A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (15 page)

This time, dressed in unassuming outfit, and good support bra, I walked into Connolly’s with comfortable familiarity, and took my seat at the glass bar. And I
have
to say, that this time, with nipples tucked well away, the looks being thrown in my direction were far more respectful than the lecherous ogles I received last week. I made a mental note to share my findings with Abby. But then again, Abby didn’t seem at all bothered by the lecherous ogles she solicited on a daily basis.

“Good evening ma’am,” the bartender said without any recognition whatsoever. “Something to drink for you?” A simple no, would’ve been my immediate response, but fully aware of how ridiculous I would look sitting at the bar, for goodness knows how long before Mr Coombs showed up, I quickly scanned the menu. I wanted to order a soft drink but thought it would seem odd to sit at the bar sipping on a
soft
drink. And today I didn’t want to do anything at all that appeared odd. No, today I wanted to be gracious, elegant and charming. Hmmmm. Well…actually…today I was supposed to be myself. Just a better dressed version.

“A fruit spritzer please, “I smiled at him. I took my
Smartphone out, thankful that I’d decided to upgrade it, considering my current surroundings, and pretended to be reading through emails, in an attempt to look business-like, as opposed to single girl out-on-the-pull-like.

By 7.30pm Connolly’s was already bustling with City life and asset-talk, as loosened tie traders, eager to start their weekend off with a bang – or rather a ‘pop’ of the champagne cork – arrived in droves. I sat at the bar, discreetly trying to scan the joint, peering through the Jermyn shirts and Savile Row jackets, trying my best not to squint (crow’s-feet invite), or when I couldn’t see him, to scowl (massive frown-line invite).

By 8.30pm Mr Coombs was a no-show. Bored senseless, I had texted a hello to nearly everyone in my address book, and my mind, obviously fatigued with tediousness and with fingers on repetitive autopilot, I honest-to-goodness didn’t realise what I’d done – until I hit the ‘send’ button.
I
, cretin of the century, had just sent a
Hey, long time no speak
text to bloody Jeremy! “Oh. Fuck. Me!” I gave out to no one in particular. The mob of intoxicated City boys gathered to my right, had their female voice antenna finely tuned in, and promptly started chuckling at my exclamation.

“But my dear,” the smooth operator, whom I recognised from last week’s visit, started, “we haven’t been properly introduced,” and he and his mob fell about guffawing, slapping each other on the back. “So…how…do you…” he blubbered with hilarity, “…like your eggs in the morning?” I rolled my eyes at his originality; suddenly desperately hoping in vain that someone I knew would walk in, thus validating my inexplicable single presence at this male-dominated bar. No one walked in. But my newly up-graded mobile started flashing its blue fluorescent light ferociously for all to see and I gave Mr Smooth Operator an uppity look that said:
THAT is my date calling to tell me he’s on his way, and when he gets here he’ll sort YOU out!

“Hello?!” I shouted into the phone above the bar noise.

“Becky?” Jeremy sounded confused and hopeful both at the same time. My first instincts were to end the call, but I was almost grateful for something to do other than just sitting there.

“Jeremy,” I said happily, and aware of Smooth Operator’s curious gaze, I added, “are you OK darling?”

“I’m fine,” he said cautiously. “And you?”

“Sweetie I’m fine,” I sang, more for Smooth Operator’s benefit than Jeremy’s, whom I have never referred to as ‘sweetie’ before, as it was in fact one of those ‘icky’ words which I, under normal circumstances, would never use. This, I decided, was no ‘normal’ circumstance.

“Becky what’s wrong?!” Jeremy asked in alarm. “And where are you? I can barely hear you?”

“Ha ha,” I laughed trying to mirror Connolly’s Friday night merriment, “I’m at the bar darling!”

“Which bar? And why are you laughing?”

And for some inane reason I laughed again and said, “Connolly’s of course!”

“Canada Square Connolly’s?” he asked sounding even more mystified. Uh oh. This had gone too far. Mr Smooth Operator was hanging suspiciously onto my every word, as if threatening to expose me to Connolly’s elite clientele as an imposter, in retaliation no doubt, for sending back his drink last week.

Eager not to stay on the phone with Jeremy any longer, I quickly chirped: “OK sweetie. See you soon. Bye,” and hung up. My performance seemed to have satisfied Smooth Operator who moved back into the thick of his raucous mob. I exhaled. Tapped my fingers on the bar. Checked my watch. Nine pm. Time to go.

I stopped by the ladies room on my way out, where I rightly hit my head against the flock papered wall thrice. What the hell was I thinking of talking to Jeremy like that! He must have thought I’d had a drink and had texted him in a drunken wanton haze, the way most girls who miss their boyfriends embarrassingly do. I could of course tell the truth, and say I thought I was sending the text to someone else. But
that
would sound too much like the embarrassing excuse most girls who miss their boyfriends give. I had to think of a more plausible excuse. I inhaled deeply. And exhaled the entire problem. I would deal with it tomorrow. I checked my reflection in the mirror. I still looked pretty darn good. In fact, I was really loving this look, and I made a mental note to sort through my wardrobe as soon as I got the time. I eyed the decanter of Joop tempting me in the corner. “No thank you. Not today,” and sprayed my Chanel No 5 lightly across my chest.

I could only have been in the ladies for ten minutes max, but when I stepped out, the bar had swelled with even more boisterous bodies, with each man shouting over the other as though they were on some reminiscent trading floor. I pushed my way through the crowd, thankfully going unnoticed for the most part. This is, until Mr Smooth and his mob that had inconveniently repositioned themselves at the exit, spotted me slipping through the door.

“Not leaving us already,” Smooth Operator slurred not so smoothly. “And still alone I see.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him. “So, there’s obviously no boyfriend,” he said looking at me, then forced my arm up in the air and threw out to his mob, “Any takers gentlemen?”

“Oh piss off!” I snapped, yanking my arm away. I turned to make a dash for the door when I felt a rather large and wholly unwelcome arm circle my waist, tugging
me back. I gasped in shock. I could not believe that this seemingly educated man could behave like such a “Fuckin’ Idiot!”

“Tut tut,” he mocked. “Language. That’s no way to talk to a new friend.”

“Let. Me. Go,” I threatened as calmly as possible, though ‘calmness’ was the last emotion I was feeling. Hysteria was more like it! Suddenly wondering if all those stories I read in the paper about sexual harassment in the workplace, happened to happen at this idiot’s workplace. And by this idiot.

“Oh I’ll let you go,” he said tightening his grip on me and pulling my hips against his crotch, “just as soon as you give me a little kissy.” WHAT! I struggled against him, trying to get some leverage so that I could knee him, but the more I struggled the more he seemed to enjoy it. I saw his lips forcefully closing in on mine and I almost passed out with my last thought being:
I wish I hadn’t sent back his bloody drink
!

“What are you doing?” I heard an authoritative voice, sounding like solid steel, ask, as I closed my eyes shut. Smooth Operator unleashed me so quickly, I almost fell to the floor. I looked up to see the rest of the mob scattering and saw Charles Martin Coombs, with a face like thunder, looking at Smooth Operator. “I asked you a question,” he said with a deadly tone.

“Ah…Mr Coombs,” Smooth Operator stuttered. “Sir…we were just…erm.” He had the nerve to look at me as if to see if I was going to back him. I gave him a toxic stare. “Just larking about sir,” he shrugged helplessly. Charles Coombs just looked at him with deadly serious eyes.

“Just ‘larking about’,” he repeated in a flat tone. He glanced over at me, then back to Smooth Operator. “And have you finished?”

“Sir?”

“Have you finished? Larking about?” he asked, looking Smooth Operator in the eye, as though he were contemplating some grave decision.

Smooth Operator gulped. “Yes sir,” he said sounding defeated, nodded his head at Charles Coombs and walked off with his hands tucked in his pockets and head hanging real low.

I stood there, rooted to the ground, with my knees knocking, in my elegant sophisticated façade, looking at my handbag which was lying on the floor, wondering what the hell had just happened. Charles Coombs just watched as I bent down and retrieved my handbag with trembling hands.

“Are you OK?” he asked with no concern whatsoever in his voice.

“Fine,” I whispered, still shivering.

He nodded his head briefly in acknowledgement, and then turned to walk away. Then he hesitated, and turned back. I thought perhaps he was going to offer to see me into a cab, and even in my rattled state, I wondered if this were my opportunity to see if he would take the bait, so I could just get this damn thing done for Isabella and never have to be amongst these wretched people again. But he didn’t offer to see me into a cab. He just looked at me, as elegant as I was, again with disgust, and said: “I would suggest that you choose your
drinking
companions more carefully,” turned and walked away! Arrrrggggh!! I felt a rage consuming my elegance, as I wanted to hurl my handbag at his big arrogant head. But I did not. Instead I stood still and quietly counted to ten. And then, when I was certain no one was around, I screamed my head off!

I stormed out the revolving street doors, still livid with rage, cursing the location of this bar as there was not a single cab in sight.

“Damn!” I stood on the deserted pavement, lit up by street lights and stars, considering my options for getting home, which at 10pm on a Friday night, stuck in the financial district, did not look good. I was just about to call Julia when I saw a familiar midnight blue Porsche come screeching to a halt in front of me. As soon as he stepped out the car, I ran straight into his arms and hugged him as tightly as I could. I nestled into his neck and sighed, “Take me home Jeremy.”

C
hapter Eleven

“Why are you whispering?” Abby moaned, not at all happy at being woken up so early on a Saturday morning, but not yet realising exactly how early it actually was. I could almost see her peering under her eye mask, rummaging around for the clock, and then, “Rebecca! Are you crazy?!!” realising it was 6am.

“He’s in my bed,” I hissed, popping my head around the bathroom door, glancing down the hallway to the room where Jeremy was still sprawled out on the bed.

Abigail, suddenly sounded more alert. “So, he took the bait,” she said sounding surprised.

“What? No! Noooo. Not Charles Coombs…Jeremy!”

“Jeremy who?” Then probably bolting upright, hauling the duvet off her latest conquest. “Not
bloody
Jeremy?”

“The one and only,” I deadpanned.

“Rebecca, have you lost your mind? Why on earth would you take him back?”

“I haven’t taken him back,” I paused. “And I don’t want to take him back,” I said quietly, realising that Jeremy and I really were through. For good. Oh, he had been wonderful last night. No doubt. He had done things to me that he had never, ever done before, but whilst he tried his damnedest to make me climax, nothing happened. Nada. All I kept thinking was; I wonder who taught him how to do that, and I wonder just how many ‘
bits of fluff
’, he’d done this to.

“But you had sex with him right?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Hmm hmmph.”

“So what was it? A sympathy fuck?”

“No! He really helped me out last night…” I could have added that having gone to so much effort, getting ready yesterday, only to be rejected – yet again, by Mr bloody Coombs, had left me desperately in need of some…
appreciation
. And the way Jeremy had gawped with desire when he saw me, had made me feel…
appreciated
. And so I had just lay back and allowed him show me just how much he appreciated me. Over, and over, again. I could have told her all this, but I decided it best not to affirm any of those thoughts by verbalising them. “And I just…didn’t want to be alone.”

“Fine. No harm done. He helped you out. You fucked him. You’re even. Now you have to kick him out. Simple.”

“I can’t just ask him to leave at 6am in the morning!”

“Darling, you have to!”

“But he…”

“Rebecca. You
have
to. If you don’t do it now darling, all that’ll happen is you’ll end up cooking him breakfast and that bastard will end up sweet-talking his way back into your life.” And just in case I hadn’t quite got the message, she added, “To cheat on you again. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” I muttered.

“Then go kick,” she said flippantly.

I clattered around the bedroom making as much noise as possible, until eventually Jeremy said sleepily: “Hey, what time is it? Come back to bed.”

“I can’t,” then summoning strength from some unknown place, added, “you’ve got to go.”

“What?” he asked half asleep, propping his head up on one arm. His tousled hair fell across his eyes and he used his hands to slowly move it back over his head. He looked at me groggily under his long dark lashes, and patted the bed beside him. I sighed.

“I’ve got to go. Out,” I said closing my eyes, embarrassed at my own weakness.

“What? Now?”

“Yes. No. Not now.”

He looked at me puzzled. “
OK
… So I’ll wait here for you.”

“No Jerrers. I’m sorry,” I sat on the edge of the bed shaking my head. “You can’t stay. I don’t
want
you to stay.”

“Becky I…”

“No Jeremy,” I looked him dead in the eye. “It’s over.”

“But last night…”

“Last night was wonderful. But it’s
still
over.”

“You want to take it slow,” he explained. I shook my head sadly. “No. No, no. That’s absolutely fine,” now pulling on his boxer shorts. “I messed up, and you’re a little unsure of me now. That’s natural,” he said buttoning his shirt in the mirror. “You need time. I understand.”

I went over to him and took his hand. “Jeremy. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Ssshhh sshh,” he said putting a finger to my lips. “Becky, I understand. We’ll move at your pace.” Then he smiled his killer smile at me. “I’ll wait for you babe. You’re worth it.” And then he left. I threw a slipper at the door as he closed it behind him.

I ran down Sloane Street, as fast as one could in brand new four inch slingbacks, checking my watch, which only confirmed the
inevitable. I was late. How on earth I could’ve been up at 6am, with nothing at all to do, and still end up being late for lunch with Isabella at 1pm, I have no idea. All around me, immaculately dressed Sloaneys, carrying rope-handled, non-sale, boutique shopping bags, were casually strolling along, maintaining their dignified poise, and there was I, dressed to blend perfectly into the sorority, frantically legging it between them!

“Oh sorry! Excuse me,” I apologised to the Sloaneys, as I almost knocked them over, in my fruitless attempt at being as
least
late as possible. I say
fruitless
, because late I was, and happy Isabella was not.

“Oh hi Isabella,” I said breathlessly, as I pulled out a chair and sat opposite her. She was sitting at a luncheon table under the canopy of
Sloane Street’s most exclusive eatery, Giuseppe’s, wearing huge dark sunglasses and a stunning slim fitting white trouser suit, with plunging neckline and a single gold gilt button. I noticed how healthy and tanned her skin looked in the daylight, as if she’d just got back from Belize or some other exotic restful location. Needless to say, she looked amazing, and I wondered what on earth possessed her to marry such a grumpy old gruff like Charles Coombs. “Sorry I’m late. I got stuck…” scratching around in my grey-matter, for any plausible excuse, “…on the underground.”

She moved her head ever so slightly, which could have been a nod of acknowledgement, but then again, maybe not. She stretched out her slender neck even further so she could lower her eyes to my shoes, which she must have recognised and approved of; as they had been her choice. Then she assessed my Missoni tunic dress and Westwood handbag, again both her choices, and nodded her head smiling ever so slightly. “Nice,” she said simply.

“Thank you.”

“So,” she began but paused as the waiter poured water into our glasses. “Any progress?”

“No. Nothing,” I sympathised. “But I can see what you mean about him!” She coolly propped her sunglasses onto her head and looked at me curiously. “Oh, he’s a real piece of work isn’t he?”

She raised her eyebrows as if to say:
He is?!
“What do you mean?” she asked evenly.

“Oh, he’s just…impossible! And so arrogant!” I huffed. She studied my face with real intrigue, and delicately touched her chin in thought.

“I think he’s going to make a pass at you soon.”

“Isabella, I honestly doubt it.” I looked down at my shoes. “I just don’t think I’m his type.”

“Oh, you’re his type,” she said knowingly.

The waiter brought over two cob salads and I looked up at him, wondering how he knew I would have wanted this. Then I realised Isabella must have already ordered for me and I marvelled at how intuitive she was. She certainly knew how to read people.

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter and started tucking into my salad.

“You have to get him to trust you.”

“Excuse me?” looking up from my plate.

“He’s a very cautious man is Charles. He’d simply never make a move unless he trusted you.” I gave her a puzzled look. Because surely, if he’d ‘
never make a move
’, therein lies her answer. Then, as if having read my mind, she quickly added, “Oh but that doesn’t mean he
won’t
build trusting relationships with women, with the aim of seducing them later!”

“Really?” I asked, hardly believing someone could be so calculating. I couldn’t imagine Jeremy putting scarcely any effort at all into conquering his ‘bits of fluff’.

“Aaah Rebecca,” she sighed. “You really are so naïve.” Humph. You should meet Julia, I thought. “You must establish his trust. Present yourself as a confidant.”

“A what?”

“A confidant,” she repeated pointedly. “Someone for him to talk to dear,” she said looking at her nails. “Let him have your number so he can call you whenever he wants to talk.”
What?
Now this was going waaay out of my comfort zone, which was already teetering on a slight thread.

“Isabella,” I put down my fork, “I’m happy to help, but I am not giving out my number to some stranger.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to. Just give him this one,” she said sweetly, sliding a top-of-the-range BlackBerry across the table to me. “It’s yours. I’m the only person who has this number and you can also give it to Charles.” I touched the silver BlackBerry warily, not quite sure what accepting it would mean. Would I be expected to talk to this rude obnoxious man at all hours of the night? And how, for frig sake, was I even supposed to give him the number when he clearly thought I was a drunken trollop. And wasn’t this stamping heavily onto the boundaries of reason? “At least this way we’ll know once and for all,” Isabella said trying to reassure me. Then, when she saw me thoughtfully lightly tapping my fingers on the offending BlackBerry, still in the middle of the table, she added, “Oh, I almost forgot,” reaching into her handbag, “this is for you.” And handed me an envelope. I opened up the envelope, again warily, and almost fell off my chair when I saw a cheque written out to me for £5000. I had never had a whole £5000 all in one go before. Was she giving me this amount? Why? I looked at her questioningly rather than thankfully. “For you,” she said. “Because I know I’m asking you to cross some boundaries you’re probably not comfortable with…and I know its probably going far beyond the call of ‘
personal shopping
’ duty…but Rebecca you’ll be doing me such a huge service, allowing me to find this out once and for all. I don’t know how to thank you enough. I hope this can compensate your time.” I smiled a thank you to her and she looked almost relieved. “Oh and here,” she said sliding me a large rope-handled, non-sale, boutique shopping bag, “just a couple more outfits I picked out for you.”

I sipped my fruit juice and looked at Abigail and Julia for their reaction. I had just spent the best part of twenty minutes recounting my last encounter with Mr bloody Coombs, and that in itself warranted some kind of response. We were sat outside on Julia’s terrace with the Sunday crew milling around, and the distinct smell of the obligatory after dinner marijuana wafting through the air, as the joints started being passed around. I gave them a moment to digest my anti Charles Coombs ranting, as I watched Sebastian play fight with that black guy, Bradley, who Juju tried to set Abby up with, all the time wondering why I was so angry with Charles bloody Coombs.

“Well,” said Julia looking mystified, “I think he sounds lovely.”

Abigail blew smoke circles up in the air and looked at Julia. “He
sounds
like an absolute bastard.”

“Abigail!”

“He left her stranded for chrissakes!”

“Well she’s not his responsibility! He doesn’t even
know
her.” Then, looking at me accusingly, “
She’s
just there to lure him into some…sordid trap! And in spite of that,” now using a finger to emphasise her point, “he still, out of the goodness of his heart, rescues her from some…some…knob-head, who was about to rape her!” Abigail rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Juju,” I interjected, “he wasn’t trying to
rape
me!”

“Well how do you know how far he would have gone? If Charles Coombs hadn’t
rescued
you, you could be sitting here quite a different person today Rebecca Hardy. A knight in shining armour is what he is. I say you ought to thank him. Not trap him!”

Abigail shook her head dismissively. “Oh for gawd’s sake Julia! The man’s a beast.” Then looking behind me, “Speaking of beasts, what’s
he
doing here?” I spun around and saw Jeremy looking like he’d just stepped out of a modelling shoot, walking toward me.

“Hey Becks,” he smiled at me with a wink. Abigail narrowed her eyes at me. Julia looked like she was about to clap her hands.

“Hey Jeremy,” I said quickly and ducked down pretending to scratch my ankle so I could physically turn my back on him, in what I hoped was obvious ‘
go-away
’ body language. And it probably would have worked too, had Julia not squealed:

“JERRERS!” and waved him over toward her. “Jerrers, you look great!” Then she winced as Abby kicked her foot under the table.

“Thanks Juju,” he said. And suddenly feeling hot under Abigail’s challenging stare, thankfully, turned back heading over to Sebastian. “I’ll catch you girls later.”

“Humph!” Abigail offered him. As Jeremy passed me he touched my shoulder tenderly and I didn’t react. Just tried to look disinterested. Abigail narrowed her furious eyes at me even further. “So darling,” she started with a stern tone, “you and Jeremy seem very
friendly
?”