Dear Miss Darcy: Can psychics ever predict the end of a relationship? Because a fortune teller told me that I’m going to break up with my boyfriend and I think it might be coming true.
– Superstitious in Surrey
“What on earth do you mean?” Miss Darcy’s voice faltered.
He slid a letter across her desk. “Have a gander at that, Miss Darcy,” he said. “If you would be so kind.” It was printed on formal stationery, the kind she observed from civil suites and court orders.
“It’s a cease and desist request from the solicitors of Halivorn Press,” he said, slipping on a pair of heavy reading glasses. “The parent company, if you will, of the Post. Filed as of yesterday afternoon with regards to your recent column on Christopher Stanley’s romantic activities.” Leaning over her shoulder, he tapped the appropriate line.
“Over his reply letter?” she asked. “He gave me permission to write it! There was no question of that when we spoke.”
“Well, there is a question now,” Collins replied. “They’re using quite a bit of muscle to force us to comply–not that it’s necessary.” His tone was rather ominous as he made this statement.
“But they can’t do this,” she snapped. “Nowhere does the column even mention Mr. Stanley’s name, much less anything libelous.” The sound of tears gathering in her voice threatened her self-composure. “Why on earth should they care what I print about him as opposed to any other London name?”
“Oh, they care a great deal,” Collins answered. “As it happens, Stanley is Halivorn Press–that is, the company is currently run by the Stanley family name.” He watched the expression of shock on her face with evident satisfaction.
“The Stanleys,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause for the realization to sink in. "I see." A bitter tone took root in her voice.
“Quite the name in publishing, actually,” said Collins. “His sister married very influentially in the press as well–the Cranes are the second-biggest publishing house in Britain.”
“A Pauline Crane, by any chance?” Miss Darcy asked, faintly.
Collins removed his glasses, tucking them in his pocket. “They want me to fire you,” he continued. “I haven’t given them any answer yet as to that. Yet. But I did promise that you’ll be issuing a retraction shortly. Possibly even an apology.”
He leaned closer. “I believe this may be your Hartshall Elliot moment,” he whispered. With a low whistle under his breath, he strolled away through the office, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
For a moment she was frozen in place. Her face was hot, the fingers holding the letter trembling. Fumbling for her bag, she shouldered it and made for the stairwell with the speed of someone very late for an appointment.
*****
Had she been asked to picture the main office of PyroTech Multimedia, its reality was very different from the modern interior and paint-splattered artwork she would have imagined. Surrounded by walls of polished dark walnut and oil paintings of nondescript landscapes, a solitary secretary was positioned like a sentry outside an office door. A sitting guard presiding over an assembly of stiff-looking chairs in earth tones.
“Is Mr. Stanley in his office?” Olivia rested her hands impatiently on the woman’s desk. A suspicious face peered up at her own.
“Do you have an appointment, Ms.–” the secretary raised her eyebrows, a cue for completion.
“Miss Darcy,” Olivia replied, coldly. “No appointment is necessary; Mr. Stanley will recognize the name.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Stanley is very busy today,” the secretary replied. “I must ask you to make an appointment for another time.” She turned the pages in a heavy diary on her desk.
“Ring him, please.” Olivia commanded.
“Mr. Stanley is not available,” the secretary replied. The door behind her swung open as she spoke, the man in question emerging with a business associate.
“–and we’ll draw up the papers on Thursday.” That was all the associate had time to say before Miss Darcy pushed past him to face Christopher Stanley.
“How dare you!” she hissed. “We had an agreement! An agreement! And you went behind my back to have me removed.” The tears that had been lingering in the back of her voice finally emerged, spilling over her cheeks.
Stanley stared at her, a strange look on his face. “Miss Darcy?” he ventured, with a strange half-smile. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to return this–” she shoved the letter at his chest “–with the compliments of the Post. I hope you’re quite happy with the result of the effort you’ve taken to protect your reputation.”
He unfolded the piece of paper and glanced over its contents, his face growing dark.
“I know your secret,” she continued, catching a glimpse of alarm in his eyes as he looked up from the letter. “I know the whole truth about your so-called spontaneous love life, Mr. Stanley.” Her voice faltered. “But I had no intention of telling anyone. And after this–" she choked, her words breaking into fragments, "–after this, I still won’t have the petty hatred to do it.”
Not waiting for an answer, she turned and marched out of his office, wishing it were possible to slam the glass doors behind her.
At the Underground, she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, letting the rest of the tears make their escape. An angry cry now was better than later–when she would have to face her friends with the news that she had single-handedly destroyed her career.
Was this how Hartshall Elliot felt when the Rage editorial printed her letter? She supposed it must be very similar, although her confrontation with Stanley had ended only with his uncomfortable stare as she raged in his office.
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, she recognized Stanley’s number. Snapping it open, she pushed the power button and silenced it.
She didn’t board the train when it arrived. She stayed seated, ignoring the curious glances of passengers entering and exiting its doors. A half hour passed in which she remained there. Basking in her misery, not wanting anything to break this cocoon of protection she formed against the harsh reality.
Another load of passengers rolled up to the pavement after twenty minutes, depositing its cargo in scattered exits of two or three. One of them strolled up to the bench and sank beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.
“I had to ride two trains to find you.” Henry’s voice was gentle. “Mariah’s been calling for the past two hours.”
“You’ve heard, I take it?” she answered, making a great deal of effort to control her voice. “I’m sure by now everyone in the office knows. At least I shall still be the talk of the town without my column to provide the sensation.” She felt his hand squeeze her shoulder.
“Don‘t be that way, Livvy,” Henry said. “It’s not over yet. You know Collins won’t fire you if he can help it. Not after all the buzz about the column.”
“But he won’t have a choice,” she answered. “He doesn’t want to be fired, Henry. And I don’t blame him. I knew it was a risk, what I was doing, I just didn’t realize how dire a risk.”
“Stanley could change his mind,” Henry suggested. “You said yourself he’s not all villain.”
“That turned out to be a matter of opinion.” She released a bitter laugh. Uncurling from her position, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “But I never thought he would take back his promise like this. That’s really the worst part–I could have published all those letters and the hate mail, but I didn’t. I would have even burned them had he asked me.”
“Come on, then.” Henry hauled her to her feet. “It’s time for you to go home.”
He pulled her towards the ticket gate, as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry you spent your afternoon on a train,” she murmured, her face pressed against his jacket. “I didn’t mean to be difficult, really.”
She felt his hand pat her shoulders, awkwardly. “Never mind it,” he answered, with a grin. “Now, on board with you.”
“So I can go pack my things, I suppose,” she groaned. “I will have to find a cheaper flat. One meant for the unemployed.”
The red light was flashing on her message machine, the first thing she noticed when she pushed open the door. She moved aside a large pile of letters –undoubtedly delivered to her flat by Mariah–and pressed the button.
“Miss Darcy, this is Tom from Lionsmane Press.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse. “We need to discuss a recent issue with your manuscript. Call us as soon as possible.”
As if I don’t know what that issue might be. She remembered Louise Crane’s pinched expression at the dinner party. For all she knew, the Cranes owned the Lionsmane. Maybe even the Stanleys themselves, exercising their powerful grip over another dependent company.
With a sigh of regret, she pressed the button again. There was a slight static buzz before a man’s voice emerged.
“Miss Darcy, this is Christopher Stanley. Don’t erase this, please–” Her finger paused over the button. “–at least not until you’ve heard it through. I need to discuss something with you ... if you would be good enough to come to my office tonight. Any time before eight o’ clock.” After a pause, she heard the line click.
Dropping her bag, she sat down as she considered the offer. She planned to avoid him forever after this afternoon's encounter. Why should she go to his office to be patronized? He could explain his reasons in an email just as easily.
But at the same time, she wanted to see him again. If the last occasion he saw Miss Darcy was in this afternoon’s disgraceful fashion, she would be no better off than the maligned image of Mr. Elliot he created at the restaurant.
Not Miss Darcy. If it was her last occasion to appear before him as her old self, it would be in style. The final bow before the clever and charming version of herself vanished from society for good.