The Trials of Tiffany Trott (26 page)

“Still, at least it doesn’t reek of chlorine.” My arms were beginning to ache by now and I was just wondering whether to ask this Sloaney-looking girl in a velvet headband and green, waxed-down swimsuit if she’d stand in for me for a while, when Sally decided she’d had enough. She went over to the wall and did a few side lifts and leg circles, like a ballerina practicing at the barre, and then we went to get changed.

“No, I think introduction agencies are a brilliant idea, Tiffany,” she said as we retrieved our clothes from the lockers and sat down to change on the slatted wooden benches. “I’m really glad you’re doing it. I’ll probably do it myself one day, when Lorelei’s about two years old.”

“It helps take my mind off Seriously Successful,” I added as we dried ourselves and dressed. “Because ever since I found out that he’s kind to homeless people, naturally I like him even more, which is why it’s so important for me to meet someone else.”

“Er, yes, I see,” said Sally as she pulled the waistband of her maternity leggings over her expanding midriff. “Why exactly
are
you in love with him?” she asked looking at me in a somewhat puzzled way.

“Because he’s OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-divine,” I began as I combed through my wet hair. “Well, at least
I
think so. And he’s very funny, and he has a comprehensive knowledge of advertising slogans combined with a highly developed
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social conscience. But unfortunately he’s also got a wife,” I added sadly. “And a girlfriend. Which, let’s face it,
is
a bit of a drawback.”

“Er, yes,” she said. “It certainly is.”

“Anyway, that’s why I’ve joined the—” I looked around, then lowered my voice to a whisper—“Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency. So that I can fall in love with someone else.”

“What about that chap you were at school with—hasn’t he phoned you again?”

“Yes he did. The week after Christmas. Then he went skiing. But he said he’d ring me when he got back.”

“Well, what about him?” she said as we blow-dried our hair in front of the mirrors. “He sounds rather nice. Wouldn’t he do?”

“Well. Yes. Maybe. Possibly,” I said airily. “Perhaps. Potentially. I do like him,” I added truthfully. “And he’s incredibly attractive. It’s just that I’ve only had one proper date with him—so I’d like to see him again. Anyway, how are you feeling?” I asked her.

“Oh fine,” she said happily. “No more morning sickness—and look, my hair’s gone thicker. I’ve ordered a wonderful jogging buggy,” she added excitedly. “Just like Madonna had. For Lourdes.”

“What about Lourdes?” I suggested. “Or maybe Lyons.”

“Wait till you see what I got in Paris!” she said happily. We walked down Lots Road toward Chelsea Harbor. Sally’s flat’s in the Belvedere, a huge pagoda-like building which dwarfs the rest of the development. We shot up to the fifteenth floor in the lift and she opened the door to her apartment. It’s huge—open plan, and nearly all white, with white leather furniture, and white marble flooring and white rugs and a white open-plan kitchen with shining steel worktops and gleaming white cupboards. Through the French windows we could hear boats quietly chugging up the river and the clattering of trains over Chelsea rail bridge. On the other, northern side of the flat was a view of the marina, where Khashoggi-style yachts gently
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rocked back and forth on their moorings, their rigging lines rattling against their aluminum masts.

Sally put an Enigma CD on her Bang and Olufsen music center, popped a frozen pizza into the oven, and then produced a number of expensive-looking carrier bags from which she took out eight or nine tiny dresses. They were adorable, and all in pink, with pink ruffles, and pink velvet edging, and pink sprigged flowers with pink satin sashes and pink-and-white broderie anglaise collars.

“They’re lovely,” I said. “They’re like doll’s dresses.”

“I love French clothes for kids,” she said, fingering the fabric. “These are from Tartine au Chocolat and Galeries Lafayette. Loretta will look adorable in them.”

“But I thought you said you’d wait until Lola was born before buying any gear for her.”

“Oh no, Tiffany. I’m really getting myself thoroughly organized. Come with me.” She took me through to the back of her apartment. There, a spare bedroom which I had remembered as white, like everything else, was now pastel pink, with a border of coral roses at wainscot and ceiling, a light shade which danced with pink elephants, and a deep rose wall-to-wall woollen carpet. In one corner was a large cot with alternating pink and white rails, like a pack of marshmallows. On it was a satin coverlet, the color of early cherry blossom, and above it eight fluffy pink rabbits circulated gently in the sudden breeze from the open door. Against the far wall was a child’s wardrobe, painted in pale salmon and stenciled with large pink peonies. Sally opened the door, revealing about twenty tiny outfits, all in varying shades of pink, and ranging in size from newborn to about two years.

“Gosh,” I said. “How lovely. Lucky Lily.”

“Well, I think it’s really good to be prepared,” she said.

“Same time this Saturday for the yoga class?” I asked her as I left.

“Yes,” she said enthusiastically. “And Rosie’s coming back
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to the group to tell us all about her birth,” she added happily. “I can’t
wait
to hear about it.”

I picked up the phone.

“Hallo Trotters!”

“Hello, Nick! How are you? Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year to you.”

“How was the skiing?”

“Oh, it was fun. But I’d love to see you. Now, will you have lunch with me on Thursday? At Green’s Oyster Bar?”

“That would be lovely,” I said. And so on Thursday I made my way to Duke Street and met Nick there. I was close to Piccadilly again—Seriously Successful territory, though no sign of him today, thank God. And in any case, I was thinking about Nick. I was looking forward to seeing him again. I really was. He was nice. And he was charming. And terribly attractive. And today he looked even more attractive with his Verbier tan. He kissed me on the cheek, and smiled.

“Oh it’s
so
nice to see you again, Tiffany,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, you know.” I blushed. I suddenly felt ridiculously happy. He was really a
very
nice chap. And he seemed keen. Maybe he was the answer to my prayers, I thought. Maybe he was. Maybe. We ordered a large bowl of mussels to share.

“Tom Player was in my chalet,” said Nick as we sat scooping out the soft salty insides. “Do you remember him?”

“Er vaguely,” I said, dipping my fingers in the silver water bowl.

“And Peter Croft came out for a few days, too.”

“Oh great.”

“They both remember you really well.”

“Do they?”

“Oh yes. I told them you’d lost weight.”

“Thanks.”

Nick rinsed his fingertips and then took another sip of
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Chardonnay. Suddenly he laughed. “Do you remember when Peter stuck that car on top of the chapel?” he said.

“Oh yes,” I said. “I do. How could anyone forget?”

“Bloody funny, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Rather dangerous, though.”

“Oh yes,” he replied. “That driver could have been killed.”

“How did he get it up there?” I asked.

“He hired a crane of course.”

“And do you remember when Jack Daniels dyed the water in the swimming pool bright red?”

“Oh yes,” I said wearily. “I do.”

“Hell of a shock on a Monday morning.”

“Er, yes.” I was a bit sick of school stories to be honest, so I tried to change the subject. “So tell me about the States,” I said. “What did you do?”

“Well, I spent a fortnight in New York—we had three big furniture sales. And then I stayed with my father for a week over Christmas. He was at Downingham too, you know, Tiffany.”

“Oh. Look, why don’t you ever talk about anything but school, Nick?” I said. Actually I didn’t say that. I said, “How’s your salmon teriyaki?”

“Delicious.”

We finished our meal in silence, and then looked at the dessert menu.

“Trotters,” said Nick. Suddenly he reached for my hand and looked me in the eye. “I mean, Tiffany,” he said again.

“Yes?” I said, slightly disconcerted.

“Tiffany—would you . . . I don’t know how to ask you this. It’s a difficult thing for a chap to ask. But Tiffany . . . would you . . . would you . . . please would you . . . choose the chocolate éclairs?”

“Of, of course I will,” I said with a peal of laughter, which was underpinned with relief.

But he was still holding onto my hand. “And would you go
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out with me?” he added casually. “I mean, be my girlfriend?”
Oh God.
“You know how much I like you.”

“I like you too,” I said.

“You see, you remind me of what it was like to be thirteen.”

“Ah.”

“You remind me, Tiffany, of some very happy times.”

“I see.”

“You take me right back to another
epoch
almost,” he added with a contented sigh.

“Oh. Thanks.” I felt vaguely depressed.

“What do you think, Tiffany?” What should I say?

“Well Nick, I think you’re a lovely person. But . . . but I just . . . don’t . . .”

“It’s OK,” he said quietly, letting go of my hand. “You really don’t have to say.”

“I just don’t think I’m the right person for you Nick, that’s all.”

“I’m only four years younger than you are, Tiffany,” he said. “It hardly figures, you know.” This was true. But that wasn’t the reason.

“It’s not really the difference in our ages,” I said. “It’s just that I can’t help seeing you as I saw you at school.”
Because you don’t seem to talk about anything else, you twit.
“Can’t we just be friends?” I asked.

“Of course we can,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s change the subject,” he added with sudden studied brightness. “Let’s talk about your slogans. I think they’re marvelous,” he continued enthusiastically. “That one for
Which?
magazine was brilliant—how did it go, now? Oh yes, that’s it, Don’t Get Done Get
Which?
That was a classic.”

“That was years ago,” I said.

“But I still remember it,” he said, “which proves it must have worked. And that one for Dulux paint. Your Most Brilliant Liquid Asset, wasn’t that it? Fantastic. What are you working on now?”

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“Love Hearts,” I said, “for Valentine’s Day. A TV campaign—the manufacturers are spending a fortune on it. It’s a big risk for them.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“Well, you know the inscriptions on the sweets,” I said.

“Yes. ‘Love Me,’ ‘Be Mine,’ that kind of thing.”

“Yes, exactly. Well, I’ve made up these poems out of them, and they’ll be recited by actors—with club music and special effects and fast editing. It sounds silly,” I added apologetically, “ads always do sound silly when you describe them cold, but I think it’ll look quite good.”

“That is
so
brilliant,” he said admiringly. “It sounds marvelous.”

“Oh it’s only advertising, Nick,” I said. “It’s not exactly world-changing stuff. It doesn’t prevent wars, or feed the hungry.” Or house the homeless, I thought ruefully. “How’s Jonathan?” I added. “Is he getting nervous about the wedding?”

“Oh yes—he worries about it the whole time. It’s only two months away. You are going, aren’t you?”

“Yes I am.”

“Well, Yorkshire’s a bit of a trek,” he said. “Why don’t we go up together?”

“Yes,” I said happily. “That would be fun.”

“Hummmmmm . . . Oooooohhhhh . . . Aaahhhhhhh . . . Hummmmmmmm . . . Ooooooohhhhh . . . Aaaaaaaah!”

“OK—it’s time for our break,” said Jessie. “Let’s take ten minutes, and then Rosie’s going to tell us all about the birth of little Emily. Aren’t you, Rosie?”

“Yes I am,” said Rosie, with a shy smile.

Pat and I made a dash for the soft toy pile—I got Rupert Bear—and then we went into the kitchen. “I can’t wait to hear Rosie spill the beans,” boomed Pat as she tucked Paddington more firmly under her left arm.

“Nor can I,” I lied as I put a camomile teabag into a gaily painted ceramic mug.

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“I suspect she’ll make it sound easier than it really was,” Pat continued, as we one-handedly stirred the infusions and then carried them back to the drawing room. “Did you see the game last night?” she added.

“Game?”

“Arsenal blasted Chelsea four-one—
phenomenal
score. Or is rugger more your kind of thing?”

“Er, no,” I said. “Tennis, actually.”

“Tennis, eh? Now, Martina Navratilova’s one of my heroines.”

“Really?”

“And Billie-Jean King, of course—what a star. So, tennis is your scene, is it Tiffany?”

“Uh, well . . .”

“Suppose you’ll be going to Eastbourne?”

“Er, no . . . don’t think so.”

“So you follow the women’s game,” she said with a loud, dirty laugh.

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” I said. “I mean I
do
like tennis. But actually, what I really prefer is synchronized swimming.”

“Ladies’ tennis! Ha! Bet you’ve got a good forehand, Tiffany!”

I handed Sally the mug of herbal tea, trying not to slop it all over the stripped wooden floor. She was wearing a smocked denim top and loose-fitting trousers.

“I can’t
wait
to hear what Rosie has to say,” she said. Suddenly, Jessie clapped her hands to bring the break to an end.

“OK Rosie—all yours,” she said, giving her a beatific smile. Rosie, a pretty girl in her late twenties, stood up. Her baby slept peacefully in a moses basket at her feet.

“Well,” said Rosie. “I had Emily two weeks ago. At University College hospital. It was quite an experience.”

All eleven expectant mothers craned their necks forward eagerly.

“In fact it was—unbelievable,” Rosie went on. “It was incredible. It was completely unforgettable and I’m
never bloody well
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doing it again
—at least, not without five epidurals. It was
horrible,
” she added roundly. “And if you think I’m going to stand here and tell you how brilliant it was, and what a wonderful, life-affirming experience, well you’re in for a disappointment.”