A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  My alarm clock beeped, which I silenced without looking and crawled back under the duvet. I couldn’t sleep but I didn’t want to get up and have to face my first Saturday without Jeremy either. Saturdays with Jeremy was always such good fun. I would make him French toast with cinnamon and fresh black coffee, then we’d share a naughty shower, after which we’d catch a cab into Camden or Covent Garden, where we’d pick bits out for the apartment or just soak up the atmosphere watching the street entertainers. We always did something. As a couple. Humph. I wondered what single people do on Saturdays? Well, I was about to find out.

  I managed to drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom where I studied my reflection in the mirror. It’s amazing what havoc stress can wreck on one’s complexion. I jutted out my chin peering closer at my reflection and sure enough, there it was. The very faint beginnings of an age line stretching its way across my neck no less. These buggers really do pop up over night. Well this one had to go. I threw my head back as far as it would allow and counted to ten. Then forward for ten. To the left and to the right for ten, preparing my face and neck for a gruelling workout session. I was going to work the mutha out of this unwelcome crease today, if it was the last thing I did. Yes, I may well be twenty-eight and yes, I may well have decided to remain single for the rest of my days, but I was going to make damn sure I looked my ultimate best for each and every one of them! I don’t need to have a man to look good for. I am whole and entirely complete without one and I can look good for myself! So there!

  “What are you doing?” Julia asked. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Thursday!”

  “I just plugged the phone back in. Sorry,” I murmured, trying not to move my mouth too much.

  “Why are you talking so funny?”

  “Got a mask on. Stubborn neck crease.”

  “Oh. Are you OK?” referring to my recent dumping of Jeremy I presume.

  “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh good. Good. I mean you had very good reason to do what you did Becky, sweetie…but….oh…I don’t know. Poor Jerrers has been calling Seb non-stop.” She listened for a reaction from me. There was none. “He’s in an awful state.”

  “You feel sorry for him Julia?!” I couldn’t believe this shit!

  “What?! No! No. I don’t. I feel sorry for both of you.”

  “Well don’t feel sorry for me! I’ll be far better off without him!”

  “Becky I know you don’t want to hear this but I do think he really does love you.”

  My mouth fell open. “Loves me?!” My mask cracked. Now I was really annoyed. “Oh, is that why he was out shagging Miss Tits and Arse on Wednesday night?!”

  “He made a mistake…”

  “Oh Julia do shut up! You really are so pathetic at times! I know Jeremy’s a friend of Sebastian’s and I know he would have asked you to try and get round me, BUT I would’ve expected you knowing what I’ve been through to be a little more supportive of my decision. Which, I might add, was not a bloody easy one to make!”

  “Oh Becky I’m so sorry,” she said sounding humbled. “You are so so very right. I shall tell him – you are one of my best friends and my allegiance lies with you. And I shall refuse to listen to anything else he has to say on the matter!”

  “I should sodding well think so,” I said crossly. I moved my jaw from side to side, watching with amusement as the tiny crevices began to appear in the green algae mask, spreading like roots over my face. Not the best look, I have to say. “Right, I’ve got to go.”

  “See you at class later?” Julia asked. I hesitated. “Body of Life…” she sing-songed.

  “Oh OK. Body of Life, indeed,” I sighed.

  I was beginning to regret this Body of Life Challenge. Not that it wasn’t a good idea. Because it was. It was a fantastic concept and the results one could achieve with hard work and dedication were phenomenal. Therein lay the problem. Abigail and Julia were not working hard and were most certainly not dedicated. They were just not taking this thing seriously enough. I really should’ve done it on my own as I’m in the gym three mornings each week anyway, but having practically begged them to enter with me, I could hardly be the first to drop out of training. And I use the word ‘training’ very loosely, in that whilst we do actually make it to the gym for the required two sessions, we have yet to lift a weight between us! Abigail, being naturally slim and reasonably toned had never even seen the inside of a gymnasium before we started this challenge. And though she was at first the most reluctant participant, she became a firm addict as soon as she clapped eyes on the equally firm buttocks and lean muscular physiques of the vast selection of men that actually go there to work-out. “Easy pickings,” she would laugh surveying the room. And Julia – well, Julia’s just glad to get out the house.

  “Oh let’s at least try and do a class today,” I pointlessly pleaded.

  “Oh no, not a class,” Abby said, happily sitting back on the leather couch, settling in for the night.

  “Well let’s lift some weights then.”

  Julia pulled a face. “Ooooh I just don’t have the energy today,” taking up her position as wingman beside Abby. I looked at them both, shaking my head with disappointment. Every single time. Oh well. I plopped myself down beside Julia. We were sat at the front of what we liked to call ‘our viewing gallery’, a juice bar with cosy seating located at the end of the mixed gym, elevated by a few steps and clear glass barrier. This was where the posers liked to come and exhibit the muscular fruits of their laborious workouts for all to see. We were not posers. This was also where the pickup crew would come, having successfully flirted with someone on the gym floor, to giddily exchange numbers and seal the deal. Neither were we part of the pickup crew…well, Abby had been known to cross that line a few times. But for the most part we were what you called ‘observers’. We would sit at the front of the gallery, sipping juice and watching the goings on of the gym floor as one would watch their favourite soap. Except that Abigail would sometimes spoil the fun by interacting with one of the main characters, who would soon after leave the series altogether.

  “Oh hide! Hide!” Julia squealed, grabbing my hand as she slid down on the couch. “It’s that horrid little Gustard.”

  I looked up and saw Gus, with oversize baggy shorts and string vest, bopping purposefully toward us. “Er Juju,” I looked at her, “we are sitting behind a completely transparent screen on a raised platform. I think it would be fair to say he’s already seen us.”

  “Yeeees ladeeez,” Gus raved like a DJ, leaning his bony frame back against the barrier, smarmily rubbing his hands together. “Lookin good, mighty fine, I might just, make you mine,” he rapped toward Abby, his head bopping up and down the whole time. She rolled her eyes at him. Julia and I burst out laughing. You really had to give the man-boy some credit for persistence. He tried it on with Abby every single week. “Why you laughing at The G,” he said with a half Jamaican half cockney accent, which, with Gus being Asian, was most likely just as fake as the rest of his exaggerated guise. “Why you got to dis The G?” his animated hands gesturing with each word like a hip hop artist. Needless to say, The Gustard, as we liked to call him, or The G as he liked to call himself, was not the typical patron of this exclusive West Kensington health centre. Why they let him in and how he could afford it, gawd only knows. He swivelled his baseball cap and bopped behind our chairs to the other side. The three of us sat quietly, trying our best to control the fits of giggles threatening to burst out any second now. We had all learnt the hard way that the best way to handle The Gustard was to ignore him. Any interaction or reaction – giggling included – would only serve to encourage his nonsense. Julia crossed and uncrossed her legs, looking down at the floor the whole time, I sat biting my bottom lip, really hard, whilst staring fixedly out into space and Abby massaged her temples with her eyes and lips firmly closed. The Gustard rubbed his chin, studying us. Looking for a chink in the armour. “So, ladeeez, tell me something yea
h,” slipping back into cockney, “why is it you three, yeah, get dressed up every week, yeah, to come down here – and sit on the fuckin’ couch?!” I heard a faint suppressed snigger from Julia. I squeezed my eyes shut not wanting her to start me off. “Ain’t you lot got sofas at home? What do you lot fink this is? The Jane Austen fuckin’ knitting club?” And that was it. Julia instantly exploded with contagious giggles, which I promptly became infected with, fuelled by Abigail rolling her eyes at the both of us.

  She turned to face him coolly. “Why don’t you just piss off Gustard.”

  “Aye? What was that luv? I can’t hear you,” and grabbed his crotch. “Why don’t you come over here and speak into my microphone?”

  “Oh I would love to,” she crooned, “but you know, I never have liked cocktail sausages.”

  It took him a few seconds to get it before he responded. “Hah! You’ve got jokes,” then bopped off bouncing his head from side to side, rapping in a now African-American accent: “Bitches and hoes, bitches and hoes, dats how it goes wid bitches and hoes.”

  “Ooh,” said Julia, watching as Gustard bopped away in the distance, “you don’t suppose he was referring to us with that little ditty?” Abby and I both looked at her and simultaneously burst out laughing. Poor Juju.

  The three of us sat on our couch a little longer, filling each other in on our week’s activities and it was unanimously decided that I, having caught boyfriend cheating, dumped him and been given my last verbal warning at work, had without question the most eventful week. We sat quietly sipping our freshly squeezed juices, our Body of Life single effort for the day, until Abby bolted upright and gave out: “Helloooo gorgeous!” Julia and I followed her intent gaze and when faced with the object of her present desire, we too roused ourselves from our slumber-like state with dropped jaws and gawked. He was undeniably breathtaking. A true Adonis. Unlike most of the men at this gym, which for some bizarre reason concentrated solely on working out their upper torsos, to the extent they could rival Mr Universe but completely ignored their lower half, so their skinny little matchstick legs and flat backsides ended up looking ridiculously out of proportion, resulting in a comical ‘Mr Incredible’ look, which was – despite what their steroid-induced delusions may have them believe – not a very good, yet alone sexy, look! Well, Mr Adonis was not like most of the men in this gym. From calf muscles to his sexy silky baby smooth pectorals, it was all buff. And not too muscular either, more of a natural athletic look. Perfecto. The three of us sat with bums on the edge of our seats hypnotised by his beautiful tanned six foot two frame, leaning casually against the squat rack as he joked around with a friend, who was also very good looking in his own right but paled in significance next to Mr Adonis. He leisurely flicked his long dark hair away from his deep blue eyes and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he laughed revealing his perfect white teeth. Then he turned – in slow motion – his smiling head toward us and his smile widened with what seemed to be amusement. Oh shit! I quickly snapped out of my trance, red-faced and embarrassed, realising that he was watching us – with amusement – tongues hanging out and all, watching him! I nudged Julia. Real hard. Who instantly fell into Abby, who in turn nearly fell off the couch. Mr Adonis laughed openly at our pantomime act.

  “Oh fuck,” Abby sighed facing me for appearance sake only, whilst she watched him from the corner of her eye. “How un-cool. You two really have to learn to chill out.”

  “Us two?!” I laughed. “You were so away in your own fantasy just now.”

  “Hmm,” she said with a very naughty look on her face, “and it was such a good one.”

  Julia shifted in her seat, visibly forcing herself not to look upon him any further. “He is lovely though, isn’t he?” she whispered.

  “Juju, why are you whispering? He can’t hear you all the way over here.”

  “Oh. Are you going to talk to him Abby?” Whenever there was a gorgeous guy in the vicinity we had always presumed that Abby, being the only one of us who was perpetually single and being the only one of us ballsy enough to flirt with a complete stranger, would do so. And usually she did exactly that. And so much more.

  “Hmmm,” Abby considered this for a moment. “I will talk to him, but not today.”

  “Why,” I teased, “because he’s seen you leering over him?”

  “Darling, I do not leach. And there’s nothing wrong with a man catching me looking at him,” she said turning her attention back to Mr Adonis, giving him not very subtle come hither looks. “It just lets him know that I want him. And I shall have him.” Then just as she finally locked eyes with him she turned away suddenly and stated simply: “But not today. I’m seeing someone tonight.”

  “Surprise surprise,” I deadpanned. “And who’s the victim this week?”

  “Oh just some guy I met at Mojo’s last night. He told me I had nice tits,” she stated matter-of-factly.

  Julia pulled a face. “And you’re going to date this guy?”

  Abby looked her like she was stupid. “Who said anything about date? I just want to have him fuck me and worship my tits,” she said pushing them together.

  Julia covered her face with her hands. “Oh Abigail! You really can’t just go around having sex with strange men like it doesn’t matter.”

  “But it doesn’t.”

  “Aarrrgggh. It does! You really ought to be thinking about settling down Abby. You’re not twenty-one anymore…and there’s no ‘happy-go-lucky’ about being thirty!” Abby gave her a look warning her to drop the age thing no doubt. “Look, Seb’s got a new guy from work coming to dinner tomorrow. He’s a really nice guy. You should let me introduce you.”

  “Er, no thank you darling. If memory serves me correctly it was you that introduced Becky to the cheating Jerrers, was it not?”

  At the mention of his name the image of Miss Thingy snuggling up to him dominated my mind and I felt a stab of overwhelming rage. I hated her. And I hated all immoral women who wrecked other people’s relationships. I looked at Abby with a sudden fear that my best friend may well be one of these sexually depraved women. “Abby, this guy you’re meeting tonight…he’s not married is he? Or in a relationship?”

  “Well how the devil should I…” she trailed off having seen the serious look about my face. “Don’t worry sweetie. I’m not that girl,” she smiled. “I never go fishing with another woman’s rod.”

  Well, Abigail must’ve had a real good time last night/this morning as she turned up at Julia’s mid-afternoon, looking like she hadn’t slept, sporting her darkest Roberto Cavalli sunglasses, which stayed on all day whether she was indoors or out. And even though she wasn’t on full-form, she still looked pretty damn good in her white linen Nicole Farhi understated chic outfit, with unruly blonde hair restrained in a simple chignon. After my usual proper gym workout on a Sunday morning, I usually just threw on whatever I could find to come over here. Today it was ripped denim jeans, blue vest – the one advantage of being totally flat chested is that string vests actually look OK on me – and my market-bought flip-flops.

  Sunday lunch at Julia and Seb’s had become a weekly custom of ours ever since they’d bought an apartment together (heavily subsidised by Julia’s dad) in Notting Hill just over two years ago. They had timed the purchase to coincide with their wedding and Julia had insisted they were not going to move in until after the honeymoon when the supposed newly wed and proud Sebastian would gallantly carry his bride over their newly acquired threshold. But since that wedding (wedding number two) had been cancelled within days of the actual nuptials, once they had got back together – on their ‘honeymoon’ which had become a make-up holiday, and with no mention of a future wedding date, they’d decided they had might as well move on in. It was a fairly small but definitely stunning, interior-designed two bed apartment, with an unusually large garden, as wide and long as the whole apartment. The garden was accessed through the hub of the house, the kitchen, where on a Sunday Julia loved nothing more than to pr
epare a good ole English roast with all the trimmings. She was good at it too. Hence the reason for the ‘Sunday crew’ which turned up every Sunday from noon onwards, to break bread with Juju and Seb. Some people I hardly knew, Seb’s workmates mainly, and some friends who I only saw once a week on such occasions, would each grab a plate of food and head out into the garden where there was cosy seating with decked tables and chairs and of course the obligatory patio heaters. This was London after all. Jazz FM would usually be on in the background and after lunch, serious end of weekend chillin’ would kick-in, with cocktails being mixed and spliffs being passed around for those wanting to partake. I, of course, never did. Not going to Juju and Seb’s on a Sunday was like not going to work on a Monday. Where would one eat? Occasionally if the weather was nice we would have a barbecue, which was unmistakably Sebastian’s domain. He was barbecue king and would throw everything on it including corn kernels and sweet peppers, though he, like most the other males in regular attendance, had a preference for steak and any other kind of red meat, so those of us who didn’t eat it – namely me – were left with a few odd chicken wings. Today was a barbecue day and its tasty charcoaled aroma wafted all around the garden and down Ladbroke Grove.

  Abigail was not feeling the tasty aroma. “Oh god,” she bellyached, “I just cannot stomach the smell of barbecue today.” She sat down beside me at a table and instantly started massaging her temples. Deborah and Gabriel, two rather plump acquaintances of ours, actual friends of Juju’s, were also sat at this table, gnawing away at a selection of barbecued meat and potato salad, hardly coming up for air as if the food was going to run out. They momentarily raised their chubby faces out of their troughs to watch Abigail as she sighed dramatically. “Oh my poor head is positively pounding. I sooo need a drink.” Deborah and Gabriel exchanged looks which said: Told you she was an alcoholic.

  “Rough night?” I asked, nibbling on my corn.

  “Darling rough hardly describes what I’ve just been through. I swear, that guy was hung like a horse. I’ll be sore for days,” she stated in her matter-of-fact voice. Deborah promptly began choking on her rib-eye, causing Gabriel to start thudding her back frantically whilst shooting Abby the most disgusted looks ever, but the choking continued and with it fragments of rib-eye were strewn across the table. It was Abigail’s turn to pull a disgusted face. “Oh, will someone please put it out of its misery for chrissakes!” The shock of her comment seemed to do the trick on Deborah’s choking and her sizable girth was ushered up and over to another table by the even larger Gabriel, furious at having her eating disturbed, whilst muttering tramp and whore under her breath. I shook my head at Abigail’s vulgarity. I really ought to be used to it by now but her crass attitude never ceased to amaze me. One would never believe that this seemingly brazen hussy was in fact marketing executive extraordinaire for one of the UK’s most prolific and somewhat conservative department stores: Brook Simmons, no less. I watched Abby as she massaged her neck and rolled her head, wondering for the millionth time if this girl would ever really settle down, already knowing the answer, that she most certainly would not. Then again, being footloose and fancy-free had its advantages; at least if one never fell in love then one’s heart would never be in danger of being ripped out and shredded by lying cheating toe-rags.