My only saving grace in this sorry tale is that Jeremy didn’t just agree, but suggested that I keep the apartment, without having to buy him out. He’ll stop contributing to the mortgage as of now, due to the fact he’ll be needing to get his own place fairly soon, which whilst it’s great news, places an extra twelve hundred and fifty pounds on my already burdened shoulders each month. Oh bugger. And the hits just keep on coming.
Having not been able to sleep at all last night, I was in and out of the gym by seven thirty this morning and managed to break my own record by arriving to work at eight forty-five. Lauren, as usual, was already there, looking wide awake and incredibly stylish in her Prada trouser suit. She was humming a tune and looking far too jolly and energetic for a Monday morning, as she tapped away on her keyboard perched at the reception desk. Lauren was one of those annoying people who was constantly in high spirits, never moaned or complained – not even about Portia or Gwendolyn, who both gave us all on a daily basis countless reasons to bare our fangs, behind their backs of course. But not Lauren. She had the ability to shrug off a belittling comment, or laugh off a blatant snide remark with effortless ease, and still managed to find something nice to say in return. She was extraordinary. And I loved her.
“Well, well, this is a first Rebecca,” she laughed lightly.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I explained, throwing myself down on the cow-skin chaise, intended for clientele only. “Is her highness in?” I asked pointing up above.
“No, not back till this afternoon.”
“Oh goodie. What about Lady Muck?” I asked referring to Portia.
Lauren laughed. “Not yet.” Then looking at me with touching concern, “It was quite a surprise Jeremy turning up like that last Friday.”
“Certainly was,” I sighed flicking through Pamper Moi’s new brochure, hopeful for a meagre mention of facial exercise training. Nada. Who was I kidding? Gwendolyn, not being one for ever changing her mind about something, meant it was probably never going to happen. I made a mental note to evaluate my career prospects. Not that a sea of options was billowing before me, but the career span of a beauty therapist was a relatively short one and after six years in the industry I wasn’t sure how many more I had left in me.
“So did you guys sort it out?”
“You could say that.” I put down the brochure and looked up at her. “We are officially over.”
“Oh nooo,” she said as though I’d just told her I’d just been diagnosed.
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Please don’t do that Lauren. Trust me, this is definitely for the best and it was for a VERY good reason.” My emphasis of the word ‘very’ conveyed all that needed to be said and she – being the considerate noble Lauren – understood immediately.
“Say no more,” shaking her head sadly.
“Anyway, what’s my day looking like?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject and lighten the current depressing mood heavily descending upon me.
She tapped a few keys then looked up at me with a humorous – I know you’re not going to want to hear this – look. “Good news or bad news?” she asked.
“Oh gawd,” I moaned, burying my head in my hands. “Good news please.”
“Well, the good news is you should be done by three.” Hmm. Yes, that was good news. I made another mental note to call Abby and see if she wanted to have dinner with me at Dino’s later. “And the bad news is…you’ve got Monika Rigmora.”
“Whaaat!” I leapt up to go check Lauren’s screen. There had to be some mistake. “There’s no way,” I said more to myself as my eyes darted over the screen confirming the appointment, then looking for a gap in another therapist’s day so I could beg Lauren to move her over. No gaps. Great. “I thought she was banned!” I almost shouted. Lauren looked at me apologetically. Apologising for Gwendolyn no doubt. Arrrggggh! “Does Gwendolyn really not have it in her to refuse a few thousand pounds for the sheer morale and safety of her staff?!” Lauren shrugged helplessly. It really wasn’t Lauren’s fault. Gwendolyn had probably booked the appointment her own damn self. Monika bloody Rigmora was the absolute last person I needed to be holed up in a treatment room with today. She was a six foot tall Swedish goddess and supermodel, but more importantly she was stark raving mad! I read that she was in court quite recently for physically attacking a photographer, reducing the grown man to tears, smashing and stamping on his outrageously expensive camera and destroying along with it hours and hours of footage which he claimed he would never be able to re-create. One could almost begin to understand such barmy behaviour had it been a paparazzi photographer snapping her whilst she ate dinner with her long lost father or something, but this was a glossy magazine’s house photographer, on a photo shoot that she was being paid to do. And why had she attacked him? Because he’d suggested that with her having a cigarette break every five minutes, the shoot may well run over. And for that she’d assaulted him! Having read this in a tabloid newspaper, I would’ve instantly dismissed it as nonsense, had I not been privy to my own private demonstration of Ms Rigmora’s disgraceful tantrums when during her last pamper day here she tried to dunk my colleague’s head in a boiling hot pail of wax! Lovely.
“Oh don’t worry,” Lauren said, forever the optimist. “She’ll be fine with you.” I slumped myself back down on the chaise, determined to enjoy each moment of normality I had left before Monika Rigmora arrived. A few moments later I saw a Rolls Royce Phantom pull up outside and my heart somersaulted in my chest. My whole body was rigid with fear, although in the back of my mind I knew I had at least another hour to mentally prepare for her arrival. I peeped out the door and saw Portia in a Versace mini dress, leaning up against the Rolls with a short, fat and elderly man tip-toeing up with tongue sticking out in an attempt to either kiss or lick her face. Yuk. “She’s got a new one today,” I muttered loud enough for Lauren to hear me.
“What’s he like?” she asked looking up from the screen.
“Decrepit.”
“Morning ladies,” Portia quipped, breezing into the salon swishing her hips from side to side. “You’re not supposed to be sitting on that,” she threw out to me.
“You’ve been picking up old aged pensioners again haven’t you Portia?” I mocked.
She looked at me with a cruel smile. “And how’s Jeremy? He was so funny last Friday wasn’t he?”
“Oh, Jeremy’s fine. And how was your old boy last night?” I asked, inclining my head toward the Rolls and its driver.
“Who Victor? Oh he was wonderful!” She closed her eyes when saying the word ‘wonderful’ as though she were reliving some magical moment.
“Pay you well did he?” Moment over.
She glared at me. “What the hell is wrong with you Rebecca Hardy? Why are you constantly ribbing me about my choice of men?” She seemed genuinely hurt and I almost felt guilty, until she placed her hands on her hips, rocked her head and said: “Do I rib you over your obvious lack of judgement, considering the losers you choose to date?” I was just about to lay into her, abandoning all my Audrey Hepburn karma, when Charlotte and Diandra, the other two beauty therapists walked in.
“Hey guys, guess who we just saw,” Diandra said flatly, sipping on her Starbucks espresso, trying to battle her hangover no doubt. “That nutter. She just threw a cup of coffee over one of the guys at Starbucks.”
“And which nutter would that be Diandra?” Portia asked. “We know so many around here.”
“Er…what’s her name? Monika Rigmora. Hey, you don’t suppose she’s on her way over here do you?!”
I waited until I heard Lauren buzz Monika out of the salon before I dared to enter the reception area. If I had to spend one more second in that woman’s company I would surely end up either being fired or imprisoned! Quite possibly both.
“That bad huh?” Lauren asked.
“No. Worse!” I whispered hoarsely. Although there were no clients in reception, Gwendolyn was in the building and I didn’t want to give her anymore r
eason to remember that she had me on final warning.
“Here, this will cheer you up,” Lauren laughed, handing me my client dossier to fill in. This tedious document had to be completed after each client pamper day, detailing each treatment they’d received and every single product used, observations and analysis. The whole shebang. The purpose of this rather lengthy document was so we knew how to proceed on the client’s next visit – which in Monika Rigmora’s case – was hopefully never.
“Hah! You’re funny,” I said dryly, sitting down to the thirty minute task ahead of me. I’d arranged to meet Abigail at Dino’s for dinner at five, so I was still making pretty good time. I heard purposeful footsteps coming down the hallway and I knew instantly they belonged to Gwendolyn.
“Print out last week’s accounts for me,” she said in her cool haughty drawl to Lauren.
“Sure,” Lauren answered, completely unfazed by the rudeness of her request. I watched Gwendolyn as she stood drumming her manicured never-washed-a-dish-in-their-life finger nails on the reception counter top. She looked amazing in her slim fitting Gabbana turquoise suit and slinky silver Jimmy Choos. Apparently she used to be a model when she was younger, which didn’t surprise me one bit, as her snooty attitude would’ve probably gone down a treat in that industry. She glanced over at me, looking me up and down, then turned her concentration back to last week’s accounts.
“How did it go with Monika?” she asked to no one in particular as she read her reports.
“Very well Gwendolyn,” I offered, deciding the question must’ve been directed at me.
“No incidents?” she asked far too casually whilst still reading.
Well, unless you call a seamless flow of torrential verbal abuse, including the odd death threat thrown in for good measure, an incident. “No incidents.”
The brrring of the reception telephone pierced the tense atmosphere that seemed to follow Gwendolyn wherever she went. Lauren answered on the second ring.
“Good afternoon, Pamper Moi. How may I help you?” Gwendolyn flicked through her report slowly as if really digesting its content, but I knew she was silently appraising Lauren’s telephone manner, and I knew Lauren knew it too and wondered how on earth she didn’t just pass out under such pressure. “Hold the line please madam whilst I see if that’s possible.” She turned to Gwendolyn. “This new client would like a home session today.”
“Who is she?” she asked without glancing up.
“Isabella Coombs?” Gwendolyn knew the names of every woman worth knowing in London and if she didn’t recognise their name they could not get an appointment for a month ahead never mind the same day without her first doing thorough checks on their background. Whoever Isabella Coombs was, she didn’t have a chance in hell at a same day appointment here!
“Book her in,” Gwendolyn stated simply. And, “Rebecca will do it.” I opened my mouth to protest but after one look at Gwendolyn’s impassive face, I thought better of it. What a great fuckin’ day this was turning out to be!
Chapter Six
I lugged my beauty case and my miserable self into the back of a black cab and headed to Isabella Coombs in Holland Park. I hated doing home treatments. Of all the obnoxious condescending salon clients we were lucky enough to receive, the home visit ones were far worse! (Except Monika Rigmora of course. No one could ever be worse than her!) The clients that demanded home visits fell into two categories as far as I was concerned: a) the ones that were too lazy to lug their diamond-dripping carcasses into the salon: what, with all the fundraising luncheons I have to attend, why, I’d simply never have the time. These women were the more bearable of the two, though they would openly flaunt their incredible wealth, whilst all the time complaining about the cost of our treatments, making certain to get their money’s worth. Every last cent. And category b) these were the ones who thought themselves far too high and mighty to ever enter a common beauty salon. These women were the worst. They always had a way of making me feel like the grime under their designer shoe, not worthy to even look upon let alone touch them. And heaven forbid they were anything less than satisfied with the treatments given, these women were capable of throwing a hissy fit so out of control, the temptation would be to just run out of there without even charging their card for the session. I pressed my face against the window of the cab, wondering which category Isabella Coombs would fall into.
We drove by Holland Park itself, near the open air opera theatre and turned a few tree lined avenues into Pleasant Place. Holland Park was one area of London I hardly ever had reason to visit. With palatial homes skipping around the fifteen million pound bracket, it was an alien world as far as I was concerned. I wondered what the hell kind of jobs these people did to ever afford such extravagant homes. An educated guess was they were not all lottery winners. I made a mental note to check my EuroMillions ticket numbers. Who knows, I could be their new neighbour. I smiled to myself day-dreaming about the luxury pad I would buy, right here in Holland Park, with indoor swimming pool and gymnasium. And I giggled thinking of how I would call up Pamper Moi to make same day appointments and how Gwendolyn would fall over backwards trying to accommodate me. Aaahh. It was good to dream.
“We’re ’ere luv,” the cab driver said pulling up outside a magnificent Italianate architectural style building. Was this someone’s house? It could easily pass off as an exclusive boutique hotel. I quickly checked the address, as I hopped out the cab to pay the driver, making sure it was correct. It was. “Nice ’ouse ain’t it?” he said in his blue-collar cockney accent. I nodded miserably, remembering why I was here, as I handed him a ten pound note.
“I need a receipt please,” I said sulkily.
“There you go luv.” He handed me a barely legible piece of paper, his impression of a receipt I assumed. He leaned his head out the window and low-whistled. “Yeah, sure is a nice ’ouse.” Then turned to me, looking at my salon tunic and large white leather beauty case, “So are you the cleaner then?” Oh fuck off you tosser, I felt like saying as I about turned and marched up the steps to number 21 Pleasant Avenue.
“Hello,” I said to the maid in my fake, Pamper Moi required chirpy voice. “I’m here to see Isabella Coombs.” She gave me a deliberate uninterested look, no doubt enjoying the fact that she wasn’t required to waste any social graces on other low-ranking members of the hired-help brigade.
“Yes, yes,” she dismissed in a heavy European accent, “She in beauty room. I show you,” and abruptly turned on her heels striding off at a mile-a-minute. She hadn’t even warned me to mind the step on my way in – which I didn’t see and promptly tripped over, landing head first on the marbled hallway floor as my beauty case flew out of my hand, spilling its contents all over the lobby’s pristine vastness. I glared at her for not having warned me about the step. She glared back – defiantly. I wondered what the etiquette was for a beautician to make an official complaint about the maid to the lady of the house. Hmm, probably not the done thing. I collected the contents of my case whilst Helga (no idea if that was her name, but she looked like a Helga to me!) tapped her size nine feet, not once offering to help. Humph! I gave her a look which said: Ok Helga, you wanna play? Well bring it on.
The beauty room turned out to be on the third floor, and having breathlessly run up the six flights of stairs, trying to catch up with Helga’s huge frame, I stood panting outside the door and noted that next to it was the unmistakable window of a lift exit. I gave Helga a questioning look. She answered with a twisted smirk. I decided I was going to kill her. But probably not right now.
“The beauty room,” she announced opening the door. I marched past her, stamping heavily down on her foot. She whimpered with lips firmly closed and that was when I realised that her boss, like mine, had a rule of silence for all employees.
I walked into the beauty room and let out my own barely audible low-whistle. This wasn’t so much a beauty room as it was a salon! The stone floor looked hand-crafted and an enormous sunken spa-bath with can
dle-lit steps at either end, stretched out to my right. To my left was an incredible equally vast, wall water-fountain, dimly lit, and in front of this a strategically placed soft leather beige modular sofa. I tip-toed slowly past, as the sound of my shoes clacking against the floor was deafeningly detracting from this carefully orchestrated ambience. Behind the sofa I saw twin-set hydraulic therapy chairs, manicure and pedicure stations and massage tables. I still didn’t see Isabella Coombs.
“I’m out here,” an aloof thoroughbred voice called out. I followed the voice behind heavily draped curtains and stepped carefully out onto a rather pretty little patio. She was sitting at a small antique style wrought iron table wearing a white towelling gown, the kind you – well I – would try to pinch from posh hotels, and her hair was wrapped in a matching towel. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking through a magazine which she tossed to one side and looked up as I approached her.
“Hello Ms Coombs, I’m Rebecca from…”
“Please don’t state the obvious,” she sighed. Then said quite snappily: “I know who you are. I called you!” She got up and sauntered over toward me. “And don’t call me Ms Coombs,” she snapped again. “My name is Isabella.” She looked me over whilst drawing lazily on her cigarette. “Well, aren’t you a pretty one?” she said sounding almost cynical. Of course I knew how to graciously accept a compliment, but I wasn’t exactly sure that this was one. So I said nothing. “Don’t you wear make-up?”
“Erm, no. Not usually.”
“Well lucky you,” she quipped. Tossed her unfinished cigarette and headed back inside. I followed her in. “I’ll need a manicure, cleansing facial, back massage and leg wax.” Great! There goes dinner with Abby. “Close that door and turn off that thing,” she ordered. I looked at her for a second wondering if this woman was somehow related to Gwendolyn.
“Erm, turn off which thing?”
A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Page 7