At the thought of the amount—seven figures—her stomach heaved, bringing up a rancid trickle of bile. What she could do with that money! The divorce settlement was twice the cost of Suzette’s ring; enough to buy a twenty-carat diamond instead. Possibly even a pink one. She could have the biggest pink diamond ring in all of New York City for the amount she was going to have to pay Jonny to be rid of him at last.
Pandy grimaced. Best not to think about it.
She strolled to the newsstand, where Kenny, the proprietor, was counting money behind a Plexiglas barrier. He grinned, exp
osing a gold tooth. “You’re back,” he said.
“Oh. I’ve been—” Pandy broke off, not sure how to explain the months that had disappeared while she’d been writing.
“I got the brand-new magazines. Hot gossip. Just came in this morning.”
Pandy nodded automatically. “That’s great.” And then remembering why she was at the newsstand in the first place—Jonny, his check, a massive hangover, all adding up to stress—she mumbled, “I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Lights.”
“You smoking again?” Kenny exclaimed.
“Only today.”
“One of those days, huh?” he asked.
Pandy nodded again, feeling an ache from the nasty bump on the back of her head. When Kenny turned away to get the cigarettes, she glanced down at the magazines. Besides Vogue and Elle, SondraBeth Schnowzer had made the covers of three tabloids. They were all proclaiming she’d been dumped again, this time by her latest love interest, a handsome French model. SondraBeth’s romantic transgressions were listed in bullet points on the side of her head: Spends all her time working; obsessed with her strict schedule; and worst of all: Has no friends. “Here you go,” Kenny said, beaming, as he handed her the cigarettes.
Pandy walked half a block before she stopped to light one. She looked up to find that she was standing smack in front of the former entrance to Joules. There was the bamboo curtain, now reduced to a few pieces of dirty string; behind it, the long and treacherous walk down the narrow alley and then down damp cellar stairs into what had once been the most fabulous nightclub in the world.
For a moment, Pandy could literally smell it.
That smell. It hit you as soon as you entered Joules Place. The odor of money. And drugs. The harsh metallic scent of a million chemicals in a million deals in a million grams of cocaine. The sweet-sour stink of tobacco and marijuana smoke absorbed into the walls and the carpets. The aroma that brought back a million memories, a million conversations, a million hopes and desires; the belief that maybe this time the meaning of life would be found at the end of a straw.
And flash: There was Joules himself to welcome you in his navy-blue blazer and cravat. Genuine Eurotrash, a true aristocrat whose father had left Joules his title and his pile of debts.
And flash: There was SondraBeth, her voice husky with drink and drugs and cigarettes, whispering, “Joules, it’s me,” on one of those long nights back when they were best friends. Back when they were called “PandaBeth.” Back when a legendary singer played with his band, and PandaBeth sang backup. Back when PandaBeth held court at the corner stall in the bathroom. Back when PandaBeth got free drinks from the mob guys like Freddie the Rat, who kept Joules supplied with everything from bar napkins to coke. Back when PandaBeth might do or say anything; when there was a razor-sharp edge to their riotous shenanigans; when Pandy would wake with a gluey disgust the next afternoon, racked with guilt over conduct that was clearly drunk and disorderly in the mind of any sane person.
She’d be wincing in shame—“I can’t believe I can’t believe”— and SondraBeth would be laughing, her hair a matted tangle, her outfit from the night before torn and covered with mysterious stains, as if at some point during the evening she literally had rolled in a gutter.
And SondraBeth would say, “Guilt is a useless emotion. The past is the past, even if it was just an hour ago…”
Pandy shook her head and laughed. Compared to those nights at Joules, last evening’s party was nothing. And thank God for that, she thought as she headed to the park.
* * *
The park was in full bloom, the leaves on the trees a brilliant emerald green. Daffodils blared their yellow trumpets from neat beds. Spring had passed into summer while she’d been holed up, wrestling with that bear of a book. There had been so many times when she’d wanted to give up. But she’d kept going, fueled by a fierce desire to prove herself. The fact that she was battling Jonny as well had only made her determination greater.
Pandy took a seat on a freshly painted bench near the dog run, inhaling the pungent odor of earth mixed with a vague chemical smell that rose from the dusty air. She absentmindedly rubbed the bump on the back of her head and heard a groan of frustration.
She looked up to see a young woman struggling to maneuver a baby stroller and a small dog through the gate. Pandy sprang up to help her, holding open the gate so they could pass.
“Thank you,” the woman said gratefully. Pandy smiled and went back to her bench, recalling the tired cliché that finishing a book was like giving birth. It wasn’t wrong: A friend had described the pain of childbirth as so intense as to be incomprehensible, during which there was no normal interpretation of time. What felt like ten minutes was actually ten hours. And then once you had the baby in your arms, you immediately forgot all about the agonizing process.
It was the same with writing a book. Once the manuscript was finished—once you’d printed the page with those final words, The End—you forgot about the struggle and felt only joy. Unlike a baby, however, your opinion about your “child” wasn’t the one that really mattered.
She wrinkled her nose, trying to prevent her sunglasses from falling off the tip. It wasn’t until the publisher had called your agent—or better, you—to say how much they loved the book and how brilliant it was and what a genius you were, that you could finally relax. Only then could you take a breath, knowing that soon they’d be processing your check.
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.