The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “What do you think, Tiffany?” she asked when she came back into the room. “Do you feel positive about what you’ve seen?”

  “Well . . . well . . . erm . . .” I couldn’t tell her about Alex. I really couldn’t. He was a client of hers. If I’d known that before, obviously I wouldn’t have said a thing about him. In fact I probably wouldn’t have gone there at all. Better to keep quiet, and go elsewhere. “Well, they all look very nice,” I said. “But I would just like a few days to think about it.”

  “Of course,” she said with a smile. “I quite understand.”

  Damn and blast, I thought to myself as I got the number 77a back to the center of town. Damn and blast. Destiny would have been perfect had it not been for the fact that I had recognized several of its clients. Too many for comfort. That’s the trouble with the London singles scene—it’s a very small world, obviously it is, because we’re all looking in the same places. So there’s nothing surprising about going, say, to Eat ’n’ Greet or a dating agency and seeing people that you know there, because there are only so many places for the unattached to try. But of course, that can be a problem. A big problem, as I was now finding out.

  My last shot was the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency in Hertford. And perhaps, being close to North London, that might be a better bet for me in any case. And Caroline had sounded very nice over the phone. By now, I was familiar with the form. I knew just what to do. So when she welcomed me into the office above an interior design shop in Hertford High Street I felt quite relaxed. I knew what she would want to know about me, and I found it very easy to tell her.

  “What about my age?” I said, discreetly surveying the wallful of wedding photographs behind her.

  “You’re just the right age,” she said. “I know that lots of chaps will want to meet you, if you do decide to join.” Once again, I was left alone with the files. And she had so many blokes. It was amazing—there were loads of them—and there were at least three photos of each one, so you could really see what they looked like. There were men climbing up mountains, men sitting in canoes, men leaning casually against their cars, or standing in fields wearing Barbour jackets. There were men on the beach in swimming trunks, men with dogs and horses. And, best of all, I didn’t recognize a single one. Not one. And their profiles were so nice. They all seemed to be looking for women aged “up to forty,” if they were, say, in their mid to late thirties, and the word “independent” and “intelligent” featured a good deal in the “ideal partner” section. What’s more, they were attractive. Very attractive. I felt my confidence lift. This was the one for me.

  “What do you think?” Caroline asked.

  “I think it looks wonderful,” I said truthfully. And I signed up on the spot.

  “It’s such a sensible thing to do,” I said when I went swimming with Sally the following evening. She belongs to the Chelsea Harbor Club, because her flat’s close by, and recently I’ve been going swimming there with her, to help her do her aquatic relaxation exercises. She lay on her back, in the shallow end, her watermelon-sized middle thrusting upward into the air, while I supported her underneath. She was like an iceberg in reverse, I thought, seven-eighths of her were above the surface.

  “You’re big enough to sink the Titanic,” I said tastelessly.

  “Please don’t talk to me, Tiffany,” she said, keeping her eyes firmly closed. “The book says that while floating I have to find the stillness and peace inside, and focus on the natural rhythm of my breathing.”

  “Sorry. I mean, how much does this place cost? You don’t exactly get much pool for your money.”

  “Tiffany!”

  “Let’s face it, they built this club from scratch, so why on earth did they put in such a small swimming pool?”

  “Oh Tiffany, I don’t know. I’m trying to surround the baby with white radiant light and loving, welcoming thoughts—ooooooohhh. Hummmmmmm. Ooooooooh. Hummmmmmm.”

  “Still, at least it doesn’t reek of chlorine.” My arms were beginning to ache by now and I was just wondering whether to ask this Sloaney-looking girl in a velvet headband and green, waxed-down swimsuit if she’d stand in for me for a while, when Sally decided she’d had enough. She went over to the wall and did a few side lifts and leg circles, like a ballerina practicing at the barre, and then we went to get changed.

  “No, I think introduction agencies are a brilliant idea, Tiffany,” she said as we retrieved our clothes from the lockers and sat down to change on the slatted wooden benches. “I’m really glad you’re doing it. I’ll probably do it myself one day, when Lorelei’s about two years old.”

  “It helps take my mind off Seriously Successful,” I added as we dried ourselves and dressed. “Because ever since I found out that he’s kind to homeless people, naturally I like him even more, which is why it’s so important for me to meet someone else.”

  “Er, yes, I see,” said Sally as she pulled the waistband of her maternity leggings over her expanding midriff. “Why exactly are you in love with him?” she asked looking at me in a somewhat puzzled way.

  “Because he’s OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-divine,” I began as I combed through my wet hair. “Well, at least I think so. And he’s very funny, and he has a comprehensive knowledge of advertising slogans combined with a highly developed social conscience. But unfortunately he’s also got a wife,” I added sadly. “And a girlfriend. Which, let’s face it, is a bit of a drawback.”

  “Er, yes,” she said. “It certainly is.”

  “Anyway, that’s why I’ve joined the—” I looked around, then lowered my voice to a whisper—“Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency. So that I can fall in love with someone else.”

  “What about that chap you were at school with—hasn’t he phoned you again?”

  “Yes he did. The week after Christmas. Then he went skiing. But he said he’d ring me when he got back.”

  “Well, what about him?” she said as we blow-dried our hair in front of the mirrors. “He sounds rather nice. Wouldn’t he do?”

  “Well. Yes. Maybe. Possibly,” I said airily. “Perhaps. Potentially. I do like him,” I added truthfully. “And he’s incredibly attractive. It’s just that I’ve only had one proper date with him—so I’d like to see him again. Anyway, how are you feeling?” I asked her.

  “Oh fine,” she said happily. “No more morning sickness—and look, my hair’s gone thicker. I’ve ordered a wonderful jogging buggy,” she added excitedly. “Just like Madonna had. For Lourdes.”

  “What about Lourdes?” I suggested. “Or maybe Lyons.”

  “Wait till you see what I got in Paris!” she said happily. We walked down Lots Road toward Chelsea Harbor. Sally’s flat’s in the Belvedere, a huge pagoda-like building which dwarfs the rest of the development. We shot up to the fifteenth floor in the lift and she opened the door to her apartment. It’s huge—open plan, and nearly all white, with white leather furniture, and white marble flooring and white rugs and a white open-plan kitchen with shining steel worktops and gleaming white cupboards. Through the French windows we could hear boats quietly chugging up the river and the clattering of trains over Chelsea rail bridge. On the other, northern side of the flat was a view of the marina, where Khashoggi-style yachts gently rocked back and forth on their moorings, their rigging lines rattling against their aluminum masts.

  Sally put an Enigma CD on her Bang and Olufsen music center, popped a frozen pizza into the oven, and then produced a number of expensive-looking carrier bags from which she took out eight or nine tiny dresses. They were adorable, and all in pink, with pink ruffles, and pink velvet edging, and pink sprigged flowers with pink satin sashes and pink-and-white broderie anglaise collars.

  “They’re lovely,” I said. “They’re like doll’s dresses.”

  “I love French clothes for kids,” she said, fingering the fabric. “These are from Tartine au Chocolat and Galeries Lafayette. Loretta will look adorable in them.”

  “But I thought you said y
ou’d wait until Lola was born before buying any gear for her.”

  “Oh no, Tiffany. I’m really getting myself thoroughly organized. Come with me.” She took me through to the back of her apartment. There, a spare bedroom which I had remembered as white, like everything else, was now pastel pink, with a border of coral roses at wainscot and ceiling, a light shade which danced with pink elephants, and a deep rose wall-to-wall woollen carpet. In one corner was a large cot with alternating pink and white rails, like a pack of marshmallows. On it was a satin coverlet, the color of early cherry blossom, and above it eight fluffy pink rabbits circulated gently in the sudden breeze from the open door. Against the far wall was a child’s wardrobe, painted in pale salmon and stenciled with large pink peonies. Sally opened the door, revealing about twenty tiny outfits, all in varying shades of pink, and ranging in size from newborn to about two years.

  “Gosh,” I said. “How lovely. Lucky Lily.”

  “Well, I think it’s really good to be prepared,” she said.

  “Same time this Saturday for the yoga class?” I asked her as I left.

  “Yes,” she said enthusiastically. “And Rosie’s coming back to the group to tell us all about her birth,” she added happily. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”

  I picked up the phone.

  “Hallo Trotters!”

  “Hello, Nick! How are you? Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year to you.”

  “How was the skiing?”

  “Oh, it was fun. But I’d love to see you. Now, will you have lunch with me on Thursday? At Green’s Oyster Bar?”

  “That would be lovely,” I said. And so on Thursday I made my way to Duke Street and met Nick there. I was close to Piccadilly again—Seriously Successful territory, though no sign of him today, thank God. And in any case, I was thinking about Nick. I was looking forward to seeing him again. I really was. He was nice. And he was charming. And terribly attractive. And today he looked even more attractive with his Verbier tan. He kissed me on the cheek, and smiled.

  “Oh it’s so nice to see you again, Tiffany,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot, you know.” I blushed. I suddenly felt ridiculously happy. He was really a very nice chap. And he seemed keen. Maybe he was the answer to my prayers, I thought. Maybe he was. Maybe. We ordered a large bowl of mussels to share.

  “Tom Player was in my chalet,” said Nick as we sat scooping out the soft salty insides. “Do you remember him?”

  “Er vaguely,” I said, dipping my fingers in the silver water bowl.

  “And Peter Croft came out for a few days, too.”

  “Oh great.”

  “They both remember you really well.”

  “Do they?”

  “Oh yes. I told them you’d lost weight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Nick rinsed his fingertips and then took another sip of Chardonnay. Suddenly he laughed. “Do you remember when Peter stuck that car on top of the chapel?” he said.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “I do. How could anyone forget?”

  “Bloody funny, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Rather dangerous, though.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “That driver could have been killed.”

  “How did he get it up there?” I asked.

  “He hired a crane of course.”

  “And do you remember when Jack Daniels dyed the water in the swimming pool bright red?”

  “Oh yes,” I said wearily. “I do.”

  “Hell of a shock on a Monday morning.”

  “Er, yes.” I was a bit sick of school stories to be honest, so I tried to change the subject. “So tell me about the States,” I said. “What did you do?”

  “Well, I spent a fortnight in New York—we had three big furniture sales. And then I stayed with my father for a week over Christmas. He was at Downingham too, you know, Tiffany.”

  “Oh. Look, why don’t you ever talk about anything but school, Nick?” I said. Actually I didn’t say that. I said, “How’s your salmon teriyaki?”

  “Delicious.”

  We finished our meal in silence, and then looked at the dessert menu.

  “Trotters,” said Nick. Suddenly he reached for my hand and looked me in the eye. “I mean, Tiffany,” he said again.

  “Yes?” I said, slightly disconcerted.

  “Tiffany—would you . . . I don’t know how to ask you this. It’s a difficult thing for a chap to ask. But Tiffany . . . would you . . . would you . . . please would you . . . choose the chocolate éclairs?”

  “Of, of course I will,” I said with a peal of laughter, which was underpinned with relief.

  But he was still holding onto my hand. “And would you go out with me?” he added casually. “I mean, be my girlfriend?” Oh God. “You know how much I like you.”

  “I like you too,” I said.

  “You see, you remind me of what it was like to be thirteen.”

  “Ah.”

  “You remind me, Tiffany, of some very happy times.”

  “I see.”

  “You take me right back to another epoch almost,” he added with a contented sigh.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I felt vaguely depressed.

  “What do you think, Tiffany?” What should I say?

  “Well Nick, I think you’re a lovely person. But . . . but I just . . . don’t . . .”

  “It’s OK,” he said quietly, letting go of my hand. “You really don’t have to say.”

  “I just don’t think I’m the right person for you Nick, that’s all.”

  “I’m only four years younger than you are, Tiffany,” he said. “It hardly figures, you know.” This was true. But that wasn’t the reason.

  “It’s not really the difference in our ages,” I said. “It’s just that I can’t help seeing you as I saw you at school.” Because you don’t seem to talk about anything else, you twit. “Can’t we just be friends?” I asked.