times when she’d wanted to give up. But she’d kept going, fueled by a fierce desire to prove herself. The fact that she was battling Jonny as well had only made her determination greater.
Pandy took a seat on a freshly painted bench near the dog run, inhaling the pungent odor of earth mixed with a vague chemical smell that rose from the dusty air. She absentmindedly rubbed the bump on the back of her head and heard a groan of frustration.
She looked up to see a young woman struggling to maneuver a baby stroller and a small dog through the gate. Pandy sprang up to help her, holding open the gate so they could pass.
“Thank you,” the woman said gratefully. Pandy smiled and went back to her bench, recalling the tired cliché that finishing a book was like giving birth. It wasn’t wrong: A friend had described the pain of childbirth as so intense as to be incomprehensible, during which there was no normal interpretation of time. What felt like ten minutes was actually ten hours. And then once you had the baby in your arms, you immediately forgot all about the agonizing process.
It was the same with writing a book. Once the manuscript was finished—once you’d printed the page with those final words, The End—you forgot about the struggle and felt only joy. Unlike a baby, however, your opinion about your “child” wasn’t the one that really mattered.
She wrinkled her nose, trying to prevent her sunglasses from falling off the tip. It wasn’t until the publisher had called your agent—or better, you—to say how much they loved the book and how brilliant it was and what a genius you were, that you could finally relax. Only then could you take a breath, knowing that soon they’d be processing your check.
The check that would then allow you to pay your asshole of an ex-husband to get out of your life forever.
Best not to think about it, Pandy reminded herself as she picked up her cell phone.
Immediately it began flashing and buzzing as a series of alerts and notifications rolled across the screen like a swarm of locusts.
She tapped on the pretty white bird in the blue square.
She had five hundred new Twitter followers. That was odd. It usually took weeks to accumulate that many new fans. She checked her notifications and suddenly understood why Henry had been in such a panic. There were dozens of tweets and retweets about her new, un-Monica novel—including several requests for interviews, along with encouraging missives from fans. “Can’t wait to bite into yur new book like a big crunchy chocolate chip cookie,” StripeSavage had tweeted.
What? Oh no, Pandy thought. It wasn’t that kind of book. Should she inform StripeSavage? Or leave it alone? She hoped StripeSavage wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Wonder what SondraBeth Schnowzer will think?” another fan had inquired.
To which Pandy was tempted to reply: No need to worry about SondraBeth Schnowzer. This was true. According to Google, SondraBeth was worth eighty million dollars. This Pandy believed, despite the fact that according to Google, she herself was worth the astronomical sum of forty million—when in fact, the truth was at least one decimal point away. This hadn’t stopped Jonny from trying to use this erroneous information against her at the beginning of their divorce, however.
“She’s worth forty million!” Jonny had screamed.
“There is no evidence of this money. There is no record of it in bank statements, tax returns, or payment stubs,” Hiram replied.
“It’s on the internet,” Jonny had retorted.
Pandy shook her head in disgust.
She looked down at her phone and tapped in her usual response regarding SondraBeth: “Luv Her!” followed by three sparkling emoji hearts in Day-Glo colors.
She moved on to her texts. Several friends had sent photos from the party; there were group shots, and one of Pandy lying on the floor with her legs up in the air. There was a close-up of Suzette’s enormous ring, which she in turn had posted to Instalife. The photo had more than ten thousand likes.
And finally, a text from Henry: “Where are you? Call me.”
Pandy rolled her eyes. She was still feeling annoyed with Henry.
The first few notes of the theme song from the Monica movies suddenly began playing, indicating that she had an actual phone call. Expecting Henry, she was relieved to see it was Suzette.
“Honey, is that you?” Suzette screeched.
“Who else would it be?”
Pandy suddenly remembered Portia’s phone. “I have Portia’s phone,” she announced.
“Good. You can bring it to the Pool Club.”
Pandy looked at