A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “No. I haven’t.” They both looked puzzled. “Long story. Anyway, I want you two to watch it, and then tell me honestly if you think Jeremy has cheated…or is planning to cheat on me. OK?” They nodded and I got up from the sofa, rather unsteadily thanks to the Courvoisier, and swayed out onto the terrace.

  Out on the terrace I flopped down onto the hammock which systematically started gently swinging. It was an unusually beautiful day for London in March. Warm with a nice tender breeze, and transparent blue skies, that looked like a watercolour painting. It was the rare occurrence of days like these that made me appreciate the fact that I’d held my ground and insisted we bought an apartment with some outside space. Finding an apartment for sale with outside space in Central London had proved to be an almost impossible task. Jeremy, who at first wasn’t too fussed about having outside space, became absolutely reticent when he discovered a bit of outdoor space would cost an extra one hundred grand or more. He was quite certain then, that he could live without it. But I could not. I hated the thought of being all cooped up indoors all day, and having to put your shoes on and physically leave your own home to walk in search of a bit of fresh air. I loved being able to wake up in the morning and eat my bran flakes out on the terrace. We had originally wanted to buy a two bedroom apartment for no more than four hundred grand. But after three months of endlessly viewing wholly unsuitable properties in the dodgiest parts of Central London, Jeremy had finally agreed to consider a one bedroom apartment. The agent called soon thereafter to tell us they had just taken on a stunning one bedroom in Warwick Garden Mews, with a “truly amazing roof terrace”, but that we had better be quick because he knew this one would get snapped up. Having already been pipped to the post, on a couple other properties, which we loved, Jeremy and I didn’t need to hear it twice. We got here within the hour. We were already sold on location, with it being just off High Street Kensington, walking distance from some of our favourite bars and restaurants, plus Hyde Park, various galleries and museums close by. But as soon as I saw this beautiful quiet cobbled mews, I knew I wanted to live here. The agent hadn’t exaggerated. It was stunning. Philippe, the guy that owned the apartment, was an interior designer, and had spared no expense in its décor. It was a bright and sunny apartment with high ceilings and had been intelligently laid out to maximise space and light, though Jeremy had thought it to be quite small for the half a million pound asking price. The roof terrace was almost as big as the whole apartment, and with its exquisite decking, designer shrubs and lighting, could easily rival Kensington Roof Gardens. Perfect for entertaining, and it was for us, the deal clincher.

  I loved our home. Yes, it was small, but it was ours. We owned it. I had never dreamed I could ever afford to own such a beautiful apartment in such a trendy part of Central London. And I know for a fact it would never have happened if I was on my own. My mum always said, “It takes two to make life dear.” She should have added: especially if you intend to get on the property ladder in London. I could never have got a mortgage for half a million on my beautician salary, albeit a beautician at London’s most exclusive salon. No amount of creative mathematics with the multiples could have helped me. Even combined with Jeremy’s income it had been a stretch. He had to be very imaginative with his bonus figures for us to have got this mortgage through.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, allowing the warm spring breeze to caress and clear my head. If Jeremy and I were to split up…what would happen to my beautiful home? Would I have to remortgage? Buy him out? But I could never afford it! I started to panic and tried to sit up straight, but the hammock, most definitely not designed for straight sitting, kept throwing me back down. I jumped off and started pacing the terrace. I had to think this through. Right. Now. First of all, I am not going to leave Jeremy. Not unless the footage shows beyond any reasonable doubt that he’s a cheat, which of course, it may not. Humph! Plan B. I’d better have a plan B. If it turns out that Jeremy is in fact a lying cheating toe-rag, then he will have to leave. It’s my home and I’m not leaving and I’m definitely not selling. He can piss off! But what if he wants his share of the equity? According to Mrs Pemberton a one bedroom at the end of the mews sold for six hundred and fifty thousand quite recently, so ours would be more or less the same. That’s over seventy-five grand I’d have to give him! Pah! I couldn’t even find seven grand, yet alone seventy-five! He’d have to agree to forgo any equity payout as penance. Not likely. But I couldn’t expect him to continue contributions to the mortgage if he’s not living here. No worries. I can handle the mortgage by myself…if I never eat, or use a cab, or public transport, ever again! Great. I’ll die of starvation, but at least they’ll find me in a beautiful apartment! But hey, why be so negative. There was always a glimmer of hope wasn’t there? Maybe the barman hadn’t actually heard any incriminating evidence at all and was just winding me up to teach me a lesson…for…for…throwing down the fiver! I don’t know what sick twisted reason he could’ve had. I mean, he never actually said he’d heard anything at all. Oh my good god! That was it! It was a wind up, and I’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Hah! Abigail and Julia probably thought I’d gone completely loopy loo. I ran back into the apartment shouting, “It was a wind up! Jeremy’s innocent isn’t he?” I laughed. Nobody laughed back.

  Evidently, Jeremy was not innocent.

  “Guilty as charged,” Abby sighed in a ‘told you so’ kind of way. I looked at Julia knowing she was the best barometer of judgement, but she looked completely crushed.

  “I’m so sorry Becky,” Julia soothed, “I cannot believe Jerrers would be so stupid, and only believe it now because I heard it with my own ears.”

  “Right then.” I stood in the middle of the room feeling all cried out. “Who wants to help me pack?” and headed off to the bedroom.

  “Rebecca you are not leaving are you?!” Abigail was already behind me.

  “No. but Jeremy bloody well is.”

  “Ugh! What is this Abby?” I found it hilarious that Julia only asked this question having already downed half the glass of the dark suspicious looking cocktail Abby had given her.

  “It’s that bloody Jeremy’s brandy mixed with, I’m assuming it’s his cola too?” Abby said dryly, looking at me for confirmation. I nodded. Neither of those beverages could ever have been mine. I simply wouldn’t think of even beginning to pollute my body with spirits or cola…well, not until today of course. And today was an exception.

  We were all flaked out on the slouch couch. It had taken us three hours to pack all of Jeremy’s belongings ironically into black rubbish bags. It was amazing how much stuff he had! Clothes mainly. Designer. We had debated whether or not I should cut the sleeves off his Armani suits and Pink shirts. After much goading from Abigail, and protests from Julia, in the end I had decided not to cut, in view of the fact that I would need him to remain fairly civil in regards to the apartment. I sat quietly looking at the rubbish bags of severance, piled high in the hallway, not quite believing that I was in this situation. Yet again!

  “What the hell is wrong with these immoral women?!” I threw out to no one in particular. “Why do they continuously insist on targeting married men and wrecking our fuckin’ lives?!”

  “Darling, I do hate to have to tell you this,” Abigail yawned, stretching out her arms above her head, “but you and Jeremy were not actually married.”

  “No. Not technically. But we were as good as.”

  “You see. Now there’s your problem right there. There’s no such thing as ‘as good as’. You’re either married, or you’re not. And you and Jeremy, despite your raving Stepford Wife performance, were not.” I glared at her. “I’m sorry Becky darling, I love you to bits and pieces, you know that. But I do think you need to hear the truth sweetie. I mean you throw yourself entirely into these relationships, treating your boyfriend as though he was your husband, and then you wonder why it goes all pear shaped.”

  “What do you mean I ‘throw’ myself?!”

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nbsp; “Rebecca, you DARN Jeremy’s socks for chrissakes! I bet not even his mother would do that.” My jaw catapulted to my chest and I looked to Julia for some back up, but she just gave me a pathetic little smile which I suppose meant she agreed with Abigail. For once! “You treat a boyfriend like a husband then he’ll start to behave like a husband. And husbands cheat,” she said satisfied with her deduction.

  “Now hold on a second,” Julia finally piped up, “not all husbands cheat. That is a ridiculous blanket statement Abigail.”

  “Oh, whatever! Well, as none of us here has ever actually been married, none of us can actually say for sure one way or the other, now can we?” she said with a smile. “Whereas I am the only one here who has actually successfully dated several eligible bachelors…”

  “Successfully dated?! Hah! That’s a joke,” I gave a little laugh.

  Julia stepped onto her soapbox. “What makes you think any of your relationships, IF you can call them that, were successful Abigail?”

  Abigail looked at her. “I’ve never been cheated on, and I’ve never been dumped,” she said matter-of-factly. Julia stepped off her soapbox quick time. “Anyway, as I was saying. As the only one here with any real experience with men, I think I know what they want. And what they want is glamour! They want to live on the edge of titillation,” she said breathlessly, obviously enjoying herself. Julia and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. “They want to be teased. They want excitement.”

  I sat up. “I AM exciting!” They both looked at me with disappointment. “I am too,” I pouted. “I know how to keep a man happy. I cook. I clean. Make sure his shirts are always ironed.” Realising that none of that sounded the least bit exciting, I quickly added, “I wear stockings…” which was a blatant lie. OK, I didn’t do tights, I wasn’t that bad! But I do think there’s nothing sexier than naturally tanned, toned, bare legs. Which mine are.

  “Oh Becky, Becky, Becky,” Abigail shook her head. “I honestly do believe you were born in the wrong decade. Wrong era even. Look, whilst Mr Mark Darcy might’ve appreciated your cross stitch, these modern day bastards are far more interested in your fellatio technique.” Julia pulled a face.

  “It’s good,” I quipped. Abigail pretended to hang herself. Julia giggled. Oh god. My best friends think I’m a frump. A boring old frump who doesn’t even know how to keep a man happy. Abby was right of course. I did give too much. Loved too much. I couldn’t help it. I can’t help it. I’m an instinctive nurturer. The second I fall in love with someone I immediately want to cradle his head between my bosoms and feed him. Figuratively speaking of course, because a) I haven’t got much of a bosom…bee-stings would be a more of an accurate description. And b) of course I wouldn’t want to actually ‘feed’ a grown man from my bee-sting bosom. Yuk – that would just be too gross. But I do instinctively begin to care for them. To do for them. I loved darning Jeremy’s socks. And making him ciabatta sandwiches to take to work. Though I now suspect he would just chuck them in the bin on the way in. I loved cooking for and cleaning after Jeremy. I understood and embraced my role as a woman: to support, care for and nurture my man. Humph! I only just realise that bloody Jeremy had never really appreciated any of those qualities about me. He would never buy me cook books, and had blatantly ignored my request for “anything by Jamie Oliver” on my Christmas stocking list. But instead would shower me with wholly impractical underwear and outfits from Ann Summers that I would never wear. I bet Miss Thingy was more than happy to model the little nurse ensemble with butterfly thong for him! I sniffed bravely, trying to fight back the tears.

  Julia placed a protective arm around my shoulder and hugged me toward her. “Oh Becky don’t listen to Abigail,” she said shaking her disapproving head at Abby, assuming what she said had upset me. “People come in all different kinds of packages, and you’re…you’re…you’re just an old fashioned girl in gorgeous modern day packaging. And there is nothing at all wrong with that, now is there?” She gave me a squeeze.

  “No,” I whimpered. “Abby’s right. I was born in the wrong era. I don’t understand these modern men, and to be quite honest I’ve had enough of them. The cheating bastards. Oh Juju, can you please marry Sebastian and have lots and lots of babies so that I can be godmother to all of them and be constantly surrounded by kids. I’m going to miss not being a mummy,” I said with a little snuffle. “I’d have been a good mummy. I’ll take all my godchildren to the shop and buy them penny selection sweets and I’ll take them to the park…”

  “Err, Becky, sweetie,” Abby lifted her head off the couch and regarded me, “why don’t you ask me to have lots of babies for you to be godmother to?”

  “Oh Abby don’t be silly. You’re never with anyone long enough to copulate more than twice.” Abby thought about it for a moment, and then nodded her agreement.

  “Oh shush,” Julia interrupted my gloomy thoughts. “Of course you’ll be a mummy one day – when you meet the right man who’s looking for…er…for the same things as you are. I’m positive there’s someone out there…” Then just as I was beginning to feel a fraction better, she added, “…just as old fashioned as you are.” And tears I thought had dried up started to flow again as I wailed. The thing about Juju is she has this incredible knack of saying the wrong bloody thing at the wrong bloody time.

  “Do you not have any wine in this place at all Rebecca?” Abby complained. “And what about food?” she said slamming the fridge door shut. “I’m ravenous.” There was food in there of course. Just nothing instant. Nothing microwavable. I could’ve rustled up a mean feast had I been in the mood. But I was so not in the mood.

  “I haven’t eaten all day,” Julia moaned. “And this god awful concoction is making me feel quite queasy,” she said screwing up her nose at the dark suspicious cocktail. “Abby, why don’t you run down to Dino’s and get us some fajitas?”

  “Why don’t you bloody well run down to Dino’s?!” she quipped. Julia replied with some smart retort and they were off again. At each other’s throats. Honestly! You would never believe that these two were even friends by the way they behaved sometimes. But they were. And had been for years. It hadn’t always been like this. The three of us shared a house during our first year at uni and had been firm friends ever since. Abby never used to be so awful toward Juju, and even now when she is, Juju dismisses it as “Abby just being Abby”. But Abby and Juju had been really close at one point. So close in fact that Abby had excitedly introduced Juju to her one and only childhood sweetheart when he turned up at the same uni to do his MA. Abby had wanted to show him off to Julia, her up until then, partner in crime. She had wanted her to see just how gorgeous this guy was. The guy she had lost her virginity to and the guy she would repeatedly tell us was one in a million. How no other man came close and how he was the last decent bloke to walk the face of this earth. Julia had to agree. He really was drop dead gorgeous. So gorgeous in fact, that she got off with him. A year later, Julia and Sebastian were engaged. Abby wasn’t mad for long. She’d always known that Sebastian was the settling down type whilst she, Abby, was anything but. She was genuinely happy for Julia and Seb. Two of her best friends. And when the wedding date was set and the preparations started, Abby was still being real sweet to Juju. It wasn’t until Julia changed her mind, cancelled the wedding and smashed poor Seb’s heart into smithereens, that “Abby started being Abby” toward her.

  “…I am not listening to you Abigail,” Julia said calmly whilst covering her ears. Then as Abby spoke louder, “La la di di de da la la…”

  “Oh god,” Abby spat at her. “You are so childish Julia!”

  “No,” I interjected. “You both are! Now pass me that phone. I’ll call Dino’s.” Thirty minutes later we were tucking into chicken fajitas and sipping organic red wine.

  I ate slowly, thinking about Jeremy. I wondered what he was doing right now. Probably tucking into Miss Thingy. I suddenly lost my appetite. “Hah!” I said. “Can you believe Jeremy would jeopardise our r
elationship for such a trollop?”

  “Which trollop?” Julia asked innocently. I stared at her.

  “Miss Thingy!” She still looked blank. “On the camcorder? Earth to Julia…”

  “Oh. Her…?”

  “Yes. Her! In her tits-out, arse-out, hardly-there skimpy dress! What a…trollop!” I repeated, and waited for my wonderful supportive friends to join me in a good old verbal thrashing of Miss Thingy. They were silent. “You think she’s pretty?!” I accused Julia.

  “Oh nooo! She’s no way near as pretty as you Becky. You’re a natural beauty.” Humph.

  Abby cleared her throat. “She is rather glamorous though.”

  “Hmmm,” Julia agreed dreamily. “She is.”

  I couldn’t believe this shit. “You have got to be kidding me! She’s a tramp! A tramp that’s stolen my boyfriend!”

  Abby pushed her plate away. I suppose she thought it would find its own way to the kitchen. “Not disputing the fact that she’s a tramp darling. But she is a very glamorous tramp.” Then suddenly realising she was onto something: “See! This proves my theory to the ‘T’. Men, including bloody Jeremy, want a bit of glamour in their lives. It’s all about the leather and lace.” Juju and I raised our eyebrows. “Thigh high patent boots. Crotch-less knickers. They love it! It’s all very well being a cook in the kitchen darling,” she said looking at me, “but you’ve got to be a bit of a tramp in the bedroom if you want them lapping at your feet.”

  I made a face. “Whore in the bedroom more like!”

  “Whatever you want to call it darling, it’s glamorous and sexy and it hints at what most men want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dirty sex, of course,” she stated quite simply.

  Julia nearly choked on her wine. “Oh Abigail do shut up. You really are talking utter nonsense!”

  “Completely,” I echoed dryly.

  “We’d be turning into common hookers if we listened to you!”