The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Lucky old Tiffany,’ said Catherine, snapping a breadstick in half. ‘She doesn’t have to worry about all this sort of thing.’

‘No she doesn’t,’ said Emma, shivering slightly in the cooling air. ‘She’s got a man. It’s all sewn up and she’s heading for a wedding.’ She cupped her hand to her ear. ‘I can hear the peal of bells already. So when’s he going to pop the question, Tiff?’

‘Oh gosh, well, I mean I don’t … ’ Pity the sun had gone in.

‘Yes. When?’ said Frances, with another gulp of champagne. ‘And can I be your maid of dishonour?’

‘Well, ha ha ha! Erm – I don’t know … er … ’ I glanced at the sky. A thick bank of cloud, grey as gunmetal, had begun to build up. Where had that come from?

‘Are we all warm enough?’ I asked. ‘And, er, who wants another parmesan and red pepper tartlet?’ In fact, I was desperately trying to change the subject because, you see, I really didn’t want to rub it in – I mean the fact that I had a chap, and they didn’t. Because, to be quite honest, I had been sitting there, throughout that discussion, quietly thanking God for Alex. Even if he has got sloping shoulders and a rather girlish giggle which, to be perfectly frank, does make my heart sink at times. But, still, I thought, at least I don’t have to contemplate self-insemination or agonise about my ovaries because a) I’ve got a chap and b) I know for a fact that he likes kids. He really, really likes them. Loves them. I mean he’s awfully good with his niece and nephew – spoils them to bits – and I’m sure he’d be a brilliant father. He wouldn’t mind changing nappies. In fact he’d probably enjoy it. And OK, so I know he’s not perfect – in fact there are one or two other things about him that I’m really not crazy about, including his goatee beard, his outlandish taste in socks, and his thin, unmuscular thighs. But then no-one’s perfect. It’s all about compromise, isn’t it? That’s what enlightened and mature people do. And Alex is really charming. Absolutely sweet, in fact. And certainly not the unfaithful type. Unlike Phil. In fact, when I first met Alex, he was such a gentleman it took him three months just to hold my hand. Which was rather nice. In a way. Anyway, I was quite sure that Alex was about to pop the question. I could tell by the vaguely nervous way in which he’d been looking at me recently. And eight months is quite long enough, isn’t it? At our age? I mean, he’s thirty-eight. I’m now thirty-seven. So what’s the point of hanging around? Why not just, well, crack on with it? It’s not as though he’s got three ex-wives and five children to support; he’s totally unencumbered – another very big point in his favour, incidentally.

So whilst the others continued arguing about the changing roles of men and women and the declining popularity of marriage, I did some mental shopping for the wedding which would be in, what … September? Lovely month. Or if that was too soon, December. I love the idea of a winter wedding. Dead romantic. We could all sing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ by candlelight, and I could have tinsel draped over the altar and wear a captivating fur-trimmed train. Now where should I get the dress? Chelsea Design Studio? Catherine Walker? Terribly expensive, and in any case if Dad was spending that kind of money, I think Alex prefers Anthony Price. I know Alex would definitely want the flowers to come from Moyses Stevens. He’s very fussy about his floral arrangements. How many guests? A couple of hundred – 217 to be exact, I’ve already drawn up the list, actually. Well, it’ll save time, won’t it? And what about the honeymoon? Probably somewhere arty, like Florence. Alex would really like that. Or maybe Seville. Or Bruges. Somewhere with loads of art galleries and at least seventeen cathedrals. And …

‘Tiffany, where is Alex?’ Catherine asked. ‘It’s a quarter past nine.’

‘Er, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s stuck at work.’

‘What’s he working on?’ Emma enquired.

‘Well, he’s doing up this big house in Pimlico, it’s a total wreck. Brown hessian on the walls. Formica kitchen. Exploding cauliflower carpets. He said he was going to be there all day, but … well, he should be here by now.’

‘Maybe he’s had an accident,’ said Frances helpfully.

‘God, I hope not,’ I said. I went inside and anxiously called his mobile phone. ‘Thank you for calling Vodafone 0236 112331,’ intoned a robotic female voice. ‘Please leave your message after the tone.’ Damn.

‘Um, Alex, hi, um, it’s me. Tiffany,’ I said. ‘And I’m just wondering where you are. Um, hope you’re OK. I’m a bit worried about you, actually. But perhaps you’re on your way. I hope so, because it’s nine-fifteen now and everyone’s been here for quite a while, and to be honest it’s getting a little out of hand – ha ha ha! In fact there’s quite a heated debate going on about gender issues and that sort of thing and I think we need another man to balance it up a bit. So see you soon, I hope. Um. Tiffany.’

‘Gosh it’s getting dark, isn’t it?’ I heard Emma say. ‘Ooh – was that a spot of rain?’

‘Women today have appalling attitudes towards men,’ Kit was saying as everyone strolled inside, ‘and then you all wonder why we run a mile? It’s totally unfair. You refuse to compromise. You don’t want us unless we’re perfect.’

‘No, we don’t,’ they all shrieked, as they flopped onto the chairs and sofas in the sitting-room.

‘Yes, but are you perfect?’ asked Kit as he lowered himself onto the chaise-longue. ‘Ask yourselves that.’

‘Yes we are,’ they all shouted, ‘we’re totally fantastic! Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Er, yes,’ he replied gallantly.

‘Well I’d happily compromise,’ said Sally, ‘but I hardly ever get to meet men, unsuitable or otherwise.’

‘But you work with thousands of men in the City,’ said Catherine enviously.

‘Yes, but they never approach female colleagues because they’re terrified of being done for sexual harassment. In any case, they don’t regard us as real women – to them we’re just men in skirts. And then when I do meet a nice ordinary guy from outside the City, let’s say a doctor or a vet,’ Sally continued, ‘they tend to run a mile because I’m so … ’ She blushed. ‘I’m so … ’

‘Loaded!’ shrieked Frances and Emma in unison. Sally rolled her eyes.

‘Oh come on, Sally!’ persisted Emma. ‘Your luxury apartment in Chelsea Harbour, your colossal, six-figure salary, you can’t hide them from us, you know. A lot of men would find that totally emasculating.’

‘I was going to say because I’m so busy, actually,’ said Sally. ‘Options traders work horrible hours – that’s the price we pay. That’s the compromise I’ve made. I’m at my desk by seven-thirty every morning, and I’m there for twelve hours. I can’t even have lunch – a sandwich is brought to my desk. And I’m never really off the hook because I have to watch the markets round the clock. And the older I get, the harder it is. So don’t envy me my cash – I think I’d rather have a life.’

As I lit the candles on my cake I mentally gave thanks for my freelance status. I work hard, but at least I can choose my own hours and I don’t have to worry about exchange rates and closing prices at birthday parties – nor do I earn the kind of money which some men might find threatening.

Then, suddenly, I heard someone say, ‘Tiffany … Tiffany! Phone!’ Oh good, I thought as I lit the last candle, it must be Alex. And it was.

‘Happy Birthday, Tiffany,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks!’ I replied. I could hear the pattering of heavy rain on the path, and, from the sitting-room, the strains of ‘Happy Birthday’. ‘Alex, I’ve been so worried, where are you?’ Happy Birthday to you …

‘Well, actually, to be honest, I just couldn’t face it,’ he said. Happy Birthday to you …

‘In fact, Tiffany … ’ Happy Birthday Dear Tiffaneeeee …

‘ … there’s something I’ve really got to tell you.’

Happy Birthday to you!!!

June

Isn’t it annoying being dumped? I mean, it’s really not enjoyable at all. Getting the Big E. Being handed your cards. Especially when you’re thirty-seven. Especially when you thought the bloke was about to propose. Especially when you thought that, within a matter of mere months, or possibly even weeks, you would be progressing triumphantly up the aisle to ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. Oh no. Being chucked was definitely not quite what I had in mind on my thirty-seventh birthday. You see, I was convinced Alex was on the point of seeking my hand in marriage – he said he had something to tell me. Instead he simply looked me in the eye the following day and said, ‘I just can’t face it.’

‘Face what?’ I asked suspiciously as we sat at my kitchen table. There was a silence, during which he looked uncomfortable, but calm. His rather soft, girlish lips were pursed together, his cowlick of chestnut hair brushed forward onto his brow. I do wish he wouldn’t do it like that, I found myself thinking, it makes him look like Tony Blair. Then he spoke, and out it all came, in a guilty, logorrhoeic rush.

‘Isimplycan’tfacethefactthatI’mstringingyoualongandwastingyourtime.’ Ah. Oh. Oh dear. He looked rather stricken, then he took a deep breath, inhaling through his aquiline nose. ‘You see I feel under pressure to marry you, Tiffany, and I don’t want to get married, but I know that’s what you’d like.’

‘Oh no, no, no, no, no. I’m not bothered about that at all,’ I said, sipping my Nescafé. ‘Really. I honestly hadn’t given it a thought. I was perfectly happy to go on as we were. Marriage? Good Lord, no. It never entered my mind.’

His face expressed a mixture of puzzlement and relief. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose I was misled by the way you kept stopping outside Berkertex and looking in the window at Cartier and going up to the bridal department at Peter Jones and flicking through wedding stationery in WH Smith. I thought you … I thought you wanted … anyway, the fact is that I really can’t stand the thought of marrying you, Tiffany. Nothing personal,’ he added quickly. ‘But you see, I don’t want to get married to anyone. Ever.’

‘Why not?’ I enquired, hoping that my bright, but not too brittle demeanour would mask my grievous disappointment.

‘Well, I’ve really been thinking about it, and it’s lots of things,’ he said. ‘For a start I like my own space. I’ve never lived with a woman. And I hate the idea of a woman … you know, messing up my things. And then – and this is the main thing –’ he gave a little shudder, ‘the thought of children.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Babies. To be honest the whole idea makes me feel sick. All that crying, and all that, you know, effluent. At both ends. I just don’t think I could handle that at all.’

‘But you’re so good with children,’ I pointed out accurately, whilst mentally congratulating myself for remaining calm. ‘Your nephew and niece adore you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t see them every day. It’s different. And I didn’t really bother with them until they were both safely out of nappies.’

‘But Alex,’ I said slowly, ‘if you don’t ever want to get married, why did you bother to go out with me in the first place?’

‘I liked you. I mean I do like you, Tiffany. And you share a lot of my interests – I mean you like going to art galleries with me, and the ballet –’

‘– and the theatre,’ I interjected.

‘Yes, and the theatre.’

‘And the opera.’

‘Yes, and the opera.’

‘And contemporary dance.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And lunchtime talks at the Royal Academy.’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘And the London Film Festival.’

‘Yes … ’

‘And video installations at the ICA.’

‘Yes, yes, all that kind of thing … ’

‘And any number of jazz venues.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes. I’m not looking for anything else.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. You just wanted a companion. A female escort. For assorted cultural pursuits.’

‘Well, no – I wanted friendship too. But somehow, well … I could just see the way things were shaping up, and I felt it was time to come clean. I’m sorry if I ruined your party,’ he added. ‘But I just couldn’t face all your friends, knowing that.’

‘It’s all right, Alex,’ I said, fingering the Elizabeth Bradley antique roses tapestry kit he’d brought me as a birthday present. ‘I really don’t mind. Please don’t feel bad about anything. And especially please don’t feel bad about the fact that you’ve just wasted eight months of my life!’ I hissed. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I just said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take you off my BT Friends and Family list.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘Would you like some more coffee?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, staring at his empty cup with a pained expression. ‘But you know, Tiffany … ’

‘Yes?’

He looked genuinely upset now. This was obviously very tough for him. ‘You know I can’t bear instant,’ he said. ‘It really offends my tastebuds. I gave you some very good Algerian arabica the other day, can’t we have some of that?’

‘Of course we can,’ I agreed.

Later that day, as I sat stabbing away at the antique roses canvas with my tapestry needle, reflecting on my newly single status and on the fact that I myself could perhaps be described as an antique rose, Alex phoned. He sounded nervous and unhappy. For one mad, heady instant I thought he might have changed his mind.

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Tiffany, there’s something else I meant to say this morning,’ he said. ‘Now, I know you’re probably feeling a bit cross with me … ’

‘No, not at all,’ I lied.

‘And I’m sorry to have let you down and everything, but I really hope you’ll do me one big favour.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If I can.’

‘Well, I know you’re probably feeling a bit cross with me and everything … ’

‘Look, I’m not cross,’ I said crossly. ‘Just tell me what you want, will you, I’m trying to make a cushion-cover here.’

‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t, sort of, bad-mouth me to everyone.’

‘No,’ I said wearily, ‘I won’t. Why should I? You’ve been perfectly nice to me.’

‘And I’d especially be grateful if you didn’t tell everyone about that time … ’

‘What time?’

‘That time you found me, you know … ’ His voice trailed away.

‘Oh. You mean the time I discovered you in my bedroom dressed in my most expensive Janet Reger?’ There was an awkward silence.

‘Well, yes. That time.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Of course I won’t tell anyone. And I won’t tell them about the Laura Ashley either.’

‘You should tell everyone about that,’ said Lizzie when she got back from Botswana. ‘That’ll serve him right for dumping you. Bastard. And on your birthday. Bastard.’

‘He’s not a bastard,’ I pointed out accurately. ‘He’s nice.’ ‘He’s not nice,’ she countered. ‘It’s not nice to say, “Tiffany, I really can’t stand the thought of marrying you”.’

‘I’m sure he meant it nicely,’ I said. ‘It’s just unfortunate for me that he took so long to realise he’s not the marrying kind.’

‘Too right he’s not. He’s a complete wimp,’ she said viciously. ‘I always thought so with his mimsy, fussy, girly pernicketiness and his suspiciously refined taste in soft furnishings. And from what you told me about … ’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘ … that side of things, you’d have had more fun with a eunuch! I mean really, Tiffany, you’ve got more testosterone than he has.’ This was probably true. ‘I’m glad you’re not marrying him,’ she added. ‘Mind you, the girls are going to be disappointed – damn! I’d told them they were about to be bridesmaids.’

‘Not yet,’ I said. Not ever, in fact. Because since Alex, or rather Al-ex dumped me, a whole month has gone by. Well, three weeks and five days to be precise. And during that time I’ve been turning everything over in my mind. Reviewing the situation. Mentally rewinding and then fast-forwarding the video of my romantic life. Pressing the pause button here and there, and scrutinising key frames. And I’ve made this momentous, life-changing decision. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve done it. I’ve given up the husband hunt. I’ve chewed it over, and I’m going to eschew chaps. Frances is right. It’s just not worth the pain and grief. Much better to face life alone. So I am now emphatically hors de combat. I have pulled up the drawbridge. The sign says ‘Do Not Disturb’. And I have started to like my hard little shell. The prospect of yet another Saturday night on my own at home in front of the TV no longer fills me with dread. Who needs the romantic darkness of the cinema and dinner tête-à-tête when there’s a Marks and Spencer easicook-lasagne-for-one and the National Lottery Live? My new-found neutrality suits me – no gain, of course, but no pain.

Lizzie says it just won’t do. ‘You’ve got to get out there,’ she said again this morning, bossily, waving her fifth Marlboro Light at me. ‘You’re not doing anything to help yourself. You’ve got to forget about Alex, write him off completely, and get back on that horse.’ I often wonder why Lizzie talks in italics. Maybe it’s because she went to such a third-rate drama school. She paced up and down the kitchen and then flicked ash into the sink. ‘You know, Tiffany, you’re like … ’ I waited for some theatrical simile to encapsulate my predicament. What would I be today? A traveller thirsting in the Sahara? A mountaineer stuck at Base Camp? A promising Monopoly player resolutely refusing to pass ‘Go’? A brilliant artist without a brush? ‘You’re like someone falling asleep in the snow,’ she announced. ‘If you don’t wake up, you’ll freeze to death.’

‘I just haven’t the heart for it any more,’ I said. ‘It always leads to disaster. Anyway, I’m only thirty-seven.’

‘Only thirty-seven? Don’t be ridiculous, Tiffany. There’s nothing “only” about being thirty-seven. To all intents and purposes you are now forty, and then very, very quickly, you’ll be fifty, and then you’ll really be stuffed.’

I sometimes suspect Lizzie’s only being cruel to be cruel. I don’t mind her nagging me. I nag her about her smoking. But I can’t quite see why my lack of a husband and progeny bothers her so much. Perhaps in her funny, crass, cack-handed way, she is trying to be of help. And of course she is thinking how delightful Alice and Amy would look in primrose-yellow bridesmaids’ dresses, or maybe ice-blue, or possibly pale-pink with apricot hairbands, matching satin slippers and coordinating posies – she hasn’t quite decided yet. Anyway, I know, I know that she is right. It’s just that I simply can’t be fagged any more. It’s all too much of an effort – because nice, interesting, decent men with diamond rings in their pockets don’t simply drop from the trees, you have to go out and pick one, or rather knock one down with a very large stick. There are plenty of windfalls of course, but they tend to be bruised and wasp-eaten and I’ve had my unfair share of bad apples over the past few years. But even if I really was pursuing men – the very idea! – I have to face the fact that, as Lizzie keeps telling me, it all gets harder with age. And that’s another thing. Whatever happened to that dewy look I used to have? And when exactly did that little line at the side of my mouth appear, not to mention the creeping crepiness in the texture of my eyelids and the tiny corrugations in my brow? NB: Get more expensive unguents PDQ.

‘I’m losing my looks,’ I said to Mum over the phone after Lizzie had gone. ‘I’m really going down the pan. In fact I’m quite ancient now. Basically, I’m almost fifty. I found my first grey hair this morning.’

‘Did you, darling?’ she replied.

‘Yes. Yes I did,’ I said. ‘Which is why I’m now firmly on the shelf. I’m going off. I’m the Concealer Queen. And this is why I’m being dumped all the time and why men never, ever, ever ask me out.’

‘What about that nice Jewish accountant?’ she said. ‘The one you met last year?’

‘I didn’t fancy him,’ I replied.

‘And that television producer – you said he was quite keen.’

‘Possibly, but his girlfriend wasn’t.’

‘Oh. Oh I see. Well what about that one … you know … whatsisname, the one who does something clever in computers?’

‘Dead boring.’

‘And what about that solicitor you told me you’d met at the tennis club? I’m sure you said he’d called you.’

‘Mummy – he’s got two heads.’

‘Oh. Well at least you can’t say that no-one asks you out.’

‘Yes I can. Because those ones don’t count.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m not interested in them. In fact I’m not interested in men full stop. In any case I really don’t need a husband.’

‘Darling, don’t say that.’

‘No. I’m absolutely fine on my own.’

‘No you’re not. You’re miserable.’

‘Only because I’ve had the wrong attitude. The thing to do is to embrace aloneness. Take spinsterhood seriously.’

‘Darling, no-one will take you seriously if you say things like that.’

‘No, honestly, Mum, I’ll be brilliant at it. I’ll really apply myself. I’ll get a cat and knit blankets for the Red Cross. I’ll develop a passion for cricket and crosswords –’

‘You don’t do crosswords, darling.’

‘I’ll learn. And I’ll man cake stalls at bring-and-buys. And I’ll selflessly babysit for all my friends. I’ll be the most professional spinster there’s ever been – I’ll probably pick up an award for it. Spinster of the Year – Tiffany Trott, brackets “Miss”, close brackets.’

‘Darling, I’m afraid this negative and unhelpful attitude won’t get you anywhere.’

‘I’m just being realistic.’

‘Nihilistic, darling.’

‘But I’m unlikely to meet anyone new.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling, of course you are.’

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

‘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.’

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.’