A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story (5 page)

“No. He didn’t propose,” I said as usual. I thought about telling her that we were through but decided it would be selfish of me to ruin her pampering session with my depressing life-story.

“Tut. Honestly Rebecca darh-ling, I do think he may just need a very firm kick up the posterior this one. Beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be waiting this long for a man to propose! He must be completely off his rocka.” I forced a laugh. It was better than crying.

“Your skin looks fantastic,” I said desperate to change the subject.

“Toned do you think?” she asked sarcastically in good humour.

“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Toned.”

“Oh I’m just teasing. I
do
believe that your facial exercises work…it’s just a little too late for me to start.” It was really never too late to start, but having had this same conversation with Mrs Dobson several times over, I knew it was pointless trying to convince her of anything otherwise. I switched off the over-head beam, lowered the lights, and lit the aromatic candles. “So have you had any one for training yet?”

“No,” I deflated, “not yet.”

“Well darh-ling, you
never
will get anyone booking if they don’t even know you offer the darned service. It’s not on any of the salon’s literature. You need to jolly well let people know.”

“Well, that’s the problem. We don’t
officially
offer facial exercise training.”

“Oh. I thought you were going to have a chat with Gwen?”

“Well, I did…”

“Aha! And she said no?”

“That’s right,” I sang.

“Wretched woman.”

“Oh it’s no problem,” I lied. “C’est
la vie.
”
I gently massaged the nourishing treatment into her skin
to her appreciative ‘ahhh’s’ and ‘hmmmm’s
’
and then I applied the cooling facial mask that would tighten and firm her taut skin even further. “I’m just applying the masque to your face and neck now,” I soothed. “I’ll leave you here to relax for twenty minutes whilst this sets,” I said softly, and very quietly left the room with the serene sound of waves washing over Mrs Dobson. Once outside I dashed to reception.

“Has he called?” I asked Lauren quietly. There was a client waiting for one of the other therapists in reception and Gwendolyn’s rule was quite clear. Unless
speaking directly to a client our voices should never be heard above the classical music which wafted through unseen speakers into the salon.

“Twice,” Lauren whispered back.

“Humph!”

“Abigail and
Julia also called. Oh, and Gwendolyn wants to see you in her office as soon as you have Mrs Dobson’s mask on.”

“What for?” I gulped.

“No idea,” she mouthed to me picking up the ringing phone. “Good afternoon Pamper Moi. How may I help you?”

I slowly took the green tinted glass steps up the spiral staircase to Gwendolyn’s office on the first floor. I always thought it extremely ironic the way her offices were literally ‘above’ us, as no matter where she was, on the salon floor or in the treatment rooms, Gwendolyn always lorded over us. This was
her
salon, and we were mere disposable ratchets in the mechanics of its success. And whilst
I
had been here four years, I had seen countless other promising therapists cheerfully come and tearfully go within that time. Her patience was thin. If after two months of working here you had no repeat clients – you had to go. Simple as that. Never mind that you needed to learn our methods and specific techniques, which may take a good four weeks to do, before you actually met a single client. Never mind that. And though I had never ever felt comfortable in her presence, I had always felt completely comfortable in my position. I was a first-rate therapist. And Gwendolyn knew it. I knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in Rebecca,” she trilled in her aristocratic British accent, as though I were interrupting her. Her office was vast, sparse and deliberately unwelcoming, with designer chairs not designed to be sat on, and an ominous black tinted glass desk
which Gwendolyn was seated behind flicking through some kind of report filled with figures.

“Lauren said you wanted to see me?” I said happily. She continued flicking through her report. I stood opposite her desk for what seemed like ages but was probably only thirty seconds or so, thinking that maybe she had changed her mind and didn’t need to see me at all. I was just about to turn and leave when she slammed down her report and started writing furiously on her notepad.

“Do you like working here Rebecca?” she asked threateningly without glancing up. I was shocked by the question.

“Yes! Yes of course I like working here! I love it.”

She left me hanging anxiously up in the air whilst she finished what she was writing. “Good,” she finally said, looking over what she had just written, and I wasn’t sure if she were talking to – or rather
at
– me, or referring to the piece she had written. “I’m glad you still like working here.” She glanced up at me for the first time and held my gaze with her chilly grey eyes. “Because there is simply no room at Pamper Moi for
anyone
who is not constantly giving one hundred per cent.”

“But Gwendolyn I–”

“
And
,” she said abruptly cutting me off, “Pamper Moi is expanding Rebecca. We cannot get stuck in a rut. We have to continuously update ourselves and offer our clients something new.” She studied me for a moment and was met with my blank expression. If she rambled on for too much longer Mrs Dobson would soon be up here expressing
herself
. “I know you’re a very talented therapist Rebecca Hardy, but we’re building our Fashion and Image Consultancy service and I DO expect
everyone
to jump on board in order for this to work.” Shopping?! That’s what this was about?! Bloody shopping?! “Now,” she leaned her head to one side, pondering her next move, “how many clients have you cross-sold this week Rebecca? How many clients have you cross-sold this month?”

I scrambled around my mind for any plausible excuse, as the truth:
I thought it was a bloody stupid service for such an elite salon to be offering
, would surely get me fired. “Well…I…”

“None! That’s how many.” She placed the palm of one hand firmly down on the desk in front of her as the other propped up her chin. “Now, I have exercised tremendous patience with you Rebecca Hardy, due to the sole fact you’ve been here so many years, but I have to tell you – it is fast running out – and you can and
should
consider this your very last warning.” Oh bloody hell. My timer whirred in my pocket and echoed around the suddenly silent reproachful room. I stood, fixated by the sound, haunted with visions of my beautiful apartment going up in smoke – though repossession would be more of a reality. “Well?!” she suddenly demanded.

“Well what?” I asked completely clueless.

She looked at me as though I were on medication. “Don’t you have a client to attend to?” My eyes popped out my head as I suddenly remembered Mrs Dobson.

Thankfully, Mrs Dobson had dozed off. I removed her mask in a daze and arranged for her lunch and champagne to be sent in, grateful for the fact she preferred to eat alone, as it gave me a full thirty minutes to try and
compose myself. I walked, still in a daze, toward Sheridan Square, oblivious to the lunchtime City bustle, and used my staff key to let myself into the tiny landscaped communal garden, which served as my haven of peace. This was turning out to be a great fuckin’ day. I was still facing the insurmountable task of having to officially dump Jeremy, and on top of that I figured I was a week, at max, away from receiving my P45. If Gwendolyn’s patience had run its course, that didn’t give me very long to play with, especially considering the tiny little fact that none of my clients could barely tolerate Portia! How on earth could I ever hope to encourage them to book a whole day appointment with her to go
shopping
! Oh gawd. I don’t smoke, but this was most definitely one of those few occasions where I wished I did. I called Abby.

“That bloody Portia!” Abby, having her own office, was able to speak far more freely at work than I ever could.

“My sentiments exactly,” I said, mindlessly picking blades of grass with my toes.

“Why the
frig
should you be expected to force your loyal clientele to book appointments – which they don’t want – with
her
, just so she can swan around all day at Harvey bloody Nics?!”

“Hmm. It doesn’t really matter what I think about it Abby, it’s got to be done …otherwise I’m out on my ear.”

“Well look, don’t worry about it. All you need is more time.”

“Which I don’t have.”

“Well if no one’s booked one by this time next week then I’ll book a sodding appointment. At least then she’ll get off your back for a little while.”

“Oh Abby no! I couldn’t let you do that!”

“Oh it’s fine. I’d actually quite enjoy it,” she giggled wickedly. “I’ll insist we go somewhere really dodgy like Brixton Market, and have her follow me around carrying my zillion shopping bags. It’ll be great!” I laughed at the image of Portia fearfully darting around Brixton Market and being pestered by dubious reefer-smoking characters. “How much will it cost?”

“Around one thousand quid.”

“Oh fuck! Are you sure you can’t get any of your clients to do it? – Just kidding. I’ll make her pay!”

“Oh Abby, thanks a squillion. This will definitely just be a one-off.”

“You think?” she laughed. Then more seriously: “Spoken to Jeremy yet?”

“My very next call.”

“You going to tell him?”

“No. Not on the phone. I want to tell him to his face. Though I have to say, I am sooo not in the mood for this today.”

“I know Becky. But get it done. He’s just driftwood. Lose him. It’ll work out for the best. You’ll see. I’ll talk to you later OK?”

“OK. Bye”

Just driftwood. Well, I, ashamedly, was in desperate need of a cuddle from that piece of driftwood. Oh Jeremy! Why did you do it?

I tapped away at my mobile phone’s address book where his number was stored under ‘Hubby’. Humph! I quickly edited, changing it to ‘Toe-rag’ and pressed dial. He picked up straight away. “Hey Jeremy,” I said quietly.

“Pumpkin!” he sounded genuinely happy to hear my voice. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning, you naughty girl.”

“I know. I’ve been busy.”

“I missed you last night, my little pudding,” he had the audacity to say.

“Hmmm. Missed you too Jerrers.”

“Look,” he said with his confident haughtiness, “why don’t I pick you up from work and we can go out for a decadent, ridiculously expensive meal?” Hah! So it was guilt to be thanked for these sexy spontaneous outings. Silly me had always just accepted them as ‘his charming way’.

“No. Not today Jeremy. I’m not having a good day at work.”

“Oh pudding. Anything I can do?”

“No. Erm, what time will you be home tonight?” trying to sound casual.

“No later than six. And you?”

“Around the same,” knowing I’d be there well before to meet the locksmith!

“Good. So see you later my pud pud.”

“See you later.”

I
sat on the train rigid with anger. I was still hopping mad at my meeting with Gwendolyn earlier today. I could not quite believe she was indulging Portia’s idle little fantasy.
Fashion and Image Consultancy Service
my arse! They’re shopping trips! Nothing more, nothing less.

Why on earth would Gwendolyn, a pioneer of natural beauty and a supposedly savvy business woman, embrace such a frivolous venture? OK,
apart
from the fact it made the salon at least ten grand extra each month…with,
I suppose
, minimal outlay. Humph. I suppose that was what had appealed to the ‘savvy business woman’ side of her persona. I sulkily remembered my last meeting in her office, which had taken place a few months earlier, at my request. I had excitedly prepared a faultless business plan of how we could offer facial exercise training to our clientele.

“They’re target market,” I had enthused. “It’s exactly what they’re looking for.”

“Is that so,” she had stated quite simply, with a fleeting look over my business plan.

“Well yes,” I said in a rush, taking full advantage of her momentary silence. “They come to us as they
do
believe in natural beauty, and although we’re able to condition and nourish the skin, it’s really not enough, which is why most of them also feel the need to have Botox and collagen injections.” She had given me a pointed look which made me wonder if she too had a Harley Street surgeon. “Our treatments don’t affect muscle tone at all, and as the muscles start to sag – that’s what causes the face to look old. We exercise our bodies to stay toned and in shape, well facial muscles need to be exercised too.” Sensing I was beginning to lose her attention I had thrown in: “And they definitely work Gwendolyn. I’ve been doing them for years now and look,” I held my face closer for her to see, “not one line.” She had looked amused and I believe I almost had her nod of approval. Until she asked: