Besides her hardscrabble background, Pandy discovered a few more things about her real-life Monica. Interestingly, these were the kinds of things that Monica herself never would have experienced firsthand.
Such as: SondraBeth had dated a heroin addict. Her most recent ex, she explained, was a well-known actor with a nasty habit on the side. “I thought he was the love of my life, but then I found out he loved his heroin more than he loved me. You know your life is pretty bad when you can’t even compete with a bag of smack.”
Pandy laughed appreciatively. Encouraged, SondraBeth continued. “He said, ‘I love you, babe, but I love my horsie more.’ That’s what he called it: ‘my horsie.’ And even then, I didn’t want to leave him. That’s how stupid I was. But my agent and manager said I had to cut all ties.” She shrugged; despite claiming she would never be a slave to the business, it seemed her agent and her manager wielded more power than most people’s parents. “They told me to stay out of LA for a while. Take something in New York. That’s why I was so desperate to play Monica.”
“I thought you were desperate to play Monica because of me,” Pandy replied, feeling surprisingly hurt.
“Of course I wanted to play Monica because of you,” SondraBeth quickly countered, slinging her arm over Pandy’s shoulder. “But you already know that, Peege. Monica is about you and me. Not some stupid guy.”
This had made Pandy laugh. Because no matter how hard SondraBeth tried to ignore men, they simply could not tear their eyes away from her.
Pandy had had plenty of experience with the kind of electrical sexual attraction that women of great beauty exerted on men; a few of these great beauties were her closest friends. She had seen, all too often, how even the most accomplished and intelligent man could be easily reduced to his base animal desires when presented with a gorgeous woman—not to mention the self-serving fantasy that accompanied the prospect of sex. But even the seductive arts of a great beauty paled in comparison to what SondraBeth had. Her physical perfection was coupled with enormous charisma: she un-self-consciously managed to be wildly flirtatious while still remaining “one of the guys.” Pandy figured it must be due to some kind of survival mechanism. After all, unlike her own, the success or failure of SondraBeth’s career rested in the hands of men like PP.
“Who needs a man, anyway?” SondraBeth had nevertheless declared. “It’s not like we don’t have plenty of fun without them.”
This, Pandy did agree with. They did have plenty of fun. Too much fun in the eyes of some, as she would soon discover.
“Hey, hey, hey.” It was a Thursday afternoon in late July, hot as hell. Coming through the phone line, SondraBeth’s husky voice sent prickles of electricity down Pandy’s spine. “Whatcha doin’, sista?”
“I’m bored as hell, sista,” Pandy replied with giggle.
“Let’s get out of Dodge.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How?” Pandy asked. “You wrangle some poor man’s limo?”
“Betta, Peege.” They’d spent enough time together to develop their own silly secret lingo. “I got wheels.”
“Pick me up.”
“You got it, baby.”
Half an hour later, there was a terrific honking on the street outside Pandy’s building. She leaned out the window to see SondraBeth getting out of a small, shiny black car, waving like a game show contestant.
Pandy grabbed her overnight bag and ran downstairs.
“What the hell?” she asked breathlessly, staring in awe at the brand-new car. It was only a Volkswagen Jetta, but to Pandy, who’d never owned a car, it might as well have been a Bentley.
“How’d you get it?”
SondraBeth tapped the palm of one hand with the back of the other. “Cold hard cash. I went to the dealership on Fifty-Seventh Street and bought this baby right off the floor. Thanks to you, baby.” She pointed at Pandy. “I just got my first check.”
“Nice.”
“Get in.” SondraBeth opened the passenger door for Pandy. “Inhale that new car smell.” SondraBeth got behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors.
“Where are we headed?” Pandy asked.
“I’m sick of the Hamptons. Too many goddamned journalists, even on the beach. How about Martha’s Vineyard?”
“The Vineyard?” Pandy shrieked. “But it’s a five-hour drive to the ferry.”
“So?”
“Five hours in a car?”
“That’s nothing. Back in Montana, you have to drive five hours to get to a supermarket.” SondraBeth expertly steered the car into a tiny opening between a bus and a van. “Besides, it might be a good idea if we’re not seen together in public for a couple of days.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” Pandy chortled.
“Hardly.” SondraBeth reached into the backseat and dropped the New York Post onto Pandy’s lap. In the top corner was a blurry color photograph of Pandy, mouth wide open as she screamed into a mike. PANDABETH STRIKES AGAIN, read the caption.
“So?” Pandy said, pleased she’d made the cover.
“So read the story,” SondraBeth said ominously. “PP certainly did.”
“PP?” Pandy asked, aghast, as she quickly flipped the grimy pages to Page Six.
“The devilish duo known as PandaBeth caused Panda-monium at Joules on Tuesday night when they took to the stage to belt out their own rendition of ‘I Kissed a Girl,’” Pandy read aloud. She scanned the rest of the story, emitted a short, unimpressed laugh, and tossed the paper onto the backseat. “That’s nothing.”
“Of course it’s nothing. But…” SondraBeth frowned.
“What?” Pandy demanded.
SondraBeth shrugged. “It’s just that I got a call from my agent. According to him, PP says you’re in the papers too much. And not in a good way.”
“Me?” Pandy laughed, outraged. “What about you?”
“I’m not as famous as you are, Peege. Anyway,” she continued, honking her horn at a pedestrian trying to cross against the light, “don’t get huffy. He’s mad at me, too.”
“About what?” Pandy said, outraged.
“About my sticky fingers.”
“I see,” Pandy replied knowingly as she leaned back and crossed her arms. She was all too familiar with SondraBeth’s habit of picking up things that didn’t belong to her, with the sort of careless impunity that implied she simply didn’t know better.
“Come on, Peege,” SondraBeth whined. “You know how it is. I borrowed from the wardrobe department a couple of times. I have to. Everyone expects me to look a certain way, but no one seems to understand that I can’t actually afford to look that way. And, okay, maybe the clothes didn’t come back perfect. But it’s not my fault if I fall down every now and again. I’ve never had to walk in high heels on a goddamned sidewalk before.” She swerved sharply to avoid hitting a taxi that had suddenly stopped to disgorge a passenger.
“Fuck PP. He’s toast!” Pandy declared, slamming her hand on the dashboard for emphasis. “How dare a man who calls himself Pee-Pee tell us what to do?”
They laughed the whole way through the long, long drive up the coast, stopping for fried clams and Bloody Marys, screaming profanities out the windows at other drivers—“Asshat!” “Asswipe!”—and even talking their way out of a speeding ticket.
They were drunk by the time they got on the ferry, and drunker and high when they got off. In the middle of the ferry ride, SondraBeth had pulled Pandy into the stinking stall in the ladies’ room. SondraBeth shoved her hand down her bra and pulled out a small envelope of cocaine. “Stole it from Joules himself the other night,” she said, handing Pandy the package and a set of keys. “It’s melting…it’s melting… ,” she opined, like the Wicked Witch of the West.