A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story

by Zara Kingsley

  “Always wanted who?!” I snapped, annoyed that my brows were still furrowing and more than likely causing a semi-permanent crease! Which I absolutely did not want to have for my date meeting with Charles tonight!

  “It was bound to happen! At the back of my mind I always knew it would! I always knew he would end up having an affair with her!”

  “Julia!” I said crossly, ignoring the tables of curious, whispering spectators around us. “Having an affair with WHO?!”

  “With Abigail! Seb’s having an affair with Abigail!”

  By the time I got back to the salon, my whole head was throbbing. For once, I was actually grateful for the amount of client records and treatment notes we each had to do, as it provided me with the perfect excuse to hide away in the staff room for an hour in between clients. I slumped myself down at the lunch table, and spread my files out all around me, pen poised, with the purposeful look of someone hard at work, but with the actual intention of doing absolutely none. I pressed my forehead against the palm of my hand, as if this gesture in itself would help me to connect the fragmented, jumbled up dots of life, as I once knew it. Normality was beginning to spiral way out of control. There I was, firmly planted smack bang in the middle of my own moral dilemma, being dragged, heels first right into the centre of another!

  I thought about calling and asking her straight: Are you fucking Seb? But knew it was highly unlikely I’d get a straight answer. Julia had to be wrong. Torn, because of her own guilty conscience, she must’ve started having ultra paranoid delusions. That’s it! Julia’s been imagining the whole thing.

  There.

  Mystery solved.

  Hmmm. But why would Seb have been sneaking around late at night with Abby? And what really happened at the infamous sleepover?

  Seb’s having an affair with Abby?! It couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t! Well… actually…NO! Not even Abby’s moral compass could be so warped! Abby and Juju are friends! Were. Were friends. And Abby and Seb… Well, Abby and Seb are…just friends! Friends, who used to be lovers.

  Oh. Gawd!

  “You’re not fooling anyone you know.” Portia came into the staff room, perched herself on a bench, and started unbuckling her five inch heels. “It’s obvious you’re not really working on any of that.” She gestured dismissively toward my rather impressive pile of client files, scattered across the table.

  “Oh really,” I deadpanned.

  “Yes. Really. The question is though,” she started mischievously, “what are you working on Rebecca Hardy? What exactly are you up to?” I knew exactly what she was referring to, and it had absolutely nothing to do with client notes. She’d been passing these snide comments all week. Indirect, yet direct, comments about me, somehow being involved with Charles Coombs. Wonder why Isabella Coombs cancelled you Rebecca? Been out dancing lately Rebecca? You’ll never guess what Johnny’s been telling me about Mr and Mrs Coombs, Rebecca. I told her that no, I couldn’t guess. And further more didn’t want to. And no. I didn’t want her to tell me the juicy gossip about them. I didn’t want to hear anything. Not from Portia. I wanted to wait. Until this evening. When I would hear it from Charles myself. And although I didn’t have a clue as to what ‘it’ was I would hear, I knew that I wanted to, needed to hear it. From Charles. Himself.

  For some inexplicable reason, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever, I found that Charles Martin Coombs was dominating my thoughts both day and night! I mean, sure; there was a kiss…well quite a few to be precise. And yes, they were nice…actually they were very very nice. And OK, admittedly Charles is a bit different to most the guys I’ve ever known…to be honest he’s a complete freaking contrast! I’ve only ever really known ‘guys’, lads, boys, twats and complete arseholes (Jeremy!). But Charles…Charles is…a man. A real grown up, confident, extremely attractive, and sexy man. Erm, let me rephrase that: A real grown up, confident, extremely attractive and sexy MARRIED man! So, like I said; there’s no reason whatsoever why he should be in my thoughts at all! Yet still, he was. Quite a lot.

  “Earth to Rebecca…” Portia sing-songed, standing in front of the table I had spread myself out on, snapping her fingers and drawing me out of a daze. I looked up at her. She cocked her head to one side, “You OK?”

  “Hmm um.”

  She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Are you going to see Charles again?” I thought about telling her it was none of her damn business, but the look on her face told me that she wasn’t just prying, she really seemed to be genuinely concerned.

  “I’m seeing him this evening,” I sighed, expecting the inevitable he’s a married man!! scolding, yet again.

  “Good,” she smiled. “Very good.”

  Although I’d met up with Charles several times before, meeting up with him this evening seemed a little strange. Firstly, Isabella didn’t know about this meeting. Going on a date with her husband, without her consent, didn’t seem quite right, but didn’t seem wrong either. And to be fair, I wasn’t really going on a date with Charles, I was simply meeting up with him because he’d said he wanted to discuss something with me. Not that he wanted to take me out. So I guess in a sense you could call it a business meeting…of some kind. There. That sounds better. Secondly, we weren’t meeting in some swanky top restaurant or chic City bar, Charles had explained that he literally only had a couple of hours as he needed to catch a flight from City Airport this evening, so we had arranged to meet at a pub in Islington. I didn’t know this particular pub, but figured; once you’ve seen one… And thirdly, Isabella hadn’t chosen or bought the outfit I was wearing this evening. I had. Technically I wasn’t ‘working’ for her anymore, so I could wear whatever the hell I wanted. I could now dress in my usual casual style, as opposed to the prima donna I’d been masquerading as, and really be myself. Which may, or may not, be a good thing.

  I stood in reception with Mrs Ellis, my pamper day client, smiling passively and nodding dutifully, as she banged on and on about something or other, sneaking glances at the wall clock, all the time thinking: I. Need. To. Go!!!.

  “So I may need to change next month’s appointment,” she trilled, “but I’m not certain. I do prefer to stick to a routine, you know. It really does throw me completely out of sync when I miss a pamper day.” I started subtly steering her toward the door, my smile now frozen on my face, still nodding. “What I may do is to see if I can catch a later flight,” subtly opening up the door for her, desperately wanting to just push her out of it! “…but of course then I’d arrive in Geneva far too late.” A quizzical look crossed her face as she realised we were now standing in the open doorway. “Oh, Well then. Here we are. Toodle-oo Rebecca!”

  Bye,” I said brightly, snapped the door shut behind her and dashed into the staff room. “Fuck! I’m going to be late!” I threw out to no one in particular as I hopped to my locker whilst taking off my pumps.

  “It’s only 5.30pm,” Lauren offered helpfully, but not helpfully, if you know what I mean.

  “Exactly! I have a meeting, a business meeting, with Charles at six!”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but gave me a look instead.

  “Oh, Lauren, please don’t. I am SO late!” struggling to unzip my salon tunic.

  “Here,” she sighed, “let me help you” and unzipped me.

  “Thank you,” I smiled at her, stepped into my simple jersey bandeau maxi dress and pulled on my Top Shop flip-flops.

  “I thought you said you’re meeting up with Charles Coombs?” looking me up and down critically.

  “I am.”

  Lauren frowned slightly. “Oh,” and then: “Do you want to borrow something of mine Becky?”

  I gave a little laugh, “No thank you,” securing my hair in a simple, deliberately messy, chignon. There! I thought, appraising my reflection in the mirror. Charles Coombs, I would like you to meet Rebecca Hardy. The real Rebecca Hardy. It’s amazing how liberated one feels when one can truly be one’s true self! When one does not have to dress to
impress (nor to seduce), but one can throw any old thing on, and still look absolutely fabulous! Of course, it does help a tad if one is somewhat taller. I studied my reflection, straightened my back, in a fruitless attempt to add a couple inches. And it also helps, just a smidgen, if one has more than an A cup! I started fiddling around with my boobs under the bandeau, trying to push them up to look like a C cup. Epic fail.

  “Not even a touch of make-up Becky?” she added timidly.

  “No.” No one gets all dolled up to go down the pub at this time of day on a Thursday evening. “No one.”

  Islington High Road was literally buzzing. This unusually good weather had seemingly dragged everyone out of work early on a Thursday, and alfresco City diners, with unbuttoned shirts and discarded ties, seated outside quaint little cafes, lined the hectic, raucous pavement. I turned down a side street, heading toward the Rose and Crown pub, where I was supposed to be meeting Charles at 6pm. It was already 6.10pm! I bunched up the bottom of my dress in one hand and picked up my pace. I turned into another little backstreet and suddenly had a strong sense of déjà vu. This was all oddly familiar. I narrowed my eyes as I walked past another pub. Ahaa!! This wasn’t no damn déjà vu! This pub was ‘Wheelers!’ The very same pub where I had caught the cheating Jeremy in action. I laughed to myself, remembering my ridiculous escapade to catch him in the act. Wow! Just to think, I almost didn’t ‘catch’ any proof at all, and would probably still be dating that lying toe-rag! In fact, if it wasn’t for that cheeky Irish barman, I would never really have known just how much of a toe-rag Jeremy was. I quickly peeped into the pub. I really ought to go and thank him. He did me a massive favour and I’m quite sure I didn’t thank him back then. I looked at my watch; 6.15pm. Hmm, no real time for a formal thank you. Perhaps a quick wave would suffice? I hastily scanned the bar searching for him; he wasn’t serving at the bar, and he wasn’t waiting on any tables inside. Oh, there he is, I thought happily, as I spotted him out in the courtyard, taking an order from a very cosy looking couple. A very familiar, cosy looking, couple. Oh. My. God. I took a few steps closer, just to be sure, preferably to be wrong. But there was no doubt about it. It was them. He had his arm casually around her shoulders, and she rested her hand lightly on his thigh, as she chatted to the barman. Then, as the barman turned away, Abby snuggled up to him, looking delighted, and Sebastian pecked her lightly on the top of her head.

  I stepped into The Rose and Crown, still suffering from the shock of having just seen Abby and Sebastian, appreciative of the serene ambience, and feeling like a complete div for dressing so casually. For goodness’ sake! I mean, didn’t these women know that you are not supposed to get all dolled-up to go down the pub on a Thursday night? From their stylish outfits, designer heels and flawless make-up, I’m guessing maybe not.

  “Rebecca!” Charles greeted me with a peck on both cheeks. I instantly felt both grow hotter. “I almost didn’t recognise you. You look amazing!” And he honestly looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I guess in a way, he was.

  “How are you?” I tried forcing a casual tone.

  “Better now,” he winked at me, and I damn near expired! Was he flirting with me?! No. Of course not. He, being a gentleman, had most likely just invited me here to explain that he’s working things out with his wife…and that’s why he couldn’t see me again. All of a sudden, I felt quite choked up and lowered my eyes, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. “Let’s sit down,” he said softly, guiding me out through the open French doors, into a tranquil beer garden, overflowing with ivy, and delicate pink blossoms bursting from hanging baskets. We sat at a bench table toward the back where it was fairly deserted, and Charles sat next to, not opposite me, as I had expected. Being sat this close to him made me nervy for some idiotic reason, and I fiddled about in my bag, pretending to look for something, before having the courage to actually turn to face him. “What would you like to drink?” he asked happily, whilst motioning to a nearby waitress.

  “Apple juice please,” I said mimicking his cheery tone.

  Charles gave the waitress our order, and waited for her to leave before turning to face me. Then, he did the damnedest thing; he reached for my hand, and held it. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes, savouring the touch of his hands enveloping mine, suddenly feeling more than a little overwhelmed. I lowered my head and kept my eyes, and the tears welling up behind them, tightly shut, feeling like a complete idiot. What the hell was wrong with me?! This guy was about to let me know that he and his wife had worked things out. Were back together. Were in love! And there I was getting all emotional and my knickers in a twist, at the touch of his hand? “Rebecca darling,” he soothed, “I’m so sorry for not being in touch sooner. You’ve been constantly on my mind…I can hardly think of anything else. You’ve…affected me sweetheart.” Wait. Why wasn’t he getting to the part about getting back together with his wife? I looked up at him sheepishly. “I haven’t felt this way about a woman for such a long time, and it pained me to no end, knowing I couldn’t be with you.” My heart sank. He couldn’t be with me. “You deserved so much more than I, in my position, could have ever offered you. Which was why I said I couldn’t see you again.” OK. I get it. I inhaled and exhaled, in a futile attempt of keeping my mini-breakdown at bay. But the tears were welling up as if I’d just watched Titanic for the first time, and my chest started to heave spasmodically. Charles, most likely sensing the onslaught of tears, started talking a lot faster. “But, my darling, there’s been quite a turn of events most recently; the damnedest thing…my wife has left me!” My eyes snapped open like saucers, and I squeezed his hand, far too tightly, whilst still trying to digest his words. “She left me Rebecca,” he repeated happily. “She wants a divorce, and by George she can have one,” he grinned. Then, not quite so confidently, “So, I was wondering, now that my wife has left, and seeing as how I’m technically single, I was…just wondering if perhaps…we could spend more time together? I mean only if you want to of course…I don’t want you to feel…” I couldn’t even wait for him to finish the sentence, just flung myself into his arms, laughing, sobbing, and behaving very un-Audrey-Hepburn-like…but absolutely, deliriously happy. Charles laughed and held me tightly. “Oh Rebecca Hardy,” he sighed, “I am so very lucky to have met you.”

  “So she’s actually moved out?” I finally managed, remembering just how amazing the Holland Park house was, and finding it difficult to imagine Isabella slumming it somewhere else.

  “She most certainly has. She’s moved into our Knightsbridge apartment…” He paused. Then sounding more sombre, “The only real concern, is that she’s taken my boys with her.”

  I gently pulled away and looked at him. “Taken them?”

  “I just don’t understand how she would think I’d ever allow her to keep the boys. She’s completely incapable. Oh I can hazard a guess as to why she wants them; she thinks she’ll get a heftier settlement, if she gets custody. But our pre-nuptial agreement states quite clearly that the adulterous party doesn’t get one cent. And does not get to keep the boys. So I’m a bit stumped as to why she seems so confident that she’ll get custody.” Then he kissed the frown lines on my forehead completely away, better than any facial exercise ever could. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head about it darling. One thing I am quite certain of; I’ll get the boys back.”

  C hapter Eighteen

  “What do you mean; you can’t get them back?!” I held the mobile phone to my right ear with one hand, whilst covering the left with the other, in a futile attempt to block out the usual Kensington High Street racket, as I battled through the swarm of shoppers, desperately trying to hear Charles more clearly. “I thought you were certain you’d be able to!”

  “Well I was!” he said furiously. “Our pre-nuptial agreement is iron clad! But somehow, my wife has amazingly managed to get her father, who’s a Judge, back on side!” I darted into a deserted alleyway, filled with the stench of rotten food and gawd
knows what else, overspilling from large black house bins, ready for collection. The pong made me what to heave, but at least it was much quieter here, and I needed to hear exactly what Charles was saying. So I pinched my nostrils together with my fingertips and listened to him sounding like he was about to kill someone. “Her parents haven’t spoken to her in years! But she’s somehow, miraculously, managed to convince them that SHE’S the wronged party, and her father has pulled unbelievable strings, and has taken out all manner of injunctions out against me! Preventing me from seeing the boys, until a divorce settlement has been agreed! Which by the ridiculous amounts stated in her petition, could bloody well take years!” I gulped.

  “What do you mean Charles; the wronged party?”

  “Rebecca, the pre-nuptial agreement?! It states quite clearly that the ‘wronged party’, aka NOT the person who’s committed adultery, gets every bloody thing!! All the assets, all the money and gets FULL custody of the boys!! And my wife, has claimed that she has photographic evidence of me cheating on her!!!” I slipped down to the floor and leaned back against one of the dirty, smelly, huge rank dustbins, feeling lower than its disgusting contents. Isabella had photographic evidence. Of me. And Charles. Passionately kissing. That’s what she was after all along. She had wanted to ruin him. And I had helped her to do it. “Rebecca, I’m sorry,” his voice a little softer. “I shouldn’t be shouting at you. You are the nicest, sweetest, most genuine girl I’ve ever met, and you’ve brought nothing but joy into my life. But darling, my boys are my world, and all I feel right now is pain and anger…and I don’t want you to ever be the recipient of that. I need to sort this out Rebecca, and I have no idea how long it will take, but I do know I won’t be much fun to be around whilst I’m going through all of this… So, I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t want you to wait for me Rebecca darling. You deserve so much more. And I want you to be happy. So take care of yourself, OK? Goodbye.” He hung up the phone, leaving me sobbing like a lunatic, rightfully positioned, amongst the rest of trash.