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“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.
Pandy breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up her glass and held it to her lips. Pink champagne was her favorite drink, and now it was a reminder that she was not Hellenor. That all would be fine.
PP lifted his glass. “To Monica,” he said.
Pandy nearly choked, but PP didn’t notice. He kept on smiling away, as if nothing were strange. “Tell me,” he said conversationally, “how much do you know about Monica?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Were you a fan?” he asked cautiously.
“I guess you could say that,” Pandy snapped.
“Good. What was your favorite Monica movie?”
“Movie? What about book?” Pandy demanded. She took a larger gulp of champagne. As usual when it came to PP, she was feeling increasingly insulted.
“Book, then. That’s even better. You’re a real fan.” PP smiled and put down his glass. “I assume you’ve read them all.”
For a second, Pandy could only gape at him in disbelief. “I know them inside and out.”
PP nodded.
Pandy put down her glass as well. “Now, listen, PP,” she repeated. “You do realize—”
“Shhhh.” PP patted her hand and glanced at the swinging doors.
Right on cue, Chookie came through, setting down a silver tray with tiny sandwiches before retreating once more. Pandy pushed the tray away and looked at PP imploringly. “I am PJ Wallis. I created Monica.”
PP stared at her briefly. Then he shook his head.
“I’m—” Pandy tried again, but PP put his hand on her arm to stop her from talking. “There’s been a huge mix-up,” Pandy said desperately. “And no one will believe me.”
Suddenly she had a terrible thought: If she couldn’t be PJ Wallis, she might as well be dead. She slumped onto the counter. When would this nightmare end?
PP patted her on the back. “There, there,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “It’s going to be okay. You were so overcome by the death of your sister, for a moment, you thought you were her.” He stared at her curiously and then smiled knowingly. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “You were joking. You’re funny, too. Just like your sister.”
Pandy wanted to cry. She reminded herself to stay calm. SondraBeth would arrive soon, and she would know that she was Pandy.
“I truly am sorry about your loss. I always liked your sister,” PP said.
Pandy lifted her head and sat up. “Well, that’s funny. Because SondraBeth always said you hated Pandy.”
PP suddenly looked incensed, as if he’d been caught out. So he had complained about her to SondraBeth after all.
