Killing Monica

Pandy was suddenly annoyed. “That’s it? I thought you were calling because you’d had word.”

Henry ignored this, continuing as he read the headlines aloud: “‘PJ Wallis: Uncoupled and Un-Monica’ed.’”

“Hey. That’s good!” Pandy exclaimed. “Very good. Word of the book is already spreading.”

She stuck her feet into a dusty pair of velvet loafers she hadn’t seen in ages. The loafers came from the far reaches of her closet—meaning the clothing exchange must have been more extensive than she’d imagined.

“Anyway,” she continued, shuffling into the living room, “who cares? In fact,” she added, “I’m glad. Maybe when my publishers see that the book is all over Instalife, they’ll actually get off their asses and read it. Christ. The school year isn’t even over. Surely everyone in publishing can’t already be on summer vacation?”

“They’re not on summer vacation,” Henry said ominously.

“Good. Then they can read it. It’s been over a week.” She was tempted to add, And don’t call me until they have read it, but she caught herself. She pressed her thumb sharply into her right temple. She mustn’t let her hangover turn her into a demanding ogre.

“Gotta go,” Pandy said quickly. She hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch, batteries dangling like viscera from the handset.

* * *

Moving slowly into the kitchen, Pandy encountered a telltale flat white box on the counter. It contained two slices of cold pepperoni pizza.

The sight of the pizza made Pandy unaccountably happy. Balancing a slice on her open palm, she slid the floppy triangle onto the rack in Jonny’s pizza oven. She turned the control to five hundred degrees and made herself a cup of tea. Discovering a cache of neatly folded plastic grocery bags in the pantry, she tried to stuff the pizza box into a bag, but it wouldn’t fit. She gave up and went to work on cleaning up the living room instead.

Plastic cups—some empty, others still containing fluid and floating cigarette butts—went into one empty grocery bag after another. Pandy discovered a couple of stray cigarettes behind one of the couch cushions. She lit a cigarette and leaned out the half-open window, trying to blow the smoke through the opening. The first rush of nicotine almost made her retch, but she fought the impulse and smoked it down to the filter. As she was lighting another, she smelled something burning. She raced to the kitchen and yanked open the pizza oven as black smoke billowed into her face. She coughed, slammed the door, turned the oven off, and ran the butt under the tap.

She grabbed another plastic bag and headed into the bathroom.

Several empty bottles of expensive pink champagne—both Pandy’s and, of course, Monica’s signature drink—were floating on a scrim of dirty water in what had been last night’s enormous ice bucket. Bobbing among the debris like a bad apple was a curious piece of cushioned green plastic. Pandy picked it up. It was a green cartoon frog with large yellow eyes and two flexible feet on either side.

The frog was attached to something stiff and unyielding. Pandy turned it over. On the other side was a black screen. The frog was a child’s waterproof cell phone cover.

But whose? Pandy frowned. Was it possible someone had brought a child to the party, and she hadn’t noticed?

She tapped the screen. An image appeared: Portia on a tropical beach, holding the hands of two adorable towheaded children.

Oh, right. Portia had children. Pandy suddenly pictured Portia at the beach with her kids. Portia was worried they might lose their cell phones in the water. And so she had bought them all these funny floating cell phone covers at the resort’s gift shop. Pandy could smell the fresh green scent of locally made straw hats hanging on a rack near the cash register; could feel the goose bumps rising on her upper arms as she walked from the stifling heat into the sharp cold of the shop’s air-conditioning.

When was the last time she’d gone on a tropical vacation?

Years ago. Six, to be exact. When she’d gone to that island with SondraBeth Schnowzer. And Doug Stone had turned up.

Water under the bridge, Pandy thought as she opened the tub drain and watched the dirty water disappear.

What wasn’t disappearing, however, was her hangover. She searched for aspirin and, finding none, realized she was going to have to venture outside.

* * *

Exiting her building, Pandy stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street. She caught a whiff of cotton candy, meaning the San Geronimo festival was in full swing. Continuing down Mercer Street, Pandy skirted a large patch of dirt from the never-ending construction of a nearby building. It had been under construction for so long, Pandy could remember making out with a guy in front of it when she’d first bought her loft and had yet to meet Jonny.

Belascue. That was the guy’s name. He was an artist; a painter. He’d been really good, too.

If only she’d ended up with Belascue instead of Jonny, she thought. But this fantasy was short-lived. When she’d finally had sex with Belascue, he’d freaked out and said he didn’t want to have a relationship. Now, at age forty-nine, she’d heard he still didn’t have a proper girlfriend.

Thank God she’d never gotten too involved with Belascue. This reminder—of having dodged at least one bullet from her past—gave Pandy renewed hope. Enough to encourage her to head down the deserted street.

Wandering past the still-darkened shop windows, Pandy realized it was not yet ten a.m. If she were still writing, the hour wouldn’t have mattered. Other than the fact that she always felt like there wasn’t enough of it, when she was writing, time wasn’t relevant.

But now that she’d finished her book, once again, time mattered. And the problem with time was that you had to do things with it.

She went into the pharmacy, bought a large bottle of Advil, and wondered if she ought to stop by her bank to begin the process of getting Jonny his check. How did that even work? Could you write out a personal check for such a large amount?