The Trials of Tiffany Trott (8 page)

Now, I’m not a jealous person—I’m really not. But, it’s just that whenever I go round to Lizzie’s house I always feel awfully, well, jealous. Even though she’s my best and oldest friend, my envy levels rocket. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the forty-foot Colefax and Fowlered drawing room and the expanses of spotless cream carpet. Maybe it’s the artful arrangements of exotic flowers in tall, handblown glass vases. Maybe it’s the beautifully rag-rolled walls or the serried ranks of antique silver frames on burnished mahogany. Perhaps it’s the hundred-foot garden complete with rose-drenched pergola. Or perhaps it’s the fact that she has two adorable children and a husband who loves her and who will never, ever be unfaithful or leave her for a younger model. Yes, I think that’s what it is. She has the luxury of a kind and faithful husband, and she has pledged to help me secure same.

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“Now, listen to me, Tiffany,” she said, as we sat in her hand-distressed Smallbone of Devizes kitchen. Through the open window I could see Martin strenuously pushing a mower up and down.

“You are a
product,
Tiffany. A very
desirable
product. And you are about to sell yourself in the market place. Do not sell yourself short.”

“OK,” I said, sipping coffee from one of her Emma Bridgewater fig leaf and black olive spongeware mugs. “I won’t.”

“Your pitch has got to be right or you’ll miss your target,” she said, passing me a plate of chocolate olivers.

“It’s OK, I know a thing or two about pitches,” I said. “I mean I
am
a copywriter.”

“No, Tiffany, sometimes I really don’t think you understand the
first thing
about advertising,” she said, glancing out into the garden.

“But my ads win awards! I got a bronze Lion at Cannes last year!”

“
Martin
!” she shouted. “You’ve missed the bit by the
cotoneasta
!” He stopped, wiped the beads of sweat off his tonsured head, and turned the mower round.

“Mind you, I don’t know why you want a husband, Tiffany, they’re all completely
useless
.” Suddenly Amy and Alice appeared from the garden.

“What are you doing, Mummy?” said Amy, who is five.

“Finding Tiffany a husband.”

“Oh good, does that mean we’ll be bridesmaids?” said Alice.

“Yes,” said Lizzie. “It does. Now go outside and play.”

“I’ve
always
wanted to be your bridesmaid, Tiffany,” said Alice, who is seven.

“I think I’m more likely to be your bridesmaid,” I said, “when I’m about fifty.”

“OK Tiff, this is what I suggest,” said Lizzie, waving a piece of paper at me. “Gorgeous blonde, thirty-two, size forty bust,
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interminable legs, fantastic personality, hugely successful, own delightful house, seeks extremely eligible man, minimum six foot, for permanent relationship. No losers. No cross-dressers. No kids.”

“I think it contravenes the Trades Description Act,” I said.

“I know, but at least you’ll get lots of replies.”

“I am not thirty-two, I’m thirty-seven. I do not have a size forty bust, and I am definitely not gorgeous.”

“I
know
you’re not,” she said. “But we’ve got to talk you
up
as they say in the City. It’s all a question of perception. I mean Martin’s always talking up his stocks and shares to his clients, and some of them go through the roof.”

“Some of these men are going to go through the roof too,” I said. “What’s the point in lying? Lying will only get me into trouble.”

“Men lie,” she said, accurately; and into my mind flashed Tall Athletic Neville, a towering sex god, five foot eight.

“Well, I’m
not
going to lie,” I said, scribbling furiously. “Now this,” I said, “is nearer the mark: ‘Sparky, kindhearted girl, thirty-seven, not thin, likes tennis and hard work WLTM intelligent, amusing, single man, 36-45, for the purposes of matrimony. No facial hair. No golf players. Photo and letter please.’ ”

“You won’t get
any
replies,” Lizzie shouted down the path at me as I left to get ready for tennis. “Not a
single
one!”

Tennis always takes my mind off my troubles. Bashing balls about in my small North London club is so therapeutic. It gets the seratonin going, or is it endorphins? Maybe it’s melatonin? God, I can’t remember which. Anyway, whatever it is it releases stress, makes me feel happy. Or at least it would do if it wasn’t for that wretched man, Alan—such a fly in the ointment. Whenever I’m playing, there he is: the solicitor with two heads. Bald; bearded; thin. The man of my nightmares. It’s not at all flattering being fancied by an extremely unattractive man.

_p. 69
“Mind if I join you?”

“No. Not at all,” I said airily as I sat in the sunshine on the terrace. We made our way onto one of the grass courts—at least he’s not a bad player. We played a couple of sets—he won six-two, six-two, in fact he always beats me six-two, six-two—and then we went and had tea.

“Tiffany, would you like to see something at the cinema with me?” he said as he poured me a cup of Earl Grey.

No, not really.
“Ummmmm,” I began.

“The Everyman are doing a season of Truffaut.”

“Well . . .”

“Or perhaps you’d like to go to the opera—the ENO are doing
The Magic Flute
again.”

“Oh, er, seen that one actually.”

“Right, then, how about something at that theater?”

“Well, you see, I’m really quite busy at the moment.”

He looked stricken. “Tiffany, you’re not seeing anyone are you?”

Sodding outrageous! “I really think that’s my business, Alan,” I said.

“Why don’t you want to go out with me, Tiffany? I don’t understand it. I’ve got everything a woman could want. I’ve got a huge house in Belsize Park; I’m very successful; I’m the faithful type, and I love children. I’d be a good father. What is the problem?”

“Well, Alan,” I said, “the problem is that though you are undoubtedly what they call a ‘catch,’ I for one find you—how can I put this politely? Physically repulsive.” Actually I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Alan, you’re
terribly
eligible, but I’m afraid I just don’t feel that the chemistry’s right and that’s all there is to it. So I’m not going to waste your time. I don’t think it’s nice to have one’s time wasted. And if this means you don’t want to play tennis with me anymore, then I’d quite understand.”

“Oh no, no, no—I’m not saying that,” he interjected swiftly.
_p. 70
“I’m not saying that at all. How about
[abut]
Glyndebourne?” he called after me, as I went downstairs to change. “In the stalls? With a champagne picnic? Laurent Perrier, foie gras—the works?”

Oh
yes
. yes. Glyndebourne. Glyndebourne would be lovely. I’d
love
to go to Glyndebourne—with
anyone
but you.

Why is it, I wondered later as I telephoned the classiñed ads section of the newspaper to dictate my personal ad, that the men I don’t want—who I really, really don’t want—are always the ones who want me? Why is it always the men I find boring and unattractive who offer to spoil me and treat me well and worship the ground I walk on? And
why
is it that the ones I really, really like are the ones who treat me like dirt? Isn’t that odd? I just don’t get it. But I’m not having it any longer—I’m taking control. I’m going for what I want and I’m going to find it, with my very own sales pitch in the “Ladies” section of a lonely hearts column.

“I’ve put a lonely hearts ad in the Saturday Rendezvous section of
The Times
,” I announced slightly squiffily at lunch the following day. Lizzie, Catherine, Emma, Frances, Sally and I were sipping Pimms by the pergola. In the background, Martin was painting the French windows, assisted by Alice and Amy, while we all contemplated the first course of our annual al fresco lunch—Ogen melon and Parma ham.

“My God that’s so brave!” said Frances, stirring her Pimms with a straw. “Very courageous of you, Tiffany. I admire that. Well done you!”

“I didn’t say I’m climbing backward up Mount Everest,” I explained. “Or crossing the Atlantic in a cardboard box. I merely said that I’ve put a personal ad in
The Times
.”

“It’s still bloody brave of you, Tiffany,” insisted Frances. “What courage! I’d never have the nerve to do that.”

“Nor would I!” chorused the others.

“Why ever not?” I asked. “Lots of people do.”

_p. 71
“Well, it would be very artificial,” said Sally, swatting away a wasp. “I prefer to leave my choice of mate to Fate.”

“Me too,” said Emma, adjusting the strap of her sundress. “I’d rather meet someone in a romantic way, you know, just, bump into them one day . . .”

“
Where
?” I asked. “By the photocopier? Or the fax machine?”

“Noooo,” she said thoughtfully. “In the cinema queue for the films, or on the Northern Line, or on a plane, or . . .”

“How many people do you know who’ve met their partners like that?” I asked.

“Er. Er. Well, none actually. But I’m sure it does happen. I wouldn’t do a lonely hearts ad because I wouldn’t want to meet someone in such an obviously contrived way. It would spoil it. But I think you’re really brave.”

“Yes,” chorused the others. “You’re really, really brave, Tiffany.”

“She isn’t brave, she’s stupid,” said Lizzie forthrightly, “and I say that because her ad is completely truthful. I recommended the judicious use of lying, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s even put in her age. And ‘One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.’ ” She smiled ingratiatingly. “Oscar Wilde,” she explained. “
A Woman of No Importance
.” Of course. From Lizzie’s great days in Worthing.

“Did you ever hear again from that married chap you met at the Ritz?” asked Sally.

“Er, yes, yes I did actually,” I said with a sudden and tremendous pang, which took me by surprise. “To be honest he’s really not that bad, ha ha ha! Sent me some rather nice flowers actually. To say sorry. I wish . . . I mean I would like . . .” My voice trailed away.

“What Tiffany means is that she wishes she could see him again, but I have told her that this is
out of the question
,” said Lizzie. “She’s
got
to keep her eye on the ball. Martin! Don’t forget to give it two coats!”

_p. 72
“What did you do?” said Emma.

“I wrote back to him and thanked him, but said that unfortunately circumstances would conspire to keep us apart.”

“Maybe he’ll get divorced,” said Frances. “Everyone else does. Luckily for me!”

“He won’t contemplate it,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s worried about the effect it would have on his daughter.”

“So he’d rather have affairs instead,” said Lizzie, rolling her eyes toward the cloudless sky. “Charming.”

“Common,” said Frances, fishing a strawberry out of her glass.

“Understandable,” said Emma quietly. “If his marriage really
is
very unhappy.” I looked at her. She had gone red. Then she suddenly stood up and helped Lizzie collect up the plates.

“Er, has anyone actually met anyone they like?” Sally asked.

We all looked blankly at each other. “Nope,” said Frances. Emma shook her head, and said nothing, though I could see that she was still blushing.

“What about you, Sally?” I said.

“No luck,” she said with a happy shrug. “Perhaps I’ll meet someone on holiday next week. Some heavenly maharajah. Or maybe the Taj Mahal will work its magic for me.”

“Like it did for Princess Diana, you mean,” said Frances with a grim little laugh.

“
I’m
interested in someone,” announced Catherine.

“
Yes
?” we all said.

“Well, I met him at Alison and Angus’s dinner party in June. Tiffany was there. He’s an acc—”

“Oh God, not that dreary accountant?” I said incredulously. “Not that boring-looking bloke in the bad suit who lives in Barnet and probably plays golf?”

Catherine gave me a withering look. I didn’t know why.
_p. 73
“He’s very nice, actually,” she said coldly. “And he’s interesting, too. And he’s particularly interesting on the subject of art. He’s got quite a collection of—”

“Etchings?” I said.

“Augustus Johns, actually.” Gosh. “I mean, Tiffany, why do you assume he’s boring just because he’s an accountant? You’re quite wrong.”

“Sorry,” I said, aware of the familiar taste of shoe leather.

“And nor does it follow that men with interesting jobs are interesting people,” Catherine added. “I mean Phillip had an interesting job, didn’t he?” she continued. “And though I would never have told you this at the time, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt your feelings,” she added pointedly, “I thought he was one of the most boring and conversationless men I have
ever
met.” This could not be denied. “And I don’t think Alex set the world on fire either,” she added. This was also true. “But my friend Hugh, who’s an accountant, is actually rather interesting,” she concluded sniffily. “So please don’t sneer, Tiffany.”

“God I feel such a heel,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s the Pimms. Can I have some more?”

“Anyway, Augustus John was incredibly prolific and he lived a long time, so there’s a lot of his work out there. Loads of it, in fact. And Hugh’s been quietly collecting small paintings and sketches for years. And after that dinner party he asked me to clean a small portrait that John did of his wife, Dorelia, and when he came to collect it yesterday he asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him next week.”

“That’s wonderful!” I said, feeling guilty and also stupid. “Try and find out if he has any nice colleagues.
Single
ones, of course.”

Suddenly Amy appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, party sandals, pink sun-glasses and clutching a small leather vanity case. She looked as if she was about to set off on some
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cheap Iberian package. “What are you all TALKING about?” she shouted. Amy has a very loud voice.