The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  I looked at Lizzie. She was locked into conversation with Johnny Rothman. “—Tiffany and I both went to Bristol, and after that I went to drama school. No, not RADA. Why not? Well, I didn’t get in, actually. No, not Bristol Old Vic—yes, I agree it’s an excellent drama school. Well, it’s very competitive, you know. No, not Central either. Yes, yes, I had a go. No no, not LAMDA, either. Where? Well, it was the Prudence Rutherford Academy of Dramatic Art, actually. Yes, in Thames Ditton. That’s right, PRADA. Well . . . you know . . . bits and pieces, I did have an audition for the RSC once. In 1984. Yes, it went awfully well. I did, ‘Out, out damned spot. . .’ No, I didn’t get in. So tell me, have you cast War and Peace yet? I can do a very authentic Russian accent . . . Whadaya mean—too old?”

  “Tiffany?”

  The waiters were clearing away the first course.

  “Tiffany?” My God—my old flame, John Harvey-Bell. The captain of the Fifteen and school Colossus. Except that his heroic luster was subsequently somewhat bedimmed by his unfortunate failure to get into Cambridge. But gosh, he was good-looking, though much of the muscle had turned to fat. I’d forgotten how blue his eyes were. Like Wedgwood, though his once-blond hair was now visibly tinged with gray. How typical of him to arrive during the main course. He was always late for everything—except a rugger match.

  “How are you, Tiffany?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I’m OK. Married. Four kids. Did medicine at Edinburgh. I’m in Harley Street now. The About Face Clinic for Cosmetic Surgery. What do you do?”

  “Advertising.”

  “Oh, I know—Only the Crumbliest Flakiest Chocolate etc., etc.” Funny that he should remember that one.

  “And are you married?” he asked as the sherry trifle arrived.

  “No. No. Too young.”

  “Ha! Quite. Well, here’s Walker—he’s single, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” said Nick, giving me what looked suspiciously like an adoring smile. “I’m single,” he repeated as he poured me a glass of port.

  “Now look, Harvey-Bell,” Tim Flowers shouted across the table. “Worthington and I want to know exactly what you got up to with Trotters in your study in Michaelmas term 1978.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” I said, passing the bottle to my left.

  “Did you or did you not—”

  “Bloody cheek!”

  “With Tiffany . . .”

  “Pur-leeze!”

  “And if you did, what was she—”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go and talk to Glen Fiddich,” I said. “Haven’t spoken to him all evening. Excuse me.”

  “Anyway,” said Worthington maliciously, “you’re all barking up the wrong tree, everyone knows that Trotters was in love with the Badger!” This stopped me dead in my tracks.

  “I was not in love with the headmaster,” I said. “Even though he was, admittedly, an extremely attractive, charismatic, cultivated, liberal and sensitive man.”

  “I remember the way you used to look at him in chapel,” said Worthington accusingly. “The rapture on your face when he strode up to the lectern in his gown. You were mad about him.”

  “I was not,” I said crisply. “I just admired him, that’s all.” This produced an explosion of mirth.

  “Well I admired the way he sacked me,” said Flowers, “just for a couple of kilos of hash—I ask you. It wasn’t even my fault. I was looking after it for my parents. I think it’s very good of me to come along to these dinners in the circumstances.”

  “Look, I really don’t want to discuss your substance abuse,” said Worthington drunkenly. “I want to know exactly what Harvey-Bell and Trotters got up to in his study in 1978.”

  This was pathetic. I was bored. No potential husbands here. And Lizzie was rolling her eyes and pointedly tapping the face of her watch. Time to go.

  “Oh don’t go yet,” said Nick. “Come to Annabel’s with us. Worthington’s a member.”

  “Well, maybe another time,” I said. “I want to get home—I’ve got some slogans to write. Bye, everybody.” I waved. “It was fun. Bye bye, John.”

  “Bye, Tiffany, nice to come across you again,” he said with an indolent smile. “And please don’t hesitate to give me a ring.”

  “A ring?”

  “Well, you know. I’d be delighted to give you a discount . . .”

  “Discount?”

  “Well, I could give you a very good rate on liposuction or a chin tuck.”

  “Oh, well that’s very generous of you.”

  “That offer goes for you too, Lizzie,” he said. “My boob lifts are pretty impressive.”

  “Thanks,” she said acidly.

  “Oh it’s nothing,” he added as he lit a Havana cigar. “Old school tie and all that.”

  “Well, we’ll certainly bear it in mind,” she said as she swept out of the dining room with a flourish of her devoré scarf.

  “Tiffany!” It was Nick. Running down the wide staircase after us.

  “Yes, Nick.”

  “Harvey-Bell didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. He’s a bit dim really—always was.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I know he meant it nicely.” But Lizzie was in no mood to be mollified. She stamped downstairs toward the cloakroom, leaving me with Nick.

  “I just wanted to say that I think you still look very young.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “No, really, just like you did at school. Only slimmer of course. Much.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, to me, you’ll always be sixteen.”

  “Well, that’s very sweet of you to say so.”

  “In fact, Tiffany—it’s been so nice running into you again. I wondered, I mean I know you’re very busy with your slogans and everything, but would you have dinner with me next week?”

  “What? Um. Well. Yes,” I stammered, “that would be lovely. Here’s my card. Er, give me a ring.”

  Two days later I came back from a walk on Highbury Fields to find the answer phone flashing at me frantically. My finger sprang onto the “Play” button. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Hello, Tiffany—ha ha ha ha! It’s um, Peter here.” Oh God, not him again. “It was so nice to bump into you the other day ha ha ha—how are you? I just wondered whether you’d like to have that game of ten—” I hit the fast forward button. Beep.

  “Hi, Tiffany.” It was Sally. Phoning from work. That was unusual. She never normally had time to make social calls from the office. “Tiffany,” she said calmly, above the babble of busy options traders. “Don’t you think life is just amazing? Don’t you think it’s wonderful? I know I do!” What on earth was she talking about? “I mean, I’d always thought that when it came to life’s journey I was a hopeless map reader,” she went on calmly. Oh God, she must be drunk! And it was only eleven-thirty. “But,” she added mysteriously, “I think I’ve just found the way.” Found the way? Oh! So that was it—she’d had a religious conversion. That would explain it. She’d been indoctrinated by some sect, though I didn’t think the Jehovah’s Witnesses could get up to the fifteenth floor of Chelsea Harbor. “I’m sure you’ll find the way too, Tiffany,” she concluded happily. “Bye for now!”

  Bizarre, I thought, as the tape wound forward for the next message. Her brain’s gone AWOL. All that slaving away in the City had finally taken its toll. Beep.

  “Tiffany!” It was Emma. Sounding distressed. Close to tears in fact. “Tiffany, don’t you think life is a complete bitch,” she said crossly. “Don’t you think that it’s all just horrible and messy. And aren’t men horrible too! With their beastly . . . complications!” she spat. “And never ringing when they say they will. Just thought I’d share that with you. Oh God I’m pissed off!” she added splenetically. “Sorry about this—just letting off steam here. And I can’t get hold of Frances—she’s in court all day. Anyway, can’t really talk now, I’m in the staff room. But give me a ring, will you?” Beep. What on earth was going on the
re? Beep. But the next call put Emma’s problems—whatever they were—right out of my mind.

  “Tiffany! Hi! It’s Nick.” Hooray! I’d really hoped he was going to ring. “Tiffany, how about that dinner—are you free on Thursday? Will you meet me at Orso’s? Only ring me back if you can’t make it, otherwise I’ll see you there.”

  On Thursday I put on my new Phase Eight silk dress which I’d bought specially for the occasion, and a modest amount of makeup, then found my way to Wellington Street. When I went downstairs to the restaurant the manager told me that Nick had already arrived. He stood up as I approached the table, smiled and then kissed me on the cheek.

  “Oh Tiffany, it’s so lovely to see you again,” he said happily as the waiter spread a large napkin over my lap. His evident warmth was terribly touching. And he looked gorgeous. He was wearing a dark gray, pure wool suit with a pale yellow tie and interesting-looking cufflinks. And he smelt nice, too. I smiled at him and felt myself transported back twenty years.

  “You were always so nice to me at school,” he said, pouring me a glass of Pouilly-Fumé. “Even though I was a little squit, then. But you used to make me toast and coffee when I came round with those notes from Harvey-Bell. Well, they weren’t really from Harvey-Bell,” he added quickly, and he blushed. “They were from me, actually. He was useless at English. In fact he hadn’t a clue. He didn’t even know that Hamlet was by Shakespeare! So I used to write them for him like Cyrano de Bergerac. You know, he didn’t deserve you, Tiffany,” he added seriously. I gazed at him. He was incredibly handsome. And he was thirty-three. Not such a big age gap really. I began to go through a list of famous men with older partners—Alfred Molina and Jill Gascoigne, Greg Wise and Emma Thompson, um . . . there must be others. Anyway, it’s not unusual, I thought to myself as I sipped my wine. What does it matter if a bloke’s a few years younger?

  “Did you enjoy the OD dinner?” Nick asked as our starter arrived—cured ham in aspic for him, tomato and mozzarella salad for me.

  “Yes, sort of,” I conceded. “It was just like being at school again!”

  “I go to those dinners every year,” he said.

  “Gosh, do you?”

  “Oh yes,” he said enthusiastically. “I mean, Downingham was such a wonderful place, wasn’t it?” he added with passionate sincerity.

  “Well, yes. I really enjoyed it. I mean—it was fun.”

  “The sight of the chapel on frosty mornings could bring tears to my eyes,” he went on sentimentally. “Even the memory of those awful dormitories can bring a lump to my throat. They were the best days of our lives, weren’t they?”

  “Um, well, I don’t know . . .” To be honest, I think my happiest time was at Bristol, so I decided to turn the conversation to other things. I found out about his family; he was an only child, like me, and his mother had died when he was at prep school.

  “My father lives in the States now,” he said. “I don’t see him very often.”

  “And tell me about Christie’s,” I said as our main course arrived. Smoked trout for him, pan-fried Dover sole for me.

  “Oh, it’s fine. The sales are fun. I’ve been there so long, Tiffany—fifteen years—you see I didn’t go to university. I went straight onto the Christie’s trainee course after school. Now,” he said with sudden animation, “do you remember when Courage House did The Government Inspector?”

  “Um, vaguely,” I began, racking my memory.

  “Oranjeboom had the main part,” Nick went on enthusiastically. “He was brilliant.”

  “Mmmm,” I began. “You must have a better memory than me, Nick, to be honest I can’t say I really remember it.”

  “And you were fantastic in that Chekhov,” he added. “God, I’ll never forget it. The Seagull.” His eyes appeared to mist over. I glanced at his cufflinks, they were two teardrop-shaped pieces of amber set in eighteen-carat gold.

  “And what sort of things do you do in your spare time?” I inquired.

  “Well, I do enjoy the odd game of tennis,” he said. Tennis? Ooh good.

  “Oh I love it too,” I said happily. “I like to play at least once a week.”

  He leant forward. “Do you remember when Watney won the public schools tournament?” No.

  “Um . . .”

  “God, he played like a demon. Slaughtered this chap from Harrow six-love, six-love.” Suddenly, a doubtful expression passed across his face. “Or was it six-love, six-two . . .”

  “And what else do you like to do when you’re not working?” I persisted as our desserts arrived. Chocolate ice cream for me, compote of preserved fruits for him.

  “Well, I’m very keen on cricket,” he said. “Oh Tiffany, wasn’t it funny when Tom Player bought a bull from the local cattle market and released it onto the Close during the house cricket final? Bloody funny,” he added, shaking his head with a gentle laugh.

  “Oh yes. Ha ha! Yes, it was,” I said.

  “Bloody funny,” he said again, with a grin. “We did get up to some jolly japes, didn’t we?” he went on happily. “I’ll never forget Roger Speed getting expelled for defecating out of a top window in Crack House while Sandeman stood in the quad below and caught it in a saucepan.”

  “Oh yes, I do remember that,” I said weakly, looking down at my ice cream.

  “Mind you, it was bloody dangerous,” Nick added seriously. “It was a very high window. I mean Sandeman could have been killed.”

  I glanced around the restaurant and realized what had been troubling me. There were no windows. It was below ground, so you couldn’t see out. There were just these white-tiled walls, and absolutely no view onto the street. I was glad the meal was coming to an end, I suddenly felt overcome by claustrophobia, in fact I was almost gasping for air.

  “Oh Tiffany, it’s been such fun seeing you again and talking about old times,” said Nick as he got the bill. “I’ll be away for most of December, I’ve got to spend two weeks in New York for work, and then I’m going to go up to New England to spend Christmas with my dad. So I won’t be able to see you again before January, but can I ring you early in the New Year?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That would be lovely.”

  “There are so many more things for us to talk about, Tiffany,” he said as he gallantly handed me into a cab. I pulled down the window. “So many things. Do you remember when . . .” he began.

  But the cab had already started to pull away.

  November Continued

  “I’ve made a conquest,” I said to Kate over the phone the following morning. “Nick Walker. He’s adorable.”

  “Adorable? Oh—that means you’re not really interested,” she said.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I am. He’s terribly nice. And very good looking. But he’s rather young. He’s only thirty-three.”

  “But Tiffany, that’s nothing. My mother is seven years older than my father and Mike’s nine years younger than me.” Oh yes, of course, her new chap, Mike, the Man from the Ministry. He’s working in London now, and Kate’s very keen.

  “Age gaps really don’t matter,” she went on. “Personally I like younger men, I keep telling you that. And they’re much better for—”

  “Kate,” I interjected. “I like Nick a lot. He’s very nice. But I’m just not sure. We’ve only had one date.”

  “Well, are you going to see him again?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But not until the New Year. So I’m not going to think about him until then. Now where shall I meet you tonight?”

  “Let’s meet at the gallery,” she said. “It’s just off Piccadilly. I’ll see you there at a quarter to seven.”

  I knew nothing about the Oscar Reeds gallery except that it specialized in conceptual art. And although I’m really not keen on that kind of thing—in fact I hate it—it would at least be. well, interesting, and Kate and I were both looking forward to seeing Eric again. He was nice. He was good looking. He was obviously set for artistic success. Perhaps I ought to try and fall
for Eric, I thought to myself as I passed Hatchards. Maybe I could be his muse, and in a few years’ time, when he’s famous, art critics would acknowledge my influence on his work, just as they acknowledge the influence of Françoise Gilot on Picasso, or of Camille Claudel on Rodin. And in newspaper interviews Eric would say things like, ‘Of course, I owe it all to Tiffany. Without her I’d be lost. I’d be nothing. She’s my inspiration. She’s the source of all my creativity, just as the mountain stream is the source of the sea.’ Ye-es. Perhaps I should pay a little attention to Eric, I thought. Anyway, now that Seriously Successful has found himself a gorgeous brunette to be his bit on the side, I can go out with anyone I like. Anyone. At. All. How could Seriously Successful do that? I thought to myself bitterly as I passed Fortnum and Mason. Oh no—more beastly Christmas decorations. And it’s only November. And I hate November—it’s such an incredibly long month, it goes on for ever. I mean how could Seriously Successful be so fickle—just because I turned him down? That didn’t give him the right to look at other women. Bastard. What a pity I have to come to Piccadilly so often, I reflected. Where Seriously Successful lives. With his glamorous neighbors, such as Alan Clark. Maybe Alan Clark’s to blame, I thought bitterly. Leading Seriously Successful astray. Teaching him a few tricks in the infidelity department. Wonder what Seriously Successful’s flat’s like, I thought. Wonder what he’s doing right now. Wonder whether he still thinks about me. God I wish he lived in Pinner rather than Piccadilly, then I could forget him more easily.

  Kate was already waiting outside the Oscar Reeds gallery, and we went in together. It was thronging. What a crowd! Very . . . male. Very . . . urban. Ooh! Lots of pierced noses and studs in eyebrows and shaven heads and Doc Martens.

  “Hello you two!” said Eric, giving us both a kiss. “Really glad you could come. Go and get yourselves a drink and then come and talk to me.”

  “We’ll be right back,” I replied, moving into flirt mode. “Now, don’t you go away!”

  A forty-something man with floppy blond hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a very fat behind was standing by a table on which there were some bottles and glasses. He ignored me completely.