The Trials of Tiffany Trott (35 page)

“We may look like the proverbial Odd Couple,” he said, “and in some ways we are—just look at the difference in our heights! And I was worried, when we first met, that I might not measure up to her. And indeed,” he went on, “Portia did have to stoop to conquer . . .” Loud laughter. “. . . but I can only say that though I may not reach her Olympian level, I’m very long
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on love and devotion, and it is my firm intention to make my beautiful, my wonderful, indeed, my
model
wife as happy as I possibly can.” He sat down, more than a little overcome, to thunderous applause, loud whistles, and a warm hug from Portia. And then he quickly stood up again. Because he’d forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m neglecting my duties. I would like to propose a toast to the bridesmaid, and to thank Boris for doing such a wonderful job this morning.” Boris blushed, and fiddled self-consciously with his bow tie. “Now, my wedding etiquette book advises the groom to praise the attractiveness of the bridesmaids,” Kit added, with a smile. “And to warn them that they are like to be inundated with male admirers after the wedding. But believe me, this particular bridesmaid already
is
.” Boris roared with laughter as we all stood and drank his health. And then it was my turn. Oh God oh God oh God. I did a few discreet deep breathing exercises as the noise subsided once again.

“Well, this is
[|is]
my debut as best man,” I began. “I’ve never been asked before. I can’t think why. Because I’m obviously the best man for the job.” I was gratified to hear a loud chuckle sweep round the room. “But anyway,” I continued, “I thought I’d better get myself a wedding etiquette book too. In fact I have it right here.” I held it up. “It’s called
The Best Man’s Duties,
um, published by Right Way at £3.99 if you’re interested. And it says that one of my jobs is to thank the groom on behalf of the bridesmaid, and to present the bridesmaid with a small gift from the bride and groom, so here it is.” I reached under the table and handed Boris an enormous, gift-wrapped box topped with an extravagant silver bow. “Don’t bother to open it,” I said to him. “It’s a pair of cufflinks.” Boris emitted a burst of surprised laughter, then Alice started to help him unwrap it.

“Now, unfortunately for me,
[.|,]
” I went on, “this book also says that the best man’s speech should be funny. And that in fact it should be the ‘high-spot’ of the reception, so I feel under a certain amount of pressure here. And it also points out that
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weddings are a family occasion, and therefore wider issues should not be introduced, so I certainly don’t intend to mention the Single Currency. Although I do happen to think the Chief Economic Adviser to the Central European Bank is quite misguided when he claims that fiscal conditions throughout the fifteen member states are like to be sufficiently harmonized by . . . oops! Ha ha! Er, sorry everyone, Sorry!”

“It’s a dressing gown!” Alice suddenly exclaimed.

“Now, my book also says that three minutes’ speaking time is quite enough,” I continued.

“It’s made of
velvet
!”

“And I’ve already been on my feet for . . .” I glanced at my watch. “One minute and twelve seconds.”

“But it belongs to someone called Georgina,” said Alice. “It’s got her name in—Georgina von Etz . . . Etz . . .”

“So I’ll press on,” I continued, “with a few thoughts about marriage. Not that I’ve got any experience of it myself you understand—ha ha! Unfortunately. And frankly, rather surprisingly. In my view. Now, some people are very cynical about marriage,” I continued seriously. “Groucho Marx, for example. He said, ‘Marriage is an institution, but who wants to live in an institution?’ Well, personally, I wouldn’t mind at all, but I’ve never been able to find a decent bloke—apart from Kit that is. But that’s another story. Though do, please, feel free to ask me about it afterward. Or him. It’s perfectly OK. We’re not embarrassed about it at all. And Portia knows everything. Everything.
Anyway
,” I continued, “I know that Kit and Portia are going to be blissfully happy in
their
marriage. Kit has been besotted with Portia from the day he first met her two and half years ago. I remember it well. In fact I remember it with some bitterness, because he was churning out totally useless artwork for a fortnight afterward and we subsequently lost the Wagon Wheels pitch. But he’d been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. Skewered, in fact. It really was love at first sight. Well, it was for Kit. As for Portia . . . well, I think it’s fair to say she didn’t feel the
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same at all.” More chuckling. “Well, not at first, that is.” Oh God, why was Kit rolling his eyes at me like that? “Anyway,” I pressed on. “That’s
all
in the past now. That bad patch they had. In fact it really was
very
bad. They weren’t getting on at all. It went on for ages and ages actually. About a year. And some of us wondered
why
they were bothering, frankly. But then, finally, they got it together. In the end. And now they couldn’t be more harmonious. As you can see. Yes, they’re going to be terribly happy, I know they are. And even though the vast majority of people who pledge undying love and devotion on their wedding day unerringly end up in court, I believe that Kit and Portia are destined for domestic bliss. And if not, I’m sure that Frances, who’s sitting at the back there, will give them a
very
good rate.”

“It’s free for friends!” she called out cheerfully.

“But Kit and Portia will be fine,” I continued. “They’ve got a tremendous amount in common. For example, they’re both very family-minded. In fact they’re
so
family-minded that they’ve decided not to hang about and I’m sure Portia and Kit won’t mind if I share with you the fact that—”

“Tiffany!”

“Portia is . . .”

“. . . Tiffany,
don’t
!”

“. . . three months
pregnant
!”

This drew gasps, and then a round of applause.

“Not that this is one of those undignified shotgun weddings, you understand,” I added. “No. Far from it. But it’s nice to know that we’re celebrating not just Kit and Portia’s wedding today, but the beginning of their happy, family life. And Kit, I’m really sorry I told you to sell the Discovery, because you’re going to need it after all.”

“He certainly IS,” shouted Portia. “I’m ’aving TWINS!”

“What?” said Kit. “WHAT?” And then everyone clapped and cheered and whistled again, and I decided that this was a high note on which to end. I sat down. I’d done it. Phew. And it
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seemed to have gone down rather well—the applause was still ringing sweetly in my ears. I should do this more often, I thought, as I went to the window and signaled to the band to start playing again.

“I only found out yesterday, darlin’,” I heard Portia say as she divided an Easter egg in half. “I ’aven’t ’ad a moment to tell you.”

Kit looked at her and just kept shaking his head and smiling. He wasn’t just over the moon—he was over the entire solar system. He was bliss incarnate. What a day. I looked at Alice; she had put on Boris’s new dressing gown and had taken the irises out of the vase on the table and stuck them in her hair. Amy was petitioning Boris to let her try it on too.

“No, you’re too small for it,” said Alice, tripping over. “You’ll get it dirty.”

“No I WON’T,” Amy shouted crossly.

“You can hold it for me, Amy, like a train. Tiffany, when I’m your bridesmaid, can I have one like this?” said Alice.

“Er . . .”

“Please.”

“Yes. All right,” I said as we all scraped back our chairs and moved into the bar. And as I passed Catherine and Hugh I heard them animatedly discussing the paintings.

“That’s John Singer Sargent,” said Hugh. “And I think this one’s a Sickert.”

“Wow, this is a Brough!” Catherine exclaimed. “He was the foremost British post-impressionist of his day,” she explained. “He was considered superior to Whistler in many ways, but he died at thirty-three. He was killed in a railway accident. Isn’t that sad? No one remembers him now.”

“I think this one’s a Brockhurst,” said Hugh, peering at the adjacent canvas. “He outdid Augustus John as a portrait painter, but he’s been completely forgotten as well.”

And as they stood there, studying the paintings in their elaborate gilded frames, I thought, we’ll all be forgotten too.
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We’ll die, one day, and leave not a wrack behind. But for the time being, I thought, we’re alive. And I looked at Catherine again—good heavens, she was wearing a dress!—and at the solitaire diamond on her left hand. Then we went through to the bar, where the regular members of the club were sitting around in the battered armchairs, reading the papers or gossiping, apparently unresentful of our noisy and numerous intrusion. The French windows were open onto the garden, and I went outside and sat on a wooden bench on the terrace, under the sycamore tree. It was as hot and bright as midsummer, and the wallflowers and lilac were in full bloom; and the clematis which covered the pergola was already starred with pink flowers. The band were playing “Linden Lea,” in the arrangement by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

 . . .
I be free, to go abroad, Or take again, my homeward road.
Oh lovely. Lovely.
To where for me, the apple tree do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Kit was right, I thought, as I sat and listened. There’s something about the mournful muted tones of a brass band that brings tears to the eyes. Why is that? Is it the dignified eloquence of high passion expressed in low notes? Or just the soft, reticent timbre of the instruments themselves? The band wiped their mouthpieces, and then turned over the sheets on their stands.

Abide with me, fast fades the eventide . . .
Oh no. Surely that’s for funerals, not weddings. Not that one, please.

The darkness deepens, Lord with me Abide . . .

I felt my throat constrict. Not that one, please not that one. But it was too late.

Change and decay, in all around I see . . .

I heard shrieks of laughter from the bar. “No, Kit, it’s
my
turn!”

Oh thou, who changest not, Abide with me.

I glanced inside. Portia and Kit were playing billiards with Lizzie and Martin, while Frances kept the score. I heard the
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sharp click of the cue and then saw the balls scatter like blobs of mercury.

Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be.

Through cloud and sunshine Lord, Abide with me.

God, I wish I
could
get someone to abide with me, I thought bitterly.

Sitting underneath the huge Victorian billiard table were Alice and Amy playing cards. “SNAP!” I heard Amy shout. “SNAP! They’re the SAME,” she added with triumphant fortissimo. “They go TOGETHER. They’re PARTNERS. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP.”

 . . .
and earth’s vain shadows flee.

In life, in death, O Lord, Abide with me.

And, as I sat outside, looking in, I wondered whether I would always live my life like this, experiencing things at one remove, through my friends. Kit hitched; Sally’s baby almost due; Portia pregnant with twins; Kate now living with Mike; Emma firmly ensconced with Lawrence; Catherine engaged to Hugh; Jonathan and Sarah happily married; Lizzie and Martin ditto. And Nick has a girlfriend now, someone he met at work. I was pleased about that, but it did make me wonder whether Tiffany Trott will always be giving these things a Miss. Standing in attendance, off-stage, in the wings, watching, and waiting on others. Waiting, I thought ruefully as the band played on. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

_p. 373
“I can’t stand the waiting!” wailed Sally. “I just can’t
stand
it. I don’t know what Lena’s doing in there, but frankly it’s getting me down. She was supposed to be here by May the first—what on earth’s going on?”

“Er, I don’t know,” I said. “I really can’t help you with this one. You’ll just have to wait for Dame Nature to deliver.” But I felt for Sally. Terribly frustrating. And it’s not even as though you can complain. I mean, if trains are late you can ring up the relevant authority, or fill in a form at the station, and if you’re lucky you’ll probably get some sort of compensation in the form of an off-peak day return to Crewe. But if a baby’s late, you wait. “Two weeks overdue really is a bit much,” I agreed. “Perhaps we should fine her.”

“She’s not a library book, Tiffany,” Sally replied as she tied on an apron. “She’s a baby.” Then she put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and produced a red bucket from under the sink.

“Sally, what are you doing?”

“Well I might as well do a bit of cleaning while I’m waiting,” she said briskly. “This place is a complete
mess
.” It isn’t. It never is. Sally’s cleaner comes in twice a week, and her apartment is always pristine, every inch of it sparkling, hermetic, and utterly devoid of dust.

“Sally, let me do that!” I intervened as she began to swab the floor. “I really don’t think you should be exerting yourself . . .”
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I just stopped myself from adding, “in your condition,” aware that I was sounding depressingly like Pat.

“I’m OK,” she said irritably, as the yellow sponge shot back and forth across the marble tiles. “But I just don’t understand what’s holding her up!” she added crossly as she pulled down the lever on the squeegee mop. “By the time she’s born she’ll be practically old enough to walk.”

“Well, the Expected Date of Delivery is often approximate,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but that’s only because women often don’t know the date of conception,” she countered. “Whereas I do. I know it exactly. Because it only happened once.” She paused, straightened up, then put her left hand on the small of her back. “It was Friday the first of August, at the Lake Palace of Udaipur in Rajasthan, India. Do you want the time as well?”

“Um, no thanks,” I said. But what a lucky shot. It was like winning the lottery with a single ticket. You have sex, once, with someone you hardly know, and bingo! Full House. A baby.

“Does it really matter if she’s late?” I asked.

“Not really,” Sally conceded wearily. “It’s just that it’s no fun being nine and a
[|a]
half months pregnant. She’s kicking me to bits—it’s like
Saturday Night Fever
in there. I daren’t go out in case my waters break,” she continued, “and my indigestion’s dreadful—my intestines are so squashed up now, they’re practically coming out of my ears. God, I could murder a piece of coal!” she added, with a hungry look in her eyes.

“Why don’t you have her induced?” I suggested. Sally looked at me as though I had just said, “Why don’t you have her adopted?”

“Nothing would induce me to induce her,” she said emphatically as she mopped away again. “Because if I do, that means a hospital birth, and I’m going to have her naturally, at home. But I just wish she’d bloody well
hurry up
,” she added in a peevish whine. She went to a cupboard, rummaged around, then triumphantly held up an old toothbrush.

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“Sally, what on earth are you doing now?” I asked faintly. She was down on her knees, attacking the skirting board with the tiny brush.

“I can’t stand the thought of all the dust lurking in these corners,” she explained as she brushed away imaginary specks with violent, jabbing movements. “I don’t want Leonie being exposed to unnecessary germs or allergens. Look, thanks for coming over, Tiff, but why don’t you do something else? This must be quite boring for you . . .”

“Oh no no no no no,” I said. “Well, yes. OK, I’ll go and watch some tennis at the club then,” I said, grateful for the chance to get away. “It’s the finals of the men’s tournament and I would quite like to see it. But I’ll have my mobile phone on me,” I added, “so at the first twinge, you just ring and I’ll be there.”

“OK,” she said happily as she brushed away obsessively at the shining white woodwork. “I’ll call you if I need you. Have fun.”

I walked up to Fulham Broadway and got the tube. It would only take twenty-five minutes or so to get to the club, and I really wanted to see the match. Two-headed Alan was in it, which was amazing, as he’d never got further than the third round before. But he’d been playing like a demon recently. Not that he stood a chance against Ed Brooks, I thought, as I changed onto the Northern Line at Embankment; in fact Ed would wipe the floor with him, having won the title for the past four years. But it should be interesting to watch. As I went through the gate I could hear the thwock of tennis balls on catgut, and the occasional burst of applause. On the far grass court, a crowd of about fifty had assembled on wooden benches; everyone was watching with quiet intensity, heads swinging back and forth with each hit. I approached quietly and identified a spare place, halfway along the front row. They were midway through the second set. Ed must be thrashing Alan, I thought as I sat down. And then I looked at the score board. Ed
_p. 376
had indeed taken the first set, but he hadn’t won it six-love or six-two as I had expected, but seven-five. Alan was clearly holding his own. He was serving now, three games to four down. He threw the ball up high with his left hand, simultaneously dropping his racket right the way down his back, and then—bang!

“Fifteen-love,” called the umpire calmly. What an ace! Ed hadn’t had time to blink, let alone move. Then Alan went to the other side of the serving mark and threw the ball up again, this time sending it deep into the right-hand corner of the service box. Ed returned it straight into the net.

“Thirty-love.” Gosh. Alan looked so determined. I stole a glance at Julia; she looked nervous, but her eyes were shining as Alan power-served his way to forty-fifteen. Then—thwock! he put Ed’s return away with a flying forehand volley.

“Game, Hensher,” called the umpire. “Four games all. Brooks to serve.”

This time, with Ed serving, much the same thing happened, but in reverse. Alan got in a couple of good returns but then lobbed the ball too high, giving Ed the chance to rush to the net and smash it with the velocity of an Exocet. Alan, would you please stop doing that, I found myself thinking. Would you please
stop
giving points away? And I was surprised at how much I was rooting for him to win. Not just because he was the underdog, but because I felt bad at having been so dismissive of him before. Not that he could have cared less, I thought as I looked at Julia again. She was attractive, and she looked happy, clasping her hands together with almost religious fervor every time her boyfriend hit the ball. And her imprecations seemed to be working—Alan was playing wonderfully well.

“Game, Hensher,” called out the umpire. “Hensher leads, five games to four.”

Alan was in business now. He was serving for the set. His serve secured the first two points, but Ed came back with several cunningly placed lobs. Because Alan kept leaving himself
_p. 377
exposed at the net, while the ball sailed high over his head, landing neatly on the baseline and then bouncing out of the court. Ed’s placing of the ball was quite brilliant. Forensic, almost. Alan was playing a hard game, but he didn’t possess a fraction of his opponent’s strategic skill. There was no way he could win this—tennis was about brain as much as brawn.

“Deuce,” called the umpire.

Alan was perspiring heavily, frequently wiping his forehead with his white toweling wristband. He caught Julia’s eye as he did so, and she flashed him an encouraging smile. Then he served again, this time putting a topspin on it which sent the ball curving away at a crazy angle. Then he did it again. It was completely unreturnable. Changing his service in mid-match was a high-risk strategy, but it seemed to work.

“Advantage Hensher.”

Ed was looking irritated. God, I hope he’s not going to do a McEnroe, I thought, as he bounced his racket down onto the grass.

“Racket abuse. Warning,” called the umpire. Alan waited calmly, probably grateful for a moment’s rest, and then he served again. Thwock! This time Ed returned it; Alan sent it spinning back low and fast over the net, Ed lobbed it up, but this time Alan was there, ready and waiting. He seemed to reach up for the ball with his left hand as it plummeted toward him, then he took it on the full volley and sent it cannoning across the court.

“Game and second set Hensher. Six games to four. One set all.”

Gosh, this match is hot stuff, I thought as we all clapped appreciatively. Both players retired to the side of the court for lemonade and a quick sit-down. It was just like Wimbledon, without the hamburger stands. Ed was now looking distinctly rattled, while Alan appeared calm, but apprehensive. This was a three-set match, not five, so this last set would decide it.

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“Time please,” said the umpire, as though he were calling last orders at the Dog and Duck.

Ed served, and easily won the first game, though Alan came back with some strong returns which drew gasps of surprise from the crowd. At times the ball seemed to ricochet off both men’s rackets like a bullet. This was fine play, though the rallies were short, but the ball just flew off the grass, skimming it with an almost audible “whooosh!” And now, within a mere fifty minutes or so, they were level pegging, five games all, and Ed was serving again. The audience was gripped. None of us moved a muscle as he threw the ball up high, and smashed it down—thwock!—straight into the tramlines. Palpably irritated, he threw the ball up again, and exactly the same thing happened. His first double fault. He was tiring. Even though he was ten years younger than Alan. But Alan was just doggedly hanging in there.

“Love-fifteen.”

Ed served again, with a stertorous grunt, this time to Alan’s backhand. But Alan just stepped into it beautifully with his racket swung right back, and powered it across the court. Ed returned it on
his
backhand, hard and low, but Alan kept up the pressure, driving forward toward the net with each successive hit. He was really playing an aggressive, turbo-charged game here, but by this stage Ed’s accuracy was beginning to slip. Seeing that Alan was close to the net, Ed lobbed the ball up high, behind him, and our heads described a circular movement as we followed its trajectory down. Suddenly, the linesman’s hand went up.

“Out!” called the umpire.

“It was not out!” Ed retorted, furious.

The umpire conferred with the linesman. “Out,” she reiterated firmly, while we all whispered our agreement with her decision. It
was
out.

“—definitely out.”

“—I couldn’t really see.”

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“—just over the line.”

“—I saw the chalk fly up.”

“—he is naughty to argue.”

“—yep, definitely, just over.”

“Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen. Love-thirty.”

Ed stamped back to the baseline and angrily picked up two balls. He served again, and Alan returned it hard. Then Ed sent it back and Alan clipped it upward in a high, looping lob. And now Ed was running backward as the ball sailed toward him, straining to catch it full on with the face of his racket and punch it down hard again. But as he ran back, keeping one eye on the descending ball, and one eye on the ground, he suddenly skidded, and fell. He quickly pushed himself back onto his feet with his left hand, but Alan’s lob had already landed, just beyond Ed’s desperate, outstretched reach. Ed picked himself up, cussing audibly, as he brushed the grass off his shorts.

“Love-forty,” said the umpire. If Alan won this game, the score would be six-five, with his serve next. He could win it. This was a decisive point. If he could just hang on in there and break Ed’s serve. Alan stood behind the baseline, bouncing on the balls of his feet, in readiness for the ballistic shock of the ball on his racket. Ed threw the ball up, we watched it rise above his upturned face . . . suddenly a high-pitched warble rang out across the court, then the ball smashed into the net. Ed stopped and looked accusingly in my direction. Oh God, where
was
it—I groped around inside my bag for my mobile phone, but still it was ringing relentlessly with shrill and unembarrassed abandon. My face was suffused with heat—oh God, what a mess in this bag, where
is
the bloody thing, I thought angrily, I can never lay my hands right on it.

“That put me off!” Ed shouted furiously, pointing at me. Everyone was tut-tutting disapprovingly, and the umpire was looking daggers in my direction.

“I stated quite clearly at the start of this match that all mobile
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phones should be switched off,” she said crossly. “Play will
not
be resumed until they are.” At last—got it.

“Yes, hello!” I said breathlessly as I struggled out of my seat, smiling apologetically at the watching crowd.

“Sally! Is it happening? It is? Oh don’t worry, Sally,” I said, trying to quell my feelings of rising hysteria. “I’m on my way. Sorry everyone!” I called out. “It’s an emergency! Have you called the midwife? And you’re sure they’re contractions? OK, OK, of course you’re sure they’re bloody contractions. How far apart? Well, time them. I’ll be right there,” I said, feeling panic piling up in my chest. In the distance, as I ran out of the club, I could hear the ball thwacking back and forth as play resumed. Then there was a burst of applause.

“Six games to five,” I heard the umpire say. “Hensher leads, final set. Hensher to serve.” Two-headed Alan was prevailing. He was striking a blow for ageing underdogs everywhere. And it had all been done, I realized, with a pang, through the transforming power of love. I flagged down a passing cab.

“Chelsea Harbour, please, and as quick as you can, I’m having a baby!” I said.

“Not in my cab you’re not, darlin’,” he said, suddenly screeching to a halt. “I’m not having that ’orrible mess in ’ere.”