A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “What? No! Definitely not!”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding slightly baffled.

  Portia leaned her lithe, Chanel-adorned body against the reception counter, smiling knowingly. “She’s met someone else.”

  “I have not!” I snapped off, feeling suddenly hot in my face.

  “Oh no?” she taunted, circling me like a panther studying her prey. “Then why are you blushing Rebecca Hardy? And why oh why are you risking losing your job by walking around with your BlackBerry tucked into your tunic?!” And before I could think of a thing to say, her nimble thieving hands plucked the BlackBerry out of my tunic pocket. “Very nice too,” she mused, looking it over.

  “Portia! Give that back!”

  Lauren looked alarmed. “Becky! Gwendolyn will freak if she finds out you’re carrying your phone around the salon. Why would you do that?”

  Portia laughed. “I told you why. She’s met someone. And she’s in lurrrve.”

  I glared at her. “Oh fuck off Portia!”

  “Oooooh. Touchy.”

  “As usual, you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about!” Then turning to Lauren more calmly, “I’m waiting for an important phone call,” I explained. Lauren looked at me blankly as if that did not at all explain why I was risking my job. “From an aunt,” I added. “A close aunt. She’s…poorly.” Portia laughed and Lauren gave me a look as if to say not even she was that gullible.

  “Well,” Lauren sighed, “I’m sure your ‘poorly aunt’ doesn’t want you losing your job, so I’d put that well away before Gwendolyn gets here.”

  None of us heard her as she entered the salon. “Who has to put what away?” Gwendolyn asked in a cool matter-of-fact tone. She stood at the salon entrance elegantly shrugging off her cashmere jacket, assessing us, as if she were trying to decide whether she either liked or disliked, now that Portia and I weren’t at each other’s throats all the time, the obvious new personnel dynamics.

  “Oh good morning Gwendolyn,” Lauren offered in an attempt at buying us more time to think up an answer.

  Gwendolyn studied the three of us expectantly, and gave an ever so slight incline of her head, a sure sign of her growing impatience. “Who has to put what away,” she repeated coolly.

  Portia held up my BlackBerry. “Oh…this,” she started. I gulped. “I was just showing them my new BlackBerry and I guess I lost track of time,” she smiled sweetly. Gwendolyn looked at Portia’s confident smiling face and then at my panic-stricken one.

  “Yours is it?” she said sceptically as she headed toward her spiral staircase.

  “Yes,” Portia quipped. “Top of the range.” The three of us held our collective breath until Gwendolyn’s stilettos disappeared up the spiral staircase, and then we collapsed in a silent giggling bundle. Portia placed my BlackBerry firmly into my hands and theatrically wiped hers clean. I smiled a thank you. Breathed a huge sigh of relief. And then…Gwendolyn’s voice trilled from the top of the spiral staircase:

  “Rebecca Hardy.” My heart stopped. “I want to see you in my office. Right away.” I literally hopped from one foot to the next in panic; throwing the BlackBerry to Lauren and like a hot potato she caught it and threw it back to Portia who held it out toward me in one hand whilst she mouthed the words: “No Way!!” I hopped to the spiral staircase, clasping my hands together, mouthing the words “PLEASE!” pretending to tighten an imaginary rope around my neck and hang myself.

  Gwendolyn dropped her jacket and handbag onto her couch as she sauntered over to her desk and when the eyes in the back of her head spotted me, said: “Well, don’t loiter Rebecca Hardy. Come. In.” I stepped into her office and stood in front of her desk. She perched on the edge, crossed her legs and looked at me. And when she motioned for me to sit down on one of the cold Philippe Starck chairs I squeezed my eyes shut for a second and pressed my lips tightly together in resignation. In all the years I’ve been working at this salon, I had never before been asked to ‘sit’ in her office. This could not be good. “Rebecca,” she started cautiously, “it seems you’ve been hiding something from me all this time.”

  I almost passed out. How on earth could Gwendolyn have found out about what I’d been doing for Isabella? Maybe she, not giving two hoots as to whether I lost my job or not, had told her! No. Isabella needed me too much right now. Didn’t she? I opened my mouth to say something, anything, in my defence but failed to find a suitable sound let alone a whole word.

  “I had no idea,” she continued, “just how ambitious you really are.” My eyes stopped rolling around in my head long enough for me to register her underlying tone of…of course I could be mistaken…but it sounded an awful lot like…like admiration. “First the personal shopping. And now this?” She looked at me as though she were seeing me for the first time and wasn’t quite sure if she liked what she saw. I looked back with a blank dufus expression. “You have no idea what I’m talking about do you?” I looked up at her with an apologetic dufus smile. She shook her head in amazement. “You’re booked in with Mrs Dobson today are you not?” I nodded. “Well thank heavens you’re aware of that much,” she said sarcastically. “Well, Mrs Dobson has booked twelve personal facial exercise lessons for her daughter!”

  I blinked. Wondering what the hell all this had to do with me as we did not offer facial… “With me?!” I asked wide-eyed.

  Gwendolyn looked amused. “Yes, Rebecca Hardy. With you.”

  “Oh My God!” I screeched, completely forgetting whose presence I was in. “I can’t believe it!”

  Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but I definitely saw a faint smile on her lips. “Well believe it because her daughter wants to get started right away apparently. She wanted you to see her on Thursdays but I told her you did personal shopping on Thursdays. So you will have to call her and arrange an appointment that fits with her schedule.” She slid a card across the table to me with Anita Grasby’s details. “And be sure to call her soon. Understood?”

  “Oh definitely, Gwendolyn. Definitely,” I grinned, suppressing a sudden desire to give her a hug.

  She hopped off the table and sat in her swivel chair behind the desk and started flicking through her diary. “That’s all Rebecca.”

  “Oh. Oh sure Gwendolyn,” I almost sang as I leapt out my seat and almost skipped to the door.

  “Rebecca,” she called just as I was about to step out of the office into my new dawn, “…I do hope these…facial exercises really work,” she said without looking up.

  Refusing to let her pour water on my fire, I gave the eyes in the top of her head my winning smile and said: “Oh they do Gwendolyn. They do.”

  “And what’s all this I hear about you doing personal shopping nonsense?” Mrs Dobson grumbled as I applied her facial mask. “You’re not in league with that awful Portia are you?”

  “No. No, not at all” I whispered, aware that Portia was still in the salon and feeling suddenly hypocritical for my weekly verbal thrashings about her with Mrs Dobson. I placed the gauze over her face and laid cucumber slices over her eyes. “I’m not really a personal shopper at all actually. I’m only doing it because one client specifically requested me.”

  “Why would someone request you for personal shopping?” Mrs Dobson asked sounding as surprised as I had initially been.

  I laughed. “That’s exactly what I first thought.”

  “So, who is this mysterious client?”

  I hesitated, feeling torn between a sense of loyalty to Gwendolyn’s salon rules for not discussing one client to another, and gratefulness to Mrs Dobson for buying a block of facial exercise sessions. I decided that Mrs Dobson with her insatiable appetite for information probably wouldn’t let the subject go until I’d told her. It really wasn’t gossip worthy, and she’d probably never even heard of Isabella. “Isabella Coombs,” I said.

  Mrs Dobson removed the cucumber from her right eye and looked at me curiously. “Not Isabella Martin Coombs?”

  Oh shit. “Yes. Do you know her?” I
asked trying to sound casual.

  “I’d say,” she sniffed looking like she suddenly smelt something real foul in the air. “And what does she want from you?” She spat the word ‘she’ as if it were repulsive hideous poison.

  “From me? Nothing,” I lied in alarm, disturbed by jolly Mrs Dobson’s suddenly grim tone. “I’m just helping her pick out a few outfits.”

  “Humph. Trust me dear; Isabella Coombs doesn’t need anyone’s help! She just uses people until she gets what she wants and then discards them like rubbish!” I’m no Einstein but I got the distinct impression that Mrs Dobson was talking from experience. “She’s pure evil that one. Even her own parents have washed their hands of her!” Mrs Dobson looked at me with concern. “Now you be careful Rebecca. If Isabella Coombs is spending time with you, she must be after something. And whatever it is can’t be any good. Just you make sure she doesn’t get it.”

  I felt an ache in my chest as I stammered, “But she’s booked me for three more sessions.”

  “Cancel them!” Mrs Dobson ordered. “Trust me. It’s better for you if you have nothing to do with that dreadful woman.”

  I lit the candles, dropped a few drops of scented oil onto the burner, turned on the soothing background music and glanced over at Mrs Dobson. Her face, usually plumped with a content smile was set rigid with anger. I felt terribly guilty for mentioning Isabella Coombs and ruining Mrs Dobson’s pamper day, but I also felt terribly concerned as to why Mrs Dobson thought Isabella was so venomous. I dimmed the lights and slipped out the treatment room quietly.

  As soon as I stepped into the hallway Portia spotted me and frogmarched me into the staff room. “Your BlackBerry has been vibrating non-stop!” she hissed as soon as we stepped inside.

  “Where is it?”

  “In your locker. I switched it off!”

  “What?! Why?”

  She looked at me like I had completely lost the plot. “Er…because it was VIBRATING NON-STOP?” I got the BlackBerry from my locker drawer and turned it on. “And that parcel arrived for you by courier.” Portia pointed to a rather large box in the corner. “Are you crazy having gifts sent to you at work?” I ignored her and started unravelling the ribbon around the box. “Don’t you know that’s a sackable offence?” I opened the box, ripped through layers of tissue paper and lifted out the most exquisite floor-length silk metallic gown. “Oh. My. God!” Portia stared in awe at the dress. “That dress was in Nina Ricci’s fashion show!” She looked at me as if I a) knew who Nina Ricci was and b) understood the importance of that fact. “Last week!” she added in wonder, for effect. I shrugged blankly and ripped the envelope off the box thinking this dress couldn’t possibly be meant for me. “Rebecca,” Portia’s awe-struck voice interrupted my thoughts. “That’s a TEN THOUSAND pound dress!”

  “WHAT?!” I ripped the note out of the envelope.

  Rebecca, make certain you wear this dress this evening. I have arranged for you to have your hair and make up done by my team. A car will be collecting you from the salon at 2pm. Isabella.

  “So?” Portia asked with her hands on her hips. “Who’s it from?”

  “None of your business,” I said quietly, thinking I would turn grey before the day was out.

  “I don’t know what you’re up to Rebecca Hardy, but make damn sure you know what you’re doing. Someone doesn’t just give you a 10K dress for no good reason.” And with that, she marched back into the salon, leaving me perched on the edge of a wooden bench, holding a 10K dress, desperately trying to try to make sense out of nonsense.

  A car will be collecting you from the salon at 2pm. Well that was a joke for a start! I had a full pampering day booked in with Mrs Dobson, and even if I hadn’t, Gwendolyn would never agree to me leaving ten minutes early yet alone three hours! But I got the impression that Isabella wouldn’t take no for an answer. What to do? What to do? The alarm watched whirred in my pocket reminding me of Mrs Dobson’s mask. I stuffed the 10K dress into my locker and walked unsteadily back into the treatment room, thinking I had better not let Mrs Dobson know about this latest development.

  I removed Mrs Dobson’s face mask and finished her facial with feigned enthusiasm and Mrs Dobson politely responded with feigned appreciation. I guess both our minds were elsewhere. Mine was busy chasing around the million and one problems whirling around in my head; starting with how on earth I was going to explain to Isabella that I just could not up and leave a client in the middle of her pamper day, just so I could go wandering off to get my hair and make-up done…for a DATE with HER husband! I massaged oil into Mrs Dobson’s temples without the usual appreciative ‘ahhh’s’ and studied the scowl in her tightly pressed eyes and lips that the Botox couldn’t hide, wondering why Mrs Dobson had become so very unsettled by the mere mention of Isabella’s name. Yes, Isabella could be difficult…but for the most part she seemed rather…sweet…and…vulnerable? And yes, she did have a multiple personality thing going on…but I hadn’t ever seen a real nasty side to her. Not really. I defied the first rule of facial exercise; thou shall not ever frown, when I thought of jolly Mrs Dobson…and the niggling fact that…up until now…I would have trusted her sense of judgement completely. And now? And now…I really didn’t know what to think.

  To say I was grateful when Mrs Dobson’s lunch tray finally arrived would be a gross understatement. I leapt from that treatment room and bounded to the staff room in a nano-second, took out the BlackBerry and started dialling Isabella’s number. I was going to tell her straight that she could not just book appointments for me in the middle of the day. I did have a job and my intention was to keep it. And with professional hair and make-up plus a 10K dress…didn’t she think she was going way too far to potentially catch her husband out? I had honestly meant to say all of that, and probably would have too, had Gwendolyn not shocked the hell out of me by entering the staff’s un-Gwendolyn-worthy humble abode.

  “Gwendolyn!” I spluttered whilst switching off the BlackBerry behind my back. “Hi.”

  She looked at me in an annoyed kind of way, as if she were trying to figure me out. “Are you busy?” she asked frostily, standing just inside the doorway.

  “No not at all,” I gushed a little too eagerly. “I’m just…just checking my messages.”

  “And are there many?”

  “Many?” I asked in confusion, thinking this was all too much commotion in one day for my poor heart.

  “Messages. Are there many messages?”

  “No. None, actually.”

  “Oh. Well that’s strange,” she said coldly, “as Isabella Coombs has been trying to get hold of you all morning.” I gulped as my heart started beating out a mile a dozen. Gwendolyn studied me as though she was looking for answers. I remained as poker faced as possible. “She needs you to go somewhere for her. Apparently it’s gravely important.” Gwendolyn did not sound at all happy at what she was…I get the impression…having to say. Then she added quickly: “A car will be collecting you at 2pm. Someone else will finish Mrs Dobson,” sounding pained and livid both at the same time. I knew how much this salon meant to Gwendolyn and the stringent policies she had put in place seemed rather harsh but certainly did maintain the salon’s impeccable reputation. Each client had her own specific therapist and they could rest assured that only their expert and chosen therapist would treat them. The shabby procedure of having multiple therapists treat one client on her pamper day was un-thinkable at Pamper Moi. Gwendolyn would never ever allow it. Until today. But why? I felt a sudden pang of guilt. This was Isabella’s doing. She must have got to Gwendolyn in some way.

  “But I want to finish Mrs Dobson,” I said standing up.

  Gwendolyn just gave me a look that said: This is all very peculiar and I know you’re up to something Rebecca Hardy. Just make certain it ends today. “Just make certain you’re ready to leave at 2pm” and walked out leaving me standing there with Isabella’s BlackBerry in one hand and Isabella’s 10K dress hanging up behind me.

  I ste
pped out of the black cab on Victoria Embankment, with my faultless air-brushed ‘natural looking’ make-up and flowing glossy tresses, having been recently styled by Antoine Jacques, the celebrity hair stylist, wearing the Nina Ricci ten thousand pound dress, feeling like a glamorous socialite or fashion diva. Feeling like anyone other than myself. I felt like the very essence of my being had been poured into someone else’s skin. Into someone else’s life. And that a girl I once knew, who was always strapped for cash, didn’t care much about fashion and hardly ever wore make-up, was slowly slipping away for good. I inhaled deeply, searching for Rebecca Hardy, and exhaled, realising that she…I…would always be me. On the inside at least.

  I stepped onto the Embankment, dressed to kill, as if I were in a fashion shoot, looking around for Charles Coombs. This was the exact spot and the exact time he had said to meet him. Opposite the station at 7pm. But he wasn’t here. Before I could even think about panicking and about how much of a lemon I must’ve looked to the group of tourists passing by, the BlackBerry started vibrating in my purse.

  “Hello?” I answered without checking the caller ID.

  “Hi. Are you here yet?” he asked.

  I smiled with relief. “Yes. I’m standing opposite the station.”

  “Hmm. I’m in the car outside the station…” I spun around to see the chauffeur-driven Bentley with blacked-out windows and blinking hazard lights, parked illegally immediately outside the station, “…but I don’t see you.”

  “I’m here,” I laughed waving at the car.

  “No. There’s just a woman there…waving… Is that you?!”

  “It’s me,” I trilled.

  Charles Coombs emerged from the passenger seat in a debonair dinner suit with dickie-bow, and crossed the street with a few confident strides. He stepped up to me with a quizzical look on his face. “Hello Rebecca. You look…” I almost blushed with anticipation at his expected compliment. I looked knockout, even if I did say so myself. “…You look…different,” he said cautiously. And the word ‘different’ didn’t sound at all like a compliment.