The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Tiffany?” I heard her call, as I shut the gate behind me. “Tiffany? Tiff-a-neeeee?”

  November Continued

  The next morning I awoke with dread in my heart and the terrible events of the previous night still swimming before my eyes. I trudged downstairs in my dressing gown. It was only eight o’clock, but a stack of mail bound with a rubber band was already lying on the mat, and, floating free, a white envelope, written in Lizzie’s large, sloping hand. She must have stuffed it through the letter box overnight. I opened it first, of course: Hampstead. Six A.M. Please don’t be beastly to me, Tiff. You’ve no idea how miserable I am about Martin and Nicola. Or Jade. Or whoever. Do you know where he went last night? Madame Jo-Jo’s! I’m feeling desperate. Haven’t been to bed. Can I come round soon? Please. L. xxx.

  Poor Lizzie, I thought. And I rang her straightaway. Then I went into the kitchen and looked at the mail.

  In the first envelope was an invitation, stiff as a plate and edged in gold: Miss Tiffany Trott, it said in the top left hand corner. Then, beneath, in black italic lettering so pronounced I could have read it with my fingertips like braille: Jonathan de Beauvoir and Sarah Rush invite you to celebrate their engagement at a reception at the East India Club, 16 St. James’s Square, London SW1, on Thursday 20th November. 6:30 to 8:30. RSVP. And on the back, Jonathan had scrawled, Thanks so much for your sensible advice at the Eat ’n’ Greet party, Tiffany. You’re a brick. Good old Sarah, I thought—she had managed to pin him down. Eventually. It took a while, but it paid off. In the end. That old “flouncing off” tactic clearly works, I thought. And then, in another envelope, was an invitation to Eric the artist’s private showing at the Oscar Reeds gallery. So what with all the film premières, charity balls, book launches, cocktail parties, gala concerts, fashion shows, award ceremonies, business receptions and, of course, 237 Christmas bashes, my diary’s pretty full right now—ha ha! Just joking. Anyway, it’s really nice of Jonathan to invite me to the party. I’m looking forward to it. Should be fun. Might even meet TSS there—That Special Someone. Though I rather doubt it—to be perfectly honest, my prediction is that it will be full of suffocatingly posh people.

  Anyway, when the twentieth came I put on my LBD—little black dress—Jean Muir, secondhand, actually, from one of these agencies that flog the castoffs and fashion mistakes of fabulously wealthy women, and then I headed off toward Piccadilly on the number 38. I really like the 38—there’s something satisfying about getting on a bus which matches one’s bra size. The 36b’s quite good too, though I don’t get the 41—that really is going a little far.

  “May I see your pass please, young lady?” said the conductor. Young lady! Get that!

  “Oh yes, yes, of course,” I said happily, holding up my annual season ticket. This was an auspicious start to the evening. I was obviously going to have a very good time. I stared happily out of the window—oh God! Christmas decorations in the shop windows already—that really gets me down . . . then I jumped off outside the Ritz. The Ritz. Now, I can’t help it, but every time I go past the Ritz I automatically think of Seriously Successful—or rather, Seriously Unsuitable. Damn and blast, blast and damn—why did I always have to fall for someone who was either totally unmarriageable or hopelessly unavailable?

  Lizzie has a new theory about this. “You know what you are, don’t you,” she said when she came round for our reconciliatory tête-à-tête. She had brought me a rose to plant in the garden. She said it was a late birthday present, but when I looked at the label, it said, Peace, and then she gave me this awkward hug and she looked really upset—well, she was crying actually, and I couldn’t help crying too. After all, we’ve been friends for so long. Anyway, after she’d helped me plant it we sat at my kitchen table and she said, “Tiffany. In the twenty years we’ve known each other we’ve never really quarrelled before, have we?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “We haven’t.”

  “Apart from that incident at college when you stole one of my eggs from the communal fridge.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “I vaguely remember.”

  “I had written LB on it quite clearly,” she continued, “and you ate it.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “And then there was that time in 1986 when I lent you my Valentino leather jacket, and you kept it for a week longer than you said you would.” This was true. I sighed regretfully. “But until last week,” she added, “we had never ever had a serious falling out, had we?”

  “No.”

  “And I think you may have hit a few nails on the head, Tiffany. You really gave me food for thought. About my attitude to Martin. And why he may have gone off his rocker a bit recently. And because of that, I know you won’t mind, both of us having spoken our minds so freely, if I point out an important home truth to you.”

  “Please do,” I said apprehensively. “Go ahead.”

  “OK,” she said. “Here goes. Tiffany, you’re a closet commitophobe.” This was news to me. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said, “Tiffany, you torture small animals,” or “Tiffany, you take hard drugs.”

  “I’m not a commitophobe,” I said. “I’m the opposite—I’m a spouseomane.”

  “But you’re not having much luck, are you?” she pointed out. This could not be denied.

  “I mean, you’re about as likely to find a husband in the next six months as I am to split the atom.

  “Why do you think that is, Tiffany?” she continued, cocking her head to one side in a slightly smug and irritating fashion which I had never observed before.

  “I think it’s because . . . well, because I’m just—incredibly unlucky, that’s why. Unlucky. That’s all there is to it. In fact I’ve decided to become a professional card player.”

  “No,” she said, with a sad and yet knowing smile. “It’s got nothing to do with luck. The reason why you’re not married is because you’re a closet commitophobe. You can’t see it yourself,” she added, “but I can because, you see, I’ve been reading this book about relationships after our little, um, contretemps.”

  “Oh God, not Women Are From Pluto, Men Are From Uranus,” I said, “I hate all that pop psychology.”

  “No. Not that one. Another one. What’s it called, er, Women Who Don’t Love Enough, or something like that—can’t remember. Anyway, the point is that I’ve been trying to work a few things out. And so I’ve taken a long hard look at everything and I’ve been turning everything over in my mind and really doing some serious, serious soul-searching, and trying to be more analytical about what’s been going wrong and the mistakes that have been made—and I’ve worked out why you’re still single. And you’re still single because, secretly, you don’t want to get married,” she explained triumphantly. “That’s why you keep going for such useless or unavailable men.”

  “Lizzie, I think it would be better if you psychoanalyzed yourself rather than me—after all, you’re the one with the shaky marriage.”

  “Well, I am looking at myself, of course,” she said. “But the fact is, I’m looking at you too. Because I’d really like to help you, Tiff.”

  “Er, thanks,” I said.

  “And so I began thinking about you and what’s gone so horribly wrong with your love life.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, I began to reflect on this succession of disasters that you’ve had and this constant, constant rejection. Because, let’s face it Tiffany—you’re a complete failure with men. But having known you for so long, I’ve now been able to work out why you’ve experienced nothing but abject and humiliating failure and spectacular unsuccess.”

  “OK, OK, you’ve made your point.”

  “You see, Tiffany, I’ve spotted the pattern,” she went on. “You always go for men who can’t or won’t commit. Like that rugger player at school—John Harvey-Bell—the captain of the Fifteen. It all started with him—now he wouldn’t make a commitment to you.”

  “Lizzie, he was seventeen.”

  �
��And then all those useless chaps at college, like that boring actor whatsisname, Crispin Wilde—God I saw him on the box the other day, he was hopeless. God knows how he gets the work. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in marrying you either, was he?”

  “We were only twenty.”

  “And ever since you graduated it’s been just one romantic disappointment after another for you. Unremitting failure. Chronic. You spent a long time with Phil Anderer, and of course that didn’t work out—because we all warned you about him, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” I said dismally.

  “And what did you do? You went right ahead and laid yourself down on his sacrificial altar and handed him the knife. And then Alex turned out to be useless too, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. OK, OK.” Oh God I wished she’d stop.

  “And yet . . .” Lizzie continued, theatrically holding up a forefinger and cocking her head on one side again in that irritating way, “. . . there have been plenty of men you could have married—if you’d wanted to. Take, for example, Alan from the tennis club. Mad about you, from what you said.”

  “Yes. But there was that small matter of the second head.”

  “And that actuary from Acton.”

  “Oh, him. The human anaesthetic.”

  “And that accountant—Mick—he liked you. What was wrong with him?”

  “I didn’t fancy him. End of point.”

  “And Peter Fitz-Harrod was keen.”

  “I told you what I thought of him.”

  “Not to mention Kit,” she concluded. “Why didn’t you marry Kit, Tiffany?”

  “Because . . . because . . . he was . . .”

  “Decent and kind and interesting and good-looking and extremely considerate and very suitable!” she said triumphantly.

  “No. Because if I’d really wanted to marry Kit then I could have done because he wanted to marry me but I didn’t want to marry him because although I really liked him and think he’s wonderful and yes I happily admit that we have an awful lot in common it just didn’t feel right, because we were simply too alike and would have driven each other mad although yes I do sometimes have regrets about it now and wonder what would have happened if we had got hitched and what it would be like with our five children and what we would have called them and yes if Portia does dump him and I don’t find anyone else and he’s still interested in me in that way which frankly I very much doubt after all this time then I might very well be tempted to marry him, does that make it clear?”

  “Oh it’s all very clear, Tiffany. You see, there are men who might have done, but you didn’t want them. And the reason why you didn’t want them is because they were available, perfectly acceptable men, who might have ruined everything by marrying you! So what you do is reject them and go for useless commitophobes. And Seriously Successful fits this pattern, too. Because the point is, Tiffany, that Seriously Successful has a wife.”

  “I know that, actually,”

  “And so he’s not likely to marry you.”

  “I know that too.”

  “And yet you still like him.”

  “No I don’t. Not really. Not much.”

  “And you still think about him.”

  “No I don’t—hardly ever in fact.”

  “Yes you do, Tiffany. You think about him all the time. Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes—why do you think about him?”

  “Why do I think about Seriously Successful?”

  “Because he’s got a wife, that’s why! So here is yet another utterly useless, unavailable man who isn’t going to marry you in a month of Sundays—perfect! And moreover,” she continued, “I bet that if his wife were to meet with some unfortunate accident—”

  “Lizzie, please don’t say things like that. I wouldn’t wish that on him or anyone.”

  “Yes, but if, purely for argument’s sake, she was, shall we say, off the scene, and he was suddenly available, I guarantee that you’d instantly lose interest in him,” she concluded. “Because that would ruin your little game. Do you know, psychiatry’s the most fascinating subject,” she added. “I’m thinking of doing a course in it actually. In fact, I’m thinking of giving up acting altogether and becoming a counselor.”

  “Oh God. I mean—oh good.”

  “Yes, I really think I’ve got quite a gift for this kind of thing you know, Tiff,” she said, lighting a post-counseling cigarette. “I’ve got emotional insight. I mean I’ve got you figured out, haven’t I? If Seriously Successful was suddenly Seriously Single, then you’d run a mile!”

  Would I? Would I? That was just the question I was asking myself as I passed the doors of the Ritz on my way to Jonathan’s party. The Ritz! His local! Local. God, perhaps he was in there, right now. He probably was, no doubt interviewing some other hapless woman for the position of part-time sweetie. Absolutely outrageous. Seriously Swineish. I bet that’s where he was. Bastard. Wonder if he got my postcard? As I walked past the hotel, well, I just couldn’t resist—I decided to have a little teensy weensy look.

  I went through the swinging doors in Arlington Street with a pounding heart. No sign. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears, like a fetus hears the beat of its mother’s heart. My cheeks felt hot and flushed. My mouth was Sahara-dry. I felt the familiar fluttering of Amazonian swallowtails against the lining of my stomach. I must be mad, I thought as I penetrated the pink and green Rococo interior. I must be off my rocker. Still, I reflected, if I did bump into him—God forbid—but if I was unlucky enough to see him, at least I knew I was looking OK in my Jean Muir and my luxurious-looking fake leopardskin coat which I bought in New York last year for a song and which everyone says really suits me. Elegant outerwear is so important . . .

  “Tiffany!” I turned round. Oh God. Oh no.

  “Hallo,” I said. “Er, how nice to see you. How are you?”

  “Splendid! Ha ha ha ha ha! Splendid. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you get my messages?”

  “Er. No. No. I didn’t.”

  “I left a couple of messages for you in the summer. On your answer phone.”

  “Oh I’ve had such problems with that machine,” I said, rolling my eyes in mock exasperation. “Sorry not to have got back to you, but it obviously didn’t record them.”

  “Anyway, what are you doing here?” he said. Bloody cheek!

  “Well actually, Peter, I didn’t like to tell you this before in case you were a bit of a gold digger, but the fact is I live here. Yes. That’s right. In one of the deluxe suites on the top floor. They’re only six hundred and ninety-five pounds a night plus VAT.” Actually, I didn’t really say that at all. I just said, “I’m on my way to a party in St. James’s Square and I’ve just popped in to see a friend, in fact . . .” I looked at my watch. “Ooh! I’m running late—must dash, but so nice to see you again.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We must have that game of tennis!” Must we?

  “Oh yes, we must,” I said. “We must. Yes.”

  “Yes. Ha ha ha ha ha! I’ll give you a ring.”

  And then—as if in a dream—I saw him. I thought I must be hallucinating. But I wasn’t—it was him. I mean I hadn’t seriously expected to see Seriously Successful. But now, here he was. This was Seriously Surprising. And he had seen me too. But he didn’t stop—he walked straight past me; and the reason why he did that is because he could see that I was talking to another man and he was filled with jealous rage. And he thought that if he did stop, he’d probably kill Peter Fitz-Harrod. Fell him with one mighty blow. Or hurl his puny body across the crowded bar. Who the hell am I kidding? The only reason why Seriously Successful didn’t stop to speak to me is that he was with another woman! A beautiful woman with a lovely figure and long, curly chestnut hair. And she looked very close to Seriously Successful indeed. She was leaning toward him slightly, and they were both talking in low voices and smiling. And I wanted the ground to swallow me up. And the lingering aroma of his Givenchy made
me almost faint with desire.

  “I’m going now,” I said to Peter weakly. “Bye.”

  “Oh—ha ha ha!—er goodbye, Tiffany! I’ll ring you!”

  “Yes. Don’t,” I said as I pushed on the revolving door with my head.

  What a bloody fool you are, I said to myself as I stomped down Piccadilly. What a bloody fool. Because the fact is, that if I hadn’t gone into the Ritz, I wouldn’t have seen Seriously Successful with that gorgeous brunette. Damn. Damn. Damn. And damn Peter Fitz-Harrod for being there and speaking to me and holding me up, because otherwise I might just have walked straight out of the hotel again, in which case I would not have seen Seriously Special with that other woman and had my life completely ruined. And now I was going to have to go to a party when I was no longer in the mood for it, because all I wanted to do was go home and lie down on my bed and howl.

  As I marched down Jermyn Street my high heels pinged on the pavement, the noise ricocheting like gunfire around the surrounding buildings. By the time I turned into Duke Street my heartrate had slowed to about 185 and I felt slightly calmer. Though depressed. Terribly depressed. But he’s married; I repeated it over and over, like a mini-mantra. So he’s no use. He’s just looking for a bit on the side. Nothing to get very excited about. Really, Tiffany, get a grip. You’ve got a party to go to here. Wonder if he got my postcard? Wonder what he thought of it? Wonder how long he’s known that attractive woman. Wonder if he loves her? Hope he didn’t show her my card. I was then tortured by thoughts of Seriously Successful and Gorgeous Girlfriend lying in bed, naked, in his exquisitely appointed apartment in the Albany, having a postcoital laugh at my provocative postcard before consigning it to the elegant leather bin which they’d bought on a romantic weekend in Florence.

  I stamped up the steps of the East India Club, a grand, white stuccoed building in the corner of St. James’s Square. I found the cloakroom, splashed cold water on my burning face, re-applied my lip gloss and concealer, then found the Clive Room on the ground floor. Inside, about two hundred people were chatting away as though they’d known each other all their lives. Probably had, I reflected. I really wasn’t in the mood to make tiny talk over the canapés with a crowd of total strangers. Then, luckily, I saw Jonathan.