The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Emma, it’s Tiffany. Can we talk?” The drama of the situation lent things a certain frisson.

  “Of course we can talk,” she said.

  “I’d like to give you some advice about breathing.”

  “Why?”

  “To help you feel calm.”

  “I do feel calm, Tiffany.”

  “Why do you feel calm, Emma?”

  “Why not?” she said with a laugh.

  “Because you’re being trashed by the tabloids, that’s why. I mean I don’t want to rub it in, but they’ve successfully given fifteen million people the impression that you’re a cross between Bienvenida Buck and Mae West.”

  “But that story’s rubbish,” she said with a sigh. Oh. I felt rather disappointed.

  “Do you mean to say you’re not involved with Lawrence Bright?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I am.” Oh good.

  “Since when?”

  “Oh I don’t know—not that long. A few months,” she added vaguely.

  “Isn’t he married?”

  “Yes, he is. But they’ve conveniently overlooked the fact that his wife moved out after Christmas. He lives on his own now.” Oh. I felt vaguely cheated.

  “Why are the papers interested then?”

  “Because they think she moved out because of me.”

  “Did she?”

  “No. Well, not really. Don’t ask me that, Tiffany. Basically she left because . . . because . . . oh I don’t know. I mean, she thought they were happily married. But the fact is that he didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Why did you meet him?”

  “At a parents’ evening last June. I liked him, but I knew he was married. Sometimes he’d come and talk to me when he collected his daughter from school, and then he started asking me out.”

  “Did you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though he was married?” Oh Emma, Emma, how could you?

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “But only because I knew he was unhappy—he told me that he was miserable, and that the marriage was coming apart . . .”

  “But he might have been lying.”

  “Well he wasn’t. He definitely told me the truth. I mean, look, his marriage has come apart, hasn’t it? And so, yes, I did start seeing him, but obviously I couldn’t talk about it to anyone. Not even Frances. And, to be honest, Tiffany, I didn’t tell you because I thought you might disapprove.”

  “Oh no, no, no, no. I wouldn’t have disapproved,” I said.

  “Well, I think you would, Tiffany. It was a complicated situation, but I certainly wouldn’t say I broke up his marriage, though the papers are saying I did. And yes, his wife is saying that too. But it’s not the same as what my stepmother did,” she added, slightly too quickly, I thought, “just stealing my father away from my mum when they were perfectly happily married. And Lawrence Bright isn’t Robin Cook.” This was true. “I’m going to sue, of course,” she added calmly. “Frances says she’ll do it for me, gratis. She says a bit of libel will make a nice change for her, and the publicity will undoubtedly help Larry’s career. I mean, look what happened to Paddy Pantsdown—his popularity rating soared.”

  “Gosh. Well . . . who tipped off the press?”

  “I don’t know. It might have been one of the parents. There’s one mother who hates me because I told her that her precious little thug was as likely to get his GCSEs as I am to win a Nobel Prize. Or it might have been Larry’s wife. She loathes me of course. But I’ll probably never know for sure.”

  “What a ghastly situation. You’re being very brave.”

  “Oh well, this is my fifteen minutes of fame, I suppose. Tiffany, I’ve got to go now, I want to watch Larry denying any impropriety on the six o’clock news.”

  “I’m afraid you got the wrong end of the stick there,” I told Lizzie over the phone, later. “Emma says that his marriage was falling apart, and now they’re separated. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I still don’t see how she could do it,” she replied.

  “What do you mean, ‘do it’?”

  “How could she bring herself to.”

  “What do you mean, Lizzie? She says she didn’t steal someone else’s husband.”

  “We don’t know that, Tiffany. And anyway, I couldn’t care less if she did. That’s none of my business. What I find so shocking is this . . .”

  “What?”

  “A Labour MP, for God’s sake!”

  Anyway, I thought that I would still send Emma a Valentine card—just in case she did feel a bit depressed by the whole beastly business which rumbled on for several days. It was quite surreal seeing her in the News of the World the following Sunday, and Catherine was phoned up by the People and was offered huge amounts of money to dish the dirt. Anyway, I went to W.H. Smith and looked at the vast array of cards. Now, which one would I most like to get, I thought, were I embroiled in an unpleasant and highly public sex scandal with a Labour MP? I surveyed the display of crimson hearts and pink flowers and teddy bears and standard issue red envelopes. Valentine, I love you, shouted one. You’re lip-smackin’ gorgeous, said another. Hug Me Darling! said a third. Some were sordid—others were simply sickly. I’d love to get one, I thought, as I paid. Just one. It doesn’t have to be expensive. It doesn’t even have to be in good taste. In fact it can be utterly nauseating—I’m really not fussy. Perhaps Nick would send me one, I thought to myself. Then I thought, why on earth should he, when I had told him I only wanted to be friends? Maybe Seriously Successful would send me one, or Mum. Or Lizzie. Or Kit. Or Terry from Eat ’n’ Greet. Or Pierce Brosnan. Or Kevin Costner. Or Elvis.

  On February the fourteenth I stared, in disbelief, at the front doormat. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was absolutely extraordinary. Exceptional. Phenomenal. Unbelievable. And incredible. Nothing. Not even a Reader’s Digest Prize Draw notification form. Not even a gas bill. Not even a Kaleidoscope catalog or a “special offer” flyer from the National Center for Cosmetic Surgery. Not even a postcard from José in São Paulo. Not even five more profiles from Caroline Clarke. Not even a minicab card. In my head I could hear Karen Carpenter’s cello-like voice . . . a card or a let-ter, the sooner the bet-ter . . . Well, there were no letters and certainly no cards. There was nothing. Zilch.

  Hang on a mo! Maybe there was a rational explanation. Maybe the post hadn’t actually arrived yet, some mishap having befallen John the postman, thereby preventing a normal delivery. I opened the front door and peeped over the hedge at number twenty-four. A wadge of brown envelopes—and a red one—were jammed in the brass letterbox. Damn and blast. Blast and damn. Gloom descended like a cloud and I could feel my shoulders hunched more than normal as I sat at my desk, writing copy for Cox and King. I threw myself into the job, and at least, once I’m really engaged on a project, time does tend to fly. In due course I became aware of a vaguely hungry feeling, which told me it was lunchtime. I went downstairs and peeped at the front door with pounding heart, just in case my six or seven Valentines had arrived by second post—but no. Nuls points for Tiffany Trott in the Eurovalentine card contest. Just the newspaper. That’s all there was. Of course—the paper! I turned to the special Valentine’s Day pull-out—3000 small ads swam before my eyes, surely one of them was for me! I spent a couple of hours anxiously skimming through the snuggle-bunnies and the pumpkin-pies, the fluffy bottoms and snookum-wookums, but there was no mention of a single Tiffany, or Trotters, or indeed any other ludicrously infantile sobriquet to which I could have possibly laid claim. I cooked myself an individual Marks and Spencer steak and kidney pie with a tiny bag of peas, and then returned to my study. I stared at my computer screen again, and then, within what seemed like mere minutes, I was hungry again, and the room was virtually dark, except for the soft, whiteish glow from my Apple Mac, and it was very, very cold. I put on yet another cardigan—all this knitwear makes me look vast—and went and switched on Channel Four news. Jon Snow looked very chirpy—but then he’d probably had a sacklo
ad of Valentine cards from admiring viewers. Unlike Tiffany Nicola Trott, spinster in the parish of Islington. Now I don’t do this very often, but I was so pissed off that I opened a bottle of red wine. Well why not? I said to myself. I need it. I’ve been working for ten hours, and anyway, everyone knows that a couple of bottles of red wine are very good for you. Very good for the heart, I believe. And particularly good for raising morale when a Valentine’s Day dinner à deux with scrummy man in upmarket eaterie has inexplicably failed to materialize. I tried to cheer myself up by re-reading Brides and Setting up Home—“Fashion for Modern Brides!”, ran the headline. “The Experts Sort Out Your Bouquet”; “Where to Find that Dream Dress!” I wished the experts could tell me where to find that Dream Man, I thought bitterly as I poured myself some more Macedonian Merlot. And—oh God—why had I drunk so much?—two thirds of a bottle already. Why, why, why, why, why? On the other hand, why not? I poured myself another glass and looked at all the baby books again, spread out on my coffee table. Oh God, when did the third trimester—or was it semester—begin? Was it at eighteen weeks, or twenty? I’d have to look it up in the Dorling Kindersley Pop-Out Book of Parturition, and now the bloody phone was ringing and I’d have to bloody well answer it.

  “Yess?” I said. “Hisit?”

  “Hello Tiffany.”

  “Hello!” I said, as I leaned against the wall to steady myself against the romantoholic collapse, inexplicable happiness and the intestinal tickling of tortoiseshells.

  “How are you, Tiffany?”

  “Bit—ha ha ha ha!—um . . . oh dear . . .”

  “Tiffany, are you drunk?”

  “Only a lot.”

  “Why are you drunk?”

  “Because, A Million Housewives Every Day Pick Up a Bottle of Booze and Say . . .”

  “Tiffany, I just rang to say Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  “Happy . . . tine’s Day to you too.”

  “Did you get any cards?”

  “Nope.” Ooh—mistake. “I mean yeah,” I said quickly. “LOTS. Hundreds, and ’dreds, in fact I’m still opening them—’staken’ me all day. Did you?”

  “No.” God, what a crackly line. I couldn’t hear him properly.

  “Speak up, will you?” I said. “This line’s awful.”

  “Sorry. I’m on my car phone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Well, I’m in Islington, actually.”

  “Thassa coincidence ’cause . . . can’t remember whether or not you know thish but, I, you know, um—live in Isl-ton . . . sh’ly.”

  “Do you? Good heavens! Well I’m in Oriel Road.”

  “Thass ’credible,” I said. “Because . . . donno whether or not I tol’ you thish, ’cause we’ve only met, twice, sh’ly—but thass my road.”

  “In fact I’m parked outside number twenty-two.”

  “Well, thersh ’nother ’credible coincidence because . . . oh . . .” I could hear a car door open and then shut. Then I heard the deep, throaty click of its central locking. And now I could hear sharp footsteps pinging on the pavement and the familiar squeak of my garden gate and then . . . my bell rang.

  “Sorry, look, just gotta get that—hang on, won’t be a min . . .” I went to the door, which is half-glazed, with red and blue stained-glass panels. A vast, wide shape looped eerily through the glass, half lit by the amber glow of an adjacent street lamp. I opened the door a crack. I saw something red. And green. And it was wrapped in cellophane. And it was very bulky, and it was bound at the bottom by an enormous red ribbon which lifted up and down in the thin wind. And then the red thing disappeared and there was Seriously Successful, standing behind it, smiling.

  “Are you from Moyses Stevens?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “Extraflora.”

  I laughed, though to be honest, what I really wanted to do was cry. He still had his mobile phone clamped, awkwardly, to his left ear. I looked at it inquiringly.

  “I thought I’d like to have a One-2-One with you,” he explained as he snapped it shut, “though I wish you weren’t tipsy Tiffany, it does make communication rather difficult. Now, is this chronic dipsomania?” he inquired. “Or just a little sorrow-drowning? And Tiffany?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I come in?”

  I pulled back the door and he came into the house. I was filled with shame. My Ring of Confidence had collapsed. Because here was the love of my life and here I was half-cut and looking a total dog. Not even a pedigree dog, for example an elegant Saluki or beautiful Borzoi. Not even an English Trend-Setter. No, I looked pure Scrufts—six layers of ancient Aran and Shetland wool over thick gray leggings, which were visibly laddered behind one knee. Unbrushed hair. Unpolished, broken nails. No makeup—not even lip gloss—and no aroma of expensive scent. And the house—well, it was a tip.

  “Sorry about the mess . . . like a drink?”

  “Of course not Tiffany—I’m driving.”

  “Oh yes, sorry. Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Been drinking.”

  “I know. Why?”

  “I drink therefore I am.”

  “Very funny,” he said unsmilingly. “Look, could I make you some coffee?”

  “Yes . . . kitchen’s at the back . . . somewhere. Lovely roses. Lovely, lovely, lovely roses. Lovely . . . you’re lovely . . . you’re so nice to homeless people and sad spinsters and everything,” I said, sinking into the sofa. “Even when they’re clearly pissed.” I flopped face down into the cushions and moaned softly into the chrysanthemum-yellow velvet devoré while Seriously Successful clattered about in the kitchen. God, I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me where the Gold Blend was. Instead I heard him say, “Have you got any really strong coffee, Tiffany?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly remembering Alex’s espresso. “I’ve got some thermonuclear Algerian . . . cupboard over the word processor. Food processor.” Oh God, oh God. I looked around the sitting room—magazines and newspapers strewn everywhere, a chaotic pile of books on the coffee table, several small vases of half-dead snowdrops, and a depleted bottle of cheap red wine. Waynetta Slob, eat your heart out, I said to myself. Blanche Dubois, c’est moi! And that awful thought shocked me and made me want to sober up. I scooped things off the floor, then covered the mess on the table with a copy of the Mail—the one with Emma on the front page. Then I opened the window and inhaled deeply. Hummmmm . . . oooooh! Hummmmm . . . ooooooh!

  “Tiffany, what are you doing?” Seriously Successful inquired as he brought in a tray with two cups.

  “Breathing ’cises,” I said.

  “Oh.” We sat, drinking the atomic coffee in silence, looking at each other. I began to feel a little better. Though, if I shut my eyes, I got the whirlies. I decided to keep them open.

  “Thank you for the roses,” I said. “They look lovely in that bucket.”

  “Well, I would have sent them to you, but I was away on business and didn’t have time, and I thought it would be nice to, well, bring them over in person.”

  “It was nice. I mean it is nice. Very nice. You are nice. They’re wonderful.” I’d forgotten how powerful the coffee was—I felt the caffeine flood my veins like cocaine. I began to feel better. Much better.

  “I’m sorry about my lack of personal grooming,” I said. “And the charity shop couture. If I’d known you were coming I’d have washed my hair . . .”

  “Your hair looks fine.”

  “. . . and quite possibly restyled it too with the hot brush. And I’d have put on a pretty dress and elegant hosiery and a discreet amount of makeup. And I’d have taken ’ticular care over my ’cessories. Oh, and I’d have shaved my legs.”

  “You look very nice as you are.”

  “Thass not true, but thank you.” I put my hand to my brow.

  “Tense Nervous Headache?” he inquired solicitously.

  “No. Shame and mortification. The headache’s scheduled for tomorrow morning. After the raging thirst and before the postalcoholic panic.” I looked at him. He wasn’t in a sui
t today. He was wearing jeans and a thick, gray jumper, and his dark, curly hair was slightly damp.

  “I saw you on the news,” I said.

  “Oh. That reporter was a bloody nuisance. We told him we didn’t want him there. He hadn’t asked beforehand. It was rude, and very intrusive.”

  “You looked so nice in your Savile Row donkey jacket.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What flavor was it?”

  “What?”

  “The soup,” I explained. “Was it minestrone? Or mulligatawny? I don’t suppose it was clam chowder, was it?”

  “I can’t remember. I didn’t make it,” he said. “I just help dish it out for two weeks of the year before and after Christmas. That’s all. How are your campaigns?”

  “They’re fine. Have you seen my Love Hearts ad on the box?”

  “Is that yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those romantic poems?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s really good,” he said. “I didn’t get a Valentine card this year,” he added. “Would you recite one of your poems to me?”

  “Oh. OK.” I cleared my throat. “ ‘Be Mine/Blue Eyes/Trust Me/Nice Boy/Don’t Be Coy/UROK/My Ideal . . . My Joy.’ Of course, it’s better with the club music,” I added, “and the attractive actors and the eyeball-busting camerawork. You get the full effect, then. Do you want another one?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “ ‘Forget Me Not/Dream Guy/My Love/My Buddy/My All/Be True/Why Not/Say Yes . . . Just Nod.’ ”

  Seriously Successful was looking at me with a wistful intensity. “One more, please.”