A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “Hey,” he said casually.

  “Hey yourself,” she cooed back. And seeing that he was about to launch back into another boxing drill, quickly added, “So am I doing this right?”

  Mr Adonis arched his brows in amusement. “Er, well I think you might want to hit it a little harder than that.”

  “Oh,” she said innocently. And with her huge watery blue eyes open wide, asked, “Could you show me?” Julia’s mouth opened in amazement at how smoothly this was being done, whilst I mentally took notes: low innocent tone, wide eyes, lowered eyelids. Check. But Mr Adonis seemed to be hesitating. Abby tilted her head and gave him a questioning look, whilst we all held our breaths in anticipation.

  Then: “Aaarrrggghh!!” Gustard, struggling to lift his mammoth weights bar one inch from the bench, dropped it promptly back down…across his neck…and was trapped underneath it, making strangled sounds like he was choking.

  “Oh my god!” Julia screeched. “Someone help him!”

  “That bloody Gustard,” Abigail hissed, as Mr Adonis rushed over to help him.

  I smiled sweetly at Abby, “That’s not very charitable of you now is it darling?”

  Julia rushed over to see if Gustard was OK, helping Mr Adonis to sit him up straight. “He’s not hurt!” she hollered at us.

  “Oh goodie,” Abby deadpanned, not even trying to hide her sarcasm, and as Mr Adonis shook his disappointed – beautiful – head at her, added under her breath, “Because I am going to fuckin’ kill him!”

  C hapter Nine

  “So? Did you get it?” Julia asked impatiently.

  “Juju, just hang on a second will you! I’ve got like twenty envelopes to sort through!” I huffed.

  “Well it’s a pistachio mint green envelope,” she said sulkily. “There can’t be too many of those.”

  “Arrggh,” I groaned. I was walking down Sheridan Avenue, trying my best not to trip up, whilst juggling skinny latte in one hand, mobile phone with impatient Juju wedged between ear and shoulder, whilst sorting through this morning’s post, in search of pistachio mint green envelope containing wedding invitation. “Got it,” I said flatly, spilling latte over the pearlescent envelope as I tried to pry it open with one finger.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked just as I arrived outside the salon realising I had no free limbs with which to open the door.

  “Very nice,” I deadpanned, pressing my back against the door, pushing it open, praying that Gwendolyn hadn’t arrived early and was watching me with P45 in hand from the inside.

  “Is that it? Very nice?”

  I mouthed hello to Lauren and slumped down with great relief on the forbidden cow-print chaise, telling myself I’d sit here for just a moment. “Juju, it’s a lovely invitation…lovely venue…and August is a lovely month for a wedding…” I hesitated.

  “But?”

  “But nothing. It’s just…well are you really going to go through with it this time?”

  “Becky of course I am!”

  “Well there’s not really any ‘of course’ about this Juju. It’s a fair and justifiable question considering this is the third time you’re sending out invitations,” I said sounding more snappy than intended. Having opened the rest of my mail to discover a letter informing me that my electricity was about to be turned off for non-payment, amidst six more final demands, I was not in the best of moods to say the least. I breathed in deeply and exhaled in an attempt at summoning my Audrey Hepburn composure. “Look darling, I’m truly happy for you guys, and I’m sure that you’re totally confident about getting married to Seb. This time.”

  “I am!” she said sounding somewhat defiant.

  “Good.”

  “Well, I can see that you’re not in the best of moods today, so I guess I’ll leave you to it,” managing to make me feel worse than I already did.

  “Oh Juju, I’m sorry,” I moaned. “I’ve got a mountain of overdue bills thanks to Jeremy’s instance of not paying until the red letter arrives, and the two grand I got last week has been swallowed up by credit cards.” I sighed. “But hey, I’ll work it out.”

  “Aaaw Becky,” she soothed. “But how are you going to work it out? Especially now you’re…on your own.” She paused. “Look darling I know you don’t want to hear this…but maybe you should consider giving Jerrers another chance.”

  “Why?! So he can help me with the bills?”

  “No! Because he loves you and he’s completely broken. He must’ve learnt a very hard lesson and would never make such a stupid mistake again… And he can help you pay the bills.”

  “Er thanks but no thanks Juju. I think I’d rather busk on the underground for a pittance.”

  “Well,” she sighed with resignation, “you might just have to.”

  “You could pay me to sing at your wedding,” I mocked.

  “Hah! I’ve already booked a comedian thanks.”

  “You have?” I said trying my best to sound interested…but having gone through the wedding talk stuff twice already… “Juju I’m going to have to run, but will definitely call you later so we can have a proper wedding chat, OK.”

  “Make sure you do,” she said sounding chirpier, “because we’ve got oodles to go through.” I squeezed my eyes shut and screwed up my face at her casual, “We’ve got oodles to go through.” I had assumed that Juju was going to be gracious enough to spare us this time…but evidently not. She would expect us to sit for hours – no – days on end…trawling through hundreds of similar fabric swatches in search of “the right one” for table linens, traipsing around zillions of florists, all offering exactly the same blooms, give opinions on her string quartet short-list, who all sounded exactly the same! And worst of all I had a dreaded feeling that having reluctantly agreed (with much regret) to be a bridesmaid last time around…she was expecting me to honour my rain check, which in light of my current relationship status and fragile state regarding all things romantic – was definitely not going to happen.

  I sipped my now lukewarm latte and stuffed bills away in my bucket bag, where if I couldn’t see them, I wouldn’t have to think about them. Yeah right! Like an annoying toothache, I was going to have to deal with them eventually. But not right now. Right now I had to mentally prepare for my first full ‘proper’ shopping day with Isabella Coombs. I use the term ‘proper’ very loosely, as although she had made it quite clear that she didn’t really expect me to actually ‘shop’ with her, and I had tentatively agreed to help her ‘test’ her husband’s faithfulness…I still didn’t have a scooby as to what was expected of me, nor what we would actually be doing for the three remaining personal shopping trips which she had booked and paid for. Well I guess I was about to find out as I was due to meet her in an hour at Harvey Nics. I relaxed back onto the chaise and closed my eyes. Breathing deeply in. And out. In. And out. Allowing the tension to leave my shoulders…leave my neck…

  “Don’t get too comfy!” Lauren called over from her desk, still tapping away at the keyboard. “Gwendolyn’s due in soon.” I opened one eye, contemplating whether I should rouse myself or not. Decided not, and continued with tension releasing neck rolls. I hadn’t even managed to release any tension as yet before she called over:

  “Oooh Portia’s here. And who is that she’s with?” squinting through the clear letters in the frosted glass window.

  I hopped off the chaise. “Not bad,” I said peering through the glass next to Lauren. “He’s a bit young for her though isn’t he,” I said sarcastically. Lauren laughed and nudged me.

  “He’s definitely the youngest I’ve ever seen her with.” The new guy actually didn’t look that young. He just wasn’t as old as her usual gentlemen friends. He had a full head of hair and what looked to be all his own teeth and from where I was standing, looked to be in pretty good shape. “Hey, isn’t he that sports commentator?” Lauren said with appreciation. “You know the guy that does the football commentaries?” I gave her a look that said: You’re asking me about football commen
tators?

  “You actually listen to football commentary?” I asked incredulously

  “Sometimes,” Lauren giggled. I shook my head with disappointment.

  “Good morning ladies,” Portia sang swanning dreamily into the salon. “Ahhh,” she sighed smiling to herself with eyes half closed, “what a gorgeous day.” Lauren and I looked at each other totally bewildered.

  “What’s wrong with you,” I asked her, feeling strangely misplaced without our usual morning bitching session.

  “Isn’t that guy a sports commentator?” Lauren asked.

  Portia reclined on the forbidden chaise, secured her hair in a chignon and then smiled up at us, as if she were keeping a secret but couldn’t wait to tell. “There is nothing wrong with me,” she smiled, looking at me. “In fact everything is just absolutely perfect.” Then looked at Lauren. “And yes,” she tittered with delight, “that’s Jonathon. Jonathon Fox.”

  “I knew it!” Lauren said pleased with herself. Then asked with genuine innocence, “So what’s he doing with you?”

  Portia looked at her pointedly for a second, then decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Johnny and I are seeing each other.” Then almost squealed, “And I think this is it!”

  “You think this is what?”

  “…I think I’m in love!”

  “No Waay!” Lauren said, clasping hands together tightly.

  Portia nodded with wide eyes as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “Yes. Way.”

  I shoved her legs off the chaise and sat down beside her. “What do you mean ‘in love’?” I mocked. “You? In love? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  But Portia, bizarrely confident in her new-found status, had somehow risen above the effects of cynicism and simply ignored me. “Ahhh, he’s so wonderful,” she sighed with her hand placed strategically over her heart as if to protect it.

  Lauren had pulled up a stool in excitement. “Oh PORTIA!” she wailed in awe. “Oh my god! You’re in love!” she said grabbing Portia’s hand.

  I rolled my eyes at the both of them. “Whoa whoa whoaaaa!” I interjected. “Now just calm down for one second will you?” I said looking at Lauren who was literally clapping her hands with glee. I looked straight at Portia. “You’re in love?” I asked flatly.

  “I am,” she laughed, hardly able to contain herself.

  “And it’s serious?”

  She nodded her head with a certain look…a look I recognised but hadn’t seen anywhere for a long while…a look of love? “It certainly is. He’s the one. And of that,” she started dramatically, “I have no doubt.”

  I was stunned. How could this be? How could Portia, Miss Show Me the Money, aka gold-card digger have fallen in…love?! “Well…how long have you known him? And how old is this guy?!” I demanded with no rights whatsoever.

  “Well Rebecca, even though neither of those questions are any of your business, and neither of those questions are at all relevant,” she said looking at Lauren who was nodding her head in agreement with her, “…I’ve known Johnny for two weeks and he’s fifty-four.”

  She may as well have said ninety-four! “Fifty-four?! Please! You cannot be serious about dating this guy.”

  “And why not? I prefer mature men.”

  “But…but…” both Portia and Lauren were now looking at me with what can only be described as…misguided sympathy, “…but you’re twenty-eight…and you’re…” I was going to say gorgeous but thought better of it, “…not bad looking. You could have your pick of a number of gorgeous young men, who I’m sure would love to be with you.”

  “I’m sure I could. But young gorgeous young men just don’t do it for me.” I raised my eyebrows at her as if to say: That is total crap right there. “Look, I’ve dated young guys, and for the most part they just lacked…sophistication. They were so young and hot that everything was about them. They did whatever made them feel good. They never ever truly appreciated me… Or made me feel like a princess the way my older boyfriends do.”

  “So this guy makes you feel like a princess,” I said quietly, thinking to myself that it must be real nice to be in Portia’s world for one day, where men made girls feel like princesses. And for some odd reason, I just knew that Portia would never have to skulk around in shady bars, spying on a lying cheating toe-rag partner. “Hey,” I said, not quite able to bring myself to say I was happy for her, “well if that’s what floats your boat.” And bloody Portia smiled at me.

  “Ahem.” Gwendolyn stood silently in the doorway watching the three of us intently with impassive cool grey eyes. “What’s this?” she asked coolly. “A team bonding session?” I, as I’m sure Portia and Lauren were doing the same, garbled around in my mind for a fragment of an answer, but as Lauren opened her mouth to stutter a response, Gwendolyn turned steadily on her couture heels and clacked her way up to her office.

  “We’ll take it,” Isabella said to the sales assistant without even asking me what I thought. It turns out she did want to shop, but rather than having me advise her of what to buy…she was shopping for me! I stood in front of the mirror in Harvey Nics couture private dressing room, modelling the most recent of four outfits which she had purchased in less than two hours. It was a pale beige stretchy silk Chanel dress with low crew neckline and three quarter sleeves. It was very simple, very chic, but hugged every curve of my body in the most self-conscious way. “Here. Try these with it,” she said handing me a pair of £600 slingback Louboutin shoes with matching purse. I slipped my feet into the shoes and studied the reflection of the woman in the mirror facing me. She looked amazing. Stylish, successful, classy. Nothing at all like me. “We’ll take the shoes too,” she nodded to the assistant. Which would have tallied up the grand total of today’s spend to over six grand!

  “Isabella,” I started cautiously, “these are such beautiful clothes. Really. And I’m flattered and…grateful that you’d want to buy them for me…but I never go anywhere to wear these kind of clothes.”

  “Oh but you’ll need them,” she smiled. “Charles is…let’s say, a man of substance.” Charles? Oh bloody hell. The novelty of what I’d agreed to do had fast worn off, and I was hoping that since she hadn’t mentioned him all afternoon that she may have forgotten all about our arrangement. She hadn’t. I gulped. “He has…” she pressed her bottom further into the arm chair and crossed her long tanned legs, searching for the right word, “…particular tastes.”

  “So maybe he won’t like me,” I piped up sensing a get out of this shit quick card. “Maybe he won’t…take the bait?”

  “Oh, you silly girl,” she laughed and motioned for me to come sit near her. I sat nervously down in the seat next to her, in my exquisite but not yet paid for clothes, frightened that the seam of the dress would pop open as I sat, or that I’d scuff the shoe against the coffee table. Isabella turned to the sales assistant who was now hovering and eyeing me suspiciously. “Charge all of this to my account,” she said dismissing her. Once the sales assistant had left the room, she turned to me frankly, “Rebecca, Charles will love you. How could he not?” I could think of a million reasons, with number one being the fact that he was actually married to a stunning, successful and effortlessly classy woman, who obviously naturally appealed to his particular taste. “All you have to do my dear is to be yourself.” Hmmm, not such an easy task when she expected me to dress like someone completely fuckin’ different! She must have seen the look of angst on my face as she then added: “And if he doesn’t take the bait…well then at least I’ll know…that he’s not the cheating kind,” she said not sounding too overjoyed at this prospect.

  I inhaled deeply. “So how do we do this? When do I start?”

  “You start today,” she stated simply and handed me an envelope. I opened it cautiously and took out a cheque made out to me for £1000 and a photo of a rather serious distinguished looking man.

  “That’s Charles.” She pointed to the address on the envelope. “And that’s where he’ll be this eve
ning. You need to get there around 7pm,” as if she were sending me to a regular business meeting. I looked at her not quite believing that here she was, getting me all dressed up, to go and flirt with her husband…just so she could see if he were the cheating kind. I half smiled with hesitation, expecting her to fall about and say: Just kidding, it’s just a wind up. She didn’t. She just calmly stood up, smoothed down her skirt and left me sitting like a squatter in the private dressing room, with a mere: “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll meet again next week.” No: Any questions Becky? Thank you so much for helping me out Becky. Hah! I shook my head at her audacity, but was somewhat comforted by the sight of the cheque for a grand. Like it or lump it, Isabella Coombs was turning out to be somewhat of a financial saviour for me. And she wasn’t exactly asking for my soul in return. I looked down at the photo of Charles Coombs and reminded myself of why I was doing this. He looked like a lying cheating toe-rag. No wonder Isabella was so emotionally unstable, schizophrenic and highly strung. That would’ve most probably been me in ten years, had I not caught out bloody Jeremy. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, squared my shoulders with my head held high and said to no one in particular:

  “I am doing this for all woman-kind. So that men like you,” pointing an accusing finger at Charles Coombs’s photo, “learn to respect us, and learn to treat us…like…princesses!”

  “Erm,” the sales assistant popped her head round the door and was watching me like I was a nutter. “If you’re finished in here…it’s just that we have a 5pm booking.” Five pm?!