The Trials of Tiffany Trott (9 page)

“We’re talking about boyfriends,” said Lizzie.

Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. “BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,” she yelled. “He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.”

“Amy darling,” said Lizzie. “I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.” Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. “Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,” Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. “I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.”

“What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?”

“Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.”

“What are you all talking about?” said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.

“Boyfriends,” said Frances.

“ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,” Amy yelled. “He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.”

“That’s because you’re too young,” said Alice wisely. “You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.” Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.

“How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?” Catherine inquired with a smile.

“He’s eight and a quarter,” she replied. “And Tom’s mummy, Mrs. Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.”

“Good God!” said Lizzie. “
Has
she?”

“Yes,” said Alice. “Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?” she added.

“
No
,” said Lizzie. “No. Don’t. Social death, darling.”

“Tiffany, have
you
got a boyfriend yet?” asked Alice.

_p. 75
“Er, no,” I said. “I haven’t.” She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.

“You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,” I said vehemently. “All those happy couples necking in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf . . .”

“Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,” said Emma, “having no one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.”

“No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,” said Catherine. “When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruelest month, in my view.”

“Being single in autumn is the worst,” said Sally ruefully, “because there’s no one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.”

“Well, I often envy you single girls,” said Lizzie darkly. “I’d
love
to be single again.”

“Well, we’d love to be you,” said Catherine, “with such a nice husband.”

Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.

“Love is a gilded cage,” said Emma drunkenly.

“No—‘Love conquers all,’ ” said Catherine.

“ ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’ ” said Frances, with a smirk. “I’m glad that’s true—otherwise I’d be unemployed!”

“ ‘Love’s the noblest frailty of the mind,’ ” said Lizzie. “Dryden.”

“ ‘Love’s not Time’s fool,’ ” said Sally. “Shakespeare.”

“ ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ ” said Emma. “Ditto.” And for some reason, that cheered me up—I didn’t know why.

“Come on, Tiffany—your turn!” they all chorused.

_p. 76
“Er—‘Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all,’ ” I said. “Tennyson.”

“However,” said Lizzie, “according to George Bernard Shaw ‘there is no love sincerer than the love of food.’ So eat up, everyone!”

_p. 77
On Saturday the first of August I opened
The Times,
turned to the Rendezvous section and found my ad, under “S” for “Sparky.” I was quite pleased with it. It didn’t look too bad, alongside all the “Immaculate Cheshire Ladies,” “Divorced Mums, Thirty-nine,” and “Romantic” and “Bubbly” forty-five-year-old females looking for “Fun Times.” No, “Sparky” was OK, I reflected as I went up to the Ladies Pond in Hampstead to seek refuge from the blistering heat. “Sparky” might just do the trick, I thought to myself optimistically as I walked down Millfield Lane,
NO MEN BEYOND THIS POINT
announced the municipal sign sternly, and in the distance I could hear the familiar, soprano chatter of 150 women. I love the Ladies Pond. It’s wonderful being able to swim in the open air, free from the prying eyes of men, totally calm and relaxed—though I must say my new high-leg Liza Bruce swimsuit with the cunning underwiring, subtly padded cups and eye-catching scallop trim is
extremely
flattering, and I do sometimes think it’s completely wasted in an all-female environment. However, the main thing is not to pose, but to swim. To gently lap the large, reed-fringed pond, where feathery willows bend their boughs to the cool, dark water. To commune with the coots and moorhens which bob about in its reedy shallows; or to admire the grace and beauty of the terns as they swoop and dive for fish. But sometimes, when I’m sitting there on the lawn afterward, gently drying off in the warmth of the sun, I wonder
_p. 78
about myself. I really do. I mean it’s so Sapphic! Lesbians everywhere! Lesbians young and lesbians
d’un certain
âge;
lesbians pretty, and lesbians physiognomically challenged. Lesbians thin and lesbians fat; lesbians swimming gently round the treelined lake, or disporting themselves in the late summer sunshine. And there I was, sitting on the grass, reading my “Sparky, kind-hearted girl” ad again and feeling pretty pleased with it actually, while discreetly surveying beneath lowered eyelids several hundred-weight of near-naked female flesh and wondering, just
wondering,
whether I found it even vaguely erotic, when this attractive, dark-haired girl came up to me, bold as brass, and put her towel down next to mine.

“Hello,” she said with a warm smile.

“Hello.”
Excuse me. Do we know each other?

“Mind if I join you?” My God—a pick-up! My Sappho-meter went wild.

“Er, yes, do,” I said, pulling up the strap of my swimsuit and quickly adjusting my bosom. I discreetly surveyed her from behind my sunglasses as she removed a bottle of Ambre Solaire from her basket and began rubbing the sun lotion onto her legs. She was clearly a “lipstick” lesbian, I decided. The glamorous kind. Her nose and eyebrows were unpunctured by metal studs. She had no tattoos, no Doc Martens, and she did not sport the usual Velcro hairstyle. In fact she was very feminine with a slim figure, lightly made-up eyes and shining, mahogany-colored hair which fell in gentle layers down her back.

“My name’s Kate,” she said, with a smile. “Kate Spero.”

“Tiffany,” I said, “Tiffany Trott.”

“Are you single?” she asked, nodding at my copy of
The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right.

“Yes.”

“So am I. Isn’t it a bore? I’m looking for TSS.”

“TSS?”

“That Special Someone.”

_p. 79
“Oh. Well . . . good luck. Er—are you looking here?” I asked, casting my eyes around.

“Oh good God, no! I’m not gay,” she explained, with a burst of surprised laughter. Oh. Got that wrong then. “No, I’m looking for a
man
,” she added matter-of-factly. “But I just can’t find one
anywhere
.” And then she said, “Do you know, I never thought I’d get to thirty-seven and still be single.” And that was really, really amazing because that’s exactly what
I
say out loud to myself several times every day.

“I know,” I said. “Isn’t it a drag?” And then we immediately told each other all about our past unhappy relationships since about—ooh, 1978 or so—revealing them as children proudly display their scars, though I decided not to tell her about my ad. Anyway I’m happy to say that Kate is now my New Best Friend. I mean, we’ve go
so
much in common. We’re the same age, both single and both desperate. Isn’t that an
incredible
coincidence? In fact, her birthday is a week after mine. Amazing!

“What did you do on your birthday this year?” she asked a few hours later as we strode across the Heath in the afternoon sunshine.

“I got dumped by my boyfriend,” I said. “What did you do?”

“I cried all day,” she replied happily. We walked on in silence for a while, stopping to watch a knot of children flying kites on Parliament Hill. And then Kate said, “You know, we should look for guys together. It’s much easier hunting in a pack.” This is probably true. I’ve often wished that Frances and Emma and Sally would consider it, but they’re determined to leave their romantic happiness to the vagaries of Fate. Or God. But God really didn’t seem to be doing that much at the moment. I preferred Kate’s proactive approach.

“What we need is singles dos,” she said firmly. “There are lots of them—Eat ’n’ Greet, Dine ’n’ Shine, Dateless in Docklands, that kind of thing. I’ll do some research and let you know.”

“What a brilliant idea,” I said, as we parted. “You’re on.”

_p. 80
In the meantime I waited suspensefully—oh heavens, the torment!—for the replies to my small ad to arrive. Maybe Lizzie was right, I wondered as two and a half weeks went by. Maybe I wouldn’t get a single response—no irony intended, ha ha! Perhaps there isn’t much demand for sparky girls at the moment. Maybe dull girls are all the rage. But, just in case, I went in search of some more expensive unguents in order to look my best for any future blokes. I mean, at thirty-seven, one’s got to take action because, as Lizzie says, my face is going over to the enemy. But I’m not having it—no sir! Crows’ feet—eff off and die! Naso-labial lines—hold it right there!

“Yes, yes, tricky . . .” said the woman at the expensive unguents counter in Selfridges. She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she scrutinized my skin. “You’ve got a luminosity problem,” she announced.

“Well, can anything be done about it?” I asked anxiously. “I’ll pay.”

“In that case the Helena Ardenique multiaction retinyl complex intensive lotion with added ceramides for active cell renewal should do the trick,” she explained. “Firmness and elasticity are measurably improved, lines and wrinkles diminished by a guaranteed forty-one and half percent and luminosity and skin glow restored. What it does,” she concluded, “is to make your skin ‘act younger.’ ”

“That’s
fantastic
,” I said as I wrote out my check for seventy pounds.

Then I went home and there, there on the doormat, having arrived by the second post, was a plain, brown A5-sized envelope stamped, “Private and Confidential.” And inside that plain, brown envelope, dear reader, were no fewer than thirty-two letters! And what an assortment of writing paper—Basildon Bond, Croxley Script, Conqueror, Airmail, Andrex—ha ha! Some even had hearts and flowers stuck to the envelope! Some were typed, some were word-processed, some were neatly handwritten, while others were almost illegible. Illegible, but
_p. 81
possibly quite eligible none the less, I hoped as I ripped into them with lepidopterous stomach and pounding heart.

For crying out loud! A Norfolk pig farmer! And, at forty-nine well outside my stated age range! If I’d wanted a Norfolk pig farmer I’d have bloody well asked for one, wouldn’t I? I’d have placed my personal ad in the
King’s Lynn Gazette
or
Pig Farmer’s Weekly.
Anyway, the other replies broke down as follows: five accountants, twelve computer software designers, one data collection manager, two probation officers, one natural catastrophe modeler, three chiropodists, one stockbroker, one master mariner and six solicitors including . . . including . . . well, actually, I’m furious. Because when I opened reply number nineteen—a nice, thick pale-blue watermarked envelope—I found a longish letter inside and then this photo fell out, and stone the crows, it was none other than two-headed Alan from my tennis club! What the hell does he think he’s up to? He’s supposed to be infatuated with me, offering to take me to Glyndebourne and everything, and here he is tarting around the lonely hearts columns. I was outraged. And what a flatteringly out-of-date photo—obviously taken in about 1980, he’s much balder than that now! But I must say his letter was nice. It was very open, and said how much he’d like to get married and have children and what a good father he’d make, and how he wouldn’t mind changing nappies or anything, and in fact would probably even enjoy it. He also said he plays tennis twice a week and likes going to the opera—especially Glyndebourne—and went on about how his heart’s desire is a woman of good character complete with strong forehand. Well it’s forty-love to me, Alan, because I’m not
bloody
well replying, because I don’t think you should be two-timing me with sad women who advertise themselves in the personal columns of national newspapers. Actually, I feel a bit guilty about it, but I can’t write back, can I? I suppose I could always lie and say that due to unexpected demand the vacancy has now been filled. But I think that in the circs it’s better not to say anything.
_p. 82
Keep mum. Poor bloke, he’d be
mortified
if he knew it was me (must tell Lizzie—she’ll
hoot
!). Then while I was reading letter number twenty-six—very witty actually—from the stockbroker, the phone rang. It was Kate.

“Eat ’n’ Greet. This Saturday. Huge summer party in prestigious venue for Successful and Attractive Single People.”

“Oooh goodee,” I said. “Is that us?”

“Of course.”

“Are we going, then?”

“Yes. We most certainly are.”

The following day I was in my sunny sitting room going through my record collection; I’ve never had the heart to chuck out my vinyl, somehow CD’s just aren’t the same. I was sorting through the singles, and thinking as I did so that what I would really prefer is Long Play, when the phone rang.

“Tiffany!”

“Yes.”

“It’s me.”

“Oh. Hello.” He sounded rather cross.

“I got your letter this morning.”

“Yes.”

“And I just wanted to tell you how disappointed I am. Very disappointed. And hurt. Very hurt.
Very
.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that there really doesn’t seem to be much point. In the circumstances.”

“No point? No point in even being pals?”

“No,” I said. “There’s no point, because the point is that you’re not free.”

“But married people can have friendships, Tiffany. It is allowed, you know.”

“Yes, but they have to choose them carefully. And I don’t think our friendship would be wise.”

“All I want to do is see you from time to time,” he said plaintively.

“Well, that’s not a good idea,” I said.

_p. 83
“And I know you’d like to see me.”

“Well . . .”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he persisted.

“Well, OK, yes, I admit it.”

“Aha!”

“But circumstances . . .”

“. . . will conspire to keep us apart,” he said in an irritating sing song voice.

“Yes. Yes. That’s right.”

“But surely we could have dinner together sometimes,” he persisted. “Or see a film? Now, there’s a wonderful concert coming up at the Barbican,” he went on animatedly. “Yo-Yo Ma is playing the Bach unaccompanied cello suites and I really want to go. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Well . . . well it sounds lovely, but I just don’t think I should.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t wish to be tempted. That’s why.”

“So you
are
tempted,” he replied triumphantly.

“Well, well—”

“Say it!”

“Yes, I am. OK. Yes. I’m tempted. Happy?”

“You like me?”

“Yes. I like you a lot.”
In fact I find you Seriously Sexy.

“I like you too,” he came back, more warmly now. “In fact, Tiffany, ‘You’re the Right One, the Bright One.’ ”

“Purleeze!”

“You’re my One and Toblerony!”

“Now listen, Seriously Successful!” I said crossly. “This really won’t do . . . anyway, what
is
your real name?”

“I’m not telling you,” he said defensively.

“Why not?”

“I refuse to tell you, unless you agree to go to that concert with me.”

“Well I’m not going to,” I retorted.

_p. 84
“Oh, why not?” he said.

“Because I know that it would be wrong for me because I’ve got to keep my eye on the ball and frankly, you’re way off-side.”

“But Tiffany, we could have such fun . . .”

“I keep telling you, I don’t
want
to have fun.”

“We could do such nice things together.”

“I can do nice things anyway.”

“But Tiffany, we communicate so wel—”

I put the phone down. And then I said, “Sorry.”

Who’d have thought that sorting out replies to a lonely hearts ad would be such a mammoth task? I mean, these bulging buff envelopes marked “Private and Confidential” just keep plopping onto the mat.

“OK, OK, I take it back,” said Lizzie as we sat at my kitchen table going through the replies. “I didn’t think you’d get any. No need to crow. But just think how many you
would
have got if you’d followed my advice.”

“I think 114 is quite enough,” I said as she lit another cigarette. “I’m not greedy.”

We sorted them into three piles: Yes, Maybe, and You Have Got To Be Joking.

“Now here’s a really nice one,” said Lizzie, waving a blurred photo of Son-of-Quasimodo, fifty-seven, at me.

“You have got to be joking,” I said crisply.

“Why? He’s very suitable,” she said.

“He isn’t suitable. He’s hideous,” I replied.

“He’s not hideous,” she said indignantly, exuding two plumes of smoke from her elegant nostrils. “He’s a senior partner in a City law firm. He’s probably in 200k. I don’t call 200k hideous. And make sure you phone that stockbroker.”