Killing Monica

by Candace Bushnell

  Pandy wondered how long the structure would last. The house clearly didn’t belong there, but, given the scrub and the mangrove swamps, what did?

  Pandy and the Senator were given separate rooms across the hall from each other. Showing Pandy her room, Edith informed her that the house had ten bedrooms, each with its own bath. Pandy noted the fancy monogrammed hotel-quality sheets and towels, the assortment of travel-sized toiletries in a basket on top of the commode, the generic furniture comprised of dark wood and beige linen. There was always something impersonal about these billionaire houses, as if they were merely comfortable resting places for the enormous amounts of money they cost. Perhaps the owners assumed that, like Monopoly buildings, these houses would soon be bought by yet another billionaire.

  In the meantime, Pandy planned to enjoy herself.

  The first evening passed without incident. The Senator and Steven had serious business, and so, it seemed, did she and Edith. “I’m such an admirer of yours,” Edith said, hugging Pandy as she came downstairs. “I just love Monica. You’ve changed how people see women.”

  “Why, thank you,” Pandy said. Edith had a good, solid view of the world and a healthy dose of cynicism, especially when it came to men. She and Pandy discussed why there weren’t more women CEOs while the men talked Super PACs.

  On Saturday morning, Pandy came down to breakfast to discover they’d been invited to tennis and lunch at the home of another billionaire couple: Pope and Lindsay Mallachant.

  “Do you play?” Edith asked.

  “Tennis?” Pandy said, helping herself to several pieces of bacon from the breakfast buffet. She hesitated and then gave her usual answer: “I learned when I was four, and never got any better.” This was not the complete truth. Having grown up with a crumbling tennis court in her own backyard, Pandy was a natural.

  She knew better than to boast about her skills, however. For her, tennis was a purely social event. As teens, she and Hellenor had viewed it as a pleasant enough way to lure friends to the house, the deal made sweeter when accompanied by contraband: namely, cigarettes and airplane bottles of alcohol stolen from parents. If forced, she would play an actual game, but she could rarely be bothered to muster up the enthusiasm needed to win.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said to Edith. “I’m happy not to play. I’m much better on the sidelines, I promise you.”

  Edith cleared her throat. “I don’t love it myself, but I’m afraid we have to play. Lindsay and Pope are crazy about tennis, but the Senator doesn’t play, so they’ve invited Jonny Balaga to take his place.”

  Pandy nearly dropped her piece of bacon.

  “But I’m not very good,” Pandy protested. “Pope will only get annoyed with me.”

  Edith smiled encouragingly as she helped herself to a tablespoon of scrambled eggs. “The worse you are, the better. Pope gets furious if he doesn’t win.”

  “Fantastic,” Pandy said. Pope Mallachant was some kind of legendary investment banker. He was in his early seventies and was considered a “billionaire’s billionaire.” Lindsay, his third and much younger wife, was highly admired for having landed him.

  Jonny Balaga was the last person Pandy would have expected to be friends with them.

  “You must know Jonny Balaga?” Edith prompted. When Pandy shook her head, Edith added, “He’s down here looking for money for his new restaurant.” She dropped her voice; in an aside meant for Pandy’s ears only, she hissed, “He and Lindsay have become ‘very good friends.’”

  “This sounds like a disaster,” Pandy chortled.

  “Personally, I can’t stand her,” Edith said. “I would cancel if I could. But the Senator wanted to put Pope and Steven together. So I tell myself I’m doing it for the sake of the Democratic Party.”

  The Mallachant house was the opposite of the Finipers’: a classic Palm Beach mansion built in the 1930s. Constructed of yellow stucco with ornate white moldings, it resembled an enormous wedding cake. And there’s the bride, Pandy thought as Lindsay, dressed in pristine tennis whites, greeted them at the door.

  They followed her to the back of the house, where a table was laid with crystal, silver, and black-and-yellow enamel bees, place cards grasped between their filigreed wings.

  The terrace overlooked formal gardens, a very blue pool, and a very green tennis court, complete with bleachers and those eerie salty-white stadium lights. Pandy groaned inwardly.

  At least Jonny was going to be late.

  This Lindsay informed them of immediately, asking them to please sit down. Jonny would join them in time for the matches.

  Two white-gloved servers in gray uniforms attended to the table. The lunch consisted of three small courses: a salad of radish and orange slices sprinkled with chives; a ceviche of lobster and shrimp; followed by an espresso, which Pandy refused, and a crème brûlée, which she did not. Pope Mallachant, a tall, stooped man with hooded eyes and unnaturally black hair, explained that by restricting his calories, he was extending his life. He asked Pandy if she restricted her calories. Pandy said she didn’t. Pope Mallachant suggested she try it, pointing to himself as an example of the efficacy of his diet. He was seventy-three, he boasted, and was free of both cancer and heart disease. “The only way I’m going to die is if someone kills me,” he said.

  Pandy laughed. She could never take these people too seriously. But then again, she didn’t have to. All she needed to do was be polite.

  “How’s your tennis?” Pope asked.

  “Terrible,” Pandy declared. And just to prove how hopeless it was, she asked for another glass of champagne.

  Her champagne arrived, followed immediately by Jonny.

  He may have merely walked through the French doors, but to Pandy, it felt like he had suddenly burst onto the terrace like a small, fiery sun. The atmosphere immediately changed and became lively; the women laughed and the men’s voices became lower and more knowing. Jonny went around the table, tucking his still-long hair behind his ears as he lowered his head to greet the women with kisses and the men with handshakes and pats on the back. Compared to Jonny, who was slightly tanned and slimly muscular, everyone else at the table seemed ancient.

  Impatient to get to his tennis, Pope stood up before Jonny could reach Pandy. The rest of the table followed suit. Pandy wondered if Jonny had even noticed her.

  As Pope led Jonny down the stairs to the court, she heard Jonny ask him whom he was playing with. Pope glanced around for Pandy, then motioned her over. “Meet your partner,” he said to Pandy. “Jonny Balaga…” He hesitated. He’d clearly forgotten Pandy’s name.

  “PJ Wallis,” Pandy said quickly, extending her hand. Jonny looked at her hand, shook his head, and laughed, leaning over to give her the requisite kiss on the cheek. “We already know each other. But maybe you don’t remember.” He laughed again and strode off while Pandy hurried to the changing rooms, the skin on her neck still tingling where Jonny’s hair had brushed against it.

  His hair was just as soft as she’d imagined it would be.

  Her heart was still pounding as she entered the cabana. It was fitted out like a luxurious spa, with showers and a steam room, folded white towels, and the ubiquitous basket of toiletries. Arranged in one plastic tub were brand-new tennis whites still in their cellophane wrappers; in another were an assortment of new to barely worn sneakers. Pandy selected a short white tennis dress and bloomers and looked over the sneakers, flexing them back and forth to find the pair with the most give.

  She changed her clothes and stood in front of the mirror. She reminded herself that just because “Beluga” was playing and they were teamed up together, there was no reason to get all churned up. She must play exactly as she would have if Jonny weren’t there.

  She extracted a headband from a plastic wrapper and jauntily stuck it behind her ears. She looked in the mirror and wished she had something to put in the headband. Like a feather, perhaps.

  She took a deep breath.

  Let the games begin,
she thought with a sigh. She wished she really did have a feather. Something to show everyone how silly she was, which would no doubt get her quickly kicked out of the game. But there was nothing. Not even a speck of dust.

  She joined the rest of the group.

  Edith was correct: Pope did take his tennis seriously. He was standing on the court holding his racket over his head, doing deep knee bends. Jonny was laughing with Lindsay as he downed a glass of iced tea. The Senator and the rest of the guests were gathered at a table under an umbrella. Jonny spotted her and called out, “Hey, partner. You ready to win?”

  Lindsay explained the rules. She and Pope would play Steven and Edith, then Pandy and Jonny would play the winner. From the way she glanced at Pope when she said “winner,” it was patently clear whom that winner was meant to be.

  The first match began. Steven was portly but aggressive. Edith played a decent game of country club tennis, meaning she’d had a lot of lessons but possessed no real feel for the game. Pope and Lindsay were a different story. Despite his age and his inability to run as fast as Steven, Pope had real skills. He was precise and, like a lot of old men who have been playing all their lives, made up for what he lacked in speed with the placement of the ball.

  Lindsay was the opposite. Pandy knew the type: Lindsay had probably played on her high school team, and she was used to people telling her how great she was. This made her think she was a better tennis player than she actually was. On the other hand, she really did like to win, and that counted for a lot.

  Steven and Edith were dispatched handily.

  It was Pandy and Jonny’s turn.

  “You want to hit a few? To warm up?” Jonny asked.

  Pandy shook her head. “It won’t make any difference. I’ll still be bad.”

  “If you talk like that, you will be,” Jonny said.

  Pandy shrugged and gave him a sharp smile. “Just being honest.”

  Pandy served first to Lindsay. She delivered her usual puffball, which landed just inside the line. It was an easy shot and Lindsay smacked it, sending the ball to Jonny’s feet. Jonny leaped back, swung, and missed. Lindsay and Pope exchanged a look. Jonny picked up the ball and tossed it to Pandy.

  “Sorry,” Pandy said, catching the ball on her open racket.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jonny murmured, moving toward the net. He bent over, swaying back and forth. Pandy looked at his ass and decided he must work out a lot.

  Taking a breath, she tossed the ball and swung.

  Another puffball, but this one was more deceptive. The ball bounced high, and then quickly lost momentum. Thinking, as Pandy knew he would, that it was an easy shot, Pope ended up smashing the ball into the net. As Pandy turned away, she smiled. Jonny caught her tiny expression of triumph and raised his palm for a high five. “All right, partner,” he declared.

  Pandy gave him a dirty look.

  Lindsay and Pope mis-hit Pandy’s next three serves, giving her and Jonny the game. He leaned over her shoulder and whispered, “We’re going to win.”

  “No,” Pandy hissed back. “We’re not.”

  Jonny gestured at his chest with his thumbs. “Watch me.”

  Pandy glared and stomped to her position at the net. Fuck, she thought. This was all she needed. Pope played every day, and while Jonny was at least thirty years younger, he was also determined to win. Which meant the match would go on forever. One game would have twenty or thirty points. Then there would be a tiebreaker. The sun would grow higher and the heat would increase. Tempers would flare.

  Pope launched his serve at Jonny. It was fast, low, and clean.

  Jonny hopped back into position, swung, and hit hard to Lindsay.

  So Jonny had a mean streak, Pandy thought. This was another strategy in mixed doubles: Take out the easiest opponent, namely, a woman.

  Lindsay, however, was expecting his shot. She passed the ball neatly back to him.

  They rallied back and forth several times. Clearly, they had played before. This wasn’t surprising, considering what Edith had hinted about Lindsay and Jonny having an affair. Jonny must have gotten nervous, though, because he mis-hit. On the other side of the net, Pope scooped up the shot and lofted the ball toward Pandy.

  It was the kind of ball Pandy wouldn’t normally bother to hit. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jonny looking at her curiously. On the other side of the net, Lindsay was already turning away, thinking they had the point.

  Assholes, Pandy thought. She stepped forward, winged her racket back, and before anyone knew what had happened, hit a backhand slice that landed on the white line two feet from the net.

  As the ball bounced and whizzed into the chain-link fence, everyone on the court turned and stared at her in shock.

  “I knew it,” Lindsay said loudly. In a voice full of disdain, she added, “Pandy is one of those women who say they can’t play, and then you find out they were a national champion.”

  “I thought you said you sucked,” Jonny said gleefully. He swung his racket, playfully tapping her behind, stoked by the prospect of winning.

  “I guess you’re not the only one with secrets,” Pandy said.

  * * *

  An hour and a half and three sets later, they were still playing the tiebreaker for the win. As Pandy had predicted, the game had gotten ugly. Pope and Lindsay weren’t speaking, while Jonny, on the other hand, couldn’t stop talking. He kept up a running commentary until Pandy was forced to set him straight.

  “We need to let Pope win,” Pandy hissed as they changed sides yet again.

  “Yeah, right.” Jonny’s eyes crinkled in amusement; he thought she was joking.

  “I’m serious.”

  Jonny wiped the sweat from his forehead. “So am I.”

  Pandy decided to take matters into her own hands.

  “Add in,” Lindsay declared, bouncing the ball under her racket.

  She served to Pandy. Pandy sent an easy lob back to Pope. She figured he would place it right on the baseline, in between her and Jonny, where neither one of them could get to it.

  Which was exactly what he did, save for the fact that the ball landed just outside the line.

  “In!” Pandy shouted firmly. “That’s game, set, and match.” She lowered her racket. “Amazing shot, Pope. Well done.”

  Jonny strode to the net and angrily tapped his racket on the tape. “That ball was out.” He turned accusingly to Pandy. “It was out, right?”

  Pandy shrugged. “I thought it was in.”

  “It was definitely out,” Lindsay said. “I saw it.”

  “Do-over,” Jonny declared, giving Pandy a dirty look.

  “Jerk,” Pandy said under her breath.

  Pope had used up his last reserves of adrenaline on what he thought would be the winning shot. He fluffed the next two balls, and Pandy and Jonny won.

  Pope stalked off the court. Lindsay shrugged and looked at Jonny. Pandy smiled to herself. She guessed that Jonny and Lindsay wouldn’t be hanging around together much longer.

  And then Jonny made a pass at her in the changing rooms. Or what apparently passed for a pass in his world.

  She looked up from where she was untying her sneaker to see Jonny, naked from the waist up, crowding the door. The sun was behind him. Her pulse pounded in the hollow of her throat. Her body was suddenly awash with desire.

  “Whaddya say, Wallis? You and me. Right now. Standing up in the shower,” he said.

  Pandy remembered the sensation of his hair on her cheek and was shocked to find herself considering the offer. Then she remembered Pope and Lindsay, and the Senator, and came back to her senses.

  “Are you insane? Do you think I would have sex with a guy who has absolutely no manners?”

  Jonny chortled. “I certainly hope so. Manners and sex don’t usually go together.”

  “Well, manners and tennis certainly do.” Pandy removed her sneakers and flung them into the bin. “You should have let Pope win.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jonny
took a step forward. He frowned as if he truly didn’t understand. “Why would I let Pope Mallachant beat me?”

  He sounded so befuddled by the prospect that Pandy had to laugh at his ignorance. “Because he’s our host. This is his house. His tennis court. And he’s old.”

  When Jonny continued to look confused, she said, “It’s just good manners. What difference does it make if he wins? It’s only a stupid game.”

  Jonny’s eyes widened. “Lemme tell you something. If you think I’m ever going to let a guy like Pope Mallachant win, you’re crazy. He didn’t get to be a fucking billionaire by accident. He’s a fucking killer, okay? I can promise you that showing mercy to his opponents is not one of his strong suits. And it’s not just a game. Nothing is a game with these people.”

  He took a breath. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. I mean, you write about these people, don’t you? I would think you would know better.”

  “Hey!” Pandy said as Jonny shook his head in disgust and turned to leave.

  “Hey!” Pandy repeated.

  “What?” Jonny turned back.

  Pandy sighed. “Nothing.”

  * * *

  She changed quickly and hurried back to the house. The billionaires were saying their goodbyes. Pandy asked Lindsay for the bathroom, and when Lindsay said the Senator was using the downstairs powder room, Pandy slipped upstairs. She went into the first bathroom she could find, which was in Lindsay’s room. There, she checked the medicine cabinet for pills just for the hell of it, noting that Lindsay had quite a bit of Vicodin and several packages of hormone shots. Pandy quickly shut the cabinet, opened the French doors, and stepped out onto the balcony.

  She immediately spotted Jonny, in designer swim trunks, walking toward the pool with the purpose of an athlete. He reached the edge of the water and stared down into the depths as if transfixed.

  It took Pandy a second to realize he was looking at himself.

  Narcissus, she thought.

  Jonny pulled himself away from his own image and raised his arms in triumph, running down the steps into the water.

  When the water reached his waist, he stopped. Closing his eyes, he ducked straight under, emerging a second later. He took a breath as the water sluiced off the smooth surface of his body.