The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Thanks,” he said. “Ciao.”

  July

  I’m going to try the small ads again! You see, I’m beginning to get the hang of it now. But no more weird, superannuated students thank you very much—Eligible Successfuls only from now on! And I must say I rather like these Twin Souls telephone ads, where you don’t have to write off to some anonymous post box and then wait weeks for a reply. You just dial a number, listen to their recorded voice-mail and leave them a message of your own. It’s brilliant because, let’s face it, voices are pretty important. I mean, on paper a man could look fantastic, but then the “Successful City Professional, 44” could, in reality, be a “Successfuw Ci-ee Professionaw, Fawee-fawer.” And that wouldn’t do at all, would it? So these answer phone ads are jolly good. Expensive, of course. But then what’s fifty pence a minute compared to my future happiness?

  Anyway, having listened to—what?—forty or fifty of these earlier on today I’ve found one I really like: “Adventurous, Seriously Successful Managing Director, 41, 6 foot, slim, attractive, amusing, urbane, WLTM unforgettable girl in her 20s/30s who doesn’t mind being spoiled a little, or even a lot.” His voice was so nice—neither horribly posh, nor obviously plebeian. Smooth without being smarmy. Cultivated, but not cut glass. Perfect. Wonder why he’s still single? Anyway, he can spoil me as much as he likes, and I’ll spoil him right back—with interest. Of course, leaving the reply’s a bit of an ordeal. I felt quite shy actually, and had to have a couple of goes at it, but then hell! We’re all in the same boat here, so what’s the problem? We’re just people who are too busy, too dynamic, too successful, too eligible, too desirable and too bloody attractive to find the time to stop being . . . um . . . alone. So we’re just being really sensible about our completely puzzling lack of a life partner and resorting to a little artifice.

  “Hellooooo,” I whispered into the receiver in the most Felicity Kendalish voice I could manage. “My name’s Tiffany. Tiffany Trott. Now, I know you’ll have heard from about seventeen million unforgettable girls in their twenties and thirties, but you don’t need them—you need me! Why? Because I’m happy and busy, and I like jokes and I’m thirty-seven, single, and um . . . desperate—ha ha ha! No, but seriously . . . I’m short, blonde, on the fat side and quite jolly. Ummmm . . . so there we have it. That’s me, Tiffany. Tiffany Trott. So please give me a call soon. P.S.: I hope you don’t like golf. P.P.S.: Isn’t this fun?”

  Wow! That’s it. I hope he gives me a ring—preferably one with a big diamond on it, lozenge cut. On the other hand a larger square emerald would be nice or—and this is dead trendy—a right knuckleduster of an aquamarine. Yes, according to this month’s edition of Brides and Setting Up Home magazine, aquamarines are the stone of choice. In the meantime, there’s dinner with Angus and Alison this evening. I suppose I’ll be the only single woman—as usual. And as usual they’ll have invited along some dreary, physiognomically challenged, halitotic ex-army chap for me, who will have absolutely nothing to say. And seeing me struggle to extract conversation out of him over the curried avocado will make Alison and Angus think how lucky they are to be married, and thank God for that Young Conservatives do in Croydon in 1982, otherwise they’d never have met each other and they’d have ended up sad singles too, like poor, poor Tiffany.

  Got that one completely wrong. On several counts. I wasn’t the only single woman—Catherine was there too, thank God. And my “date” was OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable. A GP in his early forties. And he certainly wasn’t dreary. Oh no. He had plenty to say.

  Hello, I thought to myself when we were introduced, you’re a bit of all right. A damn sight better than the usual pond life they dredge up on my behalf. He was very flirty. Very animated. He giggled a lot. He drank a lot. Though, like me, he politely declined Alison’s homemade cheese and peanut dip. But he looked incredibly fit and he had a lovely tan. I wasn’t too keen on his stubby little mustache or the gold bracelet on his left wrist, but I really liked his natty turquoise silk embroidered waistcoat. Very unusual. Though Catherine didn’t seem that impressed with him—she looked at him, then looked at me, and discreetly rolled her eyes. But personally, I rather liked the look of him.

  Anyway, Angus and Alison ushered us all into the dining room, and they sat Catherine next to this accountant—now he did look dreary—and they put me next to the GP, who was called Sebastian. And we started to make small talk over the macaroni-cheese-stuffed eggs, and he politely asked me about my interests. And when I said tennis, he said, “What do you play—singles?” I found that awfully amusing. And then he kept going on, rather oddly I thought, about how gorgeous-looking Greg Rusedski is and how much he’d like to be on Greg’s receiving end.

  “Now, there’s herby apple-glazed pork roast next,” said Alison. “Or blue cheese chicken rolls if you’re vegetarian.”

  Anyway, then because Abigail whatsername was pregnant—smugly rubbing her vast stomach all evening—the conversation naturally turned to babies.

  “Are you hoping to have children?” Sebastian asked me, passing me the bowl of cheesy-topped vegetables.

  “Well . . . yes . . . yes, I am actually,” I replied, as I passed it on. I didn’t really want to discuss it, to be honest, but he didn’t seem to pick up on that at all.

  And then he said, “How old are you?” At this point everyone suddenly started listening.

  “I’m fifty-three,” I quipped, to cover my annoyance at being asked.

  “Gosh, I’d never have thought it,” he said with a sly grin. “I thought you were only—ooh—forty.” And everyone laughed, except Catherine, who looked horrified. But all the others seemed to find it extremely funny, especially, it seemed to me, Abigail, who’s only twenty-nine. And while I sat there wondering if I have ever, ever in my life said anything so calculated to hurt, humiliate and demoralize another human being, he went on and on and on about the bloody biological clock.

  “I’m sick of seeing late thirty-something and early forty-something women come bleating to me for IVF because they’ve never got round to having babies before,” he said, adding, to me, “so I wouldn’t hang around, Tiffany.”

  “Oh, I’m working on it,” I said. “In fact I’m fairly confident of giving birth before I’m due to have my hips replaced.”

  “By the time women are over thirty-five it’s getting critical,” he said expansively, pouring himself another glass of Bulgarian Cabernet. “Perhaps you should have your eggs frozen, Tiffany.” And then he went into this really long, detailed spiel about how women are born with all their eggs—hundreds of them—but how they gradually start to go off as we age, and how by the time we’re thirty-seven plus we’re practically infertile and almost guaranteed to give birth to three-headed monsters—that is if we can get pregnant at all.

  “So I do advise you to get on with it,” he finished, “because even if you were actively trying to start a family you might find that, at your age, it takes you ages to get pregnant.”

  “What about Jane Seymour?” I said, taking a sliver of peach melba cheesecake. “Twins at forty-four.”

  “And Annabel Goldsmith had a baby at forty-five,” interjected Catherine.

  “Yes,” I said, “and Jerry Hall had another when she was forty-one. They were all absolutely fine.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “They’re rich. And anyway, they’d had children before—it’s much harder having your first baby late.”

  “But Madonna was thirty-eight when she had her first child,” said Catherine, with an indignant little laugh.

  “And Koo Stark was forty,” I persisted, because, you see, I always pay close attention to stories like that in the newspapers. In fact Mum cuts them out and sends them to me—I’ve got quite a collection now in the “Late Motherhood” section of my index file.

  “And that other woman, Liz Buttle, she was sixty,” added Catherine vehemently. “Which means Tiffany and I have got loads of time left.”

  But Sebastian didn�
�t seem impressed. “You know,” he said, cutting into the Danish blue, “all this talk about older motherhood being fashionable—it’s total baloney. This is what women like to say to make themselves feel good about it all. But the fact is that children don’t want geriatric parents. It’s embarrassing for them. But then the problem is,” he added, “that if women don’t have babies, then they run an increased risk of getting breast cancer.”

  Sometimes. Just sometimes, taxi drivers can be really, really nice. Especially mini-cab drivers. On the way back from Angus and Alison’s—my God, a fifteen-pound fare and I hadn’t even had a nice time!—I saw the driver rummaging in the glove box. Then he passed back a thick wadge of tissues.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  “Cheer up, darlin’,” he said, as we sped past the Angel. “It may never happen.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know. That’s just the problem.”

  Location. Location. Location. Where blokes live is critical, because the fact is—and I don’t know why this should be the case—that whenever I’m going out with someone I nearly always end up going over to their place. And that’s the big drawback about London, isn’t it? The trek across the capital when you’re romantically inclined. Take my ex-but-one Phil Anderer for example. He lived in Wimbledon! Not very convenient for me, but I didn’t like to complain.

  “Oh no, I don’t mind the journey over at all,” I used to say. “It only takes two days on the number 93 and there are so many interesting things to look at along the way.” And I didn’t resent the fact that he practically never came over to my place because I understood that he needed to be near the golf club and in any case, I quite agreed with him that the back end of Islington can be a very dangerous place. And as for Alex, well although he lived very centrally, in Fitzrovia, behind Tottenham Court Road, somehow I hardly ever went to his flat. Usually we met outside the theater, or the opera, or the ICA or the National Gallery, or St. John’s, Smith Square, or Sadler’s Wells, or the Jazz Café or the National Film Theatre or wherever. Anyway, I’ve given this issue quite a bit of thought, and I’ve decided that there’s no way romance is going to blossom if blokes do not possess at least one of the following postcodes: N1, N4, N5, N16, W1, W2, WC2, SW1 or—in exceptional circumstances—SW3. I do hope my Adventurous, Seriously Successful, Managing Director qualifies on that front. Actually, I haven’t heard a whisper. I don’t think he liked my reply to his ad. Lizzie didn’t like it either.

  “Why on earth did you tell him your age?” she barked, as we worked out in her local gym. “You must be out of your tiny mind.”

  “As he’s very likely to find out how old I am, I might as well be upfront about it,” I said calmly, as I lay back on the bench and lifted little weights with my feet. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with being thirty-seven. Thirty-seven’s just fine. Greta Scacchi’s thirty-seven,” I pointed out.

  “But you’re not Greta Scacchi,” Lizzie replied, as she pounded away on the running machine. This was true.

  “Daryl Hannah’s thirty-seven too,” I said. “So is Kim Wilde. So is Kristin Scott Thomas.”

  “Don’t talk to me about Kristin Scott Thomas,” panted Lizzie, as she increased the speed. Oh dear. I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that if it wasn’t for Kristin Scott Thomas, Lizzie would be a very famous actress by now. In fact she’d be as famous as, well, Kristin Scott Thomas. But in 1986 Kristin Scott Thomas beat Lizzie to the lead role in some B movie or other, blighting Lizzie’s career ever since.

  “Well, I like being thirty-seven,” I added. “I feel good about everything at thirty-seven, except my eggs, which are apparently going off according to a sadistic doctor I met last week. Apart from that, I’m in my prime.”

  “Tiffany, you are not in your prime, you’re getting on,” she said, stopping to light a cigarette. “And will you please stop telling these men that you’re short and fat. You’re not.”

  “I know,” I said. “But if I tell them that I am short and fat then, when they meet me, they’ll be so relieved, having had such low expectations of what I’m going to be like, that they’ll instantly fancy me to bits. You see I’ve worked it all out.”

  “If you tell them you’re short and fat,” she said slowly, “you won’t get to meet them at all. I mean why do you think this Seriously Successful hasn’t called? I rest my case.”

  When I got home, the phone rang. “Oh, hello, is that Tiffany?” said the “Adventurous, Seriously Successful Managing Director, 41,” whose voice I instantly recognized.

  “Yes, it is,” I said happily. “Hello!”

  “Thank you so much for replying to my ad,” he said. “It was lovely to hear from you. You’re number sixteen million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, by the way.”

  “Oh dear—a disappointing response, then.”

  “And how many other Twin Souls ads have you replied to?”

  “Four hundred and fifty-six.”

  “I see. Well I think it’s very sensible of you not to overdo it. And what do you do?”

  “I’m an advertising copywriter.”

  “Oh. Go To Work On An Egg—Vorsprung Durch Technik, that kind of thing,” he said.

  “Yes. That sort of thing. Pick Up a Penguin.”

  “Don’t Leave Home Without It.”

  “Helps You Work, Rest and Play.”

  “Lifts and Separates.”

  “Things Happen After a Badedas Bath.”

  “Refreshes the Parts Other Beers Cannot Reach.”

  “Simple. But Brilliant.”

  “Pure Genius,” he said. “Now, tell me, are you really short and fat?”

  “No, not really,” I said.

  “Well, that’s a pity, because I like small cuddly women.”

  “Nor could I conceivably be described as tall and thin,” I pointed out. “And are you really ‘Seriously Successful’?”

  “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?

  “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 eyebro
ws 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 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.