Pandy handed it back. She couldn’t believe that SondraBeth had allowed her former best friend to be taken back by van while she drove her goddamned custom Porsche to Manhattan. If she and SondraBeth had remained friends, Pandy would have been traveling in the front seat with her.
But apparently SondraBeth either still didn’t know Pandy was Pandy, or had a reason to keep up the ruse.
Road trip, she thought ironically as she tapped Judy on the shoulder for the phone. Judy looked back at her, mystified, then spoke into the phone to SondraBeth. “I think Hellenor wants to speak to you. Do you mind?”
Does she mind? Pandy thought. She had better not mind, she thought as Judy handed her the phone.
“Squeege?” she demanded. “Now listen. I’m happy to see your townhouse. In fact, I’ve been dying to see it ever since it came out in Architectural Digest. But someone needs to get in touch with Henry. He’s probably at Wallis House by now—”
“Shhhh,” came a soft whisper.
“Excuse me?” Pandy said.
“Breathe with me, Hellenor.”
“I am breathing.”
“No. I mean, really breathe with me. Inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.”
“SondraBeth,” Pandy said, in a panic, “is this a yoga thing? You know how much I hate yoga. I can’t even touch my toes!”
“You sound just like your sister. I have to go now.”
“But—”
SondraBeth clicked off, and Pandy was left staring at a blank screen. She handed the phone to Judy, slid down in her seat, and crossed her arms. For a moment, she was truly speechless. How long was she going to have to play this game?
Pandy looked back out the window and glared. The SUV was now on the Henry Hudson Bridge. Down below, the water was twisting and shining like a Mardi Gras snake. Then it disappeared behind a hump of green, and they were turning a corner.
And once again, there it was: the Monica billboard.
Judy leaned across the seat and held up several strings of glittering gold, green, and purple beads.
“San Geronimo festival,” she said as she lowered the beads over Pandy’s head. “Welcome to Manhattan.”
“Thanks.” Pandy turned her head to stare at Monica until she once again disappeared.
She fingered the beads around her neck.
Monica was still missing her leg.
Twenty minutes later, the van arrived at SondraBeth’s townhouse: a white cube famously designed in the 1960s by a now-forgotten architect. Located on East Sixty-Third Street, it could be reached via a parking garage a block away, thereby allowing its resident to avoid detection by the paparazzi. It was this route that the van took, pulling into a space under the townhouse marked PRIVATE.
Judy led Pandy to an inconspicuous metal door with a code pad. The door opened into a short cement corridor. At one end was another door; across the landing was a flight of steps leading up to the first floor of the townhouse.
“The basement,” Judy said, pressing a metal card onto the lock.
The door buzzed open, revealing what appeared to be a sort of bachelor pad. The carpet was an industrial gray, as was the fabric on the large, squishy couch and two overstuffed armchairs. On the wall was a large-screen TV; neatly arranged on the shelves below were a variety of clickers and gaming consoles. Two heavy glass ashtrays were stacked next to a digital clock.
“I think you’ll be really comfortable here,” Judy said. Her headset beeped. “SondraBeth will be back in fifteen. In the meantime, Peter Pepper would like a word. He’s the head of the studio.”
“I know who he is,” Pandy snapped. “And in the meantime, I would like to use the facilities.”
Annoyed once again by this Hellenor business, Pandy stomped down the hall to where Judy had pointed. She passed through a bedroom with the requisite king-sized mattress and even larger TV and into a bathroom the size of a small spa. Good old PP, Pandy thought, looking around at the sunken Jacuzzi tub, steam room, and separate his-and-hers toilet stalls.
Now he was an interesting development, she decided, going into the “his” stall. She supposed his presence made sense. Naturally the head of the studio would need to be on-site to stage-manage any potential situations concerning Monica. On the other hand…
Pandy went to the sink and washed her hands. Patting her face with water, she shook her head.
He might be here because of the clause in her Monica contract.
It stated that in the event of the death of PJ Wallis, the rights to Monica would revert back to her sister, Hellenor. It had been Henry’s idea to insert the clause, his worry being that if Pandy happened to die young, like her parents had, there would be no preventing someone from someday being able to do whatever they wanted with Monica—including using her to sell soap.
She and Henry had dubbed it “the Golden Ticket.” But in any case, it didn’t matter. Because she wasn’t dead. And she certainly wasn’t Hellenor.
“Hellenor?” Judy asked, knocking on the bathroom door. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” Pandy said, glaring at her still-unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.
Now all she had to do was convince everyone else.
PP was waiting for her upstairs, seated on a stool in front of a long island in the center of an open-plan kitchen.
“Hellenor,” he said, springing to his feet. He clapped her right hand in both of his and squeezed. Hard.
“Ow,” Pandy said.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ll take a glass of champagne,” she said sarcastically, taking the stool next to him.
“That sounds good. Chookie?” PP called out. A guy wearing a white chef’s uniform came through a swinging door. “Would you mind getting Ms. Wallis and me a glass of that nice pink champagne SondraBeth always has lying around? And something to eat, perhaps.”
Chookie nodded and vanished into the kitchen, but not before surreptitiously giving Pandy a horrified look, reminding her that she was still dressed in Hellenor’s clothes.
It didn’t matter. PP, she was sure, would soon understand that she was Pandy.
Glaring at Chookie’s retreating back, she turned to PP. He, too, was looking at her curiously, beaming with the sort of forced grin people slapped on their faces when they didn’t know what to think. “Tell me about you, Hellenor,” he said. “I’m told you live in Amsterdam?”
Pandy smiled sardonically. Apparently PP had been briefed about Hellenor. “You know I do. So why are you asking?”
“Excuse me?” PP said.
“I suppose you’re going to ask next if I wear wooden shoes.”
“Actually, I was going to ask if you spoke Dutch. But then I remembered that most Dutch people speak English.”
Pandy rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure exactly what PP was up to, but he seemed to really think she was Hellenor. She needed to straighten him out on that one right away.
“Now, listen—”
PP held up his hand. “Of course, we can talk about Pandy. If you’d like.”
“Well, I—”
“Your sister was funny. And…pretty.” PP cleared his throat. “In any case, that was her problem. You can’t be funny and pretty in Hollywood. Because if you’re going to be funny, you have to be willing to risk looking stupid. Or even ugly. But then, you’re no longer pretty. Get what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I most certainly do.” Pandy crossed her arms as Chookie came back through the swinging door bearing the champagne, placed a glass in front of each of them, and disappeared again.