The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Oh. Oh, OK, um . . . ‘Cheer Up/Funny Face/My Sugar/My Pal/No Tears/I Love You/So Relax/Smile Dishy . . . You Win.’ They sound really stupid like that,” I said quickly. “But on the TV they do look quite good, and the manufacturers are happy—they say it’s been good for sales. And that’s the bottom line. Sales. There’s always a bottom line, isn’t there?” I added thoughtfully as I replaced my cup in its saucer.

  “Yes, there is,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “My bottom line is that I don’t get involved with married men in any circumstances, even if I really like them. Especially if I really like them. And your bottom line is the fact that you’re married.” The wine had made me bold. That and the fact that I was on home ground.

  “Yes,” he said wearily, “I suppose that is my bottom line.”

  “And the penultimate line is the fact that you’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “No I haven’t,” he said with sudden indignation.

  “Yes you have.”

  “No I haven’t.”

  This was outrageous. He was lying. Can’t stand it when people lie to me. “Yes you bloody well have, because I saw you with her in the Ritz.”

  “That’s not my girlfriend,” he said with quiet exasperation. “That’s my sister, Grace. Her boyfriend runs the small charity that organizes the soup run every year. She just wanted my help.”

  “If she was only your sister, why didn’t you speak to me then? You just walked straight past, as though you were avoiding me. As though you had something to hide.”

  “I was avoiding you. Because you were with another man.”

  “Oh.” Got that completely wrong then. How odd. “So you didn’t go to Barbados then?”

  “Sorry?”

  “With your girlfriend.”

  “I’ve just told you I haven’t got a girlfriend,” he said.

  “But surely you must have one,” I persisted.

  “Why must I?”

  “Because you were looking for one.”

  “Doesn’t mean to say that I found one,” he said.

  “But you must have done,” I insisted, yet again.

  “Look Tiffany—would you please stop telling me that I have a girlfriend when I don’t have one,” he said. Gosh, he was getting quite annoyed.

  “But let’s face it, you were going to considerable trouble to find one, advertising in the newspaper and everything, so I would have thought you’d have got one by now.”

  “Well, I haven’t, OK.”

  “Because you said you were looking for someone to spoil a little or even a lot, and I’m sure there are any number of women out there who’d be only too happy to let you spoil them. Whereas I didn’t want to be spoiled because I didn’t know that you can only be spoiled by someone who’s got a wife, like you.”

  “Tiffany, you’re not making much sense . . .”

  “And I’m only interested in single blokes who wouldn’t dream of spoiling me. Ever.”

  “Tiffany, I won’t spoil you,” he said.

  “Good,” I said, looking at the three dozen long-stemmed red roses.

  “But I don’t want to spoil anyone else, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they were so boring,” he said vehemently. “I did meet other women—about ten others from that ad, but they weren’t . . .”

  “Attractive?”

  “Well, some of them were, but they weren’t, I don’t know . . .”

  “Well dressed?”

  “No, not even that, they were, but they weren’t very . . .”

  “Successful?”

  “Oh no, some of them had very good jobs,” he said, running his left hand through his curly brown hair. “It’s just that they weren’t . . .”

  “What?”

  “They weren’t memorable. That’s it. They were ordinary. Forgettable.”

  “I see.”

  “But I haven’t forgotten you.” He came and sat next to me on the sofa, and then he took hold of my left hand.

  “I haven’t forgotten you, either,” I said quietly, and I could feel myself coming close to tears.

  “And so I didn’t bother with anyone else,” I heard him say. “I wanted to see you, but you wouldn’t see me. You wouldn’t even be friends. That’s what I couldn’t understand.”

  “What’s the point in being friends?” I said. “I’m not looking for friends—I’ve got lots of friends, I’ve got Lizzie, and Kate and Sally and Frances and Catherine and Kit and . . . and . . . and . . .” I grabbed the copy of the Mail which was lying on the top of the mess on the coffee table. “And I’ve got Emma,” I said, pointing to her face. “She’s a very good friend of mine.”

  “Oh God, that woman having an affair with Lawrence Bright?”

  “Yes, but it’s not her fault,” I said emphatically. “He’s unhappily married.”

  Seriously Successful gave me a penetrating look. “So it’s OK for her, but not OK for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m unhappily married, too. You know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “But you won’t see me.” He looked upset.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to go out with someone who’s not only married—they’re unfaithful, too,” I said.

  “But I haven’t been unfaithful!”

  “Yes, you have,” I said.

  “No I haven’t,” he retorted.

  “Well, why haven’t you been?” I asked indignantly.

  “Because the only person I wanted to be unfaithful with was you, you idiot, that’s why.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you have never been unfaithful to your wife?” I said crossly.

  He nodded seriously. “I wanted to,” he said, “I really did.” Suddenly his voice began to rise. “Oh yes. I committed infidelity in my heart many, many times.”

  “What, like Jimmy Carter you mean?”

  “Er, quite. But then I turned forty, and then forty-one, and I thought, why not? Why should I carry on playing my part in this loveless charade? That’s why I put in my ad. Because I wanted to find someone warm and kind and funny to love me. Why shouldn’t I be loved?” His voice was rising. “I’m fed up with my marriage! I’m just so fed up with it!” he almost shouted. “I’ve been miserable for years. It’s a sham.”

  “Well it’s your fault, because you married for the wrong reasons,” I said.

  “Yes, I did,” he replied quietly. “I married for money. Or rather, I let money come into the equation. I did love Olivia at the beginning,” he explained. “In a way. It wasn’t purely mercenary. But her father’s cash was an enormous added incentive for a young, ambitious man. And I’ve paid the price,” he said. “Over and over again. In loneliness. But you don’t understand that Tiffany, because you’re so bloody sanctimonious!”

  “No I’m not!” I said.

  “Yes you are—you’re a prig, Tiffany.” A prig! Imagine the impertinence!

  “No I’m not,” I said again primly.

  “Yes you are,” he countered. “You don’t understand that things aren’t simple, they’re complex.”

  “I do understand that,” I said, a sob rising to choke me. “But you’ve said you’ll never get divorced, so it is simple, you see.”

  “But I can’t leave my marriage because of my daughter. It would destroy her.”

  “Well that’s fine. I understand that. But in that case please don’t mess about with me!”

  “But look Tiffany, the fact that I am technically still married is less important than the fact that you and I feel exactly the same way about each other, and the feeling is very, very strong.”

  “Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” I lied.

  “That provocative postcard you sent me!”

  “I was pissed. I regretted it profoundly.”

  “In vino veritas,” he countered.

  “But I’m drunk now,” I pointed out. “And
I’m still saying no.”

  He picked up the copy of the newspaper and then tossed it aside. “You’ve been driving me mad, Tiffany—you’re so . . . so . . .” What on earth was the matter with him? He was staring at the coffee table. Then I saw him pick up the Your Baby and Child by Penelope Leach, and the book underneath it, Protecting Your Baby-to-Be by Margaret Profet. He turned them over in his hands. Then he replaced them and picked up Miriam Stoppard’s Complete Baby and Child Care book, and beneath that was Sheila Kitzinger’s Natural Pregnancy Handbook. He stared at me. Then he glanced at my middle, and suddenly jumped to his feet.

  “Tiffany?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tiffany—of course,” he said. He went and leaned against the mantelpiece. “I now see,” he said quietly. “I understand. The real reason why you wouldn’t see me. This shiny patina of high-mindedness you’ve been putting on everything, when the simple fact is that you’ve been involved with someone else and now you’re . . . you’re . . . pregnant. Oh God I feel such a fool,” he went on. “That’s the real reason, isn’t it? You’re expecting a baby, Tiffany. Aren’t you?”

  “Um, yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Whose is it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That spineless drip I saw you with in the Ritz?”

  “Oh no. No. Not him,” I said. Credit me with a little taste, will you?

  “Or that man I saw you with in the restaurant?”

  “Um, well . . .” I murmured guiltily. I stared at the floor.

  “I see,” said Seriously Successful quietly. Then he emitted a short, mirthless laugh. “I’ve been barking up the wrong tree with you Tiffany. How very ironic. It wasn’t sanctimony I should have accused you of—but infidelity.”

  “Infidelity?”

  “Yes. To me.”

  “What do you mean, infidelity? I wasn’t even going out with you.”

  “Well, you should have been. I know you wanted to. And we belong together, you and I, and you know that too. Oh God, I feel such an idiot,” he said, shaking his head. “But now it all makes sense. Of course you’re pregnant—it’s very obvious, that tired look you’ve got. Your pasty complexion. The lankness of your hair. That thickening around your middle. The bloatedness.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s really starting to show now.”

  “And that’s why you were doing those breathing exercises.”

  “Yes. I’ve been going to ante-natal classes.”

  “But you shouldn’t have drunk so much,” he added crossly.

  “No. You’re right. I shouldn’t.”

  “When’s it due?” he asked with a bitter sigh.

  “May.”

  “So you’ve been pregnant since . . . August,” he said. I just looked at him blankly. “And so all the time I’ve been pursuing you, Tiffany, and thinking about you, and dreaming of the things we might do together, and the happy times we’d have—you’ve been expecting another man’s child,” he said.

  “Well . . .” I began. “I didn’t know for sure until December.”

  He stood up again and faced me full on. I could see a small muscle flexing rhythmically at the corner of his mouth. “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you Tiffany,” he said with cordial contempt. “I must say I thought you were my ideal kind of woman,” he added. “My soulmate. My spiritual twin. The Snap to my Crackle and Pop. I only needed to meet you once, to know that. But I’ve clearly made a mistake. Well.” He picked up his jacket. “Good luck with the baby. I don’t think we’ll meet again.” Then he gave me a funny little smile and walked out of the house, shutting the door behind him with a quiet, definitive click.

  February Continued

  As I say, I’m really not one for rows, and so my last encounter with Seriously Successful left me Seriously Shaken. I was really, really disturbed, and terribly upset. Traumatized in fact. What did he mean—“pasty complexion”? I’ve been scrutinizing my face very closely since then, with the aid of a magnifying mirror, and I simply can’t agree. However, I may get some more Elizabeth Lauderstein alpha hydroxy resin with serum derived from tropical fruit acids in order to enhance luminosity. Just in case. But then . . . what’s the point? Because I know I’ll never see him again. Or hear his lovely voice, because he won’t ring me now, or send me flowers or make me laugh or anything like that ever, ever, again. In fact he’ll probably never even think of me except, I suppose, with distaste, because he was really, really angry about my “pregnancy.” I can’t say I blame him. But that little deception of mine was necessary because it got me out of a very sticky situation; because if I hadn’t lied about the baby I think Seriously Successful would have done more than hold my hand. He might have put his arm around me, which would have been dreadful, obviously. And then he might have kissed me, which would have been terrible too, and then he might have . . . we might have . . . and that would have been absolutely appalling, because, underneath my six layers of Shetland wool and my laddered leggings, I was wearing Big Knickers. Granny pants. Thermal ones, actually. They’re perfect for this cold weather, you see. And also, let me not forget that Seriously Successful is, of course, still Seriously Married. But I felt dreadful after he left, dreadful, because I knew that this time, that was it. Bye Bye. Not even au revoir or auf Wiedersehen, pet. Just good . . . bye. Well, it was quite a bad bye actually. Very bad. So to cheer myself up I decanted the thirty-six roses into about five different vases, then I sat down and drew up the following list:

  SERIOUSLY SUCCESSFUL—PROS AND CONS

  Pros

  Good looking (well I think so)

  Clever

  Funny

  Kindhearted

  Lovely voice

  Likes fat girls

  Does not like golf

  Sends flowers

  Is generous

  And honorable

  Has impeccable taste in ties

  And suits

  Yet is not shallow

  For example, helps the homeless

  Yet is not sanctimonious

  For example, would quite like to have an affair

  Is musical

  And sensitive

  Yet is not perfect, far from it in fact.

  Cons

  Is married

  Now, you might well think that when it came to the bottom line, nineteen pros would easily cancel out one con. But it’s not a simple matter of profit and loss, because when you’re working these things out, well, some things weigh more heavily in the balance than others, don’t they? So if, for example, Seriously Successful was Seriously Selfish, then that might counteract, say, his sensitivity, musicality, and natty neckwear because, in my book, selfishness is a very big con indeed. And being married—at least to someone else—is an even bigger one. In fact it’s so big that it outweighs all the positive things, at least as far as I’m concerned. Cancels them out completely. Now, others might take a different view and go ahead and take the plunge—and the consequences. But I’m not going to do that, because I may be dim, but I’m not stupid, and he’s told me for a fact that he’s going to stay married because of his daughter, so I’m not going to get involved. And that’s that. And when I read my list, I felt better immediately because it confirmed what I absolutely knew to be right; although when I looked at all the pros and cons again, and thought of Seriously Successful standing at my front door behind that vast bouquet, and then making me coffee, and sitting on the sofa with me, holding my hand, and looking so attractive—well I think so—and saying such nice things to me, I got very, very upset, and before I knew it my eyes had filled and I was bawling. Howling. I was having a really lovely, economy-sized cry—and then just as I was really getting into it, my eyelids swelling beautifully, tears seeping into the corner of my mouth and snot dribbling down over my upper lip and everything, and my breath coming in childish little gasps, this incredibly annoying thing happened. The phone rang. And it was Patrick. And that made me feel happy. So I was unable to carry on crying. And th
at really pissed me off, because there’s nothing more irritating than someone cheering you up when you’re having a lovely big cry.

  “Tiffany, is this a good time to chat?” said Patrick politely.

  “No it isn’t, actually,” I said. “In fact it’s rather inconvenient. You’ve interrupted my weeping just when it was going really well.” Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I said, “Oh yes, Patrick. It’s absolutely fine. Really. Hello!”

  “You sound as though you’ve got a cold,” he said.

  “Er, yes, I do,” I replied. “Not much of one, just a runny nose, really.” And in order to make this sound plausible I blew it loudly, and theatrically, very close to the mouthpiece. Because I think that if he’d known that I was in fact crying over another man, with whom I was, in fact, madly in love, well, he might have been a bit put off. I thought he sounded very nice, and we chatted for a few minutes about this and that, including tennis—and he must be a really brilliant player because he told me that he played in Junior Wimbledon in 1972! And then we chatted a bit more and decided that yes, we did want to meet, and so we arranged a rendezvous at Frederick’s, in Islington, on the twenty-eighth of February.

  I thought I’d better mug up on Patrick’s details before I went to meet him, and so on the twenty-eighth I took his profile out of the Potential Life Partners section of my index file and studied it carefully for a couple of hours. In the Person Behind the Face section, he said he had a “zest for life”—that sounded really good—and that he enjoyed “socializing and eating out, accompanied by wit and sparkling conversation”! I’ll see what I can do, Patrick! Maybe I could tell him my joke about the unemployed talking pig, I thought to myself as I got ready. I really hoped he would be as good-looking in three dimensions as he appeared to be in two.

  I got the number 73 to the Angel, feeling extremely optimistic and yet more than a little nervous. After all, this was my debut with the Introduction Agency Male. Male order, I suppose you could call it. At a quarter to seven I walked into Frederick’s in Camden Passage, passed the semi-circular bar, and looked around expectantly.

  “Is Mr. Miller here, yet?” I asked the maitre d’. He looked in the book, nodded, and led me through to the large conservatory dining room at the back. As we walked down the steps beneath the enormous chandelier, I saw a man seated at a far table get to his feet. It was Patrick. And he was even better-looking in the flesh than he had been in the photo! Really, very, very dishy. Matinée idolish, in fact. This was wonderful. It was a good job it wasn’t February the twenty-ninth, otherwise I might have proposed to him on the spot! He was wearing a very smart suit, in a subtle gray check, with a pink stripy shirt and a teal-blue silk tie. Silver cufflinks. I glanced at his shoes. They were all polished—that’s a good sign—and lace-ups, of course, not plebby slip-ons.