by Isabel Wolff
“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!”
“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. “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 cheap Iberian package. “What are you all TALKING about?” she shouted. Amy has a very loud voice.
“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.
“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.”
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“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.
“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!”
August
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 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.”
“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.”
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 poun
ds.
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 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. 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.