Killing Monica
Her own life, perhaps?
The next day, she called Henry. “I don’t want to write another Monica book. I need to move on,” she said bravely.
Henry told her to quit acting silly and reminded her that even without Pandy, Monica could go on for as long as she liked. Unless, he added jokingly, Pandy were to die. In which case, the rights would revert to Hellenor. And Hellenor, of course, was in Amsterdam.
* * *
Two more weeks passed. Shooting for Monica wrapped, and SondraBeth went to Europe—“on business,” she said, being uncharacteristically vague. Another month passed without a word from either her or Doug. Doug had mentioned stopping off in New York for a few days when he finished his movie, but when Pandy didn’t hear from him, she figured he’d gone straight to LA. After all, it was only a fling. Why should she care?
And then SondraBeth called.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FINALLY, PANDY thought, seeing SondraBeth’s number at last. It was one of those blue Sunday evenings, one of those anxious nights in which the future looked inexplicably bleak, when it felt like nothing exciting or good would ever happen again.
“Yarl?” Pandy answered slowly, with one of their silly made-up expressions.
“Peege? It’s meeeeeeee,” SondraBeth squealed joyfully.
“Where have you been?” Pandy scolded, as if she couldn’t live without her. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too. But now I’m back. How are you? You sound down.”
“No. I’m just…” Pandy broke off. What was she? “Bored,” she said.
“I am, too.” SondraBeth spoke into the phone with a salty languor. “I’m so fucking bored.”
“Where are you?” Pandy asked.
SondraBeth laughed, as if Pandy ought to know where she was. “I’m on ‘the island.’”
“The island?” Pandy frowned. “What is that? Some kind of location?”
“Silly!” SondraBeth squealed. “I’m on a secret vacation. At that private island I told you about. In the Turks and Caicos? Where my ex-boyfriend and I used to rent a house?”
“Which one?” Pandy asked, rolling her eyes.
“You’ve got to come down and stay with me,” SondraBeth insisted. Pandy could hear waves crashing in the background.
“Really?” Pandy got up and looked out the window. It was March, and the weather was depressing: blustery one minute, rainy the next. She didn’t have anything on her schedule that couldn’t be moved. The thought of that lusciously warm Caribbean air was suddenly irresistible—and so, too, was the prospect of seeing SondraBeth.
“I think I could come. But when?”
“Tomorrow! You don’t have to stay long. Three days, maybe four.”
“Tomorrow?” Pandy’s heart sank. She looked around. “I can’t get myself together by tomorrow.”
“You don’t understand,” SondraBeth said, sounding like she was strangling a scream. “I can fly you back and forth by private jet.”
“Are you kidding?” Pandy had to put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming as well.
“No. I mean, yes. I’m serious. Gotta go. My assistant will call you in two seconds to make the arrangements.”
Like clockwork, SondraBeth’s new assistant, Molly, called right after SondraBeth hung up.
In a voice as natural and sweet as the hay in the heartland itself, Molly informed her that a car would be picking her up at nine the next morning to take her to Teterboro, New Jersey, where she would fly directly to the island by private jet. The whole trip, including the ride to the airport, would take a mere three hours. “You’ll be there in time for lunch!” Molly exclaimed.
Bliss, Pandy thought, looking out at the rain.