The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “But that sounds . . .”

  “. . . which is totally ridiculous because everyone knows that Nicola Horlick’s got five children and is far too busy for affairs . . .”

  “. . . just like . . .”

  “And he said if he was going to have an affair with anyone in the public eye he’d choose Jade Jewel, because she looks so nice . . .”

  “But this sounds like . . .”

  “Please don’t keep interrupting me, Tiff. I’m trying to tell you something. Anyway, this bloke, they’ve got a huge house in Hampstead, and he pays for his wife to have help in the house but he still has to mow the lawn and paint the garage, because she says they can’t afford a gardener and a handyman, even though they obviously can. And I kept thinking, that’s what it would be like with Portia and me unless I change. That poor, broken man is me in ten years’ time.”

  “That poor broken man sounds just like Martin,” I said.

  “What? Yes. Martin. How did you know his name?”

  “Is he rather thin on top?”

  “Yes—it’s probably caused by all the grief she’s given him.”

  “Does he work for Jack Carpel?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because Martin is Lizzie’s husband—that’s how.”

  “My God! I didn’t get it. But then his name isn’t Bohannon, it’s Keane.”

  “Bohannon’s her maiden name. She’s never taken his.”

  “Then it’s just about the only thing of his she hasn’t taken, from what he said. So why haven’t I ever met Martin before?” Kit asked, clearly puzzled. “I’ve met Lizzie often enough.”

  “The reason why you haven’t met Martin is because he never comes to my parties—he’s too exhausted to socialize because he gets up at five-thirty to be in the office by seven A.M. And then he stays at his desk for twelve hours. And so when he gets home at eight all he wants to do is collapse, or read a book, or watch TV, because he has to be in bed by ten. So Lizzie always comes on her own. That’s why.”

  “Poor bloke. Poor sod. And he seemed to be so successful—he really seemed to have it all. But he just looked at me when we said goodbye on Sunday evening, and he said, very slowly and very sadly, “Just don’t end up like me.”

  Two days later, on November the fifth, I went to Martin and Lizzie’s annual Guy Fawkes party. Every year they invite thirty or so of their friends to stand in their back garden and watch the fireworks explode over Hampstead Heath—they have a wonderful view from their house. At seven-thirty on Wednesday we stood by the pergola, stamping our feet in the bracing cold. Then BANG! POP! KER-ACK! The night sky began to fill with huge, fiery blooms—gigantic dahlias and chrysanthemums in metallic mauve and yellow and red. The children shrieked and gasped. The adults ooohed and aaaahed. The sharp aroma of cordite hung on the freezing air. On and on it went, then BOOM! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! CRACK! went the final rockets. FFFFZZZZZZ! Aaaaaahhhh! A curtain of silvery sparks descended and at that point, Martin arrived.

  “Daddy, Daddy you missed it!” shrieked Alice.

  “Sorry, darling,” I heard him say as we all trooped inside. “I couldn’t leave the office any earlier.” He followed us into the drawing room and started refilling our glasses with mulled wine while the children ran into the TV room to watch a promised video.

  “What are you going to watch?” I asked Alice.

  “Nightmare on Elm Street Four.”

  “Oh dear, sounds horrible,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said happily. “I hope so. Have you seen our new sofa?” she asked. “In there.”

  “It’s lovely,” I said, glancing at the pale-gold damask three-seater sofa positioned in the drawing room bay window.

  “It was very expensive,” Alice confided. “Mummy chose it.”

  “Martin—thank God you’re here at last!” Lizzie shouted as she came in from the garden. “Could you get the olives from the kitchen? Black ones. No, not those ones, you idiot,” she hissed at him as he came into the drawing room. “We don’t want green cocktail olives, I said the black ones. Black, Martin. Not green. Black. They’re in the fridge—and make sure they’re the Italian ones, not the Greek.” He obediently took the offending olives back into the kitchen while we all pretended we hadn’t heard.

  “Husbands,” said Lizzie, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Hopeless! You just can’t rely on them.”

  Martin came back in with the “right” olives and started circulating. He looked so tired. But then he always looks tired.

  “Hello, Tiffany,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “How lovely to see you—what exciting campaign are you working on at the moment? I’m sure whatever it is your ad will make me want to buy it.”

  “Well, just some brochure copy actually, for Thames Water,” I said with a smile. “And I’ve just won a pitch to do a TV ad for Love Hearts.”

  “Love Hearts? Well, you do have an interesting job, Tiffany.”

  “Well, yes. Sometimes it is.”

  “I wish I could do something really creative like that,” he said with a sigh. “All I do all day is stare at figures on a screen and calculate two-way spreads and price-to-earnings ratios.”

  “Well, what would you do if you could do something else?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “I love archaeology and anthropology—that’s what I read at Cambridge. But until the girls are older I’ve got to keep on chasing those rats.” Just like me, I thought bitterly.

  “Tiffany,” said Alice, who had suddenly appeared. “Are you getting married yet?”

  “No—no I’m not,” I said. “Didn’t you like the film?”

  “No. It’s boring.”

  “Is Amy still watching it?” I asked her.

  “Yes. She likes it. But Tiffany, when are you getting married?” she asked again.

  “I really don’t know,” I said, sipping my wine.

  “But you said I could be your bridesmaid.”

  “You can,” I said, “but I’m afraid I just can’t tell you when.”

  “Well, will it be soon?”

  “No, it won’t,” I said.

  “But I’ve never been a bridesmaid. Can I be your bridesmaid?” she asked Sally. Sally almost choked into her orange juice. Why was Sally only drinking only orange juice? I wondered—she wasn’t normally averse to a bit of booze.

  “Sorry, Alice,” said Sally. “I’m afraid there are absolutely no husbands on my horizon. Try Frances.”

  “Can I be your bridesmaid, Frances?”

  “No darling, I’m afraid you can’t,” Frances replied, biting into a mince pie. “I’ve got no intention of tying the knot, ever. Ask Emma!”

  “Oh Alice, I’m afraid I’ve got awful problems in that department,” said Emma cryptically. What on earth did that mean? Then Alice went up to Catherine, who was standing next to Hugh—it was their first appearance in public together. Catherine looked nervous, but happy.

  “Catherine, are you getting married?” Alice inquired.

  “Er, er, ha ha ha! What a silly question Alice,” said Catherine, fiddling with the fourth finger of her left hand.

  “Great kid!” said Hugh, with a nervous sip of his mulled wine. “Great kid.”

  “My mummy says all men are useless,” said Alice, giving him a penetrating stare.

  “They are!” Frances exclaimed.

  “Well, some are,” said Catherine judiciously. “But a lot aren’t. For example, Hugh isn’t useless. Are you?”

  “Er, ha ha! No,” he said. “No.”

  “Well, Mummy tells my daddy he’s useless,” Alice persisted. “Doesn’t she, Daddy? She says you’re useless.”

  “She’s only joking,” I lied, while we all studied the carpet.

  “Martin, can you see what the children are up to!” Lizzie shouted across the room. Martin obediently disappeared with Alice into the TV room. Fifteen minutes later he reappeared, clutching his first glass of mulled wine.

  “They’re watching this really grueso
me film,” he exclaimed. “There’s this fellow called Freddy Krueger, who appears to need a manicure. Gosh, I’m knackered,” he added, sitting down on the new sofa with an exhausted smile. But then this awful thing happened. He was so tired he sat down too hard, and the mulled wine sloshed all over the pale-yellow damask fabric. A huge, red stain spread across one corn-colored arm, like blood.

  “Oops!” he said. “Oh dear. Now I’m going to cop it.” He was right.

  “Martin, you are an idiot!” said Lizzie. She dashed into the kitchen, a blue light flashing on the top of her head; then she reappeared with a cloth and bowl of soapy water.

  “Look, don’t just sit there,” she said as she rubbed away at the crimson splash. “At least get some salt or something. Oh God, it’s not coming out. Oh really, that was so careless of you, Martin. You just weren’t concentrating. But then you’ve obviously got other things on your mind at the moment,” she spat. “Which is why you’re hardly ever here!”

  We all fiddled with the stems of our wineglasses. My face felt as hot as my mulled wine and was probably a similar shade.

  “The FTSE’s doing awfully well, isn’t it?” I said to the man standing next to me—a colleague of Martin’s.

  “God you’re so clumsy!” I heard Lizzie say.

  “Yes,” said the man, “though of course the instability in the Far East is bad news for us in London.”

  “Of course.”

  “And unfortunately I think interest rates are bound to go up again.”

  “I mean it’s really chronic,” Lizzie hissed. “You’re so uncoordinated.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a copywriter.”

  “I mean, I leave you alone for one minute, and there’s a complete disaster.”

  “Oh—Go To Work On An Egg, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Vorsprung Durch Technik, and all that.”

  “Oh God, Martin, do you know how much this sofa cost?”

  “Yes,” he said wearily, “I do.”

  “It cost two and a half thousand pounds.”

  “Yes,” he repeated. “I know that. And I know that because I paid for it.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I paid for it. You mad cow.”

  “Martin!”

  “Just as I paid for everything else in this wretched, unhappy house you call a home, because you’ve never lifted a finger . . .”

  “Don’t make a scene, Martin . . .”

  “And do you know what? I don’t care if there’s a wine stain on it . . . in fact . . .” He picked up a bowl of chilli sauce and dripped its contents all over the sofa, “. . . I don’t think it’s stained enough. Let’s see . . .” Then he picked up the taramasalata and slopped that onto it too.

  “Martin—have you gone mad?”

  Then he sprinkled honey-glazed sausages over it, holding them daintily between thumb and forefinger and distributing them with meticulous care.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Lizzie. “Martin, put that down at once.” He had picked up a tray of cheese and spinach mini-roulades and had tipped them all over the seat. Then he began to work the mess into the fabric with the tips of his fingers. Then he said, “Hang on a moment . . .” wiped his hands on a nearby napkin, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Martin! Martin—put that down!” He had reappeared and was clutching, in both hands, the tureen of lukewarm mulled wine. Lizzie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, just an asthmatic gasp. Then she said, very quietly, “Martin, please Martin—Martin don’t.”

  But it was too late. He emptied the viscous red liquid all over the sofa, spattering and spilling with as much care and precision as if he were Jackson Pollock. Then he got his coat and walked out of the house, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Well, it’s been a lovely evening . . .” I heard someone say. “Must be off—I’ll just get the kids.”

  “Yes, well I think I’d better make a move,” said Frances.

  “Thanks a lot, Lizzie . . . er . . . I’ll give you a ring,” said another voice. “Come on, Tom. Polly? Home now. Say bye bye to Alice and Amy.” Then there was silence, all except for the loud sobbing emanating from the hand-distressed kitchen.

  “What a bastard,” howled Lizzie. “What a copper-bottomed bastard . . .” Her breath came in great shuddering gasps. Her face was puce and wet.

  “Here,” I said, handing her a paper towel.

  “. . . humiliating me like that. Ruining the evening. My God, people will talk about this for years. It’s all because he’s having that affair,” she wept. “It’s making him behave oddly. Totally out of character.”

  “Lizzie, he isn’t having an affair,” I said.

  “Yes he bloody well is,” she sobbed. “With Jade Jewel.”

  “No he isn’t.”

  “He is.” Her cheeks were streaked with molten mascara. The whites of her eyes were bright pink. “I didn’t tell you this, Tiffany,” she said, clutching the tear-sodden tissue, “but last weekend he went away, and he said he was going to his mother’s. But when I phoned him there, his mother kept saying that he was chopping wood for her. But she has a gas fire! She was just covering up for him. Because he’s having an affair.” Then she started crying again, her slender shoulders shaking with every sob.

  “That sofa cost two and a half grand,” she wailed. “It was custom-made—it took me ages to choose the fabric. I went back three times. And he’s ruined it. Useless, useless man. God, I’ll divorce him,” she muttered as she lit a cigarette. “I’ll take him to Jeeves of Belgravia. I’ll leave him without the shirt on his back, I’ll . . . Tiffany, why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re so unfair,” I said quietly. “Martin’s so nice and you treat him like dirt.” I was trembling, I thought I was going to cry.

  “He’s not nice,” she hissed. “He just ruined my new sofa and humiliated me in front of all my friends. I don’t call that nice at all.” Two plumes of smoke streamed from her elegant nostrils. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had actually breathed fire. “There’s no excuse for what he’s just done,” she added ferociously. “None.”

  “He’s reaching,” I said. “Can’t you see it? He’s breaking out. You’ve crushed him for years and years and years and now he’s breaking out.”

  “He’s breaking down, you mean,” she said derisively. “Losing his marbles.”

  “Well yes. Yes, he probably is having a nervous breakdown,” I said. “And it’s not surprising, because he’s exhausted all the time because he works so hard, and he doesn’t even like his job, but he does it so that you can have this house and all the fancy stuff you’ve got—and you aren’t even nice to him! Poor man. Poor, downtrodden man. In fact,” I said as I began to stack the dishwasher, “you’re horrible to him. I don’t know why you’re horrible to him. But you are. You walk all over him. Ever since you had the girls, you’ve treated him like another child. I’ve noticed it,” I said as I scraped guacamole off a spongeware plate. “It’s been impossible not to notice it.” I turned and looked her in the eye. “You know, you were quite ghastly. But it was bearable. Almost endearing. Bossy old Lizzie Bohannon—bit of a battleaxe, but terribly kindhearted. But since you’ve had Alice and Amy you’ve exhibited distinctly dictatorial tendencies and I can’t see your kind heart anymore. Maybe there was a mix-up at the IVF clinic and they gave you testosterone instead of estrogen—I don’t know. All I know is that these days you’re so far over the top you’re almost out of sight.”

  “Tiffany, I really don’t think you should be talking to me like this,” she said with quiet menace. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “I am your friend,” I spat.

  “Then you should take my side when I tell you that my husband is a useless, bloody man.”

  “He’s not useless,” I groaned. “He’s a wonderful husband. He’s a kind and devoted father. You don’t know how lucky you are to ha
ve someone as nice and decent as Martin as your husband. You don’t realize . . .” My voice trailed away. I felt the familiar aching in my throat.

  “What do you know about husbands?” said Lizzie with a contemptuous snort. “You haven’t even got one!”

  That was it. I burst into tears. “I know I haven’t,” I retorted, stuffing my knuckles into my eyes. “And yes, I wish I did have one, I’d love to have a husband and I’d especially love to have a husband as nice and kind as yours!”

  “Well, why don’t you have him?” she said. “Feel free. Or perhaps . . . perhaps it’s not Jade Jewel I should be worried about. Perhaps it’s you,” she added.

  “What?” I said. “Oh Lizzie, you are out of your mind.”

  “That’s rich,” she shouted, “I mean, that’s really, really RICH, coming from a woman who talks to her DOMESTIC APPLIANCES!”

  At that point Alice and Amy appeared. “Why are you and Tiffany SHOUTING, Mummy,” shouted Amy.

  “We’re NOT shouting,” Lizzie shouted. “We’re just having a discussion.”

  “Mummy, have you seen the sofa?” Alice exclaimed. “It’s a mess!”

  “Mummy, where’s Daddy?” said Amy with a bewildered air.

  “He’s gone out.”

  “Is he going to read us a story?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Lizzie. She wiped her eyes with a casual air while I surreptitiously mopped at my own.

  “Why are you both crying, Mummy?” said Alice.

  “We’re not crying,” she sobbed.

  “Aren’t you and Tiffany friends anymore?”

  “Of course we are,” I heard her say as I wearily retrieved my coat from the hall. “Don’t be so silly, Alice. We are friends, aren’t we, Tiffany?” Lizzie shouted after me as I made my way down the path.