A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (8 page)

“Yes. That’s Bradley.”

Abby turned and gave him another look over. “Well,” she said dismissively, “he’s no Idris Elba.” No. He was not Idris Elba – but equally as hot in my opinion. He was in his late twenties – early thirties at tops but exuded a confidence which gave him a certain air of supremacy. “Anyway, as I’ve already said: I am not interested.”

“Oh.”
Julia seemed genuinely disappointed. “Well, that’s a shame. I felt sure you two would be perfect for each other.”

“And what on earth ever gave you that idea Juju?” Abby asked leaning back on the couch.

“Well, I asked him why he was still single – as he’s obviously gorgeous and
very
successful – I’d have expected him to have been snapped up long ago. Well, he told me the kind of woman he was looking for was extremely hard to find. So then I said, well what kind of woman are you looking for Bradley? I know lots of lovely girls.” I sipped my wine with apprehension fully aware of Julia’s non-gift of tactfulness and hoping this tale wasn’t going to end in Abby clawing her eyes out. “But he just laughed and said that it wasn’t a
lovely girl
he was after.” Uh-oh. Here it comes. “He said he wanted a woman of
diversity
…that she had to be a lady in the streets, a cook in the kitchen and a complete
whore
in the bedroom,” she stated simply. I gulped my wine and nearly gagged as it flew down the wrong hole. I watched Abigail nervously for a reaction desperately praying that my two best friends were not about to fall out again, but whilst her face looked set, she didn’t look angry and I can’t say for certain but I thought I saw the beginnings of a faint suppressed smile.

“Well Julia,” she said quietly, “what under heaven’s creation gives you the impression that I can cook?”

Chapter Four

“This year,” proclaimed Sebastian, “I’d like us to go there in style,” and inhaled deeply on a rather large spliff, sliding down further on the overcrowded divan.

“I’m not driving,” moaned a red-eyed Humphrey, who also worked at Ivan House.

“Oh god no, Humph. We don’t want to drive. Spoils the fun,” Seb said, passing the spliff to Humphrey.

“Coaches were a bit of a disaster last year,” Humphrey grumbled, taking a few drags and passing the spliff to me. I shook my head no. “Righty-ho,” he acknowledged and passed it to Julia. “Some twat threw up all over the back seat didn’t he?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s right. Some prick from acquisitions. I heard the ladies coach was much more exciting. Wasn’t it Becks,” he winked at me with a wicked grin. Julia nudged him a warning not to tease me about it. We were only in March and already making preliminary plans for Ladies Day at Ascot which was a good three months away. Royal
Ascot
was
the
most fashionable date in the racing calendar and next to New Year’s Eve, the highlight of our entire year. We’d been going for the past several years and although it wasn’t quite what it used to be, due to every Tom, Dick, Sharon and Tracey that turned up on free booze day trips, it was still a bloody good day out. I’d have my outfit ear-marked months ahead and hat shopping with Abby and Juju was always great fun – trying to find the largest most flamboyant hat available. Ascot was also one of the few occasions each year where I would allow myself to drink more than my usual one glass of champagne, due to the sheer jubilance of the occasion and the mere fact that everyone else seemed to be downing bottles of it. Unfortunately my one glass rule had been implemented for very good reason – one glass was all I could handle before making a complete and utter arse out of myself. Which was exactly what had happened on the return coach last year, where for some inane reason I had stood up to start a rousing chorus of “
for he’s a jolly good fella
” in appreciation of our driver, when
he
– not appreciating me standing up whilst doing 70 miles per hour – promptly swung over to the hard shoulder throwing me tits over arse and landing with a bloody nose.

“What? Oh yars, yars,”
Humphrey agreed, “I also heard it was
JOLLY
good fun on the ladies coach,” and guffawed whilst snorting like a pig at the same time. Seb sniggered, the most he could do with Julia curled up in his arms.

I rolled my eyes at them both. “Ha! How funny,” I said dryly and saw the smile instantly leave Sebastian’s face, which took on a look of seriousness as he pushed Julia off his lap, straightened up, all the time looking past me in the distance.

“Oh bloody hell,” he said flatly.

“What?” I asked as Julia made a ‘
shit, what do we do now
’ face.

“Alright guys?” a familiar voice said. I immediately swivelled around to face him. He looked like he’d been sleeping rough the past few nights and his usual
effervescent quality had been replaced by a far more subdued one. I suddenly realised that this was the first time in two years I had come here on my own, not being part of a couple. And I hadn’t even really missed him. I also realised that this place on a Sunday was as much a part of Jeremy’s routine as it was mine. I wondered where he’d been all day and if he had eaten. He looked so meek I had to stop myself from jumping up and fixing him a plate. I looked over at Julia who was of no help whatsoever, as her facial expression said exactly what she was thinking:
Aaah poor Jerrers.

Abigail appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of him. “What the bloody hell are
you
doing here?!” she spat at him.

“Abigail!” Sebastian, being the only person who ever could, silenced her. “It’s not your business. Butt out now!” She opened her mouth as if to protest. “Now!” Then she threw her nose in the air at Jeremy and took a seat, protectively, next to me.

“Hey guys,” he managed, “don’t worry. I’m not staying. I just wanted to have a chat with Rebecca…and as she’s not returning my phone calls…well, here I am.”

“Jeremy,” I started, “I’m not returning your phone calls because I do not want to talk to you!”

“Rebecca! We’ve been together for years! I’ve fucked up! We really do need to talk!”

A little voice behind me said, “Oh Becky you really do need to talk to him.” Sebastian, Abigail and I all glared at Julia. “Well, you
do
,” she pleaded. “You can’t ignore it forever sweetie.”

“Fine!” I snapped and marched off toward the far end of the terrace with Jeremy in hot pursuit, both of us being watched by the mostly stoned Sunday crew. “What do you want to talk about Jeremy?” I asked with folded arms, trying to sound as tough as possible. Problem was I didn’t feel at all
tough
. Like jelly would’ve been a more accurate description of my current state of feeling. He looked like a lost puppy, and totally adorable in his vulnerability. I wanted desperately to cuddle and kiss him. This was so not right. He was my Jerrers. We were a couple. A team. This same time last Sunday we were both here curled up beside Juju and Seb, teasing Abby and planning for Ascot. It would never ever have crossed my mind that last Sunday was to be the last time we ventured out together anywhere – as a couple. And why?! Because he’d succumbed to the voluptuous charms of some immoral strumpet! Was he insane to think he could cheat on me and carry on as normal? “
As you were
”, so to speak. What on earth would make him think that? A dreadful thought suddenly crossed my mind and my lips literally trembled as I asked him: “Jeremy, this isn’t the first time you’ve
cheated
on me is it?” He groaned deeply, sadly, ran his fingers habitually through his hair, and his eyes started searching the ground again for the answer. “Well? Is it?”

“No, it’s not the first time,” he whispered.

“Hah!” A lump the size of a golf ball instantly materialised at the back of my throat and angry humiliated tears started stinging at my eyes as I glared at him willing myself to stay strong and not give him the satisfaction of ever seeing me cry. I tried to remember all Abigail’s little nuggets of support: “
good riddance to bad rubbish
”, and all that. I wanted to hurl filthy abuse at him but reminded myself that one should always do ones best to remain ladylike at all times – even whilst one is confronting  cheating ex-boyfriend. After all, Audrey Hepburn would never have thrown an embarrassing hissy. She would have simply held her beautiful head up high and asked quite calmly: “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss Jeremy? Only I’d rather not waste anymore time standing here with you.”

His mouth fell open in surprise at my reaction. “Well…well yes, damnit! Look Rebecca I’m crazy about you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. I should never have cheated.” What he meant was he should never have got caught! I looked at him, doing my best to feign disinterest. He picked up momentum. “Not one of those girls meant a thing to me Becks. There were just…just a bit of fluff. Rebecca please, you’re killing me. Just…please let me make it up to you. I promise I will never so much as even look at another woman.” And that was it? He wanted to
make it up
to me? Humph! Abigail was right. He’d taken me for a fool all these years and was still taking me for one now. I stuck my chin in the air and even managed a faint smile.

“Is that all?” I asked sweetly.

“What?!”

“Is. That. All?”

“Well yes! I want us to get back together Becks. This is madness!” His ‘meekness’, probably also feigned, was fast wearing off, as the arrogance I was used to, began to quickly resurface.

“No.”

“What do you mean
no
?” he asked as if I had just refused a four-week rollover jackpot on the euro lottery.

“My answer is no. I don’t want to be with you anymore Jeremy.” I said summoning every iota of strength in my body preventing me from hurling my screaming hysterical self at him, in what would surely have been a most unforgettable scene for the Sunday crew.

“Rebecca…”

“No,” I repeated looking him dead in the eye.

“Are you absolutely sure about this Becks?”

“I have never been more certain about anything in my entire life.”

Chapter Five

I had never been more uncertain about anything in my entire life.

There was no other option of course. At least none that had a hope in hell of ending anywhere close to well. Even I know that once a man strays he will always stray. No. I couldn’t be with Jeremy anymore, but I wasn’t exactly skipping through the meadows at the thought of being without him. The past four years of my life had been wrapped up in all things Jeremy and if truth be told it was pretty damned difficult to imagine a day, yet alone the looming years ahead, without him. I realise now that there were a lot of things – little things – about having a man around the house that I would happily take for granted. Like putting the garbage out. I mean, where do I put it? And what day do they collect it even? And how the bloody hell will I change a fuse in the fuse box without electrocuting myself, the next time something trips the system, which was a regular occurrence around here! And where, more importantly, was the sodding thing anyway? And thinking of little things which I’m going to miss, whilst we weren’t tying each other up with leather straps or dripping hot candle wax over our oiled bodies every night, our sex life was good. And yes, I will miss it. BUT, I shall happily embrace celibacy because even that has got to be better than the mere possibility of ever reliving this tragedy. With my hand on my heart, if I had known four years ago when I first met Jeremy that he was going to turn out to be a serial cheater – I would never have gotten involved. But hindsight really is a useless fucker. What use is it now? Should have given me a glimpse back when it would’ve made a difference.

My only saving grace in this sorry tale is that Jeremy didn’t just agree, but suggested that I keep the apartment, without having to buy him out. He’ll stop contributing to the mortgage as of now, due to the fact he’ll be needing to get his own place fairly soon, which whilst it’s great news, places an extra twelve hundred and fifty pounds on my already burdened shoulders each month. Oh bugger.
And the hits just keep on coming
.

Having not been able to sleep at all last night, I was in and out of the gym by seven thirty this morning and managed to break my own record by arriving to work at eight forty-five. Lauren, as usual, was already there, looking wide awake and incredibly stylish in her Prada trouser suit. She was humming a tune and looking far too jolly and energetic for a Monday morning, as she tapped away on her keyboard perched at the reception desk. Lauren was one of those annoying people who was constantly in high spirits, never moaned or complained – not even about Portia or Gwendolyn, who both gave us all on a daily basis countless reasons to bare our fangs, behind their backs of course. But not Lauren. She had the ability to shrug off a belittling comment, or laugh off a blatant snide remark with effortless ease, and still managed to find something nice to say in return. She was extraordinary. And I loved her.

“Well, well, this is a first Rebecca,” she laughed lightly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I explained, throwing myself down on the cow-skin chaise, intended for clientele only. “Is her highness in?” I asked pointing up above.

“No, not back till this afternoon.”

“Oh goodie. What about Lady Muck?” I asked referring to Portia.

Lauren laughed. “Not yet.” Then looking at me with touching concern, “It was quite a surprise Jeremy turning up like that last Friday.”

“Certainly was,” I sighed flicking through Pamper Moi’s new brochure, hopeful for a meagre mention of facial exercise training. Nada. Who was I kidding? Gwendolyn, not being one for ever changing her mind about something, meant it was probably never going to happen. I made a mental note to evaluate my career prospects. Not that a sea of options was billowing before me, but the career span of a beauty therapist was a relatively short one and after six years in the industry I wasn’t sure how many more I had left in me.

“So did you guys sort it out?”

“You could say that.” I put down the brochure and looked up at her. “We are officially over.”

“Oh nooo,” she said as though I’d just told her I’d just been diagnosed.

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Please don’t do that Lauren. Trust me, this is definitely for the best and it was for a
VERY
good reason.” My emphasis of the word ‘very’ conveyed all that needed to be said and she – being the considerate noble Lauren – understood immediately.

“Say no more,” shaking her head sadly.

“Anyway, what’s my day looking like?” I asked in an attempt to change the subject and lighten the current depressing mood heavily descending upon me.

She tapped a few keys then looked up at me with a humorous –
I know you’re not going to want to hear this
– look. “Good news or bad news?” she asked.

“Oh gawd,” I moaned, burying my head in my hands. “Good news please.”

“Well, the good news is you should be done by three.” Hmm. Yes, that was good news. I made another mental note to call Abby and see if she wanted to have dinner with me at Dino’s later. “And the bad news is…you’ve got Monika Rigmora.”

“Whaaat!” I leapt up to go check Lauren’s screen. There had to be some mistake. “There’s no way,” I said more to myself as my eyes darted over the screen confirming the appointment, then looking for a gap in another therapist’s day so I
could beg Lauren to move her over. No gaps. Great. “I thought she was banned!” I almost shouted. Lauren looked at me apologetically. Apologising for Gwendolyn no doubt. Arrrggggh! “Does Gwendolyn really not have it in her to refuse a few thousand pounds for the sheer morale and safety of her staff?!” Lauren shrugged helplessly. It really wasn’t Lauren’s fault. Gwendolyn had probably booked the appointment her own damn self. Monika bloody Rigmora was the absolute last person I needed to be holed up in a treatment room with today. She was a six foot tall Swedish goddess and supermodel, but more importantly she was stark raving mad! I read that she was in court quite recently for physically attacking a photographer, reducing the grown man to tears, smashing and stamping on his outrageously expensive camera and destroying along with it hours and hours of footage which he claimed he would never be able to re-create. One could almost begin to understand such barmy behaviour had it been a paparazzi photographer snapping her whilst she ate dinner with her long lost father or something, but this was a glossy magazine’s house photographer, on a photo shoot that
she
was being
paid
to do. And why had she attacked him? Because he’d suggested that with her having a cigarette break every five minutes, the shoot may well run over. And for that she’d assaulted him! Having read this in a tabloid newspaper, I would’ve instantly dismissed it as nonsense, had I not been privy to my own private demonstration of Ms Rigmora’s disgraceful tantrums when during her last pamper day here she tried to dunk my colleague’s head in a boiling hot pail of wax! Lovely.

“Oh don’t worry,” Lauren said, forever the optimist. “She’ll be fine with you.” I slumped myself back down on the chaise, determined to enjoy each moment of normality I had left before Monika Rigmora arrived. A few moments later I saw a Rolls Royce Phantom pull up outside and my heart somersaulted in my chest. My
whole body was rigid with fear, although in the back of my mind I knew I had at least another hour to mentally prepare for
her
arrival. I peeped out the door and saw Portia in a Versace mini dress, leaning up against the Rolls with a short, fat and elderly man tip-toeing up with tongue sticking out in an attempt to either kiss or lick her face. Yuk. “She’s got a new one today,” I muttered loud enough for Lauren to hear me.

“What’s he like?”
she asked looking up from the screen.

“Decrepit.”

“Morning ladies,” Portia quipped, breezing into the salon swishing her hips from side to side. “
You’re
not supposed to be sitting on that,” she threw out to me.

“
You’ve
been picking up old aged pensioners again haven’t you Portia?” I mocked.

She looked at me with a cruel smile. “And how’s Jeremy? He was
so
funny last Friday wasn’t he?”

“Oh, Jeremy’s fine. And how was your
old boy
last night?” I asked, inclining my head toward the Rolls and its driver.

“Who Victor? Oh he was
wonderful
!” She closed her eyes when saying the word ‘wonderful’ as though she were reliving some magical moment.

“Pay you well did he?” Moment over.

She glared at me. “What the hell is wrong with you Rebecca Hardy? Why are you constantly ribbing me about my choice of men?” She seemed genuinely hurt and I almost felt guilty, until she placed her hands on her hips, rocked her head and said: “Do I rib you over your obvious lack of judgement, considering the losers you choose to date?” I was just about to lay into her, abandoning all my Audrey Hepburn karma, when Charlotte and Diandra, the other two beauty therapists walked in.

“Hey guys, guess who we just saw,” Diandra said flatly, sipping on her Starbucks espresso, trying to battle her hangover no doubt. “That nutter. She just threw a cup of coffee over one of the guys at Starbucks.”

“And which nutter would that be Diandra?” Portia asked. “We know so many around here.”

“Er…what’s her name? Monika Rigmora. Hey, you don’t suppose she’s on her way over here do you?!”

I waited until I heard Lauren buzz Monika out of the salon before I dared to enter the reception area. If I had to spend one more second in that woman’s company I would surely end up either being fired or imprisoned! Quite possibly both.

“That bad huh?” Lauren asked.

“No. Worse!” I whispered hoarsely. Although there were no clients in reception, Gwendolyn was in the building and I didn’t want to give her anymore reason to remember that she had me on final warning.

“Here, this will cheer you up,” Lauren laughed, handing me my client dossier to fill in. This tedious document had to be completed after each client pamper day, detailing each treatment they’d received and every single product used, observations and analysis. The whole shebang. The purpose of this rather lengthy document was so we knew how to proceed on the client’s next visit – which in Monika Rigmora’s case – was hopefully never.

“Hah! You’re funny,” I said dryly, sitting down to the thirty minute task ahead of me. I’d arranged to meet Abigail at Dino’s for dinner at five, so I was still making pretty good time. I heard purposeful footsteps coming down the hallway and I knew instantly they belonged to Gwendolyn.

“Print out last week’s accounts for me,” she said in her cool haughty drawl to Lauren.

“Sure,” Lauren answered, completely unfazed by the rudeness of her request. I watched Gwendolyn as she stood drumming her manicured never-washed-a-dish-in-their-life finger nails on the reception counter top. She looked amazing in her slim fitting Gabbana turquoise suit and slinky silver Jimmy Choos. Apparently she used to be a model when she was younger, which didn’t surprise me one bit, as her snooty attitude would’ve probably gone down a treat in that industry. She glanced over at me, looking me up and down, then turned her concentration back to last week’s accounts.

“How did it go with Monika?” she asked to no one in particular as she read her reports.

“Very well Gwendolyn,” I offered, deciding the question must’ve been directed at me.

“No incidents?” she asked far too casually whilst still reading.

Well, unless you call a seamless flow of torrential verbal abuse, including the odd death threat thrown in for good measure, an
incident
. “No incidents.”

The brrring of the reception telephone pierced the tense atmosphere that seemed to follow Gwendolyn wherever she went. Lauren answered on the second ring.

“Good afternoon, Pamper Moi. How may I help you?” Gwendolyn flicked through her report slowly as if really digesting its content, but I knew she was silently appraising Lauren’s telephone manner, and I knew Lauren knew it too and wondered how on earth she didn’t just pass out under such pressure. “Hold the line please madam whilst I see if that’s possible.” She turned to Gwendolyn. “This new client would like a home session today.”

“Who is she?” she asked without glancing up.

“Isabella Coombs?” Gwendolyn knew the names of every woman worth knowing in London and if she didn’t recognise their name they could not get an appointment for a month ahead never mind the
same day
without her first doing thorough checks on their background. Whoever Isabella Coombs was, she didn’t have a chance in hell at a same day appointment here!

“Book her in,” Gwendolyn stated simply. And, “Rebecca will do it.” I opened my mouth to protest but after one look at Gwendolyn’s impassive face, I thought better of it. What a great fuckin’ day this was turning out to be!