I clattered around the bedroom making as much noise as possible, until eventually Jeremy said sleepily: “Hey, what time is it? Come back to bed.”
“I can’t,” then summoning strength from some unknown place, added, “you’ve got to go.”
“What?” he asked half asleep, propping his head up on one arm. His tousled hair fell across his eyes and he used his hands to slowly move it back over his head. He looked at me groggily under his long dark lashes, and patted the bed beside him. I sighed.
“I’ve got to go. Out,” I said closing my eyes, embarrassed at my own weakness.
“What? Now?”
“Yes. No. Not now.”
He looked at me puzzled. “OK… So I’ll wait here for you.”
“No Jerrers. I’m sorry,” I sat on the edge of the bed shaking my head. “You can’t stay. I don’t want you to stay.”
“Becky I…”
“No Jeremy,” I looked him dead in the eye. “It’s over.”
“But last night…”
“Last night was wonderful. But it’s still over.”
“You want to take it slow,” he explained. I shook my head sadly. “No. No, no. That’s absolutely fine,” now pulling on his boxer shorts. “I messed up, and you’re a little unsure of me now. That’s natural,” he said buttoning his shirt in the mirror. “You need time. I understand.”
I went over to him and took his hand. “Jeremy. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Ssshhh sshh,” he said putting a finger to my lips. “Becky, I understand. We’ll move at your pace.” Then he smiled his killer smile at me. “I’ll wait for you babe. You’re worth it.” And then he left. I threw a slipper at the door as he closed it behind him.
I ran down Sloane Street, as fast as one could in brand new four inch slingbacks, checking my watch, which only confirmed the inevitable. I was late. How on earth I could’ve been up at 6am, with nothing at all to do, and still end up being late for lunch with Isabella at 1pm, I have no idea. All around me, immaculately dressed Sloaneys, carrying rope-handled, non-sale, boutique shopping bags, were casually strolling along, maintaining their dignified poise, and there was I, dressed to blend perfectly into the sorority, frantically legging it between them!
“Oh sorry! Excuse me,” I apologised to the Sloaneys, as I almost knocked them over, in my fruitless attempt at being as least late as possible. I say fruitless, because late I was, and happy Isabella was not.
“Oh hi Isabella,” I said breathlessly, as I pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. She was sitting at a luncheon table under the canopy of Sloane Street’s most exclusive eatery, Giuseppe’s, wearing huge dark sunglasses and a stunning slim fitting white trouser suit, with plunging neckline and a single gold gilt button. I noticed how healthy and tanned her skin looked in the daylight, as if she’d just got back from Belize or some other exotic restful location. Needless to say, she looked amazing, and I wondered what on earth possessed her to marry such a grumpy old gruff like Charles Coombs. “Sorry I’m late. I got stuck…” scratching around in my grey-matter, for any plausible excuse, “…on the underground.”
She moved her head ever so slightly, which could have been a nod of acknowledgement, but then again, maybe not. She stretched out her slender neck even further so she could lower her eyes to my shoes, which she must have recognised and approved of; as they had been her choice. Then she assessed my Missoni tunic dress and Westwood handbag, again both her choices, and nodded her head smiling ever so slightly. “Nice,” she said simply.
“Thank you.”
“So,” she began but paused as the waiter poured water into our glasses. “Any progress?”
“No. Nothing,” I sympathised. “But I can see what you mean about him!” She coolly propped her sunglasses onto her head and looked at me curiously. “Oh, he’s a real piece of work isn’t he?”
She raised her eyebrows as if to say: He is?! “What do you mean?” she asked evenly.
“Oh, he’s just…impossible! And so arrogant!” I huffed. She studied my face with real intrigue, and delicately touched her chin in thought.
“I think he’s going to make a pass at you soon.”
“Isabella, I honestly doubt it.” I looked down at my shoes. “I just don’t think I’m his type.”
“Oh, you’re his type,” she said knowingly.
The waiter brought over two cob salads and I looked up at him, wondering how he knew I would have wanted this. Then I realised Isabella must have already ordered for me and I marvelled at how intuitive she was. She certainly knew how to read people.
“Thank you,” I said to the waiter and started tucking into my salad.
“You have to get him to trust you.”
“Excuse me?” looking up from my plate.
“He’s a very cautious man is Charles. He’d simply never make a move unless he trusted you.” I gave her a puzzled look. Because surely, if he’d ‘never make a move’, therein lies her answer. Then, as if having read my mind, she quickly added, “Oh but that doesn’t mean he won’t build trusting relationships with women, with the aim of seducing them later!”
“Really?” I asked, hardly believing someone could be so calculating. I couldn’t imagine Jeremy putting scarcely any effort at all into conquering his ‘bits of fluff’.
“Aaah Rebecca,” she sighed. “You really are so naïve.” Humph. You should meet Julia, I thought. “You must establish his trust. Present yourself as a confidant.”
“A what?”
“A confidant,” she repeated pointedly. “Someone for him to talk to dear,” she said looking at her nails. “Let him have your number so he can call you whenever he wants to talk.” What? Now this was going waaay out of my comfort zone, which was already teetering on a slight thread.
“Isabella,” I put down my fork, “I’m happy to help, but I am not giving out my number to some stranger.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to. Just give him this one,” she said sweetly, sliding a top-of-the-range BlackBerry across the table to me. “It’s yours. I’m the only person who has this number and you can also give it to Charles.” I touched the silver BlackBerry warily, not quite sure what accepting it would mean. Would I be expected to talk to this rude obnoxious man at all hours of the night? And how, for frig sake, was I even supposed to give him the number when he clearly thought I was a drunken trollop. And wasn’t this stamping heavily onto the boundaries of reason? “At least this way we’ll know once and for all,” Isabella said trying to reassure me. Then, when she saw me thoughtfully lightly tapping my fingers on the offending BlackBerry, still in the middle of the table, she added, “Oh, I almost forgot,” reaching into her handbag, “this is for you.” And handed me an envelope. I opened up the envelope, again warily, and almost fell off my chair when I saw a cheque written out to me for £5000. I had never had a whole £5000 all in one go before. Was she giving me this amount? Why? I looked at her questioningly rather than thankfully. “For you,” she said. “Because I know I’m asking you to cross some boundaries you’re probably not comfortable with…and I know its probably going far beyond the call of ‘personal shopping’ duty…but Rebecca you’ll be doing me such a huge service, allowing me to find this out once and for all. I don’t know how to thank you enough. I hope this can compensate your time.” I smiled a thank you to her and she looked almost relieved. “Oh and here,” she said sliding me a large rope-handled, non-sale, boutique shopping bag, “just a couple more outfits I picked out for you.”
I sipped my fruit juice and looked at Abigail and Julia for their reaction. I had just spent the best part of twenty minutes recounting my last encounter with Mr bloody Coombs, and that in itself warranted some kind of response. We were sat outside on Julia’s terrace with the Sunday crew milling around, and the distinct smell of the obligatory after dinner marijuana wafting through the air, as the joints started being passed around. I gave them a moment to digest my anti Charles Coombs ranting, as I watched Sebastian play fi
ght with that black guy, Bradley, who Juju tried to set Abby up with, all the time wondering why I was so angry with Charles bloody Coombs.
“Well,” said Julia looking mystified, “I think he sounds lovely.”
Abigail blew smoke circles up in the air and looked at Julia. “He sounds like an absolute bastard.”
“Abigail!”
“He left her stranded for chrissakes!”
“Well she’s not his responsibility! He doesn’t even know her.” Then, looking at me accusingly, “She’s just there to lure him into some…sordid trap! And in spite of that,” now using a finger to emphasise her point, “he still, out of the goodness of his heart, rescues her from some…some…knob-head, who was about to rape her!” Abigail rolled her eyes dramatically.
“Juju,” I interjected, “he wasn’t trying to rape me!”
“Well how do you know how far he would have gone? If Charles Coombs hadn’t rescued you, you could be sitting here quite a different person today Rebecca Hardy. A knight in shining armour is what he is. I say you ought to thank him. Not trap him!”
Abigail shook her head dismissively. “Oh for gawd’s sake Julia! The man’s a beast.” Then looking behind me, “Speaking of beasts, what’s he doing here?” I spun around and saw Jeremy looking like he’d just stepped out of a modelling shoot, walking toward me.
“Hey Becks,” he smiled at me with a wink. Abigail narrowed her eyes at me. Julia looked like she was about to clap her hands.
“Hey Jeremy,” I said quickly and ducked down pretending to scratch my ankle so I could physically turn my back on him, in what I hoped was obvious ‘go-away’ body language. And it probably would have worked too, had Julia not squealed:
“JERRERS!” and waved him over toward her. “Jerrers, you look great!” Then she winced as Abby kicked her foot under the table.
“Thanks Juju,” he said. And suddenly feeling hot under Abigail’s challenging stare, thankfully, turned back heading over to Sebastian. “I’ll catch you girls later.”
“Humph!” Abigail offered him. As Jeremy passed me he touched my shoulder tenderly and I didn’t react. Just tried to look disinterested. Abigail narrowed her furious eyes at me even further. “So darling,” she started with a stern tone, “you and Jeremy seem very friendly?”
“Yes!” Julia squealed. “Don’t they just! How wonderful.”
Abigail looked at Julia as though she were suffering from dementia. “No Julia. Not wonderful.” Then turning to me, “So, you didn’t tell him to hit the road then?”
“I did,” I groaned. “But he wouldn’t listen. He left…but he…thinks we’re taking it slow.”
Julia looked confused. “You and Jeremy saw each other?”
Abigail ignored her. “Look darling you have got to put him straight,” she instructed. “Don’t have him hanging on like this or you’ll never get shot of him!”
I slapped the palm of my hand across my forehead. “I’ve tried,” I moaned.
“Well try again! This time someplace neutral, where he won’t steam-roll you.”
“Oooh. I wish I hadn’t slept with him.”
Julia, the poor thing, looked even more flummoxed. “You slept with Jeremy?”
“Yep.”
“So you guys are back together?”
Abby and I both shouted, “NO!”
“But you slept with him Rebecca.”
“Juju, I know what I did. It was a mistake, OK. I’ll put it straight.” They both gave me that look that said: Oh yeah? How? I inhaled and exhaled deeply. “I’ll meet up with him…” Abby raised her eyebrow at me, “…in a bar some point this week, and I’ll tell him that the trust has been destroyed…so there’s no future for us…so it could never work…so it’s over. There. That’s what I’ll say.” They both gave me another look that said: Good Luck with that! “Oh, whatever,” I said dismissing them.
“And what are you going to do about Mr Charles Coombs?” Julia asked.
“What do you mean: ‘do about’?”
“Well, surely you’re not still planning on setting a man-trap for him?!”
“Juju, if by that you mean am I still going to help Isabella, the answer is yes.”
“But WHY?” she implored.
Abigail blew another ring of smoke up into the air. “Didn’t you hear darling,” she said to Julia, whilst watching Sebastian and Bradley play fight with amusement, “she’s paid her five grand.”
“So? Give it back! It’s dirty money.”
Now Abigail looked at Julia with amusement. Darling, did you just call it ‘dirty money’? Oh sweetie you really do need to get out more. What do you do in here all day anyway? Watch re-runs of Dallas?”
Julia pulled a face at Abigail and turned her attention back to me. “It’s wrong what you’re doing Rebecca. Morally wrong. And it’ll only end in tears. Trust me. I’ve got a nose for these things.”
“Since when?” Abby teased.
Julia ignored her. “If you ask me,” she said petulantly, “he sounds like a really nice man.” And then she shrieked with delight as Sebastian snuck up behind her, bent down and cuddled her around the waist. “Seb, don’t,” she giggled as he tickled her tummy.
“And who exactly,” he said teasingly, “is my future wife referring to as a ‘really nice man’?”
Both Abby and I shot Julia warning looks, which she promptly ignored and said defiantly: “Charles Coombs.”
“Not Charles Martin Coombs?” he asked, standing up and scrunching his eyes together.
“The very one. Why? Do you know him?”
“Well yes,” he said as Abby’s and my head shot up with interest. “Of course I know him. But how do you girls know him?” he asked sounding more than a little confused. I widened my eyes at Julia warning her with deadly intent not to dare mention how I knew him.
“Well, Becky met him at a bar the other night,” she said simply and I exhaled gratefully.
“Really?” he asked with great curiosity.
“Apparently he rescued Becky from some undesirable attention,” she smiled at me cheekily.
“Well,” Sebastian scratched his head, “that sounds about right for Charles Coombs.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Julia asked. Abby and I sat in silence, both processing this new data.
“Well, he’s meant to be a really nice guy.”
“Oh REALLY?” Julia widened her eyes at me. “Oh darling, please tell us more.”
“I’ll ask Bradley to. He works for him.” He called Bradley over and as we waited for him, turned to me and said, “You do know that Charles Coombs is one of THE biggest cheeses in the city don’t you?” I shook my head no.
Abby cleared her throat. “Well just how big a ‘cheese’ are we talking about?”
Seb shook his head. “They don’t come much bigger. This man literally owns Canada Square.” And as that one flew over our heads, he tried to simplify it further. “The buildings? Connolly’s bar?” I gulped. Abby looked at me.
“He owns Connolly’s?”
“Er, yeah,” he said with mock sarcasm. “But trust me, Connolly’s is peanuts compared to the rest of this guy’s assets.” Then, he said with such admiration, I had to ask myself whether Sebastian had got Charles bloody Coombs mixed up with someone else: “He, is the sole owner of Charles Coombs Asset Management,” and looked at us, expecting we would join in with his awe. When met with our blank expressions, he just shook his head at our ignorance and slapped Bradley, who had materialised beside him, on his back. “Bradley,” he announced.
“What’s up man?” Bradley asked, giving the three of us the once over. I noticed as he did so that his eyes rested on Abigail a few seconds longer than a casual ‘once over’ usually warranted. I looked at Abigail and saw that she was, albeit very discreetly, without a doubt, checking Bradley out.
“Charles Coombs,” Seb said, resting an arm around Bradley’s shoulder, “what do we know about him?”
“Top man,” Bradley stated simply. Abigail rolled
her eyes and Bradley looked bemused when he caught her doing so. But he ignored her protest and continued. “Never heard anyone say a bad word about him. Real decent bloke.”
Julia piped up, “Decent is he?” widening her eyes at me yet again. I sipped my juice.
“Yeah. Real decent. He even fired one of our top traders last week because apparently he caught him roughing up some drunk tart at Connolly’s.” I spurted out my juice and almost choked. Abby laughed and started tapping my back so lightly she may as well not have bothered.
“Drunk was she?” Julia mused.
“Legless apparently.” I sat there fuming, desperately wanting to shout: I WAS NOT DRUNK!! And I am NOT a TART!! Abigail howled with laughter. Bradley smiled curiously at her.
“So who was she?” Julia teased, desperate to get as much mileage out of this as possible. “Why did he help her?”
“Ah, she was probably some ‘Trader groupie’ out on the pull. You know the type,” he winked at Seb playfully. I felt my entire body flush crimson. Abigail howled again and started wiping tears of laughter away from her eyes. I threw her such a filthy look in an attempt at sobering her up. It didn’t work. “Hey, is she OK?” Bradley asked nodding his head at Abby who was trying her best to suppress her chuckling.
“Oh don’t worry about her,” Julia dismissed. “She’s on medication.” Abby sobered up quick time and smiled thinly, wagging a finger at Julia. “So, Charles Coombs is a decent man,” she stated, as though just for the record.
“Yeah,” Bradley said suspicious of Julia’s tone. “I’ve worked for him for six years and let me tell you, he’s a great boss.” Then punching Seb playfully in the ribs, “Generous with the bonio too man. You know it’s all about the bonio,” he sang. Then hazarding a guess at our unexplained interest in Charles Coombs added: “He’s married though girls,” looking at Abby. “The wife’s meant to be a real bitch, but still married,” and winked at Abby as if to say: Tough luck babe. Better luck next time. Abby dropped her jaw and looked at me as if to say: Did you see that!
“How rude!” Abby snapped once Bradley and Seb were well out of earshot. “How dare he imply that I’m some common ‘Trader Groupie’.”
A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Page 13