The Accidental Virgin (16 page)

She did like beer in July! She didn’t think he was an alcoholic. He hasn’t fabricated the connection. And she was attracted to him, too! Heart still thumping like a rabbit, Stacy grabbed the bottle and raced back down the steps. She knocked loudly on 4C’s door. Nothing.

Damn. It. But underneath the frustration, Stacy was in love with these little notes. She felt attended to. Like she and Vampire Boy had a secret life, a shadow life, conducted on pink and white paper. She
had
been rewarded for turning down Jorge. Just look at this bottle of beer in her hand. Proof that Vampire Boy existed. He’d left her a gift. And one of these days, they would meet and talk to each other. And it would be perfect.

Life was not worth living without sex and love. If you weren’t in a relationship, or pursuing one, you were off track. That was what Gigi XXX had written. Vampire Boy’s note — a rambling, self-conscious spill — and the swell of excitement in her blood made Stacy wonder if Gigi was right.

Stacy searched in her bag for her pad of pink paper. She wrote:

She slipped the note under Vampire Boy’s door.

Saturday afternoon

F
iona was disappointed and hurt. In her exact words, she said, “I’m disappointed and hurt. I gave you Jorge like a present with a bow. And you blew it. That’s not the Stacy Temple I’ve grown to respect and admire. That’s not the woman I see as my protégé, my grasshopper. And the worst thing is, now I wonder about you, Stacy. How on earth could you walk away from spending a night — no strings attached — with gorgeous Jorge? Please explain it to me, because I need to know.”

The Dark Lady — living up to her nickname in black vinyl today (vinyl may have passed its prime several years ago, and it was 95 degrees in the shade of a No Parking sign, but Fiona was a flawed fashion force that couldn’t be stopped, come hell or haute water) — had already spent the bulk of her morning telling anyone who’d listen about yesterday’s dual triumphs: Credit Suisse and a large man with a big “Finnish.” Only Stacy knew the truth, that her boss had paid a fortune for her sham of a foreigner.

Clearly, Fiona thought paying for sex — and having a bang-up time — was just as satisfying as seducing a man on one’s own power. Stacy believed that a steady diet of sex for money would lead to a horrible mass of twisted morals and the inevitable erosion of self-worth. If she vocalized her theory, Fiona would call her a blasphemer and Stacy would be fired on the spot. In this office, where the personal (or, precisely, the intimates) were professional, questioning the practices of the boss was strictly forbidden. So Stacy laid low, busied herself with endless tasks and phone calls, and tried to avoid Fiona.

But she couldn’t steer clear for long. Shortly after lunch, Stacy was summoned to Fiona’s office to receive the “I’m hurt” speech. And now, as Fiona tapped her sharpened nails on the marble top of her desk, Stacy concocted an answer that would be pleasing to her boss, without compromising her own morals.

“I was scared,” she said. “Dearly tempted, and grateful for the opportunity. God knows I need all the help I can get. But when push came to shove, as it were, if I may, I chickened out.”

“You weren’t scared, Stacy.”

“I was terrified.”

Fiona smiled wickedly. “Guess how old I am.”

Stacy didn’t dare. “Thirty-nine?” she asked.

“Oh, come on, Stacy,” said Fiona. “Take a real guess. Go ahead. I want you to.”

“Forty-two?”

“Way off.”

“Forty-five?”

“I’m fifty-seven. And I know that look in your eye, Stacy. You were afraid to guess my age because you didn’t want to offend me. And you’re scared to admit that paying for sex is distasteful to you. And that I may be a monster for doing it so easily. Jorge didn’t frighten you at all. I’m the one who terrifies you.”

Stacy fumbled. “No, he was very scary. Big and menacing and he had a very frightful price list.”

Meanwhile, Stacy thought, even in her mad brain scramble,
Fiona is 57???
That was Stacy’s mother’s age (well, Belinda was 60, but close). How could a woman her mother’s age dress in vinyl and screw whores?

Fiona said, “I’m going to explain to you why a woman my age wears vinyl and screws whores.”

Stacy said, “You don’t have to.”

“That’s just it, Stacy. I don’t have to do anything. I put myself above judgment because I have absolute clarity. The older I get, the more I’m sure: An active sex life is the key to happiness. When you’re a sexual animal, you are fully functional of mind, body, spirit. If you are asexual, all areas of life run below par. For me to be a complete woman, I must be as sexually active as possible.” By this math, Stacy, in her sexually inactive incompleteness, was nothing but a pinkie toe.

“And here’s the part I’ve learned from men,” Fiona continued. “Romantic relationships force you to compromise your vision, ideas, creativity, and accomplishments. Look at Janice. She limps through each day, desperate to make a romantic connection. If she let go of her ideals, she’d be a genius. A force. An inspiration.”

Life without love may leave room for other things. But surely, love inspires. Is a force in and of itself. Stacy said, “When Janice
does
find love…”

“Like that’ll ever happen. Janice called in sick this morning. She must have had a disastrous date with that Internet lawyer, and now she can’t face herself or her colleagues. For all I know, she’s slashing her wrists.”

Stacy bit her lip. She could only imagine the horror of Janice’s date last night, only adding to her depression about turning 50. Stacy would pay her a visit later in the afternoon. Bring her some cookies. See if she could cheer her up. Would Janice attempt suicide? Stacy couldn’t believe it.

Neither did Fiona. She said, “I’m kidding, of course. Janice would never do anything that stupid. Besides, she’s used to having bad dates by now. In fact, one could argue that she keeps going out with lousy men because she wants to be disappointed. This is her way of avoiding the relationship she’s been socially conditioned to believe she’s always wanted.”

That was logic Stacy had used on herself.

Fiona continued, “So tell me the truth: Do you really think that Janice is going to find what she says she’s looking for?”

“No, Fiona. I don’t.”

“I agree. I’ve had my share of relationships, and they’ve all ended the same way. When I hit forty, I decided to make a change. The cycle of expectation and disappointment would end. I’d feed my body the sex it needs, and I’d avoid emotional attachments. And, in the seventeen years since then, I’ve made millions of dollars, become famous, created a life of luxury and privilege, and have been very happy.”

“Not lonely?” asked Stacy, venturing into land strewn with mines.

“Do you think I’m lonely?” she asked.

With that one arched eyebrow and the half-smile, Fiona seemed the picture of smug contentment. Stacy searched underneath her boss’s surgically smoothed face to find a hint of loneliness or desperation or even the faintest wrinkle of regret about her choices. Nothing. Fiona was a marvel. She may be the first, and only, woman in New York with no worries. Except for one.

“You might feel lonely if thongs.com doesn’t make it,” said Stacy.

A glint of anger crept across Fiona’s eyes, darkening them. She said, “If thongs.com goes under, I’ll find something else. And, Stacy, so will you. You’ll react exactly as I will, because you’re just like me. And let’s cut even closer to the bone. The reason you walked out on Jorge wasn’t fear at all. It was money. You didn’t want to spend the money. That’s exactly what happened to me the first time I was with an escort. After a day or two to think about it, I decided he’d be worth the cost. So I called him back.”

Fiona dipped her hand into the super slim top drawer of her desk. She found a green slip of paper, a check, and pushed it across the tabletop toward Stacy.

Stacy picked it up and read the amount. “Two thousand dollars.”

“Made out to you,” said Fiona. “I’ve always felt a kindred spirit in you, Stacy. I look at you and see myself at your age. I think we can have a long friendship and business partnership. I’ll need someone like you for my next move. And, just between you and me, it’s a biggie. I can’t say more at this point. But I need to know we’re on the same page first. You took Jorge’s phone number. Use it. And then, once you have, we can talk about what comes next.”

Stacy thanked her boss and left the office with the check. She couldn’t quite believe what had just gone down. Was Fiona really saying that unless Stacy used a male hooker, she has no place in her inner business circle? There had to be some form of sexual harassment in that equation. Fiona had been only half right. Stacy had been tempted by the sex Jorge offered. Sorely tempted (she’d been feeling the sore point keenly since she’d left the hotel room last night). The money
had
been a factor in her refusal. But there were other factors at work, too, that would prevent Stacy from paying for sex whether she could afford it or not. She’d rather pick up some loser with no sexual experience in a bar than pay a gorgeous erotically trained and talented escort in a glorious hotel room. No, that didn’t make much sense. She’d rather pass on both, which might help explain why she’d been inactive all this time.

Back in her office, she felt an acute need to touch base with someone who actually had a heart. She started to call her mother’s number, but reconsidered (she had only half a heart). Instead, she dialed Janice’s home phone. The machine picked up. If Janice were sick, wouldn’t she answer the phone? If she’d done something terrible to herself, say, if she were lying, veins open, in a bath of her own blood, grabbing the phone would be impossible. Or if she were extremely depressed, she couldn’t lift her hand to cradle the receiver. Stacy had to check on her. She had to make sure Janice was okay. Without alerting the authorities of her whereabouts, Stacy grabbed her red leather tote from Prada, and took a taxi to Greenwich Village.

Janice lived on Fifth Avenue, right on the edge of Washington Square Park. Her building, an early 1950s deco triumph, had official New York City landmark status. This meant that the edifice couldn’t be torn down for new construction, and that any modifications on the facade had to be approved by the Landmarks Preservation Commission (which, famously, never agreed to any changes on their designated buildings — even inarguable improvements). Janice had been fortunate enough (insanely fortunate), to inherit her “classic six” apartment (two baths, three bedrooms) from her ex-husband’s dead grandmother. The old woman, who died about 20 years ago, left the cooperative apartment to Janice and her children, not even including her grandson’s name in her will. Since Janice was still married at the time, and New York is a community property state, it took some legal wrangling and outright begging to convince her husband to let her keep the apartment during the divorce settlement. She wisely gave him everything they had — their car, the stocks, their savings, even pieces of family jewelry, and an additional $50,000 in cash (payable over five years), to be sole owner of the co-op, valued in 1984 at $200,000. Here in 1999, she could sell it in approximately five minutes for $2 million. Janice, ergo, was never too concerned about money.

Stacy parted the building’s metal doors and walked into the lobby, checking her appearance in the beveled glass mirrors. The doorman smiled as Stacy approached. She’d been to Janice’s building dozens of times, dropping off paperwork, attending thongs.com parties. Stacy’s own apartment in SoHo was an easy walk away. The doorman was at least 70, had been working behind that same desk for the last 40 years. He was a sweet, old man who provided zero protection to the building’s inhabitants. But in this city, where the doorman’s union was more powerful than the board of education, his tenure was written in stone (which is how things were written back in his day). He told Stacy that Ms. Strumph was at home. He asked if Stacy wanted him to call her. Stacy told him that she was paying a surprise visit and that she’d just go up and knock.

If Stacy had a doorman (she didn’t), and he let anyone, even someone she knew well who was not a threat to her personal safety, ascend to her apartment without warning, she’d be livid. But Janice was far more forgiving than Stacy would ever be, and Stacy didn’t want to risk Janice’s instructing the doorman to send her away. A surprise might be the only way to keep Janice from getting into the tub, a plugged-in hair dryer in one hand and a razor blade in the other.

Janice lived on the eighth floor. Stacy knocked on her door softly. No response. She knocked harder. Still nothing. The fear that Janice might have done herself harm inched up Stacy’s spine, and she used the blast of panic to pound with both fists on Janice’s door, screaming her name.

That brought a response. Janice, tiny and sleepy eyed, her hair wet and curly, opened the door.

“Stacy?” she asked, surprised. Janice was wrapped in a white towel. With streaming white scarves tied around each wrist! As tourniquets? Was she trying to make the veins pop to better her aim? Or had she already made the first cuts?

“I knew it!” screamed Stacy. “Let me in. Where’s the razor? You can’t kill yourself, Janice. You’re loved. I love you. Your children love you.” Stacy pushed past her boss and ran into the apartment. She nearly tripped on the Kilim rug in the hall, stumbling into the Queen Anne sideboard, rattling the china. Once she’d righted herself, she ran into Janice’s bedroom (the pink toile everywhere — the walls, the bed, the curtains — was always a shock). The door to the master bath was closed. Janice had tried to hide the accessories of suicide, no doubt. Stacy would find the straight razor and destroy it. Or empty the tub so Janice couldn’t electrocute herself.

She threw open the door. Her eyes immediately went to the porcelain pedestal sink where she’d assumed she’d find a blade, already ruddy-edged and sticky with human blood. Nothing there. And then, Stacy caught the creepy feeling of another presence in the room. She froze in place. Then slowly, she turned around to face the tub. Behind the steamy shower door, movement. Stacy grabbed hold of the silver handle and pulled it open.

A man. A full head of gray hair on top of a slim, WASPy face. He had a decent body for his middle age. Flat tummy, long legs, with a flaccid (but long) cock and a puckered scrotum. He yelped first, then collected himself enough (but couldn’t cover himself) to say, “Excuse me, madam, would you mind closing the door?” But Stacy couldn’t move, her mind still processing the information. His arms were raised over his head, his wrists bound to the showerhead with a white scarf.

Stacy, now secure in the belief that Janice wasn’t going to off herself anytime soon, shut the shower door. Mutely, she walked out of the bathroom and into Janice’s assault-of-toile bedroom. Her sous-boss was sitting on the edge of her bed, smiling (proudly? coyly?) and patting the spot next to her.

Taking the seat, Stacy said, “He called me ‘madam.’ ”

“He’s very formal,” said Janice.

“Yes, I could see that,” said Stacy. “If I start apologizing now, is there a chance you’ll forgive me by two thousand four?”