The Virgin Society Collection

6. The Perpetrator

6

THE PERPETRATOR

Veronica

Twenty minutes and one subway ride later, I arrive at the towering building in Midtown. Above the big brass doors is an illustration of a child reading a book while sitting on the moon, and I stare at it a moment while I gather my nerve.

You can do this .

My shirt’s buttoned, pants are smoothed out after the subway ride, and nothing’s stuck to the bottom of my shoes.

Check. So I swallow some courage and go inside, prepared to apologize profusely then take my punishment.

When I reach the eighth floor, it’s church quiet, but it’s early. The receptionist isn’t even here yet. Swiping my card key, I push open the glass doors, and weave through mostly empty cubicles.

I’m halfway to Blanche’s corner office when I hear a chair roll across the carpet and a baby-faced man sticks his head out of a cubicle. Darius Daniels—of course he’s here. Spoiler alert: his chances of nabbing that promotion skyrocketed this morning.

“Hey, Veronica. You’re in early today,” he says, all chipper and pretend clueless, like he didn’t read my fantasies about Mister Sexy Pants.

“Early bird and all,” I say, not in the mood for small talk.

“Hope you get the worm,” he says with a too-big grin, then rolls back to his desk in his chair, his lips twitching in a grin.

I continue down the hall where Blanche waits at the door. “Thanks for coming in early,” she says, giving me a kind smile. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.

“Of course. Anytime,” I say, nerves coiling inside me.

Blanche snicks the door shut, then gestures to a soft green chair in the seating area in front of her desk. I take it, and she sits across from me. Her red cat’s-eye glasses reflect me and my tilt-a-whirl of emotions.

Before she can start, I own my mistake. Maybe I can get ahead of trouble with my atonement. “Whatever you need me to do to make up for this, I will. I want to make this right. I’m so sorry about the mix-up, but I hope the editorial letter impresses you and Miss Millicent.”

Blanche is quiet for a long, weighty pause, fighting with an errant strand of blonde hair that’s fallen from her French twist. “Veronica,” she says heavily, and my shoulders fall. Her tone is all I need to know. “You’re a wonderfully talented editor and I’ve loved working with you . . .”

Don’t cry .

The entire company has read my dirty daydreams. They don’t get to witness my real tears.

“I’ve loved working with you, Blanche,” I say, taking time with each word so I don’t fall to pieces.

“But we just lost one of our biggest writers because of this mix-up,” Blanche says, and there’s pain in her voice. Regret too. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but the decision came from the top.”

I grimace but keep my chin up and my big girl panties on. “I should have been more careful. I should have checked the email before?—”

I swallow “my cat jumped on the keyboard .” No one wants to hear the dog-ate-my-homework excuse.

“Things happen with email,” she says. “Sometimes I wish we didn’t live in a digital age. In any case, I called you in so you can collect your things. And because it’s easier to say this than to write this. We won’t share your name as the perpetrator .”

While that’s a relief, secrecy is a small consolation. Now the entire company knows my hymen’s intact, I’m horny for my next-door neighbor, and I regularly chronicle my imaginary sex-ploits for The Dating Pool. Gossip is the tastiest treat in the publishing business, and by lunch, everyone will be dining on news of my secret identity. Will I ever get another job in the industry again?

“Thank you,” I say, keeping a stiff upper lip.

“We don’t want to fan these flames,” Blanche says, “so we’ve instructed the entire company that this incident falls under the purview of the non-disclosure agreements they signed upon hiring, and disciplinary action may follow if they disclose details anywhere or to anyone.”

Oh!

McGee Whitney Books really wants to bury this story, which might work in my favor if I ever want to work in children’s publishing again.

“I appreciate that so much,” I say, clinging to that spark of hope.

Blanche stands, indicating the meeting is over. Thanking her, I follow suit, then head for the door.

She clears her throat. “For what it’s worth, I hope everything works out with Mister Sexy Pants and that whoever you meant to send that saucy letter to gets it after all.”

Hold the presses.

That spark of hope ignites into fireworks. McGee Whitney Books doesn’t know I write a column on sex and virginity? They just think I mistakenly sent them a raunchy letter meant for . . . a friend?

Oh. My. God.

Of course they think that. I didn’t include in my email the name of my column, The Virgin Club, or my sign-off, Your Friendly Neighborhood Virgin , because those are automatically added in The Dating Pool system.

And if Agnes won’t name names, then maybe, just maybe, the small world of publishing won’t know Veronica Valentine is the sex and sandwich editor.

As long as the column doesn’t run.

I’ll have to call Bellamy as soon as I leave and ask her to kill the piece. I’ll send her a replacement column, stat. I have all day to write a new one and still meet her evening publishing deadline.

Turning around to face Blanche, I mime zipping my lips. “I promise I won’t say a word either,” I say, then I grab the knob so I can hightail it out of here and alert Bellamy.

“And, um, one more thing.” Blanche’s pale cheeks pinken. “I was wondering if you had any tips on great, um, battery-operated friends?”

I didn’t know what would happen when I came in today, but my boss asking me for a vibrator recommendation definitely wasn’t in the running.

But I did say I’d do anything, so perhaps this is the start of my penance. “Just for Her has some excellent toys,” I say warmly.

Blanche fidgets with that naughty hair strand again, then shifts her gaze around the room. “Anything for women who have a hard time . . . ahem . . . finishing?”

That makes me sad. I hate to hear when a lady can’t get her O on. “Try Just for Her’s The Wave. It’s powered by sonic waves and it’s life-changing,” I say, happy to help.

She blinks. “Oh. I had no idea.”

“Worth every penny.”

“Thanks,” she says, still flustered, but she lets go of that strand of hair at last. “And good luck. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation and we won’t mention this, um, incident.”

“Thanks and good luck with . . .” With your masturbation pursuits?

I keep those parting words to myself as I rush to my former office, scoop up my framed pictures and signed books, and drop them into a canvas bag. I take off for the elevators at escape-from-a-lava-pit speed, stabbing the down button like I’m rushing into the ER on a hospital drama.

Once the doors open, I dart inside, and look up Bellamy’s contact info. Finger hovering, I’m poised, ready to call the second the elevator frees me at the lobby.

When I reach the ground floor, I hit dial.

“Answer, please answer,” I beg as I head to the exit while the phone rings and rings and rings.

On the fifth ring, she picks up. “Hey, Veronica. I’m heading to a meeting, but I saw you were calling. Your column is amazeballs,” she says, and that is awesome news.

Except . . . not.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say, as the revolving doors spit me out onto the busy avenue. “Though, I would love to send you a new one this afternoon on a new topic. I can explain why later, but you’ll have a fresh, fantastic column for tonight.”

Please say yes.

“Oh,” she says, and I hear the let-down in her voice. “I would love to help. But it was so damn good, I made it go live early. It’s your best column ever and it’s already heating up. The Internet loves it.”

All hope withers, right along with my fighting chance.

Wallowing sounds like the perfect prescription. Give me a glass of cheap Chardonnay, a couple of buckets of salted caramel anything, and the next season of Lords and Ladies, and I will gladly hunker down for the night.

But Ellie and Hazel won’t let me. My sister calls an emergency meeting through our group chat and arrives that evening with a chanterelle and kale pizza, while Ellie brings her homemade seven-layer bar brownies. I’ve already started on the wine. Because . . . priorities.

“Hi, and welcome to my funeral,” I say as I open the door. The wine sloshes in the glass as I sweep my arm to invite them into my pity party, but it doesn’t spill. “Who wants first stab at the eulogy?”

Hazel wags a chiding finger in my face. “Nope, we have plans.”

“And they all involve life after publishing,” Ellie puts in, as StudMuffin whines a happy hello in greeting. He loves his ladies.

With my free hand, I snag the pizza box and carry it to the table. “I’d rather have pizza,” I say, then fold a slice and chew, letting the drugs of carbs and cheese numb the pain of the day.

It’s too hard for me to imagine life after publishing. As a kid, I devoured books like I’m devouring this pizza. All I’ve ever wanted to do was edit children’s books like the ones I stayed up reading past my bedtime. Now my dreams are roadkill, so I stuff more pizza into my mouth.

Hazel grabs a chair and reaches into her cavernous purse. Fishing out a notebook, she slaps it down on the table.

Ellie takes a seat too and drops a handful of purple, pink, and green gel pens on the table.

Plink, plink, plink.

I moan in misery. I love notebooks and colorful pens, especially for the start of my editorial letters. “Did you come to torture me about my anti-future in publishing?”

Hazel shakes her head, adamant. “You do have a future in publishing. Because what does publishing love most of all?”

“Thrillers with bad sex scenes written by men who get paid more than women?”

“Well, yes. But also a redemption story,” Hazel says as my dog curls up at her feet.

Ellie waves imaginary pom-poms. “And that’ll be you in a few months. Everything dies down eventually,” she says. “No scandal lasts forever. Isn’t that what the last season of Lords and Ladies taught us? Even after Frederick was jilted on his wedding day, and no one would go near him, he still found a happy ending.”

“But that’s, ahem, fiction. And I don’t have the luxury of time,” I point out.

Hazel grins, patting the notebook and pens. “That’s why you’re going to find a temporary job this summer. We’re going to make a list of your skills. As long as you don’t start looking for a new publishing job right this second, while people can put two and two together and figure out that you’re the perpetrator , you have a shot at coming back. You need to lie low for a month or two and then start working on your triumphant return. I’ll talk to my editor in the meantime. I’ll ask friends too. I will do whatever recon I can.”

It’s not a bad argument. Scandals lose their luster. Maybe I can hunt for a job editing children’s books at the end of the summer.

And, as I glance at my sleeping pup, I hit reverse on my wallowing course. I’ve got a dog to feed, a cat to take care of, bills to pay, and, hello, undies and toys to buy.

Also, I hate wallowing. I’m remarkably bad at it because there’s too much I like doing. I like gardening, and animals, and friends. I like exploring New York, and talking to people, and consuming stories.

And I really like making lists too.

As we eat and drink, I inventory my skills from teaching art to kids, to whipping up an excellent mojito. Not to mention my talent for growing kale like the badass balcony gardener that I am. And then there’s my niche talent for writing about dating and virginity.

When we’re done with the list, I start to see possibilities. Freelance editing, tutoring, art teacher, social media maven. “If anyone needs a sex toy tester, I’d be in high demand,” I say, because talk about a dream job . . .

“Oh! What about your column?” Ellie asks hopefully.

I smile sadly, shaking my head. “I mostly do it for fun. It pays peanuts, as most columns do. I can’t live on it.”

Even though my job died because of it.

I’ve spent the day checking social media, and so far, no one has connected the dots between Mister Sexy Pants in my letter and Mister Sexy Pants in The Virgin Club column.

Maybe Blanche’s email warning did the trick.

And maybe the readership of The Dating Pool and the ranks of my former colleagues don’t overlap. Whatever the reason, I’ll take it, thank you very much.

“Then let’s find some jobs you can live on. You need more side hustles,” Ellie says. “That’s why I do voiceover work. It pays the bills in between the rare TV and movie gigs.”

“Ellie, you’re a regular on a hit TV show,” I point out.

“And it could get canceled at any minute, so side hustles matter,” she says, her gaze wandering to the deck outside the patio door, then landing on the rosemary and the sage. With a glimmer in her brown eyes, she returns her focus to me. “You know, I have a friend who runs a cute shop that might need your balcony gardening skills. Let me make some calls tomorrow.”

“That would be great,” I say.

When they leave at the end of the night, I steal one final peek at the column, scanning some comments.

Stocked up on batteries!

Long live dirty dreams.

I recommend mac and cheese after sex .

That does sound yummy. But first, I need a job. A girl’s got to have priorities. First, rent, then shtupping.

I get ready for bed and am sliding under the covers to read on my phone when an email lands from Bellamy. Most popular piece of the day! Keep ’em coming.

At least there’s one company in New York that wants a piece of me.

That’s a start, and I need all the new beginnings I can get.