A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (13 page)

“So maybe he won’t like me,” I piped up sensing a
get out of this shit quick
card. “Maybe he won’t…take the bait?”

“Oh, you silly girl,” she laughed and motioned for me to come sit near her. I sat nervously down in the seat next to her, in my exquisite but not yet paid for clothes, frightened that the seam of the dress would pop open as I sat, or that I’d scuff the shoe against the coffee table. Isabella turned to the sales assistant who was now hovering and eyeing me suspiciously. “Charge all of this to my account,” she said dismissing her. Once the sales assistant had left the room, she turned to me frankly, “Rebecca,
Charles will love you. How could he not?” I could think of a million reasons, with number one being the fact that he was actually married to a stunning, successful and effortlessly classy woman, who obviously naturally appealed to his
particular taste
. “All you have to do my dear is to be yourself.” Hmmm, not such an easy task when she expected me to dress like someone completely fuckin’ different! She must have seen the look of angst on my face as she then added: “And if he doesn’t take the bait…well then at least I’ll know…that he’s not the cheating kind,” she said not sounding too overjoyed at this prospect.

I inhaled deeply. “So how do we do this? When do I start?”

“You start today,” she stated simply and handed me an envelope. I opened it cautiously and took out a cheque made out to me for £1000 and a photo of a rather serious distinguished looking man.

“That’s Charles.” She pointed to the address on the envelope. “And that’s where he’ll be this evening. You need to get there around 7pm,” as if she were sending me to a regular business meeting. I looked at her not quite believing that here she was, getting me all dressed up, to go and flirt with her husband…just so she could see if he were the
cheating kind
. I half smiled with hesitation, expecting her to fall about and say:
Just kidding, it’s just a wind up
. She didn’t. She just calmly stood up, smoothed down her skirt and left me sitting like a squatter in the private dressing room, with a mere: “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll meet again next week.” No:
Any questions Becky? Thank you so much for helping me out Becky.
Hah! I shook my head at her audacity, but was somewhat comforted by the sight of the cheque for a grand. Like it or lump it, Isabella Coombs was turning out to be somewhat of a financial saviour for me. And she wasn’t exactly asking for my soul in return. I looked down at the photo of Charles Coombs and reminded myself of why I was doing this. He looked like a lying cheating toe-rag. No wonder Isabella was so emotionally unstable,
schizophrenic
and highly strung. That would’ve most probably been me in ten years, had I not caught out bloody Jeremy. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, squared my shoulders with my head held high and said to no one in particular:

“I am doing this for all woman-kind. So that men like you,” pointing an accusing finger at Charles Coombs’s photo, “learn to respect us, and learn to treat us…like…princess
es!”

“Erm,” the sales assistant popped her head round the door and was watching me like I was a nutter. “If you’re finished in here…it’s just that we have a 5pm booking.” Five pm?!

“What time is it now?”

“Ten to five.” Oh shite!! I still had to get home, get washed, dressed, composed and out the door by 6.15pm the latest.

“I’m gone!” I called to her as I darted behind the screen. The butterflies in the pit of my stomach had begun to gather momentum and I flipped open my mobile, whilst struggling out of my first ever Chanel dress, in the hope of talking to someone – anyone – in an attempt at calming my nerves. I pressed redial. Julia answered. I had hoped for someone – anyone – other than Julia!

“Rebecca you are not seriously thinking of doing this?!”

“Julia, that’s a given. I just need to know which one of these outfits to wear…and
how
I do it!”

“Well I don’t know Rebecca,” she said scathingly. “What does a loose woman with no morals wear in order to seduce
someone else’s
husband!”

My next call, whilst running ungraciously down the escalator, was to Abigail, who was I have to say, taking this whole thing in far better spirit than Julia. And far more seriously.

“Now, let me get this straight,” she began, “she bought you a Christian Dior shirt, Prada trouser suit, Valentino…”

“Yes! Yes, Abby. All of that. Now what do I wear?”

“Well darling, I just simply have to come round and take a look at all these clothes. I mean it’s quite possible that the Dior shirt would look great with the trouser suit…but might be a touch too formal…or maybe the…”

“Argggh! No time. No time. I have to be there by seven!”

“Seven? Today? Oh dear,” she sympathised. “Now listen to me,” she said meaning business. When you get in, just throw everything onto the bed, and pull out an outfit that you think
I
would wear, if
I
was about to discreetly seduce someone. You just cannot be thinking like you’re dressing yourself. Otherwise you’ll look a complete mess and it’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said sarcastically, running down Knightsbridge toward the underground, trying my best to dodge commuters.

“You’re welcome,” she said seriously. “And when you get to the bar, walk in confidently, go straight up to the barman and order yourself a cocktail. With alcohol.”

“I’m not drinking!”

“Oh for gawd sake Rebecca. Do you want to do this thing properly or not? Right then. Now once you’ve got yourself a cocktail, scan the bar until you see him. When you
do
see him, try first to make eye contact and if that works then smile shyly and see what he does.”

“Suppose he does nothing?”

“Then you have to raise the stakes. You send a drink over with the barman and when he acknowledges you, smile seductively and play with your hair. That never fails. Trust me,” she said knowingly.

“Play with my hair?!”

“The hair on your head Rebecca. Not your pubes,” she laughed.

“I
know
what hair you’re referring to Abby. I just can’t believe you think men are so gullible.”

“Darling, you’d better believe it.”

“Humph. I think I’m going to just do it my way.”

“Which is how exactly?”

“I do know how to flirt you know Abby.”

“I’m sure you do darling. I’m sure you do…” she humoured me, her voice trailing off as I lost reception running down the steps to Knightsbridge station.

I, Rebecca Hardy, did not have a scooby dooby doo as to: a) what I was doing here and: b) how I was supposed to do it. But yet, here I was, dressed in an outfit I would never wear, drinking a cocktail I would never drink, in a bar I would never enter, in a side of town that I would never visit. Connolly’s wine bar was an institution in its own right, and with its chic cream and walnut-toned decadent interior, extravagant wine list with prices to match, attracted a loyal clientele consisting mainly of men wearing pin-stripe suits, flashing gold Amex cards. It was inconveniently located smack bang in the middle of the financial district, at the very top of the very tallest building, which housed a selection of choice investment banks and other fiscal establishments, who were known to hand out million pound Christmas bonuses to
high flying traders. So in other words, a mere snip of a beautician – such as myself – had no bloody business being here!

I sat rigid on the bar stool and sipped my Bellini, conscious of the cursory glances being thrown in my direction, being one of the few women present, and the only woman to be wearing a dress. A fitted one at that! I silently cursed myself for having taken Abigail’s foolish advice and dressed as I thought
she
would have done, which in itself was a conundrum. Because for one to
dress
like Abigail, one had to
be
Abigail. Or at least share her state of mind and reasoning. For instance, Abigail, having spent over six grand acquiring the most perfect breasts, used every opportunity to show them off, and saw it counter productive to ever think of covering them up in underwear. And this was the reason she never wore a bra under anything. So with hindsight, which as I say
is a useless fucker
, my decision today to wear this skin-tight Chanel dress – with no bra – in an attempt at dressing as seductively as Abby – was never going to be a good move for me, as unlike Abby, I hadn’t paid six grand for perfectly pert double D boobies, and was sat here with my meagre A cup nipples embarrassingly erect from the chill of the overly efficient air conditioning system!

I crossed one arm self-consciously across my chest, trying to hide the nipples that were permanently hard against the sheer fabric, and it seemed were the cause of most of these cursory glances. I so did not belong here. I so wanted to leave but what would I tell Isabella?

The bartender placed another Bellini down in front of me. “Madam,” he said flatly, “the gentleman over there would like to buy you a drink.” Already! Charles Coombs had taken the bait already?! I hadn’t even spotted him yet.

“Where?” I asked a little too eagerly as my heart started banging them out a mile a minute.

“Over there ma’am,” and nodded his direction. I looked over. A tall preppy looking guy wearing trendy glasses smiled over at me and raised his glass.

“That’s not him,” I moaned, starting to feel the effects of the Bellini.

“I beg your pardon ma’am?”

“I can’t accept it,” and pushed the second Bellini away from me, which the bartender discreetly removed. That was all I needed. Some smooth operator looking to complicate things for me!

An hour and two Bellinis later, I decided that Mr Charles Coombs was not going to show. I paid my bill and wobbled over to the ladies room where I peed as noisily as I wanted in my tipsy state, being, not surprisingly, the only person in there. I helped myself to lashings of Molton Brown hand cream, sat on a vanity stool and massaged my aching feet. I then noticed a selection of perfume decanters attached to the wall over the basins, and decided to try Joop. I fiddled with the top of the glass bottle but nothing happened. Hmm. I could see the bottle was clearly full so decided it must be one of those fancy complicated devices which had to be flipped over. And so I flipped it. And just like that, the bottle came crashing down into the basin with Joop splashing back up, drenching me in its fragrance. Great! Just great! I slammed the door behind me and hiccupped my way past the bar, hoping no one would notice I smelt like an entire perfumery. I glanced over at where I was sitting, wondering if anyone had jumped into my grave, and almost tripped over my own feet when I saw him sitting there. In MY seat! I needed my cool composure now more than ever, but I could almost sense Audrey Hepburn shaking her beautiful head at me and tutting.
She
would not have downed two Bellinis knowing she could only manage one. And
she
would not have thrown a whole bottle of Joop all over herself. I breathed in and exhaled deeply, trying to adopt a serene poise in an attempt at hiding the conflict of queasiness and fear battling it out inside of me. I walked as steadily as I could manage back over to the bar, and armoured with alcohol-induced courage, took the stool right next to Charles Martin Coombs himself.

“Oh sorry ma’am,” the bartender said, “I thought you’d left.”

“No problem,” I replied in the sweetest voice I could find.

“Anything to drink for you?”

Hell no! I wanted to say. “A Bellini please…oh and erm…a still water,” I almost whispered. I noticed that Charles Martin Coombs, busy reading emails on his BlackBerry, hadn’t even looked at me once. It was too soon to assume I wasn’t his type; after all it could be he genuinely hadn’t seen me yet. So, I straightened my hair, pulled down my dress allowing my erect nipples their moment of glory, turned to him and said: “Good evening.”
Good Evening?!
Did I really just say that? Oh ground, swallow me now.

Charles Martin Coombs glanced at me and looked to his left to see whom I was talking to. When he saw there was no one there, turned back to me and said with annoyance: “Excuse me?” as if to say:
You talking to me?

Under his stony expectant glare, my alcohol-induced courage quickly dissipated. “It’s a lovely evening. Isn’t it. Today,” I bumbled.

He looked at me as if trying to decide if I was crazy or not. “Quite,” he replied warily, suddenly looking keenly around the bar, for somewhere else to sit no doubt. I gulped down my third Bellini desperately wanting to kick myself. I can’t blow this. Isabella was putting her trust in me.

“So,” I started, trying to sound as seductive as possible, whilst my knees knocked together under the bar, “can I buy you a drink?”

He looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what I had just said, and shook his head solemnly as he started gathering his things together. “No thank you,” and my face quickly turned to a deep shade of scarlet as he muttered under his breath, “I think
you’ve
had enough!” He slid off the bar stool and stood whilst he gulped down his whiskey. He was taller than I had imagined him to be, but with him being married to Isabella I wasn’t at all surprised by his haughty attitude. He tapped the bar with the palm of his hand to get the bar-tender’s attention, which
I
thought was rather rude, but when the barman looked over, he just said, “Right, I’m off Chris,” and pointed a finger at him, “ now you have a good night!”