Rebecca Hardy wasn’t a naturally deceptive person, though she took quite well to the art of deception. Too well perhaps. She liked to think of it as helping someone out. Female camaraderie and
all that. But it had gone too far. She had gone too far. She had, after all, ruined someone’s life. Hadn’t she?
Having theatrically caught her boyfriend cheating,
Rebecca, convinced she was born in the wrong era, has had it with these modern day men. She has even less regard for these immoral modern day women, (of which she highly suspects her best female friend Abigail is one), who tend to prey on men in committed
relationships. What is wrong with them?! Don’t they care that they’re breaking hearts and destroying lives?! Rebecca, with her high morals and family values, would never even consider dating a married man. Which
is exactly why, it is of no surprise her friends are at serious odds, when Rebecca finds herself doing exactly that. Dating a married man. Albeit, at the fervent request of his wife; the notorious Isabella Coombs.
Isabella Coombs is one of Pamper Moi’s most important clients, and Pamper Moi is the elite Knightsbridge beauty salon, where Rebecca’s job as a therapist is hanging by a very fine thread.
Out of the goodness of her heart - and fear of losing her job, Rebecca cautiously agrees to secretly help the highly emotional and seemingly insecure - but also very prominent, Isabella Coombs, find out if her husband Charles, would ever cheat on her.
But what Rebecca doesn’t know is that Isabella Coombs is not so much emotional and insecure, as she is a very good actress, with her own devious reasons for having Rebecca date her unsuspecting,
principled husband. Believing her clandestine role as a human-man-trap is genuinely helping to prevent a fellow comrade from possible future heart-ache, Rebecca finds herself falling further into a tangled web of distorted emotion with
Charles Coombs, where she alarmingly turns out to be the immoral woman breaking hearts and destroying lives.
But having ruined his life and won his heart, can Rebecca face the insolvable
dilemma, of saving his life but losing his heart? And still find a hat in time for Ascot?
I had to do it. He’d left me with no other conceivable choice. He seemed intent on driving me crazy, turning me into a dithering,
pathetic, neurotic maniac. The lying toe-rag!!
“Becky, sweetie,” he would gently croon, whenever I’d mention the distinct scent of Dior about him. “It’s all in your imagination.
You know you’re the only one for me.” Then more vigorously, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you!” when confronted with the unmistakable evidence of lippie on his shirt collar. “You really are going stark
raving mad.” And I thought I was. For a while. His reverse psychology skills were second to none. So I made a decision to either prove myself sane, or allow myself to be declared insane! I set about achieving mission (according-to-him)
impossible, and catch him in the act.
I’d always fancied myself as a bit of an actress. I was still dancing around my bedroom at home, singing merrily into the hairbrush when I was sixteen years old! Yes, Annie had
definitely left its mark on me. In fact, after watching that film, for the remainder of my childhood, I had wanted to be Annie (without the ginger hair and freckles, of course). I desperately wanted to be rescued by Mr Squillion Billion Dollar Man and have
a dog called Rufus. Needless to say I never got rescued – but I definitely ended up with the dog. His name is Jeremy. And today I caught him cheating. So tonight, I’m kicking his lying toe-rag arse out of our apartment.
OK, I say I caught him cheating; well he wasn’t actually in the full throes of fornication or anything like that. It was more of a…foreplay situation, which in my world still counts. So how did I catch him? Well, like
I said, I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of an actress, so; black bobbed wig, reading glasses, camcorder – hired not bought – even less make-up than usual, i.e. basically none, so as not to draw attention to myself, and a shot of brandy
(YUK) for Dutch courage.
Wheelers, was an average enough, discreet British pub, on an average enough discreet City street, and was also Jeremy’s choice location for a not so discreet illicit
“Look, would you be ordering something or not lass?” the barman asked me with a slight Irish accent.
Shoo shoo shoo I had wanted to say, but for
fear of him drawing any more attention to me, and in light of the fact that he was actually blocking my view of Jeremy and Miss Thingy, I quickly deduced that I had in fact better order something. “Coke please,” I snapped off, throwing down a fiver.
Oh for chrissakes, will you just move! Aargh! “Regular!”
rolling my eyes. He actually seemed to be enjoying this little exchange. Maybe he knew Jeremy and knew what both he and I were up to?! No. Not possible.
you get me a coke or not?” I hissed.
“OK, OK, keep yer knickers on,” he said smiling cheekily and finally turned to go get me a drink. I quickly realigned myself to get a better view over the bar and through
the window to the courtyard where Jeremy, the bastard, and Thingy were sitting extremely close to each other and laughing easily at this point. Still not incriminating evidence, but the night was young. I saw Jeremy lean into her and started talking into her
ear. I would’ve said ‘whispering’ but he didn’t know how to whisper sweet nothings at the best of times let alone after he’d had a few, which by the way his face was flushed and his tie, usually perfectly positioned, was loosened
and off centre, he obviously had.
“There you go now. Coke and change,” said the barman. I ignored him and continued fidgeting with my camcorder, hidden behind by handbag, whilst still keeping a sharp eye on the
fornicators. “Pity you don’t get to catch the conversation with those things from a distance.”
“You need to get up real close to them to record
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” I said turning beetroot, and started to scuffle about with the camcorder, desperately trying to stuff it back into my bag.
“Oh,” he leaned back comfortably against the bar, folded up his arms and nodded toward Jeremy and Thingy. “I thought for a sec you were spying on that pair.”
“I beg your
pardon?!” trying my best to sound alarmed but at the same time careful not to draw any attention to myself…
“Oh, it’s no skin off my nose either way,” he said, “but let’s assume you
were spying on that pair.”
“Which I am most definitely not!” I said furiously, whilst still trying to shove my camcorder back into my bag, but what, with my current state of panic and the fact that every time
my head bent down my wig was starting to slip forward, I couldn’t quite manage it.
“Ah, but, if you were, you’d be doing it all wrong.” I looked up at him from under the fringe of my wig.
“You’re too far away to even know what’s going on.”
“As I’ve already told you, I am not spying on anyone. But IF I were, I am able to see quite clearly exactly what’s
“Ah jaysus, you can’t tell a thing from what you see. They could just be having a great crack, with nothin’ in it at all.”
“Oh he’s having
a crack all right.” I slumped on the bar, completely fed up, with the camcorder sticking out recklessly from my bag. I’d given up trying to tuck it away, just as I’d given up trying to film them. He was right of course. The barman. The footage
I’d so painstakingly gathered proved nothing at all. Jeremy would be able to talk his way out of this one in a nano-second, and I knew that I’d believe whatever he would tell me, as per usual, because although I had doubts, many, many doubts, I
never ever had any real concrete evidence of any disloyalty. We watched them silently for a few seconds, but when Jeremy slipped his hand up Miss Thingy’s skirt and started talking into her ear again, I just squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t
have to see, and so the barman couldn’t see the tears of humiliation that were starting to well up.
“Look, just pass it here,” he said reaching out his hand to me.
“The camcorder. I’ll get up close and record what they’re saying for yer.” I gave an incredulous stare and opened my mouth to say something, then as if on autopilot, I handed him the camcorder. “Ah, you can
thank me later,” he said with a wink. And was off. Headed in their direction with the camcorder hidden underneath a bar towel on a tray. My heart started hammering against my ribcage and I wanted to dive under the bar and hide as he got to their table
and started hovering, collecting glasses, wiping, and re-placing ashtrays. I half expected Jeremy to look up and wave at me but he didn’t even notice the barman floating around. Too engrossed in impressing Miss Thingy, which by the way she was giggling
and batting her false eye lashes at each word he uttered, seemed easy enough to do. I looked at her. She was the complete opposite to me in every sense. Blonde, curvaceous, overly made up. She looked around twenty-eight but was probably twenty-four, whereas
I may look twenty-four but am actually twenty-eight. She wasn’t so special. Fake hair, fake tits, fake tan. She was exactly the kind of girl that Jeremy would frequently refer to as “just a bit of fluff”. He would never betray me
with just a bit of fluff… Would he? All of a sudden I knew that I did not want to know the answer to that question. I realised that I have never ever really wanted to know. I could live with my doubts. We had a good life together.
He did love me, (albeit in his own bizarre way), and never made me feel anything other than number one…at least whilst he was in my presence. But that was OK. I could deal with that. What, I suddenly realised, I could not deal with,
and more importantly did not want to deal with, was the actual factual knowledge that Jeremy, the man with whom I have built a wonderful life with and am expecting to grow graciously old with, would cheat on me. Because unlike a doubt which I can quite simply
cast away to the back of my mind and allow it to gather cobwebs, a ‘fact’ would be a different matter altogether. A ‘fact’, a real life evidential fact, would most definitely need to be addressed. I felt a sudden stab of horror at that
realisation; and started flapping my hands about like a maniac trying to catch the barman’s attention.
“Come Back! Come Back!” I mouthed in animation, but he just ignored me and moved to the other side of
the table so he was standing right beside Jeremy as he moved in for another close-up with Miss Thingy. I watched the barman, wondering if he could hear what they were saying, and I swear I practically expired when I saw him shake a heavy head in disbelief.
The barman looked at me with an unfortunately sombre face as he came back to the bar. “Er, look lass, it’s none of my business…but is he your fella?”
“Yes. He is my boyfriend,”
I said indignantly, and as he looked down with tight lips, I added with upturned chin, “Of several years in fact.”
“Right. Well…maybe you don’t really want to be listening to what’s on here
then.” He tapped the camcorder and gave me a sympathetic look that knocked the wind out of me. He felt sorry for me. And he felt sorry for me because of what he’d heard Jeremy say to Miss Thingy? I inhaled deeply and stared at him defiantly, though
I’m not sure why, as it really wasn’t his fault my boyfriend was a lying cheating toe-rag.
“It’s my camcorder and I shall bloody well listen to it if I so choose.” I feigned calmness as I placed
the evidential camcorder into my bag and hopped down off the bar stool.
“You might want to have a…friend…come sit with you as you watch it though.” I swallowed hard and tried blinking really fast,
but it was already too late. One must always be grateful for the small mercies in life, I said to myself, thinking at least I wouldn’t end up with panda eyes as there was no mascara to smudge. I nodded my thanks to the barman and turned
to leave, but not before taking one last look at the joyful Jeremy, now nestling into Thingy’s neck. Jeremy. Humph. The love of my life.
Luckily Zara Kingsley was born and raised in a City she loves living in: London, UK. And it’s just as well, as she can barely afford to go on a camping holiday much less move. She has
an adorable 9yr old daughter, and is a single mom, who likes to think of herself as a bit of a yummy mummy, when in reality she’s still working on shifting a tonne of cellulite of her ass. She does actually make it into the gym from time to time, but
admits that such visits are mainly to appreciate the…ahem …view
So what kind of stuff
does she write?
Well, she writes what she loves reading: Romantic Comedy and the original kind of British Chick Lit. She doesn’t do vampires, werewolves, or horror. So if
you like Bridget Jones or Shopaholic, then you might dig her stuff.
Zara Kingsley’s heroines are women in their late twenties / early thirties. Her heroes are hot, cute and
not too hunky. Her stories are about life, love and friendship, with a few twists and turns and tons of fun. They’re not particularly deep, nor meaningful, they’re a light-hearted, easy read, that go well with a glass of wine and a few chocs, and
just might make you laugh out loud.
a light-hearted romantic comedy ideal for reading in the garden or on the beach. I particularly enjoyed getting to know Rebecca and the dilemma she finds herself in. Some of the minor characters had me laughing out loud, namely the Gustard. I wonder if he
is based on anyone that the author met on her visits to the gym? He certainly struck a chord at any rate. There are some fantastic characters too at Pamper Moi, the Knightsbidge beauty salon where Rebecca works. Her boss is quite formidable and I loved to
see how the balance of power kept changing. Dealing with the Sloaney set and their Sunday pot-fuelled afternoons is a mile away from my milieu yet somehow Zara Kingsley draws the reader into their world. Now I just have to get my head around a dress worth