Killing Monica

by Candace Bushnell

  And once again, Pandy was all by herself. Staring out into the hot, salty lights.

  As if in encouragement for what she was preparing to say, the leg jerked, and Jonny bounced and swung, holding on to the straps. The crowd laughed again as Pandy looked at Jonny and thought:

  There’s your happy ending.

  “Hey!” Jonny shouted, waving.

  “Boooo!” the crowd shouted back. Pandy looked at Jonny, dangling like the fool in the failed deus ex machina, and realized that once again, Henry was right. This was all about Jonny.

  And then the strangest thing happened. She looked again at Jonny and felt absolutely nothing. Like she’d never even known him. Like they’d never been married. Like he simply didn’t belong. Not in her life, anyway.

  And then, like water rushing in to fill an empty space, she felt sorry for him.

  She looked at SondraBeth, smiling out at the crowd, dressed in her cowgirl spangles, and felt sorry for her, too. And then, gazing across the rooftops, she caught sight of herself on-screen, and felt most of all sorry for herself.

  She walked to the end of the platform and leaned over the edge, toward Jonny, the height causing her stomach to clench in terror. “The truth is, I did disguise myself as Hellenor. And I did try to kill Monica. And I did do it for revenge. On that man.”

  A large burst of applause. Pandy nodded in acknowledgment. “I was weak, and I fell in love. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did. Because even though I knew better, some part of me felt that I deserved that happy ending.” She pointed to Jonny. “And for a short time, I thought I had found it. Until I realized that that man could never give it to me.”

  “Boooo,” the crowd said, throwing pink plastic champagne glasses at Jonny. The leg jerked higher, and Jonny grabbed at the straps.

  “And when that man didn’t give me my happy ending, I thought the right answer was revenge.”

  An intake of breath, like the dry rustling of leaves as the crowd considered this information.

  Pandy continued, strolling to the other side of the platform, grateful to be away from the sight of Jonny. “And while revenge might seem like the right answer, at some point during the past forty-eight hours—in which I’ve been involved in an explosion, suffered a case of mistaken identity, and accepted an award for being dead—somewhere along that journey, I realized that revenge against a man because he didn’t give me my happy ending wasn’t the answer. Because a happy ending with a man is never going to be my happy ending. Nor is it going to be Monica’s happy ending. But that’s okay, because every woman’s happy ending doesn’t have to be the same. And it doesn’t have to involve a man.”

  Heart pumping in her chest, Pandy looked across the stage at SondraBeth. SondraBeth caught her glance and threw it back to her with that old PandaBeth smile.

  “Because there are some things that matter more than a man,” Pandy said, gaining momentum as she walked across what felt like miles and miles of stage to reach SondraBeth’s side. “And those things are friendship—and being true to yourself.”

  Gazing out past the shimmering screens and into the bright lights of the city, she saw herself as an eager young woman taking it all in, her heart and soul aching to belong, believing she could conquer all obstacles. It had been a long struggle, but she had painted the town every color of the rainbow.

  And then she knew what she had to do.

  Pandy looked up at the giant image of Monica and smiled ruefully.

  “And so, as much as we both love Monica, we’ve allowed ourselves to be Monica for too long,” she continued. “Maybe it was because we wanted too much. Or maybe it was because we were scared. Or maybe it was because we fell in love with the wrong men.”

  Pandy shook her head at Jonny, who was still dangling from his straps as a fireman on a ladder tried to grab his ankle.

  “But none of those reasons matter,” she said, slinging her arm around SondraBeth’s shoulder. “Because the truth is that this woman—SondraBeth Schnowzer, whom most of you know only as Monica—doesn’t want to play Monica anymore. And I don’t want her to, either.”

  The crowd, at last, went silent.

  Into the silence came a lone voice. Perhaps it was the voice of a Hellenor, or even of a SondraBeth or perhaps of a Pandy herself—the voice of any woman who was sure she didn’t belong and was sick of trying: “Kill Monica. Please.”

  And then, like the fresh breeze that presages the arrival of better weather, a tinkle of laughter came from the audience. It grew and grew until it was rushing like the gathering waters of spring, racing downriver from the mountains to the sea. The noise of laughter commingled with those cheery notes from the Monica theme song, and SondraBeth and Pandy began singing along. And for one last moment, it was all a blur…

  Until reality came flooding back in. Specifically in the form of wincing foot pain. Pandy’s feet felt like those of a young girl after a long, exhausting day spent pounding the pavement. Back then, her feet had been able to go on forever. With a sigh of relief, she realized that unlike the young woman she’d once been, it was okay to leave the party before the blisters set in.

  She turned to Judy.

  “Are you ready?” Judy asked, glancing quickly over her shoulder to where SondraBeth was still onstage, and probably would be for quite a bit longer. “Do you mind going down alone?” she asked, motioning for the stage manager to help Pandy onto the elevator.

  “No,” Pandy said. “I don’t mind.”

  She stepped onto the platform and, pressing the red button, went back down to earth.

  Where PP was waiting. “Goddammit, PJ Wallis. I should have known this so-called ‘Hellenor’ was you. Now let me tell you something. If you think you and SondraBeth are going to get away with this little stunt, you’re wrong. You have absolutely no authority to kill a creation that no longer legally belongs to you. The studio already has a pack of lawyers lined up to deal with the two of you…”

  Pandy held up her hand. “You know what, PP?” she asked. She paused to think of what she really wanted to say. And just like the Senator squeezing those imaginary balls, she realized the message was simple but effective:

  “Fuck you!” she said with an exuberant shout.

  And feeling quite pleased with herself, despite knowing that her career in the movies was probably over, she exited the building through the same door she’d entered. Where she ran right into Henry on the sidewalk.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?” he asked, looking her up and down appraisingly.

  Pandy glared at him. “I thought I was dead to you.”

  “I said if you went through with it, you would be dead to me.”

  “You know what?” Pandy said. “I’m too tired for this. You should be grateful to me. I may not be Lady Wallis, but at least I managed to keep your secret.”

  “And I managed to keep yours as well.” Henry reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded letter. “While you were busy prancing around Manhattan like a moldy Monica, I was busy making us money. From your new character.”

  “Lady Wallis?” Pandy gasped.

  “This, my dear, is a commitment letter from your publisher to publish Lady Wallis, whether or not you yourself are alive.”

  “Oh, Henry!” Pandy flung open her arms and hugged his narrow shoulders. “I knew you could sell Lady Wallis if you just tried!”

  Henry sighed. “I suppose I have as much invested in her as you do.”

  “Yes, you do. And you’re an angel,” Pandy declared. She started to head up West Broadway.

  “And where,” Henry demanded, starting after her, “do you think you’re going?”

  “To the Pool Club, to see Suzette and the others,” Pandy said innocently over her shoulder. “Now that I’m Pandy again, I’ve got a whole lot of explaining to do.”

  “I would like to remind you that now that you’ve sold your Lady Wallis novel, they’re going to want another one. Immediately. Which means it’s a school night.”

&n
bsp; Pandy stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Now listen, Henry. I told you, I’ve had enough. I’ve been rejected, blown up, blown off, and most of all, I’ve had to pretend to be you. And as much as I love you and as far as I’m willing to go to keep your secret, I want a night off.”

  Henry paused. Then he shook his head and laughed. “That old secret? The next thing I know, you’ll be claiming that I’m the reason you did all this.”

  “You are one of the reasons”—Pandy paused for effect—“Hellenor.”

  Henry sighed. “Hellenor was such a long time ago.”

  Pandy rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that long ago. Okay, maybe you’re right. It was twenty-five years ago when Hellenor went to Amsterdam—”

  “From whence I emerged,” Henry said proudly. “You have to admit it is silly,” he added, taking her arm. “You pretending to be me. And then trying to kill Monica. It’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done.”

  Pandy laughed, looking over her shoulder at the Monica billboard. Jonny had been removed, and Monica at last had her leg.

  “In any case, I’m not looking for my happy ending anymore. In fact, I think I’d like to avoid endings of any kind for a while.” Pandy reached the corner and sniffed. Smelling the sweet childhood perfume of cotton candy, she exclaimed, “It’s the San Geronimo festival.”

  “Don’t tell me you just noticed. Oh no,” Henry said, balking at the corner like a mule.

  “Why not?” Pandy insisted. “I want to go. And remember, you still owe me.”

  Henry sighed. “I suppose I could accompany you. As long as I’m not dragged to that dreadful watering hole known as the Pool Club.” He shuddered. “Compared to that, I suppose having my craw stuffed with cotton candy is preferable to being forced to listen to the caw of those crows you call your friends.”

  “At least you didn’t say ‘crones.’ Come on, Henry.” Pandy laughed. And possessed of that spirit in which one could take as many acts as necessary to complete a full life, she grabbed her former sister’s arm, and together they went into the glittering neon lights.

  Acknowledgments

  There were many people who helped me along the crazy creative journey of writing Killing Monica. Thanks to everyone who sat tight and waited patiently as my imagination ran wild…

  Thanks to the brilliant Heather Schroder of Compass Talent, my tried-and-true agent and partner in literary crimes, who trusts her guts and instincts and always believes. This book would not be possible without you.

  Thanks to Deb Futter for her sure-handed guidance and for knowing what, where, when, and most of all, how to get there.

  Thanks to Leslie Wells, whose deep wisdom and grace helped us steer this boat back up the river and safely into the harbor.

  Thanks to Jeanine Pepler of AKA LIFE, whose bright spark of positivity and unwavering belief in any possibility is forever inspiring.

  And to Jeanine’s team at AKA: Laura Nicolassy, Brooke Shuhy, Marina Maib, Allison Meyer, and Chloe Mills.

  Thanks to Matthew Ballast, our very own “Henry,” along with the other terrific folks at Hachette: Brian McLendon, Elizabeth Kulhanek, Anne Twomey, and Andrew Duncan.

  Thanks to Richard Beswick in London and Ron Bernstein in LA.

  A huge thanks to Dawn Rosiello, who makes order out of chaos.

  And a special thanks to my intern, Jennifer Foulon, who put up with all the zaniness and bought her first pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

  About the Author

  CANDACE BUSHNELL is the critically acclaimed, international bestselling novelist whose first book, Sex and the City, was the basis for the HBO hit series and subsequent blockbuster movie. She is the author of seven novels, including Trading Up, One Fifth Avenue, Lipstick Jungle, and The Carrie Diaries—with the latter two made into popular TV series of the same names. Through her books and television series, Bushnell has influenced and defined two generations of women. She is the winner of the 2006 Matrix Award for books (other winners include Joan Didion and Amy Tan) and a recipient of the Albert Einstein Spirit of Achievement Award. Bushnell grew up in Connecticut, and attended Rice University and New York University. She currently resides in Manhattan and Connecticut. For more information, you can visit CandaceBushnell.com or follow her on social media:

  Facebook.com/CandaceBushnell

  Twitter/Instagram: @CandaceBushnell

  Pinterest.com/CandaceBushnell

  Reading Group Guide

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  Killing Monica

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  Candace Bushnell

  A Conversation with Candace Bushnell

  WARNING: Contains spoilers

  KILLING MONICA is really a ride: You take us forward in time, then back, then forward, and then you literally push your main character into a sort of alternate reality. Did you set out to construct the book that way or did it evolve over time? What made you decide to have the main character fake her own death?

  Usually when I begin a book, I have a fairly good idea of who the characters are, what happens, where the action takes place, and how the book ends. When I started KILLING MONICA, my circumstances were slightly different. My agent said, “Try writing twenty pages of one of the worst days you can imagine,” and so I did. It was about a woman who finds out her ex-husband is about to marry her best friend, then she goes to the bank and is told she can’t get a mortgage so she will have to sell her apartment, and then her dog dies of a heart attack in front of the deli on the corner. So basically she is forced to leave New York and move to the country where she will reinvent herself.

  I assumed the book would be some version of “woman leaves the big city for a simpler life, finds a new way to live, rediscovers herself, and ends up with some hot-ish yet age-appropriate-ish man.”

  And through this story, she would confront the terrible fears that grip so many women in middle age when we find ourselves having to reinvent ourselves.

  Which sounded slightly grim. On the other hand, I wondered what would happen if the story were super comedic instead, almost to the point of absurdity?

  And so, in the first few drafts, Pandy’s “country adventures” commenced when she accidently drank a concoction of jimson weed and went on a semi-psychedelic trip in which she believed she was seventeen. Hellenor spoke to Pandy through a crystal ball right after Pandy discovered a dead body in the back of her car. I went through a bunch of crazy, what-if ideas before I landed on the one of Pandy accidentally faking her own death.

  You have so much interesting imagery—particularly the moment when the serpent comes out of SondraBeth’s head. Have you noticed that quite a bit of it is pink? The pink cupcake, the pink cotton candy, the pink champagne, the pink ring—and, of course, the book’s very pink cover.

  Ah yes, the dilemma of pink! It has so many negative connotations. Now it feels like an ironic color. It sort of has an attitude: “Don’t judge me just because I’m pink!” I have a weakness for pink, especially fuchsia.

  While I was writing the book, I started listening to a lot of pop music again and I also discovered Instagram. As a novelist, I find that I rarely analyze photographs or images, but because of Instagram, I’ve started paying a lot more attention to images and wanting to bring that into my writing.

  And vice versa: Now I have this crazy idea about making a KILLING MONICA music video.

  In it, everyone will be singing “Kill Monica, Please,” while a cloud in the shape of a giant pink cupcake floats over Manhattan.

  Besides the color pink on the cover of your books, your name is also often associated with fashion.

  Fashion is one of those things that I can momentarily become obsessed by—not necessarily in a shopping, acquiring kind of way—but from a costuming perspective. My aesthetic goes in the direction of big and showy, and I do love imagining the costumes my characters are wearing in a scene. One of my favorites in KILLING MONICA is that black reverse-bride wedding gown contraption with metal panels that snap open as she lifts her arms.

&nb
sp; Because my comic aesthetic runs toward the absurd, I also love to poke fun at fashion. That’s why we see that behind the scenes, SondraBeth can’t actually move in that dress.

  With the exception of parties and events, I would describe my day-to-day fashion style as “sporty lounge.” In other words, it’s mostly lounge-y, but if I suddenly have the urge to ride a bike, I don’t have to spend a lot of time changing. For instance, if I’m wearing slippers with rubber soles, I find they are just as useful as sneakers.

  “I was in love with every single one of those men I dated. Don’t you understand? That’s the problem. I think I’m in love with them and then all of a sudden, that ‘in love’ feeling goes away, and there’s no getting it back…I’m like Romeo. I’m in love with being in love.” Why did you change Pandy into the “male” Romeo character?

  To me it’s a wry statement about our human behavior and how we have a propensity to keep making the same mistakes over and over again even though we all know better!

  Pandy is actually decrying the fact that she’s like Romeo. She’s trying to explain why falling in love—and especially falling in love with a man like Jonny—will be “bad” for her, given the evidence of her romantic past. And yet, in an action paralleled later on in the book, when no one “believes” that Pandy is Pandy—no one “believes” that Pandy could possibly not want to fall in love and live happily ever after. I think it’s an analogy for how society shapes women, insisting that we must all want the same thing, and when we say that we don’t, people always seem surprised.

  Indeed, at the end of the chapter, Pandy muses to Henry, “Is it human nature or just female nature to keep hoping for love, beyond any evidence that such a thing is possible?”