The Trials of Tiffany Trott (4 page)

“No I’m not. Because I read in the paper the other day that forty-five percent of us meet our partners through mutual friends and I’ve already met all my friends’ friends. And twenty-one percent of us meet them through work.”

_p. 25
“Darling, I do wish you could get a proper job again. All you do is sit on your own writing slogans all day.”

“But Freelancers Have Freedom!”

“Yes, but you’re not meeting any men. Except for Kit.
Why
didn’t you marry Kit, Tiffany?”

“I don’t want to go through all that again, Mummy. Anyway, he loves Portia.”

“Don’t your friends know anyone?”

“No. And when I think about the men I have met through my set they’ve been disastrous—especially Phillip.”

“Oh
yes
,” she said meaningfully. Feckless, unfeeling Phil Anderer.

“But men!” I spat. “Who needs them? Not me. Anyway,” I added, “I’m not going through all that grief again. No way. Forget it. No. Thank. You.”

Two hours later, the phone rang. It was Lizzie. “Now listen to this, Tiffany,” she said, audibly rustling a newspaper. “Listen very carefully.”

“OK. I’m listening.”

She cleared her throat theatrically. “ ‘Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, Sensuous Academic, thirty-six, seeks Feminine Friend to share Laughter, Love and . . . Life?’ ” She managed to get a melodramatic, upward inflection into the final word.

“Yes?” I said. “You read it very well. What about it?”

“It’s a personal ad,” she explained.

“I know.”

“From the
Telegraph
.”

“Good.”

“In fact it’s a particularly appealing one, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you’re going to reply to it, aren’t you, Tiffany?”

“Yes,” I said suddenly. “I am.”

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I also said yes when Lizzie told me that she wanted me to go on a blind date with a colleague of Martin’s. Did I say no one ever introduces me to matrimonially minded males? Let me take it back right now!

“He’s called Peter Fitz-Harrod,” she said, when she’d finished telling me about the Tall, Athletic Academic. “He’s in syndicated loans, whatever they are. I think he lends money to Mozambique. I met him at a company do last week,” she explained. “He’s forty-two, divorced, with two small children. He’s really
quite
good-looking,” she added, “and very keen to marry again.”

Now I have absolutely no objections to divorced men—as long as the first wife is dead, ha ha!—so I told Lizzie she could give him my number. Then I sat down to write my reply to the Tall, Athletic Academic. I soon got stuck with my pen poised over my best-quality oyster-colored Conqueror paper. How on earth should I go about it? I mean, what the hell do people say? Do they write, “Dear Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied . . . ,” or, “Dear Abundantly Erotic Existentialist . . . ,” or, “Dear Bewitching Brunette, fifty-seven and a half . . .”? What does protocol require? Maybe I should come clean and say, “Hallo there, my incredibly bossy best friend saw your intriguing ad and told me that if I don’t reply she’ll kill me.” Maybe I should say, “Hi! My name’s Tiffany. I think I could be your feminine friend.” Feminine Friend? It sounds like a brand of tampon. Maybe I should start, “Dear Box Number ML2445219X.” Maybe I should simply write, “Dear Sir . . .”

I decided to go shopping instead. There’s nothing like a trip to Oxford Street on the number 73 to clear the brain, and soon I was entertaining positive thoughts about Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, etc. (think I’ll just call him “Tall” for short). By the time the bus was speeding down Essex Road, we’d been out to dinner twice. As it pulled away from the Angel, he’d shyly held my hand. By the time we turned into Pentonville Road, he’d come up to meet my parents. As we drove
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past Euston station, our engagement announcement was in
The Times,
and by the time we pulled up outside Selfridges half an hour later, we were married with two children and living in Cambridge, where he is undoubtedly professor of something terribly impressive, such as cytogenetics. Bus journeys do not normally give rise to such pleasant fantasies. Usually they remind me of the appalling problems I have with men. For example, I step happily on board the number 24, confident that I am going, say, to Hampstead. It all seems perfectly straightforward, the destination quite clear. But then, just as I’m relaxing into my book—
ding dong
! “Last Stop. All Change!” and there I am, marooned at the grottier end of Camden. And when I gently remonstrate with the bus conductor about my unexpectedly abbreviated journey, he calmly points to the front of the bus where it says, in very large letters,
CAMDEN HIGH STREET ONLY.
And that’s what it’s been like with men. I have failed to read the signs. So I have allowed them to lead me not just up the garden path, but through the front door, into the house, through the sitting room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, before being shown out through the back door—usually with instructions to cut the grass before I leave. Unfortunately this whole process takes quite a long time, as I have learned to my great chagrin.

What a fool I am—what a damned, silly little fool. I have let selfish, commitment-shy men tie me up for too long. I have cooked my own goose and stuffed it. Perhaps I could get Tony Blair to introduce legislation, I mused, as I went over to the expensive unguents counter. I’m sure he’d oblige if I asked him to be tough on commitophobia—tough on the causes of commitophobia. Men would not be allowed to monopolize women over the age of thirty-three for more than six months without making their intentions clear. Fines would be incurred, and repeat offenders like Phillip would be sent off for institutional reform in a confetti factory. No longer would men be able to
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shilly-shally around with girls during what Jane Austen called our “years of danger.” This would improve our lives immeasurably, I thought as I sprayed Allure onto my left wrist. One father I know, frustrated by his daughter’s four-year wait for a wedding ring, simply put the engagement announcement in the paper—just like that! The boyfriend was whizzed up the aisle before you could say “Dearly Beloved.” Other women of my acquaintance have waited for years, and then got dumped the minute they tried to pin the bastard down.

“I really don’t think we belong together,” Phillip said after we’d been together for almost three years and I had politely inquired whether my presence in his life was still required.

“In fact,” he said very slowly, “I
now
realize that we’re fundamentally incompatible. So it wouldn’t be
right
for me to marry you. It’s a great pity. But there it is.”

“Yes, it is a pity,” I said, as I removed my clothes from his cupboard, trying not to mess up his golfing gear. “It’s a pity it’s taken you so long to decide. It’s a pity I didn’t leave you when you admitted you’d been unfaithful. It’s a pity I believed you when you said you wanted me to stay with you forever. In fact,” I added through my tears, “it’s a pity I met you at all. You’re a good architect,” I said as I left.

“Thanks,” he said.

“That conservatory you did for the Frog and Firkin was brilliant.”

“Thanks,” he said again.

“And that loft extension in Putney was tremendous.”

“I know,” he said.

“But you’re useless at building relationships.”

A few months later, I met Alex. It all seemed so promising at first, though he was terribly shy to start with. All those chaste dates—the strain was exhausting.

“At least he’s not another pathetic womanizer,” said Lizzie, accurately, after I’d come back un-snogged from my twenty-third date. And he was so nice—and no golf! Hurrah! And no
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negative comments about my clothes, either. In fact, as it turned out, he really
liked
my clothes. Especially my lingerie. And my evening wear. But then we all have our foibles, don’t we? Our little peccadilloes. But now look what’s happened. Curtains again. Exit boyfriend stage left.
Left.

“Don’t let them bugger you around anymore,” says Lizzie. “Get
tough
.” And so now I
am
tough. If they don’t propose within five minutes—that’s it! Goodbye! Or possibly five weeks. In exceptional circumstances, and if they have a note from their parents, five months.

“Your pores are rather enlarged,” said the white-coated crone on the expensive unguents counter as she sat me in front of a magnifying mirror. “In fact they’re huge,” she continued. “I’m afraid it’s something that happens with age.” Oh dear. If I’d known they were that big, I could have offered Phillip the use of my face for indoor putting practice.

I bought three tubes of pore-minimizer (£87.50) and a tiny tub of moisturizer—can someone please tell me why moisturizer always comes in such small pots?—and headed home. Then I read the ad again:
Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, Sensuous Academic, thirty-six, seeks Feminine Friend to share Laughter, Love and . . . Life?
Now you’re talking, I thought to myself as I dashed off a letter. Just a few brief details about myself and a not-too-out-of-date passport photo—don’t want to see the guy’s face collapse with disappointment when we meet. I signed it just “Tiffany” with my telephone number, but no address of course—just in case he turns out to be a Tall Athletic Serial Killer. Then I sealed it. As I stuck on the stamp—first-class, natch,
don’t
want him thinking I’m a cheapskate—the phone rang.

“Oh hellooooo . . .” said a slightly gravelly female voice. Who the hell was this?

“Hellooooo . . .” it said again. “Is that Tiffaneee? Tiffanneee Trott? This is Peter Fitz-Harrod.” Christ, it was a bloke.

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“Yes,” I said, shocked. “That’s me.”

“Ah. Well, ha ha ha ha ha! Lizzie Bohannon gave me your number. Ha ha ha ha ha! She’s told me all about you. Ha ha ha ha! You sound absolutely
splendid.
Would you like to meet me for a drink?”

_p. 31
I bet Peter Fitz-Harrod’s wife left him for someone else. I don’t blame her in the slightest. He sounds like a total wimp. Unlike Tall Athletic.

“Lizzie, why are you setting me up with this weedy little man?” I asked her over the telephone. Actually I didn’t say that. One has to be tactful with friends who are doing their level best to help one up the aisle. What I really said was, “Lizzie, what’s this Peter Fitz-doobery man like? I mean it’s
very
nice of you to think of me, and I do really,
really
appreciate it, but to be brutally honest, he sounds like a complete and utter jerk.”

“I know the voice is a bit awful, but he’s
much
better in the flesh,” she said reassuringly. “He’s
definitely
worth a try.
Would
I suggest him otherwise?” I was prepared to take her word for it, though I definitely preferred the sound of Tall Athletic. I bet he’s got a lovely voice. All that lecturing—his students must find him mesmerizing. He should have had my letter by now. Sporty and brainy—marvelous! What enticing images this conjures: squash followed by a bit of Schopenhauer; tennis followed by the Tate; swimming while discussing Solzhenitsyn; hill-walking with a hint of Hindemith. Golf . . . hang on a mo. Not golf. Anything but golf. If he plays golf, we’re through. “No, no, no, you go and play,” I’d say to Phillip every Saturday morning. “You need to relax. You’ve got a very high-pressure job,” (unlike me, of course). And by six o’clock
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he’d be back having played thirty-six—or was it seventy-two?—holes. And then he’d do the same on Sundays. “I had a bloody good game,” he’d say, as he switched on Sky Sports. “Bloody good. Tremendous. What’s for supper, Tiff?”

No, I’m putting my foot right down. Tall Athletic is not allowed to play golf. He can play tennis, cricket, croquet, football, hockey, squash, rugby, baseball, basketball, badminton, Ping-Pong, polo, Eton fives, seven-a-side rugger and darts. He can go surfboarding, rollerblading, waterskiing, rally-driving, scuba-diving, ten-pin bowling, white-water rafting and rowing. He can do heli-skiing, parascending, motocross, hang-gliding, parachuting, sky-diving and three-day-eventing, but if he plays golf—we’re through. Phillip’s much-married mother used to say, in her wearying, worldly-wise way, “It’s good for men like Phillip to have a regular sport like golf because then at least,” and here her voice would drop to a conspiratorial whisper, “
you know exactly what they’re up to
.” And how my heart would sink, as it always did when she gave me advice of this kind; and later on, when I finally knew, well . . . how ironic it seemed.

This evening I met Peter Fitz-Harrod for a drink. Here’s what happened. We arranged a rendezvous at the Ritz at six-thirty, and I had planned my escape in the form of a phantom dinner appointment at eight-fifteen. My first blind date for more than fifteen years! What a bizarre thing to do—go to a hotel to have a drink with a man on whom I had never laid eyes before. But having laid ears on him, I wasn’t that excited—just curious to see whether he was as frightful as I imagined. I had described myself to him: “fair hair,” I said, deliberately avoiding the word “blonde”—he sounded quite overexcited enough as it was and I knew he wasn’t my type. But I dressed carefully—nothing that Phillip would have made an appalling fuss about, just a pretty little suit and a discreet amount of makeup (no foundation—
so
ageing). As I spun through the swing doors I saw a man in a Burberry raincoat sitting by the night porter’s
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desk. I looked at him, he looked at me, then he jumped to his feet like a crocodile leaping off the riverbank. It was him. Keen as mustard.

“Hello, ha ha ha ha ha! You must be Tiffaneee,” he squeaked, offering me a clammy hand.

“How did you guess?” I asked him—the Ritz was stuffed to the rafters with thirty-something blondes.

“Well, ha ha ha ha ha! I don’t know, I suppose you just look like your voice,” he said.

“Thank God,
you
don’t,” I just managed not to say, because actually, Lizzie was right. He really wasn’t too bad. About five foot ten, with curly brown hair. Blue eyes. Medium build. Discreet gray suit. Black lace-up shoes—well polished. Tasteful silver cufflinks. In fact, quite OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable (NB—do not, in future, judge blokes on basis of voices).

We sat in the bar and ordered drinks. A beer for him, a glass of white wine for me. “Sauvignon please, rather than Chardonnay,” I instructed the waiter in my best “girl-about-town” style. Good God! I suddenly realized I was trying to impress this man. Was I interested? Well, maybe. His ghastly voice had dropped by about an octave, and the nervous machine-gun laughter had stopped. I certainly wasn’t sitting there thinking, You Have Got To Be Joking! In fact, I was smiling quite a bit and I didn’t have my arms defensively crossed. He was really quite nice, I thought, as I nibbled a pistachio. How could his wife have left him? What a cow. Probably led him a merry dance with a string of Latin lovers which she no doubt entertained three at a time in the marital bed, only venturing out in order to blow all his money on Gucci and Louis Vuitton. Poor chap. Obviously been through a hell of a lot. Needs to have his faith in women restored. I asked him about his work, which is scheduling loans to southern African countries. He asked me about mine.

_p. 34
“Oh—advertising, Go To Work On An Egg and all that!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Yes, that sort of thing,” I replied, without getting into the intricacies of Kiddimint.

“Vorsprung, Durch Technik!”

“Yes, that’s right.”

We talked about sport; he hates golf—brilliant! And he likes tennis—even better. I dropped in a strategically sensitive but not at all intrusive question about his children, whom he sees every Sunday. Then we ordered another drink. It was all going rather well. Gradually, the conversation became a little more personal. He asked me why I’m not married.

“I’m too young,” I said. “My parents feel I should wait.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha! That’s very good,” he said. “
Very
good. Too young! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

“And why did you get divorced?” I inquired. “Was it your wife’s decision?”

“Oh
no
,” he said. “No, it was entirely
mine.
My wife didn’t want to get divorced at
all.
In fact she was
terribly unhappy
about it. Still is.” Ah. I see. This took me aback. Men do not normally leave their wives unless they are in love with someone else.

“She thought we were very happily married,” he continued above the tinkling of the piano. “But I didn’t. She resisted the divorce for months.” Suddenly I found myself feeling rather sorry for his wife. Why had he left? Maybe he
did
have an affair, though he didn’t seem the type.

“I wasn’t interested in anyone else,” he confided. “But the problem was that I found my wife very boring.” Oh! Oh dear. Boring.

“Was she very quiet, then?” I asked him as I fiddled with the stem of my wine glass.

“Oh no, she had
lots
to say,” he replied. “She’s not shy or introverted at all, and she’s got a lot of interests. And she really
loved
being a wife and mother . . .”

_p. 35
Oh. Oh, I see. Except that I didn’t really see at all.

“I was just
very bored
with her,” he continued. “That’s all I can say. Bored.” Well, there are worse things to be than boring, I thought. Like unfaithful, controlling, neglectful, selfish, cruel and mean. But boring?

“She wasn’t very entertaining,” he explained. “And she didn’t pay me enough attention. She just wasn’t”—he gave an exasperated little shrug—“. . . a stimulating partner.”

What was she supposed to do, I found myself wondering, monocycle round the kitchen while juggling the Wedgwood and singing highlights from
Oklahoma!?

“And also”—he leaned in a little closer—“she was really
hopeless
in bed.”

Aaarrrggghhh!!! I did not want to know this. It made my stomach turn. By now I was feeling extremely sorry for Mrs. Fitz-Harrod. I wanted to go right round to her house and say, “Now you listen to me, Mrs. Fitz-Harrod, you are
well
out of it. Your ex-husband is an unchivalrous swine.” Instead I glanced at my watch. “Goodness, it’s five past eight, I really must get going. It’s been very nice talking to you,” I lied, as a frock-coated waiter brought him the bill.

“Ditto,” he replied. “I’d love to see you again. We could play tennis,” he added as I hailed a passing cab. “I’ll call you.”

“Yes. Yes. Do,” I said as I got in, giving him an arctic smile. “That would be nice. Give me a ring some time. Any time.” Or, preferably, never. Never would be just fine. I sped home feeling slightly depressed. And rather embarrassed, too—after all, I had only met him at Lizzie’s suggestion. I’d have to tell her how ghastly he was—I should never have let her persuade me. Still, she meant well, I reflected as I walked up my garden path, pausing to snip off a couple of pink roses with my nail scissors. They’d look pretty in the kitchen and the scent would cheer me up. I mean it’s not Lizzie’s fault, I thought. She wasn’t to know—she’d only met him once herself. But what a ghastly evening. What a ghastly, ghastly man.

_p. 36
I turned the key in the lock brightening considerably when I opened the door to see the answer phone’s green light winking gaily at me. My index finger hit “Play.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Hello there, Tiffany,” said a silky-smooth male voice. “You don’t know me—yet. My name’s Neville. You were kind enough to answer my ad, and I’d
love
you to give me a ring.”

When you are thirty-seven, single and childless, there are certain things that people say. They say. “Don’t worry, your prince will come,” or “Cheer up! Your luck will change!” Or—worst of all—“
There’s someone nice just around the corner
.” I had been about to ban Mum from ever saying that again.

“No there
isn’t
someone nice just around the corner,” I usually say in reply to this well-meant, weekly cliché. “There’s probably someone
nasty
just around the corner. In fact, you can bet there’s a right
bastard
just around the corner who’s going to get me
very
interested, waste an awful lot of time and then
bugger off,
leaving me back at square one.”

“Don’t worry, darling, there’s someone nice just around the corner,” she said to me again this morning, but this time I simply said to her, “Well Mummy, I think you might be right.” Now
why
did I say that? Because Tall Athletic’s just around the corner—that’s why. And he really
does
sound nice. A gorgeous voice for starters—
dead
sexy. American. Or at least . . . well, it was rather embarrassing actually. Because when I realized I had a Sylvester Stallone soundalike on the other end of the line I said, “Which part of the States do you come from then?”

And there was this awkward silence for about—ooh, a minute—and then the voice said, “Actually, I’m Canadian.”

Anyway, I eventually managed to persuade him not to put the phone down, and we began to chat. Now, I don’t know what other people do on these occasions, but I decided not to talk to him for too long. I wanted us to have plenty to say to each other when we met. So I didn’t ask him about his academic career or what he loves most about the British or anything like that, I
_p. 37
just asked him what he meant by “Athletic.” And he said—be still my beating heart!—“Ice hockey.” Wow! That is
such
a macho game.

Anyway, we decided to meet at this little Italian café in Soho he knows, because he told me he was a great “Italophile.” And this seemed to be true because when he rang off he said “
ciao
” instead of “bye.” “
Ciao
.” Just like that. Isn’t that great? “
Ciao
.” Yes, I
really
like the sound of him. However, there are two drawbacks: 1) he lives in Walthamstow and 2) his name is Neville. Now, Neville is not a great name. In fact it’s pretty awful—on a par with, say, Kevin, Terry or Duane. But then, he’s Canadian, so it’s sort of OK, and of course a lot of famous Canadians do have quite weird names, don’t they, like, um, famous Canadians, famous Canadians—oh yes, Margaret Atwood and Bryan Adams. And as for Neville living in Walthamstow—well I’m sure he’d relocate if we hit it off, which I really think we might.

Why oh why oh
why
do men feel the need to exaggerate their height? I mean, it’s not even as though I’m particularly prejudiced in favor of tall men—I’m not. It was the “Athletic Academic” bit of Neville’s ad which appealed to me because I really like clever men. Anyway, when I arrived at the Café Firenza—a bit of a dive frankly—I asked for Neville and was shown to a table at the back. I saw this bearded man sitting there—why didn’t I check him for facial hair over the phone? And when he stood up to shake my hand I realized he was no more than five foot eight and three-quarters, which is
not
tall, it’s medium. And medium is absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with medium. But it is not to be confused with tall. So instead of the big, brainy lumberjack of my dreams, there was this rather slight, bearded man, with sloping shoulders, small hands and large, gray, staring eyes. My heart sank into the soles of my Patrick Cox loafers. Still, he did have a very sexy
_p. 38
voice—unlike Peter Fitz-Harrod. He ordered the wine, in Italian. This seemed to take quite a long time for some reason, even though it was quite clear to me, from my smattering of restaurant Italian, that he was ordering a bottle of the
vino da tavola
—
rosso.
And then, when the waiter had gone, Neville did this funny thing. He just sat there, looking at me very intensely, saying
nothing.
Just staring. Obviously terribly shy. I smiled encouragingly at him.

“Are you feeling tense, Tiffany?” he suddenly asked me.

“Tense? Oh, no, no, no. Not at all. No.”

“It’s just that you
do
seem quite, well, tense. And nervous. I think you
are
tense and nervous, aren’t you, Tiffany?” he persisted as the bottle of house red arrived.