Dear Miss Darcy: Is it wrong to want secretly to get revenge on a jerk who broke your heart? I have photos of me and my ex hanging out at the "spot" he told his new girlfriend is a "special place" for only the two of them. I'm desperately tempted to post them on my social networking page to get back at him for leaving me. Should I or shouldn't I?
–Bitter in Bradford
A much muddier version of Miss Darcy arrived home late that night. She dreaded to think of the condition of the rental car's carpet after the post-game triumph–which at one point involved splashing in mud puddles to the strains of the local pub's musicians.
All in all, a desperately-needed escape from her troubles, including the part where a handful of fans hoisted her aunt on their shoulders as Most Valuable Cheerer.
A note was taped to the knob of her flat, blocking the keyhole. Tearing it off, she unfolded the piece of paper. Let myself in. Left weekend mail on table. Helped myself to leftover pastry in fridge. Cheerio and see you on Mon. – Mariah.
Stuffing the note into her pocket, she unlocked the door. Stacks of envelopes spilled from her desk, twice the usual number. Beside them was a half-eaten plate of cherry turnover.
Groaning, she stooped to collect a few from the floor and placed them in the pile again. It would take half the night and most of tomorrow morning to sort through this lot for candidates–and she still had to write the first draft of the Stanley advice column.
The topmost correspondence was from a village outside London, a tiny square more like a party invitation than a letter. Taking a paper knife from the drawer, she slit it open and drew out a piece of seagull stationery that smelled faintly of expensive perfume.
Dear Miss Darcy,
I know we don't know each other, but I felt I should write after coming across one of your columns in the paper. It was the one about the girl from Cottingley and her boyfriend–and to tell you the truth, I think I know him. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've dated him, too.
I know this is weird, but our stories are really, really similar– even the tacky gift part seems familiar and the coming on strong then freezing me out bit. Is it possible maybe our relationship breaking up wasn't my fault after all? Or am I crazy to think maybe we've both dated the same freak and it was all his fault our relationship soured?
With a wry grin, Olivia tossed it aside. Apparently, Christopher Stanley shared his guilt with quite a few of Britain's careless Romeos. Fishing through the pile, she drew another one and opened it.
Dear Miss Darcy:
I recognized the boyfriend in the letter you published a week ago in your column– the one about the girl whose boyfriend was a cold jerk? Even though your column hasn't addressed the rumors that it's Christopher Stanley the businessman, I know for certain it is, because I dated him, too. Although I didn't get an ugly pillow like this Cottingley girl, I was definitely burned by him in more ways than one. If you want to know more about it, feel free to contact me. I think Stanley's definitely got to learn his lesson.
Curious, Miss Darcy flipped over the envelope. The letter's mark showed it was mailed from an address near Windsor.
It was not the same as the previous letter and postmarked almost three days later. It wasn't a prank, so it must be a coincidence. Mustn't it?
Her eye wandered over the stacks of envelopes, a faint tingle developing beneath her skin. Reaching into the pile, she drew a pink envelope decorated with a spray of butterflies and a personally-stamped return address.
Dear Miss Darcy: I know you won't believe this, but I dated Christopher Stanley, too! I think maybe I understand what Cottingley's going through ...
She re-folded the piece of paper without finishing the sentence.
*****
"I don't understand it–they all wrote you letters at the same time?" Mariah lowered the sheet of stationery and met Olivia's gaze with raised eyebrows.
"That's because they all read the column and felt sympathy for one of their own," Olivia answered. "Don't you see how incredible that is–the potential in this pile?"
She had let Mariah read the letters–five of them, by then–isolated from the rest of the mail pile. The only thing any of them had in common was the unmistakable theme of Christopher Stanley.
"Look at this one: she doesn't even say who the boyfriend was," Mariah said, holding up one of them. "It could be anybody, it could be some bloke she knows in university ..."
"With two dozen roses and a singing quartet showing up on her doorstep?" Olivia answered. "It's Stanley, it has to be. It's too much of a coincidence otherwise." She gathered up handfuls of mail from her desk, sifting through the envelopes. "Who knows how many more are in here. Twenty? Thirty? He dates a different girl practically every month!"
Mariah tossed the letter into the pile. "I think you're crazy," she answered. "It's one thing to give this guy advice for a stupid mistake, but not publishing letters from all his ex-girlfriends."
"They're unsolicited," Olivia replied, tamping down a sense of guilt. "Besides, who said anything about publishing them? That would be pointless, given that we have Cottingley's letter in print already."
"Then what's the value in having them?" Mariah watched, curious, as Olivia pulled a pad and pencil from the desk drawer.
"Did you read the story in the long one? About the 'birthday picnic' he arranged on the same day as a wedding on the grounds?" she asked. "He was hours late to that and she was stuck on the sidelines alone with a blanket and basket, getting sympathetic smiles from the bridal couple and guests–the wedding planner even asked her to leave at one point."
"So he's a bit tacky and thoughtless. So is half the world," Mariah answered. "What are you going to do about it?"
Olivia tapped her pencil against the stack of letters. "What if I were to meet these girls and learn the truth about all their claims?" she asked, slowly.
Mariah's eyes widened. "Liv," she said. "Don't be thinking what I think you are." A warning tone accompanied this statement.
"It would be sort of like field research," Olivia answered. "I would take what I learned and tailor the advice to his mistakes–I could build a profile of what kind of boyfriend he is and draft a series of columns to address his flaws."
She was beginning to wonder if a light bulb was forming over her head as she spoke, an idea taking shape so bold that it would eclipse any column crafted by her own advice. Her pen flew over the paper, making quick notes as she spoke.
"Mr. Stanley would receive counseling aimed directly at his worst flaws and never even know what was happening." She pictured his amazement at her uncanny accuracy; unable to refuse listening to her if she was gifted with such insights.
"Bad idea," Mariah interrupted. "Very bad. These women are strangers, this could be some kind of trick to discredit you and get you fired." As Olivia glanced up. "Imagine what Collins would say if you printed some column based on bogus stories?"
"Collins will never know," Olivia said, her pencil pausing momentarily. "I won't tell anyone about it. I'll keep it secret–even from the girls I interview."
"And just how will you do that?" Mariah asked. Olivia swiveled towards her keyboard and opened a fresh document on the computer screen.
"Simple: I'll tell them I'm doing research for a book on relationships and their letter intrigued me," she answered. "It's partly true, after all; and I won't tell them that the rest of his girlfriends are writing me with similar stories."
"Why not just tell them you’re selling cosmetics?" Mariah retorted. "Or maybe love potions." She lowered her voice as Henry glanced in her direction from a few desks away.
"Maybe you're right." Miss Darcy paused, mid-keystroke. An impish smile tugged about her lips as Mariah's face dropped to the desk.
"No," Mariah groaned, her voice muffled by the pile of correspondence.
"Relax, I'll use a logical cover to protect myself. Especially with the ones who are a bit brighter," she added. "Perhaps I'll tell them I'm doing a survey for the magazine on bad relationships."
"The whole idea's bad enough without you posing as some magazine lackey in oversized glasses and a hat."
"It's all in the name of journalism," Miss Darcy responded. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll only resort to incognito when absolutely necessary. For the paper, that is."
"Why don't you just publish their names and photos in an 'I dated Christopher Stanley' feature?" Her friend's tone was snarky.
"Maybe I will," Olivia answered, without looking away from the screen. "At least, maybe I'll publish their stories. After I've conducted all the interviews and before Mr. Stanley can stop me from meeting his former sweethearts."
Her eyes darting towards the name on the nearby letter, the first epistle she opened from one of Stanley's ex-girlfriends. Best to start at the beginning, before the rest come begging for help, too. She only hoped that the girl wouldn't think her request too unusual–otherwise, she might contact her former boyfriend.
"How do you even know these girls will agree?" Mariah asked.
"I don't," Olivia answered. "That's why I'm going to contact them and find out. One at a time." She hit the 'print' button and watched as a sheet of paper shot into the tray.
Dear Miss Price: I was intrigued by the story you told about your former boyfriend; I think your experience could be used to help other young women who have encountered similar relationship disasters. Would you be willing to meet and discuss your story? If so, please contact me at ...