A Moral Dilemma: A Romantic Comedy Chick Lit Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

doors, chic furnishings with clean simple lines, the salon offered a pleasant tranquil environment. It was a great place to be. And a great place to work. I love my job. I love being able to help women, who actually care about and take pride in their appearance, enhance their natural beauty – naturally . OK, so maybe after their pamper day, some of my clients do make Harley Street their very next stop, to plump their lips or have their foreheads frozen of all expression, but the point is, by coming here they embrace the ‘Natural Way’ as at least part of their beauty regime. And that’s good enough for me. There are only two aspects of my otherwise perfect job that I really do dislike immensely. My boss Gwendolyn Elliot, and my colleague Portia.
    Portia, obviously having nothing better to do, had followed my dripping trail into our staff room. “What time do you call this Rebecca Hardy?”
    “No idea Portia,” I said in monotone whilst buttoning up my smart salon tunic, thankful that I had left a spare pair of shoes at work.
    “It’s nine thirty!”
    “I see play-school left its mark on you,” securing and un-securing my hair with a butterfly clip.
    “You’re supposed to be here at nine. Or don’t you know that?” she asked smugly.
    I was so not in the mood for her obnoxious self today. “Portia, why don’t you go and find one of your old age pensioners to harangue,” I stated simply, raising a hand to silence her as I saw her rather large mouth begin to open in my direction. Whatever she had to say I knew for sure I neither wanted nor needed to hear it. I had another twenty minutes before the salon officially opened and I was in desperate need of caffeine (my one true vice), and I would have to warn Lauren, our receptionist, to fend off Jeremy’s calls today.
    Portia was a classic example of someone helplessly suffering from delusions of grandeur. Having miraculously secured a job here initially as a beauty therapist, which resulted in not one single repeat client booking, and on the cusp of receiving her P45, she soon realised that beauty therapy was not in actual fact her forte. But founded on her slavish dedication to fashion and addiction to shopping, she amazingly managed to create a whole new job role for herself at Pamper Moi as the salon’s ‘Fashion and Image Consultant’, where all she had to do all day long was go shopping with some filthy rich client, advise her as to what ridiculously expensive outfit would or would not suit, and for this ‘ exclusive service ’ the salon would charge a minimum of one thousand quid, of which Portia, the bitch, would get to keep 40 per cent. She had definitely found her niche and was annoyingly booked solid for weeks ahead which secured her position as Gwendolyn’s favourite. The only good thing about her new role was that it usually kept her out of the salon and therefore out of my face for most of the day.
    Lauren was sitting swiv elling on her Philippe Starck chair, dressed in a tight Armani black dress, being the only other employee who did not have to wear a uniform. Thinking of how much that dress must’ve cost, I was suddenly grateful for my obligatory tunic. I would never have been able to afford this Knightsbridge dress code. Especially now.
    “I se e you managed to lose her,” she smiled referring to Portia’s earlier hot pursuit.
    “Ugh! She makes me want to slit my own throat,” I moaned.
    Lauren giggled. “She’s not so bad,” she said playing with her hair. “You know,” she whispered with pretend awe, “she arrived in a Bentley Convertible this morning.”
    “What , no helicopter?” we both laughed. “So which old codger dropped her off today?”
    “Oh I can’t remember his name. The one that wears that dreadful toupee.”
    “Oh gawd. Bruce?”
    “Yes…that’s it. Brucie baby. They had a little kiss and cuddle at the door,” she grinned anticipating my reaction.
    “Urgh yuk! He’s old enough to be her