A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “You’re on forty per cent now. I think you can afford it. And bloody shopping is your job role for the next few weeks so you had better get used to it.”

  “And secondly I have client treatments to do.”

  “Gwendolyn booked you out for the whole day.” I gave her a look that said Yeah, right! “Check with Lauren if you don’t believe me.” I looked over at Lauren.

  “She’s right,” she sang. “She’s booked you out for the whole day!”

  “Wow!” I said.

  Portia looked at me, shaking her head in mock pity. “You just don’t get it do you. Isabella Coombs is a very important client and Gwendolyn does not want you screwing this up or embarrassing this salon. Which is why, it’s my job to sort you out. Now come on. Let’s go!”

  We spent the rest of the day traipsing around the designer boutiques on Sloane Street, sifting through Harvey Nics’ acres of ladies fashion, and giving Harrods a quick once over, “just in case Isabella is more of a traditionalist” Portia had said. She had gleefully pointed out which boutiques and concessions to stay clear of and which ones it was best to book a time-slot in order to guarantee Isabella their undivided attention. Although I really could not believe that Portia’s job was quite as easy and as enjoyable as this, I reluctantly had to admit that she seemed to take it all very seriously and was bloody well good at it. Most of the store managers and assistants knew her by name and all seemed genuinely pleased to see her. With a designer frock in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other, Portia really was in her element.

  We had lunch at San Lorenzo and sat two tables away from Keira Knightly no less! Though, I could have choked on my coffee when I saw the bill, which Portia had assumed we would split, even though it was her who had insisted we eat there! Then she had tried to get me to spend over two grand on a Prada skirt suit, which though absolutely exquisite, was just not going to happen.

  “You have got to dress the part Rebecca. You can’t be taking Isabella around the most exclusive boutiques in London dressed in your Camden Market ensemble!” she complained.

  “OK! OK! I’ll buy a new outfit. But I’m not spending more than two hundred pounds.”

  “Hah! We won’t even find a belt for that!”

  “Two hundred pounds. Not one penny more Portia!” Three hours and two very sore feet later, I had ended up spending three hundred pounds on a simple, elegant Joseph dress, which Portia had grudgingly agreed was acceptable. “I think I could get the hang of this,” I said paying for my dress.

  Portia had smiled. “Oh, you think?” she said tongue-in-cheek.

  “Of course, I couldn’t do it every day like you,” I teased. “I’d go brain-dead.”

  She gave me a fake dirty look. “So, do you think you’ll be OK on Thursday?”

  “’Course I will. It’ll be a doddle.”

  Thursday morning I lay in bed wide awake, tossing and turning, waiting for the alarm clock to go off. I felt a restless sense of anticipation as though I were going on holiday and had a long haul flight to catch. Time, for once, seemed to be at a standstill, and so I jumped out of bed, jogged to the gym where I threw myself around a mad circuit for forty minutes in an attempt to take my mind off the day that loomed ahead. A day that had initially promised to be just a fun day out, but having Googled Isabella Coombs, and discovered that not only did she have a full-time celebrity stylist who had written bestselling books and had his own TV show, but that she also frequented the Paris and Milan fashion shows as a personal friend of most of the designers whose names I couldn’t even pronounce, I had soon realised that I was waaay out of my depth here, and this day was now filled with an overwhelming sense of trepidation which wafted through the salon with unspoken words, and cold sweat washed over my body every time I thought of having to advise Isabella Coombs about what outfit would and wouldn’t suit her! What the hell did I know!

  “I can’t do this!” I was dressed in my three hundred pound dress, pacing the reception area like an expectant father, waiting for Isabella Coombs’s Bentley to collect me. “This is madness. This woman knows more about fashion than I do!” I gave out to Portia and Lauren who were waiting anxiously with me.

  “Yes. True,” agreed Portia, “but you HAVE to do this.” She stepped toward me, took a firm hold of my trembling hands and looked me dead in the eye. “And you can do this Rebecca. You know enough to get through this one day and that is all you have to do.”

  A car horn sounded twice out on the street and Lauren peeped through the window. “Well she’s here,” she said sounding really sorry for me. Lauren, the sensible, had to know that this venture could have no good ending. I swallowed hard and made my way out to the car. Her chauffeur opened up the door for me and I when I saw her sitting there looking incredibly stylish and chic from head to toe I almost passed out, but instead I sort of fell into the car and managed to sit myself down beside her.

  She looked at me curiously. “Good morning Rebecca,” she said carefully. “Are you OK?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, Isabella. I’m fine thank you,” I gushed trying to sound cheery whilst steadying my voice at the same time. She was watching me closely and although her face was smiling her eyes looked deadly serious as though she meant business. I quickly decided that I had better come clean. “Look, Isabella,” I breathed out deeply, “I am dreadfully sorry but I just cannot do this.” She glared at me but her lips were still painted in a very thin smile, in a extremely poor attempt at hiding her annoyance. “I just don’t know anything about fashion.” I looked at her, biting my lip, worried for the reaction, and just could not believe it when she started laughing.

  “Oh you silly girl,” she laughed. “You will do just fine. Just fine,” she said again smiling reassuringly to herself. Then turned to me happily and said: “Now, let’s go have tea at the Dorchester.”

  The Dorchester, I decided, had to be one of the most gorgeous hotels in London. Not that I’d actually seen many – in fact any – hotels in London, and hadn’t even seen very much of this one, but the little I had seen – the luxurious lobby, the attentive doorman, the exquisite tea-room – surely could not be rivalled. I made a mental note to book a suite here for a whole month, should I ever win the jackpot on the lottery. I sat happily opposite Isabella at a table near the French windows, taking in the sumptuous surroundings, as the pianist played softly, filling the quiet English tearoom with a relaxing Stan Getz melody. The proud head waiter served us tea in exquisite china, followed by a waitress bearing a silver platter piled with an avalanche of dainty sandwiches, scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. I almost clapped my hands with delight, tucked in immediately and only paused mid-way through my second cucumber sandwich as I felt Isabella’s eyes boring into me. She, I noticed, hadn’t touched a thing. Suddenly, remembering why I was there I scrambled around in my mind for something to say.

  “Well, this is a lovely way to start a shopping trip,” I gushed. She just looked at me as though weighing up an important chess move. “Is there a particular store you’d like us to visit…first?” I bumbled.

  “Oh forget the shopping!” she snapped. I lowered my eyes, wondering what the hell was this woman’s problem! Forget the shopping? Well isn’t that why we were here? When I looked up I saw she had adopted a dramatically hopeless look and was dabbing at her dry eyes with her embroidered handkerchief.

  “Is everything OK Isabella,” I felt I had to ask.

  “No,” she sighed. “Everything is not OK.” Then added sweetly, “But it’s really nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.” So I looked out the window, figuring I should give her some privacy whilst she had her ‘moment’. Then, immediately trying to re-engage me: “It’s like living with a stranger,” she said softly. I gathered she was talking about the husband, so I gave her my best sympathetic look. “He totally ignores me. Treats me like a complete doormat.” Then she looked up at me as if searching my poker face for a reaction, so I tutted appropriately. “Oh, Rebecca…I ju
st wish I could find out once and for all if he would ever really have an affair.” And she looked at me…so expectantly…I felt obliged to say something.

  “Oh I wish there was a way for you to find out. But how? I mean I just don’t think there’s anyway of knowing what someone’s going to do in the future…”

  “Well…actually…there is.”

  “There is?”

  “Yes. And you could help me.”

  “Me?! How can I help?!”

  “Well…” she began coyly, “you’re a very young, beautiful, wholesome looking girl Rebecca. The kind of girl he fixates about…you could…flirt with him a little. See if he takes the bait.”

  My jaw catapulted to my chest as I looked at her in complete disbelief. “Isabella…I would love to help you…but I really–” I was cut off mid-sentence by her sudden somewhat controlled wailing.

  “…He’s getting so aggressive with me…”

  “Aggressive?!” What the hell kind of a man was this? I’m sure Isabella was no saint…but aggression?! “Why don’t you just leave him?”

  “I can’t leave him!” she threw at me. Then in another now characteristic personality switch, she softened and looked at me wide-eyed, “Rebecca, wouldn’t you have loved to know that your Jeremy had the potential to cheat…long before he actually did?” Damn straight I would’ve. “Wouldn’t that have saved you some heartache?”

  “Humph. It certainly would of.”

  “And maybe, with hindsight…even you would find yourself asking a ‘friend’ to help you find him out…before it was too late.” She did make a good point…though even with hindsight; I doubt I would be ingenious enough to think up something like this! But maybe with the amount of cheating bastards out there, this is what decent loving women are reduced to doing. Taking covert action. Hmmm. Well, if I can help prevent another woman experiencing the pain that I’ve had to endure as a direct result of bloody Jeremy’s philandering, then by George, I jolly well will!

  “I’ll do it!” I said assertively.

  “Oh, Rebecca! Thank you,” Isabella let out rather dramatically.

  C hapter Eight

  “I cannot believe you’re seriously thinking of doing this!” Julia sat on the edge of the weights bench, crossed arms and legs, shaking her head at me. “It’s totally wrong. Immoral, in fact.” Julia, Abigail and I were at the gym and had actually made it into the weights room for once which, though we still hadn’t lifted a single weight between us, was a marked improvement from crashing on the couch in the viewing gallery.

  “No darling,” Abby corrected her, “what’s immoral are these men who think they can lure a woman into a false sense of security and still be out there sewing their rotten oats.” She leisurely rolled a dumbbell under her Chloe-trainered foot and lay back decadently on the bench as though it were a chaise longue.

  “Hmm,” I added thoughtfully. “I wish someone had offered to catch bloody Jeremy out for me. Would have saved me wasting four years of my life.”

  “Exactly!” Abby hoorayed. “Well I think it’s a fabulous idea. In fact I think all women contemplating settling down should do it.” She turned to me in excitement. “Oooh Becky darling,” she oozed, “you could start a business! You could become the Miss Marple of the cheating world, hand out cards to your salon clients. I can just see the catch phrase: Would your man do the dirty? I’ll help you find out, I’m buxom and flirty.” She collapsed in laughter as Julia rolled her eyes.

  “That’s a horrific thought,” Julia said, taking Abby a little too seriously. It’s horrid to try and trap men in that way…like…like animals!”

  I snorted. “Well, they are aren’t they?”

  “No Becky. They are not. I know that Jerrers turned out to be…”

  “A lying cheating toe-rag?”

  “…not very nice, but that doesn’t mean that all men are cheats.”

  “Oh yes they are,” Abigail and I said in unison.

  “Well my Seb’s not a cheat,” Julia pouted.

  Abigail, sensing the chink in Julia’s armour quickly piped up, “But how do you know? Maybe given half the chance…”

  “He never would!”

  “But how do you know?” And enjoying the rare cloud of doubt crossing Julia’s face added, “You see, you don’t really know at all do you? No one ever does. At least Becky, doing what she’s doing, will spare one woman the heartache of wasting countless years loving a cheating bastard.” Then smiling mischievously at me, “Just think how many more women you could help.”

  I smiled, settling down beside Juju. “No. I’m not going to be starting a business. But I am going to help Isabella.”

  “But why?” implored Juju.

  “Because I like her. OK, so she’s a little bit nutty and has a ton of personalities going on there…but I can’t help but feel sorry for her. The husband sounds like a complete twat who’s driving her insane for no real apparent reason.”

  “Not apparent to you because you don’t live with them! She’s not going to tell you everything that goes on in their home.”

  “Maybe not. But she really just needs to know whether he’d take the bait or not, so she can at least make some informed decisions.”

  “So exactly how far are you prepared to go Rebecca in order to find this out?” Julia looked at me horrified.

  “Not that far. C’mon!”

  Abigail laughed. “Well, he could already be having an affair you know. In which case, he’ll never take the bait…unless of course he’s a very greedy boy.”

  “No. She’s pretty sure he isn’t.”

  “Huh,” Julia snorted. “Probably has him followed!”

  Then an annoyingly familiar voice came grating over the new Beyonce track playing in the background, as the Gustard came bopping animatedly over to us, dressed head to toe in oversize FUBU, his trousers halfway down his thighs.

  “Ladeeeez! I see you in de weights room today. Aiiii…”

  I gave him a look. “How very observant of you.”

  “So what? You pretending to work out, or you just fancy a change of scenery?”

  Abigail flicked her hair at him, “Why don’t you pull your trousers up Gustard? Can’t you see they’re falling down around your ankles?”

  “Why don’t you come pull dem up for me luv?” grabbing his crotch, “and whilst you’re down there…”

  “Urgh!”

  “Yuh know yuh want me. Yuh know yuh love me from time…”

  “Er…methinks not!”

  “Ooooh ‘methinks not’,” he mimicked. Then staring at Abigail’s nipples straining their way through her skimpy lycra top, “Aye, are those tits yours or did you buy dem?” But Abigail didn’t even hear him as she was focusing her wanton gaze at someone in the distance, effortlessly repositioning herself into her sexiest casual pose. Julia and I swivelled around on the bench with curiosity, craning our necks, not too discreetly, and tried not to stare, but failed miserably when we saw him. Mr Adonis, wearing only black silky mid-thigh shorts, seemed to be skipping around the punch bag in slow motion as his perfectly toned arms threw timely uppercut and crossover jabs. His legs looked so…strong, as he bounced around with ease, his torso was tanned, completely hairless and silky smooth. I wondered, just for a second, what it would feel like to rub warm oil all over his body. Nice.

  “Don’t stare girls,” Abigail reprimanded without moving her lips, now pursed in a permanent overtly sexy pout.

  “We’re not,” Julia sighed whilst blatantly staring at Mr Adonis.

  “No,” I added, “we’re just appreciating.”

  “Cha!” the Gustard bopped about dismissively, “dat man can’t even box!” Vying for Abby’s attention. And when she ignored him, “He’s gay innit.”

  “He is not gay,” Abby stated as a matter-of-fact.

  “’Course he’s flippin’ gay. He ain’t got not one hair on de chest or de back.”

  “Hmmm,” she purred. “Lovely.”

  “Wha?” he said making a f
ace. “Listen gurl, yuh not ready for me yet!”

  “And I never will be.”

  Gus kissed his teeth at Abby. “Anyway I can’t chat to you dossers all day. I have to go show these gay bwoys how to lift some real man-size weight.” He rolled his shoulders as he bopped over toward Mr Adonis, with his skinny arms sticking out from the sleeves of his massive FUBU top like toothpicks.

  “Come on then girls.” Abby stood up and started readjusting her skimpy lycra top.

  “Come on then where?” Julia asked in very wary tone.

  “Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…”

  “Yes but we don’t have to go with you,” she said rooted to her seat.

  I nudged Julia. “Oh c’mon. You said you wanted to try kick boxing…well now’s the perfect time to start. Plus, I think I need to,”...not having the foggiest idea as to how I was supposed to ‘tempt’ Isabella’s husband into making a pass at me, I figured this was an ideal opportunity to… “actually watch a temptress in action.”

  “Huntress more like.”

  I half lifted Julia up out of her seat and had to almost shove her across the weights room in an attempt to catch up with Abigail, who was already sashaying her way, amidst wolf-whistles and lecherous eyes, over to the punch bags. Julia’s legs for some strange reason had become as un-movable as solid lead, as if she were physically afraid to place herself in Mr Adonis’s beautiful presence. We caught up with Abby just as she started doing some strange kind of stretching exercises, her lithe body bending backwards like a sensuous piece of elastic, using the punch bag next to Mr Adonis as a prop. Her contortionist type exercises were nothing more than an obvious attempt to show Mr Adonis just how supple she was, which he either hadn’t noticed or, if it were possible, wasn’t interested in. Julia and I tinkered around with one of the punch bags whilst I gave Abby a ‘get on with it then’ look. She narrowed her eyes back at me. I could see Gustard in front of us, pretending not to watch the charade, boisterously throwing more weights onto an already cumbersome bar at the bench press. Was he planning on lifting that?! Abigail, now pretending to do breathing exercises, stood with feet apart and hands on hips as she inhaled deeply causing the mounds of her full firm boobies to heave, which hypnotised Gustard, who in turn dropped two 20 kilo weights clattering onto the weights rack, which in turn caused Mr Adonis to finally pause from his workout. He exhaled slowly, using a well-defined forearm to wipe beads of perspiration from his forehead. He glanced at Abigail at his side, now jabbing delicately but seriously at the punch bag, and smiled his perfect bright white teeth at her.