by Isabel Wolff
I shuddered. “Oh him—he was so camp. It was embarrassing. Everyone thought he was gay.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I remember that now. But then Alex was a bit . . . limp, too.”
“Yes, he was.” Oh yes.
“Darling. Why do you keep going out with pathetic men like that? I really don’t understand it.”
“It’s a pattern,” I said, putting down my plate. “I go out with a bastard who behaves like a complete bastard. And then I react to that by going out with a wimp who behaves like a total wimp.”
“Well, I should try and break that cycle,” she said sensibly.
“I agree. Kristin Scott Thomas had the same problem,” I added as I unhooked a cracked bauble from the Christmas tree. “She said in an interview that she used to go for men who were ‘either cads or bastards, or ones who weren’t interested in girls.’ So I’m not alone. Well I am alone actually,” I added as I rearranged the tinsel. “But you know what I mean.”
“Now, what about that nice little boy who used to partner you at dancing classes?”
“That was thirty years ago, Mum.”
“And Brian Docherty?”
“Dead.”
“Oh yes. Oh dear. Well, are you sure you’re not overlooking anyone from your past, Tiffany? You did have such a lot of friends, I’m sure there must be someone you once knew who might want to get in touch with you again.”
“Don’t think so, Mum. Sorry.”
“Oh darling, why didn’t you want to marry Kit?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you, Tiffany?” said Dad.
On New Year’s Eve I was shuffling down Oxford Street, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other shoppers and trying not to succumb to pavement rage. But people kept treading on my toes, and walking right into me, or inadvertently bashing me with their shiny carrier bags. And it was impossible to do more than one mile an hour—you simply had to go with the slow, human flow. And all I wanted was just one thing, and it didn’t even have to be in the sale—a simple cocktail dress in which to welcome in the New Year. But where would I find it? Red “Sale” signs were plastered on every window, like wounds. “Forty percent off!” announced the signs in Selfridges. “Universal Savings!” said D.H. Evans. I decided to try Monsoon, and I was just inching my way toward it amidst the barrage of bargain-hunters, when a man attempted to thrust a leaflet into my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can speak English already.”
“It’s not for a language school,” he said with an enigmatic little smile, “it’s for something much more interesting.” What could he mean? I took one, and glanced at it as I walked along. Single? it said in bold type at the top. It was for something called Captivate. Do you have someone special in your life? it asked.
“No,” I said.
Do you feel that you will always be alone? it inquired.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
Do you find it difficult to meet lots of stimulating new single people?
“Yes again,” I said.
Do you want to remain on the bottom rung of life’s Romantic Ladder?
“No,” I thought. “I don’t.”
Well then, don’t leave it to chance—choose! With Captivate. Join us and you’ll meet your match.
Inside was a questionnaire, and a postage-free address to which it should be returned. Don’t leave it to chance—choose! Don’t leave it to chance—choose! But then you hear such awful things about introduction agencies, don’t you? They take your money and then go into liquidation; they promise you hundreds of eligible people, most of whom turn out to have two heads. They sell their mailing list on to commercial companies, leaving you with a lifetime’s supply of junk mail. Introduction agency? You have got to be joking! I thought, as I fought my way into John Lewis. That really is scraping the bottom of the barrel. I mean, answering a lonely hearts ad is one thing, I said to myself as I stepped onto the escalator. Going to a singles event—well that’s OK, too. Perfectly acceptable. If not normal. Gosh, seventy-five percent off evening wear. But joining an introduction agency is for the Seriously Sad. Not the Seriously Successful. Because the Seriously Successful—well, they don’t need it, do they? Nope. Agencies are for sad, sad people, I thought as I went up to the fourth-floor café. They’re for pathetic inadequates and hopeless losers. They’re for people who are so unattractive, so desperately dreary and unappealing, that they bloody well deserve to be single, I decided as I queued for a cup of tea. They’ve brought it upon themselves by being boring and ugly, I reflected as I sat down at a vacant table. Yes. It’s awfully sad for them, but they’ve only got themselves to blame. And then I opened my bag, took out my pen and carefully filled in the form.
“New Year resolutions!” yelled Sally as we stood on her balcony, watching the fireworks up-river at Tower Bridge explode into the velvety sky.
“I’m going to do something reckless!” said Emma drunkenly, as we heard the first chimes of Big Ben. Bong! “And I’m going to land myself in trouble!”
“I’m going to dumb down,” said Frances. Bong!
“I’m going to drink too much!” said Catherine.
“And I’m going to take drugs,” said Hugh. Bong!
“I’m going to be a counselor,” said Lizzie, as she filled our glasses with Taittinger. Bong! “So I’ll be able to sort you all out.”
“And I’m going to have a baby!” said Sally, whose stomach was by now decidedly swollen. Bong!
“That’s cheating!” shouted Emma. “That’s a life event, not a resolution. Try again!”
“Er. OK. Um . . .” Bong! “. . . I’m going to give more money to charity.” Bong!
“I’m going to exercise more,” said Frances. Bong!
“I’m going to recycle my bottles!” said Emma. Bong!
“I’m going to stop thinking about Seriously Successful,” I said. Bong!
“I’m going to start thinking about my husband,” said Lizzie giving Martin a kiss. Bong!
“I’m going to paint the shed,” he replied.
“And I’m going to join an introduction agency,” I added. Bong!
“Happy New Year everyone!” we said simultaneously, as we kissed and hugged and chinked glasses. “Happy New Year. Happy New Year!”
The others shivered and retreated inside. But I stayed on the balcony for a few minutes, watching the Thames flowing strong and dark below; and I thought, well, maybe it will be a happy New Year—after all, a year’s a long time.
January
Why oh why oh why do I keep dreaming about Canary Wharf? And the Lloyds Tower? And sometimes, but less frequently, Centre Point? I just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about Phil Anderer again, and so tall buildings are on my mind. Not that his were very tall, you understand. Quite low, actually. Conversions and extensions, rather than anything which scaled the heights. I mean I wouldn’t exactly have put him in the Norman Foster or Terry Farrell league. And what would he have built for me? A broken home. Mind you, to be fair, his knowledge of building regulations was extremely comprehensive. But I have found myself thinking about Phil Anderer lately, because, of course, it’s all his fault. Because if he hadn’t wasted my time, and then dumped me, I would not be in this situation now. I would not now be on the verge of having to join an introduction agency where I will be forced to meet, and quite possibly marry, some very, very sad, unattractive and abysmally unsuccessful people. Yes. It’s all Phillip’s fault.
Mum doesn’t agree. “It isn’t his fault,” she said over the phone this morning. “He was just being—himself. It’s your fault for going out with him in the first place. You had a choice.”
“Well, it’s Alex’s fault then,” I said. “He wasted my time, too.”
“Darling, you wasted your own time—that’s what you don’t realize. Because you didn’t have to stay with either of them, and if you’d left them earlier, as you should have done, then you might by now have found someone far more suitable. But you di
dn’t, you chose to stay. Sometimes I suspect you don’t really want to get married at all, Tiffany.”
“Oh no, no that’s not true!”
“Well, please would you stop going on about Phillip and Atex—it’s very boring for me, and it’s bad for you. They’re old news now. Anyway, would you seriously want to have married either of them?”
“No,” I said, “but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“The point is that they should have wanted to marry me!”
“Thank goodness they didn’t, Tiffany,” she said quietly. “Now, will you please pull yourself together. You’re feeling nervous, that’s what this is about.”
Mum was right. I was. Extremely nervous. Because I was about to take the plunge. Join Captivate. They would have had my form by now. They would be contacting me to come in and see them for an interview. My stomach was tied up in knots. The butterflies were as big as birds. I mean, the artifice of it—being match-made. Having to acknowledge failure. Defeat. The lack of a bloke. Relying on some outside agency to do the trick for me when Fate, and God, had failed. How totally abject. How humiliating. What a bloody climbdown. And my God—if anyone knew—it would be mortifying. Terrible. Deeply, deeply embarrassing. But then, on the other hand, introduction agencies aren’t such a big deal. After all, every religious culture had its matchmaker—they were a vital part of the community. And did not Dr. Johnson himself say that he believed all marriages should be arranged, on the orders of the Lord Chancellor, without either party having any say in the matter? And these days, it’s so common. I mean, everyone’s doing it. Everyone. I can think of at least . . . um . . . well, nobody actually, because people don’t really talk about it, do they? They keep it quiet. Can’t say I blame them. Who’d want to admit to it? I know I certainly wouldn’t. Absolutely not. No way. Not that it’s a big deal or anything, and in fact there’s something rather romantic about being set up with someone by a concerned third party. A fairy godmother. Or father. A wave of whose magic wand might bring untold happiness into one’s utterly sad, pathetic and desolate life. I mean, if I was buying a house I’d go to an estate agent, wouldn’t I? I’d get professional help. If I was buying a car—not that I would of course, with their horrible, poisonous fumes, and anyway what’s wrong with the number 38?—but if I was, then I’d ask an expert to help me choose it. And if I was looking for a bloke—well, I can get professional help for that too. Because I’m not going to leave something as important as my choice of life partner to the vagaries of Fate or the whim of God.
Anyway, I read the other day that Mel Gibson met his wife through an introduction agency. And he’s been happily married ever since. At least, I think he has. I don’t think he’s been divorced. That’s Harrison Ford isn’t it? Is Mel Gibson still on his first marriage? Don’t know. Must check. But if an introduction agency is good enough for Mel, it’s certainly good enough for me. Wonder if Prince Edward met Sophie Rhys-Jones through an introduction agency? He probably did. Perhaps it was the very same one. And I bet that’s how Jerry Hall met Mick. Anyway, I’m really looking forward to getting started at Captivate, and, well, cracking on with it.
“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” said Kate. “I really do.” I was at her flat in Maida Vale while she demonstrated to me the benefits of the Mediwave “Take Five” nonsurgical face-lift machine. She’s just bought one: £250. Frankly I find it all a bit alarming.
“It only takes five minutes,” she said as she attached four pairs of electrodes to her face. “That’s why it’s called ‘Take Five.’ Isn’t that a good name?”
“Brilliant,” I said. “But take care.”
“Now, what you do is to connect these pads here to the main facial muscle groups. Like this.” She looked like Frankenstein’s monster as she sat on the sofa, trailing wires. Then she threw the switch on the unit, and suddenly her face began to twitch.
“I’m passing a current through the . . . zygomaticus muscles now,” she said, as her cheeks began to jump. “They’re the upper cheek muscles. I’m also going to concentrate on my . . . naso-labials because I’m a bit . . . worried about those. No, I think joining a . . . dating agency is a wonderful idea,” she continued in the two-second gaps between spasm-inducing bursts of electricity. “I may do it myself one . . . day if it doesn’t work out with . . . Mike. Basically, this is a workout for the face,” she continued. “I mean we . . . exercise the muscles in our arms and legs . . . don’t we?” she said. “And this . . . works on the same principle.” She tweaked the dial. “I’m just going to . . . increase the contractions by upping the . . . ampage a bit,” she added. This time her cheeks and upper lips didn’t just twitch, they convulsed, the muscles above her eyes contracting with a force to rival that of Herbert Lom in The Pink Panther or John Tusa in his Newsnight days.
“I think I’ve got the idea,” I said, “but I find it quite hard to talk to you.”
“Not much longer . . . Tiffany . . . hang on.” Suddenly the machine emitted a high-pitched whine to indicate the end of the session. Kate removed the pads, leaving hectic red spots where the current had stimulated the skin. “My face,” she said with an air of triumph, “has just done the equivalent of a half marathon followed by a couple of sets of tennis. Do you think I look younger?”
“Yes,” I said truthfully, “I do.”
“Do you think I look twenty-eight?” she said. “Like Mike?”
“Well. Yes. Probably. But Kate, why are you doing it? You don’t need it.”
“Because now that I’ve got a man it’s more important than ever to preserve my looks.”
“Yes, but Mike knows your age, doesn’t he?” Silence. “Doesn’t he?”
“Not yet,” she said judiciously. “He thinks I’m thirty. If it gets serious, and I think it might, then obviously I’ll tell him, but I’m just, you know, trying to keep the flesh all nice and firm. And of course it’s far too early for a facelift,” she said. “I mean, knife begins at forty.”
“If he really likes you, then he won’t mind the fact that you’re a few years older,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” she said, “I know. Anyway,” she added, “if it doesn’t work out with Mike then I’ll do what you’re going to do. When do you join?”
“Quite soon. They’re going to give me a call.”
The call came the following morning.
“Miss Trott?”
“Yes. Hallo. That’s me,” I said.
“Well, hallooo, Miss Trott. My name is Stuuaaart,” said a male voice. Who on earth was this? “I’m from Capteevate Personal Introductions.”
“Oh. Yes. Hallo,” I said again.
“Thank you for your appleecation,” he droned, “and I am deelighted to be able to tell yew that yew qualify for an introductoree interview.”
“Oh. Good . . .”
“So, we would like yew to come and see us at our London office,” he continued. “May I suggest this Monday?”
“Oh, Well. I’d like to know a little bit more about it over the phone first,” I said.
“Oh, I do not fink that will be necessary becorse it’s much more better for you to meet with one of our executeeve consultants.”
“But there are things I need to ask . . .”
“Becorse, Miss Trott, you are obviously looking for a qualitee eligibew gentewman,” he added. “End we have many such male members on our register.”
“OK, but for example how—”
“You are obviously a very busy and successful lay-dee,” he added.
“Er, yes, I suppose I am,” I said.
“And you have reached an age where all your friends are married.”
“Well, no. Not all of them, actually.”
“They are all marreed,” he continued happily, “and you find it hard to meet quality single people like yourself.”
“Er. Well, yes.”
“And so you have decided to come to us. You are a casualty of the serciety what we live in.”
“How much does it cost?” I got in quickly.
“Ooh! We cannot divulge that information over the phone,” he said.
“Why not?” There was a momentary hesitation at the other end.
“Becorse there are many levews of membership,” he replied.
“Oh. I see. But, you know, roughly—just a ballpark figure would do.” I persisted breezily, as my hackles continued to rise.
“But that is impossible,” he insisted. “Becorse there are several levews of membership.”
“Yes, yes I know. You just said that.”
“And we would have to choose one that would be appropriate for you.”
“Why couldn’t I choose it?” I asked.
“Becorse it would not be appropriate,” he replied. “I reely do suggest that you make an appointment with us today to come in at your earliest convenience.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m not going to make any such appointment unless you can give me some clear idea over the phone, now, as to what it’s likely to cost.”
“I’m afraid it would not be appropriate for me to tell yew that.”
“I really don’t see why,” I said.
“Becorse we never deescuss fees over the phone.”
“But I still don’t understand why you can’t say, within certain parameters, how much your company charges,” I insisted.
“Well, becorse it depends on so many things,” he said. “We never deescuss fees before meeting our clients.”
“Well, I think you should,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I think you should,” I reiterated crisply.
“Why should we?” he said defensively.
“Because it’s extremely helpful for potential clients to know beforehand how much money they’re going to be in for,” I said firmly. “I mean, one hears some awful stories about cowboy agencies who take thousands of pounds from innocent people and then—”
“Miss Trott—are yew normally as bad-tempered as this?” he suddenly said.
“I am never bad-tempered,” I hissed.