A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  She looked at me as though I was the dimmest person she had ever met. “The spa?”

  “Oh. OK,” I said racing over there, wondering how the fuck I was supposed to turn this thing off. I twiddled about with some knobs that caused the bubbling spa to pick up uncontrollable speed, and in my panic-stricken haze I twiddled some more until the damn thing settled down to a rasping halt.

  I had always considered myself to be a fairly good judge of character and was usually able to work out what someone was like after a few minutes’ meeting. Isabella Coombs, however, was proving to be somewhat of an enigma, as the first few minutes of our meeting her behaviour was screaming out loud and clear: I AM A FIRST CLASS BITCH. And I would have clung to that simple deduction – proving that first impressions are not always correct – had she not turned to me during her massage and asked:

  “So, do you have a boyfriend Rebecca?”

  I was shocked by the question, seeing as how she hadn’t said a single word to me throughout the entire leg wax or manicure. “No,” I said simply.

  “And why not? I would’ve thought a pretty girl like you would be fighting them off.”

  I could’ve ended the conversation with a simple: “I’ve no idea” and allowed her to enjoy the remainder of her pampering session, but I figured what the heck. I was probably never going to see her again anyway, and said: “Well, I very theatrically caught my boyfriend cheating. So I dumped him.”

  She spun around so quickly I thought she was going to throw a fit at me for burdening her relaxing mind with such negative drivel. But she just pulled the towel up around her, looking at me intently and said, “Really?” like this was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard. “How exactly did you catch him?” And by the way she sounded so genuinely interested in my hard-luck story, I could tell that Isabella Coombs probably didn’t get out much. Maybe she was a severe agoraphobic confined to her home. Or maybe she was bored with TV’s soap offerings and preferred real-life drama. Either way, her undivided attention felt a whole lot more acceptable than her constant silent berating.

  “Well, it’s quite a long story and I’d hate to ruin your massage.”

  “Oh forget the massage,” she said brushing her hand dismissively through the air. “Now, I want to hear every last detail,” she said smiling, in a rather very nice warm and friendly tone, which I would never have guessed even existed.

  I looked at her and she smiled encouragingly. “Well,” I began, and started telling my tale with more than the odd flourish of exaggeration. Well I had to make it entertaining for her didn’t I? By the time I’d finished she was looking at me with such admiration, I felt as though she were here to massage me!

  “How ingenious of you to even think of spying on him,” she marvelled. We were sitting cosily on the modular sofa at this stage, where I’d felt totally comfortable in kicking off my shoes and putting my feet up at her suggestion. “You poor dear thing,” she said referring to Jeremy’s cheating.

  “That’s life I suppose,” I shrugged. “I just wished I could’ve known he was a cheating rat four years ago! That would have at least saved me wasting so much emotional energy.”

  She looked at me keenly, calmly…thoughtfully…nodding her agreement, then – suddenly – her eyes literally lit up, as though…well…as though the light bulb had finally gone off. She positively shivered with excitement as she beamed happily at me and said: “Let’s have some tea.” I was absolutely amazed at how such a simple procedure as having tea could so thrill someone who has almost everything money can buy. In that moment I made up my mind about two things. Isabella Coombs definitely needed to get out more. And, I really did like her.

  A few minutes later, a rather humbled and hardly recognisable subservient Helga came in with a tray of tea and oatmeal biscuits. As she placed the tray on the table I saw her look of shock as she noticed my feet upon the sofa. I stretched them out further and wriggled my toes as her face, momentarily hidden from Isabella, twisted with rage. I so desperately wanted to catch her eye, just so I could smile smugly, but she avoided eye contact with both Isabella and me, almost bowing her head in servitude as she walked out backwards! I thought this quite odd and unnecessary behaviour of her, as Isabella was so lovely and caring, hardly the type that would demand such subjugation. It must be the husband I decided, glancing at the ginormous purple diamond – that thing had to be at least eight carat – on Isabella’s ring finger.

  She noticed me looking at it and held out her hand for my inspection. “Do you like it?” she asked absent-mindedly. “My husband,” she explained softly. “He likes to give me…little trinkets of his affection,” she sighed looking really sad as though she too had been hurt. My heart instantly went out to her and she smiled at the obvious concern in my face. “My problem is Rebecca, I love too much. I simply adore him. And unfortunately because of that, he has the advantage.” She sniffed quietly, wiping something…a tear?...from her eye and looked so pained my heart was breaking for her. The bloody husband was obviously to blame! He probably didn’t appreciate her. Most likely took her for granted. What a rotten old so and so. I didn’t even know the man but I knew that he ought to be bloody well lucky to have such a beautiful, elegant and utterly charming wife. I stole a studious glance at Isabella. She looked to be in her early forties but very well preserved. She was tall and slim with great taut skin and I wondered if she did any facial exercises. Wondered if she’d want to. Then suddenly remembered that I wasn’t allowed to mention it! Humph.

  “Are you OK Isabella,” I asked her as she wiped her eye again.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine Rebecca,” she sighed. “I just wish…” she looked up at me, almost as if she were making sure she had my full attention, “…I just wish I could know for certain, one way or the other, whether Charles would ever actually cheat on me. I don’t think he ever has…actually cheated…but he’s been so indifferent toward me for a while now and …although I’d never leave him…I just wish I could know. At least then I could control my emotions. Close my heart off toward him and learn to accept his indifference rather than constantly trying to get through to him.” She exhaled, rather sensationally I thought, then turned to me and barely managed to whisper through her obvious pain: “It’s just driving me completely mad. Not knowing.” I gave her the best sympathetic look I could muster as I really didn’t think it was my place to let Isabella Coombs know that there was in fact no way of her ever knowing what her husband may or may not do at any given point in the future. What she wanted was perhaps the one thing that money could not in fact buy. “Anyway,” she sighed, getting up from the couch and indicating the end of our enlightening therapeutic session.

  Helga was aghast when Isabella insisted on showing me down herself and as we chatted happily in the lift I had a sudden brainwave. Isabella definitely needed to get out more and I definitely needed to keep my job, so I turned to her as we approached the front door and said: “Isabella, I’m not sure if you’d be at all interested but Pamper Moi also offers a personal shopping service which can be a wonderful day out.” My feeble attempt at cross-selling.

  The eavesdropping Helga, pretending to busy herself in the foyer, actually appeared to be chuckling silently at my comment. Isabella’s own reaction was also quite unexpected as she turned to me with deadly narrowed eyes and scowled. “Personal shopping?” she spat in disgust. I was momentarily stunned by her transformation but my look of horror must’ve jolted something in her mind as she quite surprisingly smiled happily at me and chirped: “Personal shopping! What a fabulous idea.” Hmmm. I wondered if Isabella Coombs was a touch schizophrenic as well as an agoraphobic.

  C hapter Seven

  I stood looking in the mirror at my reflection, wondering if I could leave out my facial exercises for this one night, seeing as how it was already 2am and I had to be up in less than five hours. I swear, Abigail could talk for England! In fact, she ought to be on the England talking team! She had barked at me for three hours straight, moaning and
complaining, about Julia mainly, but as I had stood her up for dinner I felt a guilty obligation to endure it.

  “Are you even listening to me Becky?” she had demanded having mystically detected that I was nodding off at the other end of the phone line.

  “Of course I’m listening Abby,” I lied, stifling a yawn and rearranging the pillows behind my head.

  “She really does piss me right off! Sebastian had might as well slit his own wrists right now! She is fucking with his head, that’s all she’s doing and I just cannot get why he doesn’t see it.” Abigail’s heated reaction was a direct result of reading Julia’s earlier text message, which she had sent to everyone in her address book it seems, as even my mum had left a message on the answer phone earlier making comment. It had been a very simple text stating:

  It’s on again! We’ll be tying the knot on August 25th. Invites to follow.

  My initial reaction had been: Hah! I’ll believe that one when I see it. And I quite understood how one could feel that Julia may well be messing with Seb’s head. But we couldn’t ignore the underlying reason of why they were in actual fact getting married. Again. And it had to be because they loved each other and wanted to spend the rest of their lives – together. Simple as. And why Abigail was having such difficulty in grasping this tiny little fact, I really did not know. But after two hours of her making my ears bleed I had to get off the phone.

  “Abigail,” I moaned, “stop it. Please. Look, I know Julia’s cancelled their wedding before–”

  “Twice!”

  “Arghhhh. I know Julia’s cancelled their wedding twice before, but it’s not as if she’s forcing him to marry her is it? I mean Sebastian is doing this of his own free will. I’m sure he’s well chuffed about it. I know you’re worried for him but he’s a big boy. Try being happy for them will you. They’re finally getting married!” I had naively taken her silence as reluctant agreement and wasn’t expecting the torrent of strong disagreement that followed. I was neither ready for it nor was I accepting it. “Oh my god!” I said breaking her flow, trying to sound as lively as possible. “The fire alarm’s just gone off in our building!”

  “…What?! I can’t hear anything.”

  “I’ve got to go!”

  “Well call me ba–” I slammed the phone down and unplugged it. Enough was enough!

  So I decided against the facial exercises, opting for the ten minutes extra of much needed sleep, opened up the cabinet and started popping my pills instead. Vitamin c high potency for collagen production, vitamin e for complexion, calcium because I don’t drink enough milk, vitamin b complex to regulate my hormones – not quite sure if this is actually working though – lutein, hmmm, only two left. I wonder if I order some tomorrow they may be able to courier it over – lutein for skin elasticity and folic acid, humph. Well I can stop taking those. I won’t be conceiving anytime soon!

  I had definitely set the alarm clock! It just didn’t go off! I raced around the apartment dressing myself whilst locating keys, mobile, purse, grabbed my letters, dashed out the door and legged it to the station, silently praying that Gwendolyn wouldn’t notice that I was late – yet again. The station was closed.

  “Tube strike luv!” some ignoramous with a plaque shouted happily at the entrance. “What? Didn’t you know?” No! I didn’t fuckin’ know! I sprinted to the top of South Ken High Street in the hope that the multitude of other pissed off commuters also trying to get a cab to work would’ve thinned out. It hadn’t. I looked around in despair. There was a good thirty-strong angry looking mob all positioning themselves, ready to fly into the next cab that stopped anywhere within a two hundred yard radius. They may as well have been rolling up their sleeves, as by the look on some of their faces they were quite prepared for a scuffle. I, however, was not. I dragged myself to the nearest bus stop and contemplated slitting my wrists when I saw a queue of at least two hundred people stretching around the corner. Fuck! I closed my eyes and wondered if clicking my heels three times would work, if I really really believed. I exhaled deeply and started walking the mile and a half into Knightsbridge, preparing myself for the inevitable firing of my arse that was bound to take place. There were hordes of other people with the same idea trotting along beside, in front and behind me, and I wondered how many of them were also going to lose their jobs this morning. I kicked a few stones along the way and started opening my mail, instantly wishing that I hadn’t. There was not one personalised letter amongst them. Just pure bills upon bills upon bills! Water rates: due now. Council tax: due now. Electricity: due now. Gas: due now. Whopping Mortgage: due now. Great! I suddenly realised that with Jeremy’s departure I was lucky enough to inherit not only the whole mortgage but also ALL of these sodding bills! How under creation was I supposed to pay them? There was just no way. Not now, and certainly not after Gwendolyn fires me! Oh christ! I’m going to end up homeless! Or living in some rancid squat with drug addicts! Or worse, living in East London! I’ll just have to swallow my pride and beg Gwendolyn for mercy. But when I finally arrived at Pamper Moi just after 10am and was met with Portia’s enraged face and Lauren’s sympathetic one, somehow I knew that begging wasn’t going to cut it.

  “Hey Rebecca,” Lauren said quietly. “Gwendolyn wants to see you in her office straight away. She said you’re not to bother get changed, just go up as you are.”

  I nodded a very heavy head and tried to ignore the usual golf ball that was rising up at the back of my throat. The walk to Gwendolyn’s office had never taken so long, as I looked around slowly trying to take everything in. I was really going to miss working here I thought. I knocked on the office door.

  “Come in Rebecca,” she called in a voice that didn’t give anything away. I stepped into her vast office and saw that she was pedalling furiously away on her cycle-trainer, looking out the window with her back toward me. I stood there for at least two minutes feeling rather bloody awkward as I waited for her to finish her set and pass the towel over her face, back and shoulders. I expected her to then go sit behind her desk but instead she perched quite casually on the edge of it and looked directly at me. “Why are you so late?” she asked, again in a very neutral tone.

  “I’m sorry Gwendolyn. I didn’t know there was a tube strike.”

  She gave me an incredulous look. “You didn’t know there was…” Then closed her eyes with disbelief and uncharacteristically started rubbing her temples, very slowly, as if to calm her nerves. “Anyway, that’s not relevant now.” Then she looked at me with a very strange expression as though she were trying to work me out. “Do you enjoy being a beautician Rebecca Hardy?”

  “Yes Gwendolyn. I do.”

  “And there isn’t any other role, here, at Pamper Moi that you would possibly like to step into?”

  I was totally confused by her question but managed a simple no.

  “And you understood, quite clearly, the conversation we had the other day about you being expected to cross-sell to your clients our personal shopping service, which Portia is offering?” She said this with a deliberate measured tone of voice. I gulped. And nodded. “Then, can you please explain to me why Isabella Coombs has called, booked and paid for, five personal shopping days, requesting that you and only you accompany her?”

  My jaw fell to my chest as I scrambled around in my head for an explanation. “She must’ve…misunderstood me,” I stammered. “It’s clearly a mistake. I’ll call and explain to her that I’m a beauty therapist…with no idea about personal shopping.”

  Gwendolyn was shaking her head. “I’ve already done that. She doesn’t seem to care that you know little to nothing about fashion. Apparently she likes you and trusts your judgement.” I had to chew my lip real hard to stop myself bursting out laughing. Plus something in the back of my mind was telling me that not only was I not going to be fired, but that I’d actually managed to do something of value in Gwendolyn’s eyes. “No, there’s no option,” she said thoughtfully, moving behind the desk to sit in her leather swivel chair.
“You’ll just have to do it. Isabella Coombs has indicated that she’d like to shop weekly. Portia can give you a crash course on where to go and what designers are currently trendy or whatever.” She looked down and started writing something at her desk, all the time talking to me. “Your first appointment with her is on Thursday, and here,” she held up a slip of paper to me which I took. It was a cheque. For two thousand pounds! “Personal shoppers get forty per cent of their takings. That’s your forty per cent of the five sessions she’s already paid for.” I stood there holding the cheque in both hands, grinning like a demented woman. I could definitely get used to this personal shopping malarkey. I looked at Gwendolyn and saw that her face had softened in amusement. I smiled my thank you. She nodded and then almost forced herself to snap: “Now go find Portia!”

  “Well you’d better not go dressed like that!” Portia pouted, eyeing my jeans and flip-flops with great disdain. She wasn’t at all happy that I was suddenly propelled to her elite level. And by request at that! But overshadowing her disappointment was her sheer joy at having it made wholly official that she, Portia, was educating me, Rebecca, in regards to all things pertaining to fashion and style. She was positively revelling in her new-found position as teacher, which was quite clear she was taking very seriously. “And we’ll have to sort your hair out.” I rolled my eyes at her and decided in my current charitable spirit, to let her have her moment. “Right. Come on then. Let’s go!” she said trying to sound as if she was being forced to do something which she didn’t want to.

  “Come on where?” I asked in surprise.

  She sighed quite dramatically. “Shopping, Einstein! Where the hell else do you think we’d be going? You need a new outfit and I need to show you where to go on Thursday.”

  “Portia! I am not going bloody shopping! First of all I cannot afford to buy a new outfit…”