"You mean, you want me to write articles for you?" she said. "I'm not–I mean, I haven't done that sort of –" Trailing off, she imagined additional pounds in her purse. All for writing about what not to do in a relationship, or something similar.
"Make it fast." Collins interrupted her thoughts. "And send us your resume while you're at it. With a current photo attached, if you please." This last part in the form of an afterthought, followed by a snort as he hung up.
It was too good to be true. It was too good to resist. And Miss Darcy became part of the love advice business without even trying.
A year and a dozen or so articles later, she was following Mr. Collins's assistant through the editorial room of the Morning Post. Her arms encircled a cardboard box of meagre supplies: a framed, degree certificate a stapler, a tea mug, a handful of pens and pencils.
"We can't tell you how excited we are to have you join us," said the assistant editor, who was a vivacious redhead with pointed crimson nails. "I mean, the girl who took Hartshall Elliot down a peg or two–how often do you get a chance for that kind of publicity?" She offered Olivia a smile, exposing pointy teeth.
"Not very often, I suppose," Miss Darcy answered, attempting to deflect the patronizing flattery of this woman. She found herself half-wishing the chief editor had conducted the interview instead. Surely Mr. Collins, whoever he was, couldn't possibly be this odious.
"And is it true that you are related to the Darcys?" asked the editor.
"Absolutely," Miss Darcy answered. "Or at least that's what I tell everyone who asks." With a charming smile that was lost on her companion entirely.
"That's a perfect selling point, really," said the editor. "Better than trouncing Elliot, who everyone knows has seen better days." She opened her folder and fished around for a pen, spreading a contract in front of Miss Darcy with her free hand.
"Think about it. Who could resist the concept of Lizzie's great-great ... well, anyway, her granddaughter writing a love column?" Her fingers placed the pen in front of Olivia.
"Who indeed?" answered Miss Darcy. Who forced herself to laugh along with the crimson-nailed editor as she signed the bottom line.
The assistant editor would not be wrong in her assumptions; long after she had been replaced with a string of assistants (Mr. Collins was hard to please, apparently), Miss Darcy was still dispensing love advice from her desk. At first, it was only a trickle of letters from the meagre list of Morning Post subscribers. Then the pile of letters grew.
Dear Miss Darcy: My best friend's a guy and he keeps calling me up out of the blue!
Dear Miss Darcy: How can you be sure that a boy's not seeing someone else? I think mine is ...
Dear Miss Darcy: I've forgotten six of my wife's last birthdays– what do I do?
Fans of Pride and Prejudice sought her advice, young lovers emailed her and veterans of the dating field sent her letters by the bagful; all seeking answers from someone they felt might hold the key to romance. Having faith in the young woman descended from timeless lovers, who occasionally pounded out her answers from home on a battered typewriter recycled from a pile of junk or scribbled responses in the heat of the moment on the back of a napkin or receipt.
Dear Troubled: Of course you're not crazy for thinking your friend has feelings for you ...
Dear Suspicious: The evidence for being sure he's interested in someone else is the following…
Dear Forgetful: I think something a little bigger than earrings is required here!
Two to three letters formed a column, from hundreds delivered daily from all over the UK. Sometimes she sorted through them for hours, taking their questions seriously. One had to read between the lines to ferret out the true questions in the writer's heart. One also had to read them more than once to determine how the writer skewed the subject matter or moulded the issue in their favour. Answering love's questions was a mixture of psychology and romance, a blend of common sense and keen insight that seemed like second nature to Olivia.
With charm and insight, with the greatest love story hovering in the background, surely Miss Darcy's love life was something to be envied–or so her friends and fans assumed. But there, they would be wrong.
Chapter Two
Dear Miss Darcy: Is it possible to be completely unlovable in life? I mean, really, really unlikable, to the point that no boys will date you? Because I think I am, since no guy will ever ask me out on a second date. Can you tell me what I can do to impress them?
– Lonely in Liverpool
It wasn't the lack of a social life that kept Miss Darcy from romantic opportunities–on the contrary, she spent a great deal of time socialising. Parties, evenings at clubs and concerts, dinner invitations that travelled the circles of the socially acceptable to the bohemian artist community.
None of these activities were limiting Miss Darcy's love life, so there was no explanation for why her desk was never occupied by an impromptu delivery of flowers or her arm occupied by a steady male companion at every social event.
No explanation, that is, except the dark secret she intended to take to her grave if necessary. Dramatic deception had become the best possible means of hiding the tragic truth: that she, Miss Darcy, was a love advice columnist incapable of making a successful romantic connection for herself.
Had she kept a diary of her dating disasters, its entries would appear something like this (accounting for Olivia’s personal sense of humour):
11/22/05 The blind date whose name she forgot in the middle of lunch.
02/14/06 The anti-fur advocate who was insulted by her defence of faux fur.
05/18/06 The young solicitor who sat silent through fifteen minutes of her babble before she realised he had never spoken beyond their introduction.
03/09/07 The romantic young editor, on whom she spilled her drink twice in one evening.
And so on. A long list of failure to impress and awkward flirtation that produced no second dates. Until Miss Darcy gradually found ways to avoid accepting the first offer.
She took great care to conceal this by design. Cryptic explanations and mysterious smiles suggested that something–or a very special someone–was just waiting to be revealed to the public at large. Myriad excuses existed for why she often appeared alone at parties and events. Many more personal excuses existed to resign her to a life almost devoid of romance.
Dear Miss Darcy: Is it possible to be destined to be alone forever?
*****
Being a successful columnist necessitated long evenings spent with piles of letters unanswered at the office, something being alone made possible. An email account jammed with letters in electronic form, a cup of tea, and a box of takeaway from the Chinese place around the corner became the general comforts of Miss Darcy's evenings apart from her busy social calendar.
Dear Miss Darcy: How do you know when a girl isn't just playing you up for an evening out or something? Because I have this lady friend…
She dug a chip from a greasy paper-wrapped packet and devoured it as she consulted the facts in the letter. Undoubtedly he was being played–didn't he say the girl preferred evenings on the town? Wiping her fingers, she slit open a second letter, consigning the first to the pile of potential column topics.
Something bolder was really required for this week, if at all possible. Chances were good that her potential book publisher would be reading her column, debating her future as one of their new self-help authors. A long-cherished hope of hers, to see her name on something more permanent than a byline in the Post’s morning pages. The ever-present thought as she unfolded a sheet of plain stationery and scanned the handwritten lines on the page.
On the wall above her desk hung a framed oil portrait of Lizzie Bennet herself, which Miss Darcy had inherited from her grandmother, along with her share of Darcy and Bennet heirlooms. Her personal trophies, items that lent a certain air to her persona as a love expert since her own credits were dismal.
Fortunately, readers were more inter
ested in asking love questions about the fate of the famous players in her family story than pressing Miss Darcy for her own romantic secrets. Was it true that a Bennet really did inherit Longbourn after all? That Lizzie and Darcy's eldest married a baroness? Spawned by a fanatical fan base obsessed with knowing all the unmentioned details of the story.
The past lived up to the grand expectations of readers, even if the present descendants dwindled in fortune. Including Olivia, who crammed her furnishings into a flat on obscure Brighton Lane and piled a recycling bin high with unused correspondence.
After the letters, she opened her column’s email account and sorted through the subject lines of her electronic correspondence for more interesting topics. Encountering emails from creepy fans of her column, girlfriends afraid their boyfriends were shallow, and boyfriends afraid their girlfriends were cheating.
She broke off more pieces of fried fish, mentally blocking out the murmur of a couple rendezvousing on the street below her flat, the tender tones and laughter. Sulking about her romantic failure was pointless, as were wistful sighs for something beyond the persona of Miss Darcy, such as the happy ending equal to her long-dead ancestors. Even as little as Mr. Bennet, who celebrated a few brief years of marital happiness with his second bride before the inevitable parting–he at least had the pleasure of producing the looked-for son to disappoint the entailment’s original benefactors.
But then there was the disappointment of Lydia Wickham, whose handsome husband absconded and left her dependent upon the kindness of her sister Mrs. Bingley. And poor Mary Bennet, who was never married at all but ended up a governess to Lydia’s unruly mob of children.
Lizzie’s passionate romance, apparently, was not in the family genes. Something Olivia imagined would explain her own predicament.
The emails were nothing special. A long sigh ruffled her bangs as she closed the account, making a mental note to address the case of a lonely girl with a lovelorn situation–a case in which she possessed a little firsthand knowledge.
Even her success wasn't full protection against future embarrassment. Her observations in the world of love advice had taught her to be careful of an unwritten rule in the industry: it was one thing to be a failure at love in your personal life, but quite another to be a love columnist whose name could be linked to romantic disasters.
She had no intention of suffering her secret's exposure anytime soon. Not if it was possible to keep it safely buried from anyone else’s knowledge.
Chapter Three
Dear Miss Darcy: I read your last column about disinterested boyfriends and I think I might have a similar problem. My former boyfriend (we recently broke up) seemed absolutely bored by me at times...one moment he was calling every second, the next moment he forgot my birthday and showed up at the last hour with my glamour photo printed on a throw pillow as a present! This, only two weeks after the whole roses-and-champagne experience at a posh restaurant.
He was a successful businessman and I'd heard he was a playboy, but I expected him to at least be charming and not an idiot. So tell me, was it me or him? I really want to know before I venture into another relationship.
Sincerely,
Curious in Cottingley
Miss Darcy suppressed a snort of laughter as she read the letter. Poor girl, to be persuaded there was even a chance she blew the relationship. She folded the letter and placed it in the "potential" pile.
"Your mail, Livvy." Henry spilled a pile of envelopes onto her desk.
"Thanks," she answered, sorting it automatically. A few candy packages rolled across the surface, small bundles Miss Darcy inspected with interest. They'd have to be disposed of, of course–she never kept any gifts, edible or otherwise–but the thought behind them always intrigued her.
"Another tribute from a grateful fan?" Henry asked, rattling a box of chocolates from the pile. "I'd pitch them in the dustbin unless you want them analysed by x-ray." Henry's lank hair brushed the frame of his glasses in a look his officemates referred to as "Harry Potter" fringe. His nickname among senior members of the Morning Post was Homely Henry, something Miss Darcy refused to acknowledge.
"I never eat them, I promise," she answered. "And I daresay I'm not brave enough to open the cards." A few had been rather inappropriate propositions which had put her off the rest.
"Let me do the honours, then," he said, taking the package from her and tossing it into the garbage. "And by the way–congratulations on the book?"
She shook her head. "It's merely talk at the moment; they haven't even asked to see the manuscript."
"As if you think they won't," he answered, with a grin. He moved the mail trolley to the next desk, passing Mariah, the proof reader for the celebrity section, whose arms were full of material.
"What's the scoop?" he called over his shoulder.
"Celebrity wedding on the rocks," Mariah replied. "Of course, that will be the talk of the party we attend tonight, even though we'll pretend it's headline news in tomorrow's edition." This to Miss Darcy, as she dropped the pile on a nearby desk.
"The party?" frowned Olivia. "I forgot, the post-symphony cocktail bit at the Brightons, isn't it? My lavender silk is still at the cleaner's from dining at the Ellison's anniversary thing." She pulled a black personal calendar out of a drawer and thumbed through it, taking care to shove a second, smaller version out of sight in the process.
The hidden volume was a secret appointment book, one she used to wage a private campaign against her current state of singlehood–with a little help from a secret matchmaking service that promised absolute discretion for its clients, where no one would ever dream she was among its patrons.
*****
Called "Connections Anonymous," it reserved its advertisement to a discreet, double-spaced ad in the Telegraph and Post. Reading simply: Looking for lasting romance? Afraid of tasteless personal ads and smarmy dating sites? Create a private profile with us and let us find your perfect match for you!
It seemed like a joke. It sounded too good to be true. It bore the hallmarks of a potential escort service for older, wealthy businessman. But it wasn't any of these things, as Miss Darcy learned when she visited its office, a reserved space on the building’s third floor.
No advertising on the outside, not even a tiny brass nameplate. She noticed this when the secretary buzzed her in for her two o' clock meeting to create a profile. Tucked inside her purse was a press badge from the Post, issued when she once covered a swanky cocktail party billed as a singles mixer for London's eligible who's who. It would provide her planned cover if this meeting went awry–she was doing a piece for the paper on so-called romantic services for the lovelorn.
The door opened and admitted her to an office space, with a series of desks and filing cabinets, a few potted plants for greenery. A sympathetic smile from the woman who showed her the way to the interview room.
"Welcome to Connections Anonymous." The agent conducting the interview seated herself in a folding director's chair and indicated a similar seat for Miss Darcy. "Before we begin, I must require as to your current relationship status. You are single, I assume?" She peered into Olivia's face intently, who blushed in return.
"Is that a required question?" she answered, feeling slightly affronted– and at the same time, relieved. "Regardless, I suppose, the answer is yes. I am single."
"Good, then," the agent replied. "We must do our best to maintain status as a "relationship" agency, not a service for the unhappily married to pursue other notions. While we take our clients at their word when they answer, if we receive any evidence that their status is otherwise, we are forced to terminate their account."
"Very wise," answered Olivia. "Although, considering you allow clients to volunteer the answer–"
"We believe the lack of rumours about our agency speaks for itself," the agent answered. "As I'm sure you're aware, we operate on an advertised level of discreetness here, so before you introduce yourself–" Miss Darcy had opened her mouth to speak "–
you should be aware that we keep everything on an anonymous basis here for the sake of our clients.”
“Is there a reason why most of your clients prefer such secrecy?” Olivia ventured. “Have they reasons to hide?” She smiled casually, but mentally she pictured a parade of young computer nerds living with their parents, thrice-divorced souls in search of a weekend companion for family brunches.
“Many of our clients are, shall I say, small-scale celebrities,” explained the agent, lowering her voice slightly. “They prefer to keep their romantic pursuits private to avoid scrutiny.”
Miss Darcy nodded, in accordance with the serious expression on the woman’s face, as if taking part in a rumour that must be kept quiet.
“We’re not an exclusive firm, however; most of our clientele is what we describe as ‘upwardly-mobile and eligible’,” the agent continued, in normal tones. “The type who are in every sense an attractive prospect, but have neither the time nor the energy to pursue a normal dating scene.”
Miss Darcy interlaced her fingers, propping her chin on both hands. “So they hire a firm to schedule their social connections around their ‘special circumstances’,” she ventured. “But if your clients are so inclined to trust you with their schedules and personal data, what keeps their identity a secret from you?”
This was the big question. One she quite expected to discredit the so-called “Connections Anonymous.”
“Your name will only be known to our billing service who will issue you a once-a-month charge.” The woman concluded this statement with her same placid smile.
"And how do they know it?" laughed Miss Darcy. "Surely you must have some information on file about your clients. Although the billing agency could learn it another way–psychically, I suppose."
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 2
