The Trials of Tiffany Trott (6 page)

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Well, that’s a pity, because on the whole I prefer life’s losers and the walking wounded.”

On and on we bantered. A man with a quick wit—fantastic! Better still, he got my jokes.

Unlike Phil Anderer: “You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Phillip would say. “No,” I’d reply, while wondering whether he was going to tell me, yet again, that it was my “abject” dress sense, or the fact that I “talked too much” or had “too many little opinions.”

“What
is
my problem?” I’d say wearily. “Tell me.”

“You’ve got
no
sense of humor . . .”

“Now, I think we should meet,” said Seriously Successful after about twenty minutes of happy badinage. “Do you like the Ritz?” Do fish like water?

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“Love it.”

“Good. I’ll book a table for two on . . . Thursday? At eight o’clock?”

“Fabbo,” I said. “See you there. But hang on a mo—how will I recognize you?”

“I’ll be wearing a Hermès tie,” he said. “What about you?”

“I wear contact lenses.”

“Good. That’ll be easy then.”

Wahay!
I’m having dinner at the Ritz with a quite possibly gorgeous, successful, charming, and
very
amusing man, complete with outsize bank balance and impeccable taste in neckwear. Does winning the lottery feel this good?

On Thursday evening I showered, dressed carefully in an elegant little Alberta Ferretti linen suit which I’ve had for five years but
love,
and set off for Piccadilly on the number 38 bus. As I walked through the revolving doors of the Ritz for the second time in a fortnight, trying not to look as though I was on another blind date—and desperately hoping not to see Peter Fitz-Harrod again—I spotted a rather interesting-looking man standing at the reception. Tall, with wavy chestnut hair, fine features and chocolate-brown eyes, he wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he looked very animated and alert. He was beautifully besuited in a Prince of Wales check and, as I approached, I noticed that he had his tie twisted round so the label was showing. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, then suddenly broke into a broad smile.

“Hallo, Tiffany Trott,” he said confidently.

“Hello, Seriously Successful,” I replied.

“The Effect is Shattering,” he added.

“Thank you. It’s Good to Talk.”

“Let’s eat,” he said, gently taking hold of my left elbow and steering me, along the pink-and-green carpet, through the Palm Court bar, toward the restaurant. Now, I thought this instant physical contact was a little bit forward, but I didn’t
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mind. In fact, I rather liked it. It was nice. Seriously Successful was obviously at home in the Ritz—the waiters all seemed to know him. We were shown to a table on the left, near the large gilded figures of Neptune and his Nereid. The tablecloths were of the heaviest white damask, the china a pure turquoise blue. A silver vase containing two Stargazer lilies scented the surrounding air. I breathed it all in. It was lovely. I looked around at the other diners, substituting for their faces those of Noël Coward, Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh and the Aga Khan.

“There’s so much history in this room, isn’t there?” I said.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “Edward the Seventh was a regular. Just think, he and Alice Keppel may have dined at this very table.”

Seriously Successful ordered the wine with obvious
savoir boire
and kept smiling at me over the top of his menu as I perused the hors d’oeuvres. “Oak-smoked wild salmon—£17.50.” Maybe I’d have the mosaic of Devon crab, or the toasted game salad with celeriac wafers, or the artichoke heart with wild mushrooms and asparagus. I really couldn’t decide.

“I do hope you’ll have something really high-calorie,” said Seriously Successful suddenly. “I love curvy women. May I recommend the terrine of foie gras followed by the roast rack of lamb with a large helping of Dauphinois potatoes, and then the double chocolate mousse—with added cream, of course.”

“I’m not sure that’ll be enough,” I said, though the truth was I had the butterflies and didn’t know how I was going to eat anything. I found him so damned attractive. He was very conservative, and yet artistic, too—a devastating combination. He told me about his work—publishing trade magazines—and his passion for playing the cello, which he said he practices every morning. He also told me about his farmhouse in Sussex, and his luxury apartment in Piccadilly—in the Albany apartments no less.

“So the Ritz is really your local,” I said as our main course arrived.

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“Yes. And Fortnum and Mason’s is my corner shop,” he replied. “These little stores are so useful.” He grinned. I smiled back. How incredible to think that such a nice-looking, funny, generous, stylish, eligible man was still single! Amazing. What a piece of luck. Thank God I’d been brave enough to answer his ad, I thought, as I listened to the gentle clattering of silver cutlery. It was such a
sensible
thing to have done. We talked with startling ease about, well, lots of things—recent films and books, tennis technique and travel, birth signs, politics and paintings, love, life and earth. And of course advertising, which he loves. In fact he has an encyclopedic knowledge of slogans and straplines, including one or two of my own. This was highly gratifying. The evening was going brilliantly well. And then, as the waiters took away our plates after the main course, Seriously Successful removed his napkin from his lap and looked me straight in the eye. And I thought he was going to say, “Miss Trott. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!” Instead, he leant forward and said, “Now Tiffany, I’ve got a little proposition for you.”

What is wrong with men? Why do they always give me such a hard time? After all, it’s not as though I’ve failed to make any effort with them. Have I not cooked for them and ironed their shirts, including that rather tricky bit at the base of the collar? Have I not planted their gardens and watered their window boxes? Have I not posted their letters and picked up their prescriptions and collected swatches of carpet and curtain fabric when they were having their houses done up? Have I not changed my clothes when they told me they didn’t like them, and lost weight when they said I was too fat? Have I not—have I
not
trotted after them round the bloody golf course shouting, “MARVELOUS SHOT!”—even when the ball was clearly heading for the lake? So what, precisely, is the damn problem?
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Why is there always some matrimony-murdering sting in the tail? Take Seriously Successful, for example. There I was at the Ritz, lost in love, mentally rehearsing his wedding speech, and naming our children (Heidi, Hildegarde, Lysander, Tarquin and Max) when Fate, with malice aforethought, sneezed in my ashtray again.

“Now, I don’t want you to be shocked,” said Seriously Successful, seriously. “But I’ve got this little proposition for you. For us, actually.”

“Oh, what’s that, then?” I asked airily, fiddling with my pudding fork and hoping that what he had actually meant to say was that he had in mind a little proposal for me. Propositions always sound vaguely dodgy, don’t they?

He fiddled with the knot of his tie. “You see,” he began hesitantly, “my wife and I . . .”

“Your
wife
?”

“Yes.” He looked at me. “Wife.”

“Oh.” My heart did a bungee jump.

“You see she . . . Olivia. That’s her name. Olivia and I . . .” He took a sip of water. He appeared to be struggling. “. . . well . . . we don’t really get on. In fact, we were never really very compatible in the first place,” he continued. “We’ve soldiered on for years, but recently we’ve just found it pretty intolerable. There’s never been anyone else involved,” he added quickly. “I wouldn’t like you to think that. But it’s just that our marriage is, well, a bit of a farce, really.”

My hopes rose as swiftly on their elasticated rope as they had plummeted a moment before. In that case he could get divorced, couldn’t he, and it would all be OK? I could still have my dream man with his lovely voice and his smart suits and his exquisite neckwear and his jokes.

“However,” I heard him continue, “we are extremely unlikely to split up.”

“Oh.” Oh. “Why?”

“Because her father is my main backer. He lent me a consid
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erable amount of money when I set up my company fifteen years ago.”

“I see.”

“I had nothing then. Except my ideas, and my energy, and my ambition. And he enabled me to make a success of it. It would have been almost impossible otherwise. And it has been, well . . .”

“Seriously Successful?” I suggested.

“Yes,” he said with a little shrug. “It has. That’s why I have the house in Sussex and the smart flat in town. That’s why I’m wearing a Savile Row suit and handmade shoes. That’s why my daughter goes to Benenden. All because Olivia’s father laid the foundations for my business success.”

“But if the company’s done that well, couldn’t you just, well, pay him back?” I ventured.

“I have,” he replied. “Of course I have. With interest. But it’s not as simple as that, because when he agreed to back me, he said he would only do it if I promised always to look after Olivia and never, ever leave her. That was the condition. He was very emphatic about it, and I said I would honor it. And I will. In any case,” he carried on with a slight grimace, “divorce is so unpleasant, especially where children are involved. I really
don’t
want to inflict that on my daughter.”

“Well personally I think adultery’s very unpleasant. I really don’t want to inflict that on myself.”

“And the reason why I put in that ad is because I’m just, well, rather lonely and love-starved really, and I wanted to find someone I can care for and . . .”

“Spoil a little or even a lot,” I said dismally.

“Er. Yes. Yes. Exactly. Someone I can have fun with. And when I talked to you, and met you this evening, and was terribly attracted to you, which I am, then I knew that the person I could have fun with was you.”

“What the hell makes you think I want to have
fun
?” I said. “I don’t
want
any bloody
fun.
I want to get
married
.”

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“Well, I’m afraid I can’t actually offer you marriage,” he said. “Not as such. But we could still have a wonderful relationship,” he added enthusiastically. “Though of course it would have to be part-time.”

“Part-time? Oh I see,” I said, twisting the handle of my pudding spoon. “Well, perhaps you could tell me what that would involve. I mean, how many days off would I get? And would I have any union rights? Would I get the usual benefits and sick pay, and could you guarantee me a minimum wage? And if I were to sign a contract what would happen if Britain signed up to the Social Chapter? You see I’ve got to think about these things.”

“Don’t be bitter,” he said, as the waiter arrived with the pudding and cheese. “Why did you assume that I was single?”

“Because you didn’t say that you
weren’t
,” I said, throwing my eyes up in anguish to the clouded,
trompe l’oeil
ceiling. “Why didn’t you just be done with it and say, ‘Suave businessman in dead-as-dodo marriage WLTM curvy girl for fun leg-overs with absolutely no view to future’? Anyway, you could have told me over the phone.”

“You didn’t
ask
.”

“But you should have said. We talked for long enough.”

“Well, OK, I didn’t say because I liked the sound of you so much and I was afraid that if you knew my situation you wouldn’t agree to meet me.”

“Too bloody right. Being someone’s side-order wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” he said, with an air of exasperation as he buttered a Bath Oliver. “I’m offering something very . . . civilized. And let’s face it, Tiffany, lots of people have these sorts of arrangements.”

“Well, lots of people aren’t me,” I said. My throat was aching with a suppressed sob; tears pricked the back of my eyes. I glanced away from him, taking in the Marie Antoinette
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interior with its shining mirrored panels and gilded chandeliers. Then I looked at him again.

“You said it was a proposition. And I don’t accept it. So I’m afraid you’ll just have to put it to someone else.” I put my napkin on the table and stood up. “I think I’ll go home now. Goodbye. Thank you very much for dinner.”

I walked out through the bar, aware of the happy babble of voices, and the merry chink of cut glass. My face was flaming with a combination of indignation and the humid, midsummer heat. What a bastard, I thought as I crossed Piccadilly. Who did he think he was? More important, who did he think I was? What a cad. What a . . . I flagged down the number 38 and stepped on board. Empty. Good. At least I could cry without being stared at.

“Cheer up darling,” said the conductor as I sat in the front seat shielding my face with my left hand. “It may never happen.”

“I know,” I said, as a large, hot tear plopped onto my lap. Especially if I make a habit of dating men like Seriously Successful. What a creep. What did he take me for? I reached into my bag and pulled out my mobile phone. I’d ring Lizzie
right
now and tell her what a bastard he was. Part-time girlfriend indeed! She’d be sympathetic. I dialed
[dialled]
her number.

“We’re
so
sorry, but Lizzie and Martin aren’t here at the moment,” declaimed her recorded voice. “But
please do
leave us a message . . .” God, so theatrical—you’d think she was auditioning for the RSC—“and we’ll get back to you
just as soon
as we can.” Damn. I pressed the red button. Who could I talk to instead? I had to talk to someone. Sally. She’d dish out some sympathy. If she wasn’t in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Washington or Paris.
Ring ring. Ring ring.

“Hallo,” said Sally.

“Sally, it’s Tiffany and I just wanted to tell you . . .”

“Tiffany! How
are
you?”

“Very pissed off actually, because see I’ve just been on a date, a blind date . . .”