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

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