A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “What am I going to do?” I wailed down the phone to Abby, who I had reluctantly called in a desperate need to talk to someone, anyone, who wouldn’t judge me…too much. And with her own moral compass, seemingly completely off the fucking charts, Abby was the perfect person to ask advice.

  Having quietly and dutifully listened to me recount the whole sorry tale, she eventually sighed and said, “Well, the first thing you’re going to do missy, is to drag your carcass up from wherever you are, and get yourself home!”

  “What?! Did you even hear me Abby? I’ve ruined this man’s life! This good, honest, decent man,” I wailed so loudly, it scared the alley cats away. “I’ve ruined his life!”

  “Yes darling. That does appear to be the case. Which is exactly why you now need to get your arse into gear, and undo the damage you’ve done Rebecca!”

  “What?! How? Did you even hear me Abby? Her father is a Judge! A fucking Judge!”

  “Yes darling, but you said he was also a devout Catholic, who hadn’t spoken to her in years? So no matter what kind of lies she’s told him to change his opinion of her, I’m certain Judge daddy won’t be too impressed to find out exactly what his little girl has really been up to. And that’s why you Rebecca…have to go and tell him!”

  “What?! Abby are you kidding me?! Go and tell him? What I did for Isabella?!”

  “Rebecca,” Abby said simply, “do you want to help Charles get his sons back…or not?”

  Not only did I not have the nerve to turn up at Isabella’s parents’ Hertfordshire country home by myself, I also wasn’t convinced that turning up there unannounced, if at all, was such a bright idea.

  “Nonsense,” Abby had dismissed my concerns, as she sped along the country lanes, with me a complete and utter nervous wreck, flaked out in the passenger seat beside her, on our way to Hertfordshire. To see Isabella’s parents. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she had said flippantly. I felt somewhat hypocritical, yet grateful at the same time, toward Abby. I mean, despite the fact that I was knee deep in my own complicated and potentially heart-attack-inducing-shit, I still knew I ought to at least ask her about what she was doing out with Seb the other night. That’s what any real friend would do. And I was after all, not only a friend to Abby, but also to Julia, who I’m quite certain would want to know what Abby was doing canoodling in secret with her fiancé! Like I said, I knew I ought to ask her, but seeing as how right now she was doing me a ginormous favour, by coming with, and driving me to Isabella’s parents, I made an executive decision that now was neither the right time nor the right place to do so. We drove for the most part in silence, with me trying to psyche myself up, and with Abby smiling smugly to herself every time she read the text messages pinging their way through on her iPhone.

  “You’ll get points on your licence for doing that,” I warned her as she steered the Audi at 60 miles per hour with her right hand, whilst texting a rather long message back to someone with the left.

  “Darling, right now, points on my license is the least of my worries.” And as soon as she had pressed ‘send’, her phone pinged with a response. I watched Abby glow with delight as she read it, and couldn’t help wondering…if these delightful little texts…were from Seb. Like I said, not the right time, nor the right place.

  Isabella’s parents, Mr and Mrs O’Sullivan, didn’t live so much in a countryside house, it was more of a countryside estate, with stables, horses, fields and staff quarters. As Abby drove slowly up the driveway, my heart started to lurch in my chest right about the same time as my stomach started somersaulting.

  “Suppose Isabella’s inside?!” I grabbed Abby’s arm like a lunatic. “Suppose Charles is there?!”

  “Rebecca can you bloody well let go of my arm! I’m driving for chrissakes!” And brushed me off. “It doesn’t matter if Isabella, Charles or the goddamn paparazzi are in there! All that matters, Rebecca Hardy, is that you got this man into this shit, and you have to get him out!” she snapped, screeching the car to an abrupt halt, directly outside the O’Sullivans’ imposing front door. For someone with such a skewed moral compass, she seemed to be, uncharacteristically, taking the moral high ground on this particular predicament. “They’re his sons Rebecca! His sons,” leaning across me, opening up my door, and literally shooing me out of the car.

  “Aren’t you coming in with me?!” I asked in alarm.

  “Good god no. I’ll wait out here…” then as I turned to walk with jelly-like legs, added, “…where it’s safe.”

  I inhaled and exhaled quite dramatically, whilst shuffling slower than a snail sleepwalking, toward the door. I was way out of my depth here. What the hell was I going to say to them? I mean, you can’t just turn up at a Judge’s house and say: “Oh hello, my name is Rebecca Hardy and I have some vital information about your daughter Isabella. Oh, and her husband Charles! You can’t just turn up and say that! I stood on the doorstep for what seemed like ages, wondering what the hell to do, looking back at Abby who was mouthing: “Knock on the fucking door!” in the most unhelpful manner…when an unexpected loud scraping noise coming from behind the door, startled me. Then it opened.

  “May I help you?” Mr O’Sullivan asked. He looked to be about ten feet tall (or was that just me shrinking?), with a deep bellowing voice. (OK, maybe not quite bellowing…but it was deep!) I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows, as if I couldn’t understand English.

  “Is everything alright dear?” Mrs O’Sullivan appeared dutifully at his side, an older but equally immaculate, version of Isabella. I swallowed.

  “Oh hello, my name is Rebecca Hardy and I have some vital information about your daughter Isabella. Oh, and her husband Charles,” and started smiling, like the village fool, whilst trying to stop my left leg from unceremoniously kicking my right!

  The O’Sullivans exchanged looks. Then Mr O’Sullivan cleared his throat. “Well, in that case you had better come in.”

  I sat perched on the edge of the vintage, leather, Chesterfield sofa, in the O’Sullivans’ wooden-panelled study, mouth as dry as the Sahara, having just talked for half an hour straight, wondering how the hell I should conclude my shaky presentation, and if the O’Sullivans had even believed a word of it. It was difficult to tell, as they both wore excellent poker faces; hers most likely due to Botox, and his most likely due to the tiny little fact…that he was a JUDGE! A fucking Judge! I’m sitting here, in HIS house, trying to convince a Judge, that he’s made a mistake in believing his daughter, and preventing Charles from seeing his sons! Right on cue, the room started to somersault. Stay focused Rebecca. Stay focused!… I inhaled deeply… I am a woman of peace and tranquillity… And exhaled. “So you see, Charles has been completely faithful to Isabella. He takes his marriage vows entirely seriously. If I hadn’t pursued him quite so hard…at Isabella’s insistence, he would never ever have given me a second look.” I sat wringing my hands in my lap, waiting for a reaction. For them to say something. Anything! Just speak!

  “Well,” Mr O’Sullivan sighed after some time. “That is quite a story young lady.” I literally deflated. They didn’t believe me.

  “Oh darling, stop it!” Mrs O’Sullivan snapped. “You know very well it’s true! This whole unfortunate circumstance has Isabella’s name written all over it, for Pete’s sake,” crossing and uncrossing her legs, in annoyance.

  “Hmm,” Mr O’Sullivan offered, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

  “I never believed Charles could’ve done such a thing! Not in a million years. That poor dear man. With all the stress Isabella has put him through over the years, it’s a miracle he hasn’t just gone and keeled right over.”

  “Well, now darling, we don’t know for certain that…”

  “Oh shush! Is it you that has to look after those two poor boys? No, it’s not! It’s not even Isabella! It’s me! I’m the one she just dumps them off on, as if they were…chattel! Those poor dear boys need their father! And that is that!” She folded her arms in defiance.
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  “You make a good point my dear. You do make a good point,” sounding as if he had made a decision on the matter, then turned to me. “And you young lady, you seem quite measured, what on earth were you thinking accepting such an immoral proposition?”

  I opened and closed my mouth like a drowning goldfish, desperately thinking up something clever to say, and desperately failing. “…I…I…honestly just wanted to help Isabella.”

  “Well, considering that lives have now been torn apart, two of those being my grandsons’, perhaps in future you could try not being quite so helpful.” And stood up. “Thank you for coming Rebecca. I will contact Charles immediately.” I stumbled to my feet and floated to the front door as if in a dream…no, as if in a nightmare. At the door I turned to face both their gravely disappointed faces…

  “I know I have no right to ask anything of you…but Isabella…could speak to my boss and…”

  “We won’t tell Isabella or Charles that you’ve been,” he said brusquely, opening up the door for me as if he just wanted to shove me out of it.

  “Oh. OK then…thank you. Goodbye.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Oooh, well someone looks very happy today,” Portia sang, as I breezed into the salon, abnormally on time, feeling just as wonderful as Audrey Hepburn looked, in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  “Good morning ladies,” I sang back, tossing my hair, as though I were literally skipping through the meadows. I could feel both Lauren’s and Portia’s curious eyes, boring into me when I flopped back onto the forbidden chaise, as if I owned it.

  “And just what the hell has got into you today Rebecca Hardy?” Portia smiled, standing with manicured hands on hips.

  “The joys of spring,” I sighed breathlessly. Actually, the joys of spring had nothing at all to do with it. Especially, seeing as how it was miserable and wet outside. Of course I was completely aware of how much of a dimwit I must’ve looked, with such a huge beam pasted permanently on my face. But I couldn’t help it. I honest to goodness just couldn’t stop smiling. All the damage I had caused, was well and truly, undone. Charles had woken me up at the crack of dawn this morning, deliriously happy, calling to say that his sons were back at home with him. He had re-hired the nanny Isabella had fired, and had set the divorce in full speed ahead motion. And then he had said the loveliest thing ever, which had made me damn near expire: “Everything’s absolutely wonderful in my life now Rebecca. The only thing missing is you.”

  It was oddly ironic that my client today, was Mrs Dobson. Charles’ mother! I still couldn’t quite get my head around the fact the Charles was even related to her, much less her son. It did however, unbeknown to Mrs Dobson, somewhat change the dynamics between us. I mean, technically speaking; she was my future boyfriend’s mother. And I’m quite sure there must be some unspoken code of conduct when addressing ones future boyfriend’s mother. For example, all of a sudden, it just didn’t seem quite right to be giving Mrs Dobson, Charles’ mother, a Hollywood wax. And the thought of giving her a full body massage, seemed somewhat…incestuous. Hmm, I decided to start with the facial, and hope for the best.

  “Aaah,” Mrs Dobson exhaled, as she reclined back onto the couch with the sumptuous white towel wrapped around her. “After the hellish week I’ve just endured, this day couldn’t come soon enough.” I almost blurted out: Tell me about it! Instead I just smiled even wider, giving her a very blank, noncommittal type of look, not at all wanting her to start divulging the details of her hellish week, which I’m quite certain had an awful lot to do with her son. Charles! “You don’t quite seem yourself today Rebecca darh-ling,” she said studying me curiously, as I turned up the sounds of Enya, wafting in the background.

  “Oh I’m absolutely wonderful Mrs Dobson,” I answered in my best girlfriend-of-your-son’s kind of voice. “And it’s so lovely to see you again.” OK, maybe that sounded a bit fake.

  Mrs Dobson raised her head up from the parlour bed, and looked pointedly at my beaming face, then smiled. “Darh-ling,” she started happily, in a very matter-of-fact sounding voice, “I know what it is that’s different about you now. You, my dear girl, are in love.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And it wasn’t at all rude to ignore statements. Not even ones made by mother of future boyfriend. I quickly placed the cucumber slices over her eyes, and applied the thick green paste of the avocado face mask, all the time biting my lip to prevent myself from giggling out loud at Mrs Dobson’s, marvellous declaration, that I loved her son!

  The soothing sounds of Enya, coupled with the soft delicate lavender essence, filled the candle-lit, tranquil, treatment room with a complete sense of serenity. I pottered around, putting things away, feeling entirely contented and happy with life, the world, and with Charles. I glanced over at Mrs Dobson whose deep methodical breathing, and wide-open mouth, showed me that she was also equally contented. Then from nowhere, like the sound of fingernails scraping deliberately across a chalkboard, I heard: “REBECCA BLOODY HARDY!! Come out here right now!!” I felt a sudden shot of terror, in a panic, dropped the glass tweezers dish directly on the floor, which promptly shattered, sending tweezers clanging deafeningly around the room. Mrs Dobson bolted upright as if someone had given her a double adrenalin shot, cucumbers still stuck to her eyes, mouth still wide open, but not quite so contented. “REBECCA HARDY!!” my heart started hammering a mile a dozen.

  “I know that voice,” Mrs Dobson spat.

  I swallowed. I knew it too. “Oh I’m sure it’s nothing,” I lied most unconvincingly, as I staggered toward the door. “I’ll just be one moment, Mrs Dobson,” and literally forced myself out.

  Isabella was standing in the reception foyer looking like an Amazonian warrior; only she was dressed in Chanel and wearing five inch heels. Even from the hallway I could see the smoke coming from her nostrils and could hear poor Lauren flapping about.

  “Mrs Coombs, please calm down,” Lauren implored, from behind the safety of the reception desk. “Rebecca’s with a client. She just cannot see you right now!”

  “I don’t give a damn if she’s in there with the Queen!! Get her out of there now, or I’ll drag that little BITCH out myself!”

  I felt faint. Pull yourself together Rebecca. Pull yourself together. “Is there a problem Isabella?” I asked defensively, folding my arms.

  She spun around to face me like a bull seeing red. “You little tart! You think you can mess with me?! You think you can mess with my life?! You insignificant little tramp!” I opened my mouth to say something…but just ended up doing that goldfish trick again. “How dare you tell my parents anything about me?! Do you realise what you’ve done you stupid woman?!”

  “I know exactly what I’ve done Isabella,” I said feigning calmness. “I’ve exposed you for the deranged, sick and twisted person that you are, and hopefully helped Charles in the process.”

  “Helped Charles?! Do you really think Charles would even be remotely interested in a common little beautician like you if it wasn’t for me?!”

  Portia appeared magically at my side, with manicured hands placed firmly on hips. “Actually,” she started, “I happen to know that Charles Coombs is very much interested in Rebecca and it has absolutely nothing to do with you,” she said in lofty tones, sticking her chin out at Isabella.

  “Is that so?!” Isabella placed her own manicured hands firmly on her hips and stared at Portia, sizing her up.

  “Yes. So!” Portia batted back. My knees started to knock. This was not good. They both looked as if they were about to start scraping manicured red fingernails in each other’s faces. They probably would have too, had Mrs Dobson not come rushing in, wrapped only in a sumptuous towel, with avocado face mask still intact, and cucumber slices slipping down her cheeks.

  “Isabella O’Sullivan!” she chastised, but with her protecting her modesty behind a rather small towel, and with the avocado mask beginning to crack, it didn’t quite have the intended impact somehow.

  Isabella narrowed
her eyes at Mrs Dobson, and cocked her head to one side. “Mrs Dobson?”

  “What the hell are you doing making such a racket?! Haven’t you caused enough trouble this week?!”

  “Oh don’t you start, you old goat!” Isabella dismissed her.

  “I beg your pardon?!” Mrs Dobson angrily snatched the cucumber slices off her face and threw them on the floor. “How dare you speak to me like that!” and stepping closer toward Isabella, promptly slipped up on the cucumber slices, landing face first, or rather: avocado mask first, onto the forbidden chaise. The thick gooey green paste spread nicely all over the cow-print design, as Mrs Dobson, staggered up from an unfortunate wide seated position, from which the towel could no longer protect her modesty. We all covered our eyes except Portia, who gave out an Eewww, at the sight of Mrs Dobson’s Hollywood wax. “Are you eweing me young lady?!” Mrs Dobson turned on Portia, who batted back some rude response, and the two of them were off, at each other’s throats within seconds.

  Isabella turned her attention back toward me, “You’re even more stupid than I first imagined,” she spat at me. “Do you really think I’d let you get away with this?!” she yelled over Mrs Dobson’s and Portia’s voices. “When I finish with you…”

  “Becky! What the hell is going on?!” Jeremy stood in the doorway, holding a sorry bunch of red roses, as we all paused from our quarrelling to face him. “…Becky, why haven’t you answered my calls,” he said sounding very unsure and really rather pathetic. “…I’ve missed you…”

  Portia turned on him first: “Why don’t you just bog off Jeremy!” Then, continued yelling at Mrs Dobson, in very colourful language.