by Isabel Wolff
“One of them was nearly a B.”
“Yes,” he concluded comprehensively, “nothing makes a woman more appealing than a fine intellect. Well,” he said as we got the bill. “Another lovely evening, Tiffany. How about a game of tennis on Saturday?”
“Oh yes, let’s,” I said happily. “That would be great. And afterward we can play Serious Pursuit.”
“What do you think?” said Sally, as she showed me the Aquababe Birthing Pool standing at the ready in her vast sitting room. “Er, it looks very interesting . . . but isn’t it a bit premature?” I said. “I mean, the baby isn’t due for another six weeks.”
“I know, but I wanted to be well prepared,” she said. “And to get used to the pool in advance.”
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“I hired it. The company assembled it for me, and then all we have to do when the time comes is to fill it up from the bath tap with this hose.”
“Has it got a Jacuzzi?” I asked, fingering the blue fiberglass.
“Don’t be silly, Tiff—of course not.”
“Where’s the springboard?”
“Tiffany!”
“And will you need a snorkel?”
“Tiffany—please be serious.”
“OK. How much water does it hold?”
“200 gallons. And once it’s filled up we cover it with this plastic lid to conserve the heat. And then when I’m ready, I just strip off and pop in.”
“And then the baby pops out?” I said.
“Yes,” she said happily. “Assisted by the calm atmosphere, the low lighting—I’m having some downlighters installed by the way—and of course the gentle, warm water. The baby just passes from one aquatic environment to another. I’ve heard that babies born like this are born smiling. Did you know that there’s a tribe of South Sea islanders who give birth in the sea?” she added.
“In the shallow end, I hope.”
“And that, according to legend, priests in ancient Egypt were born in water.”
“Gosh. Well, that’s very interesting,” I said. Though I couldn’t help feeling that if we were meant to give birth in water we’d probably have fins.
“It’s going to be a wonderful experience,” she went on with a beatific smile. “I’m really looking forward to it, Tiffany, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes,” I lied. “Can’t wait.” But to be honest I still find Sally’s determination to give birth at home, without drugs, in an ad hoc pond, slightly alarming. No, I really don’t hold with New Labour.
“What if it leaks?” I said. “There’d be a flood. It would really piss off the downstairs neighbors.”
“It isn’t going to leak,” Sally said confidently. “But what we do is to put this large plastic sheet underneath the pool before we fill it up, just in case.”
“You know, the Chelsea and Westminster hospital do have a couple of birthing pools,” I said. “Lots of NHS hospitals have them now. That’s what all the baby books say. Why don’t you have a water birth, but have it in the hospital? I still don’t see the advantage of doing it at home.”
“I just hate the idea of all those faceless people intervening and giving me drugs and telling me what to do and when to push,” she said adamantly. “I want to give birth actively, not passively, and I want this life-changing event to happen in the seclusion and intimacy of my own home, with just the midwife, and me and the baby—and of course you, Tiffany. And you’d be in the pool, too.”
“I would?” Oh God, I hadn’t bargained on that.
“Of course. You can wear a swimsuit, but a nice gentle color please, not that electric purple one you’ve got—it might traumatize the baby if that’s the first thing she sees. And you see, if I had Leila in hospital,” she continued, “I might hear other women screaming in labor, or see them being rushed around on gurneys. And I want Leda to come into the world in as calm and relaxed and unstressful a way as possible—so that means a home delivery. You see, what happened to Rosie happened because she had the baby in hospital.”
“But you can still have a bad birth at home,” I pointed out. “Giving birth is painful wherever you do it, isn’t it?” But Sally didn’t seem to hear. She lay back on the white leather sofa, pulled up her sweatshirt, and attached her Babyplus Fetal Sonic Stimulation device to her bare middle.
“I love this little gadget,” she said happily. “And I’m sure it’s doing the baby good. After all, it’s been known for a long time that babies can hear from the womb. And by the time they’re in their third trimester, like Libby is, not only can they hear noises, they can also react to them—and therefore the educational process can begin.” She turned up the volume on the white Walkman-sized unit and had another sip of fennel tea.
“What’s Lettice listening to now?” I said. “Italian lessons, beginners’ biochemistry, or advanced differential calculus?” Because, you see, I don’t really approve of all this “better babies” business, and ambitious pre-natal teaching.
“It’s simply informational nourishment,” Sally pointed out with a smile, “early learning, I suppose you call it. And I’m sure the baby’s enjoying it because whenever I put the unit on I can feel her fluttering about and kicking.”
“She’s probably saying ‘Turn that bloody noise off!’ ” I said. “Or ringing the council to complain.”
“Oh Tiffany, you’re so old-fashioned,” said Sally with a sigh. “There’s one baby I know of whose mother used this device and he was walking at seven months!”
“Yes, but I bet no one could prove that it’s because of that . . . gizmo,” I said dismissively. But then I thought I’d better shut up. Because it’s Sally’s baby, not mine. Although to be honest I thought the £200 she’d spent on the gadget would be better spent on nappies.
“Have you put her down for Eton yet?” I asked. Because of course by the time Lara is thirteen, Eton will probably be co-ed.
“No. But the minute she pops out, she’ll be on the list for Winchester, Radley, Rugby, Gordonstoun, Charterhouse, Marlborough and Stowe.”
“And what sort of career is she going to have?” Is that all mapped out, too?
“Oh don’t be silly, Tiffany,” said Sally happily. “How could I possibly know the answer to that now? And I’m certainly not going to be one of those awful pushy, ambitious mothers. Having said which she’ll probably run a global bank, or be a celebrated artist, or quite possibly become Prime Minister. Oh I wish you’d have a baby too, Tiffany, a little friend for Lysette.”
“Well, maybe I will,” I said. “Maybe I will, because, actually, it’s getting pretty serious with Patrick.”
“It is? Oh good. Tell me.”
“We went to the theater last Thursday, and this Saturday we’re going to play tennis. In fact, Sally, don’t spread this around,” I added, “but I think he might be my boyfriend.”
On Friday I took the morning off from writing brochure copy for Waitrose to go shopping for some new tennis gear—I wanted to look my best when I played Patrick. I wanted him to take one look at me on the other side of the net and think to himself, “Wow, what a woman!” And I didn’t think that was likely if I was wearing my graying old tracksuit. So I popped down to Lillywhites to get some lily-white whites, or perhaps that should be expressed as “whites to the power of two,” or “whites squared.” And despite the fact that I was close to Piccadilly, I didn’t give Seriously Successful a thought because, just as I predicted, I have fallen in love with someone from the introduction agency and therefore Seriously Successful has receded from my mind. And in fact I know that Patrick feels exactly the same way, because he told me not to bother meeting anyone else from the agency, despite the fact that I’ve had lots of requests actually, and so I’m not going to because, well, what’s the point because, to be quite frank, I believe it’s only a matter of time before Patrick seeks my hand in marriage.
Anyway, I went up to the second floor, and all the summer stock had already arrived: white minidresses and frothy little skirts a
nd tops spread out before me, on rail after rail. I must have tried on about, oh, thirty-five different outfits. And I decided not to get another tracksuit because I wanted to show off my legs—N.B., do not forget to shave them. And so I tried on skirts and T-shirts and polo shirts and halter-neck tops and cropped tops—all in the whitest Swiss jersey or cotton or aertex, and all terribly feminine and sexy. But the one I liked the most—a very pretty dress by Fred Perry with navy trim at the arms and hem—was, of course, the most expensive. But what the hell? I was feeling happy. And I looked good in it—it was worth every penny, so why should I grudge myself a measly ninety quid? And then I thought I’d better get a cardigan to match it, as it’s still not very warm, and there was a very pretty Sergio Tacchini one for seventy-five quid, and then I thought I’d better get some new Wilson tennis shoes, and they were eighty quid, and then, what with the new socks and the headband and the three pairs of appliquéd panties and one of those natty little plastic things for storing your balls in, the bill came to £255. But then, when you’re in love, no expense is too great, is it? And I handed over my credit card with a glad smile as the assistant bagged up my new gear. And then—dear reader, imagine my rapture!—Saturday arrived.
Now, I had told Patrick that I’d meet him at the club and I’d given him clear directions. And I’d booked a court for two hours, because I thought we’d need at least half an hour to warm up and then an hour and a half to play a couple of sets—unless he totally demolished me, which I thought he probably would, given his success at Junior Wimbledon in the early seventies. Anyway, when I arrived I noticed that there was a new coach—very attractive actually. And so I went upstairs to change, and when I came down I couldn’t help noticing that two-headed Alan was talking to this new coach and in fact seemed to be on rather friendly terms with her. They were giggling about something and she was looking at him in an interested, intimate kind of way as she gave him some advice about his forehand and I thought—that’s great! That’s really great, Alan. Because personally I find you about as attractive as a baboon’s bottom, but she obviously has no objections to you, and chacun à son goût, as they say. And anyway, I was in love and feeling generous, overflowing with human kindness and understanding in fact, because, well, Patrick is a really gorgeous-looking bloke. And nice. Incredibly nice. And very successful.
Anyway, we’d arranged to meet at the club at two-thirty, and it was a wonderful spring afternoon. The trees were just coming into leaf, there were tulips and hyacinth nodding in every flowerbed, and the birds were twittering joyfully as I sat outside, on the terrace, waiting. And by two forty-five Patrick still hadn’t showed up, which was odd, because he’s normally very reliable. So I had a cup of coffee, and watched the players batting the balls back and forth with varying degrees of energy and skill. And then I picked up the Telegraph. And then, when I’d finished reading the news and features, I scrutinized the stock market report, and then I perused the sports pages, and after that I turned to the back page and looked at the crossword. And then I found that I’d done three quarters of the crossword, and Patrick still hadn’t arrived. And it was three forty-five. And I must say my anxiety levels were really quite high by now. Somewhere just below the summit of K2. So I read The Times, just glancing, only out of curiosity of course, at the personal ads in the Rendezvous section. And then I started to do The Times crossword, and I’d got halfway through that, and was just struggling with fourteen down, when I thought, where the hell is he? Because I knew there could be no confusion about the day, or the time, or the venue, because I’d written it all down on a piece of paper when I’d given him directions to the club. “Oh, Patrick, please, please, please arrive soon,” I said to myself. “Please.” And the sun had gone in by now, and the clouds were massing, battleship gray, and still he hadn’t arrived and I thought, what the hell is going on here? Suddenly I heard the phone ring, and through the window I saw the new coach pick it up. Then she came out onto the terrace and said, “Tiffany?” I nodded. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Julia. I’m new here. Someone called Patrick Miller just phoned for you.”
Patrick! Thank God! Everything was going to be all right. “I forgive you Patrick, don’t worry, I really don’t mind that you’re almost two hours late,” I said to myself. “Just hurry up and get here in one piece.”
“He was just calling to say—”
“That he’d be arriving shortly?” I interjected.
“No. To say that he had to cancel.”
“What?”
“Cancel,” she said. “He sends his apologies.”
“Cancel?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Did he give a reason?” I added.
“No,” she said, shaking her tobacco-brown curls.
“He just phoned to cancel?” Julia nodded. “As in—not coming?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Did he definitely use the word ‘cancel’?” I asked.
“Definitely,” she said.
“You couldn’t possibly—sorry, I know you’re new and everything—but you couldn’t possibly have made a mistake, could you, or misheard?”
“No,” she said. “He said ‘cancel.’ He said, ‘Please could you tell Tiffany Trott that I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel.’ Those are the very words he used.”
“Cancel, as in, not turn up?” I said. “Look, Julia, can I just clarify this again? He said ‘cancel’? Is that right? Spelt, C.A.N.C.E.L.?”
“Yes. Cancel. As in no show. Cancel.”
“And you’re absolutely sure about that?” I said again.
“One hundred percent,” she said.
“I see,” I said, fingering the fabric of my new tennis dress. “So he’s not coming, then.”
“No,” she said. “He isn’t.”
“I understand,” I said. “He’s canceled?”
“Yes. Yes. He has.”
Then Alan appeared. “Hello Tiffany,” he said. “Great new tennis dress you’ve got on there!”
“Thanks,” I said absently.
“Have you got anyone to play with?” he asked.
“No,” I said dismally.
“Why don’t you two have a game?” said Julia. “You’d like to play again, wouldn’t you, Alan? And you need lots of practice for the tournament.”
“Sure,” he said. “Come on, Tiffany.”
“Er, it’s OK,” I said. “I think I’ll just . . . to be honest I don’t really feel like playing that much today. Wasn’t really in the mood for it, anyway,” I said as I put my new headband back in my bag. “Got a bit of a dodgy ankle, to be honest. Didn’t really feel . . . and it looks like rain. Look Julia, can I just get this absolutely straight, once and for all, to clear up any possible misunderstanding. Patrick’s not coming. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“He said, ‘I’m canceling.’ Correct?”
“Correct.”
“And it was definitely the same Patrick Miller, was it?” I said.
“Well, do you know two?” she inquired. Good point. Very good point.
“No,” I said bleakly. “I don’t.”
I went upstairs to the changing room, a knife revolving slowly in my heart. I removed the Sergio Tacchini cardigan, my Fred Perry dress, my new Wilson shoes and Lillywhites socks, and got dressed again. And then I made my way home. And when I opened the front door my answer phone wasn’t winking at me—cheering me up with the promise of some plausible explanation from Patrick. It was just staring at me, blankly. It had absolutely nothing to say. And then another thing struck me—he’d spoken to Julia, so why could he not have asked to speak to me, to explain his nonappearance, or at least to apologize in person? I didn’t understand that at all. Then I sat at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands, and cried. I really, really cried. The tears were streaming down my face, and I had a quick look in the hall mirror and I was a complete mess—my face segmented by
wet streaks of smeary, brown mascara. And the whites of my eyes were red and veined, and my usually smooth brow was furrowed and corrugated with disappointment and distress and . . . ring ring! Ring ring!
“Yes?”
“Tiffany. It’s Patrick.”
“Yes?”
“Look, I’m sorry about the tennis . . .”
“Yes.”
“But you see I got myself a bit tied up . . .” Tied up? “Did you wait there long?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you’re a bit cross with me?”
“Er, well, yes. Yes. I am.”
“I’m really sorry, but, you know how it is . . .”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“I just didn’t realize the time and I . . .”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses. All I know is that you stood me up.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I stood you up; you could have played with someone else.”
“I didn’t want to play with anyone else. I wanted to play with you. And you let me sit there, waiting, for almost two hours.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Tiffany.”
“And then you don’t even bother to speak to me personally . . .”
“But it was tricky, I was on a mobile phone.” Mobile phone? He didn’t have a mobile phone as far as I knew.
“You just buggered me about—like all the rest.”
“What do you mean, buggered you about?”
“You’re buggering me about.”
“No I’m not,” he said.
“Yes you are, Patrick. And the fact is that I paid £700 to join Caroline Clark.”
“Look, I said I’m sorry.”
“And I didn’t pay that kind of money to be buggered about.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Tiffany.”
“Because why would I pay £700 to be buggered about in an introduction agency when I know several men out there in the real world, who, I’m confident, would do it free of charge?”
“Tiffany, I am sorry . . .”
“Sorry? Ha!”