The Trials of Tiffany Trott (38 page)

“Oscar Reeds?”

He nodded, then shrugged his shoulders happily. “None other,” he replied.

“How did they meet?”

_p. 397
“She used to drop in at his gallery from time to time, and she fell for his obvious charms,” he said with a sardonic little laugh. “I’ve met him myself once and I can’t quite see the appeal, but then I’m not a woman. Olivia says they talk the same language,” he went on as he removed a small late eighteenth-century portrait from the wall. “They like the same things. And so they’re going to open a new gallery in their joint names, and leave me to my Claude Lorrains. And so it makes sense for them to live here, near the new gallery, so she’s asked me to give up the flat.” He shrugged his shoulders, then laughed. “Goodbye, Piccadilly,” he said with a smile.

“You seem rather happy about it all,” I said.

“I am. I’m delighted. God, I’d like to shake that man by the hand. He’s done me one hell of a favor.”

“Where will you live?” I asked as I went to the window and looked down onto Savile Row. A cortège of taxis crawled down the street, like a procession of shiny black beetles.

“Oh I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll go back to the farmhouse for a while and then find somewhere in town. I’ve liked it here, but I can be perfectly happy anywhere else.”

“So it’s all been taken out of your hands,” I said. “She’s left
you
.”

“Yes,” he replied with a grin. “Aren’t I lucky? Now, would you like to come for a walk?”

We wandered down Piccadilly, past Hatchards, then crossed Duke Street, passed a shop selling expensive bags, walked through the Ritz’s colonnade where gaudy mohair jumpers and gleaming leather jackets seemed to jostle for attention in the windows. Then we came to the gates of Green Park and turned in. There were couples everywhere, sprawled on the shining grass, lolling in stripy deck chairs, or strolling under the trees. A distant plane passed high overhead with a ripping, tearing sound. Glossy crows waddled around awkwardly, picking quarrels with the pigeons or lifting lazily up and down with a
_p. 398
single flap of their huge black wings. We ambled down toward an avenue of plane trees, dressed in the glorious lime green of early summer, and found a bench which was half in shade.

“Let’s sit here,” he said.

Seriously Successful drew me to him and we sat there, side by side, smiling into the sunlight, our thighs touching. Then he took my right hand in his right hand, and slipped his left arm around my shoulder. A wave of heat rose up, like mercury in a thermometer, from my toes to the crown of my head.

“Well, Tiffany, here we are,” said Seriously Successful simply.

“Yes,” I said. “Here we are.” And then his face drew nearer and nearer, and I felt his lips on mine, dry and soft, and I could smell the Givenchy on his neck, and I thought, if I were to die, right now, this instant, then I wouldn’t mind at all, because I’d die feeling incredibly happy. And the roar of the traffic was masked by the blood pumping in my ears, and the urgent, rhythmic banging of my heart. Then Seriously Successful kissed me again, and then he just kept hold of my hand, fiddling with my fingers, as though they were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“Oh Tiffany,” he said quietly. “You’re so lovely and . . .” he cast his eyes to the sky, “. . . odd.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“That’s why I like you so much,” he said. “Because I find you so . . . peculiar.”

“Singular?” I suggested.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s it. Singular. And you’re so well informed, Tiffany. I mean, the things you know.” He looked at me quizzically. “137?” he said.

“Um, Crystal Palace to Oxford Circus.”

“Via?”

“Oh. Um. Clapham Common and Hyde Park Corner.”

“Very good. 271?”

“Liverpool Street to Highgate.”

“Stopping at?”

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“Essex Road and Holloway.”

“Yes. OK, the . . . 249?”

“Waterloo to White Hart Lane, via Seven Sisters.”

“Excellent. And what about the number 65?”

“Oh . . . er . . . er . . .”

“Come on.”

“Um . . . oh . . .”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to hurry you.”

“Er, Ealing Broadway!” I said suddenly.

“Going to?”

“Oh God, um, um, Kingston. Yes, Kingston, via Kew Bridge and Richmond.”

“Excellent. The number 48?”

“London Bridge to Walthamstow via . . . Shoreditch and Hackney Central.”

“Very impressive. And finally,” he said, “the 68a.”

“Oh I know that one. Um . . . Elephant and Castle to South Croydon via Camberwell and Herne Hill,” I concluded happily.

“Oh Tiffany,” said Seriously Successful. “You’re so clever.” And then he kissed me again. “And Tiffany?”

“Yes?” I looked up into his brown eyes, and then he reached again for my hand, my left hand, and started fiddling with my fingers again.

“You know, Tiffany, a Double Diamond Works Wonders . . .”

“Does it?” I said faintly.

“Yes. And I was just wondering whether . . . later on . . . my circumstances having unexpectedly changed, I might be able to interest you in a . . . in a . . . full-time position?”

“Oh. Oh . . . well . . . I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

“Because you see, Tiffany”—he looked down at me—“it’s the Real Thing, isn’t it?”

I laughed. “Well, I don’t know . . .”

“We’re Getting There, aren’t we?” he added with an inquiring smile.

“Well, yes . . . yes . . . maybe,” I conceded. “Possibly . . . I . . .”

_p. 400
“Yes,” he said. “I really think we are. And I feel we should be together, Tiffany, you and I, Because Life’s Complicated Enough.”

To our left, a little way off, was a very young woman with a small boy. And she was reading to him from
The Wind in the Willows.
I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye as they sat cross-legged on the grass. She looked like his nanny, rather than his mother, and the little boy was listening to her, entranced, and occasionally peering at the pictures.

“ ‘Rat was walking a little way ahead . . .,’ ” I heard her say, “ ‘ . . . as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on the straight gray road in front of him; so he did not notice poor Mole when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric shock.’ ”

“Why did your father-in-law impose that condition on you all those years ago?” I asked. “About never leaving Olivia.”

“Because of what happened to him.”

“What did happen?”

“He left Olivia’s mother, for another woman, just before their silver wedding anniversary. A month later Olivia’s mother killed herself, and he’s been racked with guilt ever since. And so he tried to ensure that that would never happen to his daughter. I suppose he was trying to rewrite his own emotional history, and I was ambitious enough to accept his terms and you see, Tiffany . . .”

“Yes?”

“I do keep my promises, you know. And I really
was
worried about how it would affect Saskia. But I think she’ll be OK. We’ve talked about it and she seems to understand far more than I thought. And there certainly won’t be any problems about access. And you’ll be such a lovely stepmother, Tiffany.”

“Oh.”

“You got on so well with Saskia at the wedding. She told me afterward how much she liked you.”

“Well, I liked her too . . .”

_p. 401
“And we could have such a nice life, Tiffany. Of course you’ll have to sell your house,” he added.

“Oh.”

“ ‘ “
Please,
stop, Ratty!” pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart. “You don’t understand! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across the smell of it, and . . . I
must
go to it, I must, I must!” ’ ”

“But we could have a lovely flat somewhere. Maybe in Belgravia.”

“ ‘ “O, come back, Ratty! Please, please come back!” ’ ”

“Or perhaps Knightsbridge.”

“ ‘The Rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the Mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice.’ ”

“And of course you wouldn’t have to work anymore.” My euphoria dipped, and died.

“ ‘Poor Mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape.’ ”

“Now,” said Seriously Successful, “are you enjoying your birthday, Tiffany?”

“Oh, oh, yes,” I said. “I mean so far, it’s been, very, well, memorable,” I said truthfully.

“And have you had any presents yet?”

“No. No I haven’t. My parents will give me something when I see them,” I added. “But I’ve had some cards.” In fact I was carrying that day’s mail about with me in my bag. I removed Lizzie’s birthday card and showed it to him. “She’s my best friend,” I explained, as a boy on roller-blades whizzed by with a spaniel barking at his heels. I reread Lizzie’s postscript:
Alice is ecstatic,
she wrote.
Catherine has asked the girls to officiate. So you’re off the hook—for now!

“Can
I
give you a present, Tiffany?” said Seriously Successful suddenly.

_p. 402
“Gosh! Well . . .”

“I’d really like to.”

“Well, yes. OK. Thank you. That would be lovely.”

“Right then. Let’s go shopping.” He held my hand as we walked out of the park, crossed the road and went up the steps of the Burlington Arcade. We stood outside N. Peal cashmere.

“Made to Make Your Mouth Water,” he quipped. Then we strolled through the glass-ceilinged arcade, looking at Georgina von Etzdorf’s velvet scarves, and Mont Blanc pens, and fine leather bags in Franchetti Bond, and then Seriously Successful stopped outside the Burlington Jewelers, and suddenly my heart seemed to sink. “I think we might find something in here,” he said.

“Oh no, far too expensive,” I said.

“Rubbish. In fact,” he said, peering through the glass, “they’re Surprisingly Ordinary Prices.”

“No, but Seriously . . .”

“Come on!”

“Well, as long as
[|as]
it’s very, very small,” I said, suddenly filled with misgivings.

We sat at a glass counter, while Seriously Successful went through the merchandise, rejecting brooches, watches, earrings, dress rings, and strings of cultured pearls. I sat there, silently. Now he was looking at gold chains. The manager put about ten in front of us, on a red velvet tray. Seriously Successful looked at them all, and held them up against my throat. Finally he selected one that he seemed to like, and he put it round my neck. It was very, very heavy, with thick eighteen-carat links.

“Oh Tiffany, it’s lovely,” he said. “Can I give you this one? I’d love you to have it.” What could I say?

“Well, if you’re sure, I mean it’s really beautiful, but it’s so . . .”

“It’s just you,” said Seriously Successful.

“Well, thank you. Thank you very much,” I said, as Seriously
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Successful got out his credit card. I looked at myself in the hand mirror. It
was
beautiful, but it was so big, and so heavy, and the links were just . . . enormous. And the metal appeared warm, but against my skin it was cold, and although I could see that it
looked
good, somehow it just didn’t
feel
right. Seriously Successful signed his name on the slip with a flourish.

“Thank you, Mr. Clutterbuck,” said the jeweler with an ingratiating smile. I looked at Seriously Successful.

“Clutterbuck?” I said. He nodded. I glanced at his sprawling signature. “D. W. Clutterbuck,” it said.

“What does the ‘D’ stand for?”

He gave a little cough. “Damian.”

“Oh. And the ‘W’?”

“Warren.”

“
Damian Clutterbuck
?” He nodded.

“Damian Warren Clutterbuck.” I smiled at him. “Now I know!”

“Yes. My dreadful secret is out, Tiffany,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “Do you still feel the same about me?”

“What? Oh yes. Yes, of course I do,” I said truthfully. “Don’t be silly . . . Damian.”
Honestly, your truly awful name makes absolutely no difference to how I feel.
And, gentle reader, it didn’t. Because when he secured the gold clasp round my neck, I realized then, in that instant, exactly how I felt. Something that I knew to be there, but had not yet been able to see, now, suddenly, became clear—like a photo gradually emerging in a tray of developing fluid, it had shape, and form, and depth. And what it was, was doubt. That was it. I felt doubtful. Very, very doubtful. I felt things closing around me, Seriously Suffocating, and the ceiling begin to descend. I didn’t really want to be tied down, I realized. It felt all wrong. Anyway, I was too young, I said to myself. Far too young. I had my whole life before me. There were so many people I still wanted to meet, places I wanted to go, and things I needed to do before I could possibly take such a momentous step. In my mind’s eye
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I could see myself Seriously Settled, and suddenly I was Seriously Scared. Did I really want what Seriously Successful was offering? And did I really want to be full-time? I wasn’t sure that I did. And did I really want to live in Belgravia? No. In fact, did I
want
to say I do? No. I didn’t. I really didn’t. And in any case, I thought, as I picked up my bag, José is corning to London! But . . . then . . . on the other hand . . . I thought wearily as we left the shop, Seriously Successful is
so
nice. He’s the answer to a maiden’s prayer. With him I could be “we” instead of “me,” and familiarity would probably breed content. And he does have
such
a comprehensive knowledge of advertising slogans, and
such
good taste in ties . . . and oh God, I thought as we strolled down Piccadilly together—oh God, what on earth should I
do
?

“A surprising, satisfying, and ‘seriously successful’ journey on top of a double-decker—but look out—this book will definitely make you miss your stop.”

—Jennifer Belle, author of
Going Down

Oh, the trials of Tiffany Trott . . .

There was Philip. Charming, attractive . . . and commonly known as Phil Anderer. There was Alex. Sensitive, thoughtful . . . and a bit too fond of women’s underwear. And then there was Seriously Successful—the man she met through the personals and who really
was
Mr. Right—for his wife.

But that’s all behind her. Tiffany Trott is not one to give up. So she’s holding her nose and plunging right back into the mating pool. And in this hilarious novel of dates and disasters, friendships and fix-ups, she’s going to do her best to find her knight in shining armor. Or at least a guy in
men’s
underwear. . . .

“A happy romp that slips down as agreeably as ice cream.”

—
Sunday Independent

“Tiffany is an engaging creation, with a knack [for] witty one-liners.”

—
Sunday Express

“Wonderfully comic . . .will appeal [to] anyone who is longing to laugh out loud at life.”

—
You
Magazine

The Trials of Tiffany Trott

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