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 a jerk. 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 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 analyzed by x-ray." Henry's lank hair brushed the frame of his glasses in a look his officemates referred to as "Harry Potter" bangs. 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 honors, 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 cart to the next station, 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 rumors 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 in mum’s basement, 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 rumor 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 be 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."
The woman across from her didn't laugh, although her smile momentarily looked less placid.
"Our clients fill out an electronic form with the service using our agency's code," she answered. "Your electronic bill will read "personal assistance service"–a rather vague description we feel makes our clients more comfortable."
It sounded like a series of dog-walkers and dvd rental-returners, better than the "personal services" associated with tawdry encounters with escorts and massage parlors. The agent for Connections Anonymous was already pulling a stack of papers from a folder in her hands.
“And that’s it?” asked Miss Darcy.
“That’s it,” the agent repeated. “In return, you’ll be matched with at least one eligible profile per month until you indicate a connection. Then we’ll suspend your profile until further notice.”
“I see,” Miss Darcy said. Her eye following the rapidly-growing sheaf of paperwork.
"Now then,” the woman continued, “to create your profile, you'll simply fill out these forms. Nothing too personal, of course, just your interests, your hobbies, the field of employment you enter – plus, your physical description."
She spread the forms on a nearby table, a field of white that reminded Miss Darcy of a university entrance exam.
"Where it says name at the top, you'll simply fill out a username for your online account. We suggest at least eight letters for the password, by the way." The agent added a card containing online account instructions to the top of the pile.
This had all moved much more quickly than Olivia anticipated, tempting her to resort to her cover at this moment. Wouldn't it be a laugh, the love columnist from the Post attempting to join a matchmaking service incognito? They would see it as an undercover assignment, of course. For the lovelorn readers of "Dear Miss Darcy".
"What is your success rate, if I may ask?" she said, pen tapping against the forms. "I suppose you have more than a few who are impossible to match?"
The agent smiled. "Not at all, I assure you. In fact, we've never had a client drop the service, as impossible as that seems. Most of them have more than a few enjoyable dates–or successful relationships–and even go onto marriage." She chuckled. "In fact, we've had more than a few tell us that they were perfectly hopeless at dating before they arrived with us."
"I see," said Olivia. Pen still resting on the first blank. Which asked questions about her favorite food, her favorite color, her daily routine.
"In terms of what you get for the money–anonymous profile matches, romantic advice from impartial parties–I would venture to say the only option with a better success rate than ours would be the relationship columns in the paper," said the agent, helpfully.
Miss Darcy's pen, however, was already flying across the first page.
*****
The Brightons were not a couple fond of cocktail mixers, but a loosely-organized group of chamber music lovers who were devoted to hosting post-performance gatherings for concert attendees among their acquaintances.
Of course, if the gatherings grew to include local celebrities, prominent members of society, and members of the ever-growing media field, who would complain? The more the merrier, the more attention and promotion, the better. Which is how Miss Darcy came to be on the guest list, since her last symphony attendance which lasted the full two hours involved a small flashlight and a study sheet for a Sociology exam.
She made her way through the crowded room, in the cocktail dress rescued from the cleaners before closing time and a pair of kitten-heeled stilettos designed for looks more than movement. Like every guest, she was immediately accosted upon entry by Muriel Lane, the hostess for the evening, who never missed an occasion to tell the sad story about the theater producer who informed her that her voice was too weak for the stage.
"Isn't this smashing?" she asked, clutching Olivia's arm. "I hope you said hello to Allen as you came through–you know, the sportswriter from internet–he's quite gone on you. And how did you like the selections tonight?" At this point Miss Darcy deduced the conversation subject had switched to the symphony.
"Lovely," she answered. "But I can't possibly hold Allen's attention with you in the room, Muriel. Not when you're catching his eye in that stunning blue satin number." This she added in a low voice; it was a widely-circulated rumor that Muriel had eyes for the young man in question.
The hostess dropped her eyes and made an effort to blush in response. "I suppose if you say so," she answered, as if the idea were forced upon her.
"You'd be surprised how often I'm right," said Miss Darcy. She glanced in the direction of Allen, who was too busy scarfing down nuts from the buffet to notice either of them. "I would suggest a conversation opener along the lines of Britain's status in the World Cup." She glided around Muriel's other side, leaving her a clear view of Allen now sampling the dip.
"Well, I must go see Jerry and get him busy at the piano for the evening," Muriel breathed. She fluttered away, her disappearance apparently inspiring the plunky show tunes issuing a moment later from the corner piano.
The Brightons meeting room was outfitted with various musical instruments for these occasions, as well as heavy velvet drapes, fainting couches, and other Victorianesque furnishings. Fortunately, it was also equipped with a modern sofa in the middle of the room, onto which Miss Darcy sank after a moment, lounging in order to occupy the arm and prevent its invasion by one of the mingling guests.
"Having fun?" Mariah sank down next to her. "Well, I'm not. It's rotten that Eddie couldn't be here just because someone's sister was having a baby." Her fiance, an amateur musician, supplemented his career as a performer by working as the general manager of a Chinese takeaway restaurant.
"We shall have to entertain you some other way, then," said Olivia, stretching her arms. "What if we tell each other about the worst thing that's happened to us in the Underground this year? Or what reality programs we most wish they would cancel."
"Never mind," groaned Mariah. "I'm rather sorry I asked for sympathy if that's the best you can offer me." She took a sip from the champagne glass in her hand.
"Fine," Olivia retorted. "Then I'll keep my stories to myself. Including the rather entertaining one that came by letter today." She crossed her ankles, inspecting the toes of her patent shoes with interest.
"What letter?" Mariah's voice registered interest. "Is it something funny? It's not another one of those nasty peeping toms, is it?" Her tone dwindled to suspicion as Olivia laughed.
"No, it's not. It was rather a sad case of romantic juvenilia, I'm afraid," she answered, stirring her own drink with a swizzle stick. "A young woman writing about her paramour's failures. Seems he was quite the Romeo in the beginning of their romance, but crumbled in the middle."
"Fizzled out, you mean," said Mariah. "No more flowers or candy..."
"More like toys and Ring Pops," said Olivia. "He was quite tone deaf in the gift department. In the beginning, apparently, he courted her with expensive dinners and red roses, then seemed to forget what was romantic and what wasn't. For her birthday, he actually gave her a throw pillow printed with her own photo."
Her friend let out a shriek of laughter. "You're serious?" she asked, as Olivia nodded.
"Upon my grave," she replied, snorting with laughter herself. "She was completely upset, of course, and seems to think he has the same syndrome as a thoughtless boyfriend I mentioned in a recent letter. One who was bored by women or something, although I suspect it was more a case of stupidity on his part." She moved aside as a member of the Brightons swung a cello bow behind her in a dramatic conversational gesture.
"How old was he–fourteen?" asked Mariah.
"She claims he was a businessman. Wealthy, good-looking...even something of a playboy. So it's not that he's too young to know better," Olivia answered.
"Has it occurred to you that the gentleman in question might have meant the present as a joke?"
The voice was completely unfamiliar, catching Miss Darcy off-guard. She turned in its direction, where a handful of musical elites were engaged in deep discussion near the empty fireplace. A man stood on the fringes of the group, obviously listening to her conversation intently. Shirtsleeves rolled, an expensive suit and tie in dark shades, hollow cheekbones beneath close-cropped sandy hair. A Bulova watch occupying the same hand as a martini with two olives.
"Do I know you?" There was an icy note buried in Miss Darcy's playful tone. "Am I to understand that you are addressing me?"
"Addressing your conversation, yes," he answered. "Which I couldn't help overhearing, given the enthusiasm with which you and your friend shared that bit of gossip. As to your deductions–"
"I can't understand what gives you the right to participate," Miss Darcy continued. "You could have at least asked permission before so rudely interrupting a private exchange."
"What's private about it?" His laugh was scornful. "There's already a third party involved; this hapless bloke you're accusing of imbecility. I suppose I rather thought he deserved a defense of some kind."
Beneath the stare of his grey eyes, her cheeks flushed with indignation. "And what qualifies you to be his defender? Other than being male– and perhaps being guilty of a similar crime." She took a sip from her drink as she estimated the value of this shot.
He didn't crimson, although she thought she possibly detected a slight redness creeping from his open collar and carelessly-loosened tie. "That depends on whether a joke is a crime," he answered, coolly.
"I think we should all play nicely," Mariah interrupted. "Come on, let's talk about something less interesting to this gentleman."
"No, I think the best recourse would be to take our conversation elsewhere." With a parting smile at her challenger, Olivia rose to her feet and moved through the crowd. She heard Mariah sigh as she scrambled to follow her. Glancing back momentarily, she was greeted with a smile of condescension from the man as he rejoined his party.
Insufferable cheek. This dominated her thoughts as she circulated the room of symphony lovers and opera subscribers, continuing to move despite the pinch of her stiletto shoes.
It was very much on her mind late that night, after Mariah dropped her off en route to rescue Eddie from making change for Cashew chicken. In the dim glow of her desk lamp, Miss Darcy sat before her laptop, a pile of printed-off emails beside her.
Dear Curious in Cottingley: I think your problem might be of interest to a VAST number of our readers; including several members of the male species of the animal kingdom. The juvenile gifts, the inattentiveness, 'tis true that I have seen these symptoms of Careless Boyfriend Syndrome in several letters. So my advice to you is to all our readers who might find this case study in relationship errors rewarding...
Her eyes flickered momentarily towards the framed portrait of Lizzie Darcy on the wall. In her mind, she heard the insolent tones of her challenger on the subject of the supposedly-maligned "imbecile."
A discomforting feeling stole over her that she had abdicated the field by leaving so quickly, perhaps leaving her challenger with the impression– possibly–that she couldn't prove him wrong. A burning thought that gave her fingers speed as they flew over the keyboard, a little smile creeping across her face as she drafted the reply. The reply she ought to have delivered in person to the gentleman at tonight's party.
Photographic pillows indeed. Undoubtedly the gentleman in question purchased his girlfriend a leopard-print handbag, too.