A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story by Zara Kingsley Page A

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