“Actually,” I said shaking my head, “I know the white panties trick. Been using it for years, but it only works in an indoor setting where your target can get a natural glimpse. I couldn’t possibly flash my knickers at him in a wine bar!”
Julia looked relieved. “Glad to hear it,” she said flatly.
“No. I have to be as natural and as elegant as possible. Isabella reckons he likes ‘holistic, wholesome’ girls”
“Really?” Julia asked sounding surprised.
“Yes Juju. Believe it or not, some men like me exactly as I am.”
“Hmmm,” Abby mused. “Too bad it’s always the cheating kind.”
I lugged my tote bag and suit carrier out of my locker, and heaved them over to the dressing area of our staff room. I looked up at the clock which, with Gwendolyn’s zero-tolerance for lateness, was as accurate as Big Ben himself. Five forty-five. Hmmm. That meant I had a whole hour to get ready. Not bad. I could do a lot in an hour. I shrugged off my salon tunic, kicked of my flats and stepped into the shower to begin my methodical and planned-to-perfection transformation. I had decided that as Abigail’s advice was not to be taken, and that Julia had none to offer, that neither of them could help me in my mission. The only person that could do that was me. And I had decided that me, being me, was great. But me, being me…inspired by the most beautiful woman that ever graced this earth…was even better. I silently paid homage to the picture of Audrey Hepburn stuck inside my locker, then blow-dried my hair and slicked it all back into a loose chignon. I applied barely there make-up, foundation so light you could still see my freckles, and subtle lip gloss with just a hint of colour. I stepped into the exquisitely tailored simple black knee-length Gabbana dress and slipped on the low heeled Chanel slingbacks. I added the tiny pearl earrings but decided against the matching necklace. It was too much. I had to keep it simple, elegant and charming.
“Wow!” Lauren said as she stepped into the room. “Is that you in there Rebecca?” she teased. “You look amazing! Do you have a date?” Like already?!
“Is that a Gabbana dress?” Portia asked circling me, already knowing the answer. “Well someone’s stepped up their game.”
“I’ve got a meeting,” I offered in explanation.
“What kind of meeting?” Lauren asked worried.
“Who with?” Portia asked suspiciously.
“None of your business,” I said to Portia and turned to reassure Lauren, “It’s definitely not work related,” I lied.
“You’re meeting a man though,” Portia said smugly. “I can tell.”
I gave her a look. “You can tell?” I said blankly.
“Why else would you go to so much effort,” she said with a flourish of the hand. Then leaning dangerously close to my face, “And put scent behind your ear?”
I blushed. “I have not!”
“You have too Rebecca Hardy. I know Chanel No 5 when I smell it,” and started applying make-up in the vanity mirror. “So who is he?”
I slipped on my jacket and tossed my head at Portia. “You wouldn’t know him,” I threw back at her as I headed out the room.
Poor Lauren looked up at Portia with confusion. “So she is meeting a man?” Portia looked toward the heavens and I made a mental note to properly introduce Lauren to Julia. They’d get on like a house on fire.
I strolled down Sheridan Place in search of a black cab, silently cursing Portia for mentioning the unmentionable scenting behind the ear. Now it would look like I was going on a date. A date for which I had made much effort. More effort in fact, than I had ever made for any man. A cab pulled up, I gave the driver the address and sat in the back crossing and uncrossing my legs. This elephant in my mind was beginning to annoy me. OK. OK! I had scented behind the ear…and I had gone to great lengths to make sure that Mr bloody Charles Martin Coombs at least noticed me this time. And didn’t turn me down. For Isabella of course…OK…and a little bit for me, because if a ‘bit of common fluff’ could turn Jeremy’s head…then surely I could turn Mr bloody Coombs’s! What was wrong with me? I can’t keep my boyfriend happy. Can’t even pick up a stranger in a bar! Why was I so rejectable?! I inhaled and exhaled deeply, refusing to accept the negative thoughts invading my mind. There is nothing at all wrong with me. I, Rebecca Hardy, am a healthy, beautiful, elegant woman, for whom most men would give their right testicle to be with. And right about now, I could sure use a vodka tonic! Oh, but shit! I don’t drink.
By the time the cab pulled up outside Canada Square, I had regained some semblance of composure, and I held my head up real high, strode confidently through reception and rode the lift to the ninety-first floor. Which took forever. The lift stopped on like every other floor to either let out, or let in, some pin-stripe suit. For some unknown reason these men all dressed the same. Sure, some stripes were bolder than others, or were on varying shades of black, blue or grey, but for the most part: identical. And why, I wondered, were there hardly any female traders working in this ginormous building? Were they not allowed? The City, I concluded, would not be a good place to open a beauty salon. If I were ever to win the lottery.
This time, dressed in unassuming outfit, and good support bra, I walked into Connolly’s with comfortable familiarity, and took my seat at the glass bar. And I have to say, that this time, with nipples tucked well away, the looks being thrown in my direction were far more respectful than the lecherous ogles I received last week. I made a mental note to share my findings with Abby. But then again, Abby didn’t seem at all bothered by the lecherous ogles she solicited on a daily basis.
“Good evening ma’am,” the bartender said without any recognition whatsoever. “Something to drink for you?” A simple no, would’ve been my immediate response, but fully aware of how ridiculous I would look sitting at the bar, for goodness knows how long before Mr Coombs showed up, I quickly scanned the menu. I wanted to order a soft drink but thought it would seem odd to sit at the bar sipping on a soft drink. And today I didn’t want to do anything at all that appeared odd. No, today I wanted to be gracious, elegant and charming. Hmmmm. Well…actually…today I was supposed to be myself. Just a better dressed version.
“A fruit spritzer please, “I smiled at him. I took my Smartphone out, thankful that I’d decided to upgrade it, considering my current surroundings, and pretended to be reading through emails, in an attempt to look business-like, as opposed to single girl out-on-the-pull-like.
By 7.30pm Connolly’s was already bustling with City life and asset-talk, as loosened tie traders, eager to start their weekend off with a bang – or rather a ‘pop’ of the champagne cork – arrived in droves. I sat at the bar, discreetly trying to scan the joint, peering through the Jermyn shirts and Savile Row jackets, trying my best not to squint (crow’s-feet invite), or when I couldn’t see him, to scowl (massive frown-line invite).
By 8.30pm Mr Coombs was a no-show. Bored senseless, I had texted a hello to nearly everyone in my address book, and my mind, obviously fatigued with tediousness and with fingers on repetitive autopilot, I honest-to-goodness didn’t realise what I’d done – until I hit the ‘send’ button. I, cretin of the century, had just sent a Hey, long time no speak text to bloody Jeremy! “Oh. Fuck. Me!” I gave out to no one in particular. The mob of intoxicated City boys gathered to my right, had their female voice antenna finely tuned in, and promptly started chuckling at my exclamation.
“But my dear,” the smooth operator, whom I recognised from last week’s visit, started, “we haven’t been properly introduced,” and he and his mob fell about guffawing, slapping each other on the back. “So…how…do you…” he blubbered with hilarity, “…like your eggs in the morning?” I rolled my eyes at his originality; suddenly desperately hoping in vain that someone I knew would walk in, thus validating my inexplicable single presence at this male-dominated bar. No one walked in. But my newly up-graded mobile started flashing its blue fluorescent light ferociously for all to see and I gave Mr Smooth Operator an uppity look that said: THA
T is my date calling to tell me he’s on his way, and when he gets here he’ll sort YOU out!
“Hello?!” I shouted into the phone above the bar noise.
“Becky?” Jeremy sounded confused and hopeful both at the same time. My first instincts were to end the call, but I was almost grateful for something to do other than just sitting there.
“Jeremy,” I said happily, and aware of Smooth Operator’s curious gaze, I added, “are you OK darling?”
“I’m fine,” he said cautiously. “And you?”
“Sweetie I’m fine,” I sang, more for Smooth Operator’s benefit than Jeremy’s, whom I have never referred to as ‘sweetie’ before, as it was in fact one of those ‘icky’ words which I, under normal circumstances, would never use. This, I decided, was no ‘normal’ circumstance.
“Becky what’s wrong?!” Jeremy asked in alarm. “And where are you? I can barely hear you?”
“Ha ha,” I laughed trying to mirror Connolly’s Friday night merriment, “I’m at the bar darling!”
“Which bar? And why are you laughing?”
And for some inane reason I laughed again and said, “Connolly’s of course!”
“Canada Square Connolly’s?” he asked sounding even more mystified. Uh oh. This had gone too far. Mr Smooth Operator was hanging suspiciously onto my every word, as if threatening to expose me to Connolly’s elite clientele as an imposter, in retaliation no doubt, for sending back his drink last week.
Eager not to stay on the phone with Jeremy any longer, I quickly chirped: “OK sweetie. See you soon. Bye,” and hung up. My performance seemed to have satisfied Smooth Operator who moved back into the thick of his raucous mob. I exhaled. Tapped my fingers on the bar. Checked my watch. Nine pm. Time to go.
I stopped by the ladies room on my way out, where I rightly hit my head against the flock papered wall thrice. What the hell was I thinking of talking to Jeremy like that! He must have thought I’d had a drink and had texted him in a drunken wanton haze, the way most girls who miss their boyfriends embarrassingly do. I could of course tell the truth, and say I thought I was sending the text to someone else. But that would sound too much like the embarrassing excuse most girls who miss their boyfriends give. I had to think of a more plausible excuse. I inhaled deeply. And exhaled the entire problem. I would deal with it tomorrow. I checked my reflection in the mirror. I still looked pretty darn good. In fact, I was really loving this look, and I made a mental note to sort through my wardrobe as soon as I got the time. I eyed the decanter of Joop tempting me in the corner. “No thank you. Not today,” and sprayed my Chanel No 5 lightly across my chest.
I could only have been in the ladies for ten minutes max, but when I stepped out, the bar had swelled with even more boisterous bodies, with each man shouting over the other as though they were on some reminiscent trading floor. I pushed my way through the crowd, thankfully going unnoticed for the most part. This is, until Mr Smooth and his mob that had inconveniently repositioned themselves at the exit, spotted me slipping through the door.
“Not leaving us already,” Smooth Operator slurred not so smoothly. “And still alone I see.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him. “So, there’s obviously no boyfriend,” he said looking at me, then forced my arm up in the air and threw out to his mob, “Any takers gentlemen?”
“Oh piss off!” I snapped, yanking my arm away. I turned to make a dash for the door when I felt a rather large and wholly unwelcome arm circle my waist, tugging me back. I gasped in shock. I could not believe that this seemingly educated man could behave like such a “Fuckin’ Idiot!”
“Tut tut,” he mocked. “Language. That’s no way to talk to a new friend.”
“Let. Me. Go,” I threatened as calmly as possible, though ‘calmness’ was the last emotion I was feeling. Hysteria was more like it! Suddenly wondering if all those stories I read in the paper about sexual harassment in the workplace, happened to happen at this idiot’s workplace. And by this idiot.
“Oh I’ll let you go,” he said tightening his grip on me and pulling my hips against his crotch, “just as soon as you give me a little kissy.” WHAT! I struggled against him, trying to get some leverage so that I could knee him, but the more I struggled the more he seemed to enjoy it. I saw his lips forcefully closing in on mine and I almost passed out with my last thought being: I wish I hadn’t sent back his bloody drink!
“What are you doing?” I heard an authoritative voice, sounding like solid steel, ask, as I closed my eyes shut. Smooth Operator unleashed me so quickly, I almost fell to the floor. I looked up to see the rest of the mob scattering and saw Charles Martin Coombs, with a face like thunder, looking at Smooth Operator. “I asked you a question,” he said with a deadly tone.
“Ah…Mr Coombs,” Smooth Operator stuttered. “Sir…we were just…erm.” He had the nerve to look at me as if to see if I was going to back him. I gave him a toxic stare. “Just larking about sir,” he shrugged helplessly. Charles Coombs just looked at him with deadly serious eyes.
“Just ‘larking about’,” he repeated in a flat tone. He glanced over at me, then back to Smooth Operator. “And have you finished?”
“Sir?”
“Have you finished? Larking about?” he asked, looking Smooth Operator in the eye, as though he were contemplating some grave decision.
Smooth Operator gulped. “Yes sir,” he said sounding defeated, nodded his head at Charles Coombs and walked off with his hands tucked in his pockets and head hanging real low.
I stood there, rooted to the ground, with my knees knocking, in my elegant sophisticated façade, looking at my handbag which was lying on the floor, wondering what the hell had just happened. Charles Coombs just watched as I bent down and retrieved my handbag with trembling hands.
“Are you OK?” he asked with no concern whatsoever in his voice.
“Fine,” I whispered, still shivering.
He nodded his head briefly in acknowledgement, and then turned to walk away. Then he hesitated, and turned back. I thought perhaps he was going to offer to see me into a cab, and even in my rattled state, I wondered if this were my opportunity to see if he would take the bait, so I could just get this damn thing done for Isabella and never have to be amongst these wretched people again. But he didn’t offer to see me into a cab. He just looked at me, as elegant as I was, again with disgust, and said: “I would suggest that you choose your drinking companions more carefully,” turned and walked away! Arrrrggggh!! I felt a rage consuming my elegance, as I wanted to hurl my handbag at his big arrogant head. But I did not. Instead I stood still and quietly counted to ten. And then, when I was certain no one was around, I screamed my head off!
I stormed out the revolving street doors, still livid with rage, cursing the location of this bar as there was not a single cab in sight.
“Damn!” I stood on the deserted pavement, lit up by street lights and stars, considering my options for getting home, which at 10pm on a Friday night, stuck in the financial district, did not look good. I was just about to call Julia when I saw a familiar midnight blue Porsche come screeching to a halt in front of me. As soon as he stepped out the car, I ran straight into his arms and hugged him as tightly as I could. I nestled into his neck and sighed, “Take me home Jeremy.”
C hapter Eleven
“Why are you whispering?” Abby moaned, not at all happy at being woken up so early on a Saturday morning, but not yet realising exactly how early it actually was. I could almost see her peering under her eye mask, rummaging around for the clock, and then, “Rebecca! Are you crazy?!!” realising it was 6am.
“He’s in my bed,” I hissed, popping my head around the bathroom door, glancing down the hallway to the room where Jeremy was still sprawled out on the bed.
Abigail, suddenly sounded more alert. “So, he took the bait,” she said sounding surprised.
“What? No! Noooo. Not Charles Coombs…Jeremy!”
“Jeremy who?” Then probably bolting upright, hauling the duvet
off her latest conquest. “Not bloody Jeremy?”
“The one and only,” I deadpanned.
“Rebecca, have you lost your mind? Why on earth would you take him back?”
“I haven’t taken him back,” I paused. “And I don’t want to take him back,” I said quietly, realising that Jeremy and I really were through. For good. Oh, he had been wonderful last night. No doubt. He had done things to me that he had never, ever done before, but whilst he tried his damnedest to make me climax, nothing happened. Nada. All I kept thinking was; I wonder who taught him how to do that, and I wonder just how many ‘bits of fluff’, he’d done this to.
“But you had sex with him right?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Hmm hmmph.”
“So what was it? A sympathy fuck?”
“No! He really helped me out last night…” I could have added that having gone to so much effort, getting ready yesterday, only to be rejected – yet again, by Mr bloody Coombs, had left me desperately in need of some…appreciation. And the way Jeremy had gawped with desire when he saw me, had made me feel…appreciated. And so I had just lay back and allowed him show me just how much he appreciated me. Over, and over, again. I could have told her all this, but I decided it best not to affirm any of those thoughts by verbalising them. “And I just…didn’t want to be alone.”
“Fine. No harm done. He helped you out. You fucked him. You’re even. Now you have to kick him out. Simple.”
“I can’t just ask him to leave at 6am in the morning!”
“Darling, you have to!”
“But he…”
“Rebecca. You have to. If you don’t do it now darling, all that’ll happen is you’ll end up cooking him breakfast and that bastard will end up sweet-talking his way back into your life.” And just in case I hadn’t quite got the message, she added, “To cheat on you again. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not,” I muttered.
“Then go kick,” she said flippantly.
A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Page 12
