A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (14 page)

“You too Mr Coombs, sir. See you again.”

“Sure.” Then looked at me, with what seemed to be…
disgust
…of all things! And walked off, shaking his solemn head.

C
hapter Ten

Kitty Kat jumped onto my lap and settled into a purring ball of gorgeous fluff, as I stroked her back. I tickled her behind the ears and she hummed her appreciation. I’m so glad I had overridden Jeremy on this one. He was adamant we shouldn’t buy her. And I was adamant that we should. Strangely enough, I’m not really a ‘pet’ person, and had never ever really wanted one. Least of all a cat. But on the way to Camden Market, on one of our Saturday outings, with me clinging onto Jeremy’s arm like couples do, I saw a genuinely happy-in-love couple come giggling out of a pet shop, carrying a cat basket. The woman was making silly baby noises to the kitten, and the man was looking at her with a cross between amusement and admiration. I watched her fuss as he placed the basket in the back seat of their car, all the time assuring her that the kitten would be fine with the regular seatbelt strapped around its basket. The woman furrowed her brows with concern, and then he took her in his arms and kissed away each line of worry on her forehead, and looked at her intensely, as if he had finally decided that she would be the mother of his children. With a sudden burdening desire for something I knew I did not have with Jeremy, but couldn’t quite name, I literally dragged him into the pet store. Just for a look. The smell wasn’t very good, and actually being inside the store wasn’t nearly as romantic as the giggling couple’s interaction had led me to believe it would be. But we weren’t that giggling couple. And Jeremy didn’t have the look of love in his eyes. The look of fury would be more apt, as he stomped about with negative drivel about the apartment being too small, and how it would smell, and how he wasn’t going to be cleaning out no litter tray, and would probably step on any animal I purchased – accidentally on purpose! But I’m glad I ignored him. I’m glad I insisted on looking around until I saw Kitty Kat, looking like a tiny ball of fur with huge soft green eyes. And I’m glad I lifted her from her cage and bought her home with me. Because although I’m home alone – again – on a Saturday, with no bloody Jeremy to wander around Camden Market with, Kitty Kat is here, curled up in my lap, adoring my attention. “You love me Kitty Kat, don’t you?” I tickled her.

I stretched my legs out on the couch, trying not to wake Kitty Kat, whilst I flicked channels looking for something – anything – to engage my mind, so I wouldn’t have to think about ‘
IT
’.
EastEnders
. Flick.
Friends
. Watched a few seconds. Flick.
Luther
. “Ohhh,” I moaned. It wasn’t working. ‘
IT
’ kept coming back to haunt me, with ‘IT’ being how I had made a complete and utter arse of myself at Connolly’s wine bar.

“I thought you didn’t drink?!” Isabella had snapped when I told her what had happened. “So,” she started, trying her damnedest to remain calm, “please explain to me why for Pete’s sake, you would choose to start drinking,” getting louder with each word, “on a day you were supposed to do something VERY important for me?!!”

I spread my hands struggling for any real excuse. “I’m sorry,”

She huffed in exasperation and shook her head. “No wonder he didn’t make a move! If there’s one thing Charles cannot stand, it’s drunken loose women!”

“Erm,” I had wanted to object to the term ‘loose’ and to explain to her that ‘tipsy’ didn’t equate ‘drunken’, but one look at her enraged face and I thought better of it. “Erm, maybe I’m just not his type?”

She looked at me like I was stupid. “After ten years of marriage, I think I know what my husband’s type is! YOU are his type. That’s why I asked YOU to do this. I wasn’t expecting you to morph into some raging alcoholic!” She sat back, lit a cigarette and said, as if it were nothing: “If I had wanted a common drunken hooker to
trap my husband, I would have paid for one.” My mouth fell open. Did this woman just call me a
hooker?

“Look, Isabella…” I was honestly just about to tell her she could shove it where the sun don’t shine, but either she read my mind, or got wind of the gist of it, because she miraculously transformed right before my eyes.

“Oh Rebecca, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I desperately need you to do this for me. It’s driving me crazy not knowing.” And then almost sensing my hesitation she added, “You know Rebecca…my father cheated on my mother,” and watched me for a reaction. Which was one of shock. Shock that Isabella Coombs was confiding in ME! Encouraged by my reaction she continued with a newly found soft voice. “Yes. He had a mistress for over twenty years. When I asked mother why she allowed it, she just said: ‘
Darling child, marriage is forever. And a good wife learns to put up with much and ask for little.
’ And she did exactly that. They’re still together now. He provides a home and takes care of her, and she guards her heart and preens her flowers.” I gave Isabella my best
I’m so sorry smile
. “You see, if it turns out he is not the cheating kind…I can continue loving him unconditionally, and giving him my heart. But if he is the cheating kind…then at least I’ll know…to guard my heart, so it can never be broken, and learn to put up with ‘much’.”

I wanted to tell her that her mother was wrong. That she didn’t have to put up with anything. But I was way out of my jurisdiction. Marriage was a whole different ball game. Especially when children were involved. Maybe her mother was right. “Let’s try it again,” I said.

She smiled gratefully at me. “And next time…please be yourself.”

“Well,” Julia huffed, as she played with Kitty
Kat on the couch, “I cannot believe you would want to put yourself through all of that again! I mean, how much humiliation can you stand?”

“But just look at these clothes!” Abigail held the Valentino shirt against her, and twirled for Julia’s benefit, who in turn rolled her eyes. “Rebecca, darling,” she said admiring the Louboutin shoes, “once you’ve shagged him, can I have these?”

I threw the cushion at her. “No! You bloody well cannot. They’re perks of the job,” and Abby and I laughed.

Julia did not. “So, what’s he like,” she asked flippantly. “What does he look like? Does he look like
the cheating kind
?” sarcastically.

“Oh for gawd sake Juju,” Abby said pouring herself another glass of wine, “you can’t tell by
looking
! Rebecca has to interact with him. She has to…” and with a wicked grin, “…tickle his fancy.” I chuckled.

Julia did not. “So how are you going to do it Becky?
Just how are you planning on
tickling
this innocent man’s
fancy
?” She looked straight at me. I refused to meet her accusatory gaze.

“Darling, no man is innocent,” Abby threw out. “They are all as guilty as charged.” And turned to me, “Now darling, this is how you need to do it. You wear something–”

“Oh noooo,” I cut her off. “No. No. No. I am not taking anymore advice from you. Thank you very much. Isabella tells me to be myself, and that’s exactly what I’m going to be. Just a better dressed version.”

“Hmm, Yep. Be yourself. That should do it,” Abby said mockingly. “But what you
do
need is a couple tricks up your sleeves.”

“Tricks?!” Julia cried with a look of horror.

“Yes Juju,” she said looking at Julia as though she were a simpleton, “tricks.” She turned toward me, commanding undivided attention. “Now, here’s one for free Becky,” glancing over at Julia, “…and you might want to try this with Seb.”

“I doubt that very much,” Julia spat.

Abby ignored her. “What you need to do, is to go and get yourself a pair of bright white, lacy panties…and you simply let him catch a glimpse whilst you cross and uncross your legs. Do that, and trust me my dear, Charles Coombs will be begging for it.” She winked at me smiling, satisfied with herself.

“Actually,” I said shaking my head, “
I know the white panties trick. Been using it for years, but it only works in an indoor setting where your target can get a natural glimpse. I couldn’t possibly flash my knickers at him in a wine bar!”

Julia looked relieved. “Glad to hear it,” she said flatly.

“No. I have to be as natural and as elegant as possible. Isabella reckons he likes ‘
holistic, wholesome
’ girls”

“Really?” Julia asked sounding surprised.

“Yes Juju. Believe it or not, some men like me exactly as I am.”

“Hmmm,” Abby mused. “Too bad it’s always the
cheating kind
.”

I lugged my tote bag and suit carrier out of my locker, and heaved them over to the dressing area of our staff room. I looked up at the clock which, with Gwendolyn’s zero-tolerance for lateness, was as accurate as Big Ben himself. Five forty-five. Hmmm. That meant I had a whole hour to get ready. Not bad. I could do a lot in an hour. I shrugged off my salon tunic, kicked of my flats and stepped into the shower to begin my methodical and planned-to-perfection transformation. I had decided that as Abigail’s advice was not to be taken, and that Julia had none to offer, that neither of them could help me in my mission. The only person that could do that was me. And I had decided that me, being me, was great. But me, being me…inspired by the most beautiful woman that ever graced this earth…was even better. I silently paid homage to the picture of Audrey Hepburn stuck inside my locker, then blow-dried my hair and slicked it all back into a loose chignon. I applied barely there make-up, foundation so light you could still see my freckles, and subtle lip gloss with just a hint of colour. I stepped into the exquisitely tailored simple black knee-length Gabbana dress and slipped on the low heeled Chanel slingbacks. I added the tiny pearl earrings but decided against the matching necklace. It was too much. I had to keep it simple, elegant and charming.

“Wow!” Lauren said as she stepped into the room. “Is that you in there Rebecca?” she teased. “You look amazing! Do you have
a date
?” Like
already?!

“Is that a Gabbana dress?” Portia asked circling me, already knowing the answer. “Well someone’s stepped up their game.”

“I’ve got a meeting,” I offered in explanation.

“What kind of meeting?” Lauren asked worried.

“Who with?” Portia asked suspiciously.

“None of your business,” I said to Portia and turned to reassure Lauren, “It’s definitely not work related,” I lied.

“You’re meeting a man though,” Portia said smugly. “I can tell.”

I gave her a look. “You can tell?” I said blankly.

“Why else would you go to so much effort,” she said with a flourish of the hand. Then leaning dangerously close to my face, “And put scent behind your ear?”

I blushed. “I have not!”

“You have too Rebecca Hardy. I know Chanel No 5 when I smell it,” and started applying make-up in the vanity mirror. “So who is he?”

I slipped on my jacket and tossed my head at Portia. “
You
wouldn’t know him,” I threw back at her as I headed out the room.

Poor Lauren looked up at Portia with confusion. “So she is meeting a man?” Portia looked toward the heavens and I made a mental note to properly introduce Lauren to Julia. They’d get on like a house on fire.

I strolled down Sheridan Place in search of a black cab, silently cursing Portia for mentioning the unmentionable scenting behind the ear. Now it would look like I was going on a date. A date for which I had made much effort. More effort in fact, than I had ever made for any man. A cab pulled up, I gave the driver the address and sat in the back crossing and uncrossing my legs. This elephant in my mind was beginning to annoy me. OK. OK!
I
had
scented behind the ear…
and
I had gone to great lengths to make sure that Mr bloody Charles Martin Coombs at least noticed me this time. And didn’t turn me down. For Isabella of course…
OK
…and a little bit for me, because if a ‘bit of common fluff’ could turn Jeremy’s head…then surely I could turn Mr bloody Coombs’s! What was wrong with me? I can’t keep my boyfriend happy. Can’t even pick up a stranger in a bar! Why was I so rejectable?! I inhaled and exhaled deeply, refusing to accept the negative thoughts invading my mind. There is nothing at all wrong with me. I, Rebecca Hardy, am a healthy, beautiful, elegant woman, for whom most men would give their right testicle to be with. And right about now, I could sure use a vodka tonic! Oh, but shit! I don’t drink.

By the time the cab pulled up outside Canada Square, I had regained some semblance of composure, and I held my head up real high, strode confidently through
reception and rode the lift to the ninety-first floor. Which took forever. The lift stopped on like every other floor to either let out, or let in, some pin-stripe suit. For some unknown reason these men all dressed the same. Sure, some stripes were bolder than others, or were on varying shades of black, blue or grey, but for the most part: identical. And why, I wondered, were there hardly any female traders working in this ginormous building? Were they not allowed? The City, I concluded, would not be a good place to open a beauty salon.
If
I were ever to win the lottery.