A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (9 page)

Chapter Six

I lugged my beauty case and my miserable self into the back of a black cab and headed to Isabella Coombs in Holland Park. I hated doing home treatments. Of all the obnoxious condescending salon clients we were lucky enough to receive, the home visit ones were far worse! (Except Monika Rigmora of course. No one could ever be worse than her!) The clients that demanded home visits fell into two categories as far as I was concerned: a) the ones that were too lazy to lug their diamond-dripping carcasses into the salon:
what, with all the fundraising luncheons I have to attend, why, I’d simply never have the time
. These women were the more bearable of the two, though they would openly flaunt their incredible wealth, whilst all the time complaining about the cost of our treatments, making certain to get their money’s worth. Every last cent. And category b) these were the ones who thought themselves far too high and mighty to ever enter a common beauty salon. These women were the worst. They always had a way of making me feel like the grime under their designer shoe, not worthy to even look upon let alone touch them. And heaven forbid they were anything less than satisfied with the treatments given, these women were capable of throwing a hissy fit so out of control, the temptation would be to just run out of there without even charging their card for the session. I pressed my face against the window of the cab, wondering which category Isabella Coombs would fall into.

We drove by Holland Park itself, near the open air opera theatre and turned a few tree lined avenues into Pleasant Place. Holland Park was one area of London I hardly ever had reason to visit. With palatial homes skipping around the fifteen million pound bracket, it was an alien world as far as I was concerned. I wondered what the hell kind of jobs these people did to ever afford such extravagant homes. An educated guess was they were not all lottery winners. I made a mental note to check my EuroMillions ticket numbers. Who knows, I could be their new neighbour. I smiled to myself day-dreaming about the luxury pad I would buy, right here in Holland Park, with indoor swimming pool and gymnasium. And I giggled thinking of how I would call up Pamper Moi to make same day appointments and how Gwendolyn would fall over backwards trying to accommodate me. Aaahh. It was good to dream.

“We’re ’ere luv,” the cab driver said pulling up outside a magnificent Italianate architectural style building. Was this someone’s house? It could easily pass off as an exclusive boutique hotel. I quickly checked the address, as I hopped out the cab to pay the driver, making sure it was correct. It was. “Nice ’ouse ain’t it?” he said in his blue-collar cockney accent. I nodded miserably, remembering why I was here, as I handed him a ten pound note.

“I need a receipt please,” I said sulkily.

“There you go luv.” He handed me a barely legible piece of paper, his impression of a receipt I assumed. He leaned his head out the window and low-whistled. “Yeah, sure is a nice ’ouse.” Then turned to me, looking at my salon tunic and large white leather beauty case, “So are you the cleaner then?”
Oh fuck off you tosser
, I felt like saying as I about turned and marched up the steps to number 21 Pleasant Avenue.

“Hello,” I said to the maid in my fake, Pamper Moi required chirpy voice. “I’m here to see Isabella Coombs.” She gave me a deliberate uninterested look, no doubt enjoying the fact that
she
wasn’t required to waste any social graces on other low-ranking members of the hired-help brigade.

“Yes, yes,” she dismissed in a heavy European accent, “She in beauty room. I show you,” and abruptly turned on her heels striding off at a mile-a-minute. She hadn’t even warned me to mind the step on my way in – which I didn’t see and promptly tripped over, landing head first on the marbled hallway floor as my beauty case flew out of my hand, spilling its contents all over the lobby’s pristine vastness. I glared at her for not having warned me about the step. She glared back – defiantly. I wondered what the etiquette was for a beautician to make an official complaint about the maid to the lady of the house.
Hmm, probably not the done thing. I collected the contents of my case whilst Helga (no idea if that was her name, but she looked like a Helga to me!) tapped her size nine feet, not once offering to help. Humph! I gave her a look which said:
Ok Helga, you wanna play? Well bring it on
.

The beauty room turned out to be on the third floor, and having breathlessly run up the six flights of stairs, trying to catch up with Helga’s huge frame, I stood panting outside the door and noted that next to it was the unmistakable window of a lift exit. I gave Helga a questioning look. She answered with a twisted smirk. I decided I was going to kill her. But probably not right now.

“The beauty room,” she announced opening the door. I marched past her, stamping heavily down on her foot. She whimpered with lips firmly closed and that was when I realised that her boss, like mine, had a rule of silence for all employees.

I walked into the beauty room and let out my own barely audible low-whistle. This wasn’t so much a beauty room as it was a salon! The stone floor looked hand-crafted and an enormous sunken spa-bath with candle-lit steps at either end, stretched out to my right. To my left was an incredible equally vast, wall water-fountain, dimly lit, and in front of this a strategically placed soft leather beige modular sofa. I tip-toed slowly past, as the sound of my shoes clacking against the floor was deafeningly detracting from this carefully orchestrated ambience. Behind the sofa I saw twin-set hydraulic therapy chairs, manicure and pedicure stations and massage tables. I still didn’t see Isabella Coombs.

“I’m out here,” an aloof thoroughbred voice called out. I followed the voice behind heavily draped curtains and stepped carefully out onto a rather pretty little patio. She was sitting at a small antique style wrought iron table wearing a white towelling gown, the kind you – well I – would try to pinch from posh hotels, and her hair was wrapped in a matching towel. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking through a magazine which she tossed to one side and looked up as I approached her.

“Hello Ms Coombs, I’m Rebecca from…”

“Please don’t state the obvious,” she sighed. Then said quite snappily: “I know who you are.
I
called you!” She got up and sauntered over toward me. “And don’t call me Ms Coombs,” she snapped again. “My name is Isabella.” She looked me over whilst drawing lazily on her cigarette. “Well, aren’t
you
a pretty one?” she said sounding almost cynical. Of course I knew how to graciously accept a compliment, but I wasn’t
exactly
sure that this was one. So I said nothing. “Don’t you wear make-up?”

“Erm, no. Not usually.”

“Well lucky you,” she quipped. Tossed her unfinished cigarette and headed back inside. I followed her in. “I’ll need a manicure, cleansing facial, back massage and leg wax.” Great! There goes dinner with Abby. “Close that door and turn off that thing,” she ordered. I looked at her for a second wondering if this woman was somehow related to Gwendolyn.

“Erm, turn off which thing?”

She looked at me as though I was the dimmest person she had ever met. “The
spa
?”

“Oh. OK,” I said racing over there, wondering how the fuck I was supposed to turn this
thing
off. I twiddled about with some knobs that caused the bubbling spa to pick up uncontrollable speed, and in my panic-stricken haze I twiddled some more until the damn thing settled down to a rasping halt.

I had always considered myself to be a fairly good judge of character and was usually able to work out what someone was like after a few minutes’ meeting. Isabella Coombs, however, was proving to be somewhat of an enigma, as the first few minutes of our meeting her behaviour was screaming out loud and clear: I AM A FIRST CLASS BITCH. And I would have clung to that simple deduction – proving that first impressions are not
always
correct – had she not turned to me during her massage and asked:

“So, do you have a boyfriend Rebecca?”

I was shocked by the question, seeing as how she hadn’t said a single word to me throughout the entire leg wax or manicure. “No,” I said simply.

“And why not? I would’ve thought a pretty girl like you would be fighting them off.”

I could’ve ended the conversation with a simple: “
I’ve no idea
” and allowed her to enjoy the remainder of her pampering session, but I figured what the heck. I was probably never going to see her again anyway, and said: “Well, I very
theatrically
caught my boyfriend cheating. So I dumped him.”

She spun around so quickly I thought she was going to throw a fit at me for burdening her relaxing mind with such negative drivel. But she just pulled the towel up around her, looking at me intently and said, “
Really?
” like this was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard. “How exactly did you catch him?” And by the way she sounded so genuinely interested in my hard-luck story, I could tell that Isabella Coombs probably didn’t get out much. Maybe she was a severe agoraphobic confined to her home. Or maybe she was bored with TV’s soap offerings and preferred real-life drama. Either way, her undivided attention felt a whole lot more acceptable than her constant silent berating.

“Well, it’s quite a long story and I’d hate to ruin your massage.”

“Oh forget the massage,” she said brushing her hand dismissively through the air. “Now, I want to hear every last detail,” she said smiling, in a rather very nice warm and friendly tone, which I would never have guessed even existed.

I looked at her and she smiled encouragingly. “Well,” I began, and started telling my tale with more than the odd flourish of exaggeration. Well I had to make it entertaining for her didn’t I? By the time I’d finished she was looking at me with such admiration, I felt as though she were here to massage me!

“How ingenious of you to even think of spying on him,” she marvelled. We were sitting cosily on the modular sofa at this stage, where I’d felt totally comfortable in kicking off my shoes and putting my feet up at her suggestion. “You poor dear thing,” she said referring to Jeremy’s cheating.

“That’s life I suppose,” I shrugged. “I just wished I could’ve known he was a cheating rat four years ago! That would have at least saved me wasting so much emotional energy.”

She looked at me keenly, calmly…thoughtfully…nodding her agreement, then – suddenly – her eyes literally lit up, as though…well…as though the light bulb had finally gone off. She positively shivered with excitement as she beamed happily at me and said: “Let’s have some tea.” I was absolutely amazed at how such a simple procedure as having tea could so thrill someone who has almost everything money can buy. In that moment I made up my mind about two things. Isabella Coombs definitely needed to get out more. And, I really did like her.

A few minutes later, a rather humbled and hardly recognisable subservient Helga came in with a tray of tea and oatmeal biscuits. As she placed the tray on the table I saw her look of shock as she noticed my feet upon the sofa. I stretched them out further and wriggled my toes as her face, momentarily hidden from Isabella, twisted with rage. I so desperately wanted to catch her eye, just so I could smile smugly, but she avoided eye contact with both Isabella and me, almost bowing her head in servitude as she walked out backwards! I thought this quite odd and unnecessary behaviour of her, as Isabella was so lovely and caring, hardly the type that would demand such subjugation. It must be the husband I decided, glancing at the ginormous purple diamond – that thing had to be
at least
eight carat – on Isabella’s ring finger.

She noticed me looking at it and held out her hand for my inspection. “Do you like it?” she asked absent-mindedly. “My husband,” she explained softly. “He likes to give me…little
trinkets
of his affection,” she sighed looking really sad as though she too had been hurt. My heart instantly went out to her and she smiled at the obvious concern in my face. “
My
problem is Rebecca, I love too much. I simply adore him. And unfortunately because of that, he has the advantage.” She sniffed quietly, wiping something…
a tear?...
from her eye and looked so pained my heart was breaking for her. The bloody husband was obviously to blame! He probably didn’t appreciate her. Most likely took her for granted. What a rotten old so and so. I didn’t even know the man but I knew that he ought to be bloody well lucky to have such a beautiful, elegant and utterly charming wife. I stole a studious glance at Isabella. She looked to be in her early forties but very well preserved. She was tall and slim with great taut skin and I wondered if she did any facial exercises. Wondered if she’d want to. Then suddenly remembered that I wasn’t
allowed
to mention it! Humph.

“Are you OK Isabella,” I asked her as she wiped her eye again.

“Oh, I’ll be fine Rebecca,” she sighed. “I just wish…” she looked up at me, almost as if she were making sure she had my full attention, “…I just wish I could know for certain, one way or the other, whether Charles would ever actually cheat on me. I don’t think he ever has…actually cheated…but he’s been so indifferent toward me for a while now and …although I’d
never
leave him…I just wish I could know. At least then I could control my emotions. Close my heart off toward him and learn to accept his indifference rather than constantly trying to get through to him.” She exhaled, rather sensationally I thought, then turned to me and barely managed to whisper through her obvious pain: “It’s just driving me completely mad. Not knowing.” I gave her the best sympathetic look I could muster as I really didn’t think it was my place to let Isabella Coombs know that there was in fact no way of her ever knowing what her husband may or may not do at any given point in the future. What she wanted was perhaps the one thing that money could not in fact buy. “Anyway,” she sighed, getting up from the couch and indicating the end of our enlightening therapeutic session.