Abby laughed. “And would that be such a bad thing? But seriously. Would it? I mean men do go to them. Maybe Jeremy’s been.” then with a wicked twinkle in her eye, “…maybe even Sebastian,” trying her damnedest not to roar with laughter.
Julia was not amused. “My Seb does not consort with common hookers,” she stated icily.
Abigail immediately fell about. “Oh, he sees the posh kind does he?” she managed to blubber through her howls of laughter. Then drying the tears from her eyes, “But really. How do you know? How do we ever know what these cheating bastards get up to? We can’t all skulk around like Miss Marple here. No,” she said airily, “If you can’t beat them, join them. That’s what I say. But if you want one to hang around a while and even think of being faithful…we need to spice it up a little. Add some glamour.” The three of us sat quietly sipping our wine, thinking about what Abby had said. Then she turned to me. “You know Rebecca, you really are very pretty.” Whilst this may have sounded like a compliment I could definitely feel some kind of dig on its way… “In a very natural sense.” Hmm what no insult? “You’ve got great skin,” she said studying my face as though I were her next project. “But ‘au naturel’ really is just a tad passé,” …and there it was! “You should get your tits done! Plump those lips. Subject to the Botox. Embrace the glamour. It’s what the guys these days expect darling,” she sympathised.
“No way,” I dismissed her. “I really don’t care what ‘the guys these days expect’. I believe in growing old gracefully and I’m not going to start tarting myself up like some…some…tarty trollop, just to keep some man happy! I’m through with men anyway,” I said in a strop.
“Oh Becky,” Julia said leaning forward earnestly. “Don’t listen to her. You are absolutely stunning – in a very wholesome kind of way.”
“Did you just say ‘homely’?”
“No. Wholesome…though ‘homely’ would be accurate also,” she added as an afterthought.
“Well there’s nothing wrong with wholesome. Loads of celebrities are wholesome!”
Abby smiled sweetly “Name two?”
“Erm…Renée Zellweger!”
“OK. Name another.”
“…Er…oh I don’t know their names…but there must be loads!” I deliberately avoided looking at either of them. I didn’t need to see it; I could just imagine Abby’s smug ‘told you so’ and Juju’s ‘poor Becky’ faces. I really don’t care what Abigail says. Just because ‘glamour’ is her middle name it doesn’t mean that all females should follow suit. Just because she gets her tits done and her lips plumped and her forehead Botoxed…it doesn’t follow that we all have to! And whilst she may well have men…wealthy, gorgeous men…falling at her feet, she never stayed with any of them long enough for him to ever discover if she had any real substance or not. So how could she really ever know if her charms and ‘skills’ were really enough to keep a man from straying. Simple. She couldn’t. And as for Julia! Hah! She’s hardly qualified to even comment on, let alone give any advice regarding the opposite sex, having only ever seriously dated one man! Sebastian. And whilst she has been engaged three times…all three times were to said one man! Having cancelled two weddings citing “need to experience life a little more before settling down” as a reason and then once embarrassingly free of engagement, directly runs straight back into heartbroken Seb’s open arms citing “I just can’t live without him,” as a reason. No. I don’t think Julia is at all qualified to give any relationship advice. They are my best friends and I love them both dearly. But sometimes…like this time…they really do get on my very last nerve!
“Oh god,” I pretended to yawn, “I suppose I’d better get ready for work tomorrow.”
Julia looked shocked. “You’re not going to work tomorrow are you?! Not after what’s happened. You should take the day off. Call in sick.”
“Of course I’m going in to work tomorrow! Gwendolyn is just looking for a reason to fire me and trust me that is the last thing I need to happen right now!” They both nodded in agreement. Having both met my bitch of a boss Gwendolyn; they both knew she wasn’t to be trifled with. I started passing them their shoes, coats and bags, and ushering them both toward the door.
Abby gave me a cuddle and kiss on the cheek. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight darling?”
Gawd no! “No thanks Abby. I’ll manage.” Glad to be shot of them both! I stood at the door and waved them off down the stairs then breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
“Don’t forget to set your alarm!” Julia called back up the stairs.
C hapter Two
I forgot to set the alarm.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety fuck!” I darted around the apartment looking for my shoes, jacket and handbag. I was most definitely going to be late. And Gwendolyn was most definitely going to fire me. I couldn’t find my work shoes so shoved my feet into my Joseph strappy, high heeled party shoes, knowing I would painfully regret it later. My handbag had gone AWOL so I just grabbed my purse, keys and mobile and ran out the apartment with no jacket. I tottered as fast as I could, which given the height of these heels was admittedly not very fast, down Kensington High Street to the station, and squeezed myself into the already overcrowded carriage, ignoring the scolding tuts from other passengers, who obviously blamed me for their abruptly having even less space, just as the train was about to pull out. Once on the train I began to relax. I was going to be late but it was Thursday. So it was OK. Gwendolyn never arrived before noon on a Thursday. Phew!
I tottered along leisurely through Knightsbridge station heading toward the exit, enjoying the smoochy jazz melody being played on a saxophone by one of the resident buskers. He was good. Very good. I wondered how someone so clearly talented had ended up busking for pittance on the London underground, albeit in the one of the wealthiest and most exclusive areas of London. He looked far too thin to be healthy, like he hadn’t eaten in days, and by the look of his raggedy clothes he was probably also homeless. I tossed a pound coin into his hat and smiled at him as he winked back. There is always someone in a worse off position than oneself and it is very good karma to give. Even if one really doesn’t have it to give. And even though one may well find oneself also busking for food this time next month, when one’s ginormous mortgage becomes due, because one’s boyfriend has turned out to be a lying cheating toe-rag. But one will not dwell on such negative thoughts, but rather one will enjoy the gift of gorgeous weather, on this beautiful British spring day. I smiled to myself, amused, and headed up the steps out of the station.
I discovered that since leaving sunny bright Kensington, unseen dark clouds had forcefully emerged, and I was met with bucketing bloody rain! I had at least a good five minute trudge to the salon on Sheridan Place with no jacket, no umbrella and four inch high strappy sandals. “Fuckin A!” I shouted to no one in particular and stamped my foot. Which really was not a very good idea, as it landed in a puddle which then splashed dirty street water all the way up my bare tanned toned legs, and the four inch heel of my right shoe lodged itself firmly in-between the paving stones, promptly snapping off as I tried my damnedest to free it. Great! One shall not get emotional nor lose one’s rag in times of adversity, but one shall remain cool calm and collected, I said to myself as I hobbled along with my one four inch heel and one flat shoe ensemble.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Portia said with a cynical laugh. She was standing in the doorway to the salon looking insensitively immaculate from head to toe. Her perfect blonde bob looked annoyingly even more radiant today. Her skin looked polished and her eyes all sparkly, as she stood there dressed exquisitely in Gucci’s finest, most probably bought for her by one of her many elderly admirers. She looked me up and down and laughed some more. I stood under the salon canopy with sopping hair clinging to my face and drenched clothes featuring dirty black splash marks, compliments of all the cars that had skidded past me and all the puddles I had landed in, feeling like some bleak vagrant.
�
�Oh piss off Portia!” I pushed past her and marched straight into our staff room.
I, Rebecca Hardy, was one of the most fortunate and enviable beauty therapists in the whole of London. For I actually worked at ‘Pamper Moi’. And with its dedicated clientele consisting entirely of ‘A’ list celebrities and the country’s wealthiest and chicest women, Pamper Moi was without question the most exclusive beauty salon in the whole of the UK. Located in one of London’s most fashionable and privileged districts, movie stars and heiresses alike could wait up to a month for their ‘pamper day’ appointment when they would arrive by chauffeur to have their lithe toned legs waxed to silky perfection, their eyebrows threaded into flawless arcs, their faces re-texturised and nourished and their entire bodies exfoliated with exceptional sea salts to restore and maintain youthfulness, then heavenly massaged by candlelight to sounds of the calming ocean with essential herbal oils. Pamper Moi offered a complete head to toe indulgent service, and was renowned as a pioneer in the beauty industry. We were actually the first to offer the much sought-after risk-free natural herbal peels as an alternative to the chemical ones which most salons still use. “Natural is the Way” was our motto, which embodied the fact that every product we used was one hundred per cent natural. We didn’t do Botox and we didn’t do collagen – not that our clients didn’t have those treatments – they just didn’t get them from us. And with its marble floors, vast opaque glass frontage and doors, chic furnishings with clean simple lines, the salon offered a pleasant tranquil environment. It was a great place to be. And a great place to work. I love my job. I love being able to help women, who actually care about and take pride in their appearance, enhance their natural beauty – naturally. OK, so maybe after their pamper day, some of my clients do make Harley Street their very next stop, to plump their lips or have their foreheads frozen of all expression, but the point is, by coming here they embrace the ‘Natural Way’ as at least part of their beauty regime. And that’s good enough for me. There are only two aspects of my otherwise perfect job that I really do dislike immensely. My boss Gwendolyn Elliot, and my colleague Portia.
Portia, obviously having nothing better to do, had followed my dripping trail into our staff room. “What time do you call this Rebecca Hardy?”
“No idea Portia,” I said in monotone whilst buttoning up my smart salon tunic, thankful that I had left a spare pair of shoes at work.
“It’s nine thirty!”
“I see play-school left its mark on you,” securing and un-securing my hair with a butterfly clip.
“You’re supposed to be here at nine. Or don’t you know that?” she asked smugly.
I was so not in the mood for her obnoxious self today. “Portia, why don’t you go and find one of your old age pensioners to harangue,” I stated simply, raising a hand to silence her as I saw her rather large mouth begin to open in my direction. Whatever she had to say I knew for sure I neither wanted nor needed to hear it. I had another twenty minutes before the salon officially opened and I was in desperate need of caffeine (my one true vice), and I would have to warn Lauren, our receptionist, to fend off Jeremy’s calls today.
Portia was a classic example of someone helplessly suffering from delusions of grandeur. Having miraculously secured a job here initially as a beauty therapist, which resulted in not one single repeat client booking, and on the cusp of receiving her P45, she soon realised that beauty therapy was not in actual fact her forte. But founded on her slavish dedication to fashion and addiction to shopping, she amazingly managed to create a whole new job role for herself at Pamper Moi as the salon’s ‘Fashion and Image Consultant’, where all she had to do all day long was go shopping with some filthy rich client, advise her as to what ridiculously expensive outfit would or would not suit, and for this ‘exclusive service’ the salon would charge a minimum of one thousand quid, of which Portia, the bitch, would get to keep 40 per cent. She had definitely found her niche and was annoyingly booked solid for weeks ahead which secured her position as Gwendolyn’s favourite. The only good thing about her new role was that it usually kept her out of the salon and therefore out of my face for most of the day.
Lauren was sitting swivelling on her Philippe Starck chair, dressed in a tight Armani black dress, being the only other employee who did not have to wear a uniform. Thinking of how much that dress must’ve cost, I was suddenly grateful for my obligatory tunic. I would never have been able to afford this Knightsbridge dress code. Especially now.
“I see you managed to lose her,” she smiled referring to Portia’s earlier hot pursuit.
“Ugh! She makes me want to slit my own throat,” I moaned.
Lauren giggled. “She’s not so bad,” she said playing with her hair. “You know,” she whispered with pretend awe, “she arrived in a Bentley Convertible this morning.”
“What, no helicopter?” we both laughed. “So which old codger dropped her off today?”
“Oh I can’t remember his name. The one that wears that dreadful toupee.”
“Oh gawd. Bruce?”
“Yes…that’s it. Brucie baby. They had a little kiss and cuddle at the door,” she grinned anticipating my reaction.
“Urgh yuk! He’s old enough to be her granddad!”
“He’s rich enough to buy her own salon,” she mused.
“Do you think that’s why she does it?”
“Who knows? Maybe. There has to some kind of rational reason behind such barmy behaviour. Even for Portia. I mean…he’s decrepit…and she’s gorgeous.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Oh she is Rebecca. It can’t be the money. She gets paid more than most of us put together.” Then with a naughty whisper, “Maybe he’s really good in bed.”
“Urgh! Don’t.” I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head trying to rid my mind of the threateningly permanent image of Portia’s toned twenty-eight-year-old body entangled with Mr Toupee’s not so toned seventy-nine-year-old one. “Anyway, thinking of decrepit dirty old men, if Jeremy calls: I’m busy.”
“In the dog house is he?”
“Worse!” I said with a look.
“Ooooh. Noo! Why?”
“Far too long a story.” I gave a long sigh and covered my face with my hands.
I could hear Portia’s stilettos clacking on the floor behind me. “What? More relationship problems Rebecca?” she quipped. “Ahhh, poor you.” She sashayed past me and clacked out the door to her appointment.
“Thank goodness that woman is not going to be here today. I am this close to throttling her.”
“She won’t be out all day I’m afraid,” Lauren said checking the diary. “She’s back at twelve for lunch with Gwen.”
“Hah! Typical.” I peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “Who have I got today?”
Lauren flicked a few keys on her keyboard. “Mrs Dobson.”
“Oh goodie,” I smiled. Mrs Dobson was one of my favourites.
“Ah! Rebecca! Darh-ling!” Mrs Dobson arrived at the salon an hour late as usual, kissing the air to the side of both my cheeks. “I am in desperate need of one of your magical facials. And my shoulders! Oh my poor shoulders have such tension. I really do have to find a way to see you more often.”
“Oh I don’t know,” I said gaily, showing her into my treatment room, “I think once a week should be enough.” She was a tall elegant woman in her early seventies, though you would never know her age from her slim, taut unlined face and plump firm lips. Alas, Mrs Dobson was one of my regular clients who regularly submitted to the Botox. And the collagen, so it seemed. “Rebecca darh-ling,” she would say in its defence, “a woman my age needs all the help she can get.” I had no idea what Mrs Dobson’s husband did for a living, and it was against company policy to ask, but I did know that whatever he did he must be doing it awfully well, as Mrs Dobson, who didn’t work, lived a life of unadulterated luxury. She booked a pamper day with me once a week at two grand a pop and Portia often spotted her at the designer sh
ows with her own personal stylist.
“So where’s that awful Portia today,” she asked stretching out on the treatment couch as I wrapped her hair.
“Out with a client,” I snorted quietly.
“Hmmm. That girl, tut tut tut. I saw her at the St James’s Club last Friday, canoodling with one of my husband’s friends no less!”
“Nooo!”
“Most certainly did.”
“Married?”
“Heavens no! Otherwise I would’ve had to have stuck my oar in.” I laughed. I used the cleanser to gently remove Mrs Dobson’s make-up. Ideally we would be able to ask our clients not to wear any make-up to their appointments but our typical clientele would think this an absurd suggestion. Let their husbands see them without make-up?! Let the paparazzi that regularly patrolled Sheridan Place in search of news-worthy celebrities, snap them in the raw?! Ridiculous suggestion!
I used the cotton wool pads dampened with cucumber water to lightly cover her eyes before turning on the over-head beam in order to examine her skin. It was in great condition, of course. No black or white-heads to extract. Just as I had suspected. She had great skin. I stretched her skin softly between my fingers examining her nose, cheek, chin and forehead, making certain that I didn’t miss any unsuspecting pimple.
“So how’s your young man?” she asked. “Did he propose this week?” I smiled, though she couldn’t see me through the cotton pads. This was an ongoing joke of hers, to ask me every single week if Jeremy had yet proposed. She felt sure he was due to do so, now we had the apartment…and the kitten. What more did a man need?
“No. He didn’t propose,” I said as usual. I thought about telling her that we were through but decided it would be selfish of me to ruin her pampering session with my depressing life-story.
“Tut. Honestly Rebecca darh-ling, I do think he may just need a very firm kick up the posterior this one. Beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be waiting this long for a man to propose! He must be completely off his rocka.” I forced a laugh. It was better than crying.
A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Page 3