A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “Oh,” I fluffed, having been completely thrown off key by his flat reaction. “…I erm…thought I’d try a new look,” I smiled.

  “Ah uh.” Then, I felt my face flush as he looked over my 10K Nina Ricci dress. He couldn’t possibly know how much this dress cost. He was a man. He couldn’t possibly have a clue as to ladies fashion. “Nina Ricci?” he asked simply. I swallowed, and nodded. “She’s one of my favourites. It’s very nice on you,” he said guardedly then indicated for us to start walking toward a boat in the distance. This was not going very well at all. How on earth could Isabella have been so short-sighted and put me in this dress, which only served to cause mistrust, when I was expected to work on building it! We walked along slowly, with me taking the arm he offered out of courtesy and with him busy connecting the dots. “So,” he started warily, “this beauty salon you work at. Are you sure you don’t own it?” I looked up at him and saw quite clearly he was trying to work me out. I didn’t make sense to his logical mind…and maybe…maybe he wanted me to make sense.

  “Charles,” I said quietly, standing still. “This dress isn’t mine,” I explained and looked down at the pavement. “I wanted to look really pretty today…so I borrowed it.” I closed my eyes with shame at how easy and quickly I could lie now, and then I felt his fingers gently on my chin, softly lifting up my head. I looked at him and saw his face was now relaxed and that boyish smile of his had returned. I exhaled.

  “And you look absolutely amazing,” he smiled. “Please forgive me. I’m just not very trusting these days,” and he must’ve mistaken my looking away to hide my shame as hurt, because he added, “…but I promise not to let my bad experiences cloud our friendship, and to always trust you Rebecca Hardy.” I smiled up at him and he must’ve mistaken my watery eyes as feminine joy, as he touched the top of my head ever so lightly with his lips.

  We walked buoyantly along the Embankment with him trusting and being wonderfully amusing, and me deceiving and laughing easily at his funny story. I felt quite chilly, though it was a beautifully mild evening for April. The Thames was still and the waters looked unusually blue as opposed to the murky darkness I was used to seeing, and when Big Ben struck 7.15pm in the distance a few of the other stylish couples heading toward the boat picked up their pace.

  “And here we are,” Charles announced as we arrived at the jetty. He held my hand to steady me as we walked down the fairy-lit ramp toward the boat. I was quite surprised to find that we were not actually on the boat as yet, but in a rather smart looking reception area/holding bay. Immaculately dressed waiters suddenly appeared out of nowhere offering us champagne cocktails and some kind of posh hors d’oeuvres. I quickly picked one off the silver-plated platter, with each hand, grateful for the champagne to calm my nerves and grateful to the posh hors d’oeuvres to calm my rumbly tummy. Is that caviar on these? I wondered, examining one. Charles guided me through the crowd, further into the lobby, greeting several gentlemen along the way and ignoring the raised eyebrows of their diamond-dripping partners, once they realised we were together. We ended up at quite a secluded, supposedly VIP, roped-off area at the back of the lobby, and I could have died of embarrassment when I realised how I’d clutched onto my Bellini and caviar nibble, when here in the VIP section were lined up white-gloved waiters, each with a silver tray of VIP goodies, particularly for the VIPs! As soon as we entered the area a rather distinguished gentleman in a Navy officer uniform, adorned with numerous medals, came up to greet Charles. Instinct told me I had at least a few seconds before he turned back to me, so I swallowed my caviar nibble whole, downed my Bellini and placed the empty glass on one of the waiter’s trays, whilst he wasn’t looking.

  “Rebecca,” he said turning to me just as I was about to hiccup, “I’d like you to meet General Scots. My uncle.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said as elegantly as I could, thankful that the fright of actually being introduced to someone had suppressed my hiccups.

  “And I’m delighted. I’m sure,” he replied in a loud General-ly sounding voice. “And have you dined on the Epiphany before young lady?”

  “No, I haven’t actually,” wondering if Epiphany was the name of this boat and why on earth would Charles Coombs want to introduce me to his uncle?!

  “Well, you shall enjoy it I’m sure. The first time is always a memory you can never quite forget,” he bellowed warmly. “Now,” he said looking around, “where the blazes has my wife disappeared to?!” and went off presumably in search of her. I smiled, deciding that I liked him.

  Charles laughed lightly. “Have your ear drums survived the General OK?”

  “There’s just a slight ringing, but I’ll live,” I teased. “He’s adorable. Your uncle?”

  “He’s married to my mother’s sister, whom I shall try my damnedest to avoid.”

  “Oh?” I laughed.

  “Far too long and far too dull a story to spoil this evening with.” I smiled my acceptance of his answer and he…smiled back…as though, refreshingly, he couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to drill him about it. And then his smile widened as he spotted someone in the distance and waved them over. “Rebecca, I’d like to introduce you to one of my dearest friends,” he said as we waited for the mystery person to arrive, “Jonathon Fox.” I smiled, but something in the back of my mind told me that this was a good time to start panicking. Jonathon Clarkson. I had definitely heard that name before. But where…? “How are you doing old boy?” Charles embraced Jonathon Clarkson and my heart somersaulted in my chest when I saw him. “Jonathon, this is Rebecca.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Jonathon smiled.

  A very weak “Hi,” was all I could manage, trying not to look at her. But bloody Portia wasn’t going to let me off that lightly.

  “Hello Rebecca,” she said sweetly enough to go undetected by any ‘female drama’ detector, that either of these men could have, but the look on her face said a WHOLE lot more. “Well, fancy seeing you here.”

  I made a sound that sounded a little bit like a half laugh and a little bit like someone gasping for breath. “Yes. Fancy.”

  “Do you two know each other?” Jonathon asked.

  “Well, yes. We work together,” I smiled.

  “Well this is great! Charlie,” he said turning to Charles, “this is my darling Portia.”

  Charles looked at Jonathon in mock surprise when he said the word ‘darling’. “Steady on Johnnie,” he teased, “I can hear your heart there.” Then, turning to Portia, “Portia it’s a pleasure to finally meet. I’ve heard so much about you.” I tried to remain poker faced but couldn’t stop my eyes widening at the hilarity. Charles Coombs had heard so much about Portia?! Well, I could tell him a whole lot more colourful stuff!

  “Well,” Portia cooed in Jonathon’s ear, “I do hope it’s all been good,” and then they started giving each other little cooey kisses. Charles and I both looked away in awkwardness, and then he lifted a glass of champagne off a tray and offered it to Jonathon.

  “Come on, stop that,” he said pretending to sound gruff, and prying Jonathon away from Portia. “Pull yourself together man and get this down you.” The two of them laughed and started talking about something to do with the General and their younger days. Meanwhile, Portia, holding onto Jonathon’s arm, gave me a look that said: You Rebecca Hardy are a very dark horse! That is a much older man you’re out with.” Then her eyes widened as if to say: An older MARRIED man! Then a very smug look crossed her face that said: Tut tut. Not even I date married men!

  An announcement came over the loudspeaker that it was time to board, and the two sets of double doors in the VIP section opened up the way onto the boat. We filed in behind the other VIP guests who were boarding and I crossed my fingers hoping that Portia and Jonathon would be sitting as far away from us as possible. Though, in the back of my mind I already suspected that best buddies, Johnnie and Charlie, probably booked this little outing together. Hah! We were double dating! I had got plucked,
pruned and was wearing a 10K dress for a double-date! I looked at Charles from the corner of my eye as we walked, wondering if Isabella had been right about him all along; wondering if this whole pre-meditated situation wasn’t enough to give her due concern. He was after all a married man…taking me…another woman, out on a date! Hmm. Well, not exactly. It was me who had said I’d never been to a dinner dance before…and he had just…politely offered to take me to one. Hmmmm. Not very incriminating evidence. And it was highly unlikely I would get anything remotely more incriminating this evening, sitting opposite Portia all night! I wasn’t quite sure why, but I suddenly felt deflated. Like I really couldn’t be bothered with all this…this charade.

  “Are you OK?” Charles whispered in my ear. I nodded and smiled to reassure him. Then he squeezed my hand and I felt a treacherous smile stretching across my face and was suddenly grateful for the dim lights which masked my blushed cheeks well. But not that well apparently, as bloody Portia elbowed me discreetly. I, of course, ignored her and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  As I stepped into the boat’s banqueting suite I couldn’t help but gasp. Lit entirely by candlelight, circular tables dressed with opulent red and beige silk linens, with shimmering gold charger plates and crystal glasses that twinkled in the light, were set against a backdrop of pure glass which made it look as if the entire floor was drifting on the Thames, amidst the backdrop of London’s night-lit skyline. The jazz band’s melodic tunes wrapped around me like a dream, as Charles and I followed slowly behind one of the maître d’s toward the back of the boat, where I could see as clearly as I could touch, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. I looked up at the roof, wondering how these seemingly fragile glass walls could possibly support it, only to find that it too was made completely of glass and the starlit night sky spread out above us like a magical ocean.

  “Do you like it?” he asked softly.

  “It’s beautiful,” I sighed, feeling, I’m ashamed to say, a little emotional. I had never been taken anywhere quite so beautiful, quite so romantic before…and it was a little sad that this was not…a real date. But never mind. Here I was. And not even having to sit next to Portia all night was going to blight it for me. “Right then,” Charles said turning to Jonathon, and I suddenly realised that Portia was being seated at a table looking directly out onto the Thames, “enjoy your evening.”

  “You too old boy,” Jonathon winked and took his seat beside Portia. I smiled at Portia, feeling a little guilty for my thoughts, and she smiled back, raising a glass of champagne to me.

  Charles and I were seated at the very back of the boat looking out onto the Thames with our backs facing all the other dinners. As though, we were all alone in our own little world. “Alone at last,” he said teasingly and stupidly I blushed. What the devil was wrong with me?! I am not a blusher! I reached for my glass of champagne and remembering my one glass limit, opted for the water. “You not drinking?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m not much of a drinker, so I think I’d better not.”

  He placed his hand gently over mine. “You’re safe with me Rebecca,” he said softly looking into my eyes. My heart literally stopped. Then suddenly he snatched his hand back and cleared his throat. “What I mean is…I’ll make sure you get home safely. Ahem, so don’t worry, OK? I want you to enjoy yourself tonight.” I smiled realising that I adored his inexplicable vulnerability and raised my champagne glass to him. He breathed a sigh of relief and met my glass with his own, and with unspoken words we somehow managed to agree to enjoy the evening without further anxiety.

  By the time I staggered to the bathroom after the third course and two bottles of red wine, I had completely forgotten why I was even there and who Portia was. But as soon as she stepped into the bathroom behind me, it all came flooding back like a bad memory.

  “Rebecca Hardy! You’re drunk!” she accused sounding like the vicar’s wife.

  “I most certainly am not,” I slurred.

  She rolled her eyes. “I thought you didn’t drink?!”

  “I don’t. Much.”

  Then following me into the powder room like an oppressing shadow, “He’s Isabella Coombs’s husband isn’t he?! Oh my god Rebecca. Are you crazy? She will kill you! Gwendolyn will definitely fire you!”

  “Portia,” I hiccupped calmly, as I checked my reflection in the mirror, aware of how most women’s faces look like molten wax after a few drinks, silently praising my facial exercises for keeping mine looking fresh and tight. In fact even with my bleary eyes it was very difficult to tell if I was intoxicated or not. Unless of course, I spoke or walked. “Portia, this is not what it looks like. OK!”

  “My arse it’s not! If Gwendolyn finds out you took the afternoon off to have your hair coiffed and face air-brushed, just so you could…”

  “Well she won’t,” I cut her off. Then, seeing her impertinent face, “Will she? Please?!”

  “Well she won’t hear a word from me,” she said flippantly, then looking at me quite seriously, “But I do hope for your sake that you know what you’re doing Rebecca Hardy!” Then she turned in a huff and left.

  I studied my reflection in the spot-lit vanity mirror, realising that was the whole problem right there. I was suddenly entirely unsure about what I was doing. And why I was doing it. And when I stepped back into the banqueting hall and Charles teased me onto the dance floor, maintaining a respectful distance as we danced, whilst gazing through my eyes and piercing my soul as the saxophonist serenaded us, I knew for sure, that whatever this was that I was doing, definitely had to stop!

  C hapter Thirteen

  I had Portia marked as many colourful things, but a common old gossip was not one of them. A common old trollop, maybe, but I would never have said a meddling teller of tales! But as soon as I stepped into the salon on Monday morning and saw her suspiciously huddled up with a shocked looking Lauren at the reception counter, heavily whispering and shaking her head, I could hazard an educated guess as to which ‘tale’ she was telling.

  I stood silently undetected by the door for a few seconds, straining my ear to catch a word which could be used in evidence against the double-crossing Portia. But their voices were so suspiciously hushed; I couldn’t make out a thing. “Good morning,” I said cautiously. Lauren, startled, literally jumped and dropped her paper file all over the floor.

  “Oh for goodness’ sake!” she said, sounding almost grateful for the distraction so she wouldn’t have to look at me.

  I narrowed my eyes at Portia. She narrowed hers back at me. “We,” she said, “definitely need to talk!”

  “Oh, really?” I said marching straight past them into the staff room.

  “Yes. Really!” she said, hot on my tail. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at Rebecca?!”

  “He’s a married man!” Lauren’s little, well-informed voice, came from behind Portia’s shoulder.

  I gave Portia a pissed off look. “I thought you promised not to tell anyone?”

  “I promised not to tell Gwendolyn,” she corrected. “And I’m sure I won’t have to as she probably already knows!” My eyes opened up like saucers at her comment.

  Portia shook her head in mock pity. “Ah, Rebecca, Rebecca. You were obviously too starry-eyed to notice,” she said sounding almost happy for me, “but half of Pamper Moi’s clientele were on the Epiphany last night!” I suddenly felt very light headed and heard Lauren groan in the background. “Well what did you think? That you could have an affair with one of London’s most well-known MARRIED men, and not have anyone find out?”

  “I am NOT having an affair!” How dare she assume that I was just another immoral woman ruining someone else’s relationship! I was trying to HELP someone in their relationship! By request, at that! I felt suddenly weak and fell back onto the locker bench, looking up at Portia and Lauren, who were both looking down at me with a combination of being strangely happy for me but frightened for me at the same time. For a brief second I thoug
ht about telling them what I was doing for Isabella, but I doubt they would have understood my rationale. Too complicated. I exhaled, reminding myself that I was a woman of peace and tranquillity, and I would not allow someone else’s ill-informed judgement of me to piss me off any further. “I know what it looked like,” I said calmly, “but it really is not what it seemed.”

  Lauren gave me a little half smile, wanting to believe in me. Portia just said, “Humph!”

  “And even if I was doing…what you say I was…it really would be no one else’s business.”

  “Oh, except Isabella Coombs’s!” I opened my mouth to respond and thought better of it. “You know, Johnnie has known Charles Coombs longer than anyone, and…”

  Lauren looked impressed, “Jonathon Clarkson? Really?!”

  Portia, reverting to a giggling school girl at the mere mention of Jonathon’s name, clasped Lauren’s hand excitedly and gushed, as if it were the most romantic news ever, “Uh uh, they were at boarding school together. I saw the photos of them. Johnnie looked so adorable in his cute short trousers.”

  “Aaaw,” Lauren cooed, “Aahh.” I rolled my eyes at the both of them.

  Portia, suddenly remembering why she had mentioned her most beloved in the first place, straightened up back into serious mode, looked at me said: “Anyway, like I said, Johnnie has known Charles for years, and according to him he has never ever seen or heard of Charles so much of having a coffee with another woman apart from his wife…until now!” I suddenly felt an ache in my chest and an inexplicable desire to laugh. Ashamedly, I quickly sucked my cheeks into a fish face so my lips couldn’t deceive me by looking even remotely happy about this news. Because why on earth would I be happy about this? “They’ve spent a lot of time talking these past few days and Johnnie gets the distinct impression that Charles is torn between loyalty to his wife and affection for you!” REALLY? A part of me wanted to press her for details but I forced myself to look uninterested and started changing into my salon tunic. Portia looked at me as if I hadn’t heard a word she had just said. “Don’t you understand Rebecca Hardy? YOU are leading this man astray! This honest, decent, LOYAL man. YOU are leading him down a path he would never ordinarily tread…and it may destroy his marriage!” I felt a rapid piercing cold shiver all over my body and the ache in my chest, which I could now pin point to my heart, suddenly worsened. Is that what I was doing to Charles? Leading him astray? I tried inhaling but the air in the room seemed to have thinned out and I couldn’t get enough of it into my lungs, so I instinctively started taking shorter breaths, but with the throbbing lump that had risen in the back of my throat and the nerve-racking palpitations, it wasn’t very easy to do. Was I having a heart attack? My legs started to buckle and Portia and Lauren rushed over, grabbed a hold of me and sat me back down on the bench.