The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

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

  “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? 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 considerable 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.”

  “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 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 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 . . .”

  “Gosh, that’s brave.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Or rather it’s not really brave, it’s stupid. Because you see I met this bloke, this adventurous, seriously successful managing director . . .”

  “Yes? Sounds OK. What happened?” The bus stopped in Shaftesbury Avenue, then—ding ding!—it moved off again.

  “Well, it was all going very well,” I said. “I thought he was terribly attractive, and very interesting and incredibly funny . . .”

  “Oh hang on, Tiffany, I’ve just got to catch the business headlines on Sky . . .” Her voice returned a minute later. “It’s OK, I was just checking the Dow Jones. Carry on. So what happened?” Ding ding!

  “Well, it was going really well,” I repeated. “And he seemed very interested in me, and I was certainly very interested in him and then . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Move down inside the bus please!” Ding ding!

  “He told me that he was married and was only looking for a part-time girlfriend. What do you think of that?”

  “I think that’s awful,” said the elderly woman sitting behind me. I turned round and looked at her. “I hope you gave him what for,” she said.

  “Yes, I did actually. I was extremely insult—Sally? Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “How ghastly. What a creep. But didn’t his ad say that he was married?”

  “No. It didn’t say he was married,” I said dismally, as we chugged up Roseberry Avenue. “It simply said that he was looking for an unforgettable girl in her twenties or thirties to ‘spoil a little or even a lot.’ ” A guffaw arose from behind me. What the hell was so funny? I turned round again and glared at the other passengers.

  “But Tiffany, you should have known,” said Sally. Ding ding!

  “How?”

  “Because an offer to ‘spoil’ a woman is shorthand for seeking a mistress. Like an offer to ‘pamper’ her, or a request for ‘discretion.’ You’ve got to learn the code if you’re going to do this kind of thing.”

  “Well I didn’t know that,” I wailed. “I know that GSOH means Good Sense of Humor and know VGSOH means Very Good Sense of Humor and that WLTM means Would Like To Meet.”

  “And LTR means Long Term Relationship,” added Sally.

  “Does it?”

  “And W/E means ‘well-endowed.’ ”

  “Really? Good God! Anyway, I didn’t know that offering to ‘spoil’ someone meant you already had a wife.”

  “Everyone knows that,” said the middle-aged man across the aisle from me, unhelpfully.

  “Well, I didn’t—OK?” I said. “Anyway Sally, Sally are you there? Hi. I’m just really, really pissed off. Seriously Successful? Seriously Swine-ish more like.”

  “What’s his real name?” she asked, as we left the Angel.

  “God, I don’t know. I never asked,” I said. “Anyway, whatever Seriously Slimy’s real name is, is no concern of mine. Seriously Unscrupulous . . .”

  “Seriously Shallow,” said the woman behind me.

  “Yes.”

  “And Seriously Sad,” she concluded.

  “Quite. I mean, Sally, what on earth did he take me for?”

  “Never mind, Tiffany, that was bad luck,” she said. “But I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner. Are you going to Lizzie’s for lunch on Sunday?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well I’ll see you then,” she said. “And chin up.”

  I put my mobile phone away and took out my paper. Doing the crossword would calm me down. Bastard. Bastard. Fifteen across: Fool about with high-flyer. Seven letters, first letter, “S.” Couldn’t do it. I stood up and rang the bell. As I made my way to the back of the bus an elderly man made a beckoning gesture.

  “Why don’t you join Dateline?” he said in a gravelly whisper. “Much safer. I think these personal ads are rather risky myself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll think about it.”

  Fool about with high-flyer. I turned it over and over in my mind as I got off at my stop and walked down Ockendon Road. Oh God, there were cyclists on the bloody footpath again.

  “It’s the People’s Pavement you know!” I called out as the boy whizzed past, practically clipping my left ear. God I was in a bad mood. A really bad mood. Damn Seriously Successful. Damn him. Fool about with high-flyer, I thought. High-flyer. And then it came to me—with a pang—skylark.

  July Continued

  By the next morning I was much, much calmer. “What a bastard,” I raged to myself. I mean, what a copper-bottomed swine. Disgusting behavior. Part-time girlfriend indeed! Seriously Successful? Seriously Sleazy. Seriously Shabby. Seriously Scurrilous. But I have only myself to blame—serves me right for doing something so patently risky. Might have known there’d be a catch with this catch. I mean he’s very attractive, at least I think so. And he’s got very good manners, and he’s very amusing and very good company and all that and yes, he’s very successful, and very well-dressed and very sophisticated too and very charismatic. But he’s also very married. Blast. Blast. I stabbed away at the antique roses—I’ve done two small petals actually—while I reflected on Seriously Successful’s appalling behavior and my continuing bad luck with blokes. Then the phone rang. I went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

  “Oh hello Tiffany, it’s um—ha ha ha ha!—Peter here.” Oh God. This was all I needed. “Tiffany, are you there?” I heard him squeak.

  “Er, yes. Yes, I am,” I said, “but . . .”

  “Well, ha ha ha! It was so nice to meet you the other day, Tiffany, and I just thought we ought to arrange that game of tennis.” Ought we? Oh God, no.

  “I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation owing to a subsequent engagement,” I said, recalling Oscar Wilde’s solution to these dilemmas. Actually I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, fast.

  “Can you go and get your diary?” I heard him say.

  “Er, yes, hang on a second,” I said, suddenly inspired. But I didn’t go into my study. I went to the front door, opened it, and rang my bell hard. Twice. And then I rang it again.

  “Oh Peter, I’m so sorry but there’s someone at the door,” I said breathlessly. “I’d better answer it . . .”

  “Oh well, I’ll hold on,” he said cheerfully.

  “No, don’t do that, Peter, I’ll ring you back. Bye.”

  “But you don’t have my num—”

  Phew. Phew. I went back into the sitting-room. And then the phone rang again. Bloody Peter Fitz-Harrod. Why couldn’
t he take a hint? This time I’d tell him. I’d just pluck up the courage to say, sorry, but that I’d prefer him not to call.

  “Yesss!” I hissed into the receiver.

  “Darling, what on earth’s the matter?” said Mum. “You sound awful.”

  “Oh, hello, Mum. I feel awful,” I said. “I’m pissed off. With men.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner.”

  “I’m sure there isn’t,” I said.

  “Haven’t you met anyone new yet?” she inquired.

  “Oh yes. One or two. But no one I’d bother telling you about,” I said bitterly. “No one I’ll be bringing home for tea, if that’s what you mean. No one who’s going to be any use, to use that old-fashioned phrase.”

  “Oh dear. It’s just so difficult these days,” she said. “It’s not like it was when Daddy and I were young. I mean, when we were young—”

  “I know,” I interjected. “You just met someone you liked, and they became your boyfriend, and then before too long you got engaged, and then you got married, and you stayed married forever and ever. End of story,” I said.

  “Well, more or less,” she replied. “I suppose forty years is forever and ever, isn’t it?”

  Forty years. My parents have been married for forty years. Four decades; four hundred and eighty months; two thousand and eighty weeks; fourteen thousand, five hundred and sixty days; three hundred and fifty thousand hours; twenty-one million minutes; one billion, two hundred and fifty-eight million seconds, give or take a few. They’ve been married all that time. Happily married, too. And no affairs. I know that. Because I asked them. And that’s the kind of marriage I’d like myself. And I don’t care what bien-pensant people say about the complexity of modern family life, the probability of divorce, the natural tendency toward serial monogamy and the changing social mores of our times. I know exactly what I want. I want to be married to the same man, for a minimum of four decades—possibly five, like the Queen—and no infidelity, thank you! I’m sorry to be so vehement on this point, I know that others may take a more relaxed view, but it’s simply how I feel. I mean, the first time my mother met my father the only thing he offered her was a ticket to a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. What did Seriously Successful offer me the first time we met? A position as his part-time girlfriend. Charming. Very flattering. Thanks a bunch. Well, you can bug off with your impertinent propositions, Seriously Sick—I decline. And then of course there’s another reason why I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole, and that is that Seriously Successful is ipso facto an unfaithful fellow. Obviously he is, by the very nature of what he was proposing to me. Now, I know what it’s like to be with an unfaithful man, and it’s not nice at all. And I’m not doing that again. Not after Phil Anderer. No way. But then, well, that was my fault. Because it wasn’t as though I wasn’t warned about Phillip—I was. When I first met him everyone said, “Don’t Even Think About It!”—because of his ghastly reputation. And what did I do? I not only thought about it. I did it. I got involved. And I got hurt.