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

this is actually working though – lutein, hmmm, only two left. I wonder if I order some tomorrow they may be able to courier it over – lutein for skin elasticity and folic acid, humph. Well I can stop taking those. I won’t be conceiving anytime soon!
     
     
    I had definitely set the alarm clock! It just didn’t go off! I raced around the apartment dressing myself whilst locating keys, mobile, purse, grabbed my letters, dashed out the door and legged it to the station, silently praying that Gwendolyn wouldn’t notice that I was late – yet again. The station was closed.
    “Tube strike luv!” some ignoramous with a plaque shouted happily at the entrance. “What? Didn’t you know?” No! I didn’t fuckin’ know! I sprinted to the top of South Ken High Street in the hope that the multitude of other pissed off commuters also trying to get a cab to work would’ve thinned out. It hadn’t. I looked around in despair. There was a good thirty-strong angry looking mob all positioning themselves, ready to fly into the next cab that stopped anywhere within a two hundred yard radius. They may as well have been rolling up their sleeves, as by the look on some of their faces they were quite prepared for a scuffle. I, however, was not. I dragged myself to the nearest bus stop and contemplated slitting my wrists when I saw a queue of at least two hundred people stretching around the corner. Fuck! I closed my eyes and wondered if clicking my heels three times would work, if I really really believed. I exhaled deeply and started walking the mile and a half into Knightsbridge, preparing myself for the inevitable firing of my arse that was bound to take place. There were hordes of other people with the same idea trotting along beside, in front and behind me, and I wondered how many of them were also going to lose their jobs this morning. I kicked a few stones along the way and started opening my mail, instantly wishing that I hadn’t. There was not one personalised letter amongst them. Just pure bills upon bills upon bills! Water rates: due now. Council tax: due now. Electricity: due now. Gas: due now. Whopping Mortgage: due now. Great! I suddenly realised that with Jeremy’s departure I was lucky enough to inherit not only the whole mortgage but also ALL of these sodding bills! How under creation was I supposed to pay them? There was just no way. Not now, and certainly not after Gwendolyn fires me! Oh christ! I’m going to end up homeless! Or living in some rancid squat with drug addicts! Or worse, living in East London! I’ll just have to swallow my pride and beg Gwendolyn for mercy. But when I finally arrived at Pamper Moi just after 10am and was met with Portia’s enraged face and Lauren’s sympathetic one, somehow I knew that begging wasn’t going to cut it.
    “Hey Rebecca,” Lauren said quietly. “Gwendolyn wants to see you in her office straight away. She said you’re not to bother get changed, just go up as you are.”
    I nodded a very heavy head and tried to ignore the usual golf ball that was rising up at the back of my throat. The walk to Gwendolyn’s office had never taken so long, as I looked around slowly trying to take everything in. I was really going to miss working here I thought. I knocked on the office door.
    “Come in Rebecca,” she called in a voice that didn’t give anything away. I stepped into her vast office and saw that she was pedalling furiously away on her cycle-trainer, looking out the window with her back toward me. I stood there for at least two minutes feeling rather bloody awkward as I waited for her to finish her set and pass the towel over her face, back and shoulders. I expected her to then go sit behind her desk but instead she perched quite casually on the edge of it and looked directly at me. “Why are you so late?” she asked, again in a very neutral tone.
    “I’m sorry Gwendolyn. I didn’t know there was a tube strike.”
    She gave me an incredulous look. “ You