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“I am indeed,” Pandy said proudly. She considered telling them who she was—Monica’s creator—but decided against it. They probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. Instead, she said crisply, “Carry on, men,” as if she were a queen, and they were her loyal subjects.
The knot of pain in her solar plexus eased. Pandy expelled a great huff of air as she remembered that she didn’t need Monica anymore. She had her new book. Her entire future was riding on it and she hoped that, just like Monica, it would be a hit.
Meaning everything was going to be just fine, she thought happily as she raised her hand to hail a taxi.
CHAPTER THREE
THE POOL CLUB was located on the rooftop of a recently renovated flophouse hotel on the West Side Highway.
Smiling to herself as she rode up in the sleek elevator, Pandy remembered when she’d first come to the city and her sunbathing had taken place on “Tar Beach”—the roof of her walk-up apartment building. Somehow, during the two years in which she’d been working on The Book, these pool clubs had sprung up like mushrooms all over lower Manhattan.
The club was already packed when Pandy arrived just after eleven—so much so that an unsuspecting tourist might think she was in another city, possibly Miami or Las Vegas.
“There you are!” Portia exclaimed as Pandy wove through lounge chairs covered with towels, bits of clothing, suntan lotion, and bags spilling computers and magazines. And so many young people. The girls in bikinis with flat stomachs and competitive breasts. The arrogant young men talking loudly on their devices, as if they were all so very important.
“Here.” Suzette picked up a pile of magazines from the chaise next to her and motioned for Pandy to sit down.
Pandy eased herself onto the terry-cloth cover. She took off her sunglasses and glowered at a skinny, hairy man with two doting young women a few feet away. “Why are there so many people here? It’s Thursday; doesn’t anyone have to work?”
“Thursday is the new Sunday.” Suzette passed Pandy a handful of necklaces made of plastic beads in gold, purple, and green. “San Geronimo festival,” she purred. “When I woke up this morning, my son had strung them all over the apartment.”
“It’s a celebration,” Portia said, sitting up. She twisted around to remove a bottle from an ice bucket on a stand next to her. “Champagne?” she asked.
“Of course she wants champagne,” Suzette said. “Look at her.”
“I have your phone,” Pandy said to Portia.
Portia pounced on it. “What about your agent?” she asked.
“My agent?” Pandy sputtered as she took a sip of the fizzy drink.
Suzette rolled her eyes and lay back. “All morning she’s been talking about Henry. And you. ‘Why doesn’t Pandy date her agent? He’s so cute,’” she said in a mimicking voice.
“Henry?” Pandy picked up several strands of beads and slung them around her neck.
“He’s a real pretty boy. You have to admit that,” Suzette said.
“When I saw you talking to him at the party, I said to Suzette, ‘Those two look like they could go together.’ You know?” Portia added.
“Henry?” Pandy screeched.
“He’s gay,” Suzette said. “Has to be.”
Pandy reddened and shrugged.
“And besides, she’s not going to date her agent,” Suzette added dismissively. “No one dates their agent. It isn’t done.”
“I thought SondraBeth Schnowzer dated her agent. The guy with the funny name. PP?”
Pandy sat up. “He wasn’t her agent,” she muttered. “He was the head of the studio.” Determined to get off the topic, Pandy turned to Portia. “How are you here in the middle of the day? I thought you had a job.”
“I was let go.” Portia shrugged.
Pandy gasped. “Again?”
“Again.” Portia smiled.
“How much time off do you have this time?”
