Killing Monica

Then she sat up straight.

Because the thought was sickeningly scary. Flashing back to the explosion, she could taste the metallic grit of dirt in her mouth, smell the scent of scorched earth and scorched hair. She took a deep breath. The fact was, she very well might have died. But somehow, she had not. And now it was like the universe was playing a joke on her: What would happen if you tried to tell everyone that you were you, and no one recognized you? Who would you be then?

She reminded herself that she must still be shaky from the explosion. There was SondraBeth talking on the phone. And at the other end of the room, two men in dark suits and earbuds had come in, asking Judy for the bathroom.

Everything was fine. This was simply a case of mistaken identity. One that Pandy was going to clear up right now. She pushed up from the armchair and went over to Judy.

“Actually, I’m Pandy,” she said. Judy smiled at her indulgently. Pandy turned to the two bodyguards, who were also looking at her, amused.

“I’m PJ Wallis.”

The bodyguards shrugged and looked at Judy, who also shrugged. Pandy rolled her eyes and went outside.

This was interesting. No one cared if she was Pandy, because all they cared about was Monica.

Pandy frowned as she took in the scene in the parking lot. Two SUVs were parked next to SondraBeth’s car; black-clad assistants were bustling in and out of them, and a couple of people were on walkie-talkies. If it weren’t for the fact that PJ Wallis had supposedly just died, the scene would be exactly like another boring day on the set of Monica.

In which case, she might as well have a cigarette. Or two. She inhaled the fresh morning air and detected the harsh scent of tobacco smoke.

One of the chauffeurs was smoking next to an SUV. Pandy went up to him, giving him her very best smile, and said, “Excuse me. I am PJ Wallis. And I would like a cigarette.”

The man smiled at her like she was a dotty old thing, which reminded Pandy again that she was bald. Apparently, no one was going to believe that she was Pandy until Henry arrived. The man handed her his pack. He cupped his hands for her to catch the flame from his lighter. “You the sister?” he asked.

Pandy took a step back, inhaled, exhaled, and smiled.

“The sister’s lover, then?” the man said.

Pandy shrugged. It didn’t matter. Henry would come, and everyone would know the truth.

She took another drag on the cigarette and began wandering down the drive. Perhaps she could meet up with Henry before he arrived, unprepared, at this mess. She strolled past some photographers who were milling about on the lawn. She supposed she and Henry could gather them together and announce that she was indeed Pandy, but this particular breed of press were like herd animals. You had to know how to control them.

She took another pull on the cigarette, continuing down the drive. The lady reporter and the cameraman were now standing off to the side.

The woman turned and saw her. “Oh, hi there, Hellenor,” she drawled, as if they were now best friends. “So I hear you’re a big Monica fan?” she asked in a friendly manner.

Was she kidding? “The biggest,” Pandy said, annoyed. “You could say that I know every sentence and each line by heart.”

“Is that so?” the woman asked.

“Actually, yes,” Pandy said. She dropped her cigarette, grinding out the butt beneath her construction boot. “Because the fact of the matter is that I am PJ Wallis—”

“Hellenor?”

Pandy turned to find Judy coming down the drive.

Judy touched her arm. “Listen. Would you mind doing one thing? Can you walk to the place where PJ Wallis blew up?”

Pandy squinted down the drive. The whole squad of paparazzi had moved down to where the boathouse had been. This really was too much. It was one thing for her publisher to think she was dead for a couple of hours, but quite a different matter to announce it to the world.

“Now, listen, Judy,” Pandy said firmly.

“I know, I know,” Judy said quickly. “You’re not happy about all this press. But neither is SondraBeth. She wanted this to be private. She was hoping you and she could have a long visit. Reminisce about Pandy. Talk about the old days and the future of Monica. Maybe even plan a special memorial. But then the studio got word, and the press, and now PJ’s death is out of control—”

Pandy cleared her throat. “Judy,” she tried again. “PJ Wallis isn’t dead. There’s been a huge mistake and I’m PJ Wallis.”

“Oh, I get it,” Judy said with a knowing laugh. In the husky tones of a former college party girl, she added, “Like what you did back there with the reporters? That was hilarious, fucking with their heads like that.” Judy raised her palm to give Pandy a high five. “You, Hellenor, are fucking crazy. I’m so glad you’re cool. It makes everyone’s job so much easier.”

She tapped her earpiece and nodded once, then took Pandy’s arm and began leading her firmly down the hill.