The Virgin Society Collection

24. Oops!

24

OOPS!

Veronica

The next afternoon at three o’clock, I grab my purse, take a breath, and turn to Iris. “I appreciate you coming in so much,” I say.

Despite her tired eyes, she waves it off, then gestures to the flowers. “It’s good to be back with my buds,” she says, then manages a smile.

I head over to see Milo and Zara, letting them know I’m off for my interview.

“You’ll wow them,” Zara says, with a note of admiration in her tone.

“She will,” Milo says proudly.

I draw a breath of their confidence, then go. On the subway uptown, my phone pings with a text.

Milo: You’ll be amazing. I’ll meet you outside Central Park at six-thirty and I fully expect to celebrate.

Veronica: Cross all your fingers and toes.

Milo: Trudy is crossing her paws too.

I’m about to keep this volley going, but I shouldn’t rely on him too much. He’s not my boyfriend. I can’t depend on him, so I click over to another text thread instead—one with my mom and sister.

Veronica: Wish me luck, Valentine ladies.

Mom: You’ve so got this! Also, I noticed you didn’t even ask for outfit approval, which I take as a good sign that you’re feeling better about your own radar.

Hazel: She didn’t ask me either. Because she knows she’s going to kick butt like the Valentine she is!

Veronica: Valentine power!

When the subway rattles into the stop, I turn off my phone, bound to the street, and head inside the Midtown building. After I check in at the lobby, the elevator whisks me upstairs, and quickly, I’m escorted to Alfonso’s office.

I’ve studied the books Alfonso has edited, from celebrity memoirs to a thriller written by a pop star to a children’s book penned by an Instagram influencer. He boasts an eclectic list, and I’m eager to hear what he’s up to in the kid-lit world.

The dapper man in the checked shirt and smart vest, waiting at the door, smiles. “So pleased to meet you, Miss Valentine. I love your résumé, and your books, and your work,” he says, shaking hands, and he’s so friendly, I’m halfway in love already.

“So great to meet you too,” I say.

He gestures to a chair across from the desk, so I take it and sit while he returns to the desk.

“I enjoyed March to Your Own Drum ,” I add, since I read the instagrammer’s book last night.

It wasn’t bad.

“Glad to hear that,” he says, then goes on to tell me how much he liked Frog and Prince . “Your work on that series was tremendous. Agnes was lucky to have you guiding her stories.”

I hesitate before I speak. McGee Whitney Books was notoriously cautious about revealing who edited Agnes. She worked with several editors, and usually only spoke broadly about her team. “She’s quite a talent,” I say, giving a broad answer too.

“She is,” Alfonso says, cheerily. Then he clears his throat. “Thank you again for coming in. We are in the early stages of putting together an anthology, and we think you’d be great for it.”

I sit up straighter. Fight off a smile. I would be great .

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to hear about it,” I say, eagerly, as shoes click on the hardwood floor outside the office, growing closer. There’s a rap on the door. I turn, and it’s . . . Darius.

Smiling cloyingly.

“Veronica! My last call ran late, but I’m so glad you could come in. I told Alfonso you’d be perfect for the project.”

Darius recommended me? The guy who left McGee Whitney Books because he didn’t get the gig? He doesn’t seem like the type to refer people.

A warning light flashes on the dashboard, but I steer carefully in case I’m wrong. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” I say cautiously.

Darius rubs his palms together. “So are you in?”

Alfonso clears his throat. “I haven’t told her the details yet, Mister Daniels.”

Darius’s smile brightens. “Oh, good. I was worried I missed it,” he says, sounding genuinely eager as he strides in and parks himself on the edge of the couch.

Alfonso squares his shoulders. “We’re putting together a fun little coffee table book. Stories from various corners of the Web. We’re calling it Oops! Tales from the Internet .”

My head spins as I begin recalculating this meeting. “I take it this isn’t a children’s book?”

Darius chortles. “It’s so much better, and you’ll be perfect,” he says.

“No. It’s non-fiction,” Alfonso continues, exhaling deeply. “Think of it as an anthology. We want to fill it with stories of Internet booboos. Little mistakes and silly do-overs.”

The hair on my arms stands on end. “Like Internet humiliations?”

Alfonso snaps his fingers. “Yes, but it’s opt in for all the contributors. We’re inviting people to tell their own stories. Only if you’d want to share.”

Darius gestures to me, a salesman’s glint in his eyes. “And you have such a great story to tell. Accidentally sending all of the publishing house the sex column you write. Then, Agnes being haughtier than the Queen. Then McGee Whitney Books trying to cover it up. You could even title your essay . . . The Sex and Sandwich Editor,” he says, sweeping out his arm, proud of his title. Then he stage-whispers, “That’s how I pitched you.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped. This was a bait and switch. “This meeting isn’t about a regular job? It’s to ask me to write an essay about the day I lost the job I loved?” I ask, doing my best to keep my cool.

“Yes. We’re paying each contributor five hundred dollars,” Darius adds, oblivious to my discomfort. But then, he was always oblivious to feelings that weren’t his own.

Alfonso offers a kind smile my way. At least he can read a room. “Well, we think you could write it with such cheek, since, well . . .”

Since I write sex columns .

But I keep that to myself. I don’t need to throw a hissy fit in front of Alfonso.

Even though I want to ask what he thinks of the fact that his new employee broke the NDA, since Darius clearly spilled the beans.

But why?

“I’ll be the editor, and we think your piece would be a great lead essay,” Darius adds.

There it is. His reason. The simplest one of all. He’s perched eagerly on the edge of the couch because he thought my shame would help him. He shared my name, he told my story, because he wants a leg up on his project.

I can’t truly be mad at him. I’m the one who hit send that night more than a month ago. I can’t even blame the cat.

But I also don’t have to stay here.

I lift my chin. Nothing to hide. “Thank you, but I’m trying to move on from that day.” Then I turn to Alfonso. “If you have any jobs in children’s books, do let me know.”

“Of course. Thank you, Miss Valentine,” he says, studying the floor like it’s so very interesting as he shows me out.

As I wait at the elevator, gritting my teeth, reining in my hurt, Darius catches up to me. “What’s the deal, Veronica? I don’t even get a thank you? I was doing you a favor.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, shocked. “You want me to thank you? Because you broke an NDA?”

He shrugs carelessly. “It was unenforceable once I left. What were they going to do? Fire me after I quit?” he asks, scoffing and revealing the flimsiness of the NDA. Quite clearly, he’s told everyone in publishing the tale of my humiliation. “Besides, that stuff never stays quiet anyway. At least I’m trying to get you something out of it. C’mon. This is going to be a marquee project,” he says, making his last pitch. “We need a killer lead essay, and I figured you’d need the money. Since you don’t have a real job,” he says.

I seethe privately, but then tamp down my emotions, and put on a smile. People who make me feel small don’t deserve my time or my heartache.

I won’t stoop to his mercenary level though. The world is small and reputations can crumble at any moment. “Thank you, Darius. But I do have a job. I’m much happier selling flowers and writing about sex toys and fantasies.”

That’s true.

That’s completely, absolutely true.

Even though one of those jobs will be ending in a few more weeks. As I leave, I purse my lips, holding back my tears.

I don’t let a single one slip until I’m at least a block away.