by Isabel Wolff
“Becorse if you are I can understand a few things . . . I can understand why you’re not marr—” I put the phone down. Breathing heavily. Oooooohh. Hummmmmmmmm. Oooooooohhhh. Hummmmmmm. Dammmmmmmn.
“Captivate sound like a bunch of wankers,” said Sally succinctly, when I met her for the post-Christmas yoga class on the fourth of January. “You’ll have to do some research if you’re going to do this thing properly,” she added. “You mustn’t fall into the kind of trap that you fell into with Seriously Successful. You’re got to know what’s what.”
“I know.”
“You hear dreadful stories about dating agencies.”
“I know that, too.”
“You ought to ring the professional body and get them to recommend a couple. I’m sure there must be an association of some kind.”
“Brilliant idea,” I said. “Oh, hello, Jessie.”
“Hallooooo,” she crooned. We stepped inside the house, for the weekly heavy breathing session. This time it was, “Oooh oooh oooh—aaah aaah aaah—oooh oooh oooh—aah aah aaah,”—I thought I was going to faint from hyperventilation. And then we went back to humming.
“These breathing exercises will teach you all how to be calm and accepting during childbirth,” said Jessica as the entire class hummed away—unfortunately not in harmony. “Purposeful humming noises will help to channel the pain of labor and bring your baby closer to you.” Some women closed their eyes beatifically while they hummed and breathed. Sally kept hers open. Then it was time for the cat position—on all fours.
“How are you feeling?” said Lesley to Sally during the herbal tea break.
“Oh I’m fine,” she said. “Sailing through it, so far at least. How are you?” This triggered a ten-minute monologue about morning sickness, wind, appalling indigestion, varicose veins, bloated feelings, pains in the wrist, insomnia, and constipation.
“You poor thing,” said Sally sympathetically. I glanced at Lesley’s partner, Pat. She was big, rather than big with child, and she seemed, for some inexplicable reason, to latch on to me.
“I don’t let Lesley carry the shopping,” she boomed at me manfully, as we made our way down Ronalds Road after the class. “I’m not having it. I keep telling her that she’s got to take it easy. I bring her breakfast in bed every morning,” she went on, “and I make her put her feet up on the sofa for at least two hours a day. Now, she thinks I fuss over her too much,” she told me confidentially, “but I’m not having her straining herself. She’s carrying our precious baby. Are you the same with Sally?”
“Sorry? Oh no. I mean, we’re just friends. I’m just helping, really,” I said. “Lending moral support. That’s all.”
“Of course you are!” she said with a loud laugh. “No need to be embarrassed, Tiffany,” she added, slapping a brawny arm around my left shoulder. “Did you see that excellent program on car maintenance last night?”
That afternoon I looked in the phone book, found the British Association of Introduction Agencies and gave them a ring. A friendly woman gave me a list of the association’s members, with telephone numbers, and I decided to try three. The first one was the Ruby Penhaligon Personal Introductions Agency. Established since 1940. That sounded quite good—it had been going a long time, and the emphasis, said an assistant, was on marriage.
“Although it’s not a marriage bureau as such, our clients are almost all looking for marriage,” said a pleasant-sounding woman over the phone. “Shall I book you in for an appointment with Miss Penhaligon?”
“Miss?” I said.
“Yes. Miss,” she said, with a little laugh.
The following Wednesday I went over to Primrose Hill for the interview. The agency was in a narrow, flat-fronted house in a square just off Regent’s Park Road. I waited in the hall downstairs, and was then shown up a winding wooden staircase to a large sitting room, furnished in forties chintz, with lots of pretty objects on occasional tables. It looked rather inviting, with a reassuringly old-fashioned air, though Ruby Penhaligon herself looked a little forbidding. Tall and slim, she had a distinctly teacherly air. I felt as though I was being called in to see the headmistress after a particularly disappointing report.
“You may wonder, Miss Trott, why I’m not married myself,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Oh no, no, no,” I lied.
“Well, you see, my fiancé died . . .”
“Oh, I am sorry.”
“. . . in a car crash in 1955, and I was therefore prevented from entering into holy matrimony myself. But I am exceedingly gifted at helping others into that happy estate.” Oh good. Perhaps she could help me, then. I glanced round the room. It was very low-tech. No computer screens. No telephone switchboards. Just this pleasant-looking sexagenarian with a ring binder.
“Now, Miss Trott, please do tell me about your obviously very unhappy past,” she said, with an expression of sympathetic concern. Oh gosh. Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it like that.
“I wasted a lot of time on a couple of complete tossers,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I said, “Commitophobes. Two of them. That was the problem. Not simultaneously, of course,” I added hastily.
“Oh dear me, dear me, a common problem,” she said, shaking her head so vigorously that I thought the hairpins were going to fly out of her auburn-tinted hair. “A very common problem. But Miss Trott, you will be pleased to know that the gentlemen who come to me are not commitophobes. They are, in fact, commitophiles.”
“Oh, good,” I said.
“They actively wish to marry,” she said, fingering the lace collar of her pin-tucked cotton blouse. “And they know that they can trust me to match them up appropriately.” Well that sounded all right. In fact it sounded jolly good. Visions of hundreds of men, all proffering Posh Spice-sized engagement rings, swam before my eyes.
“How do you match people up?” I enquired as I sipped my Earl Grey.
“Intuition,” she replied, tapping her temple with her left fore-finger. “And, of course, forty years’ experience as a professional matchmaker. Some of these newer, you know—dating agencies—” she enunciated with delicate disdain, “—are extremely unreliable and frankly dangerous organizations. With their computers and their databases and I don’t know what! Now, I don’t use photographs,” she added, “because in my experience looks are, well, very, very subjective.” Are they? I wasn’t quite sure about that. Pierce Brosnan is, for example, an objectively fantastic-looking bloke, and Winona Ryder is, objectively, one of the prettiest actresses in the world. Subjective? No. Alarm bells began to ring. No photos? If I was to become one of their clients I think I’d much prefer to see who she might be setting me up with. And surely they would, too.
“You would look on me as a friend,” Miss Penhaligon was saying, “a wise intermediary with only your best interests at heart.”
“And how much do you charge?” I inquired.
“A thousand pounds.” A thousand!
“And, um, how many suitable chaps might you, um, have, on your, um books?” I asked.
“Register, Miss Trott. Please call it a register.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She opened the ring binder. It contained a thin sheaf of typed notes.
“Well—for someone like you, intelligent and successful, there would be just a few introductions,” she said.
“Oh,” I said, placing my teacup on a small mahogany side table. “Only a few?”
“Yes,” she said. “Just a few. Because of course, Miss Trott, your age—it is a problem.”
“A problem? Oh.”
“Yes, you see, most men, in fact I would say, the majority of men, want a woman of thirty-five or under. So I think we may have a difficulty here.”
“But my friends tell me I’m attractive.”
“Oh yes, Miss Trott. Indeed you are. But that’s not the point, is it, Miss Trott? The point is not that you are intelligent, successful and attractive. The point is that you are over thirty-five and men don’t wish to meet—”
“But not all men are so narrow-minded,” I interjected, feeling a combination of disappointment and growing irritation. “Can I just ask you how many men you have on your books, I mean, register?”
“Oh, Miss Trott, I’m afraid I could not possibly divulge that,” she said, fiddling with her teaspoon.
“Oh. In that case, could you tell me, just for argument’s sake, who you might match me up with, you know, in theory.”
“Well,” she said, rustling the bits of paper. “I do have one charming chap. Very nice. Very successful. He’s a chartered accountant aged forty-one. But . . .”
“But what?” I said.
“Well, he is, very . . .” I leaned forward in my chintz-covered chair.
“Very what?” I said.
“Very, fat,” she whispered. Then she said, “Do you mind fat men, Miss Trott?”
“Er. I’ve never given it much thought, to be honest,” I said. “How fat is he exactly?” I mean, are we talking Robbie Coltrane here?
She shifted uneasily. “Well, very fat, actually,” she said quietly. “Very fat.” Oh.
“Well, to be frank I think that might be a problem,” I said. “You see I’m rather keen on tennis.”
“But Pavarotti plays tennis, Miss Trott.”
“Oh yes. So he does. But to be perfectly honest I think I’ll give fatso a miss,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I said, “Do you have anyone else?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” she said animatedly. “Another charming man. He’s a financial journalist. Now, he’s a very interesting fellow and he has excellent genes—for example his ninety-three-year-old father still goes hill-walking.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. And then I thought, ninety-three? “Er, how old is this chap that you’ve just mentioned?”
She gave me what I thought was a nervous sort of smile. “Fifty-two.” Fifty-two.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, I think that’s rather a large age gap, actually. Fifteen years. I really don’t think I’d want to marry someone of fifty-two. Unless he was very good-looking, of course, but even then it wouldn’t be ideal. Is he good-looking?” I inquired.
“Looks are so subjective,” she said again, with an ingratiating but slightly anxious smile.
“Well, I don’t really think they are. Could you possibly describe him?”
She brushed an imaginary crumb off her dirndl skirt and then nervously sipped her tea. “Well . . . he’s medium height, and he doesn’t have a lot of hair, and he is rather thin I suppose, well . . . very thin, actually. But I’m sure he’d love to meet you,” she added.
“But to be honest, I’m not sure I’d want to meet him,” I said.
“Yes, but he’s very keen to marry again,” she said.
“Yes, but I’d have to find him appealing,” I replied, “and from what you say I don’t believe I would.”
“And he wants to have more children, Miss Trott. He’s only got one.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said firmly, “but I just don’t think he sounds right for me.”
“Yes, but Miss Trott, at your age . . .” she said with an expression of excessive sympathy.
“Look,” I said, “I might as well go down the sperm bank if this is the best you can do.” Actually I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Well, it’s been interesting meeting you, but I think I’m going to have to give this some very careful thought. Thank you for the tea,” I added, and then turned to find my way out. But as my fingers clasped the worn, brass doorknob, Ruby gave a delicate little cough.
“Miss Trott? Aren’t you forgetting something?” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“I think you’ve forgotten,” she whispered coyly.
“Forgotten what?”
“The fee, Miss Trott. The fee.”
Oh. Of course, the twenty-five quid upfront just for the privilege of meeting her. It had completely slipped my mind. I quickly wrote out a check and left. Then I crossed over Regent’s Park Road, walked to the top of Primrose Hill and took in the view. I sat on one of the Victorian benches with the stiff breeze blowing my hair, and surveyed the scene below. The whole of London was spread beneath my feet—from Battersea Power Station in the west, to Canary Wharf in the east, and the lights were beginning to glint and shine and blink in the gathering dusk. And out there, I knew for a fact, were slightly more single men than single women. Hundreds of thousands of them. Several football stadia-full in fact, and all I wanted, all I needed—was one. Surely I deserved better than an obese forty-something and a thin, bald man of fifty-two? Yes, I said to myself, I do.
January Continued
Poor Phil Anderer. I almost feel sorry for him. It must have been such a shock. That supermarket, collapsing like that. Killing 500 unsuspecting consumers. And he was so proud of that building. It was a two-year project, and he was the chief architect on it. It was his biggest professional break. Literally. The worst damage was in the root vegetable section, which was particularly crowded that day due to a special offer on Spanish parsnips. He’s been charged, of course. With professional negligence. And I doubt that even his detailed knowledge of building regulations is going to be of much help to him now. Anyway, there he was, sitting in jail, having been refused bail, and feeling pretty low when, to make matters worse, he picked up an old copy of OK! from mid-December. And he was just flicking through it, trying to distract himself from his appalling problems by reading about “Princess Stephanie and the New Man in Her Life” when he suddenly caught his breath. In “Caroline’s Society Diary” on page sixty-five he saw a photograph headlined, “Celebs Turn Out in Force at Oscar Reeds Gallery in W1.” And underneath the picture of Richard Branson and Charles Saatchi there was a photo captioned, “Celebrated ITN reporter Mungo Brown with award-winning copywriter Miss Tiffany Trott.” And Mungo had his arm round me, in a gently proprietorial fashion, and luckily, it was a very good photo of us both. Poor Phillip. That must have been very tough for him—seeing that, at such a time. I really felt sorry for him. So much so that I was just planning to take him a pile of old Hello! magazines to help him pass the time when I suddenly woke up. Damn. But it was a great way to start the day. It really cheered me up, in fact. Because of course, it’s all Phil Anderer’s fault. I don’t care what Mum says. I blame him.
“Yes Phillip, it’s all your fault,” I said to myself as I made my way to the Destiny Dating Agency in Wandsworth a couple of days after my meeting with Ruby Penhaligon. “You, Phillip, are entirely to blame.” I had dressed neatly, in a sharp little navy suit and my best winter coat, which barely kept out the biting cold. The weather has turned Siberian. It makes it quite hard to work, actually, as my heating isn’t very reliable. I sit upstairs in my study, wrapped up to the nines—granny pants, thermal vest and long johns, three cardigans, scarf, hat, mittens—the works—writing brochure copy for Cox and King’s Namibian Odyssey and trying to imagine what thirty-five degrees of desert heat feels like. I mean it was so cold this morning that my lip gloss had frozen over—I had to break the ice on it with a flossing stick. Anyway, there I was, making my way down Wandsworth High Street and looking for Destiny and not doing very well, because of course these places don’t exactly have their names up in large flashing neon letters. But, eventually, I found it, and got myself buzzed in. At the top of the stairs a friendly-looking blonde woman of about forty-five was waiting to greet me.
“Hello Tiffany—I’m Gabriella,” she said. “I run the agency. Do come in. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She was terribly nice. She put me at my ease. Some of my anxiety evaporated, because naturally it’s quite nerve-racking doing this kind of thing: putting yourself on the line; rendering an account of yourself and your romantic failures to a complete stranger who may, or may not, be able to help. Anyway, I really liked her. The vibes were good. And the initial consultation was free.
“I’m sure we can help you, Tiffany,” she said after about fifteen minutes of general chat.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been told elsewhere that I’m too old.”
She gave a derisive snort. “That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she said. “You’re just the right age, and you’re very attractive. You’re absolutely fine.”
“I think I love you,” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I just said, “Well, that’s an enormous relief.”
“Now, I do need to know a bit about your history, Tiffany.” Three and a half hours later, I’d finished telling her all about my past unhappy relationships. She was such a good listener.
“But it was the Bellville Sassoon ball gown that really got me down,” I concluded. “Though Alex was, at least, quite a nice person,” I added, so that she would think me fair-minded.
“Well from what you’ve told me he sounds like a closet gay,” she said. I rather liked the forthright way in which she said this, though to be honest it wasn’t something I had ever really given much thought, although there were times when Alex and I went out together, when I had felt like attaching a label to my back saying, “My Other Boyfriend’s a Man!”
“Now, what I’m going to do,” said Gabriella, “is to let you go through the files, to see for yourself the kind of men this agency attracts. They’re all well-educated, professional men, who are looking for a committed relationship. We don’t have an emphasis on marriage here,” she continued, “but it’s safe to say that everyone is looking for a permanent relationship, and that very often does mean marriage.” Then she got down four enormous ring binder files which were bulging with men’s profiles in plastic sleeves. Gosh—there were hundreds of them—this was a far cry from Miss Penhaligon and her unhappy few.
“I’ll leave you alone with these for at least, well, thirty minutes,” said Gabriella, glancing at her watch. “Do give me a shout if you need any further information.”
Gosh, she was so nice. So charming. I felt quite at ease as I happily flicked through all the forms. This was so encouraging. Really, really encouraging. And there were photos. Now, that’s absolutely critical, I thought to myself. You’ve got to see what the person looks like. Anyway, there I was, happily going through the A-F file, when this funny thing happened. I saw someone I knew. Sam Clarke. He’d been at primary school with me. I’d never liked him much. He was rather aggressive. He used to pinch me in the playground. And now, here he was, at Destiny. His profile said he was an electronics engineer, divorced with three children, and that he liked motorbikes and hard rock. His face hadn’t changed that much, but his hair was almost entirely gray. Gosh. Oh well. Small world, isn’t it? And then I flicked through the G-M section and this time I spotted someone else I recognized—Sandy Ritts, a former colleague of Phillip’s and, frankly, a bit of a wimp. In fact he’d rung me a few times after Phillip dropped me, but I’d managed to wriggle out of it. I’d never found him attractive, and his photo was at least ten years out of date, I noticed indignantly. Then I turned over a few more pages, and there were some quite nice-looking chaps who were accountants, solicitors and teachers, that kind of thing. And then I went through the N-R file and saw someone else I knew. Mike Shaw. An account executive at Gurgle Gargle Peggoty, who I’d worked with seven years before. He was all right, but A Bit of a One, as they say. And then I turned to the last file, S-Z, and I’d hardly got a third of the way through when I found myself staring at a very familiar photo. And the reason why it was so familiar was because I possessed a copy of it too. In fact it was the one I had sent to Eric the artist, with a sticker over Alex’s face. It was of us both at Glyndebourne, standing on the lawn, by the ha-ha. And I remembered how much Alex had liked it, and it was indeed a nice one of him. And here it was, with me cut out of it, of course, though you could just make out a tiny bit of my blue satin skirt. I was gobsmacked. Alex! Who had said he never wanted to marry anyone, ever. Alex—who had said he didn’t want a woman “messing up his things.” Alex—who had said he couldn’t stand the thought of babies. Alex, who had dumped me on my birthday. Alex, who had totally wasted nine whole months of my entire life! A tsunami of surprise mingled with nausea swept over me, leaving me gasping for air. Good God! Of all the dating agencies in all the towns in all the world . . . why was he doing this? Parental pressure, almost certainly—his two younger brothers are married and I knew his mother was always dropping hints about him “settling down.” I peered at his profile. “What sort of partner would you like to meet?” it said. Now, for most people this seemed to be the key question. So they tended to answer it quite fully, and specifically. They’d say, for example: “I’d like to meet someone bright, confident, socially skilled, kindhearted, affectionate and yet independent too.” That kind of thing. Or, they might put, “I’d like to meet someone aged up to thirty-eight, a nonsmoker, who will share my enthusiasm for ten-pin bowling and ceroc.” Or they might say, “I’d like to meet someone, preferably without children, who is prepared to travel with me on business from time to time and help me entertain clients.” That way, you get a very strong idea of what that other person is looking for. But Alex just wrote, “Surprise me!” Surprise me! What was that supposed to mean? I felt like annotating that section of his profile. In fact I felt like crossing out “Surprise me!” and writing down “A man!” I stared at his photo—he was in his dinner jacket which had the advantage, from his point of view, of disguising the weediness of his tall, light frame. By now I was so cross I felt like scribbling all over his form. He declared himself to be a nonsmoker. “You do smoke!” I nearly wrote next to that. He described himself as “romantic”—“but useless in the sack and not at all w/e!” I almost added. And he wrote that he was a “stylish” person. Stylish. “You do not look stylish dressed in late eighties Laura Ashley,” I was tempted to scribble. Oh God. Oh God. This was going horribly wrong. Because, if I did join Destiny I really wouldn’t want Alex to know—let alone the other three men I’d recognized. Because they would of course see me in there. And if I was to go in the Confidential File, that would cost quite a bit more—£800, rather than £600. What a drag! Oh God, oh God. I couldn’t join this one. I just couldn’t. But what would I say to Gabriella?