A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (18 page)

I felt an ache in my chest as I stammered, “But she’s booked me for three more sessions.”

“Cancel them!” Mrs Dobson ordered. “Trust me. It’s better for you if you have nothing to do with that dreadful woman.”

I lit the candles, dropped a few drops of scented oil onto the burner, turned on the soothing background music and glanced over at Mrs Dobson. Her face, usually plumped with a content smile was set rigid with anger. I felt terribly guilty for mentioning Isabella Coombs and ruining Mrs Dobson’s pamper day, but I also felt terribly concerned as to why Mrs Dobson thought Isabella was so venomous. I dimmed the lights and slipped out the treatment room quietly.

As soon as I stepped into the hallway Portia spotted me and frogmarched me into the staff room. “Your BlackBerry has been vibrating non-stop!” she hissed as soon as we stepped inside.

“Where is it?”

“In your locker. I switched it off!”

“What?! Why?”

She looked at me like I had completely lost the plot. “Er…because it was VIBRATING NON-STOP?”
I got the BlackBerry from my locker drawer and turned it on. “And
that
parcel arrived for you by
courier
.” Portia pointed to a rather large box in the corner. “Are you crazy having gifts sent to you at work?” I ignored her and started unravelling the ribbon around the box. “Don’t you know that’s a sackable offence?” I opened the box, ripped through layers of tissue paper and lifted out the most exquisite floor-length silk metallic gown. “Oh. My. God!” Portia stared in awe at the dress. “That dress was in Nina Ricci’s fashion show!” She looked at me as if I a) knew who Nina Ricci was and b) understood the importance of that fact. “Last week!” she added in wonder, for effect. I shrugged blankly and ripped the envelope off the box thinking this dress couldn’t possibly be meant for me. “Rebecca,” Portia’s awe-struck voice interrupted my thoughts. “That’s a TEN THOUSAND pound dress!”

“WHAT?!” I ripped the note out of the envelope.

Rebecca, make certain you wear this dress this evening. I have arranged for you to have your hair and make up done by my team. A car will be collecting you from the salon at 2pm. Isabella.

“So?” Portia asked with her hands on her hips. “Who’s it from?”

“None of your business,” I said quietly, thinking I would turn grey before the day was out.

“I don’t know what you’re up to Rebecca Hardy, but make damn sure you know what you’re doing. Someone doesn’t just give you a 10K dress for no good reason
.” And with that, she marched back into the salon, leaving me perched on the edge of a wooden bench, holding a 10K dress, desperately trying to try to make sense out of nonsense.

A car will be collecting you from the salon at 2pm.
Well that was a joke for a start! I had a full pampering day booked in with Mrs Dobson, and even if I hadn’t, Gwendolyn would never agree to me leaving ten minutes early yet alone three hours! But I got the impression that Isabella wouldn’t take no for an answer. What to do? What to do? The alarm watched whirred in my pocket reminding me of Mrs Dobson’s mask. I stuffed the 10K dress into my locker and walked unsteadily back into the treatment room, thinking I had better not let Mrs Dobson know about this latest development.

I removed Mrs Dobson’s face mask and finished her facial with feigned enthusiasm and Mrs Dobson politely responded with feigned appreciation. I guess both our minds were elsewhere. Mine was busy chasing around the million and one problems whirling around in my head; starting with how on earth I was going to explain to Isabella that I just could not up and leave a client in the middle of her pamper day, just so I could go wandering off to get my hair and make-up done…for a DATE with HER husband! I massaged oil into Mrs Dobson’s temples without the usual appreciative ‘ahhh’s’ and studied the scowl in her tightly pressed eyes and lips that the Botox couldn’t hide, wondering why Mrs Dobson had become so very unsettled by the mere mention of Isabella’s name. Yes, Isabella could be
difficult…but for the most part she seemed rather…sweet…and…
vulnerable
? And yes, she did have a multiple personality thing going on…but I hadn’t ever seen a real nasty side to her. Not really. I defied the first rule of facial exercise;
thou shall not ever frown
, when I thought of jolly Mrs Dobson…and the niggling fact that…up until now…I would have trusted her sense of judgement completely. And now? And now…I really didn’t know what to think.

To say I was grateful when Mrs Dobson’s lunch tray finally arrived would be a gross understatement. I leapt from that treatment room and bounded to the staff room in a nano-second, took out the BlackBerry and started dialling Isabella’s number. I was going to tell her straight that she could not just book appointments for me in the middle of the day. I did have a job and my intention was to keep it. And with professional hair and make-up plus a 10K dress…didn’t she think she was going
way
too far to potentially catch her husband out? I had honestly meant to say all of that, and probably would have too, had Gwendolyn not shocked the hell out of me by entering the staff’s un-Gwendolyn-worthy humble abode.

“Gwendolyn!” I spluttered whilst switching off the BlackBerry behind my back. “Hi.”

She looked at me in an annoyed kind of way, as if she were trying to figure me out. “Are you
busy
?” she asked frostily, standing just inside the doorway.

“No not at all,” I gushed a little too eagerly. “I’m just…just checking my messages.”

“And are there many?”

“
Many?
” I asked in confusion, thinking this was all too much commotion in one day for my poor heart.

“Messages. Are there many messages?”

“No. None, actually.”

“Oh. Well that’s strange,” she said coldly, “as Isabella Coombs has been trying to get hold of you all morning.” I gulped as my heart started beating out a mile a dozen. Gwendolyn studied me as though she was looking for answers. I remained as poker faced as possible. “She needs you to go somewhere for her. Apparently it’s
gravely
important.” Gwendolyn did not sound at all happy at what she was…I get the impression…
having
to say. Then she added quickly: “A car will be collecting you at 2pm. Someone else will finish Mrs Dobson,” sounding pained and livid both at the same time. I knew how much this salon meant to Gwendolyn and the stringent policies she had put in place seemed rather harsh but certainly did maintain the salon’s impeccable reputation. Each client had her own specific therapist and they could rest assured that only their expert and chosen therapist would treat them. The shabby procedure of having multiple therapists treat one client on her pamper day was un-thinkable at Pamper Moi. Gwendolyn would never ever allow it. Until today. But why? I felt a sudden pang of guilt. This was Isabella’s doing. She must have got to Gwendolyn in some way.

“But
I
want
to finish Mrs Dobson,” I said standing up.

Gwendolyn just gave me a look that said:
This is all very peculiar and I know you’re up to something Rebecca Hardy
.
Just make certain it ends today
. “Just make certain you’re ready to leave at 2pm” and walked out leaving me standing there with Isabella’s BlackBerry in one hand and Isabella’s 10K dress hanging up behind me.

I stepped out of the black cab on Victoria Embankment, with my faultless air-brushed ‘natural looking’ make-up and flowing glossy tresses, having been recently styled by
Antoine Jacques, the celebrity hair stylist, wearing the Nina Ricci ten thousand pound dress, feeling like a glamorous socialite or fashion diva. Feeling like anyone other than myself. I felt like the very essence of my being had been poured into someone else’s skin. Into someone else’s life. And that a girl I once knew, who was always strapped for cash, didn’t care much about fashion and hardly ever wore make-up, was slowly slipping away for good. I inhaled deeply, searching for Rebecca Hardy, and exhaled, realising that she…I…would always be me. On the inside at least.

I stepped onto the Embankment, dressed to kill, as if I were in a fashion shoot, looking around for Charles Coombs. This was the exact spot and the exact time he had said to meet him. Opposite the station at 7pm. But he wasn’t here. Before I could even think about panicking and about how much of a lemon I must’ve looked to the group of tourists passing by, the BlackBerry started vibrating in my purse.

“Hello?” I answered without checking the caller ID.

“Hi. Are you here yet?” he asked.

I smiled with relief. “Yes. I’m standing opposite the station.”

“Hmm. I’m in the car outside the station…” I spun around to see the chauffeur-driven Bentley with blacked-out windows and blinking hazard lights, parked illegally immediately outside the station, “…but I don’t see you.”

“I’m here,” I laughed waving at the car.

“No. There’s just a woman there…waving…
Is that you
?!”

“It’s me,” I trilled.

Charles Coombs emerged from the passenger seat in a debonair dinner suit with dickie-bow, and crossed the street with a few confident strides. He stepped up to me with a quizzical look on his face. “Hello Rebecca. You look…” I almost blushed with anticipation at his expected compliment. I looked knockout, even if I did say so myself. “…You look…
different
,” he said cautiously. And the word ‘different’ didn’t sound at all like a compliment.

“Oh,” I fluffed, having been completely thrown off key by his flat reaction. “…I erm…thought I’d try a new look,” I smiled.

“Ah uh.” Then, I felt my face flush as he looked over my 10K Nina Ricci dress. He couldn’t possibly know how much this dress cost. He was a man. He couldn’t possibly have a clue as to ladies fashion. “Nina Ricci?” he asked simply. I swallowed, and nodded. “She’s one of my favourites. It’s very nice on you,” he said guardedly then indicated for us to start walking toward a boat in the distance. This was not going very well at all. How on earth could Isabella have been so short-sighted and put me in this dress, which only served to cause mistrust, when I was expected to work on building it! We walked along slowly, with me taking the arm he offered out of courtesy and with him busy connecting the dots. “So,” he started warily, “this beauty salon you work at. Are you sure you don’t own it?” I looked up at him and saw quite clearly he was trying to work me out. I didn’t make sense to his logical mind…and maybe…
maybe
he wanted me to make sense.

“Charles,” I said quietly, standing still. “This dress isn’t mine,” I explained and looked down at the pavement. “I wanted to look really pretty today…so I borrowed it.” I closed my eyes with shame at how easy and quickly I could lie now, and then I felt his fingers gently on my chin, softly lifting up my head. I looked at him and saw his face was now relaxed and that boyish smile of his had returned. I exhaled.

“And you look absolutely amazing,” he smiled. “Please forgive me. I’m just not very trusting these days,” and he must’ve mistaken my looking away to hide my shame as hurt, because he added, “…but I promise not to let my bad experiences cloud our friendship, and to always trust you Rebecca Hardy.” I smiled up at him and he must’ve mistaken my watery eyes as feminine joy, as he touched the top of my head ever so lightly with his lips.

We walked buoyantly along the Embankment with him trusting and being wonderfully amusing, and me deceiving and laughing easily at his funny story. I felt quite chilly, though it was a beautifully mild evening for April. The Thames was still and the waters looked unusually blue as opposed to the murky darkness I was used to seeing, and when Big Ben struck 7.15pm in the distance a few of the other stylish couples heading toward the boat picked up their pace.

“And here we are,” Charles announced as we arrived at the jetty. He held my hand to steady me as we walked down the fairy-lit ramp toward the boat. I was quite surprised to find that we were not actually on the boat as yet, but in a rather smart looking reception area/holding bay. Immaculately dressed waiters suddenly appeared out of nowhere offering us champagne cocktails and some kind of posh hors d’oeuvres. I quickly picked one off the silver-plated platter, with each hand, grateful for the champagne to calm my nerves and grateful to the posh
hors d’oeuvres to calm my rumbly tummy.
Is that caviar on these?
I wondered, examining one. Charles guided me through the crowd, further into the lobby, greeting several gentlemen along the way and ignoring the raised eyebrows of their diamond-dripping partners, once they realised we were together. We ended up at quite a secluded, supposedly VIP, roped-off area at the back of the lobby, and I could have died of embarrassment when I realised how I’d clutched onto my Bellini and caviar nibble, when here in the VIP section were lined up white-gloved waiters, each with a silver tray of VIP goodies, particularly for the VIPs! As soon as we entered the area a rather distinguished gentleman in a Navy officer uniform, adorned with numerous medals, came up to greet Charles. Instinct told me I had at least a few seconds before he turned back to me, so I swallowed my caviar nibble whole, downed my Bellini and placed the empty glass on one of the waiter’s trays, whilst he wasn’t looking.