A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (20 page)

“And do you think dat everybody in dis gym really want to see your tits?” referring to the way the thin lycra top hugged her boobs like a second skin.

“Yes actually. They probably do,” Abby replied with a smug smile.

The Gustard licked his lips. “Let me feel dem,” he said seriously and stepped toward her.

“Fuck off!”

“Why you got to swear all the time man?! Your mouth is real dirty!” Then probably realising he’d used the word ‘dirty’ in reference to Abby, a revolting look crossed his face and he raised his eyebrows twice in question at her.

“Oh piss off,” she said looking past him. “You’re blocking my view,” focusing on Mr Adonis using the bicep curl.

Gustard followed her gaze and kissed his teeth. “Chah! You ain’t even got no chance wid him! He ain’t interested in an old butters like you.”

Julia looked at me quizzically. “
Butters
?”

“Spreads very easily,” I whispered in explanation. She looked at me blankly, trying to figure out the relation no doubt, and then when it finally clicked she screwed up her face and shook her head at Gustard.

“Well,” Abby said standing up and smoothing down her skin-tight Lycra shorts, “we shall see if he’s interested or not,” and sashayed over toward Mr Adonis. Gustard looked at her butt as she passed him, swivelled his baseball cap and dragged himself behind her, leaning to one side like a one footed carcass.

“And she’s off,” I said flatly to no one in particular.

“Humph,” Julia replied as we watched Abby taking up position besides Mr Adonis. “It’s amazing how she does that,” Julia marvelled as Abby and Mr Adonis started chatting casually as if they had known each other for years. “She does look amazing though.” And then as if she were assessing or maybe even comparing her own looks, she groaned, “Oooh, I really need to find a new facial. Or do something more dramatic. These herbal peels are not making the slightest bit of difference these days!” touching her face.

“Facial exercise,” I taunted. “Your face will start melting away like wax if you don’t start soon.”

“But I don’t know how to do them,” Julia moaned, lifting her eyebrows with her fingers, as if this instant goodwill gesture would benefit somehow.

“I could teach you,” I said simply. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I’m giving lessons now.”

“So Gwendolyn finally put you in the brochure?”

“Hardly! I got requested. One of my regulars bought a block of lessons for her daughter.”

“That’s great! So how’s it going? Are the exercises working?” she asked sounding surprised that someone actually paid for lessons.

I looked to the heavens
. “Julia! I’ve only seen the client four times! It takes at least six weeks to see results, and that’s assuming she sticks to the workout regime I gave her.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. I shook my head at her.

“Looks like our girl scored,” I said flatly, watching Abby heading back toward us with Mr Adonis in tow. Julia didn’t comment. Just pursed her lips together.

“Ladies,” Abigail started, in the fakest voice I ever heard, “I would like you to meet Jason. He’s the
British karate coach
,” she said sounding really proud of her catch.

“Wow,” I said, trying my best to sound interested but failing miserably, “that’s great.” Abigail stuck her jaw out at me. “I’m Rebecca,” I said offering my hand.

“Nice to meet you Rebecca,” he smiled and shook my hand firmly enough. Then we all turned to look at Julia, whose face had turned a definite shade of pink, and was pretending to look at something in the distance. “And you are?” Mr Adonis asked.

“Julia,” she snapped without looking at him.

Abigail looked furious. “Hah!” she said. “Sorry Jason, my
friends
seem to be having an off day. Why don’t we go upstairs to the studio,” she said blinking her lashes at him, “then you can show me some self-defence moves.” I rolled my eyes at Abby.

Mr Adonis completely ignored her, and I noticed, hadn’t taken his eyes off Julia once. “That’s a really pretty name,” he said smoothly to Julia. And instead of sticking her fingers down her throat, Julia looked up at him timidly. Abigail’s ears pricked up and the look on her face said she didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit! “I’ve got a sister called Julia,” he said. I wanted to burst out laughing but I looked at Abby and saw that her jaw had hit the ground which was even more amusing.
He had a sister called Julia
?! My arse! It was a line. A CHAT up line and Abby and I had both heard it before. “She’s quite shy too.” I had to literally bite my bottom lip to stop myself from bursting out at the hilarity of it all.

Abigail placed her hands squarely on her hips and turned to him sounding a whole lot more like her usual self. “OK, listen Don Juan,” I could hold it in no longer and the suppressed laughter bubbled out of me uncontrollably. “Are we going to spar together or not?”

“Sure,” Mr Adonis said without turning round. Then, “Hey, Julia, why don’t you join us? It’s always good to know some self-defence.”

“Sorry darling,” Abigail dismissed him and sat down beside me, “we don’t do threesomes!” and looked at him as if to say:
Now hop it!

“Oh,” Julia said in a little voice, “but I’d quite like to learn some self-defence.”

Abigail glared at her but before she could think of a suitable response, Mr Adonis grabbed Julia up by the hand and said, “Well c’mon then,” and the two of them started heading toward the dance studio.

“Hah!” Abigail said in shock. Then quickly recovered, shouting after them, “She’s engaged!” Then turned to me in amazement and said, “Can you believe that?!” The fact that I was now roaring, meant I probably could.

“You sound out of breath,” Charles said.

“Because I’m late,” I laughed, running toward Anita’s squash club.

“Late? You mean you’re actually up and out already?” he teased.

“Oh please don’t. It’s still the middle of the night for me. In fact I think I’m sleepwalking. No, make that sleep-running!” I could hear his easy laughter at the other end of the line and I felt guilty as a smile spread its way across my face. Then remembering I had promised myself I wouldn’t talk to him again, I said, “Anyway, I really have to go now.”

“So,” he said quietly, “are you going to be just as elusive these next few days?”

“Of course not,” I lied. “I’ve honestly just been really busy,” I lied again. I hadn’t been busy at all. I had been watching the BlackBerry consistently light up with his calls and ignoring them. I had considered switching it off all together but I didn’t want Isabella showing up at work, and something told me if she wasn’t happy she just might. I had to tell her face to face that I would not be meeting with her husband ever again, and as I wasn’t due to see her until Thursday, I would just have to screen his calls until then.

“So I’ll call you?” he said sounding not very hopeful.

“Sure,” I said, feeling that annoying ache in my chest again.

As usual, as soon as I entered the centre I was amazed at how many people played squash at 7am in the morning. Most of the courts seemed to be already occupied as I walked past. These people must be nocturnal! I was really struggling getting up at 6am twice a week to meet up with Anita at her squash club, but 7am to 7.30am seemed to be the only time during the day which she could fit the luxury of facial exercise lessons into, and to be honest I was so glad to have an actual facial exercise client that I would’ve risen at the crack of dawn if necessary. Apparently Mrs Dobson had booked this block of facial exercise lessons for her daughter’s birthday, after she had flatly refused to accept a course of pre-paid Botox treatments with one of Harley Street’s finest. “
If it’s not natural, mother
,” Anita had apparently said, “
I’m not having it
.” Mrs Dobson had sighed with disappointment as she recounted the conversation to me, and said, “
She’s nothing at all like me Rebecca. Nothing at all
.” And although having a daughter who did not share her love for glamour or the pursuit of enhancing one’s looks with silicone or injection, was obviously not ideal for Mrs Dobson, it created a very perfect situation for me. Anita Dobson, being a dedicated squash coach, a practicing vegan with a holistic lifestyle, had embraced my concept of facial exercise with open arms. She was an absolute dream client that made me wish I could teach these exercises all day long.

“Do you know Rebecca,” Anita said to me whilst studying her fresh-faced reflection in the mirror, “I honestly think these exercises are working!” We were both
sat at the vanity station in the deserted ladies, plush changing room, which wasn’t ideal, but I guess as good enough a place as any, for facial exercise lessons.

I looked in the magic mirror with her. “Well, it usually takes at least six weeks to see some results and it’s only been four,” I said trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I of course hadn’t a clue as to how long it would take for her to see results, as with Anita being my one and only ever client, I had no one else’s progress to compare. I peered into the mirror at her reflection, suddenly excited at the actual real prospect that these facial exercises which never failed me, were really and truly working for another woman.

“Well,” she said, “maybe it’s because I do them every evening, but my nasal folds are definitely softer. And look,” she said, turning her face to the side, “doesn’t my jaw line look tighter to you?” Her jaw line
did
look tight but as I couldn’t remember what it was like before we started these sessions, I couldn’t honestly say if it were
tighter
. “You’re so modest,” she laughed. “These exercises of yours are amazing!”

I wanted to burst out laughing and say:
They are aren’t they
! happy to have another person who shared my enthusiasm, but I reminded myself to remain professional, smiled and said, “Well we still have a few more left before we’re done today.”

“Oh sure,” she said and placed her bottom lip over her top lip, jutting out her chin as far as it could go whilst gently holding her neck back with fingertips.

“One, two, three, four,” I began counting slowly up to ten, “now release, and breathe. And let’s do that one again.” She assumed the position and I started counting and when I heard the Blackberry, laying on the counter, starting to vibrate with a received text message, I didn’t stop. Just smiled.

“Boyfriend?” Anita asked as I checked the text message after our session:

…Just wanted to say that I really enjoyed your company the other evening and whatever I have said or done to have caused you to become so distant toward me, for that, I am truly sorry. I hope that we will always remain friends. C…

“No. Not a boyfriend,” I said quietly, silently going over the
scathing speech I would deliver to Isabella when I saw her, hopefully for the last time, on Thursday.

C
hapter Fourteen

“You’re not really planning on wearing that today are you?” Portia asked cautiously, looking at me as if her next question would be:
Rebecca, are you on medication?
And:
Are you taking it!
I had deliberately decided to dress down for my meeting with Isabella Coombs today. I didn’t want to wear any of the smart, expensive clothes which she had bought for me, with motives which were now seriously in question. I wanted to show her in plain and simple terms that I was not ‘working’ for her anymore. That I was no longer going to be getting all dressed up, preened and plucked for the sole insane purpose of meeting with her husband, whom she should surely know, was no cheat! I wanted to dress in a manner that said
Fuck You
, and I thought my converse trainers, second-hand Levi’s and tie-dye vest, did the job nicely.

“I’m trying to make a statement,” I said simply.

“Oh? And what statement could that be? Is it that you actually prefer to be on social security?” she said sitting cross-legged on the forbidden chaise, filing her nails. “Because when Gwendolyn sees how you turned up for work today, social security  will be your very next stop.”

“I’m booked out with Isabella all day. Gwendolyn doesn’t care what I wear when I’m with
her
.”

Portia looked at me pointedly, “Whether you’re out with
her
or not, you know as well as I do that if you’re representing Pamper Moi, Gwendolyn definitely cares!” She casually put her nail file away, obviously trying to fight the urge to say what was really on her mind. Then obviously not having the will power to fight it any further, looked at me in wonder and said, “How do you do it? How do you spend time with Isabella, talk to her, eat with her…all the time knowing you’re dating her husband?”

I leaned against the reception desk and groaned. “For the umpteenth time Portia, I AM NOT dating Charles Coombs!”

“Humph. I am many things Rebecca Hardy…”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I deadpanned. She ignored me.

“…but stupid is not one of them.”

“Oh whatever! Think what you like.” I looked at Lauren for some moral support, but she just half smiled and shrugged as if to say:
Date who you want Becky, but don’t lie about it
. “Great.”

“Anyway, I’ve got a spare outfit in my locker if you need it.”

“I won’t!” I snapped, praying that Portia would hurry up and leave for her personal shopping appointment. Or that Isabella’s car would arrive soon. At the very least…before Gwendolyn got here. Needless to say, it did not.

“Gwendolyn’s here!” Portia hissed, jumping up, but not quick enough, from the chaise. Gwendolyn closed the glass door slowly behind her and threw Portia quite a severe look. Then she looked at me as though I was dressed in rags drenched in urine.

“Are you not booked in with Isabella today?” she asked in an unfortunate serious tone.

“Well, I am, but…” I started but she cut me off.

“Change.”

“But I…”

“Now!” My knees felt like they would knock and I gulped remembering what Portia had said about social security. Gwendolyn started clacking her way to the spiral staircase, stopping at the bottom step to turn around and look at us. “Things are getting far too relaxed around here,” she said icily. “And
some
of you need to seriously consider improving your
loose
attitudes,” she said threateningly, looking directly at me, then made her way up the stairs. Maybe I was reading into it a little too much, but the way she had said the word ‘loose’ made me wonder if she had heard about me being out with Charles Coombs and whether that word had a different meaning altogether.

I turned to Portia. “Erm…about that spare outfit…”

“
Isabella! I think you are a manipulative insecure bitch and you really don’t deserve to have such a lovely, sweet, LOYAL man as Charles for your husband!
” No, no. Sounds way too personal. I have to keep it professional. I don’t want her getting me fired. I was standing in the staff room, dressed in Portia’s Chanel dress and Jimmy Choos, looking at myself in the mirror, practising my scathing speech for Isabella. Boy oh boy, was I going to tell her! Problem was, I wasn’t quite sure of exactly what I was going to tell or how I was going to tell it! It probably couldn’t even be quite as scathing as I’d like…or I’d run the risk of getting fired. I definitely couldn’t call her a bitch…or there’d be no risks involved in that, I’d just get fired! Hmm. What to say? What to say?

Lauren popped her head round the door. “Isabella’s car is here,” she said. “Are you OK?” she asked, which meant she’d probably heard me talking to myself.

“I’m fine,” I smiled at her, inhaled deeply, and headed out to the car fully mentally psyched, ready to face her. Right now. “Oh,” I said to the driver, “I though Isabella was meeting me?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I’m to take you to Giuseppe’s. She’s waiting for you there.” Great! Just great! I was mentally psyched to face her now! Not in fifteen
minutes! I slumped back into the sumptuous passenger seat of Isabella’s Bentley, and could almost feel the bravado dissipating from within me. I looked out the window as we pulled out of Sheridan Place watching beautiful, well-dressed people, go about their designer boutique shopping business, as if they existed in another world. A world without bills and debts, where their sole concern was looking good. A world where they could make insane demands and expect to have orders followed. A world which placed them on an iconic pedestal so they could look down at the rest of us peasants. A world where Isabella Coombs belonged. And Charles too. I felt my heart started to beat faster and my hands felt clammy as I twisted them in my lap.
C’mon Rebecca. Pull yourself together
, I told myself silently,
try to remember the speech
. The speech. The speech! How did it go again?

“Good morning Rebecca,” Isabella said sounding strangely happy. So much so, I thought perhaps she hadn’t heard about how Charles and I laughed and joked and danced on the Epiphany the other night. Without saying a word, I sat down opposite her at one of the little brunch tables Giuseppe had laid out in the patio area, and watched as she poured me a cup of herbal tea. “Well,” she said, sounding full of the joys of spring, “things seem to be going very well.” I gave her my neutral
Oh Really
look. “It seems Charles has taken quite a shine to you.” I studied her face hoping for some other plausible explanation for her cheery mood, but the way she smiled back at me and half nodded as if to say:
Well done Rebecca
, confirmed what I’d already thought, but could not quite believe. This woman, this deranged, disturbed and seriously unhinged woman, was actually glad to hear that her husband had ‘
taken a shine to
’ another woman. Me! I suddenly felt sick to the stomach thinking that maybe this was how she got her kicks, and she’d been getting them at my expense. My emotional expense! She had set me up perfectly and had me playing the role of the immoral woman in this surreal scenario, which she’d invented! Well no bloody more!

“Isabella,” I said trying my best to sound calm, “I’m not doing this anymore.”

She placed her teaspoon calmly down on the saucer and looked at me with a touch of amusement as though she hadn’t quite heard what I’d said. “I beg your pardon?” she said lightly, but her narrowed eyes made it quite clear that if she had heard me correctly, that I had better not repeat it.

I gulped and tried to remember my speech, but the only bits I could remember:
You are a manipulative insecure bitch
,
didn’t seem at all appropriate given the current climate. Plus I would’ve needed some guts to have said that, and
guts
right along with
nerve
had already walked out on me. “Erm…I just don’t feel comfortable doing this anymore.” She sipped her tea without looking at me and pursed her lips together. Tightly. “Plus I honestly don’t think your husband is the cheating kind. He’s had ample opportunity to make a pass at me but never has and I honestly don’t think he ever will.” I ignored the way she looked as if she wanted to leap across the table and gauge my eyes out, and gently tried to remind her of her supposed reason for starting this in the first place. “So you really don’t have to worry anymore. You wanted to know if he’d ever cheat, and now you know. He won’t. He’s loyal to you Isabella.”

She leaned her chin on her hand and looked at me as though she were seriously considering the consequences of decapitating me. “And you think for him to be calling or texting you at 7am in the morning is just him being loyal to me,” she said cynically. My mouth fell open. How on earth did she know what time of day Charles was calling or texting me?! Was she monitoring his BlackBerry? Worse still – was she monitoring mine? Then she looked me dead in the eye and said coldly: “Anyway,
you can’t stop. I haven’t found out what I need to know and until I do, it’s business as usual.”

“I am not meeting with him again Isabella,” I said firmly.

“Oh really,” she said touching her fingers lightly around the teacup, “well that is a pity, because now I shall have to ask someone else to do it.” She looked at me. I looked back. “Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’ll ask someone else to do it. Someone from…Pamper Moi.” I inhaled sharply, feeling as though Isabella had literally reached across the table and grabbed me by my throat and was squeezing so tightly I could barely breathe. She was blackmailing me and she had me by the scruff of my job! “Do you think that girl…oh what’s her name…Portia! That’s it. Do you think she would do it? Hmmm,” she mused, “maybe I should just have a little chat with Gwen, tell her how you’ve been helping me out… Maybe she could suggest someone. Oh, but then again, she’s such a stickler for rules. I get the impression she won’t be quite so
understanding
somehow.” Isabella knew as well as I did that Gwendolyn would fire me on the spot if she knew what I’d been doing. I’d be busking for food at Knightsbridge station. “Of course,” she looked at me and smiled sweetly, “you could always agree to do it just one more time? Just one more time. After that…you can forget either Charles or I ever existed.”

I desperately wanted to tell her where to shove her offer but the temporary satisfaction of doing so, versus the definite permanent unemployment that would soon follow, didn’t quite make the cut. “Just one more time?” I asked, not even trying to hide the hatred.

“You have my word,” she said.

“What an absolute bitch!” Abigail said, studying a hat that looked like a peacock strutting its stuff. Thankfully, not having to go back to the salon after my grim meeting with Isabella this morning, I’d arranged to meet up with Abby for some therapeutic, premature, Ascot hat shopping. I had just finished telling her about my failed attempt at a scathing speech, and how Isabella had cornered me earlier. “Do you really think she gets off on thinking about her husband being with other women?” she asked with more than a healthy amount of curiosity.

“What other explanation could there be? She knows her husband’s loyal,” I said flatly, ogling the astronomical price tag for a piece of felt with a few ostrich feathers stuck on it, masquerading as a hat. “Charles would never cheat on her.” Suddenly wondering how Isabella, a complete fruitcake, had managed to land someone as trustworthy and sane as Charles Coombs, who would never cheat, and here I was, trustworthy and reasonably sane, ending up with bloody Jeremy, who could do nothing but cheat! I tried on a beautiful pale pink Baron hat with a cluster of petals around the crown and looked at myself in the mirror, but the niggling thought at the back of my head, that none of this made any sense, still wouldn’t quieten down. “Strange though,” I whispered to Abby, not wanting the women shopping for mother of the bride hats to hear, “…strange how just for some kinky perversion she’d go to such extreme measures.”

“And expense!” Abby added, trying on something that looked a bit like a chandelier with tassels. She looked at me for approval. I shook my head; a definite NO. She shrugged. “Maybe,” she started with that mischievous twinkle of hers, “maybe she’s asked him to have a threesome with her and he’s flatly refused.” A few mothers of the brides shot disapproving glances at Abigail, which she ignored. “Maybe he won’t even use a dildo or a butt plug on her,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. The mothers of the brides started grumbling all at once, removed their hats, and hurried far away from the two of us as was possible in a fifty foot boutique. “Maybe that’s why she’s been forced to think up some kinky scenario that involves him, but without him even knowing, so she can enjoy it all from a distance.”

“That’s absolutely barmy!”

“But she is a bit barmy isn’t she,” Abby laughed.

“Yes but you’d need to be a real sex fiend to think that lot up!”

“Hmmm, maybe,” she agreed half heartedly. “So how many more times do you have to see him?”

“Once.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Turn up, chit chat, watch the clock, then go home.” Abigail gave me a look as if to say:
I don’t think so somehow
. But I, of course, ignored it. I really had no idea of what I was going to do the next time I saw Charles. Would I say goodbye? Tell him I couldn’t see him again? I picked up a huge peach coloured floral bonnet. “What about this for Juju’s wedding? I asked as a joke. Abigail didn’t find it funny at all, and her face suddenly looked as though she’d just eaten something quite distasteful. “What?” I asked.