The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “How can I make it up to you?”

  “I’m sick of men behaving like this . . .”

  “Would you let me buy you dinner?”

  “Just sick of it . . .”

  “There’s a very nice restaurant I know . . .”

  “Treating me like dirt . . .”

  “It’s got a really nice menu . . .”

  “As though I’m just no one. Someone to be trifled with . . .”

  “They do lovely desserts . . .”

  “And then discarded . . . I mean I’m sick of it. Sick. To. Death. Of. It. I just feel like . . .”

  “Tiffany?”

  “. . . doing something desperate . . .”

  “Would you let me . . .”

  “. . . like jumping off a tall building.”

  “. . . get a word in edgeway . . .”

  “. . . or entering a Carmelite convent . . .”

  “. . . because I really would like to . . .”

  “. . . or moving to Milton Keynes!”

  “. . . see you.”

  “All men are bastards. All of them. Bastards. Even the nice ones. And I’m afraid that’s all there is . . .”

  “TIFFANY—”

  “. . . to it.”

  “. . . WILL YOU HAVE DINNER WITH ME ON TUESDAY?”

  “Oh. OK. Yes. All right.”

  April

  What a difference a date makes. Patrick poured me another glass of champagne and gave me a dazzling smile. I was in Bertorelli’s in Charlotte Street, and I was in heaven. I was feeling happy and looking good. I had had a full leg wax. And I had completely accepted Patrick’s apology for not turning up at the tennis club. He said he had “got delayed,” and well, getting delayed can happen to anyone, can’t it? Especially when you’re a very busy and successful person like Patrick. And when you’ve had a lot on your mind recently, like the enormous size of your wife’s divorce settlement. And, goodness me, I’m not going to start pressurizing the guy—after all, I haven’t known him that long. I now realize that I had no right to get upset with him when he was unfortunately delayed last Saturday, thereby preventing him from keeping his rendezvous with me at the tennis club. Oh no—I’m not one of these mad women who start making demands on a bloke within half an hour of meeting them. I’m not one of those “bunny-boilers,” I think the expression is (cf Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction), who think the bloke’s dead keen when he isn’t, or when he just needs a little more time before he feels he can commit—like twenty years or so. Because I know from my own experience that it’s a mistake to say “OK, where, exactly, is this relationship going?” when you’ve only been seeing the guy for about—ooh—three years, and who can blame a bloke for turning round and saying, “Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” like Phil Anderer did to me? Because I asked for it, didn’t I? By asking. Yes. And so I’m really into giving men space at the moment. Lots of space. And after all I’ve only known Patrick for three weeks, and OK, he did tell me to go “on hold” at the agency, which meant that I haven’t been meeting any other blokes. But I just don’t agree with Lizzie that it would be sensible to meet as many chaps as possible to begin with and then see what happens with Patrick. Because the fact is that Patrick is The One. I know that he’s very, very keen on me, and doesn’t want other men to meet me, which is why he told me to go on hold. He’s being very possessive, which is really rather flattering, actually. And so I have been on hold ever since I met him. And there we were, sitting in Bertorelli’s—such a perfect venue for a romantic dinner tête-à-tête—and he’d ordered champagne and we were sharing some foie gras, followed by brain-friendly steak and the crispiest French fries. And I was looking pretty damn good I can tell you, and I was feeling very, very confident, and laughing just the right amount. And I was on the point of telling Patrick that I had put him on my BT Friends and Family list, when he suddenly gave me a meaningful look. Very meaningful. And deep. It thrilled me to my core. And then he made an announcement.

  “We’re going to the South of France,” he said with a smile. “That’s what I really wanted to tell you. That’s why I wanted to have dinner with you tonight, Tiffany.” The South of France—wow!

  “How fantastic,” I said. “When?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Probably the week after next. For a fortnight . . .”

  A fortnight. What heaven. We could go to Antibes, and Cap Ferrat, and do a little gambling in Monte Carlo, and maybe we’d get to see Princess Caroline, and of course Nice would be nice.

  “I’ve still got to work out the best date for us both . . .”

  “Well, I’m really flexible about work,” I said.

  “And I’ve got to look at exactly how much leave I’ve got left.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And on the availability of accommodation.”

  “Quite.”

  “The weather should be lovely.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But obviously it all depends on when she can get away.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? I’ve met someone. We’re going on hold together.”

  “Met someone?” I said. What do you mean “met someone”—you’ve just met me.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve met someone. And I’m going on hold. With her.”

  “I see,” I said. And then I thought, I had my legs waxed for this man.

  “But—I thought I was on hold with you,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, I don’t know why you thought that,” he said, casually spearing a chip.

  “Because you told me, after our first date, when you phoned me up the very next morning, that I ought to put myself ‘on hold’ and not meet any other blokes,” I said. “That’s why!”

  “Oh, I was only joking, Tiffany! I didn’t mean it.”

  “So you weren’t on hold yourself?” I said.

  “No.”

  “But I was.”

  “So it seems.”

  “And so you’ve been meeting other women? All this time?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have. Why not?”

  “How many?” I asked, fiddling with my serrated knife.

  “Oooh,” he started counting on two hands, then three, then four, “seventeen,” he said.

  “Seventeen?” He was seventeen-timing me?

  “And now I have met someone I want to go on hold with,” he said with another sip of sparkling wine. “And so we are. Going on hold. And then we’re going on holiday. But I wanted to have dinner with you because I did feel bad about not turning up for tennis, but you see Sarah Jane asked me to go shopping with her, and that’s why I got delayed. We were stuck in a traffic jam on the King’s Road and that’s why I couldn’t make it, but I did try to let you know and luckily her Mercedes has a car phone. Tiffany . . . Tiffany, where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get my GUN!”

  “Why do men do this to me?” I asked Lizzie, again, as we walked around the National Gallery the following Sunday. “Why, why, why, why, why?”

  “Because they’re bastards,” she said calmly as she stopped to light another cigarette in front of a rather gaudy Gauguin.

  “Madam. No smoking!” said a guard crossly.

  “Yes, but why do I allow them to treat me like this?” I said as she stubbed out her Marlboro Light in a fire bucket. “Why do I let them get away with it?”

  “Because you’re so stupid,” she said. “Next question?”

  “What should I do?”

  “Complain.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the introduction agency, of course,” she replied as we wandered past a group of Italian tourists into the adjacent room.

  “But how can I reasonably complain about the fact that Patrick Miller prefers someone else to me?” I said as we studied a serene-looking pastoral by Poussin.

  “Well I would,” she said simply. And so I did. I phoned Caroline Clarke up at ten o’clock the next morning.

  “Wel
l, it is rather unfortunate,”she said sympathetically. “There seems to have been a communication failure here. But I must say I was a bit surprised when you said you wanted to go on hold at such an early stage.”

  “Now, this other woman,” I spat. “Sarah Jane. Horrible name, incidentally . . .”

  “Ye-es,” said Caroline cautiously.

  “Well, I know she’s a client of yours and so you can’t really say very much . . .”

  “No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “But just tell me everything about her,” I said. “Tell me, for example, what she’s got that I haven’t.”

  “I really can’t tell you anything, Tiffany. I’m sorry.”

  “I mean, is she stunningly attractive?” Silence. “Is she?” I persisted. “I can take it, you know.”

  “Well, well, no,” said Caroline reluctantly. “She’s, well, average, I’d say.” Average! Ha!

  “And is she incredibly intelligent, by any chance?”

  “Well Tiffany, I really don’t want to say . . .”

  “I mean, are we talking Mensa here? Are we?”

  “Er, well no. I don’t think we are.”

  “And is she . . .” I braced myself, “. . . younger than me?”

  “No, no. She’s about the same age.” Mmmm. No advantage there then. “And is she richer than I am?” I inquired. There was an awkward silence. “By which I mean,” I continued, “has she got more money than me?”

  “Well Tiffany, I really don’t think it would make you feel any better if I were to answer that particular question, and in fact I’ve already said more than I’d have chosen to do, but you’ve been so terribly pressing. And in any case, this conversation just isn’t going to help you very much.”

  But now I knew what I needed to know. Patrick was interested only in money, because he was going out with this physically repulsive, ageing woman who was also as thick as two short planks—and why? Because she had cash. Shallow, hypocritical bastard. Going on about how a woman’s most appealing asset is her intellect when what he really had in mind was her bank balance. Right.

  “Well, there are certain things I’d like to tell you about Patrick Miller,” I said. “Now, I’m not sneaking on him or anything,” I added, “but I feel you should know that he stood me up—at my tennis club. I waited there for two hours.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “And then there was another time when he said he’d ring me and he didn’t,” I said. “And I had to ring him.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then—now I’m not telling tales or anything—but there was another time when . . .”

  “Look Tiffany, just forget Patrick,” said Caroline calmly. “There’s no point in thinking about him anymore. I’ll find you someone much nicer.”

  And so that’s what she’s been doing—and the profiles just keep on coming. And every day there’s some bloke or other ringing up wanting to meet me—which is balm to my battered ego. But it can be a bit confusing. For example, this morning the phone rang, and this voice said, “Oh hello, Tiffany, this is John here. From Hertford.” That’s the codified way of saying they’re from the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency rather than from, say, the gas board, or MI5. Anyway, he said, “This is John”—and I didn’t know who the hell it was because I’ve received the profiles of several men called John.

  So I said, “Are you John the surgeon, John the sales executive, John the ophthalmologist, John the businessman or John the Baptist, ha ha ha!” And he said that he was John the surgeon, and so we chatted, and arranged to meet at a wine bar in Soho. And he was perfectly-OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable, except that he made one fundamental mistake.

  We’d had a couple of drinks and we were getting on reasonably well when he said, “And what do you like to do in your spare time, Stephanie?”

  “Tiffany,” I said. “It’s Tiffany.”

  “Oh sorry,” he said, “of course it is. Anyway, do tell me about your leisure interests—do you like country walks, Stephanie, or stamp collecting?”

  “It’s Tiffany,” I said again, with a little more emphasis this time.

  “Oh Stephanie, I’m so sorry,” he said. “You must think me really rather crass.”

  “Yes,” I suddenly said, “I do. Why do you keep calling me Stephanie?” I inquired as I picked up my bag.

  “Because that’s my ex-wife’s name,” he said with a mournful look in his eye.

  After that I met a banker called Anthony. He sounded OK over the phone and his photo was quite attractive. I met him at the Waldorf, in the Palm Court. And he was fatter in real life than he was in the photo—much fatter. And he didn’t smile. Or laugh. In fact he seemed to have had a triple humor bypass and was completely immune to my jokes. Didn’t get them at all. Not even the one about the farmer and the trailer-load of penguins. Nor did he ask me anything about myself. Not one thing. He just talked about the ERM. Nonstop. For an hour and forty-five minutes. “Gorden Brown . . .” I heard him say. “Interest rates still far too high . . . Single European Currency . . . fluctuating Deutschmark . . .” And as one narcoleptic gem after another dropped from his lips, I thought, I wonder whether he’d actually notice if I put my head down on the table and had a little sleep? “Convergence criteria . . . all depends on the Swiss franc of course . . .” No. I’m sure he wouldn’t notice a thing. “The lire’s been given a very easy ride . . .” But I decided against it—it was much easier just to leave.

  “Tell me,” I said as I stood up, “have you met many women from the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency?” He blanched visibly, and looked quite shocked, as though I had just said something unspeakably vulgar. Because, you see, some people don’t like to refer to the fact that that is how they met. In fact Anthony looked at me as though I had just said, “Have you always had hemorrhoids?”

  “Er, well, yes,” he blurted out, as a red stain spread from his neck up to his ears. “Quite a few, actually.”

  “Didn’t you like any of them?” I inquired. I was curious, you see.

  “No,” he said flatly. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” he said with an involuntary shrug, “I thought they were all very boring.”

  Shortly after that I met a cardiologist called Chris, and a theater director called Hugo, but he was six foot six and he gave me vertigo. And then there was Andrew, an estate agent, and Joe, a restaurateur, and Ray, a solicitor, whose specialty, unfortunately, was defending pedophiles and this would not have gone down terribly well at the tennis club. And there was a Scottish architect called Hamish and an industrial chemist called Mark, but he was as camp as a convention of scoutmasters and had a badly pockmarked face. And then there was a charming chartered surveyor called Shaun, but he lived too far away, and then there was Wayne. I rather liked Wayne, who was a computer salesman, but when we met he kept saying that he was very worried about “gold diggers.” Gold diggers?

  “Well, did you bring your bank statements?” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that, I just sat there wondering what on earth he could mean. After all, he was hardly in the Wall Street league. Gold diggers?

  “You see, I do have a very comfortable lifestyle,” he explained. What was I supposed to say to that? “Congratulations!”? “And so obviously I have to be very careful,” he added. In fact, he said it twice. And we’d met at the Atlantic Bar, and all we’d had was a bottle of house wine costing eleven quid. But when the bill came he fumbled about awkwardly and then he looked at me inquiringly, and he said, “Well, how should we do this then?” And so I just handed the waiter the cash. Because, you see, I’d understood that Wayne has to be “very careful.”

  And then there was Dave, the orthodontist surgeon, and Angus, an electronics engineer, and there was a university professor called Bob, and frankly, it was all becoming too much. From having had practically no dates a week, I was now having fifteen dates a week and I just couldn’t cope. Having to listen to all these men talking about their divorce
s, their jobs, their love of sailing, their love of golf; going on about their children, their careers, their ex-wives, their ex-girlfriends, their pension arrangements, their preference for Emmy Lou Harris over Bette Midler or their preference for Beethoven over Brahms. And OK, OK, I know it was only conversation, and I really couldn’t complain. But it was just all getting too much. It was really getting me down. And then the phone rang again. “Oh, not another bloody man asking me out!” I said to myself as I picked it up, and it was yet another bloke from Caroline Clarke’s agency, and so I went into the usual preliminary rigmarole about how much I like tennis, and how much I don’t like golf, and how I’m not really that keen on action movies, but yes, I do like Harrison Ford. Oh why didn’t I marry Kit? I thought for the umpteenth time as I put the phone down on my latest date. Or Seriously Successful, for that matter. Because I wasn’t used to having all this choice—having choice is very tiring. No wonder the French call it embarras de richesses . . .

  And then it happened. It just all fell into place. With Mr. Right. I found him. I actually found him. And there I was floating up the aisle on Dad’s arm in my incredibly expensive wedding dress in ivory silk satin, and with the prettiest little bouquet—lilies of the valley and stephanotis—with small white roses in my hair. And I was feeling so relieved, because at last—phew!—IT had happened. I had met someone. And I had liked him. And he had liked me, and he had sought my hand in marriage. And I had accepted. And there I was at the church door, with Dad, and the organ was playing “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” which always has me in floods. And we walked slowly up the aisle, and I felt so emotional, there were tears standing in my eyes. And I could feel Dad’s arm on mine, steadying me for what lay ahead. But I could hear people tittering and sniggering. And they were saying, “Oh yes . . . Tiffany’s finally getting hitched . . . yes incredible, isn’t it . . . no, I never thought it’d happen either . . . well exactly, who’d have guessed?” But I didn’t care. Their negative and bitchy comments didn’t bother me at all, because it had all turned out right at last. I had met the man of my dreams, and he had proposed, and now here I was walking toward him as he stood with his back to me at the altar. I started mentally to rehearse my lines as I gradually drew nearer and nearer. “I take thee . . . I take thee . . .” Who the hell was I taking? Suddenly I hadn’t a clue. Was it Tipsy Terry from Eat ’n’ Greet? No. Was it Alex? Surely not. Or Tall Athletic? Hardly. Well, it certainly wasn’t two-headed Alan from the tennis club, because he was fixed up now, with Julia. Maybe it was Patrick—or, God forbid, Peter Fitz-Harrod! No. No. It wasn’t him. He definitely hadn’t proposed. Perhaps it was Kit—oh that would be nice—or maybe that young bloke from the Ministry of Sound. Or was it Todd from Club Med . . . or José? Who was it? God, how embarrassing. Couldn’t remember. Completely gone! I’d just have to busk it. That was all there was for it. I’d have to improvise. And then, as we proceeded further and further up the aisle—the flowers did look nice—I saw something leaning against the front right-hand pew. It was a bag of golf clubs. How odd! And then I drew level with the groom and he turned and looked at me, and it was Phil Anderer. What on earth was he doing here? I sure as hell didn’t want to marry him. And then he looked me up and down, with this funny, yet familiar expression on his face, and he said, “Look, Tiffany, I’m sorry, but that dress, well, I just don’t like it. It doesn’t do anything for you. The cut’s completely wrong. And the detail on the train is appalling. It’s just awful—not stylish at all—I’m afraid you look a sight. Look, would you go and change?” And then I heard the phone ringing in the front pew. But no one was answering it. I went to pick it up, aware that my palms were wet with sweat.