever since that moment in the ladies’ room when SondraBeth had warned her about Jonny.
SondraBitch, she’d thought.
And now both Jonny and SondraBeth Schnowzer were dead to her.
And that was the essential problem with Monica. Monica made it look easy when it wasn’t. No one ever asked the legions of Monica lovers to consider the years of struggle and hard work it would have taken Monica to become Monica; the self-doubt, the self-loathing, the fear, the sheer amount of energy required to set a goal and keep at it day after day, with no immediate reward in sight and the possibility that it might never materialize at all. On the other hand, who wanted reality? Reality was depressing. And free.
* * *
Pandy was almost finished writing by the time the entire billboard went up and she’d seen her name in those crisp white letters. Smaller and smaller each year, perhaps, but nevertheless, still there:
BASED ON THE BOOKS BY P.J. WALLIS
Pandy looked back at the billboard and frowned. Monica’s leg was still missing. It had never been late before.
Maybe it was a sign?
She hit SEND.
And then the landline began ringing. Only a few people had the number, including Henry and her divorce lawyer, Hiram.
Hopefully, it was Henry. But she’d happily take Hiram.
“Hello?” Pandy said into the receiver.
“Congratulations!” a man bellowed.
“What?” Who is this? she almost asked.
“You, young lady, are free.”
“Hiram?”
“He’s agreed to it all.”
“He has?”
“Yup.”
“What about the numbers?”