Or worse, she thought, recalling SondraBeth’s old boyfriend, like heroin.
Then all of a sudden the ten days were gone, and Doug was scheduled to fly to Yugoslavia, where he would be shooting an action-adventure film. When he finally checked his schedule, he realized that he was already a day late.
There wasn’t much that could be done about that, so Doug figured if he was going to be one day late, he might as well make it two or three.
This theory didn’t technically make sense, but because Pandy wanted Doug to stay another night, she extolled the wisdom of his thinking.
With Doug’s departure looming, they decided they should try to see SondraBeth Schnowzer before he left town.
Since the success of the first Monica movie, SondraBeth had become less and less available. There were times when she had to take a seven a.m. flight to LA, do a round of talk shows, and then take the red-eye back to New York, where she was driven straight to the set for another ten hours of shooting.
Due to her hectic schedule, SondraBeth hadn’t been able to meet up with Pandy and Doug. But according to the location information that Pandy was sent every day, SondraBeth was back in the city and shooting Monica.
They decided to surprise her on the set.
The company was in Central Park, next to the sailboat pond. Half a dozen trailers were parked on a side street; inside the park were more trailers, the ubiquitous thick cables anchored to the ground with blue tape. A few dozen Monica fans were lurking, seeking autographs, some with their signature pink plastic champagne glasses strapped to their heads in honor of Monica.
Doug took her hand and squeezed it. “Just think, babe, all this is because of you. Because of something you wrote.” Pandy squeezed his hand back. One of the things she’d learned about Doug was that he was in awe of her ability to write; he was genuinely impressed by a person who could conjure up stories from out of nowhere. It was nice to be with a man who at least had a passing familiarity with what she did.
She brushed off the compliment. “It takes a lot of people, really. I could never do what they do.”
“They wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” he insisted.
They discovered SondraBeth in “video village,” located under a large black awning shielding a nest of directors’ chairs and television monitors. She was seated in the least accessible chair at the end of the third row, staring perplexedly at a small pamphlet of “sides”—her scenes and dialogue for the day. Pandy squeezed past assorted producers and crew to get to her. “Hi!” she exclaimed.
“Ohmigod. Hi!” SondraBeth squealed. As soon as she saw Pandy, her demeanor changed; she became animated and gabby. Pandy jokingly called her “Talky Monica,” thanks to her propensity to talk, talk, talk, going on and on about anything that was new and hot, like she was at a never-ending cocktail party. Pandy suspected she was modeling her behavior on Pandy herself, who was known about town as a real gadfly.
“Oh, Peege, I miss you,” SondraBeth said, pulling her close for an embrace. Then, catching Doug’s eye over the top of Pandy’s head, she flung open her arms, and in a moment of Monica silliness, rushed Doug and jumped into his arms.
“Doug!” she screamed.
“Hey there.” Doug laughed.
“Ohmigod. You guys look so cute together,” SondraBeth said, bouncing out of his arms and smiling at the two of them. “I hope Peege is taking good care of you.”
“Peege?” Doug cocked his head in confusion.
“Never mind,” SondraBeth went on gaily. She slung her arm around Pandy’s shoulder. “Peege rules this town. We both do. What do we say when things get bad?” She looked to Pandy. In unison, they pumped their arms and shouted, “PandaBeth!” Followed by the requisite bout of raucous laughter.
The script girl looked over, glared, and shushed them.
“Oops.” SondraBeth put her finger to her lips. Lowering her voice, she said, “We’ve been so bad, the head of the studio, Peter Pepper, actually called me and told me to tone it down.”
Doug crossed his arms and nodded. “That’s impressive.”
“Monica?” A woman holding powder and a makeup brush was suddenly in SondraBeth’s face. “We’re shooting in five.”
SondraBeth obediently lifted her head to allow the woman to powder her face; when the woman held up a lipstick, she stretched open her mouth. And then, like the animals she’d grown up with, she was led away.
Pandy and Doug settled into two directors’ chairs and leaned forward to watch SondraBeth on the monitor.
The director shouted, “Action,” and then, after several seconds in which SondraBeth didn’t appear, shouted, “Cut.”
SondraBeth came storming back to video village, looked at Pandy and Doug snuggling next to each other, and with a grim expression, reached over to her chair and grabbed her sides.
“What’s wrong?” Pandy asked, jumping up from her seat.
“It’s this stupid line.” SondraBeth thrust the pamphlet at Pandy and pointed to the offending sentence. “It just isn’t something Monica would say. Would you ever say that?”
The line was funny, and was indeed the kind of thing Pandy might have said. But it was SondraBeth who had to speak the line, so she agreed. “You’re right. It does sound awkward.”
SondraBeth frowned. “And out of character.”
“What are you going to do?” Pandy asked, as if the question were of dire importance.
“What can I do?” SondraBeth sighed dramatically, expressing a depth of sorrow that seemed better suited to the death of a child than a silly line in a movie comedy. “The director hates me,” she hissed.
“No one could hate you,” Pandy insisted, but SondraBeth shook her head. In a loud whisper, she informed Pandy that she’d worked with this director before and had had a “bad” experience; Pandy didn’t press her for the particulars. “He refuses to listen to me,” she added woefully. “But maybe you could talk to him?”
“Me?” Pandy said. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Of course you do. You’re a writer; knowing what to say is your job. And you’re the author. He has to listen to you.”
Pandy knew this wasn’t true. As soon as the actual production had begun on the first Monica movie, the producers had made it clear they were no longer interested in Pandy’s opinions. Pandy had greeted this fact with relief—there were too many personalities and nasty little high school–type conflicts on the set to make being involved appealing. But SondraBeth was staring at her with those sorrowful green eyes, and once again, Pandy found herself wanting to shield her from anything even mildly uncomfortable. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said fiercely.
She found the director talking about lighting with the first AD. It felt like a reasonable moment to bring up SondraBeth’s concerns, but the director merely laughed.
“She sent you to do her bidding?”
“Of course not,” Pandy said, as if the possibility were unthinkable.
The director wasn’t buying it. “The line isn’t going to change, and she knows it.” He looked at Pandy kindly and smiled. “You haven’t had much experience with actors, have you?”
“I’ve had my share.”
“Then you know they’re like six-year-olds,” the director proclaimed matter-of-factly. “They always want to change their lines, and you have to tell them no. Give in, and before you know it, they want to change every line. And then the whole day is ruined.
“And, Pandy?” the director added. “Don’t let her manipulate you. The moment she thinks she has the upper hand, she’ll lose all respect for you.”
Pandy gave him a curt nod and turned away, angered again on SondraBeth’s behalf. SondraBeth wasn’t a child, and neither was she.
She returned to find SondraBeth and Doug Stone in a surprisingly intimate tête-à-tête. Like a curtain, SondraBeth’s hair had fallen across the side of her face, separating her and Doug from the rest of the crowd. Doug was nodding, as if SondraBeth had just imparted
a fascinating piece of information. Pandy paused, trying to assess the significance of their conversation. And then came a jealous, irrational thought: SondraBeth is trying to steal Doug!
In the next second, they broke apart and SondraBeth beckoned to Pandy eagerly. “What did he say?”
Pandy made a disgusted face. “The director? You were right. He is an asshole. He said all actors were like six-year-olds.”
SondraBeth blanched. Her demeanor suddenly changed and she became frosty. “Why did you even tell me that?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think—” Pandy broke off as Doug stepped in.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean it,” he said. He and SondraBeth locked eyes and held each other’s stare for several seconds; long enough for Pandy to wonder if they were engaging in some kind of Star Trek mind meld.
Pandy suddenly felt like she no longer existed.
SondraBeth blinked and once again, her mood inexplicably shifted. “Of course you didn’t mean it, Peege,” she said, her voice full of understanding. “How could you? I mean, how could you possibly know what it’s like to be an actor?”
“She can’t,” Doug said fondly, reaching for Pandy’s hand. “That’s what’s so great about her.”
Pandy glanced up at Doug gratefully while SondraBeth looked on, a strange half smile frozen on her face.
“SondraBeth? They’re ready for you.” A PA appeared to lead SondraBeth away again.
“I love you. I’ll call you,” SondraBeth mouthed, raising her outstretched thumb to her ear.
Pandy blew a goodbye kiss, then fell back against Doug. “I didn’t mean to make her upset. I swear.”
“Forget about it,” Doug said. “She’s an actress. All actresses are unpredictable.”
They were interrupted by one of the producers, who came over to say hello.
“You must be so thrilled about Monica. And the mayor,” she gushed to Pandy.
Pandy shook her head and laughed, having no idea what the woman was talking about.
“The party the mayor’s throwing in honor of Monica?”
Pandy’s smile stiffened. “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “That party.”
“What are you going to wear?”
Pandy’s head was spinning. There was a party for Monica? Given by the mayor? And she hadn’t been invited?
“Chanel is going to dress SondraBeth for the party. They should dress you, too,” the woman continued blithely. “After all, you’re the original Monica, right?”
Pandy’s smile grew larger as she dipped her head in acquiescence.
“What the fuck?” she hissed to Doug as the woman walked off. “Let’s go,” she snapped.
“I don’t get it,” Doug drawled, dawdling behind her as she marched furiously ahead to the street. She looked back over her shoulder and sighed in annoyance. Reaching for her cell phone, she called Henry.
“Hello,” Henry said brightly.
“Do you know anything about a party the mayor is throwing for Monica?”
Henry paused. “Actually, I don’t,” he said, sounding distracted.
“Well, apparently he is. And I haven’t been invited!” Pandy’s voice rose to a shriek.
“Why not?” Henry asked.
“You tell me,” Pandy stormed. “Christ, Henry. This is the kind of thing you’re supposed to know about.”
“I thought parties were your department.”
Pandy held her cell phone away from her ear; she was so enraged, she considered throwing the phone down and stomping on it. She took a deep breath. “Can you find out about it? Please? And call me back?”
“Hey,” Doug said, catching up with her. “What’s happening?”
“Nothing.” Pandy turned on him, still angry. She willed herself to calm down. “I’m sorry. It has nothing to do with you. It’s just that the mayor is throwing a party for Monica, and I haven’t been invited.”
“So?” Doug laughed.
His lack of understanding only fueled her anger.
“Forget about it,” she snapped, wondering how this party was happening without her, and what it might possibly imply. “It’s just that I created Monica. It’s like you said; without me, there would be no Monica. But everyone seems to have conveniently forgotten this fact.”
“How do you know they’ve forgotten?” Doug asked.
Pandy stopped and gaped at him. She inhaled sharply as the realization hit her. “They’re trying to cut me out.”
Doug raised his eyebrows. “You really think so?”
Pandy pounded her fist into her palm. “Of course they are. Because they think they don’t need me anymore. They have SondraBeth Schnowzer. And she’s the perfect Monica,” she said sharply.
“Aw, come on,” Doug said. “I’m sure it’s not what you think.”
“If it isn’t, then why didn’t SondraBeth tell me about it? A party with the mayor? It’s not the kind of thing you forget about. And she tells me everything.”
“I doubt that,” Doug interjected.
“What do you mean?”
Doug shrugged. “She’s an actress. I’m sure she doesn’t tell anyone everything.”
Pandy’s eyes narrowed. “What were you talking about while I was off fighting with the director?”
Doug shrugged. “We were talking about Monica. And how much she loves playing her.”
“Of course she does,” Pandy hissed. She veered away and went to stand in front of a display of handbags in a designer shop window.
“Oh, I get it,” Doug said, coming up behind her. “You’re jealous.”
Pandy grimaced and shook her head.
“You think she’s taking away attention that belongs to you.”
Pandy’s phone rang: Henry. She hit ACCEPT and strode around the corner to take his call.
“Well?” she demanded.
“The party is for the film industry,” Henry informed her.
“So?”
“It’s for the film industry only. Some kind of celebration about Monica bringing the film industry to New York.”
“But Monica didn’t bring the film industry to New York,” Pandy wailed in frustration. “And if it weren’t for me—”
“Pigs would fly,” Henry cut her off. “You need to stop behaving like this. It isn’t attractive.”
Pandy hung up. She saw Doug standing on the corner, watching her, his eyes going back and forth as if he was trying to make a decision.
She dropped her phone into her bag and strolled over. She sighed. “Henry says it’s an industry party. For the film business.”
Doug nodded.
“Well?” Pandy said.
“It’s a fucky business, okay? A big fat fucky business. Where people get burned. Where people steal ideas and credit. Where they don’t even pay you if they can get away with it.”
“Okay. I get it,” Pandy said miserably.
“Actually, I don’t think you do.” Doug looked bummed, as if Pandy had disappointed him. “This is the reason why I don’t want to be with an actress. I don’t want to deal with this shit day in and day out. You’re a writer. I thought you were different.”
Stunned, Pandy took a step back. Her chest felt swollen and achingly heavy, as if her heart were drowning in sorrow.
“I’m sorry, Doug. Please,” she said plaintively. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She must have looked truly distressed, because Doug suddenly softened. “It’s okay,” he said, holding out his arms and pulling her close for a hug. “Let’s forget about it, okay? I’m leaving soon anyway.”
“Shhhh.” Pandy put her finger to his lips.
Doug slung his arm over her shoulder. They strolled slowly down Fifth Avenue, shuffling their feet like the saddest old couple in the world.
They reached Rockefeller Center, where they stopped to watch the skaters.
“Want to go skating?” Doug asked.
“Sure,” Pandy said with false enthusiasm.
She stared down at the awkward forms bel
ow. With a small sigh, she thought of how different they were from the perfect cast-iron figurines her family had placed under the Christmas tree when she was a kid. The skaters had been part of a traditional Christmas scene that included miniature houses and a church clustered around a reflective piece of old glass that formed a skating pond. She remembered how she and Hellenor had been fascinated by the “pond.” The glass was more than a hundred years old and contained mercury, which their mother claimed could poison them if the mirror broke. Every year, she and Hellenor would hold their breath as their mother carefully unwrapped the ancient glass and gently placed it on its bed of white cotton batting under the tree.
Then they would all breathe a sigh of relief.
Hellenor said that if the mirror broke, they would have to use a speck of mercury to chase down the loose droplets. Mercury was magnetic; if they could herd the specks, they would miraculously join together, and then technically the mirror wouldn’t be broken anymore.
Unlike what had happened to her family.
Pandy shuddered. She just couldn’t lose SondraBeth, too.
* * *
Doug left for Yugoslavia the next afternoon.
He promised to call, but as he stepped up into the white van waiting for him at the curb, Pandy sensed that he was beginning to morph into someone else—Doug Stone, movie star—and had already forgotten about her.
The van pulled away. Pandy walked beside it for a moment, willing Doug to catch her eye but getting only his profile. I’m never going to see him again, she thought as the van disappeared around the corner.
She went back up to her loft. The echoing space felt gray and cindery, as if she were trapped inside a cement block.
And at last, exhausted, frustrated, and miserably alone, she began to cry.
Two days later, when she was still dragging around in a funk—feeling “wounded,” as she explained to Henry, who told her to buck up—she went out to buy the tabloids. There was a photograph of her and Doug in every one, taken by a sneaky paparazzo while they’d held hands strolling up Fifth Avenue.
They were smiling and laughing, staring into each other’s eyes, entranced.
The photos must have been taken while they were on their way to the set. Back when they were still “happy.”
Killing Monica Page 7
