“Are you really seeing that guy?” a male voice demanded. Pandy felt a rush of heat.
“Who is this?” she asked sharply, despite knowing it was Jonny.
“Who do you think it is?”
Pandy hesitated as she tried to come up with a clever riposte.
“Well?” Jonny insisted.
“Of course I’m not dating him.” Pandy leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She yawned. “On the other hand, maybe I am dating him.”
“Then stop. Unless you want to be labeled a cheater.”
Pandy dropped her feet to the floor with a thump. “Excuse me?”
“I’m inviting you to the preview of my new restaurant.”
“Is that so?” Pandy was glad Jonny wasn’t there to see her. She could feel herself flushing. “How did you get my number?” she asked, stalling her answer.
“Come on, Wallis. Can’t you give me more credit than that? Thursday. Eight o’clock. The name of the restaurant is—”
“Let me guess,” Pandy said, cutting him off. “Chou Chou.”
Jonny sniffed in surprise. “How did you know?”
“Because all your restaurants are named after French games, and Bilboquet is already taken.”
“Clever,” Jonny purred in approval. “Most of the women I date wouldn’t know to put that together.”
“That’s because most of the women you date have their mouths too stuffed with your foie gras to speak.”
Jonny broke up in laughter. “You’re right. My skills are legendary. And the best thing about it?” he added.
“What?” Pandy said.
“I’ve yet to have a dissatisfied customer.”
Pandy couldn’t help it; she laughed. And the next thing she knew, she was agreeing to go.
As she hung up the phone, she recalled all those rumors she’d heard about Jonny.
But then Henry called. He had good news.
CHAPTER TEN
IT WOULD turn out to be one of those rare weeks when the universe conspired in her favor. Two different women’s groups wanted to give her awards, and she was invited to sit at the head table at the Woman Warrior of the Year Awards. Those awards were given to five women for fierce, daring, and breakthrough work in the world of entertainment, and Pandy hoped to someday receive one herself. But most incredibly of all, Henry had gotten her publisher to agree to a million-dollar advance on the third Monica book. It was her first-ever million-dollar contract. As if in alignment with this event, American Express suddenly informed her that she was eligible for a Black Card.
You’ve finally made it, the letter said. We now invite you to join the most exclusive club in the world.
“And it’s all because of the million dollars,” Pandy exclaimed breathlessly to Henry. Henry’s call about the contract had caused her to shoot out of her apartment with the urgency of someone running from a fire, although it didn’t prevent her from pausing to carefully consider what she should wear. She pictured this “million-dollar moment” as very Breakfast at Tiffany’s, meaning it required some type of headgear. Rifling through her closet, she found an old hatbox with a black straw Philip Treacy boater.
She’d had to take the hat off during the twenty-block speed-walk to Henry’s office—straw hats were simply not practical anymore, under any conditions—but she put it back on the moment she walked into the building.
Henry now glanced curiously at the hat.
“A million dollars!” Pandy exclaimed again. “I know a million isn’t what it used to be, but still. This is big,” she said, pacing in front of Henry’s desk. The pacing was slow and measured, due to the necessity of balancing the hat on her head.
“Remember, you don’t get it all at once. It’s broken up into four payments. Over at least two years,” Henry admonished her.
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say: ‘When it comes to money, prudence is a virtue.’ To which I will counter with a quote from Blake: ‘Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.’ Which might be a more apt description of myself than I would like to admit,” Pandy said. “But either way, it’s a hell of a lot better than a kick in the teeth. And God knows, we’ve had enough of those.”
“It hasn’t been quite that bad,” Henry demurred.
“I can only imagine what Father would have said: ‘A million dollars. That’s one thousand thousands.’”
“‘Or one million ones,’” Henry added, finishing the thought for her. “Nevertheless,” he continued, “the income is two hundred and fifty thousand a year. After taxes, that’s a hundred and twenty thousand. Giving you an extra ten thousand a month.”
“A fortune!” Pandy crowed.
“Don’t go buying a private plane, okay?” Henry said with his usual sarcasm.
His phone rang. “Yes?” he said. He smiled wickedly. “Hold on, I’ll find out.”
“Well?” Pandy asked expectantly.
“A young lady from the press. She wants to interview you.”
“About the million dollars?” Pandy gasped.
“About your upcoming fortieth birthday.”
“But that’s not for four months!”
“Shall I tell her to call back in four months, then? When you’re crying into your champagne?” Henry asked teasingly.
“Nah. I’ll take it,” Pandy replied. “I just made a million bucks. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of—and certainly not age.” She took the receiver from Henry. “Hello?”
“Oh, yes. Hi,” she said broadly, tossing her hat onto Henry’s Le Corbusier chaise. She fluffed her hair. “Yes, it certainly is a milestone. I don’t mind talking about it at all, but it’s not for four months.” Pandy winked at Henry and motioned for him to pass her a pen. Snatching a piece of paper from one of his manuscripts, she wrote: Milestone. One syllable away from both gravestone and millstone—significance? She passed the missive to Henry, who smiled.
Pandy nodded her head. “Well, sure. I understand. Your boss wants it now. God knows, I’ve been in that position myself. How can I help you?”
She smiled at Henry. “Well, you’re right. I have never been married, and I do not have children. And I’m about to hit forty. Do I regret not having children? Certainly not.” She looked at Henry, who gave her a sharp frown and a quick shake of his head.
Pandy changed her tone. “I mean, of course children are wonderful. Who wouldn’t love having an adorable mini version of oneself under one’s feet all the time? But I really believe that if children are meant to be, they will be. I’ve accepted that having children may not be part of my fate. On the other hand, I’m not quite ready for the glue factory yet.” Clutching the phone to her ear, she made a foot-clomping motion in front of Henry.
“Of course, it reminds me of how lucky I am to have my career. Because I think of my career as a relationship I have with myself.”
She paused, glanced over at Henry, who was nodding, and suddenly remembered the million dollars. “In fact, I’ve just signed an enormous contract for my new Monica book.”
Pandy held the phone away from her ear so Henry, too, could hear the young woman’s squeal of joy. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so excited that Monica is going to have all kinds of new adventures. Excuse me?” Pandy hesitated and then laughed naughtily. “I’m afraid my agent would kill me,” she said with a glance back at Henry, who was indeed looking displeased. “In fact, I know he would kill me if I ever revealed the amount of the advance. But let me just put it this way: It’s more than six inches.” She dropped her voice on the last word, hoping the journalist would understand that “inches” was a euphemism for “figures.”