Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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I'm hungover for my first day of work. Hungover! I'm the girl who used to show up to class ten minutes early so I could organize my pens before the lecture began. The girl who color-coordinated her notes. How did I end up here?

 

 

My head is pounding and there is only one thing I can think about, my sweet release from this misery—coffee. I've spent the past hour in a no food, no drink new employee orientation, and as I make my way to the elevator with the rest of the horde, all I can think is that this city is truly out to get me.

I passed five coffee shops on my way to work. Five! Could I stop and buy anything? No, of course not. Why you ask? Let me explain.

The plan this morning? Wake up early. Take a shower. Eat a nutritious breakfast. Brew a cup of coffee to go. Pick out a fabulous outfit. Leave the apartment with twenty minutes to spare just in case my commute went awry.

The reality? Roll out of bed after pressing the snooze button three times. Chug a gallon of water. Realize you now feel bloated and your headache hasn't dissipated at all. Splash water on your face when you look at the time and realize you are already five minutes late. Throw on the first thing you find. Grab a handful of pretzels from the open bag on the counter, quickly realize they're stale…eat them anyway. Run down the streets like a maniac until you get on the subway. Notice you are sweating profusely. Cry inside because you can't do anything about it.

Yup. That about explains my morning.

And now, I'm waiting on the elevator, creepily stalking the wondrously delicious smelling cups in other people's hands. A gentle waft of mocha teases my nose. Then a hint of vanilla. Is that caramel?

I lean in.

Oh god, yes it is.

I want one.

So much.

When the door opens, I flinch, pulled from my cravings just in time. It’s my floor.

"Excuse me," I mumble as I squeeze through people, wincing when the full force of the newsroom's fluorescent lighting hits my fragile eyes.

It’s going to be a very long day.

My gaze slides longingly to my former home—a cubicle in the far corner of the room, barely visible behind the mounds of books piled around it. The shelf against the wall is overflowing, and I itch to open the packages resting unopened on the floor, wondering what new books were sent in for review. The seat is open, waiting for me. And I almost give in, running as fast as my feet will take me to where I know I belong.

But I can't.

Instead, I tear my eyes away and look in the opposite direction to the lifestyle section. The wall is covered in fashion spreads, the latest looks from the runway. And next to them is the bright red door—the one the rest of the women in the office talk about only in hushed voices—the fashion closet. There are office legends about what sorts of designer items wait behind that door. And the closer and closer I walk, the more and more I feel as though I've stepped into some sort of alternate newsroom universe. Everyone here is a woman. Everyone is uniquely beautiful. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. And the clothes…

My breath catches, looking around. There are no muted colors to be found. I could be naked and be less out of place here than I am now in my navy suit and white button down shirt. I see neon yellow pants, an evergreen jacket complete with magenta cuffs, a bright blue dress under an oversized cable-knit sweater—and is that a jumpsuit? Prints and bold colors surround me. One girl is wearing a bright red and pink polka-dotted blouse paired with an orange beaded necklace—and it actually looks good!

I stop in the middle of the hallway, unable to move any closer as my eyes sink lower and lower, dread mounting. And yes. There they are. Heels. A sea of them. And not comfortable heels, as if such a thing really exists, but four-inch stilettos that give me vertigo just looking at them. The longer I stare the dizzier I become.

Will I have to wear those?

My toes ache, crying out—no, no, don’t do that to us!

I lean against the wall, off-balance in my plain nude flats. Suddenly the room is spinning. Or am I spinning?

I need coffee.

No, I need a brain-transplant.

Okay, that might be a little drastic, but I need something and fast, because there is no way I'll ever be able to fit in here. Ever.

"Skylar?" a voice calls.

I swallow my terror and turn toward the sound. An office door is open, and waiting just inside is the woman I can only assume is my new boss.

"Good morning," I manage to say in a surprisingly strong voice.

"Skylar, come in." She stands, walking over to greet me. "How was orientation? Let's talk before I show you where your desk is."

All I can do is nod dumbly as she leads me inside.

"I'm Victoria Neives," she says after sitting down and folding her hands on top of her amazingly neat desk. "I first want to apologize for how unorthodox this whole situation was. Normally, we would have met at the interview and you would have had a few days to adjust to the whole idea of working here, but you came so highly recommended that I decided to act fast."

Ooh, highly recommended? I like the sound of that, so I sit up a little higher and smile. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she replies, leaning back in her chair, looking at me with a somewhat sorry expression.

Oh god, am I getting fired? After only an hour? That's got to be a record or something. But they wouldn’t. Not yet. Not before I've even had a chance.

"You've probably noticed that you're not the typical girl we might hire for the style section…"

Crap! I am getting fired.

I nod politely, trying to keep my jaw from dropping too noticeably while I search for a solution. Is it the heels? I'll wear the heels, I swear. Or the color thing? I can buy a neon blouse. Okay, maybe not neon exactly, but something not black or tan or navy. I can be fun. I am fun.

"But that's the exact reason we hired you. You’re a normal, everyday girl. Not a socialite. Not a model. Not a fashionista. Just an average girl."

Okay…so I'm not fired.

I'm average, normal, and not at all unique or special in any way, but I'm not fired. That's good…right? In a backhanded, no I'm not going to go cry in the bathroom I swear, sort of way?

"The newspaper thought that the lifestyle section was getting too lofty, too untouchable. Everything was celebrity parties, high society, couture fashion, and they don’t want to change that. After all, people love to live vicariously. But market research showed that we were losing touch with younger demographics, women your age who have become used to finding all of this and more online. So they wanted us to bring something new to the mix, a human-interest angle that would hook a younger market and perhaps pull on the nostalgia of our older readers. And that's when we came up with the idea of your column—a small snippet each week about the sex and dating life of your everyday, college graduate. Something every woman could relate to. And we chose you because you were already working for the paper, the book editors couldn't stop raving about how wonderful your writing was, and the few pieces I did read were witty, funny, and the exact sort of thing our section needs."

Is it actually possible to be stunned speechless? Because I think I am. She likes my writing? She read my writing? She picked me because of my writing?

But Victoria presses on, unaware of my barely contained glee. "You'll have the normal duties of an assistant of course, copyediting, managing the databases, updating the calendars, filing event invitations, communicating with our freelancers, writing a few articles for the online site, but the other girls can help you get acquainted with that."

"Other girls?" I ask, finally finding my voice.

"Oh, silly me." Victoria stands, utterly graceful. "Let me introduce you to the other assistants."

I scramble to follow, the ugly duckling to her swan. I can't help but make the comparison—she's even wearing a cream suit, one that looks absolutely regal and stunning, especially against her dark skin. But it's more than just the clothes. It's everything. The tilt of her head—raised just enough to look down on everyone else. The curve of her spine—long and lean, especially on her five-foot-ten-size-zero frame. The bounce in her step, as though the entire world is her runway.

I, on the other hand, am hunched over, wide-eyed, hugging my purse for dear life as though I'm venturing into the wilds of the Amazon and not a corporate office. But really, it might as well be. Somehow, I just know I'm about to be fed to the sharks. Well, if it’s the Amazon, more like being fed to the crocodiles, right? Or the…what do they have down there?

Stay focused.

I look up just in time to see three other girls lift their heads in unison, as though they have a sixth sense and know where Victoria is at all times. And maybe they do…there's a sort of superhuman air about them.

"Victoria."

"Victoria."

"Victoria."

They all chorus in the same high-pitched, pleasant voice that hovers somewhere between earnestness and insincerity. I need to learn that voice. It says, yes, you interrupted me and yes, I don't feel like speaking to you right now, but hello, good morning, you are fabulous, and I am your servant. And then they all dip their heads to the side and smile the same inquiring smile, waiting patiently for Victoria to keep speaking.

They can't be human can they? Highly advanced robots? Clones? Aliens who have snuck their way into society, waiting until the day the mother ship returns to finally take over the world?

The last one.

Definitely the last one.

I read too much.

"Ladies, this is the new assistant, Skylar Quinn," Victoria says, moving to the side so I'm no longer hidden behind her. I keep my feet in place, trying my best not to cower as their eyes dip to my completely unfashionable outfit and then lift to my almost makeup free face. At least I don't wear glasses. Then I really would be a walking cliché.

But to my amazement, their smiles don't waver. They don't even flinch. They hold still, steady, faces warm and inviting.

Robots…maybe they’re robots.

"Hi, I'm Isabel." One girl steps forward and offers her hand, which I shake hesitantly, somewhat afraid to squeeze too hard and break the fragile bones in her fingers. Something about her seems familiar…and then I realize she looks just like Victoria. Same build, same deep brown eyes, same wavy brown hair.

"I'm Blythe," the next girl says. I shake her hand with a little more force and a little more fear. She's Upper East Side Barbie, with that same sort of air about her that the cheerleaders had in high school. What did it say again? Oh yeah—I remember now. I'm better than you, you are the dirt beneath my feet, worship me. And the longer I meet Blythe's eyes, the smaller I seem to feel.

So I look away, to the third and final girl.

"I'm Rebecca," she says, not offering her hand, but something about her seems a little more down to earth. I don't have time to figure out what that is though, because she turns away from me and looks at Victoria. "Are we still having the weekly meeting? It's almost ten. I'd be happy to print out the agenda."

"Yes, thank you, Rebecca. Please print an extra copy for Skylar. I'll take her to the conference room now."

And then we're off, walking the opposite direction back down the hall toward a glass-encased space at the other end of the newsroom. Finally somewhere familiar—somewhere I've been before.

The conference room.

And there's a coffee machine right outside.

Come to mama.

But as we approach, Victoria leans in, whispering to me. "Now do you see what I mean? We need you, the average girl, something this office is sorely lacking. Isabel, you probably noticed the resemblance, is my niece and her father is one of the wealthiest men in the Dominican. Have you ever heard of Casa de Campo? They own three waterfront homes there. She was a model for a while, but wanted a more stable life so I found her a position working for me. Blythe, on the other hand, grew up in a brownstone across from the Met. Her parents are big donors and she gets invitations to all of the major parties, the perfect socialite to keep us up-to-date with the Manhattan scene. And then, Rebecca, of course. Her father is a famous designer. She's the darling of New York Fashion Week."

Her next words remain unspoken, but I hear them anyway. And then there's me…totally normal, totally insignificant me.

Yeah, I'm starting to get the message.

But I just smile and nod, trying to copy the robotic movements of the assistants we left behind. I end up with a stiff neck and an uncontrollable twitch.

I'll work on it.

As we round the last corner of desks, I see it. The coffee machine—and not just any old machine, but the fancy one. I could get a vanilla latte. A mocha. A vanilla mocha. A double espresso with hazelnut. A cappuccino. A—

"Would you like some coffee before we head into the meeting?"

Oh god, was I salivating? I swallow, licking my lips and feeling for drool. None. I breathe a sigh of complete relief.

Be cool…just be cool. "Yes, thank you."

"I'll meet you inside."

Nailed it.

And for a few minutes, I can actually breathe. Even just the smell of coffee has alleviated the pressure in my skull. Against the muffled roar of the newsroom, I experience a moment of complete peace, telling myself over and over—you have a job, a real job, as a real reporter. This is your dream and you have it.

But then the rest of the lifestyle team rounds the corner, a rainbow that's shockingly bright against the gentle storm cloud gray of the rest of the room, and my bubble shatters. I hastily click the button for a vanilla latte and follow the group inside. The click of a closing door has never sounded quite so ominous.

Victoria sits at the head of the table, queen of the court with her hands folded on the tabletop. There are about twelve other people in the room, the assistants I met as well as some editors I haven't been introduced to yet. And I realize I was wrong about one thing—there is one man on the style team, and I think he's wearing pants that are tighter than any article of clothing I own.

Just as I'm finally about to take a glorious sip of coffee, Victoria begins the meeting, and I know what's probably first on the agenda—me. The stranger in the corner hunched over her mug, completely out of place—the one getting baffled, curious looks from half the people in the room.

"Welcome, everyone. I have some really wonderful news today. We hired a new assistant. Skylar, introduce yourself to the group."

Eyes widen. Jaws minutely drop. And about a dozen gazes scan my body, judging the stuffy conservative suit, the button down, the barren face, the un-manicured nails, the barely brushed, let alone styled hair, the lack of jewelry—well, I have on gold studs, but that's practically nothing.

For a moment, I'm thrown into that nightmare every kid has growing up, that one where you show up to school and walk into class completely and utterly naked. Everyone is pointing and laughing, and you're horrified, unable to move, wondering how in the world did your mother let you out of the house nude? But then you wake up and relief washes over your body because, thank goodness, it was just a dream.

Yeah, I sort of feel like that. Except I'm awake. I think…

I pinch myself, hoping to come to in my tiny bedroom.

No such luck. Definitely awake.

I cough, clearing my throat and searching for my voice—which I'm pretty sure is burned out from screaming like a little girl in the back of my mind. "Hi, I'm Skylar Quinn, the new editorial assistant. I just graduated this past May, and I've been interning for the arts and literature team, specifically for the book review, for the past three months. And, um, today is my first day."

As soon as I say book review, they all knowingly nod. Not in an obvious way, but when twelve people do it, it's sort of easy to notice.

"And, tell them about your vision for the column," Victoria says encouragingly. "We spoke about it at some senior meetings, but I'd like the team to hear your plans."

I sort of want to hug her. But I won’t. Especially because a tingle of jealousy has tightened the air, shifting the mood in the room. I look to my left at the three assistants now straining to hold their smiles in place.

"Um…" I trail off. I didn’t even know about the column until yesterday—was I supposed to come up with a game plan overnight? Think, Skylar, think. Pulling crap out of thin air is what writers are born to do. "Well, as Victoria and I discussed, I want to make the column as approachable and entertaining as possible, to hopefully bring a new demographic and new readers to the newspaper, so I was thinking…" Come on! Words, say words. "Well, lots of girls my age," and by that I mean me, "don't actually feel that comfortable talking about sex, or reading about sex…" Or, you know, actually having sex… "So I thought this column could be more about the dating life of the average young professional woman. The trials and tribulations, various dating failures, the few successes, sort of entertaining experiences that every girl or woman can relate to."

Well, that actually sounded pretty great if I do say so myself. But there's stillness in the air, as though everyone is in on something I'm missing.

"But, there will be some sex, right?" one of the editors finally asks.

They're staring, so I try to play it cool, looking down at my notebook while I swallow my hysteria. "Oh, sure, I mean, what’s the dating life of the average young professional without some sex?"

Not this average young professional, of course, the one you sort of hired to write about it. But lots of others I'm sure.

I chance a peek, scanning the group for a reaction.

They're nodding. They're smiling.

I might actually pull this off!

"And what’s your idea for the first column. If you're ready, we’d like to go to print with the launch next week."

I say the first thing that comes to mind. "What to do if you're crushing on the guy you live with?"

Wait, what?

No!

No!

Abort. I can’t write about that. Bridget will read this. Ollie might even read this. Say something else, quick.

"Or, um," I press forward before they get too attached to the idea, "I mean, what to do if you're crushing on the guy who lives next door or in your building. Like me, for example, there's this guy who I see every morning, in the, um, elevator. Yeah, the elevator. I can experiment with flirting, trying to get him to ask me out, that sort of thing and then write about how it goes."

My first professional lie, and it’s not even noon. That has to be a record.

"Well, that's not that difficult," Blythe chips in from the corner, smile way too kind to be sincere. "My neighbor asked me out on the elevator just this morning. I didn’t even have to do anything."

Well, good for you.

"That is so funny. I just got asked out by a guy in my building too," Rebecca chimes in, but her tone actually does sound genuine. Aloof maybe, but genuine. "I was doing laundry over the weekend at the same time as this guy in my building, and when I went to get my clothes from the dryer, there was a Post-it note waiting with his phone number on it."

Who are these girls? I haven’t been asked out since college. And really, that was only my ex John. And, well, if I'm being totally honest I wasn't so much asked out on a date. It was more of a drunken mutual attraction that happened to turn into a relationship that happened to last right until the end of my senior year.

Can I just bury myself now?

But Victoria leans in, excited. "I love it, Skylar. The idea is already resonating with girls your age. Go for it, and I expect a first draft on my desk by Friday. Now, Alexandra, where are we on the new designer previews?"

I'm dismissed. And I can't reach for my coffee fast enough.

Yum.

Still delicious.

I sink back in my chair as the meeting continues in what I can only describe as a foreign language. This—insert name I don't recognize—is a new—insert name I don't recognize. And she—insert name—is just like a new age—insert name—totally reminiscent of—insert name.

And so on, and so forth, until my hand cramps from taking so many notes on people I need to research just to be able to grasp a basic understanding of what is going on for next week's meeting. But it does give me another great idea for a column.

A new age love story—how the modern woman and her café latte defied the odds and managed to survive in the wilds of a hostile work environment.

They’ll love it.

Not.