The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Tiffany, how lovely to see you!” he exclaimed. “So glad you could come. Now this is Sarah—but you’ve met before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, briefly,” I said, raising my voice above the cocktail cacophony.

  “That’s right. We met at that party in Drayton Gardens,” she said animatedly. “You were with . . .” Oh God, please don’t say it—please don’t remind me about Phil Anderer.

  “. . . that architect. He was very keen on golf, wasn’t he? Talked about nothing else. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Nor can I—ha ha ha!” I said. “I’m afraid that’s all blood under the bridge now.” Oh God, what a complete drag this evening was turning out to be. I’d started out feeling happy and hopeful and it had all gone horribly wrong. “So tell me,” I said, with neon brightness, “when’s the big day then?”

  “In March,” she said. “March the ninth, actually. You’ll get an invitation.”

  “Oh my, I didn’t mean—I mean I don’t expect you to invite me. I was only asking, ha ha ha!” In fact, I was only making conversation. Trying to change the subject. God, now she’ll think I’m one of these awful people who drops hints.

  “Oh no, Tiffany, we really want you to come,” she said earnestly. “Jonathan told me how helpful you were to him at the Eat ’n’ Greet Sensational Singles party. He said you helped him ‘see the light.’ ” She giggled. “You’ve no idea how grateful to you I am! Of course we’d like you to be there.”

  “Oh well, thanks . . . I love weddings. Especially other people’s.” I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray; two sips and my stress levels began to drop down to stratospheric. Now, who else was here? I began to circulate. I was right about the posh factor.

  “—we stayed with the Hurds last weekend . . .”

  “—Rebecca’s still at Benenden . . .”

  “—well, in our corner of Kensington . . .”

  “—no, we go down to Somerset . . .”

  “—and then our younger son’s at Eton . . .”

  “—super little place near Bordeaux . . .”

  “—no, no, not the Norfolk Higham-Hamiltons, the Suffolk ones, yes . . .”

  “—her husband’s an equerry you know . . .”

  Oh my God—Pamela Roach! What was she doing here?

  “What are you doing here?” she said with impertinent surprise.

  “I gatecrashed,” I replied, taking in her Full English Make-Up and tentlike dress. “Just like you.” Actually I didn’t say that, I said, “I was invited. I know Jonathan. How about you?”

  “I was at school with Sarah. A couple of years ahead. I hadn’t seen her for years but when I saw the engagement announcement in The Times I thought I’d ring her up to congratulate her . . .” Oh, that old tactic. “. . . and when I asked if they were having a party she very kindly said, ‘Oh do come along.’ It was nice of her.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it was.” God, how could I get away? I discreetly glanced round the room seeking an exit, and my eye just caught a rather handsome-looking chap. Standing alone. Tall and good-looking, in dark gray serge. Pamela followed my gaze.

  “He’s rather a dish, isn’t he?”

  “Who? Oh, him, Er, yes. I suppose so.” I couldn’t care less if it was Pierce Brosnan, I’m in love with Seriously Successful.

  “He’s got a very pretty girlfriend,” she added maliciously, giving me one of her fishy smiles. “She’s just gone to powder her nose. Have you got your business card on you?” she added. “You never sent it to me.”

  “No I haven’t,” I said. “I’ve forgotten to bring it again. Well, must circulate.”

  “Keep in touch,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. I won’t.

  Phew. I wish I could have brought Kate with me, I thought. But I remembered her advice at Eat ’n’ Greet. “Just smile,” she had said. So I gently made my way through the crowd, smiling in a general, all-purpose kind of way. And it does really, really work. Or at least, it does for some people, but it didn’t for me. No one seemed to want to talk to me at all. And so I decided to study the paintings—the walls were lined with portraits of mustachioed Bengali lancers and Victorian viceroys. I wandered around, taking in their faces—“Sir Arthur Phayre, First British Commissioner for Burma, purchased Singapore for Britain . . . Major General Stringer Lawrence, ‘Father of the Indian Army’ . . . Sir George Pollock, took part in march to Kabul after the massacre by the Afghans . . .”

  “Trotters!” What? I spun round. A handsome chap in a pinstripe suit was smiling enthusiastically at me.

  “I’m sorry?” I said. “I mean have we . . .”

  “Trotters! I’ve been trying to speak to you for the past quarter of an hour.”

  “I really don’t think we know each other . . .”

  “You’re Tiffany Trott. Trotters.”

  “Yes, but you see I haven’t been called that since I was at—”

  “Look here, Trotters, this just won’t do!” he said, whoever he was. “You don’t remember me, do you? Can’t say I’m entirely surprised. I mean I’ve changed a bit since I was thirteen.” And then, suddenly, I got it.

  “Nick,” I said faintly.

  “That’s me,” he said happily

  “Nick Walker. School House.”

  “Yes. I used to deliver Harvey-Bells’s billet-doux to you.”

  “Yes, of course—my God, how funny.”

  “And I used to offer to carry your books.”

  “You’ve grown a bit.”

  “And you had this incredibly sweet tooth, and I used to get stuff for you from the pastry shop. Chocolate éclairs—that’s what you liked. And Jaffa Cakes.”

  “You were a little boy last time I saw you.”

  “And you were a real woman of sixteen. I worshipped you!”

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Nick.”

  “And do you know what, Trotters—you look just the same as you did then. Only, um, a bit slimmer.”

  “Oh thank you,” I said, “I think I love you.” Actually I didn’t say that at all, I simply said, “But I didn’t have crows’ feet then!”

  “You were my one and only,” he said.

  “Well, there wasn’t much choice—there were only ten girls,” I said.

  “Yes, but you were the one for me. I remember you standing on the touchline at rugger matches, Tiffany.”

  “Yes, and you used to lend me your scarf!” By now I was drowning in a sea of sentiment. I was sixteen again. I was at Downingham, surrounded by boys all offering to carry my books. Or asking me to help them with their prep. Or teasing me about my weight.

  “Who do you know here?” I asked.

  “Jonathan. I work with him at Christie’s. He heads my department—English furniture. I could get you a very good deal on some Chippendales,” he said with a laugh.

  “Oh, yes please!”

  “And I’m very hot on Hepplewhite!”

  “Oh good! Do you still see anyone from school?” I asked as we sipped our champagne.

  “Oh yes!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Lots. How about you?”

  “Well, not many, just Lizzie really.”

  “What, Battleaxe Bohannon? God she was bossy!”

  “She still is.”

  “She was always telling me to cut my hair, and she wasn’t even a prefect. Are you both coming to the OD dinner next week?”

  “I don’t know, hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Well look, I’m going. Why don’t you come too?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never been to one of those school reunion things.”

  “I wish you would,” he said, “I’ll be able to talk to you properly then, you see I’ve got to go now. But look, it’s next Wednesday, please do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” My voice trailed away.

  “Go on,” he said enticingly.

  “Well . . . maybe . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Good, you’re coming then, Trotters—that’s s
ettled. And it’ll be great fun!”

  November Continued

  “It’ll be great fun,” I said to Lizzie the following day. “Please come.”

  “Well, I’d love to. In theory. But I’ll just have to check it with Martin.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m going to check it with Martin,” she repeated very slowly. “You know, Martin, my husband.”

  “Well, quite.”

  “Just to make sure he’s happy for me to go.”

  “Oh, well . . . good idea,” I said. “Er, ask him.” I could hear the phone clatter onto their George the Third sideboard, and the sound of Lizzie’s footsteps echoing down the hall. “Darling,” I heard her say. “Tiffany wants to know if I’d like to go to the OD reunion dinner at the Law Society next Wednesday. But I said I’d ask you first. So I am. Asking you. Is that OK, darling? If I go? You sure? Sure you don’t need me? Oh you are an angel. And you don’t mind putting the girls to bed on your own? Sure? Oh all right then. I’ll tell her yes, shall I? If you’re really sure you don’t mind. Thank you, darling.” Then I heard her approaching footsteps. “It’s firm,” she announced. “He says he doesn’t mind if I go. So sweet of him—so yes, I’ll come with you. We’ll see all those boys again. What a scream! And there’s another reason, of course, for us going, Tiffany.”

  “What’s that then?” I asked.

  “You might meet someone you really like!” This was true. And indeed that possibility had not been lost on me. It had already occurred to me that there might be boys who, like Nick, had metamorphosed from grubby caterpillars into handsome butterflies in the intervening years.

  So the following Wednesday I met Lizzie at Chancery Lane. She looked very elegant in a black Donna Karan trouser suit with a silver velvet devoré scarf, her short, white-blonde hair tucked back behind her dainty ears. She was calm and smiling, and somehow she’d lost that—how can I put this nicely?—violent look.

  “How’s Martin?” I asked casually, as the banistered steps of the Law Society came into view.

  “Martin’s fine,” she said with a beatific smile. “He’s fine.”

  “So he’s not having it off with Jade Jewel, then?” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that. I just said, “Good.”

  “You know, that weekend with his mother really did something for him,” she added. “He came back with a much more—I don’t know, positive, purposeful air. Perhaps it was all that wood-chopping he did.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Chopping wood’s such a wholesome, manly activity, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I like men to behave like men,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “Er, yes,” I said, as a vision of a surprised-looking Alex clad in satin and black lace hove into mental view.

  “We’ve ordered the new sofa,” said Lizzie. “I wasn’t mad on that other one anyway.”

  “Same color?”

  “Oh no,” she said, “not that awful, wishy-washy yellow. Totally impractical. I realize that now. No, it’s going to be a deep red. ‘Claret,’ I suppose you’d call it, or possibly ‘Bordeaux.’ Or maybe ‘Mulled Wine.’ We’ll christen it at Christmas,” she added.

  “Good idea,” I said. You could get Martin to grind some mince pies and brandy butter into it and then set it on fire. “Here we are.” We went up the steps of the Law Society and then downstairs to the cloakroom.

  “Do you know, I feel quite nervous,” I said as I carefully reapplied my lip gloss. “These guys haven’t seen us for twenty years—what if they don’t recognize us?” Fear gripped my heart. “What if they have to ask us who we are?”

  “Don’t be so negative, Tiffany,” Lizzie admonished me as she carefully combed her hair. “I’m sure they’ll all tell us how incredibly young we look.” She took a step back and appraised her reflection in the full-length mirror. “You know, we really look perfectly OK . . .”

  “. . . considering that we’re practically fifty.”

  “Quite. But isn’t it amazing, Tiffany?” she said as she dabbed “Opium” behind her ears.

  “What?”

  “The fact that you went to school with seven hundred boys, and yet here you are, two decades on, still single!”

  We went upstairs to the library for predinner drinks. The walls were lined with tooled, leather-bound legal books as thick as telephone directories. Two hundred men in dinner jackets stood in small groups, drinking, smoking, and gossiping noisily.

  “—no no no, I was in Dewar House. With young, whatsisname—Downer.”

  “—I was in Gordon’s. I was the only one who wasn’t gay—hur hur.”

  “—oh God, women—always thought it was a damn shame the way they let gels in like that. Glad it didn’t happen in my day.”

  “—did you hear about Cockayne? Damn shame. He was a good man. Good man. Got five years.”

  At the far end of the room was a seating plan, with year of entry next to each name. Lizzie peered at it.

  “There are quite a few chaps from our generation,” she said, raising her voice above the stentorian din. “But none of the other girls seem to be coming. I would have thought Isla Moray might have turned up. Anyway Hennessy, Jamieson and Bass are all coming. And—ooh good—Johnny Rothman’s going to be here too. I always liked him. He was in my history set. I heard he’s in TV drama now—maybe he could get me some work, just to tide me over of course till I start doing my counseling . . .”

  “Bohannon, you old battleaxe!” Lizzie’s face had frozen in horror. A middle-aged, red-faced man with beads of perspiration on his brow was bearing down on us. Roger Six-Pack! Mad Irishman. God he’d aged. It was frightful. He looked forty-eight but could only be thirty-nine at most.

  “I used to fine you for smoking, didn’t I, Bohannon! I see you haven’t kicked the filthy habit. Hello, Trotters! Well, I must say . . .” He took a step back to scrutinize us. “You two look . . .”

  “Older?” I volunteered happily. Like you!

  “Yes!” he said, with a roar of laughter. “And even lovelier. I used to fancy you rotten, Bohannon, despite the fact that you always smelt like an old ashtray. Yer married?”

  “Yes,” she said, giving him a permafrost smile. “Happily married.”

  “And what do yer do with yerself?”

  “I’m an actress,” she said, clearly miffed that this was a fact of which he was patently unaware. Had he not spotted her name in the listings in Radio Times in 1991, or seen her in that bit part she had in The Bill? Evidently not.

  “An actress, eh? And what about you, Trotters?”

  “I’m in advertising—I write copy.”

  “Oh—Go To Work On An Egg and all that? Now, did you know that was written by an OD—Salman Rushdie! Poor blighter.”

  “No,” I said. “It was Fay Weldon, actually. Salman Rushdie did . . . oh look! There’s Tim Flowers. He used to tease me about my weight.”

  “Trotters!” said Tim Flowers with a smile. “I’d hardly recognize you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You look—different. You used to be a bit on the plump side, didn’t you, but that’s obviously all behind you now! Ha ha ha!” Very funny, I thought, as I felt my face redden. And then I suddenly remembered what the boys used to say. It was never, “Where do you come from?” They always said, “So tell us, Trotters, where were you reared!” and then run off down the street in hysterics. Oh yes, I thought that was marvelously witty. They really should have charged me for that one.

  “Hallo, Trotters!” boomed Jamie Worthington. “Got any tuck? That’s what you used to say, ‘Got any tuck?’ I remember you stuffing your face with chocolate éclairs.”

  “Yes,” said Lizzie, “while all the other girls had anorexia. You never could spot a trend, Tiffany.”

  “Your old flame John Harvey-Bell is coming,” said Tim. “We remember what you used to get up to with him.”

  “I didn’t get up to anything with him,” I said frostily.

  “
Yes you did—come on.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did, he said you did.”

  “Then he was lying.”

  “Come on, Trotters, admit it!”

  God, these blokes hardly seemed to have evolved. They were still the barely pubescent public schoolboys of the late 1970s. In fact they could have offered themselves up to science for embryo research. Still, I thought to myself, I shouldn’t complain—I’d enjoyed my two years at Downingham a lot. OK, I’d been teased quite a bit. Well, all the time, actually. But there were some very nice blokes and quite a few foreign boys which lent the place an international air—for example, there was Hans Heineken, George Budweiser, Philippe Gauloise and Jean-Marc Courvoisier. No Krugs—they went to Eton, of course. But no, it was a very mixed school—those Schweppes twins were charming.

  Then as we all trooped into the dining room for dinner, Nick came running up the stairs. “Hallo, Tiffany—I’m a bit late—oh gosh, you look nice. Can I carry your handbag for you? And can I get you some éclairs?”

  “Stop it, Nick! Do you remember Lizzie?”

  “Nick Walker—your hair needs cutting,” she said. “And how dare you be so good-looking when I’m a married woman!”

  He laughed. “You’re not married are you, Tiffany?” he said, peering at my left hand.

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh good,” he said, and blushed. I glanced at him beneath lowered eyelids as a hush descended for grace. He really was very good looking. I couldn’t connect this six-foot Adonis with the angelic little boy with curly blond hair who used to turn up at the girls’ house with little notes for me. How old was he? Probably thirty-three.

  “Benedicat benedicatur,” intoned the Chairman of the Board of Governors, Sir Andrew Bass. And then dinner began.

  “—Tripp House have done awfully well this year, won the rugger and the cricket.”

  “—I hear Whipper Wilson got the sack—he was a bit of a brute.”

  “—yes, he taught me in the LSD block.”

  “—these mushrooms are bloody good.”