Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  Should she? If nothing else, it would please Mariah. It would take a few short seconds to draft an email telling the young woman she changed her mind.

  Letting the letter fall to the desk, she rested her forehead on her hands. Should she? Or shouldn’t she? It was her career at stake, her book, her reputation–her train of thought rumbled on as her fingers fumbled with the tape holding the paper around a package.

  “Livvy, what are you doing?” She felt Henry's hand snatch the package away from her. “You really shouldn’t open those things, no telling what’s inside.”

  “Of course not; you’re right,” she answered, rubbing her forehead. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  He tossed it into the garbage. “Are you quite sure everything’s all right?” he asked, frowning as he stared at her.

  “Just fine,” she answered. “Just fine.” As she reached for a pink and white striped envelope in the pile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dear Miss Darcy: I’m pretty sure that Miss Cottingley’s ex is also MY ex–he took me to an opera on our first real date; on our last one, he forgot and left me on a bus bench after dinner at a pirate-themed family restaurant. Which was for the best, probably, since he was still steamed at me over the whole waiter-and-wine incident ...

  “He just got bored with me,” said Marie Lewis. She shrugged her shoulders.

  Miss Darcy’s brow furrowed. “In what way?” she asked. She tapped her pencil against her pad. “Is there a specific instance, perhaps? An example of his so-called ‘boredom’?” She flashed a sympathetic smile at her companion.

  The appeal of Miss Lewis was not obvious at first glance. Short and plain, a thick middle evident beneath her green sweater. Her smile a flutter of nervousness, all tooth in one moment, gone in a quiver the next. The only evidence of her seemingly successful profession was a vibrant social calendar marked with upper-crust names and charitable organizations. Pages printed with pictures of Persian cats.

  Miss Lewis’s kitchen was crammed with a collection of cat clocks. Their incessant ticking was out of sync, punctuated occasionally by the vibrant humming of an avocado refrigerator. From its handle hung a dishtowel printed with cats; cats adorned the two coffee mugs Miss Lewis placed before them.

  “Well, he just stopped being interested in me. After the roses and restaurants stint, he tried to make me happy. He bought me the clock right over there.” She pointed towards a gray cat clock with swiveling eyes and whiskers.

  “But then it went downhill. First it was the cat show–he promised to go, but canceled at the last minute. My mum and sis were both disappointed. They were quite eager to meet him. She took a sip of her coffee. “After that, it was like it didn’t matter if he saw me in person; he just logged his relationship quota for the week with something he thought I'd fancy.”

  “So he didn’t actually go anywhere with you after that?” said Miss Darcy.

  Marie shook her head. “He went to a movie with me once,” she answered. “He promised to go to a couple of other things, but just didn’t make it. Work and the like.” She poured a generous spoonful of sugar into Miss Darcy’s cup without asking her preferences.

  “Didn’t his personal charm make up for it?” asked Miss Darcy, propping her chin on her hands.

  Marie smirked. “You mean his fame and money?” she corrected. “Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that he didn’t have a nice smile ... and our first date was pleasant enough...”

  She trailed off momentarily, before beginning again. “It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what was wrong. He was trying too hard to make me like him, then he wasn’t trying hard enough. He seemed really attracted to me, then he began to disappear.”

  Her expression shifted as her mind wandered to another memory. “Maybe it was because I told him I was rather sick of seeing Cats after he got the tickets,” she mused. "The musical," she added, after a moment's pause.

  “Were you surprised when he broke up with you?” Olivia asked.

  For a moment, Marie looked confused. “Broke up with me?” she answered. “No ... I mean, we never actually broke up. I just didn’t return his call when he left a message on my machine apologizing for the way he stormed out of the coffee shop.”

  “He left you in a coffee shop?” Olivia’s pencil made great strides at this point. “In public?”

  “He did,” Marie said. “It was after I laughed at his coffee combo on the menu–the one he thought up for some contest they had. He was so proud of it and it was so stupid.” She poured a generous layer of milk into her coffee. "Rather sulky of him to take it so hard, I thought."

  “Cream?” she asked. Olivia tucked the pencil into her notebook.

  “No thanks,” she answered. “I really must be going. But if I use your story–anonymously, of course–in the book, I’ll let you know.” With one last glance at the wall of ticking cats, she rose from the table.

  “Well, then.” Marie gave her a polite smile. “Good luck with your column.”

  Seated on the bus bench, Miss Darcy flipped through the notes. It matched perfectly with the other stories–except for the cats, of course. Mr. Stanley’s pattern remained unchanged from girl to girl. A series of relationships that began with intensity but were later brushed aside, as if his attention was attracted elsewhere.

  Then again, the girls seemed to be the ones who ended the relationship. She underlined Marie’s quote about not returning the phone message. Had Stanley simply not cared? Or was he just too proud to try again?

  Marie herself seemed like an odd choice. Apparently as successful as Angela and Miss Cottingley, with proper connections–but no personal beauty. Hardly the type she thought Stanley would ask for an impromptu evening out or purchase expensive cat paraphernalia to charm her into future dates.

  Sighing, she closed the book and checked her watch. Two hours until she promised to send her next column for review–extra early, by Collins’s orders. Perhaps he was already anticipating a Hartshall Elliot episode in her near future.

  *****

  Dear Readers: As we await the “true” story from Cottingley’s boyfriend, I find myself in something of a dilemma. Do I continue to offer him advice, based on the countless stories I’ve received from other disillusioned “Cottingleys”? Or do I wait for his answer to determine what my final advice will be for a man who seems indifferent to the outcome of his relationships?

  Given the track record of this boyfriend, I have at least one piece of advice to offer: ditch the lavish attention. Who wants to be buried in a sea of red roses? Who needs every date to be the art of showmanship? Cottingley’s ex was a master at picking up girls, but his plans to dazzle fell short when he skipped the personal for the personally-tailored-for-you performances. Snakeskin shoe festival tickets? Or need I say more?

  – Miss Darcy

  “I like it.” Collins tossed the copy into the pile in the print room. “But hurry and flush him out before he sours on your attentions. I don't want to be served with papers over this, you know.” A pointed glance from above the rims of his heavy reading glasses.

  “I’m not going to get burned,” Olivia answered. “He’s almost ready to tell me his side of the story and then I’ll go to print and give readers a sensational ending.” She leaned against the wall, watching as the proof editor double-checked the copies from a nearby desk.

  “Still thinking of your book, eh?” Collins grabbed his cup of coffee from the desk. “Walk and talk, Miss Darcy.” He strolled towards the exit.

  With a sigh, she uncrossed her arms and followed. “Talk about what?”

  “Your promise to Stanley, for starters,” said Collins, making his way down the crowded corridors of the Post, past a news reporter frantically texting someone in the stairwell. “Oh, I know all about it,” he continued. “Mariah spilled the beans inadvertently. By the way, she thinks you’ve gone mad with self-pride on this one.”

  “As soon as Stanley keeps his end of the bargain, I will keep mine,” Olivia answered. “So wh
at if I write a column or two building up to the main event?”

  Collins smirked. “I think you and I both know what you’re doing. If it works, you’ll have a bit of success. If it doesn’t–” He made a slashing gesture along his throat as he climbed the stairs.

  “It won’t happen, you know,” she shouted. Scowling, she pushed the button for the lift.

  Collins’s dire warning stuck with her for the rest of the afternoon, however. Waiting in her future publisher’s office, she scuffed the toe of her high-heeled mule into the carpet as she gazed at the intricate Oriental pattern.

  Unfair, unfair. She was being scrutinized for her part in the feud by the very people who criticized Stanley’s part in the first place. How on earth did she end up the villain in all this?

  “Miss Darcy.” The lizard-pump publisher was back, sliding into the seat across from Olivia. “Marvelous that you could make it today.”

  “Well, I confess to being excited by your call,” Olivia answered. “I assume that you–” Her eye glanced towards the stack of papers in front of her publisher, “–read the rough draft, then?”

  “Rough. Very rough,” the publisher answered. Miss Darcy’s heart plunged in disappointment. “But the concept of advice for avoiding romantic faux pas is full of promise, nonetheless.” Her lips curled into a smile at the sight of Olivia’s relief.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Miss Darcy released a long breath. “So the concept of the romantically-challenged appeals to you? As a larger theme for the book,” she clarified.

  “Do you think we’d be talking anything else right now?” asked her publisher. "Given all the buzz over your tabloid feud with Christopher Stanley.” She dug through the manuscript with speed, despite her pointed red nails. “This section on avoiding crude or tacky dating gestures–that wouldn’t be inspired by the rumors about the jewelry designer and those rhinestone pumps tossed from one of Harrod’s windows, would it?”

  “I really couldn’t say, I’m afraid,” Olivia smiled. Inwardly wondering, rhinestone pumps? Jewelry designer? Clearly there was more than one romantic rumor about Stanley that she had missed.

  “Well, anyway, we absolutely loved the juicy sample case, so to speak.” The lizard-pump publisher’s voice oozed a slick charm.

  “Then I assume we are no longer talking in tentative terms?” Miss Darcy inquired, hopefully.

  “Of course not,” the woman answered. “Here’s my partner now. Tom, you remember Miss Darcy, of course.” The hip assistant editor from before moved from the doorway to a seat on the edge of the desk.

  “I’m sure Liz has told you we’re very excited about your initial draft, Miss Darcy,” he beamed. “So I’m sure it’s no surprise that we’re prepared to make you an offer.”

  “An author’s contract,” simplified his partner. She pulled a sheaf of papers from a drawer and laid them in front of Olivia.

  A thrill passed through Olivia’s body as she stared at the print. A contract for her book. Her name in print on a glossy cover, a flattering photograph on the jacket. Her own little piece of history in the publishing world–shelved far, far away from the illustrious Pride and Prejudice.

  Her fingers trembled as she lifted a pen. “Shall I sign?” she asked, teasingly. Enjoying the sound of casual laughter from her two future publishers at Lionsmane.

  Score one for the modern-day descendants of Darcy–even if it was a mere monetary triumph in comparison to Lizzie's conquest.

  Her second appointment of the day was less pleasant, but far more private. She sat in a metal folding chair, wrapping a gauzy head scarf around her hand for amusement as she waited for the appointed hour. A pair of sunglasses propped on her head constituted the rest of her “discreet disguise” for coming.

  “May I help you, miss?” The agent from Connections Anonymous wore the same tranquil smile as the first time they met.

  “Yes, actually,” she answered. “I’m a client. Here about my profile.”

  “Step inside, please.” The agent closed the door after her. “Now, I must have your username–do you have your card with you?” she enquired. Miss Darcy produced the handwritten version from a hidden pocket in her bag.

  “Yes, let me see...” the agent pulled open a file cabinet, searching through the rows of thick folders.

  “Frankly, I think there must be some sort of error,” Miss Darcy began. “I realize your success rate does not include instant success, but at least one of my dates was with a self-confessed loather of literature. And as for the last one–” her mind flickered to the memory of Henry, “–he was, regrettably, an acquaintance of mine. It was quite awkward.”

  “What an unfortunate coincidence.” The Connections Anonymous agent replied sympathetically. “These things are possible, you understand. Given the nature of secrecy–”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Miss Darcy. “But there must be some sort of ... tweaking you can do. To increase the chances that I would make a match?” Her voice had taken on a slightly pleading tone.

  “We can pare down your options, of course,” the agent said, tapping her fingers against the folder. “It will shrink the pool of matching profiles to a much smaller selection, you realize.”

  “I do,” Olivia answered. “That’s quite all right.” The thought of humiliating herself before a dozen or more potential dates was painful enough. “Perfectly fine with me.”

  “Then we’ll see what we can do.” As she flipped open the massive file on her desk, sending pages of Miss Darcy’s personality fluttering across the surface.

  *****

  “I’m beginning to think you made a mistake in challenging that Elliot bloke in the triumph of your career,” Mariah complained.

  “Will that be all for you?” The waitress shoved a sandwich and crisps across the counter to Miss Darcy.

  “A side of mustard, if you please,” Olivia answered. To Mariah, she added, “Elliot was past his prime, as you well know. And I think you have a bit of cheek in going to Collins and telling him you think I crossed the line.” She rummaged through her handbag for a few coins to pay for her pint.

  “I didn’t tell him,” Mariah groaned. “I told Stacy, who must’ve told him despite her promise that her lips were sealed.” Lowering her voice, she hissed, “Don’t stay mad at me, Livvy. I may be a bit peeved, but I’m not about to stab you in the back with Collins.”

  “Then I trust I have your vote of confidence?” she asked.

  “You’ve got mine,” Henry spoke up. He was pouring hot sauce over a pile of fish and chips.

  “Thank you,” Olivia answered, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Now, you must order a new round to celebrate my book contract.”

  It took a moment for the news to sink in. Mariah let out a little shriek of delight and grabbed her by her shoulders.

  “How could you not tell us?” she squealed. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you ring me the moment you dotted the last ‘i’, Livvy?” She gave Olivia’s shoulders a little shake.

  “Stop it!” Olivia laughed. “I wanted to wait until you were both here and have a proper celebration.” She wrapped her arm around Henry’s shoulders and drew him into a hug.

  “Congrats, Liv,” he said. “Did you ring the folks with your glad tidings yet?”

  “Later,” she answered. “Besides, some of my family might voice a little criticism of a silly love advice book. Much like the disapproval expressed towards my chastisement of Mr. Stanley.” She took a sip from her pint, ignoring Mariah’s eye roll.

  “I’m going to ring up Eddie and have him come ‘round for a celebration,” said Mariah. “We’ll go out in proper style, maybe a steak and the works.” She scrambled from the stool and made her way towards the pay phone corner.

  The waitress shoved a bottle of mustard across the counter to Olivia, who poured a generous portion across her sandwich. From the corner of her eye, she saw a figure slide into the stool next to her.

  “Is Eddie coming?” she asked, licking
her fingers.

  “Who’s Eddie?” Her heart leaped at the sound of Christopher Stanley’s voice so close to her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dear Miss Darcy: I'm being stalked by my ex-fiancé –he claims it's just a coincidence that he keeps showing up at my workplace, even at my favorite pub, but I know he's stalking me. What do I do about it?

  –Muddled in Meriton

  “What are you doing here?” She whirled towards him, panic in her voice. It was alarming, this ability of his to surprise her in public.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you controlled the list of people allowed in this pub,” he answered. “Otherwise, I would have asked your permission before showing up unannounced.”

  He was wearing a button-down shirt and denim in a rare causal look. A typical five o’ clock shadow and slightly rumpled hair, a mischievous grin on his face–for a brief second she felt the same rush of attraction that supposedly overpowered his conquests.

  Motioning for the waitress, he drew the stool closer to the counter. “Someone at your office told me you would be here. And I would rather speak to you in person than over the phone.”

  “You could have come by the paper,” she said, still bewildered by his presence.

  “Do you object to my being here?” His gaze showed not a flicker of the discomfort she felt creeping across her own as she searched for an answer.

  “Of course not.” She turned her head to hide the crimson flush in her cheeks. “It isn’t any of my business where you spend your time, Mr. Stanley.” She drained her glass as a conclusion to this statement.

  “Are you Christopher Stanley?” Henry was listening now, his body craning around Olivia to see her companion.

  “I am,” Stanley answered, extending his hand. “And you are one of Miss Darcy’s friends, I assume?”