The Trials of Tiffany Trott (24 page)

“Happy New Year everyone!” we said simultaneously, as we kissed and hugged and chinked glasses. “Happy New Year. Happy New Year!”

_p. 250
The others shivered and retreated inside. But I stayed on the balcony for a few minutes, watching the Thames flowing strong and dark below; and I thought, well, maybe it
will
be a happy New Year—after all, a year’s a long time.

_p. 251
Why oh why oh
why
do I keep dreaming about Canary Wharf? And the Lloyds Tower? And sometimes, but less frequently, Centre Point? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about Phil Anderer again, and so tall buildings are on my mind. Not that his were very tall, you understand. Quite low, actually. Conversions and extensions, rather than anything which scaled the heights. I mean I wouldn’t exactly have put him in the Norman Foster or Terry Farrell league. And what would he have built for me? A broken home. Mind you, to be fair, his knowledge of building regulations was
extremely
comprehensive. But I have found myself thinking about Phil Anderer lately, because, of course, it’s all his fault. Because if he hadn’t wasted my time, and then dumped me, I would not be in this situation now. I would not now be on the verge of having to join an introduction agency where I will be forced to meet, and quite possibly marry, some very, very sad, unattractive and abysmally unsuccessful people. Yes. It’s all Phillip’s fault.

Mum doesn’t agree. “It isn’t his fault,” she said over the phone this morning. “He was just being—himself. It’s your fault for going out with him in the first place. You had a choice.”

“Well, it’s Alex’s fault then,” I said. “He wasted my time, too.”

“Darling, you wasted your own time—that’s what you don’t realize. Because you didn’t have to stay with either of them,
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and if you’d left them earlier, as you should have done, then you might by now have found someone far more suitable. But you didn’t, you chose to stay. Sometimes I suspect you don’t really want to get married at all, Tiffany.”

“Oh no, no that’s not true!”

“Well, please would you stop going on about Phillip and Atex—it’s very boring for me, and it’s bad for you. They’re old news now. Anyway, would you seriously want to have married either of them?”

“No,” I said, “but that’s
not
the
point
.”

“What
is
the point then?”

“The point is that
they
should have wanted to marry
me
!”

“Thank goodness they didn’t, Tiffany,” she said quietly. “Now, will you please pull yourself together. You’re feeling nervous, that’s what this is about.”

Mum was right. I was.
Extremely
nervous. Because I was about to take the plunge. Join Captivate. They would have had my form by now. They would be contacting me to come in and see them for an interview. My stomach was tied up in knots. The butterflies were as big as birds. I mean, the artifice of it—being match-made. Having to acknowledge failure. Defeat. The lack of a bloke. Relying on some outside agency to do the trick for me when Fate, and God, had failed. How totally abject. How humiliating. What a bloody climbdown. And my God—if anyone knew—it would be mortifying. Terrible. Deeply, deeply embarrassing. But then, on the
other
hand, introduction agencies aren’t such a big deal. After all, every religious culture had its matchmaker—they were a vital part of the community. And did not Dr. Johnson himself say that he believed all marriages should be arranged, on the orders of the Lord Chancellor, without either party having any say in the matter? And these days, it’s
so
common. I mean,
everyone’s
doing it. Everyone. I can think of at least . . . um . . . well, nobody actually, because people don’t really talk about it, do they? They keep it quiet. Can’t say I blame them. Who’d
want
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to admit to it? I know I certainly wouldn’t. Absolutely not. No way. Not that it’s a
big deal
or anything, and in fact there’s something rather romantic about being set up with someone by a concerned third party. A fairy godmother. Or father. A wave of whose magic wand might bring untold happiness into one’s utterly sad, pathetic and desolate life. I mean, if I was buying a house I’d go to an estate agent, wouldn’t I? I’d get professional help. If I was buying a car—not that I
would
of course, with their horrible, poisonous fumes, and anyway what’s wrong with the number 38?—but if I
was,
then I’d ask an expert to help me choose it. And if I was looking for a bloke—well, I can get professional help for that too. Because I’m not going to leave something as important as my choice of life partner to the vagaries of Fate or the whim of God.

Anyway, I read the other day that Mel Gibson met his wife through an introduction agency. And he’s been happily married ever since. At least, I think he has. I don’t think he’s been divorced. That’s Harrison Ford isn’t it? Is Mel Gibson still on his first marriage? Don’t know. Must check. But if an introduction agency is good enough for Mel, it’s certainly good enough for me. Wonder if Prince Edward met Sophie Rhys-Jones through an introduction agency? He probably did. Perhaps it was the very same one. And I bet that’s how Jerry Hall met Mick. Anyway, I’m really looking forward to getting started at Captivate, and, well,
cracking
on with it.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” said Kate. “I really do.” I was at her flat in Maida Vale while she demonstrated to me the benefits of the Mediwave “Take Five” nonsurgical face-lift machine. She’s just bought one: £250. Frankly I find it all a bit alarming.

“It only takes five minutes,” she said as she attached four pairs of electrodes to her face. “That’s why it’s called ‘Take Five.’ Isn’t that a good name?”

“Brilliant,” I said. “But take care.”

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“Now, what you do is to connect these pads here to the main facial muscle groups. Like this.” She looked like Frankenstein’s monster as she sat on the sofa, trailing wires. Then she threw the switch on the unit, and suddenly her face began to twitch.

“I’m passing a current through the . . . zygomaticus muscles now,” she said, as her cheeks began to jump. “They’re the upper cheek muscles. I’m also going to concentrate on my . . . naso-labials because I’m a bit . . . worried about those. No, I think joining a . . . dating agency is a wonderful idea,” she continued in the two-second gaps between spasm-inducing bursts of electricity. “I may do it myself one . . . day if it doesn’t work out with . . . Mike. Basically, this is a workout for the face,” she continued. “I mean we . . . exercise the muscles in our arms and legs . . . don’t we?” she said. “And this . . . works on the same principle.” She tweaked the dial. “I’m just going to . . . increase the contractions by upping the . . . ampage a bit,” she added. This time her cheeks and upper lips didn’t just twitch, they convulsed, the muscles above her eyes contracting with a force to rival that of Herbert Lom in
The Pink Panther
or John Tusa in his
Newsnight
days.

“I think I’ve got the idea,” I said, “but I find it quite hard to talk to you.”

“Not much longer . . . Tiffany . . . hang on.” Suddenly the machine emitted a high-pitched whine to indicate the end of the session. Kate removed the pads, leaving hectic red spots where the current had stimulated the skin. “My face,” she said with an air of triumph, “has just done the equivalent of a half marathon followed by a couple of sets of tennis. Do you think I look younger?”

“Yes,” I said truthfully, “I do.”

“Do you think I look twenty-eight?” she said. “Like Mike?”

“Well. Yes. Probably. But Kate, why are you doing it? You don’t need it.”

_p. 255
“Because now that I’ve got a man it’s more important than ever to preserve my looks.”

“Yes, but Mike knows your age, doesn’t he?” Silence. “Doesn’t he?”

“Not
yet
,” she said judiciously. “He thinks I’m thirty. If it gets serious, and I think it might, then obviously I’ll tell him, but I’m just, you know, trying to keep the flesh all nice and firm. And of course it’s far too early for a facelift,” she said. “I mean, knife begins at forty.”

“If he really likes you, then he won’t mind the fact that you’re a few years older,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” she said, “I know. Anyway,” she added, “if it doesn’t work out with Mike then I’ll do what you’re going to do. When do you join?”

“Quite soon. They’re going to give me a call.”

The call came the following morning.

“Miss Trott?”

“Yes. Hallo. That’s me,” I said.

“Well,
hallooo,
Miss Trott. My name is Stuuaaart,” said a male voice. Who on earth was this? “I’m from Capteevate Personal Introductions.”

“Oh. Yes. Hallo,” I said again.

“Thank you for your appleecation,” he droned, “and I am deelighted to be able to tell yew that yew qualify for an introductoree interview.”

“Oh. Good . . .”

“So, we would like yew to come and see us at our London office,” he continued. “May I suggest this Monday?”

“Oh, Well. I’d like to know a little bit more about it over the phone first,” I said.

“Oh, I do not fink that will be necessary becorse it’s much more better for you to meet with one of our executeeve consultants.”

“But there are things I need to ask . . .”

_p. 256
“Becorse, Miss Trott, you are obviously looking for a qualitee eligibew gentewman,” he added. “End we have many such male members on our register.”

“OK, but for example how—”

“You are obviously a very busy and successful lay-dee,” he added.

“Er, yes, I suppose I am,” I said.

“And you have reached an age where all your friends are married.”

“Well, no. Not all of them, actually.”

“They are
all
marreed,” he continued happily, “and you find it hard to meet quality single people like yourself.”

“Er. Well, yes.”

“And so you have decided to come to us. You are a casualty of the serciety what we live in.”

“How much does it cost?” I got in quickly.

“Ooh! We cannot divulge that information over the phone,” he said.

“Why not?” There was a momentary hesitation at the other end.

“Becorse there are many levews of membership,” he replied.

“Oh. I see. But, you know, roughly—just a ballpark figure would do.” I persisted breezily, as my hackles continued to rise.

“But that is impossible,” he insisted. “Becorse there are several levews of membership.”

“Yes, yes I know. You just said that.”

“And we would have to choose one that would be appropriate for you.”

“Why couldn’t
I
choose it?” I asked.

“Becorse it would not be appropriate,” he replied. “I reely do suggest that you make an appointment with us today to come in at your earliest convenience.”

“Look,” I said. “I’m not going to make any such appoint
_p. 257
ment unless you can give me some clear idea over the phone, now, as to what it’s likely to cost.”

“I’m afraid it would not be appropriate for me to tell yew that.”

“I really don’t see why,” I said.

“Becorse we never deescuss fees over the phone.”

“But I still don’t understand why you can’t say, within certain parameters, how much your company charges,” I insisted.

“Well, becorse it depends on
so
many things,” he said. “We never deescuss fees before meeting our clients.”

“Well, I think you should,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I think you should,” I reiterated crisply.

“Why should we?” he said defensively.

“Because it’s extremely helpful for potential clients to know beforehand how much money they’re going to be in for,” I said firmly. “I mean, one hears some awful stories about cowboy agencies who take thousands of pounds from innocent people and then—”

“Miss Trott—are yew normally as bad-tempered as this?” he suddenly said.

“I am
never
bad-tempered,” I hissed.

“Becorse if you are I can understand a few things . . . I can understand why you’re not marr—” I put the phone down. Breathing heavily. Oooooohh. Hummmmmmmmm. Oooooooohhhh. Hummmmmmm. Dammmmmmmn.

“Captivate sound like a bunch of wankers,” said Sally succinctly, when I met her for the post-Christmas yoga class on the fourth of January. “You’ll have to do some research if you’re going to do this thing properly,” she added. “You mustn’t fall into the kind of trap that you fell into with Seriously Successful. You’re got to know what’s what.”

“I know.”

“You hear dreadful stories about dating agencies.”

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“I know that, too.”

“You ought to ring the professional body and get them to recommend a couple. I’m sure there must be an association of some kind.”

“
Brilliant
idea,” I said. “Oh, hello, Jessie.”

“Hallooooo,” she crooned. We stepped inside the house, for the weekly heavy breathing session. This time it was, “
Oooh oooh oooh
—
aaah aaah aaah
—
oooh oooh oooh
—
aah aah aaah
,”—I thought I was going to faint from hyperventilation. And then we went back to humming.

“These breathing exercises will teach you all how to be calm and accepting during childbirth,” said Jessica as the entire class hummed away—unfortunately not in harmony. “Purposeful humming noises will help to channel the pain of labor and bring your baby closer to you.” Some women closed their eyes beatifically while they hummed and breathed. Sally kept hers open. Then it was time for the cat position—on all fours.

“How are you feeling?” said Lesley to Sally during the herbal tea break.

“Oh I’m fine,” she said. “Sailing through it, so far at least. How are you?” This triggered a ten-minute monologue about morning sickness, wind, appalling indigestion, varicose veins, bloated feelings, pains in the wrist, insomnia, and constipation.

“You
poor
thing,” said Sally sympathetically. I glanced at Lesley’s partner, Pat. She was big, rather than big with child, and she seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to latch on to me.

“I don’t let Lesley carry the shopping,” she boomed at me manfully, as we made our way down Ronalds Road after the class. “I’m not having it. I keep telling her that she’s
got
to take it easy. I bring her breakfast in bed every morning,” she went on, “and I make her put her feet up on the sofa for at least two hours a day. Now, she thinks I fuss over her too much,” she told me confidentially, “but I’m not having her straining herself. She’s carrying our precious baby. Are you the same with Sally?”