“My friends never call me Christopher,” he replied. “Chris, perhaps; but the full name is a bit much.”
“If that's the case, perhaps I should call you by it, then,” she said, with an impudent smile. “It would be a mark of distinction, no? Almost consoling me for the fact that I would never again be called Miss Darcy by you.”
“But I can’t call you Olivia in public, of course,” he answered. “Then in polite society they would know we were friends–and what would happen then? Everyone you know assumes you despise me–”
“And everyone who knows you assumes you would never willingly speak to a pert female columnist,” she finished.
“Except in polite society, of course.” He flipped open the menu and perused it. “An appetizer?” he asked her. “Stuffed mushrooms, perhaps, or lobster puffs?”
“Lobster, please,” she answered. Her fingers opened the menu, although her mind found it very difficult to read the items listed.
“I suppose it’s unlikely you’ve given any thought to accepting my advice?” she asked, glancing up from its pages.
He studied the pages of the menu. “Actually, I’ve given your advice very serious consideration,” he answered. “Which is why I asked you here tonight.”
“You’re quite serious?” she asked.
“Very,” he answered. “What you said the other day was perfectly correct. In the sense that it was time I connected to someone in a more–” he paused, searching for the word, “ –emotional sense.”
“Your playboy image will suffer if you take it,” she reminded him. Closing her menu, she leaned forward on her elbows to catch his eye. He avoided her gaze, his eyes roaming around the room.
“I think I’m sufficiently aware of what happens if I change my ways,” he answered, his tone slightly curt. “That isn’t the point, however; the point is to ... to be a better person, I suppose you would say.” He exhaled a rather long sigh at the end of this statement.
Offended, she leaned back slightly. “I didn’t realize that attempting to care about your girlfriends was so trying,” she replied, sarcastically. “I suppose it is easier to date someone whose main purpose in the relationship is to drape across your arm and giggle at your clever remarks.”
“I thought you were the defender of my former girlfriends,” he said. “Reminding me that they had thoughts and feelings away from their mirrors and makeup.”
“Marie liked cat clocks and Amelia liked herself,” Miss Darcy replied. “So far, I possess as much knowledge of your former girlfriends as you do.”
“Which is why I’m changing,” he interrupted, his skin splotching crimson above his collar. “No more strangers in flower shops or restaurants. It will be women with whom I’ve forged another connection.” He was working furiously to control the muscles contorting in his jaw and neck as he spoke.
“A mature decision,” she replied, carefully. “I hope you rise to the challenge admirably.”
“Is that all you have to say?” he asked. “I expected at least a little sympathy from you, given our conversation yesterday.”
“You’re only talking about changes, not performing them as we speak,” she answered, with a laugh. “Are you wanting me to congratulate you? You have my approval–and as for the risks of real relationships, I’m quite sure you’re capable of handling them.”
She toyed with the tassel on her menu, having trouble with the concept of meeting his eyes at this moment. Rather annoyed at the image popping into her mind of Stanley with a serious relationship, a woman undoubtedly more refined and intelligent than herself. More like a copy of Pauline Crane.
“You mean I'm capable of getting my heart broken, I assume,” he snapped. “I think you underestimate my level of experience on the playing field."
She jerked her head upright, a look of annoyance on her face. "And you mistake my motives,” she answered, “if you think I’m willing to congratulate you for a commitment you have yet to keep–"
"– simply for the self-satisfaction of your own success," he interrupted, finishing her statement as perfectly as if he read her mind. Despite this blow to her composure, she faced him with a hard stare.
"Can you name a young woman of your acquaintance with whom you’ve shared more than a coffee and smile?” The level of passion in her voice rose with each word.
"Yes," he answered. "Yourself."
The color drained from her face; the ability to form words vanished momentarily.
“Are you suggesting–are you implying–” She couldn’t finish the thought, unable to wrap her mind around the reality of his statement.
“Are you insulted by that?” he asked. “You said I should pursue a meaningful connection–is it so impossible that you would be a candidate?” A tentative smile passed over his lips.
“All of this–the carnival, the ‘let’s be friends’ bit–was all about impressing me into being your trial run?” she asked.
The dismay in her voice had a profound effect on the emotions on Stanley's face. A wash of dark crimson succeeded the placid expression; his eyes met hers with a look that made her shrink from speaking any further.
“Then your–your flirtation with me was what, a diversion for you?” he inquired. “A way to pass the time as you drafted your precious columns on–”
"A diversion?" she snapped. "And what right do you have to call my manners flirtatious–you, who believed from the first second you could charm me into dropping the whole matter!"
A male voice interrupted their conversation. “Am I correct in assuming this gentleman addressed you as Miss Darcy?” A nasal, almost feminine whine hovering over their table.
Stanley glared at the plump figure as if he were a rodent foraging for crumbs. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
“I'm Miss Darcy,” Olivia answered, her glance taking in the man’s coral-colored suit and slick blond pompadour without a sliver of recognition.
“Don't you realize who I am, Miss Darcy?” the intruder asked, as she stared at him with confusion.
"I'm afraid not–" she began.
“Then perhaps I'll introduce myself," he interrupted. "I’m Hartshall Elliot." His kindly smile vanished into a sneer of contempt leveled at her.
“Hartshall Elliot?” The color drained from her face as she echoed his words.
"You remember–the writer you trashed in his own journal." He planted his hands on the table and leaned forwards.
“Why don’t you get lost, then?” Stanley scowled, pushing him aside. To Olivia, he added, “Do you expect me to crawl on my knees before any eligible woman as if I have nothing to offer? Perform penance for my past sins of taking womankind for granted?”
Her glance whirled from Eliot's face to Stanley's. “I’m not demanding you do anything,” she answered. “Go on, impress every woman you meet with your power and money if you prefer–that way she feels obliged to please you.”
Elliot pressed between them again. “Are you aware that they terminated my contract at Rage a year later, Miss Darcy? That I ended up spending six months at that disgraceful rag The Mood before I got a suitable position?”
“I’m very sorry," she said, shrinking away meekly. “I didn’t mean for that to happen–”
“Do you mind?” Stanley snarled at Elliot. “You‘re being a bother to this young woman and interrupting a private conversation.” He gave Elliot another forceful shove in the direction of his own party, the angry columnist stumbling in its direction under the force of Stanley's strength.
It was Miss Darcy's opportunity to escape; she rose from her seat with her wrap and handbag, but not quickly enough to avoid Stanley grabbing her wrist.
“Walking out again?” he demanded. “Since your stubborn pride makes it impossible for you to converse with anyone without coloring their words with your prejudices.”
“No worse than your obsession with the privilege of being Christopher Stanley,” she retorted, her fears of Elliot's re-approach momentarily vanished.
“Then I think we have nothing more to say until you have proof of your so-called conversion.” She yanked her wrist from his grip and moved towards the foyer.
“Olivia, wait!” From the corner of her eye, she saw Stanley twisting around to follow her movement.
As if on cue, Hartshall Elliot blocked her exit. “Were you even aware of the kind of damage you did with that letter?” he frothed. “I had a reputation, a record of success that some university girl challenged for a bit of publicity–”
“Please, Mr. Elliot–” she pleaded, aware that Christopher had caught up with her.
“Haven’t you the decency to even apologize?” Elliot pushed his sneering face inches from her own. “Or at least thank me for your success?”
The blow from Stanley’s fist shot him backwards into a nearby table. A shatter of china and chocolate sauce as he slumped to the floor, the table’s guests springing from their seats in dismay.
“Mr. Elliot!” Olivia shrieked. Her antagonist wiped the chocolate sauce streaming from down his face.
“I’ll sue you!” he shouted at Stanley. Two people rushed to his aid, apparently the columnist’s friends. Lights flashed from neighboring tables as guests shot cell phone photos of the excitement.
“Go ahead,” Stanley answered, rubbing his knuckles. “But I asked you politely to go away, as I recall.”
“That was uncalled for.” Miss Darcy turned towards him, her voice trembled slightly beneath its scolding tones. “I was capable of dealing with him on my own, thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” he replied. “Undoubtedly I should have let you handle it, given what a fantastic job you were doing.”
Without reply, she turned and marched out of the dining room, avoiding the sullen glance she knew accompanied his tone. Behind her, she could hear the murmur of excited voices, the sound of a waiter apologizing to the table whose dessert was now dripping from Hartshall Elliot’s pink suit. The persistent voice of a professional journalist rose above the rest.
“... and what about the woman you were dining with tonight, Mr. Stanley?”
Chapter Twenty
Dear Readers: My advice to Cottingley’s ex is simple short, given the heinous treacherous cowardly actions of this scoundrel: stop being a spoiled child or else lock yourself up for a few years until you learn to behave like a rational human being! Perhaps what you need most is a good spanking smack punch in the nose ...
A stream of tissues trailed from Miss Darcy’s desk to the floor of her flat, along with the high heels she kicked off into the pile of manuscript pages beside her desk. Curled up in an overstuffed armchair, she daubed at the angry tears which persisted in coursing down her cheeks.
Stupid, stupid pride. It was her own fault this was happening. How could she be so careless that she let herself be attracted to a scoundrel? No doubt he enjoyed himself hugely, seeing her fall for his charm. Flattering herself that she had influenced him to change when all the time he was setting her up as a future conquest.
And as for that moment in the rain….well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
She crumpled another tissue and tossed it into the pile. There was no use in sulking about it any longer. Self-reproach wouldn’t help her situation. Now that she allowed it to happen, there was nothing to be done.
At least with blind dates there was no evidence of her failure afterwards. Now she was forced to imagine the pictures of last night’s episode in print, her name attached to them as–what, a romantic interest? An archenemy? It was impossible to know what thread the tabloid inquisition would take.
In the end it was all the same to her. Black and white evidence that she had neglected to foolproof her heart against damage.
There was a sharp rap on her flat door. Hiding the box of tissues, she sprang from the cushions and began shoving the pile out of sight beneath the sofa’s throw and pillows.
“One moment,” she called. Forcing her feet back into the red leather pumps, she stumbled to the door and opened it.
"Have you been out? Surely that's not what you're wearing to edit the book.” Mariah stood on the threshold, a bag of takeaway in hand. “I tried phoning you for the last half hour, but it goes straight to message–love, whatever is the matter?” She stared in shock, noticing Olivia’s puffy face for the first time.
“Oh, Mariah,” she groaned. “I was stupid, utterly stupid..." She closed the door, leaning against it for support.
"It's Stanley, isn't it?" Mariah's voice sounded like a prophet of doom. She dropped the sacks on the counter. "What did he do? I warned you, Livvy–"
Olivia shook her head. "It's not what you think. All that happened was I had dinner with him tonight and he strung me along like a puppet." Her eyes were averted from Mariah's, studying the peeling paint on the door. "He kept making promises to take my advice and the like, but...”
“You had dinner with Christopher Stanley?” echoed Mariah. “Were you two–”
“No, we were not," Olivia snapped, a trifle more firmly than necessary. "It was fine until he began all that nonsense about how he was going to give up his playboy status even though it would be a terrible hardship.” Moving away from the door, she flopped down on the sofa.
“That’s when I should have decked him,” she continued, blowing her nose in a crumpled tissue. “Instead, he decked Hartshall Elliot–right in the face.”
“The Hartshall Elliot? Your rival? The columnist at Modern Mode?” Mariah sank onto the chair across from her. “What on earth was he doing there?”
“Having dinner,” Olivia answered. “Until he spotted me from a few tables away and took this opportunity to make a public statement about the quality of my work.” She ran her fingers through her curls, feeling the snarl of tangled hair between them.
“Well, this won’t be an evening he’ll forget soon, will it?” Mariah chuckled. “At least your rake of a dinner partner had the sense to put him in his place. I’ll say that much for him.”
She dug a paper carton from the bag and placed it in Olivia’s lap. “I think you could use a bit of cheering up.” Unwrapping two pairs of chopsticks as she spoke.
“Where is Eddie?” Olivia asked, as Mariah popped open the box of Cashew chicken. "I thought you would be with him tonight since it's early shift."
“I dropped him at his flat for this evening,” Mariah answered. “The truth is, I was a bit worried about you. First you go off without a word yesterday afternoon, then you disappear for a whole evening. I was beginning to think you’d been abducted by aliens.”
“I was abducted by my own pride,” Olivia grumbled. She chomped down on a sweetened nut from the box Mariah handed her. “I should have told him off the moment after he gave me the story for print. Instead I agreed to dine with a jackal who tried to use his newfound sincerity to flatter me–” She dug a pair of chopsticks deep into the box, stabbing a piece of chicken. Suppressing the blush in her cheeks at the memory of Stanley's suggestion.
“You’re saying he fancied you?” Mariah’s own chopsticks paused with a mouthful of noodles between them.
Olivia’s color vanished instantly. “No, not like that,” she protested. “I was just a diversion from all the fluff he’s chased in the past. I think it would be impossible for him to be serious for more than five minutes with any woman.”
She dug into her own box again, willing the subject to change to something unrelated to Stanley’s feelings before Mariah grew suspicious. "Do you want soy sauce?" she asked. "There's a bottle in the cupboard."
“I’ll get it,” Mariah said, setting her box on the table. Olivia’s eyes flickered closed as she mentally rehearsed a change in topic. There was no way she could tell Mariah about the rest of the evening, not without admitting to a senseless infatuation.
Call him Christopher? Really? Where had her personal judgment been hiding at that moment?
“What
are you going to do about the publicity?” Mariah asked, returning with the bottle uncapped. “I mean, one celebrity can’t strike another in public without it getting the attention of the press. And they’ll want an explanation for the incident, too.” She doused the contents of her rice carton with a generous splash.
“They’ll make one up, if necessary,” Miss Darcy replied. “The threat of having our relationship exposed by Elliot’s pen–wouldn’t that make an agreeable headline?” A twinge of bitterness in her voice.
“Good for you,” Mariah agreed. “Don’t let his charms force you into forgiving him.”
*****
Dear Cottingley’s Ex:
The time has come for me, regrettably, to issue my advice to you. I say regrettably, because there is no possible way it could be pleasant news, is there? For a man who takes for granted the presence of every woman he meets, that is.
Confession time. There isn’t anything pleasant to say about Cottingley’s ex. At his best, he exists as a venue dispensing free dinners for two and tickets to the hottest shows in town. At worst, he has the temper of a spoiled child who stomps his foot and storms off the moment things go wrong.
Stop sulking every time a woman fails to forgive you for a petty mistake! Stop making excuses for missing the events that would mean the most to your relationship–conveniently, the moments which would require you to be the most human and the LEAST impressive.
And most of all, stop pretending that your playboy image is as satisfying as you claim. We all know there is nothing satisfying about ending every romantic relationship in stagnation. Either you’re compensating for some secret–or else you haven’t the moral courage to break the cycle.
Unless you mend your ways, you may end up alone and wishing you had something more concrete then an impressive list of conquests.
She gazed at the column in print for a long moment. For a last-minute substitution written in minutes and emailed to the copy editor around midnight, it was surprisingly coherent. Almost triumphant.
Dear Miss Darcy Page 19