A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (10 page)

Helga was aghast when Isabella insisted on showing me down herself and as we chatted happily in the lift I had a sudden brainwave. Isabella definitely needed to get out more and I definitely needed to keep my job, so I turned to her as we approached the front door and said: “Isabella, I’m not sure if you’d be at all interested but Pamper Moi also offers a personal shopping service which can be a wonderful day out.” My feeble attempt at cross-selling.

The eavesdropping Helga, pretending to busy herself in the foyer, actually appeared to be chuckling silently at my comment. Isabella’s own reaction was also quite unexpected as she turned to me with deadly narrowed eyes and scowled. “
Personal shopping
?” she spat in disgust. I was momentarily stunned by her transformation but my look of horror must’ve jolted something in her mind as she quite surprisingly smiled happily at me and chirped: “Personal shopping! What a fabulous idea.” Hmmm. I wondered if Isabella Coombs was a touch
schizophrenic
as well as an agoraphobic.

C
hapter Seven

I stood looking in the mirror at my reflection, wondering if I could leave out my facial exercises for this one night, seeing as how it was already 2am and I had to be up in less than five hours. I swear, Abigail could talk for England! In fact, she ought to be on the England talking team! She had barked at me for three hours straight, moaning and complaining, about Julia mainly, but as I
had
stood her up for dinner I felt a guilty obligation to endure it.

“Are you even listening to me Becky?” she had demanded having mystically detected that I was nodding off at the other end of the phone line.

“Of course I’m listening Abby,” I lied, stifling a yawn and rearranging the pillows behind my head.

“She really does piss me right off! Sebastian had might as well slit his own wrists right now! She is fucking with his head, that’s all she’s doing and I just cannot get why he doesn’t see it.” Abigail’s heated reaction was a direct result of reading Julia’s earlier text message, which she had sent to everyone in her address book it seems, as even my mum had left a message on the answer phone earlier making comment. It had been a very simple text stating:

It’s on again! We’ll be tying the knot on August 25
th
. Invites to follow.

My initial reaction had been: Hah! I’ll believe that one when I see it. And I quite understood how one could feel that Julia may well be messing with Seb’s head. But we couldn’t ignore the underlying reason of why they were in actual fact getting married. Again. And it had to be because they loved each other and wanted to spend the rest of their lives – together. Simple as. And why Abigail was having such
difficulty in grasping this tiny little fact, I really did not know. But after two hours of her making my ears bleed I had to get off the phone.

“Abigail,” I moaned, “stop it. Please. Look, I know Julia’s cancelled their wedding before–”

“Twice!”

“Arghhhh. I know Julia’s cancelled their wedding
twice
before, but it’s not as if she’s forcing him to marry her is it? I mean Sebastian is doing this of his own free will. I’m sure he’s well chuffed about it. I know you’re worried for him but he’s a big boy. Try being happy for them will you. They’re finally getting married!” I had naively taken her silence as reluctant agreement and wasn’t expecting the torrent of strong disagreement that followed. I was neither ready for it nor was I accepting it. “Oh my god!” I said breaking her flow, trying to sound as lively as possible. “The fire alarm’s just gone off in our building!”

“…What?! I can’t hear anything.”

“I’ve got to go!”

“Well call me ba–” I slammed the phone down and
unplugged it. Enough was enough!

So I decided against the facial exercises, opting for the ten minutes extra of much needed sleep, opened up the cabinet and started popping my pills instead. Vitamin c high potency for collagen production, vitamin e for complexion, calcium because I don’t drink enough milk, vitamin b complex to regulate my hormones – not quite sure if this is actually working though – lutein, hmmm, only two left. I wonder if I order some tomorrow they may be able to courier it over – lutein for skin elasticity and folic acid, humph. Well I can stop taking those. I won’t be conceiving anytime soon!

I had definitely set the alarm clock! It just didn’t go off! I raced around the apartment dressing myself whilst locating keys, mobile, purse, grabbed my letters, dashed out the door and legged it to the station, silently praying that Gwendolyn wouldn’t notice that I was late – yet again. The station was closed.

“Tube strike luv!” some ignoramous with a plaque shouted happily at the entrance. “What? Didn’t you know?” No! I didn’t fuckin’ know! I sprinted to the top of South Ken High Street in the hope that the multitude of other pissed off commuters also trying to get a cab to work would’ve thinned out. It hadn’t. I looked around in despair. There was a good thirty-strong angry looking mob all positioning themselves, ready to fly into the next cab that stopped anywhere within a two hundred yard radius. They may as well have been rolling up their sleeves, as by the look on some of their faces they were quite prepared for a scuffle. I, however, was not. I dragged myself to the nearest bus stop and contemplated slitting my wrists when I saw a queue of at least two hundred people stretching around the corner. Fuck! I closed my eyes and wondered if clicking my heels three times would work, if I really really believed. I exhaled deeply and started walking the mile and a half into Knightsbridge, preparing myself for the inevitable firing of my arse that was bound to take place. There were hordes of other people with the same idea trotting along beside, in front and behind me, and I wondered how many of them were also going to lose their jobs this morning. I kicked a few stones along the way and started opening my mail, instantly wishing that I hadn’t. There was not one personalised letter amongst them. Just pure bills upon bills upon bills! Water rates: due now. Council tax: due now. Electricity: due now. Gas: due now. Whopping Mortgage: due now. Great! I suddenly realised
that with Jeremy’s departure I was lucky enough to inherit not only the whole mortgage but also ALL of these sodding bills! How under creation was I supposed to pay them? There was just no way. Not now, and certainly not after Gwendolyn fires me! Oh christ! I’m going to end up homeless! Or living in some rancid squat with drug addicts! Or worse, living in East London! I’ll just have to swallow my pride and beg Gwendolyn for mercy. But when I finally arrived at Pamper Moi just after 10am and was met with Portia’s enraged face and Lauren’s sympathetic one, somehow I knew that begging wasn’t going to cut it.

“Hey Rebecca,” Lauren said quietly. “Gwendolyn wants to see you in her office straight away. She said you’re not to bother get changed, just go up as you are.”

I nodded a very heavy head and tried to ignore the usual golf ball that was rising up at the back of my throat. The walk to Gwendolyn’s office had never taken so long, as I looked around slowly trying to take everything in. I was really going to miss working here I thought. I knocked on the office door.

“Come in Rebecca,” she called in a voice that didn’t give anything away. I stepped into her vast office and saw that she was pedalling furiously away on her cycle-trainer, looking out the window with her back toward me. I stood there for at least two minutes feeling rather bloody awkward as I waited for her to finish her set and pass the towel over her face, back and shoulders. I expected her to then go sit behind her desk but instead she perched quite casually on the edge of it and looked directly at me. “Why are you so late?” she asked, again in a very neutral tone.

“I’m sorry Gwendolyn. I didn’t know there was a tube strike.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “
You didn’t know there was
…” Then closed her eyes with disbelief and uncharacteristically started rubbing her temples, very slowly, as if to calm her nerves. “Anyway, that’s not relevant now.” Then she looked at me with a very strange expression as though she were trying to work me out. “Do you enjoy being a beautician Rebecca Hardy?”

“Yes Gwendolyn. I do.”

“And there isn’t any other role, here, at Pamper Moi that you would possibly like to step into?”

I was totally confused by her question but managed a simple no.

“And you understood, quite clearly, the conversation we had the other day about you being expected to cross-sell to your clients our personal shopping service, which
Portia
is offering?” She said this with a deliberate measured tone of voice. I gulped. And nodded. “Then, can you
please
explain to me why Isabella Coombs has called, booked and paid for, five personal shopping days, requesting that you and only you accompany her?”

My jaw fell to my chest as I scrambled around in my head for an explanation. “She must’ve…misunderstood me,” I stammered. “It’s clearly a mistake. I’ll call and explain to her that I’m a beauty therapist…with no idea about personal shopping.”

Gwendolyn was shaking her head. “I’ve already done that. She doesn’t seem to care that you know little to nothing about fashion. Apparently she
likes
you and
trusts
your judgement.” I had to chew my lip real hard to stop myself bursting out laughing. Plus something in the back of my mind was telling me that not only was I not going to be fired, but that I’d actually managed to do something of value in Gwendolyn’s eyes. “No, there’s no option,” she said thoughtfully, moving behind the desk to sit in her leather swivel chair. “You’ll just have to do it. Isabella Coombs has indicated that she’d like to shop weekly. Portia can give you a crash course on where to go and what designers are currently trendy or whatever.” She looked down and started writing something at her desk, all the time talking to me. “Your first appointment with her is on Thursday, and here,” she held up a slip of paper to me which I took. It was a cheque. For two thousand pounds! “Personal shoppers get forty per cent of their takings. That’s your forty per cent of the five sessions she’s already paid for.” I stood there holding the cheque in both hands, grinning like a demented woman. I could definitely get used to this personal shopping malarkey. I looked at Gwendolyn and saw that her face had softened in amusement. I smiled my thank you. She nodded and then almost forced herself to snap: “Now go find Portia!”

“Well you’d better not go dressed like that!” Portia pouted, eyeing my jeans and flip-flops with great disdain. She wasn’t at all happy that I was suddenly propelled to her elite level. And by request at that! But overshadowing her disappointment was her sheer joy at having it made wholly official that she, Portia, was educating me, Rebecca, in regards to all things pertaining to fashion and style. She was positively revelling in her new-found position as teacher, which was quite clear she was taking very seriously. “And we’ll have to sort your hair out.” I rolled my eyes at her and decided in my current charitable spirit, to let her have her moment. “Right. Come on then. Let’s go!” she said trying to sound as if she was being forced to do something which she didn’t want to.

“Come on where?” I asked in surprise.

She sighed quite dramatically. “Shopping, Einstein! Where the hell else do you think we’d be going? You need a new outfit and I need to show you where to go on Thursday.”

“Portia! I am not going bloody shopping! First of all I cannot
afford
to buy a new outfit…”

“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.”