The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Tiffany! Tiffany!” It was Kit. “We’re getting married!” he shouted.

  “No we’re not,” I said.

  “No—not you. Portia. And me. We’re getting married!” he shouted again. I glanced at the alarm clock—it was seven a.m.

  “I’m sorry to ring so early, Tiff, but I just had to tell you as soon as I could. Last night she told me . . . she told me . . . oh Tiffany, Portia’s having a baby,” he said. “And we’re getting married. On Saturday. And Tiffany?”

  “Yes,” I said, through my tears.

  “Will you be our best man?”

  April Continued

  “Come in you two! Come in!” boomed Pat. “The little woman’s upstairs, feeding the baby. We’ll take some nice herbal tea up there,” she added as she ushered us into their Victorian house, just off Holloway Road. It was lovely, with blond wooden flooring, dado rails, high ceilings and elaborate coving.

  “Nice house,” said Sally admiringly as Pat put on the kettle.

  “Did it all myself,” she said, folding her beefy arms across her broad chest. “The place was a wreck when we bought it. Trees growing through the roof. But I’m a devil for DIY—I love my Black and Decker! Are you the same, Tiffany?”

  “Er—yes,” I said. “Well, actually, no. Not really.”

  “Now, if you wouldn’t mind being very quiet with Lesley,” said Pat as she led us upstairs with the tray. “I don’t want her getting over-excited. She’s still recovering from the labor.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll whisper,” said Sally reassuringly, pulling herself up wearily by the hand rail, stopping to catch her breath halfway. She looked tired and strained, but I suppose that’s normal when you’re more than eight months gone and look as though you just swallowed a Spacehopper. We followed Pat into the master bedroom at the front of the house, and there was Lesley, sitting up in the double bed in a white lace-trimmed nightie, smiling dreamily at the downy-headed infant feeding in her arms. The room was semidark and almost silent, except for the snuffling of the baby and the swish of an occasional car. Lesley looked up at us, and smiled delightedly.

  “Oh, thank you!” she whispered, as Sally put a large brown teddy bear on the bed. We peered at little Freddie.

  “Oh, he’s gorgeous!” said Sally. “Is he feeding well?” Lesley nodded.

  “He’s lovely,” I murmured. “Rather big though, isn’t he? I mean, how much did he weigh?”

  Lesley inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, and then she said, “Ten pounds.”

  “Ten pounds?” Sally repeated. Her face expressed a mixture of incredulity and fear. “Gosh. Well, I’m jolly glad I’m having a girl,” she added with a burst of relieved laughter. “I don’t think girls ever weigh as much as that.” Pat pulled up a couple of chairs for us, and we all sat down around the bed.

  “Have you had a lot of visitors?” Sally asked.

  “Well, no. Not really,” Lesley replied quietly. “Apart from our immediate families. You’re the only ones from the ante-natal group who’ve bothered to come and see us.”

  “Oh. That’s odd,” I said. “Well, I’m sure they will come.” Though I wasn’t sure at all. Lesley and Pat seemed to have made few friends at the class. The women had largely ignored them, while the men had been subtly hostile. Particularly toward Pat. I suppose they didn’t like her beating them at their own game, which, in a way, she was.

  “Yes, no one apart from you has even phoned,” added Lesley, with a palpably disappointed air.

  “Oh. Oh, well, that’s a bit rotten,” said Sally. “Perhaps they’re too busy to come at the moment. But, well, we couldn’t wait to see you,” she added diplomatically. Then, becoming a little flushed as she tried to change the subject, she accidentally asked this terribly awkward question, “So who does Freddie look like?” she inquired, peering at him again. Ah. Get out of that one, Sally, I thought to myself as I casually studied a copy of Autocar.

  “Well, Lesley swears he’s like her,” said Pat quick as a flash, “but I think he’s got my chin.”

  “Er, yes,” said Sally. “I can see the resemblance.” She looked at Pat, and then looked at the baby again. “Oh, yes. Definitely. It’s just like yours. Anyway, he’s very sweet,” she added brightly. “Lovely.”

  “Were you there?” I asked Pat. “For the birth?”

  “Of course,” she said, rolling down the sleeves of her checked shirt. “Nothing would have kept me away, would it, Lesley?” Lesley gave her an affectionate smile. “It was the best moment of my life,” Pat went on as she rearranged the tiny cellular blanket in the bunny-covered cot. “The best moment of my life. Seeing my little boy come into the world. It was even better than watching Arsenal blast Liverpool two-nil to win the title in 1989. I cried like a baby,” she added. “You’ll probably be the same, Tiffany. But don’t feel ashamed of it,” she said, putting a paternalistic arm around my shoulder. “Just let the tears come. We should, you know, from time to time. It’s OK for us, you know, us . . . chaps . . . to cry.”

  “I quite agree,” I replied. I’d long since given up trying to convince Pat that a) I was a woman and b) I was simply Sally’s friend.

  “Now, when’s your little one due?” she went on.

  “In three weeks,” said Sally. “I’m feeling incredibly tired, to tell the truth. I can’t wait for Lara to be born. These last few weeks are hell.”

  Lesley nodded sympathetically. “They’re absolutely awful,” she agreed. “You get to the stage where you’re fed up with it—you’re just fed up with being so big and so exhausted and so bloody uncomfortable. Never mind, Sally. Not long now. Which hospital are you going to?” she added as she swapped Freddie over onto her other breast.

  “Oh, I’m having the baby at home,” Sally explained. “I’m going to have a nice, quiet, calm, water birth in my apartment.”

  “You’ll have a midwife, of course?” said Pat with a concerned air.

  “Oh yes. From the Chelsea and Westminster,” she replied. “She’s called Joan. I’ve been seeing her at the health center at World’s End, so I’ve already got to know her a bit—and of course Tiffany’s going to be there too.”

  I nodded with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  “Well, we had Freddie in the Royal Free,” said Lesley. “And it was fabulous. Five-star treatment all the way. But I’m sure a home birth is really nice too,” she added encouragingly.

  I’m sure it isn’t, I thought.

  “Tell me, was the labor awful?” Sally asked Lesley suddenly. Lesley shrugged noncommittally, but tactfully said nothing. Of course it was awful, Sally—the baby weighed two tons.

  “How long did it take?” she persisted.

  “Well, not that long,” Lesley replied casually. “Really. Um. Not that long at all. Would you like some more fennel tea?”

  “Not that long!” said Pat, with a great harrumphing laugh. “It was thirty-six hours! And it was thirty-six hours of sheer bloody hell! Rosie wasn’t joking, you know.”

  Thirty-six hours! Oh no. Please no. I stared at Sally’s bump, mentally willing the baby to try and make it in thirty-six minutes. “I’ll get you anything you like,” I told Ludmilla telepathically. “You can have the Teletubbies, Barbie dolls, Tiny Tears, Pocahontas, Polly Pocket, My Little Pony and any number of fluffy toys—anything, you can name your price. But just make it snappy on the Big Day, OK?” And then we said our goodbyes to Pat and Lesley and left.

  Sally waddled slowly along beside me, stopping occasionally for a rest. Poor thing. She was so tired. We walked a little further, and then she suddenly stopped again and leaned against a garden wall.

  “Sally, are you all right?”

  She didn’t reply. She’d gone completely quiet.

  “Sally?”

  Suddenly she put her left hand up to her eyes, and I saw her shoulders being to shake. And then her body was suddenly convulsed by huge, great, racking sobs. God, poor Sal. It must have been because of Pat’s terrible tactlessness about Lesley�
��s thirty-six-hour ordeal.

  “Don’t worry Sal,” I said, putting my arm around her. “It really won’t be that bad. Please don’t cry. It’ll be OK. Pat really should have kept quiet about Lesley’s hideous labor,” I added crossly. “Tactlessly going on and on about it—about how protracted and painful it was, and about how Lesley was in total agony for the best part of a day and a half. Yours will be much easier than that,” I added reassuringly. “Honestly, I bet it’s really quick and hardly hurts at all.”

  “Oh it’s not that!” Sally wailed, tears now pouring down her pale cheeks. “It’s not the pain. I’m not afraid of the pain.”

  “Well, what is it then?” I asked, nonplussed, handing her a tissue from my bag.

  “Well . . .” She dried her eyes. “Well . . .” Tears continued to snake down her face.

  “Sally, please tell me. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can help.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I went to the delicatessen this morning,” she said, dabbing her eyes, “to get some bread.”

  “Yes,” I said, intrigued.

  “And you know I like that brown bread, with the nice pine kernels on the top?” No.

  “Er. Yes,” I said.

  “That really nice, chewy, brown bread that I like so much?” she reiterated with a loud, wet sniff.

  “Um. Yes,” I said again uncertainly. What on earth was she talking about?

  “Well . . . well . . .” She started crying again, and then covered her face with both hands.

  “What? Sally! What? What happened? For God’s sake, tell me!”

  “They’d . . . they’d run out of it!” she wailed. And now she was sobbing again, loudly, and uncontrollably, to the consternation of passersby.

  “Oh. Oh dear,” I said, not knowing what to say.

  “And I really—uh-uh—like it,” she sobbed again. “And they didn’t—uh-uh—have any. So I had to have white bread,” she concluded in a hoarse, falsetto squeak. She looked at me pleadingly. Her upper lip was slimy with snot. Her mouth was contorted with grief, her chin ridged and puckered in distress. I didn’t know what to say. And then I remembered. It all came back to me from some of the baby books. It’s the hormones. Toward the end of the pregnancy, a woman’s hormones can go barking mad. Thank God, I thought—there’s a rational explanation for this. Her hormones had run amok.

  “I’m sorry, Sally, but I’m afraid your hormones will have to be sectioned under the 1983 Mental Health Act,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I just listened as she continued her tearfest.

  “That bread’s my favorite sort,” she wailed. “I really, really love it. And they’d run out of it, Tiffany. And so I’ve been terribly upset all morning.” Oh God oh God oh God. What should I do?

  “There’s a nice bakery in Upper Street,” I said. “I’m sure we can get some there.”

  She shook her head violently, from side to side. “ It won’t taste the same,” she wailed. “It just won’t . . .”

  “Well, it might.”

  “No, it won’t, it won’t, it WON’T!” she almost screamed. She started crying again, making gasping little “uh, uh, uh” noises between each sob.

  “But it’s not just the bread,” Sally suddenly added in a quiet croak, dabbing at her eyes again. Ah.

  “Well, what else is it?” I asked. “Tell me.” She plucked a couple of tiny pink cherry blossom buds from an overhanging branch, and rotated them thoughtfully in her hands.

  “It’s me,” she said miserably. She wasn’t crying now. “It’s what I’m doing.” She looked at me bleakly. “Tiffany,” she announced, “I’m having a baby on my own.”

  “But Sally, you big wuss, you’ve known that for eight months!” I pointed out. Actually, I didn’t. I just listened.

  “And seeing little Freddie with two parents made me feel awful,” Sally continued, dabbing at her eyes. “Even if the father is a woman. Because, they’ve got each other, Lesley and Pat. And the baby’s got them both.” Her lower lip trembled, and then her face collapsed with grief again. “They’re a family,” she sobbed. “And I’m not going to be a family. And Lucretia isn’t going to have a nice father like Pat,” she added tearfully. “Who’ll play football with her or take her fishing or whatever fathers do. I’m going to be a single parent, Tiffany. I’m going to be on my own. All on my own. Forever. And ever.”

  Ah. Men. So that’s what this was really about. Sally’s lack of a bloke. A bit late to start worrying about that now.

  “Well, Sally, you’re not on your own,” I said briskly, “you’re just not,” though I was fighting back the tears myself, because I find crying, like vomiting, catching. “Lots of people love you,” I added, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat, “and lots of people will help you, and you’re very lucky because you don’t have to worry about money like most single mothers do. And once Louella’s born you’ll be feeling happy again, and you’ll love her, and then you’ll probably meet some really nice chap who’ll be a wonderful stepfather to her and so you’ll be in a family with him, and then you’ll live happily ever after.” This seemed to cheer her up. She gave me a watery smile, then thoughtfully licked the slime off her lip. “You’re just very tired and run down,” I said wearily. “And you’re probably a bit scared at the thought of giving birth.”

  “I’m not scared of that!” she said defiantly. And she looked so shocked at my preposterous presumption that she immediately stopped crying, and went off down the road again, at a brisk waddle.

  “I’m not scared of childbirth at all, Tiffany,” she said again firmly. “The thought of being in pain really doesn’t bother me a bit. But you’re right, though,” she conceded as she stopped to blow her nose again. “I am tired. That’s true. I’m tired of being pregnant. I can’t wait for it all to happen. I can’t wait to meet my little Lavender!” She clasped her bump with both hands and gave me a radiant smile. “I can’t wait, Tiffany! I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” It was like a sudden burst of bright sunshine after torrential rains; and as we walked toward Highbury Corner Sally talked nonstop about the water pool, and her deep breathing, and the toys she’d bought for the baby the day before. And then she got in a taxi, waved cheerfully at me out of the open window, and was gone.

  I decided to walk home—my nerves were too strung out to enable me to wait patiently for the bus. And as I walked down Canonbury Road, past houses swathed in yellow forsythia, with birds twittering in the blossoming cherry trees, Pat’s words kept ringing in my ears: It’s OK for us chaps to cry you know, Tiffany, It’s OK for us chaps . . . Chaps! I mean, really. How ridiculous. It was mad! I mean, do I look like a bloke? I thought indignantly as I unlocked the front door. Then I went into my study, sat down at my desk and wrote my best man speech.

  Sad ugly git, married obviously, said the lonely hearts ad in Private Eye. Public School Chap seeks Hermès scarf-wearing woman, said another. You? 25. Me? Old enough to be your father, but still with plenty of go, said a third. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. I always read them. Even when I’m not, you know, looking. Though I suppose I will have to start looking again. But not until May, because until then I’ve just got too much on my mind. I smoothed my pink cashmere tunic, flicked a speck of dust from my large straw hat and looked out the window as the number 19 crawled down the King’s Road. Though it was Easter Sunday, most of the shops were open, their beribboned windows full of painted eggs and fluffy yellow chicks and fat bunnies and bright spring flowers. The emphasis on birth and youth and renewal provoked a sharp internal pang which took me by surprise. And then the Chelsea Town Hall came into view and there was Kit, on the steps, waiting. I glanced at my watch—eleven-thirty. We had an hour to go. I’d consulted a book on wedding etiquette and I knew the drill, though it wasn’t easy boning up on the duties of best man with only six days’ notice. Most best men get six months. At least I’d been spared the organization of the stag night, complete with ribald pranks, stripograms, epic a
mounts of alcohol, recreational drugs and amusing adventures with plaster casts. Kit had eschewed all that, in favor of a civilized dinner for both families and selected friends at Langan’s, two nights before.

  And now here he was, in a new cream linen suit, with a silk waistcoat in pale gold and a soft, pale yellow cravat. He looked so happy as he greeted me that I felt ashamed of my momentary jealous twinge. It could have been me, I thought as I pinned a buttonhole onto his lapel. But it wasn’t. It was her. But then if it was meant to be me, then it would have been me, I added to myself. And that’s all there is to it. This incisive piece of analysis cheered me up. And then Portia arrived, jumping out of a hired pink Cadillac and running up the town hall steps, accompanied by her bridesmaid, Boris, who’s been her hairdresser for ten years. He was in a tartan suit and yellow bow tie. Portia was wearing a Vivienne Westwood dark gray fitted frock coat which had a huge, heart-shaped velvet collar and a jaunty, matching hat. She was holding a small bouquet of apricot-colored roses, and she looked lovely. She couldn’t stop laughing as she and Kit stood on the pavement together, drawing curious glances from passersby.