The Trials of Tiffany Trott (14 page)

“I’m awfully sorry, Jake, but I have an urgent appointment with my television,” I said. “I’d forgotten—it’s
Noel’s House Party
.” Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Where have you parked?”

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“Parked? Oh I don’t have a car.”

“Oh. Oh I see. But I thought you said you’d ‘pick me up.’ ”

“Yes. I meant on foot. We can walk. It’s not far.”

“Oh, so you’ve booked somewhere, then?” I asked him as we made our way up Heath Street.

“No, no,” he said. “I thought we could just play it by ear.”

We passed the Calzone Pizza Bar—it looked rather inviting, with green tables and cane chairs—perfectly acceptable, and I was already feeling pretty hungry, having missed lunch.

“I
hate
pizza,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“No. No. I like it, actually. Pizza would be just fine,” I said.

“Well, let’s keep going, after all the night is still young,” he said cheerfully. Oh
yes,
I thought miserably. The night was still young. And all the while we walked he talked, nonstop, about films, in this deep, curiously plummy, slightly over-elocuted voice. And, as he talked, his large Adam’s apple lifted up and down in his scrawny throat like a bucket in a well. He was like a walking cinematic encyclopedia—“Truffaut . . .
Nouvelle Vague . . .
Eisenstein . . . Fassbinder . . .
Three Colors Blue . . .
” I heard him say.

“My friend Kit wants to be a director,” I said.

“What sort?”

“Commercials.”

“Oh,” he replied, with evident disdain.

“What sort of films do
you
make?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve got a couple of things in development,” he said. “But I haven’t got funding yet. You see my style is fairly, well, experimental. My heroes are Cocteau and Buñuel, and of course Peter Greenaway and Derek Jarman.” He turned to me with an expression of exaggerated concern. “Don’t you think it’s really
worrying
that we have so few avant garde film directors in this country?” Worrying?
No.
The only thing that was worrying me was the fact that I was hungry, in Hampstead, with this hideous-looking man. What’s more my new shoes were beginning to rub—I couldn’t even make a run for it. We
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paused outside La Sorpresa—a pretty little Italian place with flickering candles, potted palms and pink tablecloths, but he thought it looked too crowded.

“Too many smokers,” he declared briskly. “I wear contact lenses and my eyes are particularly sensitive. Thank God all the cinemas are smoke-free these days,” he said, as we wandered off again. “Have you been to the National Film Theatre recently?”

“Er, no. But I have been to the Odeon Leicester Square, ha ha!”

He looked shocked. “The NFT are doing a
fantastic
season of early German cinema at the moment. There are new prints of
The Blue Angel, Pandora’s Box
and Fritz Lang’s
M
—one of the great classics of German Expressionist cinema. It’s an incredible movie. And they’re showing some great Senegalese films too, including
four
by Ousmene Sembene. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Er, very,” I replied, though the only thing I found interesting was the prospect of something to eat. We passed La Villa Bianca—
so
pretty, with a wrought-iron balcony and red and pink geraniums tumbling down the whitewashed walls. I just managed to catch a glimpse of the menu in the window—venison at £12.50 and grilled fillet of beef at £14.50, before Jake had walked straight past it, muttering disapprovingly about the price.

“I wouldn’t go there on principle,” he said. They probably wouldn’t let him
in
on principle, I thought, surveying his dishevelled appearance. In Hampstead High Street I spotted Café Rouge.

“Café Rouge,” I said. “That’ll be fine. Let’s go there.”

“Well, OK, I’ll ask, but it looks pretty full to me.” He shot across the road and reappeared a moment later. “As I thought. Full up. Packed.”

“But I’m sure I can see a couple of free tables at the back . . .” I said, but Jake was already heading down Rosslyn Hill. A won
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derful Tandoori tang emanated from the Taj Mahal and I drew to a halt outside. “I really don’t like curry,” he said.

“But I
do
,” I said. “In fact I
love
it. And if there are so many things you don’t like why didn’t you book somewhere you
do
like—especially as it’s a Saturday?”

“I think we’ll find something more suitable nearer the Heath,” he said, ignoring me and turning down Pond Street. And then, semidelirious with hunger, something began to obsess me. I was trying to remember the name of that French film in which there’s this group of people who
never get to eat.
Either they meet on the wrong day, or they turn up at the restaurant only to discover the owner’s corpse, or they finally sit down to a fantastic dinner only for the army to burst in. What was it? Jake would know.

“What’s that French film where they never get to eat?” I asked as the Royal Free hospital came into view.

“Oh,
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.
One of Buñuel’s greatest. Made in 1972 with Stéphane Audran, Fernando Rey and Michel Piccoli. It’s a brilliantly sophisticated satire on the French establishment. It got the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. Wonderful
ensemble
playing.” Suddenly he stopped, and I found myself staring in amazement at this vast, painted sombrero. “Viva Zapata, Mexican Bar and Restaurant” said the sign. “Eat All You Want for £5 a head!” Jake appeared to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Now
this
,” he said, “should be fine.”

“You have got to be joking!” I said. I surveyed the tin foil trays of chicken legs and guacamole marinating in the window, the plastic chairs and tables, the hanging ponchos and synthetic cacti, and suddenly my hunger vanished. “I don’t want to eat here,” I reiterated.

“Why not?” he said. “It has charm and character.”

“I’m afraid I simply don’t want to eat anywhere that says ‘Eat All You Want for £5 a head.’ What do you take me for?”

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“I take you for an incredibly bad-tempered woman,” he suddenly said.

“I am
not
bad-tempered,” I hissed, outraged.

“Yes you
are
,” he countered. “All you’ve done,
all
evening, is complain. I find you very irritable. And rude.” Rude?

“I am NOT rude,” I spat. “I have been extremely PATIENT and POLITE!”

“No you
haven’t
.”

“Oh yes I
have
.” I could feel my eyes begin to fill, while blood from my blister trickled down my right heel into my shoe. “You invited me out,” I shouted, “you didn’t bother to book anywhere, you’ve made me walk a mile and a half, and you’ve raised objections to every single restaurant we’ve stopped at. And now I know the reason why—you wanted to come here because it’s so
cheap
.”

“Who are you calling cheap?” he shouted back.

“
You.
And you can bloody well stay here on your own because I’m off.” I saw a yellow light coming down the hill toward us and stepped off the curb to flag it down. “AND,” I flung at him as I got into the cab, “you look a total MESS!” Now that
was
rude. But I didn’t care. It made me feel better. Gradually my tears subsided and my heartrate slowed. What a nightmare. What a nightmare.

“What a nightmare!” I said to Lizzie the following morning. She had just dropped the girls off for their weekly tennis lesson.

“How ghastly,” she said. “What a creep. I’m amazed you stayed more than five minutes. Did you cry?”

“Only when I got into the cab.”

“And were you rude to him?”

“A bit,” I conceded, “not rude enough, actually.”

“Never abuse men, Tiffany—however gruesome, simply walk away. Maintain your dignity and composure at all times.”

“But Lizzie, if it had been you, you would probably have
punched
him,” I pointed out accurately. She ignored this, or
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perhaps she was too busy lighting another cigarette to hear what I said.

“Just keep your head,” she said, exhaling audibly, “and remember, that old cliché about kissing frogs is true.”

“I have absolutely no objection to frogs,” I pointed out. “A frog would be fine. It’s the toads that get me down.”

“Well, this morning,
my
toad announced that he’s going to his mother’s next Friday,” she said, narrowing her slate-blue eyes as she inhaled. “He says he wants to go on his own. So I said,
‘Fine.’
But I think it’s
very
suspicious, Tiff. However, I’m no longer convinced that he’s having an affair with Nicola Horlick,” she added.

“That’s a relief,” I said.

“No. I’m pretty sure it’s Jade Jewel.”

“Jade Jewel? The daytime TV presenter?”

“Yes. He’s been videoing
Pet Passions
and
Tip Top!
a lot recently. And every time she’s on he sits there, sighing, and saying to me, in this very pointed way, how ‘nice’ he thinks she looks. It’s very peculiar.”

“She probably
is
nice, Lizzie.”

“Look, if she’s having an affair with my husband, she is
not
nice, QED. What’s this chart?” she asked, peering at the kitchen wall.

“Oh, it’s something I did last night to cheer myself up. A reward system for ghastly dates.”

Lizzie read it out loud. “For not instantly running away when faced with hideous man on blind date—one gold star. For staying more than five minutes with same hideous man—two gold stars. For staying more than one hour—three gold stars. For not crying in public during course of bad blind date—one silver star. For managing not to be unspeakably rude to hideous man during course of bad blind date—one red star. For losing grip and insulting hideous man on bad blind date—one black mark.

“What’s the prize?” she asked.

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“Well, I’ve already got three gold stars from my horrible date with Jake,” I explained. “When I’ve notched up twenty I’ll be the lucky winner of a ticket in the stalls for
Aspects of Love
followed by dinner for one in a top London restaurant.”

“You’re going mad,” said Lizzie, with gratuitous brutality. “It’s all getting too much for you. You’re really becoming quite eccentric. You keep making these endless, obsessive lists, and I caught you talking to the vacuum cleaner the other day. You didn’t think I’d heard you, but I did. You said, ‘You silly thing, look, you’ve missed a bit’! You see, you’ve been living on your own too long, Tiffany. You’re becoming very
singular.
In fact, you’re clearly losing your marbles.”

“If Prince Charles can talk to his plants, I can talk to my Hoover,” I said.

“That doesn’t follow,” she replied. “Because Prince Charles is, at least, addressing another life form. Whereas you’re not even doing that. And do you also sometimes say to it, ‘Shake and Vac, Put the Freshness Back!’ like that idiotic woman on the telly?”

“Yes,” I said. “If I want to. Why not? I’m not
hurting
anyone, am I?”

“Tiffany,” said Lizzie, stubbing out her cigarette, “may I suggest a holiday?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” I said, “I’ll have to discuss it with my dishwasher.”

Though, actually, I
had
been thinking of taking a holiday. The Kiddimint job was over and the agency were happy with it, and Kit and I didn’t have to submit our Love Hearts pitch for another month. Why
not
go away? I had enough money, and I hadn’t had a holiday for two years. Not since I went to Marbella with Phil Anderer. That was a golfing holiday, of course, though obviously I didn’t play—I just watched. For five hours a day, every day, for two weeks. I wanted to go on a drive to Granada to see the Moorish architecture, and the Palace of the Alhambra. It looked so wonderful in the travel guide. But
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Phillip said it would be much too hot sitting in the car for two hours each way, so we didn’t go. But while he played golf, I read. In fact, I read an awful lot that holiday. I read all twelve volumes of
A Dance to the Music of Time.
So I got something out of it. But that was ages ago. And Alex never had time for a holiday. Lizzie was right. I really
did
need a break—but who would I go with now? Maybe Kate would be up for it.

“Fantastic idea,” she said, when I phoned her. “I’m pretty exhausted myself. I know, we could go on a singles holiday—meet lots of chaps.”

“What, like Club 18-50, you mean?”

“Club Med,” she said.

“Club Mediterrané?”

“Yes. Let’s go to the one in the Bahamas.”

“But Kate, the Bahamas aren’t
in
the Mediterranean,” I pointed out.

She appeared to ignore this. “Paradise Island, on the Bahamas,” she persisted. “I’ve seen it in the Club Med brochure. It looks fantastic, and apparently it’s stuffed with eligible single men.”

“OK,” I said. “Book it. Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Er, a bit soon. How about next week?”

“Next week it is then.”

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OK—bikinis (two)—tick; swimsuits (two)—tick; Philips Ladyshave (one)—tick; Vidal Sassoon professional travel turbo hairdryer (one)—tick; adaptor plug for Vidal Sassoon travel turbo hairdryer (one)—tick; Braun Style ’n’ Go cordless tong and brush (one)—tick; Carmen classic hot airbrush styler (one)—tick; sundresses (fourteen)—tick; sarongs (five)—tick; beach towel (one)—tick; waterproof mascara (three)—tick; sunglasses (five pairs, four of which I will lose)—tick; high-factor sunblock—er, still got to get that; cardigans for cool evenings (two)—tick; tennis racket (one)—tick; tennis dresses (four)—tick; tennis shoes (two pairs)—tick; Swiss army knife (one)—tick; antique roses tapestry kit (one)—tick; small knapsack for excursions (one)—tick; mosquito spray (two bottles)—tick; medical kit (one)—tick, including Arret—just in case, though I’m told the food at Club Med is v good—tick; shampoo (three bottles)—tick; conditioner (ditto)—tick; assorted toiletries (one lge bag)—tick; smart dresses for evening cocktail parties and disco (twenty-three)—tick; inflatable neck pillow for greater in-flight comfort (one)—tick; improving books (seven)—tick; portable CD player (one)—tick; notepad in case I get brilliant idea for slogans (one)—tick; travel alarm clock (one)—tick; concealer (two)—tick . . .

“Tiffany, why are you always making lists?” said Kit, with evident exasperation.

“Because I need to,” I said. “For my holiday. So I don’t for
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get anything. I’m just being sensible, that’s all. How many thermos flasks do you think I should take?”

“But Tiffany”—he picked up my pad of A4—“this list runs to seventeen pages. You can’t possibly need all this stuff. It’s a beach holiday, not a round-the-world trip. You’re not Michael Palin.”

“Yes, but I might meet some nice chap and I’ve got to look my best. Kate says its going to be a bloke-filled Bahamian Rhapsody. She says Paradise Island is—and I quote—‘Stuffed with eligible single chaps.’ Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s wonderful. You really need a break. I don’t think you realize how stressed you are. The constant list-making, and the obsessive counting. And I’ve noticed you talking to the microwave recently.”

“Have you? But the microwave’s cracked.”

“And I heard you muttering something to the fridge the other day.”

“No, that’s not true—I find the fridge a little cold.”

“Tiffany, when are you off to Club Mad?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Good. The sooner the better. In fact, I think you should bring it forward. I’m going on a bloke-filled holiday too,” he added.

“You
are
?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’ve signed up for it.”

“What?”

“ ‘Menswork—Discover Your Inner Warrior Weekend Workshop.’ ” My
Gaard
! “I’m going down to Winchester this Friday.”

“Have you told Portia?”

“No. I simply said—and God I hated not telling her what I was doing—but I simply said that I ‘wouldn’t be around’ at the weekend. That’s what I said, just like this: ‘Portia, I’m afraid I
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won’t be around this weekend.’ I don’t think she liked it much.”

“Well—good,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m going to celebrate my manhood. Do a bit of bonding, with eighty other blokes.”

“I don’t think you should drive down in the Discovery,” I said.

“No, I’ve thought about that,” he said. “I’m going to do something really macho—I’m going to hitch.”

“Why don’t you just get the train?” I suggested.

“Well, because . . . I’ve been looking at the brochure and I’ve got to start as I mean to go on,” he replied. “I’ve got to take risks—push out boundaries, do things I wouldn’t normally do—and basically, men who are in touch with their ‘inner warrior’ don’t get the eight forty-five from Waterloo.”

The thought of Kit’s forthcoming weekend had lifted his spirits, and I felt similarly uplifted by the thought of my holiday on Paradise Island. Sun, sea and sand swam in my imagination; Kate and I would have a fortnight of fun. But there were hidden dangers. I popped down to Oxford Street to get some sunblock to keep the Caribbean rays at bay.

“I need factor ninety-five,” I said to the young girl on the sun protection counter in the department store. “I’m going to the Bahamas, and I’m concerned about my collagen.”

“Why don’t you just wear a balaclava,” she suggested as she took the money for five large bottles of Factor Thirty Extra-Waterproof Total Bloc—otherwise known as cement. “Or better still,” she added, “go to Iceland.”

“Why don’t you get lost?” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “What an
excellent
idea. I’ll go round to the travel agent right now and ask them to change my ticket. I’ve heard October’s a
particularly
good month for Reykjavik.”

“I’ve heard October’s a
particularly
good month for the Bahamas,” said Kate when I met her at the British Airways
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check-in at Gatwick two days later. “It’s the beginning of high season—the weather should be
brilliant
.”

“I mean, it’s going to be
really
hot,” she reiterated five hours later as we sat in the departures lounge, still waiting to board our delayed flight. “I mean it’s going to be
boiling.
We’ll really have to be careful. Especially you.”

By this time I had finished reading
How to Make Anyone Fall in Love with You
and was halfway through
A Suitable Boy.

“There’ll be
lots
of suitable boys at Club Med,” quipped Kate happily as she returned from her seventh visit to the Alders Duty Free shop.

“I think I’d prefer a suitable man.”

Finally, our flight was called. We boarded the plane, fastened our seatbelts and took off for Paradise Island. But isn’t twelve hours a long time to sit on a plane? Especially when the in-flight entertainment is appalling, every windowseat is taken, there’s a two-hour stop in the Caymans, and your next-door-neighbor is a crying baby?

“God, I feel dreadful,” said Kate as we shunted our luggage through Nassau airport at three
A.M.
the following morning. “Still, at least we’re guaranteed to have good weather. It’ll be sweltering. I wonder how we’re meant to get to the resort?”

We found the answer outside the airport in the form of a handsome young man. In one hand he was grasping a sign saying
CLUB MED.
In the other, he was holding aloft a large, black, dripping umbrella.

This
Melrose Place
is brilliant. I’ve been watching it every day. In my room at Club Med. But I find myself wondering two things: a) Why does Heather Locklear still look twenty-five? Is she bathing in ass’s milk, or drinking the blood of young virgins? And b) When is it going to stop raining?

“Sorry folks, it’s the tail end of a hurricane,” said one of the
Gentil Organisateurs
or GOs, as we Club Medders say. “The sun will shine again,” he said; and then he quickly added, “
Le
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soleil brillera encore; die Sonne wird scheinen; el sol volvera a brillar; sola skinner nok igjen; mata haremasuyo
.” Because, you see, all these GOs, they’re multilingual. Apparently they can say, “OK everybody, let’s party!” in twenty-three different languages. That’s what’s so nice about Club Dead, I mean, Club Med—it’s dead international. I mean, we’ve met—well actually, we haven’t met anyone yet because of the rain, but when it stops, I’m sure we will. We’ll meet
lots
of people then. It’s only a matter of time. Millions of single chaps. From all over the world. Thank God we booked for two weeks, because it’s been raining nonstop for four days now. And how clever of me to bring my Clarins self-tanning cream. Anyway, fortunately there are seventy-two channels on the TV. So when I’m not watching
Melrose Place
I watch reruns of
Peyton Place
on the nostalgia channel, and there’s the CNN twenty-four-hour weather channel and of course I’m taking a close interest in the ads. Some of them are really gross. Ads for herpes treatments, hernia trusses, and toenail fungus creams are, unfortunately, common. Thank God it’s not like that in the UK. Thank God we have such rigorous advertising standards. Thank God we only show ads for Tampax, sanitary towels, dandruff shampoos and anti-thrush treatments. Oh yes. And another thing I’ve been doing is writing postcards. It helps to pass the time. I’ve already sent fifty-six including three each to Frances, Sally, Catherine, Emma, Kit, Lizzie and Martin. But of course I’m not sending one to Seriously Successful. That would be stupid. Anyway, this morning, very, very early, I was suddenly awoken by a loud knocking on my door. Clearly someone wanted to speak to me. It was Kate.

“I’m just off to the beginners’ step-aerobics exercise class,” she said. “I thought I’d let you know. It’s only six-thirty. You can go back to sleep now.”

“Thanks.”

When I got up three hours later—still feeling the effects of jet lag actually—I couldn’t help noticing that it had stopped
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raining. Fantastic! I dashed over to the restaurant for breakfast and there was Kate, chatting to this rather charming chap.

“Tiffany, this is Jurgen,” she said. “He was in my step-aerobics class this morning.”

“Hello,” I said. “Tiffany. Tiffany Trott.”

He smiled, and then he said, “Are you students?”
Students!
He had
got
to be joking!

“Er, no,” we said. “We’re both working. We’ve both been working for quite a long time, actually—years and years. In fact we’re practically
retired
!”

“Ach so.” He looked rather surprised. “Well, you look so young, I thought you must be students.” I was beginning to enjoy this holiday.

“Are
you
a student?” I asked him pleasantly.

“No,” he replied, “I’m thirty-five—I left university last year. I’m a tax lawyer now.”

After breakfast we all went down to the beach. The sea was so warm, and the sun was incredibly hot. This was more like it.

“Do you like that German chap?” I asked Kate as we spread out our towels.

“Well, he’s very nice,” she said. “I think I do. But do you like him?”

“Well, yes, he’s OK, but, I mean,
you
saw him first,” I said.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to stand in your way, Tiffany, you know, if you really felt that you’d like to get to know him.”

“Oh no, no, no, no—don’t think about me. In any case, I’m sure he likes
you
.”

“No—I think he likes
you,
Tiffany. I get the impression he likes blondes.”

“No, I think he’s keener on brunettes. He’s definitely keen on you—his body language was notably positive. I think you should make an effort to talk to him again.”

“Well, OK, then,” she said reluctantly, “I will. As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” I said, giving her a reassuring smile. Just then
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we saw Jurgen walking toward us—hand in hand with a rather attractive blonde. Blast.

“Hullooo,” he said. “Zis is my fiancée, Gudrun. She has been having golf coaching all zis morning and now ve are going to sit on ze beach until lunch.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t put your towels down on the best sun-loungers!” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Hello, Gudrun.”

Got that one wrong, then. Oh well. And in fact, to be perfectly honest, there did seem to be rather a lot of couples. Fun-loving couples, I suppose you’d call them, all frolicking in the sea, cuddling under the palm trees, rubbing suntan lotion into each other’s backs, or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf. Bloody sickening.

“I thought you said that Paradise Island was full of single blokes,” I said to Kate as we built a small, but impressive sand castle.

“Well, I thought it was,” she said.

“In fact, do correct me if I’m wrong,” I continued, “I distinctly remember you saying that it was ‘absolutely stuffed with eligible single men.’ ”

“Well, that’s what I was told. Maybe it’s one of the other Bahamian Club Meds, maybe I got them mixed up . . .”

There were, we also couldn’t help noticing, quite a few same-sex, fun-loving couples. Particularly women. At lunch later that day we met a couple of rather fierce-looking worshippers at the shrine of Sappho—Jane and Sandra from Solihull.

“What does your girlfriend do?” Jane asked me as Kate went up to the buffet to get some more seafood salad.

“My girlfriend? Oh. Oh, Kate’s not my
girlfriend.
Well, not in
that
sense, ha ha ha!” I said. “We’re just having a holiday together. That’s all.”

“Oh I see—you’re just good friends, are you?” said Sandra with a rasping laugh. “Heard that one before!”

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“No, no, no, no, really,” I added, adjusting my sarong. “I mean, I wouldn’t like you to think . . .”

“It’s all right, Tiffany. Don’t get your bikini bottoms in a twist about it,” said Jane as they got up to leave. She gave me a wink. “See ya later.”

“Kate,” I said, when she sat down again. “I think I’ve identified a problem here. There seems to be an assumption that we’re gay. I don’t think this is going to assist us in our search for Mr. Right. I think we should do something to counteract this ridiculous presumption as soon as practicable.”

“OK,” she said simperingly, “I won’t hold your hand in public anymore, darling. Promise.”

“No, but seriously, Kate . . .”

“Ooh, go on, give us a kiss.”

“For goodness’ sake, Kate, this could be a
real
problem.”

“I really
love
it when you’re angry.”

“I know—let’s talk about our exes in a loud voice,” I suggested. “To indicate our unambiguous heterosexuality. So tell me what your ex-boyfriend did to
you,
Kate?” I inquired as I ate my apricot ice cream.

“Well, he was really
horrible
,” she said. “He never used to ring when he said he was going to.”

“What a
bastard
,” I replied.

“Yes. And he used to make me go Dutch on dates. And,” she added, “he used to drink far too much at parties and embarrass me. What about you?”