“What time is it now?”
“Ten to five.” Oh shite!! I still had to get home, get washed, dressed, composed and out the door by 6.15pm the latest.
“I’m gone!” I called to her as I darted behind the screen. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach had begun to gather momentum and I flipped open my mobile, whilst struggling out of my first ever Chanel dress, in the hope of talking to someone – anyone – in an attempt at calming my nerves. I pressed redial. Julia answered. I had hoped for someone – anyone – other than Julia!
“Rebecca you are not seriously thinking of doing this?!”
“Julia, that’s a given. I just need to know which one of these outfits to wear…and how I do it!”
“Well I don’t know Rebecca,” she said scathingly. “What does a loose woman with no morals wear in order to seduce someone else’s husband!”
My next call, whilst running ungraciously down the escalator, was to Abigail, who was I have to say, taking this whole thing in far better spirit than Julia. And far more seriously.
“Now, let me get this straight,” she began, “she bought you a Christian Dior shirt, Prada trouser suit, Valentino…”
“Yes! Yes, Abby. All of that. Now what do I wear?”
“Well darling, I just simply have to come round and take a look at all these clothes. I mean it’s quite possible that the Dior shirt would look great with the trouser suit…but might be a touch too formal…or maybe the…”
“Argggh! No time. No time. I have to be there by seven!”
“Seven? Today? Oh dear,” she sympathised. “Now listen to me,” she said meaning business. When you get in, just throw everything onto the bed, and pull out an outfit that you think I would wear, if I was about to discreetly seduce someone. You just cannot be thinking like you’re dressing yourself. Otherwise you’ll look a complete mess and it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said sarcastically, running down Knightsbridge toward the underground, trying my best to dodge commuters.
“You’re welcome,” she said seriously. “And when you get to the bar, walk in confidently, go straight up to the barman and order yourself a cocktail. With alcohol.”
“I’m not drinking!”
“Oh for gawd sake Rebecca. Do you want to do this thing properly or not? Right then. Now once you’ve got yourself a cocktail, scan the bar until you see him. When you do see him, try first to make eye contact and if that works then smile shyly and see what he does.”
“Suppose he does nothing?”
“Then you have to raise the stakes. You send a drink over with the barman and when he acknowledges you, smile seductively and play with your hair. That never fails. Trust me,” she said knowingly.
“Play with my hair?!”
“The hair on your head Rebecca. Not your pubes,” she laughed.
“I know what hair you’re referring to Abby. I just can’t believe you think men are so gullible.”
“Darling, you’d better believe it.”
“Humph. I think I’m going to just do it my way.”
“Which is how exactly?”
“I do know how to flirt you know Abby.”
“I’m sure you do darling. I’m sure you do…” she humoured me, her voice trailing off as I lost reception running down the steps to Knightsbridge station.
I, Rebecca Hardy, did not have a scooby dooby doo as to: a) what I was doing here and: b) how I was supposed to do it. But yet, here I was, dressed in an outfit I would never wear, drinking a cocktail I would never drink, in a bar I would never enter, in a side of town that I would never visit. Connolly’s wine bar was an institution in its own right, and with its chic cream and walnut-toned decadent interior, extravagant wine list with prices to match, attracted a loyal clientele consisting mainly of men wearing pin-stripe suits, flashing gold Amex cards. It was inconveniently located smack bang in the middle of the financial district, at the very top of the very tallest building, which housed a selection of choice investment banks and other fiscal establishments, who were known to hand out million pound Christmas bonuses to high flying traders. So in other words, a mere snip of a beautician – such as myself – had no bloody business being here!
I sat rigid on the bar stool and sipped my Bellini, conscious of the cursory glances being thrown in my direction, being one of the few women present, and the only woman to be wearing a dress. A fitted one at that! I silently cursed myself for having taken Abigail’s foolish advice and dressed as I thought she would have done, which in itself was a conundrum. Because for one to dress like Abigail, one had to be Abigail. Or at least share her state of mind and reasoning. For instance, Abigail, having spent over six grand acquiring the most perfect breasts, used every opportunity to show them off, and saw it counter productive to ever think of covering them up in underwear. And this was the reason she never wore a bra under anything. So with hindsight, which as I say is a useless fucker, my decision today to wear this skin-tight Chanel dress – with no bra – in an attempt at dressing as seductively as Abby – was never going to be a good move for me, as unlike Abby, I hadn’t paid six grand for perfectly pert double D boobies, and was sat here with my meagre A cup nipples embarrassingly erect from the chill of the overly efficient air conditioning system!
I crossed one arm self-consciously across my chest, trying to hide the nipples that were permanently hard against the sheer fabric, and it seemed were the cause of most of these cursory glances. I so did not belong here. I so wanted to leave but what would I tell Isabella?
The bartender placed another Bellini down in front of me. “Madam,” he said flatly, “the gentleman over there would like to buy you a drink.” Already! Charles Coombs had taken the bait already?! I hadn’t even spotted him yet.
“Where?” I asked a little too eagerly as my heart started banging them out a mile a minute.
“Over there ma’am,” and nodded his direction. I looked over. A tall preppy looking guy wearing trendy glasses smiled over at me and raised his glass.
“That’s not him,” I moaned, starting to feel the effects of the Bellini.
“I beg your pardon ma’am?”
“I can’t accept it,” and pushed the second Bellini away from me, which the bartender discreetly removed. That was all I needed. Some smooth operator looking to complicate things for me!
An hour and two Bellinis later, I decided that Mr Charles Coombs was not going to show. I paid my bill and wobbled over to the ladies room where I peed as noisily as I wanted in my tipsy state, being, not surprisingly, the only person in there. I helped myself to lashings of Molton Brown hand cream, sat on a vanity stool and massaged my aching feet. I then noticed a selection of perfume decanters attached to the wall over the basins, and decided to try Joop. I fiddled with the top of the glass bottle but nothing happened. Hmm. I could see the bottle was clearly full so decided it must be one of those fancy complicated devices which had to be flipped over. And so I flipped it. And just like that, the bottle came crashing down into the basin with Joop splashing back up, drenching me in its fragrance. Great! Just great! I slammed the door behind me and hiccupped my way past the bar, hoping no one would notice I smelt like an entire perfumery. I glanced over at where I was sitting, wondering if anyone had jumped into my grave, and almost tripped over my own feet when I saw him sitting there. In MY seat! I needed my cool composure now more than ever, but I could almost sense Audrey Hepburn shaking her beautiful head at me and tutting. She would not have downed two Bellinis knowing she could only manage one. And she would not have thrown a whole bottle of Joop all over herself. I breathed in and exhaled deeply, trying to adopt a serene poise in an attempt at hiding the conflict of queasiness and fear battling it out inside of me. I walked as steadily as I could manage back over to the bar, and armoured with alcohol-induced courage, took the stool right next to Charles Martin Coombs himself.
“Oh sorry ma’am,” the bartender said, “I thought you’d left.”
“No pr
oblem,” I replied in the sweetest voice I could find.
“Anything to drink for you?”
Hell no! I wanted to say. “A Bellini please…oh and erm…a still water,” I almost whispered. I noticed that Charles Martin Coombs, busy reading emails on his BlackBerry, hadn’t even looked at me once. It was too soon to assume I wasn’t his type; after all it could be he genuinely hadn’t seen me yet. So, I straightened my hair, pulled down my dress allowing my erect nipples their moment of glory, turned to him and said: “Good evening.” Good Evening?! Did I really just say that? Oh ground, swallow me now.
Charles Martin Coombs glanced at me and looked to his left to see whom I was talking to. When he saw there was no one there, turned back to me and said with annoyance: “Excuse me?” as if to say: You talking to me?
Under his stony expectant glare, my alcohol-induced courage quickly dissipated. “It’s a lovely evening. Isn’t it. Today,” I bumbled.
He looked at me as if trying to decide if I was crazy or not. “Quite,” he replied warily, suddenly looking keenly around the bar, for somewhere else to sit no doubt. I gulped down my third Bellini desperately wanting to kick myself. I can’t blow this. Isabella was putting her trust in me.
“So,” I started, trying to sound as seductive as possible, whilst my knees knocked together under the bar, “can I buy you a drink?”
He looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what I had just said, and shook his head solemnly as he started gathering his things together. “No thank you,” and my face quickly turned to a deep shade of scarlet as he muttered under his breath, “I think you’ve had enough!” He slid off the bar stool and stood whilst he gulped down his whiskey. He was taller than I had imagined him to be, but with him being married to Isabella I wasn’t at all surprised by his haughty attitude. He tapped the bar with the palm of his hand to get the bar-tender’s attention, which I thought was rather rude, but when the barman looked over, he just said, “Right, I’m off Chris,” and pointed a finger at him, “ now you have a good night!”
“You too Mr Coombs, sir. See you again.”
“Sure.” Then looked at me, with what seemed to be…disgust…of all things! And walked off, shaking his solemn head.
C hapter Ten
Kitty Kat jumped onto my lap and settled into a purring ball of gorgeous fluff, as I stroked her back. I tickled her behind the ears and she hummed her appreciation. I’m so glad I had overridden Jeremy on this one. He was adamant we shouldn’t buy her. And I was adamant that we should. Strangely enough, I’m not really a ‘pet’ person, and had never ever really wanted one. Least of all a cat. But on the way to Camden Market, on one of our Saturday outings, with me clinging onto Jeremy’s arm like couples do, I saw a genuinely happy-in-love couple come giggling out of a pet shop, carrying a cat basket. The woman was making silly baby noises to the kitten, and the man was looking at her with a cross between amusement and admiration. I watched her fuss as he placed the basket in the back seat of their car, all the time assuring her that the kitten would be fine with the regular seatbelt strapped around its basket. The woman furrowed her brows with concern, and then he took her in his arms and kissed away each line of worry on her forehead, and looked at her intensely, as if he had finally decided that she would be the mother of his children. With a sudden burdening desire for something I knew I did not have with Jeremy, but couldn’t quite name, I literally dragged him into the pet store. Just for a look. The smell wasn’t very good, and actually being inside the store wasn’t nearly as romantic as the giggling couple’s interaction had led me to believe it would be. But we weren’t that giggling couple. And Jeremy didn’t have the look of love in his eyes. The look of fury would be more apt, as he stomped about with negative drivel about the apartment being too small, and how it would smell, and how he wasn’t going to be cleaning out no litter tray, and would probably step on any animal I purchased – accidentally on purpose! But I’m glad I ignored him. I’m glad I insisted on looking around until I saw Kitty Kat, looking like a tiny ball of fur with huge soft green eyes. And I’m glad I lifted her from her cage and bought her home with me. Because although I’m home alone – again – on a Saturday, with no bloody Jeremy to wander around Camden Market with, Kitty Kat is here, curled up in my lap, adoring my attention. “You love me Kitty Kat, don’t you?” I tickled her.
I stretched my legs out on the couch, trying not to wake Kitty Kat, whilst I flicked channels looking for something – anything – to engage my mind, so I wouldn’t have to think about ‘IT’. EastEnders. Flick. Friends. Watched a few seconds. Flick. Luther. “Ohhh,” I moaned. It wasn’t working. ‘IT’ kept coming back to haunt me, with ‘IT’ being how I had made a complete and utter arse of myself at Connolly’s wine bar.
“I thought you didn’t drink?!” Isabella had snapped when I told her what had happened. “So,” she started, trying her damnedest to remain calm, “please explain to me why for Pete’s sake, you would choose to start drinking,” getting louder with each word, “on a day you were supposed to do something VERY important for me?!!”
I spread my hands struggling for any real excuse. “I’m sorry,”
She huffed in exasperation and shook her head. “No wonder he didn’t make a move! If there’s one thing Charles cannot stand, it’s drunken loose women!”
“Erm,” I had wanted to object to the term ‘loose’ and to explain to her that ‘tipsy’ didn’t equate ‘drunken’, but one look at her enraged face and I thought better of it. “Erm, maybe I’m just not his type?”
She looked at me like I was stupid. “After ten years of marriage, I think I know what my husband’s type is! YOU are his type. That’s why I asked YOU to do this. I wasn’t expecting you to morph into some raging alcoholic!” She sat back, lit a cigarette and said, as if it were nothing: “If I had wanted a common drunken hooker to trap my husband, I would have paid for one.” My mouth fell open. Did this woman just call me a hooker?
“Look, Isabella…” I was honestly just about to tell her she could shove it where the sun don’t shine, but either she read my mind, or got wind of the gist of it, because she miraculously transformed right before my eyes.
“Oh Rebecca, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I desperately need you to do this for me. It’s driving me crazy not knowing.” And then almost sensing my hesitation she added, “You know Rebecca…my father cheated on my mother,” and watched me for a reaction. Which was one of shock. Shock that Isabella Coombs was confiding in ME! Encouraged by my reaction she continued with a newly found soft voice. “Yes. He had a mistress for over twenty years. When I asked mother why she allowed it, she just said: ‘Darling child, marriage is forever. And a good wife learns to put up with much and ask for little.’ And she did exactly that. They’re still together now. He provides a home and takes care of her, and she guards her heart and preens her flowers.” I gave Isabella my best I’m so sorry smile. “You see, if it turns out he is not the cheating kind…I can continue loving him unconditionally, and giving him my heart. But if he is the cheating kind…then at least I’ll know…to guard my heart, so it can never be broken, and learn to put up with ‘much’.”
I wanted to tell her that her mother was wrong. That she didn’t have to put up with anything. But I was way out of my jurisdiction. Marriage was a whole different ball game. Especially when children were involved. Maybe her mother was right. “Let’s try it again,” I said.
She smiled gratefully at me. “And next time…please be yourself.”
“Well,” Julia huffed, as she played with Kitty Kat on the couch, “I cannot believe you would want to put yourself through all of that again! I mean, how much humiliation can you stand?”
“But just look at these clothes!” Abigail held the Valentino shirt against her, and twirled for Julia’s benefit, who in turn rolled her eyes. “Rebecca, darling,” she said admiring the Louboutin shoes, “once you’ve shagged him, can I have these?”
I threw the cushion at he
r. “No! You bloody well cannot. They’re perks of the job,” and Abby and I laughed.
Julia did not. “So, what’s he like,” she asked flippantly. “What does he look like? Does he look like the cheating kind?” sarcastically.
“Oh for gawd sake Juju,” Abby said pouring herself another glass of wine, “you can’t tell by looking! Rebecca has to interact with him. She has to…” and with a wicked grin, “…tickle his fancy.” I chuckled.
Julia did not. “So how are you going to do it Becky? Just how are you planning on tickling this innocent man’s fancy?” She looked straight at me. I refused to meet her accusatory gaze.
“Darling, no man is innocent,” Abby threw out. “They are all as guilty as charged.” And turned to me, “Now darling, this is how you need to do it. You wear something–”
“Oh noooo,” I cut her off. “No. No. No. I am not taking anymore advice from you. Thank you very much. Isabella tells me to be myself, and that’s exactly what I’m going to be. Just a better dressed version.”
“Hmm, Yep. Be yourself. That should do it,” Abby said mockingly. “But what you do need is a couple tricks up your sleeves.”
“Tricks?!” Julia cried with a look of horror.
“Yes Juju,” she said looking at Julia as though she were a simpleton, “tricks.” She turned toward me, commanding undivided attention. “Now, here’s one for free Becky,” glancing over at Julia, “…and you might want to try this with Seb.”
“I doubt that very much,” Julia spat.
Abby ignored her. “What you need to do, is to go and get yourself a pair of bright white, lacy panties…and you simply let him catch a glimpse whilst you cross and uncross your legs. Do that, and trust me my dear, Charles Coombs will be begging for it.” She winked at me smiling, satisfied with herself.
A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Page 11