The Trials of Tiffany Trott (33 page)

And then there was Dave, the orthodontist surgeon, and Angus, an electronics engineer, and there was a university professor called Bob, and frankly, it was all becoming too much. From having had practically no dates a week, I was now hav
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ing fifteen dates a week and I just couldn’t cope. Having to listen to all these men talking about their divorces, their jobs, their love of sailing, their love of golf; going on about their children, their careers, their ex-wives, their ex-girlfriends, their pension arrangements, their preference for Emmy Lou Harris over Bette Midler or their preference for Beethoven over Brahms. And OK, OK, I know it was only conversation, and I really couldn’t complain. But it was just all getting too much. It was really getting me down. And then the phone rang
again.
“Oh, not another
bloody
man asking me out!” I said to myself as I picked it up, and it was yet another bloke from Caroline Clarke’s agency, and so I went into the usual preliminary rigmarole about how much I like tennis, and how much I don’t like golf, and how I’m not really that keen on action movies, but yes, I do like Harrison Ford. Oh
why
didn’t I marry Kit? I thought for the umpteenth time as I put the phone down on my latest date. Or Seriously Successful, for that matter. Because I wasn’t used to having all this choice—having choice is very tiring. No wonder the French call it
embarras de richesses . . .

And then it happened. It just all fell into place. With Mr. Right. I found him. I actually found him. And there I was floating up the aisle on Dad’s arm in my incredibly expensive wedding dress in ivory silk satin, and with the prettiest little bouquet—lilies of the valley and stephanotis—with small white roses in my hair. And I was feeling so relieved, because at last—phew!—IT had happened. I had met someone. And I had liked him. And he had liked me, and he had sought my hand in marriage. And I had accepted. And there I was at the church door, with Dad, and the organ was playing “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” which always has me in floods. And we walked slowly up the aisle, and I felt
so
emotional, there were tears standing in my eyes. And I could feel Dad’s arm on mine, steadying me for what lay ahead. But I could hear people tittering and sniggering. And they were saying, “Oh yes . . . Tiffany’s finally getting hitched . . . yes incredible, isn’t it . . .
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no, I never thought it’d happen either . . . well exactly, who’d have guessed?” But I didn’t care. Their negative and bitchy comments didn’t bother me at all, because it had all turned out right at last. I had met the man of my dreams, and he had proposed, and now here I was walking toward him as he stood with his back to me at the altar. I started mentally to rehearse my lines as I gradually drew nearer and nearer. “I take thee . . . I take thee . . .” Who the hell
was
I taking? Suddenly I hadn’t a clue. Was it Tipsy Terry from Eat ’n’ Greet? No. Was it Alex? Surely not. Or Tall Athletic? Hardly. Well, it certainly wasn’t two-headed Alan from the tennis club, because he was fixed up now, with Julia. Maybe it was Patrick—or, God forbid, Peter Fitz-Harrod! No. No. It wasn’t him. He definitely hadn’t proposed. Perhaps it was Kit—oh that
would
be nice—or maybe that young bloke from the Ministry of Sound. Or was it Todd from Club Med . . . or José?
Who was it?
God, how embarrassing. Couldn’t remember. Completely gone! I’d just have to busk it. That was all there was for it. I’d have to improvise. And then, as we proceeded further and further up the aisle—the flowers
did
look nice—I saw something leaning against the front right-hand pew. It was a bag of golf clubs. How
odd
! And then I drew level with the groom and he turned and looked at me, and it was Phil Anderer. What on
earth
was
he
doing here? I sure as hell didn’t want to marry
him.
And then he looked me up and down, with this funny, yet familiar expression on his face, and he said, “Look, Tiffany, I’m sorry, but that dress, well, I just don’t like it. It doesn’t do
anything
for you. The cut’s completely wrong. And the detail on the train is appalling. It’s just awful—not stylish at all—I’m afraid you look a sight. Look, would you go and change?” And then I heard the phone ringing in the front pew. But no one was answering it. I went to pick it up, aware that my palms were wet with sweat.

“Tiffany! Tiffany!” It was Kit. “We’re getting married!” he shouted.

“No we’re
not
,” I said.

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“No—not you. Portia. And me. We’re getting married!” he shouted again. I glanced at the alarm clock—it was seven a.m.

“I’m sorry to ring so early, Tiff, but I just had to tell you as soon as I could. Last night she told me . . . she told me . . . oh Tiffany, Portia’s having a
baby
,” he said. “And we’re getting married. On Saturday. And Tiffany?”

“Yes,” I said, through my tears.

“Will you be our best man?”

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“Come in you two! Come in!” boomed Pat. “The little woman’s upstairs, feeding the baby. We’ll take some nice herbal tea up there,” she added as she ushered us into their Victorian house, just off Holloway Road. It was lovely, with blond wooden flooring, dado rails, high ceilings and elaborate coving.

“Nice house,” said Sally admiringly as Pat put on the kettle.

“Did it all myself,” she said, folding her beefy arms across her broad chest. “The place was a wreck when we bought it. Trees growing through the roof. But I’m a devil for DIY—I love my Black and Decker! Are you the same, Tiffany?”

“Er—yes,” I said. “Well, actually, no. Not really.”

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind being very quiet with Lesley,” said Pat as she led us upstairs with the tray. “I don’t want her getting over-excited. She’s still recovering from the labor.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll whisper,” said Sally reassuringly, pulling herself up wearily by the hand rail, stopping to catch her breath halfway. She looked tired and strained, but I suppose that’s normal when you’re more than eight months gone and look as though you just swallowed a Spacehopper. We followed Pat into the master bedroom at the front of the house, and there was Lesley, sitting up in the double bed in a white lace-trimmed nightie, smiling dreamily at the downy-headed infant feeding in her arms. The room was semidark and almost silent, except for the snuffling of the baby and the swish of an occasional car. Lesley looked up at us, and smiled delightedly.

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“Oh, thank you!” she whispered, as Sally put a large brown teddy bear on the bed. We peered at little Freddie.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous!” said Sally. “Is he feeding well?” Lesley nodded.

“He’s lovely,” I murmured. “Rather big though, isn’t he? I mean, how much did he weigh?”

Lesley inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, and then she said, “Ten pounds.”

“
Ten pounds
?” Sally repeated. Her face expressed a mixture of incredulity and fear. “Gosh. Well, I’m jolly glad I’m having a girl,” she added with a burst of relieved laughter. “I don’t think girls ever weigh as much as that.” Pat pulled up a couple of chairs for us, and we all sat down around the bed.

“Have you had a lot of visitors?” Sally asked.

“Well, no. Not really,” Lesley replied quietly. “Apart from our immediate families. You’re the only ones from the ante-natal group who’ve bothered to come and see us.”

“Oh. That’s odd,” I said. “Well, I’m sure they
will
come.” Though I wasn’t sure at all. Lesley and Pat seemed to have made few friends at the class. The women had largely ignored them, while the men had been subtly hostile. Particularly toward Pat. I suppose they didn’t like her beating them at their own game, which, in a way, she was.

“Yes, no one apart from you has even phoned,” added Lesley, with a palpably disappointed air.

“Oh. Oh, well, that’s a bit rotten,” said Sally. “Perhaps they’re too busy to come at the moment. But, well, we couldn’t
wait
to see you,” she added diplomatically. Then, becoming a little flushed as she tried to change the subject, she accidentally asked this terribly awkward question, “So who does Freddie look like?” she inquired, peering at him again.
Ah.
Get out of
that
one, Sally, I thought to myself as I casually studied a copy of
Autocar.

“Well, Lesley swears he’s like her,” said Pat quick as a flash, “but I think he’s got my chin.”

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“Er, yes,” said Sally. “I can see the resemblance.” She looked at Pat, and then looked at the baby again. “Oh, yes. Definitely. It’s just like yours. Anyway, he’s very sweet,” she added brightly. “Lovely.”

“Were you there?” I asked Pat. “For the birth?”

“Of
course
,” she said, rolling down the sleeves of her checked shirt. “Nothing would have kept me away, would it, Lesley?” Lesley gave her an affectionate smile. “It was the best moment of my life,” Pat went on as she rearranged the tiny cellular blanket in the bunny-covered cot. “The
best moment of my life.
Seeing my little boy come into the world. It was even better than watching Arsenal blast Liverpool two-nil to win the title in 1989. I cried like a baby,” she added. “You’ll probably be the same, Tiffany. But don’t feel ashamed of it,” she said, putting a paternalistic arm around my shoulder. “Just let the tears come. We should, you know, from time to time. It’s OK for us, you know, us . . . chaps . . . to cry.”

“I quite agree,” I replied. I’d long since given up trying to convince Pat that a) I was a woman and b) I was simply Sally’s friend.

“Now, when’s
your
little one due?” she went on.

“In three weeks,” said Sally. “I’m feeling incredibly tired, to tell the truth. I can’t wait for Lara to be born. These last few weeks are hell.”

Lesley nodded sympathetically. “They’re absolutely awful,” she agreed. “You get to the stage where you’re fed up with it—you’re just fed up with being so big and so exhausted and so bloody uncomfortable. Never mind, Sally. Not long now. Which hospital are you going to?” she added as she swapped Freddie over onto her other breast.

“Oh, I’m having the baby at home,” Sally explained. “I’m going to have a nice, quiet, calm, water birth in my apartment.”

“You’ll have a midwife, of course?” said Pat with a concerned air.

“Oh yes. From the Chelsea and Westminster,” she replied.
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“She’s called Joan. I’ve been seeing her at the health center at World’s End, so I’ve already got to know her a bit—and of course Tiffany’s going to be there too.”

I nodded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

“Well, we had Freddie in the Royal Free,” said Lesley. “And it was fabulous. Five-star treatment all the way. But I’m sure a home birth is really nice too,” she added encouragingly.

I’m sure it isn’t, I thought.

“Tell me, was the labor awful?” Sally asked Lesley suddenly. Lesley shrugged noncommittally, but tactfully said nothing.
Of course it was awful, Sally
—
the baby weighed two tons.

“How long did it take?” she persisted.

“Well, not that long,” Lesley replied casually. “Really. Um. Not that long at all. Would you like some more fennel tea?”

“Not that long!” said Pat, with a great harrumphing laugh. “It was thirty-six hours! And it was thirty-six hours of sheer bloody
hell
! Rosie wasn’t joking, you know.”

Thirty-six hours! Oh no. Please no. I stared at Sally’s bump, mentally willing the baby to try and make it in thirty-six minutes. “I’ll get you anything you like,” I told Ludmilla telepathically. “You can have the Teletubbies, Barbie dolls, Tiny Tears, Pocahontas, Polly Pocket, My Little Pony and any number of fluffy toys—anything, you can name your price. But just make it snappy on the Big Day, OK?” And then we said our goodbyes to Pat and Lesley and left.

Sally waddled slowly along beside me, stopping occasionally for a rest. Poor thing. She was so tired. We walked a little further, and then she suddenly stopped again and leaned against a garden wall.

“Sally, are you all right?”

She didn’t reply. She’d gone completely quiet.

“Sally?”

Suddenly she put her left hand up to her eyes, and I saw her shoulders being to shake. And then her body was suddenly convulsed by huge, great, racking sobs. God, poor Sal. It must
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have been because of Pat’s terrible tactlessness about Lesley’s thirty-six-hour ordeal.

“Don’t worry Sal,” I said, putting my arm around her. “It really won’t be that bad. Please don’t cry. It’ll be OK. Pat really should have kept quiet about Lesley’s
hideous
labor,” I added crossly. “Tactlessly going on and on about it—about how
protracted
and
painful
it was, and about how Lesley was in total
agony
for the best part of a day and a half. Yours will be
much
easier than that,” I added reassuringly. “Honestly, I bet it’s really quick and hardly hurts at all.”

“Oh it’s not that!” Sally wailed, tears now pouring down her pale cheeks. “It’s not the pain. I’m not afraid of the pain.”

“Well, what is it then?” I asked, nonplussed, handing her a tissue from my bag.

“Well . . .” She dried her eyes. “Well . . .” Tears continued to snake down her face.

“Sally, please tell me. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can help.”

“Well . . .”

“Yes.”

“Well, I went to the delicatessen this morning,” she said, dabbing her eyes, “to get some bread.”

“Yes,” I said, intrigued.

“And you know I like that brown bread, with the nice pine kernels on the top?”
No.

“Er. Yes,” I said.

“That really nice, chewy, brown bread that I like so much?” she reiterated with a loud, wet sniff.

“Um.
Yes
,” I said again uncertainly. What on
earth
was she talking about?

“Well . . . well . . .” She started crying again, and then covered her face with both hands.

“What? Sally! What? What
happened
? For God’s sake, tell me!”

“They’d . . . they’d
run out of it
!” she wailed. And now she
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was sobbing again, loudly, and uncontrollably, to the consternation of passersby.

“Oh. Oh dear,” I said, not knowing
what
to say.

“And I really—uh-uh—
like
it,” she sobbed again. “And they didn’t—uh-uh—
have
any. So I had to have
white
bread,” she concluded in a hoarse, falsetto squeak. She looked at me pleadingly. Her upper lip was slimy with snot. Her mouth was contorted with grief, her chin ridged and puckered in distress. I didn’t know what to say. And then I remembered. It all came back to me from some of the baby books. It’s the hormones. Toward the end of the pregnancy, a woman’s hormones can go barking mad. Thank God, I thought—there’s a rational explanation for this. Her hormones had run amok.

“I’m sorry, Sally, but I’m afraid your hormones will have to be sectioned under the 1983 Mental Health Act,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I just listened as she continued her tearfest.

“That bread’s my
favorite
sort,” she wailed. “I really, really love it. And they’d run out of it, Tiffany. And so I’ve been
terribly
upset all morning.” Oh God oh God oh God. What should I do?

“There’s a nice bakery in Upper Street,” I said. “I’m sure we can get some there.”

She shook her head violently, from side to side. “
[|“]
It won’t taste the
same
,” she wailed. “It just won’t . . .”

“Well, it might.”

“No, it won’t, it won’t, it WON’T!” she almost screamed. She started crying again, making gasping little “uh, uh, uh” noises between each sob.

“But it’s not just the bread,” Sally suddenly added in a quiet croak, dabbing at her eyes again. Ah.

“Well, what else is it?” I asked. “Tell me.” She plucked a couple of tiny pink cherry blossom buds from an overhanging branch, and rotated them thoughtfully in her hands.

“It’s me,” she said miserably. She wasn’t crying now. “It’s
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what I’m doing.” She looked at me bleakly. “Tiffany,” she announced, “I’m having a baby on my own.”

“But Sally, you big wuss, you’ve known that for eight months!” I pointed out. Actually, I didn’t. I just listened.

“And seeing little Freddie with two parents made me feel awful,” Sally continued, dabbing at her eyes. “Even if the father is a woman. Because, they’ve got each other, Lesley and Pat. And the baby’s got them both.” Her lower lip trembled, and then her face collapsed with grief again. “They’re a
family
,” she sobbed. “And I’m not going to be a family. And Lucretia isn’t going to have a nice father like Pat,” she added tearfully. “Who’ll play football with her or take her fishing or whatever fathers do. I’m going to be a single parent, Tiffany. I’m going to be on my own. All on my own. Forever. And ever.”

Ah. Men. So that’s what this was really about. Sally’s lack of a bloke. A bit late to start worrying about that now.

“Well, Sally, you’re not on your own,” I said briskly, “you’re just not,” though I was fighting back the tears myself, because I find crying, like vomiting, catching. “Lots of people love you,” I added, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat, “and lots of people will help you, and you’re very lucky because you don’t have to worry about money like most single mothers do. And once Louella’s born you’ll be feeling happy again, and you’ll love her, and then you’ll probably meet some really nice chap who’ll be a wonderful stepfather to her and so you’ll be in a family with him, and then you’ll live happily ever after.” This seemed to cheer her up. She gave me a watery smile, then thoughtfully licked the slime off her lip. “You’re just very tired and run down,” I said wearily. “And you’re probably a bit scared at the thought of giving birth.”

“I’m not scared of
that
!” she said defiantly. And she looked so shocked at my preposterous presumption that she immediately stopped crying, and went off down the road again, at a brisk waddle.

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“I’m not scared of childbirth
at all,
Tiffany,” she said again firmly. “The thought of being in pain really doesn’t bother me a bit. But you’re right, though,” she conceded as she stopped to blow her nose again. “I am tired. That’s true. I’m tired of being pregnant. I can’t wait for it all to happen. I can’t wait to meet my little Lavender!” She clasped her bump with both hands and gave me a radiant smile. “I can’t wait, Tiffany! I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” It was like a sudden burst of bright sunshine after torrential rains; and as we walked toward Highbury Corner Sally talked nonstop about the water pool, and her deep breathing, and the toys she’d bought for the baby the day before. And then she got in a taxi, waved cheerfully at me out of the open window, and was gone.

I decided to walk home—my nerves were too strung out to enable me to wait patiently for the bus. And as I walked down Canonbury Road, past houses swathed in yellow forsythia, with birds twittering in the blossoming cherry trees, Pat’s words kept ringing in my ears:
It’s OK for us chaps to cry you know, Tiffany, It’s OK for us chaps . . .
Chaps! I mean, really. How
ridiculous.
It was mad! I mean, do I
look
like a bloke? I thought indignantly as I unlocked the front door. Then I went into my study, sat down at my desk and wrote my best man speech.