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Knowing murmurs from the audience.
Mira continued. “We have done many studies that show us that when a woman contributes in the entertainment industry, she is not rewarded justly. Because women may do what they do and be geniuses, but it is still men at the top who make the decisions, including how much money the women will be paid. It is the men who are lining their pockets with the efforts of women. It is men who have made millions, maybe billions, from Monica.”
Close-up on SondraBeth, face as still and proud as the features on the Warrior Woman statuette.
“Wow,” SondraBeth said. “That’s a very interesting take. And here is Juanita from South America.”
“I would like us to consider what men do with that money. Here, they use money to make war.”
“Thank you, ladies,” SondraBeth said emphatically. “It takes a very brave woman to point out how the system really works. Money is to men as cheese is to mice. If you’re missing some cheese, you’ll usually discover a man’s been eating it.”
The screens were now blinking like Christmas lights: women from all over the world eager to weigh in.
“And let’s remind the audience that even though PJ Wallis is dead, it’s still a man who will continue to profit,” SondraBeth said scoldingly. She turned to Pandy.
Every eye was now on Pandy, and the attention was like a blow. And then she felt a rush. Like her soul had literally drained out of the soles of her feet and she was now merely a thin, hardened shell.
“And that is why Hellenor has something very important to announce,” she heard SondraBeth say.
Pandy tried to open her mouth and found that she couldn’t. She realized she was in the throes of a particularly bad case of stage fright, and now all she wanted to do was get off the stage. Somehow, she managed to lean into the microphone and whisper, “Due to the death of PJ Wallis and to unfortunate circumstances, there will be no more Monica.”
“In other words,” SondraBeth said, leaning into the microphone next to her, “Monica is dead.”
“We have to…” Pandy’s chest squeezed tight. She couldn’t breathe. “Kill Monica, please…” She was having a heart attack. No, she was having a panic attack.
The frenzied roar of the crowd spun away into silence as a time balloon inflated inside Pandy’s head. She saw lips moving in slow motion, a pink plastic champagne glass suspended in the air above the stage. Her own arms raised in triumph, clutching the Warrior Woman statuette in her hands. Around and around she went. Monica. Finished. Jonny. Ruined. And for one brief moment, she actually believed she had won.
And suddenly—pop. The balloon in her head exploded and the noise and reality came thundering back, engulfing her in an enormous wave of rage.
“Let Monica live!”
The pink plastic champagne glass landed on the stage. Then another. And another. One hit the back of SondraBeth’s head. She didn’t move. Her always-perfect Monica smile was now slightly lopsided, as if arranged by the hand of a mortician who couldn’t quite get the expression right.
Pandy took a step back in confusion as the roar of the crowd came racing toward her like a tsunami. “Long live Monica!”
“Let Monica live!”
Pandy looked again to SondraBeth. Her Monica smile was back in place, but her eyes had a life of their own, darting from screen to screen.
And suddenly, Pandy did understand.
The crowd was going to kill them. Tear them both limb from limb. Which meant—she was going to die twice? In one day? Was that even possible?
Another champagne glass whizzed by her head and landed on the stage behind her. SondraBeth caught Pandy’s eye.
“Run, Doug, run!” she hissed.
And they did.
Or tried to, anyway. They shuffled to the edge of the platform, where, thank God, Judy and a posse of men were waiting. People were moving rapidly, the way they do when they sense a storm is coming but have yet to discover how bad it’s going to be.
“Now listen,” SondraBeth whispered into Pandy’s ear as the posse moved to get them out of the theater and back to the dressing room. “Make a stop in the Hall of Fame. Grab two costumes, and meet me back in my d
ressing room.”
“But—” Pandy broke off as the heel of a man’s shoe ground into her ankle. She was being trampled.
“My dressing room. In five,” SondraBeth said as she went through the door.
