The Accidental Virgin (14 page)

“You may be athletic in the sense that you play sports, but the category was ‘body type.’ I don’t think your body type would be considered ‘athletic’ by conventional standards.”

He seemed perplexed. “My picture shows my body.”

“The photo was shadowy. It hid some things.” There. Was that delicate enough? she wondered. Perhaps too. “The thing is, I like skinny guys.”

He reared back with that. “Well. I see. Then there’s no chance that I could ever capture your heart. Well, then, I have to thank you for meeting me tonight. I’ve had a nice time. I think, though, that I’ll just cut the evening short and leave you to finish your drink.”

He was hurt but trying to keep a stiff upper lip. It was painful to watch. He struggled to stand, and then walked out. She hadn’t seen the rear view until then, and was even more relieved that he’d left. She sighed in her pew, and took another sip. She’d never been a smoker, but at that moment, she desperately wanted a cigarette.

“And one more thing, Stacy.” Jasper was back, barreling into the bar. He stood in front of her table, his massive hull looming over her threateningly. If a woman rejected a man, he hated her; if a man rejected a woman, she hated herself. Jasper was most definitely a man. And he was pissed off. She hoped he wouldn’t sit on her.

“You women in your thirties, with the demanding jobs,” he said. “You think you’re all that. You think that if a man doesn’t look like Dylan McDermott and make as much money as Bill Gates that you’re too good for him. Well, you — and all ladies like you — are going to regret passing on men like me. I might not look like Dylan McDermott, but I am a handsome man. And I may not make as much money as Bill Gates, but forty thousand dollars a year is a very respectable salary. And one day, when you are alone and miserable, you’ll think back on this night, and wish you’d made a different choice. Best of luck to you, Stacy. I hope you find what you’re looking for, but I don’t think you will.”

Then he stomped off again. Stacy hadn’t signed up for a character assassination or a fortune telling when she’d registered with match.com, but she’d gotten both. She rotated her shoulders (they could use a proper knead), and considered what he’d said about women her age and pickiness and regret. Were her standards too high? Was she fooling herself about her prospects? Possibly, she concluded. A lowering of standards might be in order. But they’ll never be low enough to let Jasper squeak in. She downed her drink. Jasper had to have some kind of justification for being turned down. Blaming women was the only way he could protect himself. She actually felt sorry for him. He’d said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Stacy stirred her drink with her pinkie and tried to imagine what that could possibly be.

“One more thing!” It was Jasper again, pushing through the restaurant’s front doors. “You are not a sexy or special lady, and you don’t deserve more time for you. And, I can just tell, you probably don’t like Thai food or think bowling is fun.”

Then, like a gale of wind, he was gone. Truth was, and she knew it all along, that no one who used the phrase “capture your heart” would stand a chance of doing that. And, if she learned anything from this night of dashed expectations, the man who would be her de-revirginizing agent — provided that he existed on this or any planet — would have to be attractive to her, either physically or intellectually. Both would be good. But she could never let a loser in her bed, even if it took ten years to get laid. This realization made her quest that much more difficult. The new clarity, if anything, put her up for the challenge.

She paid the bartender for her two Cosmos and the two shots (Jasper had left her with the guilt of rejecting him — and the tab), and took off. It was still relatively early, and the shops of SoHo were open for business. She made a stop in Reinstein/Ross, her favorite jewelry store, and bought herself a pair of drop pearl earrings that were old-fashioned and retro, but in a modern way. They cost $300 but, she figured, if she were to find herself alone and miserable at 40, she might as well be brilliantly accessorized.

On the way home, warmed from her purchase and the tequila, Stacy reflected on a couple of aspects of her enlightening encounter.

Dylan McDermott? Pass. If Jasper had said Tony McGuinty, perhaps the accusation might have had relevance.

What’s more,
$40,000?

Friday morning

S
tacy had knocked on Vampire Boy’s door when she got back from Jean Pierre Louis Paul last night. She didn’t know anything about him intellectually, but she sure was attracted to him physically. And that moment when they’d stared at each other in the elevator, maybe she was attracted to him spiritually as well. But he wasn’t home. She waited up for a few hours with VH-1 (great channel to watch trends in women’s undergarments), knocking on his door every half hour or so. But he never came home. Probably met the perfect woman and was at her place, screwing her brains out. Stacy hated VH-1, but she kept watching. She hated everything.

In desperation, she called Charlie, just back from the hospital where he’d been lovingly cared for by a young, pretty female medical resident who couldn’t resist his Woodsman-like charm, despite the balloon tongue and broken capillaries on his cheeks. He’d made Stacy swear she’d never go near him with her lips again. After apologizing for the 400th time, she said good-bye and fell asleep in her black dress on the living-room couch. When she awoke at 9
A.M.
, she was already late for work.

Of all the days. This morning, Fiona was hosting a breakfast party to celebrate Janice’s 50th birthday and mourn Taylor’s defection to pets.com. Employee birthdays were rarely acknowledged by Fiona (thongs.com never feted the passing of Fiona’s years on Earth, since the date she entered the world was a mystery to one and all, including Janice). Either the staffer didn’t last long enough to pass a birthday on premises, or a party would have cut into precious work hours. And serving cut vegetables and gift certificates to departing employees — that was unheard of. Most people left thongs.com with barely a “don’t let the door hit you and crush your miserable carcass on the way out.” But Fiona had always liked Taylor. And she’d been around as long as Stacy had. If Stacy were to find a better job, or just up and quit, she wasn’t sure Fiona would throw a party for her. With Taylor, Fiona knew it was business. With Stacy, she feared, Fiona would think it had something to do with her. And she’d probably be right.

No time to think. Stacy had to dress, but quick. She usually pulled a purse from her collection off the wall to match her outfit of the day, but, in her rush, she had to stick with the black evening bag from the night before (a horrible combination with her blue half-sleeve shirt and pink miniskirt from Barney’s).

The birthday/farewell breakfast was well under way by 9:45, her arrival time. She realized she’d been late or missing for nearly every group gathering all week, and that Fiona’s patience with her would be used up soon, if it weren’t already. She got lucky, though, when she entered the conference room. Fiona wasn’t in sight. The Turtle was laid out with a gorgeous spread (blue-berries and raspberries, chocolate-dipped strawberries, muffins of every flavor, bagels, ten bottles of champagne in a row, orange juice, silver thermoses of coffee, condiments and a cheese platter from Mangia).

Stacy dove in and mingled with ardor. The only person she couldn’t bring herself to talk to was Taylor. The departing tech whiz sat at the head of the Turtle by the strawberries, eating them one by one while every lesser producer and site manager filed by to kiss her ring. She was going to Internet heaven; the rest of them were in hell. Taylor avoided eye contact with Stacy, much to her relief.

Janice had to be on her third mimosa already. She was slurring her speech and acting a bit too cheery about turning 50. Stacy, smiling shyly, gave her a kiss on her creamy, doll-like cheek. “Happy birthday, boss,” she said brightly.

“You only turn fifty once!” said Janice.

“Are you having a good time?” asked Stacy.

“I’m touched by the party, by the love in the room.”

Stacy could barely register the tolerance in the room. “You’re in an uncommonly good mood.”

“Surprising, isn’t it? I’m middle-aged. My children have forgotten my birthday. Our sweetheart deal with smut.com is kaput. Fiona’s at their office right now, begging Stanley Bombicci to reconsider. He pulled the plug last night when he couldn’t convince Credit Suisse to cosign the loan.”

Stacy’s heart shriveled. If the deal fell through (not her fault), would that be a fatal blow for the company? It couldn’t be. Janice would be crying in her office, not giddy in the conference room. “So, if life is so wretched, why are you smiling?” asked Stacy.

“I’m in love,” she said. “That guy? The one I e-mailed from your office? The Upper West Side lawyer? He’s the one.” Janice swallowed her mimosa in a gulp and started pouring another. “We spoke on the phone for two hours last night, and I’m going on a birthday date with him tonight.”

For Janice, the potential for love could eradicate the devastation of a cash-strapped company and forgetful, selfish offspring. Janice had a hot date, she was delirious. It was insane. And, if not insane, it was dangerous. Considering Stacy’s own match.com disaster and Janice’s mountainous body count of disappointment from the on-line service, Stacy doubted that her boss’s date would be as wonderful as it’d have to be to compensate for everything else that had gone wrong (was going wrong) with her life. Janice was in for a long fall, one that would be monumentally hard to get up from.

Wanting to make the precipice shallower, Stacy said, “Your children haven’t forgotten your birthday. At least Tom didn’t.”

“He hasn’t called from London, or e-mailed, or sent a gift,” said Janice.

Stacy said, “Remember, I took him to lunch? He
did
buy you something. We had to go all the way to SoHo to get it. I’ve been holding it for you.” Stacy reached into her evening bag and (thank God), found the small square jewelry box from Reinstein Ross. Janice opened the box and squealed when she saw the earrings Stacy had, only twelve hours ago, lovingly selected for her own lobes.

Janice said, “They’re beautiful! How could he possibly afford them? And I know he doesn’t have such good taste. I have you to thank for that, Stacy.”

“He picked them out himself. Went right up to the jewelry case and pointed.”

“You are a fabulous liar,” said Janice.

“So are you. The company’s not in trouble. You’re just saying that to push me out of the nest like a kindly mother bird,” said Stacy.

Janice laughed. She’d laugh at anything this morning. “Well, Fiona does have a rare talent for begging, borrowing, and stealing.”

Stacy let out a sigh of relief. Fiona would save the day. She always did. The idea that, overnight, Stacy would go from being a future millionaire to another of the ever-expanding community of unemployed dot-commers was too much to fathom. She’d invested her time and energy in the company. It would have to pay off. It had to. Guilt tightened around her chest. She’d been fucking off all week. While she’d been chasing men, the company was floundering. As soon as Fiona returned, she’d apologize. She’d work harder. Refocus.

On cue, Fiona came crashing into the conference room, head to toe in a purple satin low-cut bodice sheath straight from the cover of a supermarket romance novel. Her helmet head of black raven hair had leaned to the left, giving her a windblown, crazy-person look. Stacy thought it worked for her.

“Sit,” barked the Dark Lady.

Everyone sat. Stacy had come to accept the way Fiona ordered her staff around like dogs. There was some small comfort in knowing who was master. Stacy parked herself at the left foot of the Turtle, next to Janice, who’d put on the earrings. They looked a bit soft with her ash blonde hair. Still, the sight gave Stacy a saintly thrill, knowing she’d done a nice thing.

Fiona stood next to the seated Taylor at the head of the Turtle. She waited for silence, and then held aloft a small piece of paper. It looked like a bank note. The Dark Lady was also a magician, apparently, who could turn dross (or mesh), into spun gold (or metallic-hued strapless bras). “We are saved,” she announced, owing the success of her coupe with Credit Suisse solely, and rightfully, to her talent for hucksterism. “This is a deposit slip for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. And there’s more coming in. Stanley Bombicci is back on-board. People! We will launch Meshwear 2001!”

The employees, including Stacy, were silent for a beat, and then applause bounced off the Turtle and around the glass walls of the room. Stacy clapped right along with her colleagues, with huge relief. For five minutes there, she’d convinced herself that the company had faltered in the past week because she’d been distracted by personal matters. That she was to blame for their troubles. Now that the moment had passed, Stacy had revived loyalty to her job and her employers. She was in it, all the way, and she’d win big. Huge. Money and glory and, one day, in the not-too-distant future, she’d rest on top of a mountain of $100 bills. And wouldn’t that be just grand?

Her fearless leader continued. “I want every person not working on product production to help Stacy with marketing and promotion,” she directed. “We need deals, deals, deals, publicity, cross - promotions. Stanley and I have outlined an attack plan, and smut.com is going to give us a one - hundred - thousand - dollar launch party, his models serving drinks, outfitted in our designs. No tech or business journalist will miss it. We could throw the Silicon Alley party of the decade. And that’s just the beginning. Now, have another drink, eat a muffin, and get right back to work. Janice, in my office. Stacy, twenty minutes.”

“Here we go again,” Stacy said. With renewed vigor, she went back to her desk to collect her thoughts and notes. At no point in the next month, Stacy knew, would she breathe air that wasn’t inside her office, the subway or her lonely bedroom. The quest was over, for now. Sex would have to wait.

Her phone was ringing as she stepped into her glorified cubicle. Assuming the caller was Charlie requiring further contrition, she grabbed the receiver and said, “I can’t express how sorry I am — again.”

“At least you can admit you’re at fault,” said the male voice that was far too nasal to belong to Charlie. “I haven’t been paid by thongs.com since May. You owe me over seventy thousand dollars, which, I’m afraid, I’m never going to get. I refuse to be ripped off by a bunch of females.”

“Harry?” asked Stacy.

“How many other people are owed seventy thousand?” he asked.

Stacy didn’t dare guess. “We’ve just had a large cash infusion,” she said to Harry Watuba, president of Bolt Fabrics, the supplier thongs.com used for all its product. “I can personally assure you that we’ll will cut you a check today.”

“You’ll do more than that, Ms. Temple. You’re going to personally deliver the check, and personally stand next to me at the bank while I deposit the check, and personally take me back to your office if the check bounces. And if I don’t get what’s owed to me, you will personally escort me back to my warehouse where I can shove three thousand bolts of nylon mesh up your ass.”

“Are you flirting with me?” she asked.

“You’ve got one hour,” he said, and hung up.

Ordinarily, say, on the street or in a bar, if an angry man threatened to shove anything up Stacy’s ass or other hollow parts, Stacy might have felt a pang of fear. Her otherwise pink cheeks might have gone white as chalk, and depending on what she’d had for dinner, she could easily imagine herself moved to nausea from fright. But Harry Watuba was approximately five feet five inches tall. He couldn’t weigh over 140 pounds. His age was indeterminate, but judging from his gray tufts (over the ears, the rest of his head was blindingly bald), he was at least 58. He smoked heavily. She could take him in a tussle.

Not that she’d have the heart. Harry spent fourteen hours a day sitting behind a coffee- and cigarette-strewn desk in a windowless office at the rear of a drafty warehouse a few blocks south of the Chelsea Piers. When he wasn’t begging for business on the phone, he was screaming at the men who drove Bolt’s fleet of two trucks, carrying fine fabrics from around the world to the farther reaches of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. Nearly every apparel company in New York produced their designs overseas, and Harry had long struggled to hold on to solvency. Fortunately for him, a few politically conscious suckers like thongs.com, who outsourced manufacturing to a “sweatshop” in Trenton (union-run: bathroom breaks every ten minutes, coffee breaks five times a day, and one sick day per month) kept Bolt in the black. But not, of course, if bills went unpaid. Harry had to spend at least a few hours per day chasing money. When the economy was good, Harry made out. When it turned bad, he took a beating. In July 1999, he was hanging on with both thumbs, to the edge.

And he was alone. Harry’s wife left him three years ago because she couldn’t handle the stress. Wisely (for her), she’d socked away some money in preparation for her move. She’d been planning it for years, and had saved enough to hire a vicious bastard of a divorce lawyer, who wrung every last drop out of poor Harry’s pockets. He was forced to move into an inferior studio apartment in Clinton Hill, the up - and - coming - but - never - quite - getting - there neighborhood north of Hell’s Kitchen. Stacy had heard that Harry spent several nights a week in his windowless warehouse office, a block from the Helicopter Tours launchpad on the lip of the Hudson River, just to avoid his studio’s oppressive four walls.

Stacy had met him only once after his initial handshaking business lunch with Fiona, just over a year ago. Since then, Fiona hadn’t spoken a word to him. He’d barely spoken a friendly word to Stacy in six months, around the time thongs.com’s second wave of financing fell flat. Harry and his weekly phone tirades had been Stacy’s sole responsibility. She’d figured out how to handle him, though. Let him rant for five or ten minutes until he got tired and 1) needed to use the bathroom, or 2) paused to take his medication. Then she’d make lilting assurances he’d so desperately want to believe about delivery dates and deadlines. She’d get off the phone and do her best to honor her promises.

And she intended to honor the one she’d just made. She went to Fiona’s office and explained the crisis. Stacy was able to extract a check from Fiona for $25,000. Swearing she’d be back in no time, Stacy took a cab to 20th Street and 11th Avenue.