The Trials of Tiffany Trott (2 page)

What a surprise, I thought. From inside the dining room we could hear the popping of champagne corks and the squeak of party blowers.

“
Wahay
—let’s get sloshed,” I heard Frances say.

“Yeah—
let’s
,” said Emma. “Let’s get really
plastered.
I mean it’s Friday. We work bloody hard. And this is a
party.
God these canapés are good. Pass me a mini pizza, would you? I had the most horrible lot of fifth-formers today—thick as pig shit.”

“Sally, please would you put your laptop away?” Frances boomed. “
Relax.
The weekend starts here.”

“I’m sorry,” I heard Sally reply pleadingly. “I just need to have a
quick
look at Wall Street to see how the pound closed against the dollar—won’t be a sec.”

“We’re doing the Napoleonic wars at the moment,” Emma continued. “I’ve just been supervising their GCSE project and one particularly thick kid managed to get a nuclear submarine into the battle of Waterloo!”

“That’s unbelievable,” said Frances.

“Quite,” Emma replied.

I looked at Kit. His black curly hair was a little long, his face appeared tired and strained. He was fiddling thoughtfully with
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the stem of his champagne flute. Then he turned to me and said, “I don’t know what to do, Tiff.”

“About what?” I said, though of course I knew. We’d had this conversation many times before.

“About Portia,” he said with a sigh.

“Same problem?” I asked.

He nodded, mutely. “She says she needs more time,” he explained with a shrug. “That she’s just not ready for it. Of course I don’t pressure her,” he added. “I’m just hoping she’ll change her mind. But I’d really
love
to marry her. I’d love to settle down and have a family. This single life’s a drag.”

“Hear hear!” said Catherine, stepping through the French windows. “But you’re a rare bird, Kit—a man who actively wants to make a commitment. My God, I’d marry you tomorrow!”

“Would you really?” he said.

“Yes. If you asked me. Why don’t you ask me?” she added suddenly. “I’m sure we’d get on.”

“Or me, Kit,” said Sally, following behind. “I’d snap you up in a flash—you’d better watch out, Portia, I’m after your man!” She giggled winsomely, but then an expression of real regret passed across her face. “I wish all men were like you, Kit, ready to bend the knee, then girls like us wouldn’t be crying into our hot chocolate every night.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Frances. “I’m not crying—I’m out clubbing. Much more satisfactory. And the music drowns out the loud tick tock of my biological clock.”

“I can’t hear mine,” said Emma, “it’s digital.”

“Mine sounds like Big Ben,” said Frances. “Except that there’s no one to wind it up. But do you know,” she continued, peeling a quail’s egg. “I really don’t care; because finally, after thirty-six years, I’ve realized that the vast majority of men simply aren’t worth having. Anyway,” she added, “who needs one? I’d rather go rollerblading in the park on a Saturday morning than go to Sainsbury’s with some totally useless bloke.”

“I don’t think you really mean that,” I said. “It’s because of
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what you do—I mean sorting out other people’s ghastly divorces all day would put anyone off marriage.”

“It’s not just that,” said Frances. “Though after fifteen years of establishing who threw the bread knife at who in 1979 you certainly
do
get a little jaundiced. It’s simply that most men are boring. Terribly, terribly boring. Except you, of course, Kit,” she added quickly.

“Thanks,” he said, peevishly.

“I mean why should I go to all the trouble of pinning down some bloke,” Frances was still going on, “only for him to
bore
me to death!”

“Or run off with someone else,” added Emma with sudden feeling. “Just like my father did.”

“There just aren’t any really nice,
interesting,
decent, suitable, trustworthy men,” Frances concluded comprehensively.
Yes, there are,
I thought to myself smugly.
And I’ve got one.

“I’m just facing facts,” she said with a resigned air. “I’ve weighed up the evidence. And the evidence is not in our favor. So no Bland Dates for me,” she added firmly. “I, for one, have decided to give wedded bliss a miss.”

“Better single than badly accompanied,” added Emma.

“Quite!” said Catherine.

“Three million single women can’t be wrong,” said Frances, who always has some handy statistic at the ready. “Anyway, why bother when over forty percent of marriages end in divorce?”

“And
why
do they end in divorce?” asked Emma with sudden vehemence. “Because it’s usually the man’s fault. That’s why. It was certainly my father’s fault,” she added fiercely. “He just fancied someone else. Plain and simple. And believe me, she
was
plain and simple. But she was younger than my mother,” she went on bitterly. “Mum never got over it.”

“Men get far more out of marriage than women,” said Frances expansively. “Sixty percent of married women admitted in a
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recent survey that if they could have their time over again, they would not have married their husbands.”

“I’m really not enjoying this conversation much,” said Kit with an exasperated sigh. “I mean it’s so difficult for men these days. Women have made us all feel so . . . redundant.”

“You
are
redundant,” said Frances with benign ferocity. “What can a man give me that I don’t already have? I’ve got a house, a car, a good job, two holidays a year—long-haul—a wardrobe full of designer clothes and a mantelpiece that’s white with invitations. What on earth could a man add to that?”

“Grief!” said Emma rancorously.

“Ironing,” said Catherine.

“Boredom,” said Frances.

“Acute emotional stress,” said Emma.

“Arsenal,” said Catherine.

“Betrayal,” said Emma.

“A baby?” said Sally.

“Oh don’t be so old-fashioned,” said Frances. “You don’t need a man for that. How old are you now?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Well, if you’re that desperate to procreate, just pop down to the sperm bank or have a one-night stand.”

“Alternatively, you could arrange an intimate encounter with a turkey baster and a jam jar,” added Emma, with one of her explosive laughs. “I hear they’re very low maintenance and you wouldn’t need to buy any sexy lingerie!”

“Or, if you’re prepared to wait a few more years, you can dispense with the sperm altogether and get yourself
cloned
,” said Frances. “That day is not far off—remember Dolly the sheep?”

“I’d
love
to have a baby,” said Sally. “I really would. My parents would love me to have one too—they go on about it a bit, actually. But I’d never have one on my own,” she added purposefully. “Cloned, turkey-basted or otherwise.”

“Why not?” said Frances. “There’s no stigma these days. I’d
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do it myself only I’m far too lazy. All that getting up in the middle of the night would kill me at my age.”

“For God’s sake, you’re only thirty-six, not sixty-three!” said Catherine.

“What, precisely, are your objections to single motherhood, Sal?” Frances asked.

“Well, I just don’t think it’s fair on the child,” she said. “And then some poor man always ends up having to pay for it, even if he never gets to see it and it wasn’t even his decision to have it.”

“Then the silly bugger should have been more
careful
,” said Emma triumphantly.

“Well, yes. But, speaking personally—this is just my point of view, OK—I think it’s unfair and I know that, well, it’s something that I would
never, ever
do,” Sally said. Suddenly a high warble began to emanate from her Gucci handbag. “Sorry,” she said, getting out her mobile phone. “This’ll be my update on the U.S. Treasury Long Bond. It’s been a bit wobbly lately. Won’t be a moment.” She stepped back into the dining room, where we could see her pacing slowly back and forth while she talked, with evident agitation, to a colleague in New York.

“Lucky old Tiffany,” said Catherine, snapping a breadstick in half. “She doesn’t have to worry about all this sort of thing.”

“No, she doesn’t,” said Emma, shivering slightly in the cooling air. “She’s got a man. It’s all sewn up and she’s heading for a wedding.” She cupped her hand to her ear. “I can hear the peal of bells already. So when’s he going to pop the question, Tiff?”

“Oh gosh, well, I mean I don’t . . .” Pity the sun had gone in.

“Yes.
When
?” said Frances, with another gulp of champagne. “And can I be your maid of dishonor?”

“Well, ha ha ha! Uhm—I don’t know. . . er . . .” I glanced at the sky. A thick bank of cloud, gray as gunmetal, had begun to build up. Where had that come from?

“Are we all warm enough?” I asked. “And, er, who wants another parmesan and red pepper tartlet?” In fact, I was des
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perately trying to change the subject because, you see, I really didn’t want to rub it in—I mean the fact that I had a chap, and they didn’t. Because, to be quite honest, I had been sitting there, throughout that discussion, quietly thanking God for Alex. Even if he has got sloping shoulders and a rather girlish giggle which, to be perfectly frank, does make my heart sink at times. But, still, I thought, at least I don’t have to contemplate self-insemination or agonize about my ovaries because a) I’ve got a chap and b) I know for a fact that he likes kids. He really,
really
likes them. Loves them. I mean he’s
awfully
good with his niece and nephew—spoils them to bits—and I’m sure he’d be a brilliant father. He wouldn’t mind changing nappies. In fact he’d probably
enjoy
it. And OK, so I know he’s not perfect—in fact there are one or two other things about him that I’m really not crazy about, including his goatee beard, his outlandish taste in socks, and his thin, unmuscular thighs. But then no one’s perfect. It’s all about compromise, isn’t it? That’s what enlightened and mature people do. And Alex is really charming. Absolutely
sweet,
in fact. And certainly not the unfaithful type. Unlike Phil. In fact, when I first met Alex, he was such a gentleman it took him three months just to hold my hand. Which was rather nice. In a way.
Anyway,
I was quite sure that Alex was about to pop the question. I could tell by the vaguely nervous way in which he’d been looking at me recently. And eight months is quite long enough, isn’t it? At our age? I mean, he’s thirty-eight. I’m now thirty-seven. So what’s the point of hanging around? Why not just, well,
get
on with it? It’s not as though he’s got three-ex-wives and five children to support; he’s totally unencumbered—another
very
big point in his favor, incidentally.

So while the others continued arguing about the changing roles of men and women and the declining popularity of marriage, I did some mental shopping for the wedding which would be in, what . . . September? Lovely month. Or if that was too soon, December. I love the idea of a winter wedding.
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Dead romantic. We could all sing “The Holly and the Ivy” by candlelight, and I could have tinsel draped over the altar and wear a captivating fur-trimmed train. Now where should I get the dress? Chelsea Design Studio? Catherine Walker? Terribly expensive, and in any case if Dad was spending that kind of money, I think Alex prefers Anthony Price. I know Alex would definitely want the flowers to come from Moyses Stevens. He’s very fussy about his floral arrangements. How many guests? A couple of hundred—217 to be exact, I’ve already drawn up the list, actually. Well, it’ll save time, won’t it? And what about the honeymoon? Probably somewhere arty, like Florence. Alex would really like that. Or maybe Seville. Or Bruges. Somewhere with loads of art galleries and at least seventeen cathedrals. And . . .

“Tiffany, where
is
Alex?” Catherine asked. “It’s a quarter past nine.”

“Er, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s stuck at work.”

“What’s he working on?” Emma inquired.

“Well, he’s doing up this big house in Pimlico, it’s a total wreck. Brown hessian on the walls. Formica kitchen. Exploding cauliflower carpets. He said he was going to be there all day, but . . . well, he should be here by now.”

“Maybe he’s had an accident,” said Frances helpfully.

“God, I hope not,” I said. I went inside and anxiously called his mobile phone. “Thank you for calling Vodafone 0236 112331,” intoned a robotic female voice.”Please leave your message after the tone.” Damn.

“Um, Alex, hi, um, it’s me. Tiffany, “ I said. “And I’m just wondering where you are. Um, hope you’re OK. I’m a bit worried about you, actually. But perhaps you’re on your way. I hope so, because it’s nine-fifteen now and everyone’s been here for quite a while, and to be honest it’s getting a little out of hand—ha ha ha! In fact there’s quite a heated debate going on about gender issues and that sort of thing and I think we need
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another man to balance it up a bit. So see you soon, I hope. Um. Tiffany.”

“Gosh it’s getting dark, isn’t it?” I heard Emma say. “Ooh—was that a spot of rain?”

“Women today have
appalling
attitudes toward men,” Kit was saying as everyone strolled inside, “And then you all wonder why we run a mile? It’s totally unfair. You refuse to compromise. You don’t want us unless we’re perfect.”

“No, we
don’t
,” they all shrieked, as they flopped onto the chairs and sofas in the sitting room.

“Yes, but are
you
perfect?” asked Kit as he lowered himself onto the chaise longue. “Ask yourselves that.”

“Yes we
are
,” they all shouted. “We’re totally fantastic! Hadn’t you noticed?”

“Er, yes,” he replied gallantly.

“Well
I’d
happily compromise,” said Sally, “but I hardly ever get to meet men, unsuitable or otherwise.”

“But you work with
thousands
of men in the City,” said Catherine enviously.

“Yes, but they never approach female colleagues because they’re terrified of being sued for sexual harassment. In any case, they don’t regard us as real women—to them we’re just men in skirts. And then when I do meet a nice ordinary guy from outside the City, let’s say a doctor or a vet,” Sally continued, “they tend to run a mile because I’m so . . .” She blushed. “I’m so . . .”