Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 4

  Prickly heat rose in her neck, twining its way towards her cheeks. What reason had she to be jealous of a bit of stuff snared by an obvious cad? No doubt by tomorrow this girl would be back in her secretarial pool and this gentleman–if one could call him that–would be prowling the scene for others like her.

  “Are you all right?” Mariah interrupted her thoughts. “You’ve quite an expression on your face at the moment.”

  “I’m fine,” she answered. She slumped in her seat to avoid further glimpses of her challenger and his date, as her eyes wandered languidly around the room for other scenes of interest. Nearby, a man in a suit was preoccupied with texting, a few players trolled the room in designer jeans and leather. In the corner, Eddie leaning against the piano, chatting up the band during their break.

  “Well, I think I’ll go solicit a dance.” Mariah slid from her seat and made her way towards her boyfriend. Olivia watched her go, feigning a smile of indifference when her friend glanced back. Manoeuvring the room in search of dance partners was a thought which chilled her to the marrow.

  Behind the bead curtain, the couple came into view again as the woman in red motioned for a waiter. Her companion leisurely drew his wallet from inside his jacket, an expensive leather with initials embroidered on the outside: C.S. She caught a glimpse of a photograph tucked inside, a girl that even from her distant vantage point was not the girl in red.

  She scolded herself for her interest. As if she defied his sneering comments by studying his profile with fascination, since it was her own lack of courage that kept her rooted at the table, avoiding the glance of any eligible man lest a glance lead to something more–an invitation out in the future, for instance.

  Had Elizabeth Bennet experienced this level of fear as she stood alone at a dance? She had her doubts that her ancestress had ever found herself short of words with any man, since her encounters with Mr. Darcy were apparently far from tongue-tied. Even the discomfort of being found strolling his grounds uninvited had left Lizzie far from speechless with the gentleman in question.

  The gift of romantic confidence belied romantic failure; much like the gentleman preparing to exit the beaded curtain scene, who was working on the challenging task of wrapping his elegant date in her satin shawl. With a twinge of self-anger, Olivia glanced in the other direction, watching the league of cocky metro males preening at the bar.

  “I suppose you never had a doubt that my grandfather found you less than charming,” Miss Darcy addressed the ghost of her long-dead ancestress as if it were present at the table instead of in her mind. “But the comfort of knowing one is capable of being charming isn’t enough is it?” Taking a sip from her glass, she rearranged her features in an expression of demur mystery as a couple of curious males eyed her from their position across the room.

  Even perfect pretence would never be enough. That was the trouble with the clever and charming Miss Darcy being nothing more than a careful illusion.

  *****

  The topmost letter on Miss Darcy’s morning stack of mail was not the usual stained submission or lover’s confession. A crisp white business envelope with a London postmark and perfectly-typed label bearing a company’s name.

  She slit it open and withdrew a piece of business stationery from PyroTech Multimedia. Unfolding it to reveal a page of typed lines and perfect margins.

  Miss Darcy:

  It has come to my notice that the subject of your recent column, addressed to “Confused in Cottingley” contained sensitive details regarding the identity of the romantic partner in question. While I assume this was unintentional on your part, the insinuations made by your column were both intentional and inappropriate.

  The relationship between the writer of “Cottingley” and her romantic partner had extenuating circumstances of which the first party was unaware and the second party had no wish to reveal. As a result of this uninformed response on your part, however, “Cottingley’s” romantic partner will face unwarranted questions regarding the relationship.

  It is for this reason, I strongly caution you to refrain from stating such unfounded opinions on the issue in future columns and suggest that you issue a retraction of this grievous error in the next edition of Morning Post, for the sake of the unfairly maligned romantic partner involved.

  Sincerely,

  Questioning “Cottingley”

  Her jaw fell open slightly as she read these words. Was this man serious? Possessing the audacity to claim that she had somehow exposed him to public scrutiny, as if his own actions were not enough to confirm her opinion.

  She flipped over the envelope again, as if to reassure herself that this letter had really arrived by mail. There was a postmark and a corporate return address, but no name to which the letter could be tied. At least no one had dropped it off as a prank; it wasn’t a joke on the part of the office personnel.

  Such an amusing development deserved something more personal than simply being ignored. Seating herself at her desk, she opened the documents program on her computer. With rapid keystrokes her fingers flew over the keyboard, her eyes darting across the lines in search of errors before she hit the “print” button.

  “No suspicious packages today?” Henry sauntered by with Collins’s dry cleaning slung over his shoulder. “No love letters with snippets of hair inside?”

  She gave him a mischievous grin. “Something better,” she answered, stapling her printout to the original letter. “A new development in the column I wrote the other day. The problem of romantically-challenged boyfriends, as you’ll recall.”

  “Why on earth is somebody from PyroTech writing you?” he asked, turning the envelope to face him.

  “Wait and see with the rest of the Morning Post readership,” she answered, scribbling a quick note to the copy editor and attaching it to the stapled document. “Just run downstairs and hand this off for me, will you?” She placed the letter in his hand.

  He glanced at it. “Livvy,” he said, suspiciously, “Is this your usual column? I mean, this looks like–”

  “Never mind,” she answered, grabbing her shoulder bag from beside the desk. “Trust me on this, Henry.” Shoving a small black planner and cell phone into her bag, she hurried off for her midday appointment with her would-be publisher.

  The planner she grabbed was not her ordinary one, but the one kept hidden at the bottom of her desk drawer. Unlike Miss Darcy’s bulging business and social calendar, it contained the names and dates of important engagements smaller in number: her eligible matches from Connections Anonymous.

  This morning’s email had contained a few brief lines, addressed to her online identity at the agency. Two-thirty coffee at Norland’s Cafe on Hyeth Street with writemore37. Good luck and have fun!

  It was her third appointment with a member of Connections Anonymous’ database. She reminded herself frequently that third time was always the charm, was it not?

  Her thoughts were not of budding romance but business as she checked her emails at the bus stop, calculating how many letters similar to “Cottingley” arrived per day. This morning’s development had encouraged an idea growing in her brain, from the moment she expanded yesterday’s column into a thematic address to her public.

  The subject of gifts in bad taste, clueless dating decisions, and hapless mistakes in love. Wouldn’t this discussion of the romantically challenged be the perfect subject for her book? A guide to correcting mistakes for both the bumbling lover and their would-be partners.

  And who better to write it than one of England’s most romantically-hopeless citizens? This was the wry reflection that twisted itself into her thoughts as the bus swayed en route to her publisher’s street. Where she would find the right moment to weave this anecdote into her book proposal.

  The publishers at Lionsmane Press bore the reputation of being modern, chic, and difficult to please. With this description in mind, Miss Darcy had forsaken jeans and graphic tees for a tailored business suit and heels. Heels gave every woman an a
dvantage, even when the interview was in the presence of another woman.

  “We’re deeply excited by the prospect of this book, Miss Darcy.” Tom, the hip assistant editor of Lionsmane wore his tie loosened in an after-business look that reminded her strongly of the man behind the beaded curtain at Lambton Greene.

  “Deeply excited,” echoed the woman next to him, whose own pumps were faux lizard skin with a greenish tone.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” Olivia answered, curving her lips into a pleasant smile. “Then the treatment, I trust, is what you hoped for?” She did her best to suppress any note of eagerness in her voice.

  “It has appeal, to say the least,” the female editor answered, her striped nails spread across the sheet of paper. “But we were hoping for– let’s say–”

  “Something more specific?” suggested her partner. “For instance a common theme instead of an overview. While I’m sure your readers appreciate your widespread opinion on romance, we need something concrete to sell.”

  “I see,” Olivia answered. “Perhaps a modern take on dating rules, for instance? Or,” she ventured, “a book on advice for those lost in love. A do’s and dont’s’ course for the romantically inept, if you will.” Please find this idea as intriguing as I do. Please, please, please ...

  “Far more sellable than a generic title,” agreed the loose-tie editor. “So, do you have a partial draft of any of these ideas? Something we can take for a spin?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “I can have a draft for you in a couple of weeks,” she said. Calculating the odds of compiling all her material within that time. Would there be enough “Cottingley” letters in her files to create a convincing draft?

  “Good,” the high-heeled editor responded.

  “And once we’ve read the draft, we’ll talk,” continued her partner. “But I think I can tell you I have strong vibes about this one, Miss Darcy.”

  “Vibes,” she repeated. “Quite.” Her fingers crossed beneath the table, her mind envisioning her name in print and a charming author’s photo in black and white above it.

  *****

  Olivia adjusted her head scarf and sunglasses as she surveyed the windows of Norland’s from across the street. Donning a disguise seemed rather dramatic, but she had every intention of protecting her identity. Just in case someone from the Post or her circle of friends should be in the vicinity of a dating disaster.

  She had changed her suit for a sundress, rolling up the jacket and skirt and squeezing them into her bag. The bulge of the business suit was cumbersome, but she preferred to be casual for these affairs. The best way to avoid the missteps or sudden spills that ruin a good two-piece suit.

  Drawing a nervous breath, she closed her eyes for a moment and prayed silently for a graceful experience. She crossed the street and pushed open the door to the cafe, surveying the sparse afternoon crowd inside. Norland’s was on the list of locations she provided as potential date sites, chosen because of its food, which she frequently enjoyed, and the fact that its distance from the Morning Post and her usual haunts made it less likely anybody would stumble upon her here.

  Her eyes scanned the scene for the standard signal used by Connections Anonymous members: a pink rose. Hers was tucked in her bag, ready for display should the signal not be present.

  It was, however; on a table near the back corner. A man in business casual was reading a book on chemistry, a pink rose propped against his mug. Sliding into the seat across from him, she gave him an eager smile.

  “Writemore37?” she said. He glanced up from his book.

  “PrideB4prejudice?” he answered.

  “It is,” she answered. She drew off her sunglasses and tried to dampen her eagerness. “I must admit, I was quite excited by your name. Writemore is very literary-sounding.”

  He released a snorting laugh. “Hardly. My sister used to say nobody was right more often than me. But that spelling was already taken at the agency.” He took a sip from his mug.

  “I was hoping maybe you were a writer,” she ventured. “I mean, I’m a writer, so it seemed sort of like a connection between us.” She shrugged, trying to seem casual.

  He shook his head. “Grammar was never my subject, but I guess I was always a bit hard on it, eh?” His smile, albeit embarrassed, was quite charming. “I’m sure your work’s not the same sort of thing my teachers made me slog on with.”

  Miss Darcy relaxed somewhat under this faint praise. At least the first moment of their meeting was not a mistake, giving her an advantage she seldom knew in first dates. Third time was indeed the charm; the spell was finally breaking under the magic of Connections Anonymous and its laborious matchmaking profiles.

  “At least there are worse professions,” she ventured with a laugh. “Imagine being an accountant–or a stock trader. Those people are practically zombies.”

  She saw the change in his face almost immediately when she spoke. Her own face turned crimson.

  “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said. “Are you–you must be a–”

  “Stock broker,” he answered. “No problem, really.” His smile was tight as he spoke.

  “Really, I am sorry,” she continued, her fingers fumbling for the menu. “Let me make it up by buying us an appetiser.” Her eyes glanced cursorily at the menu, spotting a creamy shrimp and garlic dip. “The shrimp melt here is fantastic, I always order it. Unless you’re allergic to shellfish?” She gave him a teasing smile.

  His expression grew more awkward as he hesitated. “Actually–” he began. There was no need for him to finish.

  Cringing, she laid the menu aside. “Or the yoghurt spread. Who doesn’t love yoghurt?” She waved for the waitress, who was taking an order at the next table.

  “Me, actually,” he replied, as he opened the menu. “Do they have something here a little more ... green? It’s so important to keep up with the health brigade these days.”

  “Very true,” she answered. “I can hardly bear some of the things they serve in these places.” The waitress approached with her pad and a small plate bearing something that Miss Darcy recognized all too well.

  “Your regular, miss?” She placed a large sugared jam cake in front of Miss Darcy. “Anything else for this time?” She tapped her pencil against her pad.

  Olivia’s gaze flickered guiltily from the pastry to her date’s expression. He raised his eyebrows slightly, then glanced away from her.

  “No,” she told the waitress. “Nothing else for me, thanks.” The girl scribbled something on her pad before turning to the table’s second occupant.

  Third time’s charm, nothing. The curse had struck again.

  Chapter Five

  Dear Miss Darcy: I’ve decided the only way I can make women notice me is to stand out–do something desperate, I mean. Something exciting and daring that they can’t resist. So, should I rent a superhero costume? Climb a building in London? Or maybe try parasailing off the Cliffs of Dover. What do you think?

  – Wild in Windsor

  Ring, ring. The persistent sound of her mobile’s traditional ring tone drew Miss Darcy from sleep a full two hours ahead of schedule. Drawing her arm from beneath the blankets, she consulted her watch. Ten past eight. No sane person could possibly feel the urge to call her at this hour.

  She snapped it open. “Livvy here,” she mumbled. There was a slight buzz of static on the other end.

  “Livvy, I can’t believe you did that!” Mariah’s voice sounded far away. “It was brilliant! Everybody’s agog about …” Her voice trailed off beneath a wave of interference.

  “Are you there?” Olivia sat up as she spoke. “Mariah?” Checking the screen, she read the message of doom signalling a dropped call. Snapping it closed, she fell back against the pillows.

  What on earth had Mariah been talking about? She racked her brain for some monumental incident from the club the other night. Or something at work, for that matter. Surely Mariah wasn’t privy to some new development about the book. Had
the publishers called the office while she was asleep in bed?

  Aboard the tube, she scanned the paper’s headlines for meaningful news (although she would never confess it to Collins, she read the Telegraph faithfully). Arriving at the Post, she was forced to step around two beat reporters crouched on its steps in separate but heated mobile phone conversations.

  A cluster of co-workers were assembled around the morning issue when she arrived at work. Henry had the paper open to–she couldn’t help but notice–the columns in the “Life and Love” section. They glanced up at her as she entered. She thought she detected a mix of emotions on Henry’s face. Amazement? Dismay? She wasn’t certain, but she wasn’t in the mood to ask, either. For at the head of the room waited Collins, his copy of the morning rag folded conspicuously to her column.

  “Miss Darcy,” he said, lips parted in a yellow grin. “I was wondering how long until you roused yourself to slog into work.” He gestured towards his open office door with the issue. “Care to join me?”

  “Of course,” she answered, her voice almost casual despite the sudden tingling in her hands. She slipped past him and entered the cluttered space the chief editor occupied. More proof of the man’s preference of close quarters.

  He banged the door closed behind him. “Allow me to congratulate you on this latest stunt,” he said, flopping down in his chair. “Quite inspiring, almost genius really. A boon for the column and no harm for that sweet smell of a book advance either, eh?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she answered.

  “I’m talking about your column.” He spoke slowly, as if spelling it out for her. “This little quip between you and Stanley in the morning paper.”