“And all those restaurants,” Nancy interjected, breezing by.
Pandy smiled stiffly. “He doesn’t actually own those restaurants.”
“Do you just totally hate him right now?” Amanda was on the verge of a gossip orgasm.
“Let’s just say I will never do that again.”
The elevator door opened and another gaggle of women rushed out.
“Pandy!” Portia screamed. “Look at you! You’re so brave. Standing there in that skintight silver dress and looking like a goddess!”
“Is it true?” shrieked Brittney. “I heard he tried to get money out of you from Monica. How could he do that? He didn’t even know you when you started writing Monica.”
“Ladies, please,” Pandy addressed her rapt audience. “When it comes to divorce, what’s fair and logical is the first thing that goes right out the window. Jonny was threatening to go after the rights to Monica. He thought I’d be so terrified he might get them, I’d give him the loft instead.”
“So what did you give him?” Portia chirped. “Not the loft. And certainly not Monica.”
“You gave him money, didn’t you?” Suzette scolded. “Oh, I knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” She looked around at the women closest to her, who nodded. “I predicted this,” she continued. “I said, ‘Pandy is such a softy, you just watch. She’ll end up giving him all her money.’”
For a moment, Pandy grimaced—if only her friends knew how true that was. But hopefully, with the success of her new book, no one would need to know the truth about anything, including her marriage.
“But he’s got tons of his own money!” Meghan cried.
“Not as much as you’d think,” Nancy chimed in. “Those chefs have all their income tied up in the real estate for their restaurants.”
“Do you think he was having an affair?” Angie asked breathlessly.
Pandy smiled queasily. Angie was the most naïve of her friends—surely she’d heard the rumors of Jonny’s infidelities. But Pandy had already had quite a bit of champagne, and feeling puckish, she said, “Let me put it this way. If he wasn’t having an affair, it wasn’t from lack of trying.” She guffawed loudly.
The party had officially begun.
* * *
By seven p.m., the loft was packed. The air was filled with steam from various inhalers, along with actual cigarette and marijuana smoke. Strewn around the loft were cracked plastic cocktail glasses, sticky napkins, and empty bottles of champagne. In the midst of their celebration, Henry arrived.
“Look, Cary Grant is here!” Pandy heard Portia shout. Followed by Suzette’s curt reply:
“Cary Grant is dead. That’s Pandy’s agent.”
“Any word?” Pandy screamed, rushing toward him with so much enthusiasm, she knocked over several drinks in the process.
“On what?” Henry asked, coolly raising his eyebrows as he surveyed the room. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
“On The Book. Hello? Remember The Book? That thing I’ve been writing for the last two years?” Pandy waved her hands in front of his face.
Henry didn’t blink. “If I had word, you’d be the first to know.” He squeezed Pandy’s shoulder reassuringly. He stayed another five whole minutes before he was forced to flee, claiming he didn’t want to end up in a meat sandwich between Suzette and Nancy.
“A new Monica book?” cried Angie. Despite the booty-shaking beat now blaring from the speakers, she’d somehow managed to overhear Pandy’s conversation.
“I knew it!” Brittney shrieked. “Now that Pandy’s divorced, Monica will have to get divorced, too.”
“Then she can try online dating.”
“And a matchmaker. That would be hilarious.”
“What would be even more hilarious would be watching Monica try to arrange a date by texting.”
“And then she can date some hot young studs. With their own hair and actual muscles.”