Dear Miss Darcy

by Briggs, Laura

  Shuffling the pages closed, she glanced at the tabloid print beneath it, wincing at the corner photo. Harshall Elliot’s chocolate-covered figure, a scowling Christopher Stanley hunched over him.

  “Playboy Punches Columnist in Press Rivalry over Story,” the story line declared. “Did ‘Miss Darcy’ Writer Spark Caveman Tension?”

  The cheek of such insinuations! She stuffed the paper into the waste bin, driving away the image of a Neanderthal Stanley grunt as he fended off a rival male.

  “Congratulations, Livvy” Henry grinned as he waved a copy of the morning paper over his head in passing. She managed a weak smile in reply as she entered the main office, hoping Collins was in the print room tormenting staffers.

  Reading letters today would be torture. The stack of love complaints from Stanley’s victims, the whining from hapless souls she momentarily believed were every bit as bad as him. Was the world devoid of any true romance? Sincere love was the stuff of poetry and literature, she was beginning to believe.

  Lifting the phone’s receiver, she checked her messages. She took care to skip the saved ones from Stanley’s office, since hearing his voice would only make her angrier.

  “Miss Darcy, this is Jeanette Kilroy.” The voice on the newest message was unfamiliar, soft, and feminine. “I got your message about meeting and the answer is yes. I was Stanley’s latest victim, by the way, if that has any interest for you. If you want to discuss all the details, you can see me at home between the hours of nine and ...”

  Kilroy? Miss Darcy racked her brain for the memory of Miss Kilroy’s letter. Was she the one postmarked from Cheapside? She pictured an envelope in patterned white, gilded letterhead that resembled a wedding invitation.

  His last girlfriend. Undoubtedly the supermodel. Or maybe the bit-player actress from the Shakespearean theater. It didn’t matter, since she had sworn off future columns on Stanley’s conquests.

  But she hadn’t made any such promise with regards to her book. She imagined a chapter–or several–devoted to the subject of “Mr. X” and his failure to launch a mature relationship. Wouldn’t her readers be every bit as interested in seeing Stanley receive his comeuppance in a more permanent form of print?

  She lifted the receiver again and dialed the message number.

  “Miss Kilroy? Miss Darcy here, inquiring if you’re available this afternoon? Perfect.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dear Miss Darcy: Do you think it’s possible to never, ever meet someone you want to date? I can’t find anybody who’s interested in me or vice versa, so I’m thinking maybe luck isn’t on my side. What should I do about my problem?

  –Pondering in Plymouth

  Jeanette Kilroy was not a supermodel, although she looked the part without effort. Long chestnut hair, long legs, an elegant tailored sundress that fitted her curves perfectly. Sitting at the same table in her drawing room, Miss Darcy felt inferior in her denim and a rather rumpled button-down.

  “Chris was a bore.” Jeanette’s fingers curled lightly around the base of her coffee mug. “I have no idea why I stayed with him for a month; but I’m sure you know how it is. The first tolerable man you’ve dated in ages, you don’t question the reason why.” She took a sip from the cup.

  “Of course,” Olivia replied. Although her sympathetic smile was lacking somewhat in staying power. She scribbled a few lines on her pad, already feeling a twinge of regret that she agreed to this. What was the point? Was this really to benefit the book’s future or to have the satisfaction of humiliating Stanley a little further?

  She followed Miss Kilroy’s example by taking a drink from her own mug. “Were you the recipient of any indifference on his part? Any loss of temper?”

  “Chris? Lose his temper?” Her hostess laughed, exposing a row of perfect white teeth. “Oh, he blustered and sulked when he didn’t get his way, but if you let him crawl back right away, he always made up for it with something expensive. Flowers or wine–never jewelry.”

  Miss Darcy frowned. “I’m a little surprised he didn’t purchase a more permanent memento,” she answered. “What about special occasions– nothing then?”

  “I didn’t have the good fortune of some of Chris’s girlfriends,” she answered. “Oh, I’m sure a few of them contacted you. I met one once at a party who told me he once left her stranded on a park bench–or was it a bus shelter? I’ve forgotten.”

  She opened a drawer and fished a nail file from its contents. “All our stories are very much alike, Miss Darcy. We were all fooled into thinking he was some dashing playboy for a few weeks, then we all drifted away when the truth was out.” The orangewood rasped along the edge of a perfect French tip.

  Miss Darcy held back a laugh. “I think that dating this many women more than seals his reputation,” she said.

  “It’s not as if he actually meets all these women and sweeps them off their feet,” Miss Kilroy replied. “That’s the whole purpose of the blind dating service.”

  Miss Darcy’s pencil froze. “Dating service?” she said.

  Miss Kilroy laughed. “That’s how he met me,” she answered. “He tried to pretend it was an accident, that he swept me up while somebody else stood me up. But the way he was watching me from the bar was more like a man working up the courage to approach me. More like a schoolboy than a shark.”

  “But–but what makes you think it wasn’t a coincidence?” Miss Darcy said. “I mean, anyone could be stood up in a restaurant. It happens every day.”

  “Ask any of the other girls,” Jeanette said. “I have no doubt most of them were registered at one of those agencies that caters to the successful or beautiful-but-too-busy-to-meet-people. They’re quite popular with flight attendants and middle-aged bankers alike.” She inspected the changes to her nails.

  “Then you were a client of one as well?” said Miss Darcy.

  “Of course." Reaching to the corkboard above the desk she removed a business card and handed it to Miss Darcy. The familiar logo of Connections Anonymous. printed across the front in swirling caps.

  "I work for an international clothing designer,” she continued, “and it was just the easiest way to meet eligible men when I was home in between assignments. Weeds out the wheat from the chaff, as they say." She rested her face on one of her hands. “Of course, I was a little shocked to see the likes of Christopher Stanley using them as a blind.” This, with a smirk.

  “I can imagine.” Miss Darcy’s voice had grown faint. “I rather wonder you keeping it secret.”

  “Well, Chris makes it worthwhile for his exes to avoid telling stories,” she answered. “A nice parting gift or two for the offended ex. He’s quite obsessed with his reputation. The thought of being typified as an awkward, lovestruck schoolboy would crush him.” She pulled a cigarette from a case in her pocket, along with a silver lighter.

  “That’s how I got my new nose,” she remarked, puffing a few times as she lit the cigarette’s tip. “When cashed in properly, his gift made for rather a nice present in exchange for claiming he was Casanova, don’t you think?” She wrinkled it in a smile that someone other than Olivia might find charming.

  “I’m a little surprised you’re telling me this, considering his incentive for your silence.” Olivia’s lips parted in an equally distasteful smile.

  “Only because I know you won’t have names attached to it, you never do in your letters,” Jeanette answered. “If he assumed it was about him, he couldn’t prove it–and he wouldn’t know which of us told you, anyway.” She blew a long trail of smoke into the air.

  “Cigarette?” she asked.

  Olivia shook her head. “No thank you,” she answered. “For me, secondhand smoke was always quite sufficient.” She closed her notebook.

  *****

  Aboard the tube, she let her notes fall open on her lap, their pages ruffling in the breeze from the door closing. The sounds around her were reduced to background buzz as the truth of Miss Kilroy’s story sank into her mind.

 
Was it false, possibly? Surely it was. Christopher Stanley was a playboy legend in London, a scoundrel, a rake. He wore the title with as much pride as he showed for his company’s success. That his life was a carefully-constructed illusion seemed ludicrous.

  Yet there was no reason to doubt Jeanette’s story. She gained nothing from telling it, except the satisfaction of discrediting him to one who already loathed him.

  Her feelings of anger had vanished; instead, pity crept into her memory of his awkward advances the other night, the hurt over her rejection that she had assumed was only feigned. Imagining him watching the agency's choices from a distance, rehearsing a clever opening before he approached a woman he already knew to be single and desperate for a date.

  We are more alike than you realize, Mr. Stanley. She keenly felt the irony that it mirrored her own so perfectly. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to banish the thought from her mind. The eager, awkward way he tried to please his dates once they grew bored with his initial approaches–she had assumed it was merely crude humor or bad timing by a careless businessman. So had everyone else, since that was obviously what Christopher Stanley wanted them to think.

  Whatever shall I do about it? The question looped itself in an anxious trail as she walked the remaining block to the Post’s offices. The first thing she should do was destroy her notes; that much she was certain she could do. The rest she would have to forget.

  That much she owed him, given the resounding punch he gave Hartshall Elliot on her behalf.

  Pushing her way through the cell phone users in the office stairwell, she pulled her notebook from her bag. Ignoring the vast piles of mail on her desk, she pulled open the filing drawer and removed a stack of pages stuffed in a folder. The notes from Stanley’s previous girlfriends.

  “Where is my digital recorder?” She dug through a drawer in search of Angela Price’s interview. Glancing up as a shadow passed over her desk. Collins was hovering there, hands planted on the edge to support him.

  “What is it?” she asked, impatiently. “Comment or question?”

  “A question,” he answered, with an oily smile. “As to whether you want to be fired here or in my office.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dear Miss Darcy: Can psychics ever predict the end of a relationship? Because a fortune teller told me that I’m going to break up with my boyfriend and I think it might be coming true.

  – Superstitious in Surrey

  “What on earth do you mean?” Miss Darcy’s voice faltered.

  He slid a letter across her desk. “Have a gander at that, Miss Darcy,” he said. “If you would be so kind.” It was printed on formal stationery, the kind she observed from civil suites and court orders.

  “It’s a cease and desist request from the solicitors of Halivorn Press,” he said, slipping on a pair of heavy reading glasses. “The parent company, if you will, of the Post. Filed as of yesterday afternoon with regards to your recent column on Christopher Stanley’s romantic activities.” Leaning over her shoulder, he tapped the appropriate line.

  “Over his reply letter?” she asked. “He gave me permission to write it! There was no question of that when we spoke.”

  “Well, there is a question now,” Collins replied. “They’re using quite a bit of muscle to force us to comply–not that it’s necessary.” His tone was rather ominous as he made this statement.

  “But they can’t do this,” she snapped. “Nowhere does the column even mention Mr. Stanley’s name, much less anything libelous.” The sound of tears gathering in her voice threatened her self-composure. “Why on earth should they care what I print about him as opposed to any other London name?”

  “Oh, they care a great deal,” Collins answered. “As it happens, Stanley is Halivorn Press–that is, the company is currently run by the Stanley family name.” He watched the expression of shock on her face with evident satisfaction.

  “The Stanleys,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause for the realization to sink in. "I see." A bitter tone took root in her voice.

  “Quite the name in publishing, actually,” said Collins. “His sister married very influentially in the press as well–the Cranes are the second-biggest publishing house in Britain.”

  “A Pauline Crane, by any chance?” Miss Darcy asked, faintly.

  Collins removed his glasses, tucking them in his pocket. “They want me to fire you,” he continued. “I haven’t given them any answer yet as to that. Yet. But I did promise that you’ll be issuing a retraction shortly. Possibly even an apology.”

  He leaned closer. “I believe this may be your Hartshall Elliot moment,” he whispered. With a low whistle under his breath, he strolled away through the office, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  For a moment she was frozen in place. Her face was hot, the fingers holding the letter trembling. Fumbling for her bag, she shouldered it and made for the stairwell with the speed of someone very late for an appointment.

  *****

  Had she been asked to picture the main office of PyroTech Multimedia, its reality was very different from the modern interior and paint-splattered artwork she would have imagined. Surrounded by walls of polished dark walnut and oil paintings of nondescript landscapes, a solitary secretary was positioned like a sentry outside an office door. A sitting guard presiding over an assembly of stiff-looking chairs in earth tones.

  “Is Mr. Stanley in his office?” Olivia rested her hands impatiently on the woman’s desk. A suspicious face peered up at her own.

  “Do you have an appointment, Ms.–” the secretary raised her eyebrows, a cue for completion.

  “Miss Darcy,” Olivia replied, coldly. “No appointment is necessary; Mr. Stanley will recognize the name.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Stanley is very busy today,” the secretary replied. “I must ask you to make an appointment for another time.” She turned the pages in a heavy diary on her desk.

  “Ring him, please.” Olivia commanded.

  “Mr. Stanley is not available,” the secretary replied. The door behind her swung open as she spoke, the man in question emerging with a business associate.

  “–and we’ll draw up the papers on Thursday.” That was all the associate had time to say before Miss Darcy pushed past him to face Christopher Stanley.

  “How dare you!” she hissed. “We had an agreement! An agreement! And you went behind my back to have me removed.” The tears that had been lingering in the back of her voice finally emerged, spilling over her cheeks.

  Stanley stared at her, a strange look on his face. “Miss Darcy?” he ventured, with a strange half-smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to return this–” she shoved the letter at his chest “–with the compliments of the Post. I hope you’re quite happy with the result of the effort you’ve taken to protect your reputation.”

  He unfolded the piece of paper and glanced over its contents, his face growing dark.

  “I know your secret,” she continued, catching a glimpse of alarm in his eyes as he looked up from the letter. “I know the whole truth about your so-called spontaneous love life, Mr. Stanley.” Her voice faltered. “But I had no intention of telling anyone. And after this–" she choked, her words breaking into fragments, "–after this, I still won’t have the petty hatred to do it.”

  Not waiting for an answer, she turned and marched out of his office, wishing it were possible to slam the glass doors behind her.

  At the Underground, she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, letting the rest of the tears make their escape. An angry cry now was better than later–when she would have to face her friends with the news that she had single-handedly destroyed her career.

  Was this how Hartshall Elliot felt when the Rage editorial printed her letter? She supposed it must be very similar, although her confrontation with Stanley had ended only with his uncomfortable stare as she raged in his office.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, she recogniz
ed Stanley’s number. Snapping it open, she pushed the power button and silenced it.

  She didn’t board the train when it arrived. She stayed seated, ignoring the curious glances of passengers entering and exiting its doors. A half hour passed in which she remained there. Basking in her misery, not wanting anything to break this cocoon of protection she formed against the harsh reality.

  Another load of passengers rolled up to the pavement after twenty minutes, depositing its cargo in scattered exits of two or three. One of them strolled up to the bench and sank beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

  “I had to ride two trains to find you.” Henry’s voice was gentle. “Mariah’s been calling for the past two hours.”

  “You’ve heard, I take it?” she answered, making a great deal of effort to control her voice. “I’m sure by now everyone in the office knows. At least I shall still be the talk of the town without my column to provide the sensation.” She felt his hand squeeze her shoulder.

  “Don‘t be that way, Livvy,” Henry said. “It’s not over yet. You know Collins won’t fire you if he can help it. Not after all the buzz about the column.”

  “But he won’t have a choice,” she answered. “He doesn’t want to be fired, Henry. And I don’t blame him. I knew it was a risk, what I was doing, I just didn’t realize how dire a risk.”

  “Stanley could change his mind,” Henry suggested. “You said yourself he’s not all villain.”

  “That turned out to be a matter of opinion.” She released a bitter laugh. Uncurling from her position, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “But I never thought he would take back his promise like this. That’s really the worst part–I could have published all those letters and the hate mail, but I didn’t. I would have even burned them had he asked me.”