Her brow furrowed. “Stanley?” she repeated. Who on earth was Stanley?
“If you mean the rake who penned the letter, then I would hardly call it a quip," she continued, feigning nonchalance. "Maybe a bit of theme to shake up the column, but hardly an earth-shattering departure.”
Collins's face broke into a conspiratorial smile. “Oh, it’ll shake things up all right. Bold moves like this are designed to make or break careers. The bolder the better–never go half-way Livvy.” He tossed the paper onto the desk as he rose again. “But do keep one thing in mind. Making enemies is only good for business as long as you keep the upper hand.”
“There’s no enemy,” she laughed, although a wave of confusion was creeping over her. “I assure you, I can take care of myself when it comes to a boor who writes letters.”
“Just mind that things don’t get too hot.” With that, he motioned for her to leave, lifting the phone receiver in the process. She rose and exited, refusing to glance back and witness the smug expression she knew was pasted across his face.
Why did he expect a reaction from this? She grabbed a copy of the paper from the office stack and thumbed to her column. There, in bold and black and white was Cottingley’s detractor’s letter printed above her own–complete with the formal business heading on the original letter’s stationery.
Her heart jumped, her eyes widening with surprise. Why on earth did they print that part? Collins’s advice on never going half-way flashing through her mind–no doubt everyone assumed she intended it that way.
“What made you do it, Livvy?” Henry was breathing down her neck. “I mean, it’s a bit bolder than your usual stuff –even compared to some of the steam that comes in the mail–”
“What are you talking about?” Exasperated, she lowered the paper and faced him, since it was obvious he was thinking the same thing as Collins. “Everyone seems to think this letter is far more important than it actually is.”
“You printed a letter from Christopher Stanley,” Henry replied. “Some people in this city are going to see that as a big deal.” He raised his eyebrows for emphasis. “And I don’t just mean the Stanley family–you know the holiday cards from the royals on the mantel type. A very old, very uppercrust name in Britain.”
“Isn’t he an entrepreneur? The head of some flashy company?” she asked. Glancing down at the column, she added, “PyroTech, the media development group, right?”
“Yeah, after he broke away from the family business.” Henry replied. “Not only that–he’s also the biggest playboy in Merry Old London. The tabs have photos of him with a different girl at every event, not exactly a ‘ring on the finger’ sort of girl, either. His name turning up in a love column is the sort of stuff that will make readers take a bit of notice.”
“The letter doesn’t say it’s from him,” she answered, folding the paper closed. “It’s just from his office, that’s all. You’re leaping miles to a conclusion.” She dropped it back in his stack.
He followed her to her desk, where she plonked down in her seat. “What–aren’t you curious about why he wrote?” he asked. “I mean, a guy like that takes time out of business to write to a love columnist?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, clicking open her email account. Revealing a slew of correspondence, far more than usual. “Who’s Cottingley’s BF?” one subject line screamed.
“What do you mean, does it matter?” Mariah had joined them, perching on the edge of Olivia’s desk. “What on earth is Chris Stanley doing writing letters in defence of some schmuck, for starters? Not to mention the plain weirdness of him having a beef with a columnist.”
“If it gets people to read the column, then it’s all good,” Livvy answered. Her voice was still indifferent, although her mind was rapidly moving in another direction as she scrolled through her email subject lines. A lengthy number of readers were already curious about the incident.
“Maybe I’ll launch a follow-up in a few days and call out Mr. What’s-his-name for his opinions,” she mused. “I mean, if readers want to know, who am I to refuse them the answer?”
“Maybe you should let it stand as is, Livvy,” Henry said. “I mean, Stanley has a reputation–”
“Apparently not one for picking up pencil and paper as a general rule if he spends as much time involved in skirt chasing as you’re suggesting,” Olivia answered. Holding up the newspaper as if proof of her statement. “He’s probably exhausted after writing this letter on the subject.”
“I swear, you’ve scarcely heard of this bloke and his name’s practically headlines for the press,” Mariah moaned. “Don’t you ever read anything pop culture besides your own column?”
“Not if it’s every bit as steamy but with no payoff,” Miss Darcy retorted. “Besides, you’re not even sure if it is some wealthy playboy. It could very well be his secretary stealing his stationery. All we can be reasonably sure is, it will intrigue the reader.”
Mariah rolled her eyes. “This is the stuff that gets ugly rumours in motion.”
“If only,” Miss Darcy answered, with a wicked smile.
*****
It was the perfect publicity move. She was sure of this by lunchtime as she contemplated its future while devouring Cashew chicken with Mariah. A few inquiries from curious readers would be published with her speculation in reply, followed by a tasteful conclusion. Playful and vague in its summary, of course, since she had no way of knowing whether the letter was truly from the playboy in question.
“I wonder if Eddie’s in the back,” Mariah mused, snapping a fortune cookie in half. Eddie kept a cot in the storeroom for “post-management naps” following a long night’s shift. “I can’t believe he didn’t call after work.”
“Is he the only thought to ever enter your mind anymore?” Miss Darcy teased.
Mariah frowned. “I think it’s been too long since somebody else had a serious someone,” she answered. “Maybe if you weren’t so particular it would be you sitting here wondering what a bloke is up to.”
An uncomfortable subject shift indeed. Olivia’s fingers toyed with her chopsticks.
“I see no reason to be serious right now.” Her voice feigned indifference. “So many silly fools willing to chase any bit of skirt. Especially that of a single young employed woman.”
“That’s a bit snobby,” Mariah retorted. “Scores of decent boys have looked longingly at you from across the room. What about that rugby club member from the restaurant that time?”
That date had ended early when Miss Darcy feigned an emergency phone call to avoid further apology for having playfully flopped on his lap during their casual dinner. Forgetting that he had a broken leg concealed beneath the table at the time.
“A nice enough date,” Olivia answered, hiding her guilty gaze in the platter of Asian appetizers before them. “It’s just ... I need something extra-special to convince me to be anything other than what I am now.”
“Which is a girl spending more evenings at home with takeaway than she ought,” her friend reminded her. “Or wearing out a different eligible soul at every party.”
The bus ride back to the office continued the inquisition. “What about the bloke from that Frolics on the Roof revival?”
“Too needy,” Miss Darcy answered. “The first and only five minutes of our conversation were all about how his mum kept encouraging him to meet nice girls.” She clung to a rail as the bus swayed around a corner.
“The magazine illustrator?”
“Too interested in everyone else in the room. And I do mean everyone.”
“The photographer?”
“Very nice. But not the right one.” His invitation out had been the hardest to refuse. She had almost been tempted to say yes, until he mentioned that he was a fan of Japanese open grill restaurants. Where Miss Darcy could easily picture a thousand things going wrong, including lighting his tie with flaming steak.
“See? You’re just too picky!” Mariah shouted over the heads of fellow p
assengers as they pushed their way closer to the front of the bus. “That idiot from the Brighton Club cocktail would have been perfect for you. Teach you a few lessons in being happy with almost-perfect.”
“Don’t even suggest such a thing,” Olivia retorted, a faint flush consuming her cheeks. She stepped onto the curb and turned to wait for her inquisitor to join her.
Only Mariah was still on the bus, waving farewell. “Appointment elsewhere,” she called. “See you before five.” Her mobile phone in hand already as the doors swung closed for departure.
Probably a dire appointment with Eddie, Olivia mused. With a sigh, she made her way towards the Post’s offices, her high heels avoiding a spilled ice cream cone on the pavement as she struck off on her own.
The building’s steps were occupied by another crowd of mobile phone users as she approached, conducting private business in public as they inadvertently blocked the way for other staff members.
“Miss Darcy.” A hand seized her elbow from behind. Instinctively, she yanked it away as she turned around.
“Are you Miss Darcy?” The man’s voice was sharp with urgency as he stared at her. Chiselled cheekbones and an unshaven appearance that screamed carelessness at the two o’ clock hour. He seemed familiar, terribly so; but it was not until she met the forceful grey eyes above that she remembered.
Her opponent from the Brighton Club cocktail meeting.
What on earth was he doing here? Her face flamed with a mix of emotions as the realisation struck her, the thought briefly crossed her mind that he had followed her here to finish debating her column.
“I am,” she answered. “And you are?” As she moved a few steps away to create a safe distance now between them.
A pained look crossed his face. “My name is Christopher Stanley,” he answered, speaking with force. “I trust you recognise the name?”
It was her column come to life. Right down to the snobby tone and underlying rage.
“I–” she began, but made it no further before he interrupted.
“The man who wrote the letter you published,” he snapped. “Which I have come here to demand you retract in your next column.” The muscles in his neck worked furiously beneath his open collar, knotted ropes writhing beneath his skin.
After a moment’s pause, she forced a little laugh. “I fail to see what you’re doing here,” she replied. “What on earth do you care? Your name isn’t mentioned in the column at all.”
His eyes grew wider. “What do you mean, not mentioned? It’s practically written in red ink, thanks to the imbecile who left the address on it! Does no one in your department know it’s bad form to leave an address on a printed letter?”
A guilty flush covered her cheeks, even as her voice grew louder to match his own. “I can assure you that the Post’s staff is as informed as the rest of the city press, Mr. Stanley. I dislike the implications of your tone.” They were drawing the attention of the crowd on the steps now; she saw a look of unease cross his face as he noticed a few curious co-workers were no longer engrossed in phone calls.
“This is my reputation at stake, Miss Darcy,” he hissed. “You have no right to publish that letter and expose me to ridicule–”
“I have every right,” she retorted. “That letter became my property the moment it arrived at my desk, whether you like it or not. And as to ruining your reputation, that’s rubbish. You expressed an opinion and I expressed one: thus far, we are equal.”
“Certain people I know will identify the ... details you mentioned in your column with me,” he said, lowering his voice despite the urgency in his tone. “I wrote a letter requesting you curtail your enthusiasm and instead you publish it for the world to see, linking my name with some ridiculous allegations.”
His eyes slid away from hers with this last statement. Guilty as charged, she thought.
“I realise you have a reputation of getting what you want,” she answered. “So many people have told me so at this point that I don’t doubt it for a second. But in the future I would suggest you show people more courtesy to avoid the unpleasant side effects of the press.”
She turned away from him, climbing the steps to the building entrance. “I’m sure Miss Cottingley would agree with me,” she added over her shoulder, taking care that her statement was audible to the rest of the crowd. Surely this would be enough to send him packing for good.
With a speed that astonished her, he took the steps two at a time and cut her off before she reached the door. “Will you or won’t you issue a retraction?” he demanded. The scowl on his face was meant to frighten–and probably did, when it came to the business bargaining table.
Mustering her courage, she allowed a spark of defiance to creep into her voice. “I can’t understand how someone as arrogant as you has charmed hordes of women into spending an evening in his company,” she replied.
For a moment, she thought she detected a slight hesitation in his face. Pushing past him, she took the opportunity to disappear inside, the door swinging closed behind her as she crossed the lobby in swift steps towards the stairs. Not risking the lift in case he chose to follow her all the way to her desk with his complaints.
Glancing back, she saw him standing in the same spot as before, head bowed towards the pavement as one hand raked through his hair in frustration. Without bothering to look towards the door, he brushed past two curious coworkers and stormed down the steps to the street below.
For his sake she hoped no one had recognised him. It would be one less threat to gnaw at his precious reputation.
Upstairs, she slid behind her desk and glanced over the pile of mail. She could not manage a twinge of pity for a man who had alternately snubbed and scolded her in public. Whose reputation was best defined by the shallow-but-sexy companion she had observed behind the curtain at Lambton Greene. Therefore it was obvious that she had no intention of performing his request.
But something about that last glimpse of his boyish attitude was weakening her resolve. Watching him shuffle away in defeat as if told his playmate couldn’t go outside today.
He may have blustered and bullied her on paper, but she had conquered him in a few swift minutes in person–undoubtedly something he hadn’t intended when he mailed his unsigned letter. Perhaps next time, he will remember that an anonymous letter mustn’t be written on company letterhead.
She hesitated a moment, then clicked open her documents program and began typing. Dear Readers: I begin this column with an apology. To the author of the Cottingley rebuttal, I express regret for sharing the case without knowing all the facts ...
Her fingers trailed off at this point. Holding down the backspace key, she erased the words completely.
What right did he have to demand an apology from her? As if his own behaviour played no role in these circumstances beyond that of a helpless victim–as though a man of his means couldn’t protect himself from public exposure.
There was absolutely no shame in offering advice to a public figure–especially since rumour suggested Mr. Stanley himself had practically demanded her services by writing the letter. And with her book on the horizon, this was the worst possible time for her to lose ground on her most successful column theme yet. Not while a certain arrogant London playboy needed a lesson in curbing his temper.
She lifted the receiver and dialled the archives room. “Rory, would you send me digital copies of all the articles that mention Christopher Stanley, the London entrepreneur?”
Rory sounded hesitant. “You mean the PyroTech genius? That’s a lot of stuff, Olivia,” she answered. “I mean, he really plays the scene in high society. There’s stuff about movie premiers and fashion shows, about a supposed big break-up with somebody connected to royals. And then there’s the charity stuff...”
“Charity stuff?” Olivia’s snort momentarily interrupted the train of items. “You mean writing a cheque to a homeless shelter while reporters look on?”
“I think it was some kind of volunteerism, act
ually,” Rory answered. “He’s supposed to be quite religious. For a playboy and all.”
“I’ll bet.” Miss Darcy tapped her fingers against her desk. “Send it all, Rory. I’ll sort it out when it arrives.” As she hung up, she reached for the keyboard and a stack of open letters.
Dear Lonely Heart: All is not lost simply because your singles’ night out was a flop. In fact, statistics show that your chance is far better of meeting Ms. Right at the local library than meeting her at a gathering populated by single people overly-calculating their chances of meeting the perfect person ...
Chapter Six
Dear Miss Darcy: what do you do when a compromising romantic photo is ruining your reputation? Someone posted one of me and a secret boyfriend from the past on her website and now I’m getting dozens of calls from shocked friends ... and my fiancé won’t even speak to me!
– Exposed in E––
The tabloid covers at the news agency depicted a blurry Christopher Stanley waving his hands in a dramatic gesture as he faced off with an unrecognisable blonde woman. The pose was unflattering, to say the least–and Miss Darcy was quite sure he would have something to say when he saw the image.
With a smile, she plucked an issue from the stands. “One of these,” she said to the man behind the counter. With a grunt, he counted out her change from the note she handed him.
She flipped open the paper to the story from the cover. “Stanley’s Temper Strikes?” it asks. “Flap with Favourite Love Columnist over Fling’s Fallout?” This headline was accompanied by two paragraphs speculating whether the “Cottingley” from the column was a lead actress from the Shakespeare theatre rumoured to have dated Stanley before an apparent cooling period.
Closing the tabloid, she tucked it under her arm and boarded the tube. Two people seated inside were reading the Morning Post’s “Life and Love” section. One whispered to the other, both giggling a second later.
Dear Miss Darcy (The UK Edition) Page 5
