The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “Yes, we’re terribly famous!” Kit told some bemused Japanese tourists who wanted to know who they were. “I’m Hugh Grant,” he said, “and this is my fiancée, Elizabeth Hurley.” The Japanese people seemed sufficiently impressed to want to take their photo. “Of course, this is going to be a very traditional English wedding,” Kit explained seriously as they snapped away. Of course it is, I thought. The bridegroom is in white, the bride is in dark gray, the best man is a woman, and the bridesmaid is a bloke. All we needed now was a talking dog to conduct the service.

  Gradually, both sets of parents and Portia’s two younger brothers arrived, and the ten of us went inside. No grating for the wedding ring to fall down, I thought to myself happily as we entered the register office; and no ushers to instruct, either. The room was tastefully furnished in soft gold and green, with heavy, fringed curtains in cream silk dupion, and elegant art nouveau chairs. Two sparkling chandeliers hung overhead, and the mahogany woodwork gleamed. And as the registrar asked Kit and Portia to sit in the two “thrones” in front of the desk, I thought of all the famous people who had plighted their troth there before—Judy Garland, D. H. Lawrence, David Niven, Wallis Simpson, Edward Elger, Des O’Connor. “I take thee Des . . .” or would she have said, “Desmond,” I wondered, whoever she was. And then I stopped wondering about it because the service was about to start. I took my place in the front row, next to Boris, and then the registrar began.

  “I would like to welcome you all here today,” she said, “to celebrate the marriage of Kit and Portia.” Portia smiled at Kit and squeezed his hand.

  “Marriage, according to the law of this country,” continued the registrar, “is the union of one man with one woman, voluntarily entered into for life, to the exclusion of all others.” Seriously Successful didn’t want to exclude all others, I thought ruefully. He wanted to include me.

  “It is my duty to remind you of the solemn and binding vows you are about to take,” she went on. I looked at Kit and Portia; they did look solemn at that point. And then Boris stood up and read How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways, in a lilting, sonorous voice. Then came the marriage itself. It was a quick affair—just a matter of a few contractual sentences. And though it may have lacked the drama of a church wedding, it didn’t lack romance. “I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I, Kit, may not be joined in matrimony to you, Portia . . .”

  “. . . I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Portia, do take you, Kit, to be my lawful wedded husband,” she said with a smile.

  “Who has the ring?” asked the registrar. I stepped forward and placed it on the tiny velvet cushion on the desk. And then Kit slipped the ring on Portia’s finger, they both signed the register, and Boris and I signed it too.

  “Kit. Portia. Congratulations!” said the registrar, smiling at them both. “I am very happy to tell you that you are now man and wife.”

  And we all clapped. It seemed the most natural thing to do. And Portia and Kit both burst into tears. And, as I say, crying’s contagious, and so we were all dabbing our eyes as we made our way out of the town hall. We paused to take photos of them both on the steps, and showered them with confetti, and Portia just wouldn’t stop kissing Kit. And then we all walked down Old Church Street toward the Chelsea Arts Club, laughing and chatting in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine. We stopped outside number 143, a long, low white building, knocked on the wooden door and were admitted into the shabbily genteel interior. A list of former club chairmen hung in the hall—Sir John Lavery, F. M. Lutyens, Roger McGough, Patrick Hughes. This was where Whistler had hung out, and John Singer Sargent, and all their painter pals. And we could see that it was business as usual in the bar, where a game of billiards was in progress. Then we turned left, down the parquet-floored corridor, opened the paneled dining room door and . . .

  “CONGRATULATIONS!!!” All the guests were there, standing behind their chairs, waiting for Kit and Portia. And every third chair had a white and silver helium balloon tied to its back, and the oil paintings that filled the dark green walls were festooned with curling white streamers. And Kit and Portia took their seats in the middle of the central table, along with their families, Boris and me. And then the champagne corks went off like popguns. Glasses were quickly filled, and chinked, and filled again, as the couple moved round the dining room, happily greeting their guests.

  “Hallo, Catherine,” said Kit. “Hallo, Hugh. Frances—hi!”

  “Congratulations, Portia,” said Lizzie. “You look lovely.”

  “Well done, old boy,” said Martin, standing up and giving Kit a manly hug.

  It was a big crowd and there were lots of people I didn’t know, model friends of Portia’s, two sets of relations, and a few colleagues of Kit’s from TV. And outside, in the garden, a traditional brass band was playing on the lawn. Kit loves brass bands, though they tend to make him cry. But he’d always said that he’d have a brass band at his wedding—preferably the Grimethorpe Colliery Band. But I couldn’t fix that up in six days, so I booked the Hendon Brass Band instead. And as the waiters brought in the first course the soft, plangent tones of the tubas and trombones filtered through the open windows. Earlier they’d played the Easter Hymn. Now, they were playing “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man of Mine,” from Showboat. Portia was happily crooning the words to Kit: Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I’m gonna love dat man ’til I die. Ca-an’t help, lovin’ dat man of mine.

  What a lovely thing to play at a wedding, I thought, and noticed Boris quietly singing along to it too. I looked at the band again; they were in dark uniforms, the thick strip of gold braid at collar and cuff catching in the light. There were six or seven cornets, three tenor horns, two tubas, two trombones and two euphoniums, the sun glittering and flashing on their honey-colored tubes and stops. There was euphony inside, too. There was the merry rattle of cutlery on china, the chinking of cut glass, and the sound of sixty people laughing and chatting and bubbling with contented good will. I looked around at the decor—bottle-green baize on the walls, a selection of rickety tables, and the oddest assortment of wooden chairs. None of them matched, I realized. They were all quite different, but somehow they came together to produce a harmonious effect. And though it was lunchtime, there were white, lighted candles on every table—the bright tongues of flame bending and flickering in the breeze.

  During dessert, I found Alice standing next to me. I knew what she was going to say.

  “Tiffany.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got a . . .”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said as she picked some heart-shaped confetti out of my hair. I glanced at Kit and Portia, gazing rapturously at each other.

  “Well, will you please get one,” she said. “Soon.”

  “Yes. OK. I will,” I said, with another spoonful of lemon syllabub.

  “I mean, I’ve got one and I’m only seven,” she said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Because you know I haven’t been anyone’s bridesmaid yet. Ever. But Sarah Potts in my class has been one four times. Why didn’t Portia ask me to be her bridesmaid?” she added, suddenly crestfallen.

  “Because she doesn’t know you very well, that’s why.”

  “Oh.” This seemed to satisfy her.

  “But I know you very well, so I would definitely ask you.” This cheered her up.

  “Who was Portia’s bridesmaid?” Alice asked.

  “I was,” said Boris from across the table.

  Alice then went around and talked to him in a very serious manner about his duties as bridesmaid and what he’d had to do. And the fact that he was a thirty-five-year-old man in a three-piece tartan suit didn’t seem strange to her at all.

  “You have to look after the bride,” Boris explained seriously. “And make sure she’s happy on the big day. You have to make sure her dress is looking nice, and her hair, and her flowers. And you might have to hold her train, if she’s got one. That’s you
r duty.”

  And then I remembered my duty. As best man. Oh Lord. I’d never made a speech in public before. My stomach was churning violently. I thought I was going to be sick. But at least I’d got my notes in my pocket. As the coffee was poured, and tiny Easter eggs were passed round, I got to my feet and announced the cutting of the cake. Glasses were filled with champagne, and Kit and Portia cut into the three-tiered cake, pausing for the flash of the photographer.

  Then I chinked the side of my glass with a knife and said, “I’d like to call on the bride’s father to propose the toast to the health and happiness of the bride and groom.”

  Portia’s father, Reg, got to his feet. “The ’ealth and ’appiness of the bride and groom,” he said.

  “The ’ealth and ’appiness of the bride and groom,” we all repeated automatically, as though it were a responsorial psalm. And then we sat down to hear his speech. He was a distinguished-looking man of sixty-five or so, slightly shorter than Portia. He was a gas-fitter, recently retired. He beamed with pride as he enumerated Portia’s many accomplishments on the netball court at school, where she was Streatham High’s most feared striker.

  “The ’arlem Globe Trotters had nothing on ’er,” he said. “Now she wasn’t too hot on the old ABC,” he added. “Couldn’t really get the hang of it at all. But she did show remarkable promise with cigarettes from an early age and proved herself a talented smoker.” I looked at Portia; she was in hysterics. So were her brothers, and her mother, Trish.

  “And at the age of nine, Portia could already mix a mean Martini,” he said. “Of course we didn’t actually let her drink them,” he added. “No. She ’ad to wait until she was ten for that. But we never thought when we looked at our little girl growing up, and up, and up . . .” More loud giggling. “. . . and up, that such a glittering future lay ahead. And we’re very proud of what she’s done, and that she’s been such a professional and that she’s got to work with so many talented people in the fashion industry—even if we did think they were a bunch of fairies. And although I suppose we would have preferred to see Portia float up the aisle in church today, Trish and I reckon we’ve seen her go up enough catwalks, in enough designer wedding frocks, to more than make up for it.” More laughter. Then he looked at Kit. “And I’d just like to finish up by saying how proud and happy we are to have Kit as our son-in-law and to welcome him into our family. And we know that he’ll look after Portia, and love her in sickness and in ’ealth, et cetera, et cetera, and, well . . .” His voice faltered suddenly. “We think the world of him.”

  Everyone clapped loudly and stamped their feet on the floor.

  “Um, please, pray silence for the bridegroom,” I said as the noise subsided.

  Kit stood up, and thanked Reg warmly for his kind words, and for granting him Portia’s hand. And he thanked his parents, Monty and Ruth, for his happy childhood. And then he thanked Monty, who’s a wall paper designer, for arranging the reception at the Chelsea Arts Club—which wouldn’t have been possible without his membership. And then Kit thanked Reg and Trish for providing such a splendid reception, even though I knew that he and Portia were footing most of the bill themselves. And he thanked everyone for coming, and for their generous gifts. And then he paid tribute to Portia herself.

  “We may look like the proverbial Odd Couple,” he said, “and in some ways we are—just look at the difference in our heights! And I was worried, when we first met, that I might not measure up to her. And indeed,” he went on, “Portia did have to stoop to conquer . . .” Loud laughter. “. . . but I can only say that though I may not reach her Olympian level, I’m very long on love and devotion, and it is my firm intention to make my beautiful, my wonderful, indeed, my model wife as happy as I possibly can.” He sat down, more than a little overcome, to thunderous applause, loud whistles, and a warm hug from Portia. And then he quickly stood up again. Because he’d forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m neglecting my duties. I would like to propose a toast to the bridesmaid, and to thank Boris for doing such a wonderful job this morning.” Boris blushed, and fiddled self-consciously with his bow tie. “Now, my wedding etiquette book advises the groom to praise the attractiveness of the bridesmaids,” Kit added, with a smile. “And to warn them that they are like to be inundated with male admirers after the wedding. But believe me, this particular bridesmaid already is.” Boris roared with laughter as we all stood and drank his health. And then it was my turn. Oh God oh God oh God. I did a few discreet deep breathing exercises as the noise subsided once again.

  “Well, this is my debut as best man,” I began. “I’ve never been asked before. I can’t think why. Because I’m obviously the best man for the job.” I was gratified to hear a loud chuckle sweep round the room. “But anyway,” I continued, “I thought I’d better get myself a wedding etiquette book too. In fact I have it right here.” I held it up. “It’s called The Best Man’s Duties, um, published by Right Way at £3.99 if you’re interested. And it says that one of my jobs is to thank the groom on behalf of the bridesmaid, and to present the bridesmaid with a small gift from the bride and groom, so here it is.” I reached under the table and handed Boris an enormous, gift-wrapped box topped with an extravagant silver bow. “Don’t bother to open it,” I said to him. “It’s a pair of cufflinks.” Boris emitted a burst of surprised laughter, then Alice started to help him unwrap it.

  “Now, unfortunately for me,” I went on, “this book also says that the best man’s speech should be funny. And that in fact it should be the ‘high-spot’ of the reception, so I feel under a certain amount of pressure here. And it also points out that weddings are a family occasion, and therefore wider issues should not be introduced, so I certainly don’t intend to mention the Single Currency. Although I do happen to think the Chief Economic Adviser to the Central European Bank is quite misguided when he claims that fiscal conditions throughout the fifteen member states are like to be sufficiently harmonized by . . . oops! Ha ha! Er, sorry everyone, Sorry!”

  “It’s a dressing gown!” Alice suddenly exclaimed.

  “Now, my book also says that three minutes’ speaking time is quite enough,” I continued.

  “It’s made of velvet!”

  “And I’ve already been on my feet for . . .” I glanced at my watch. “One minute and twelve seconds.”

  “But it belongs to someone called Georgina,” said Alice. “It’s got her name in—Georgina von Etz . . . Etz . . .”

  “So I’ll press on,” I continued, “with a few thoughts about marriage. Not that I’ve got any experience of it myself you understand—ha ha! Unfortunately. And frankly, rather surprisingly. In my view. Now, some people are very cynical about marriage,” I continued seriously. “Groucho Marx, for example. He said, ‘Marriage is an institution, but who wants to live in an institution?’ Well, personally, I wouldn’t mind at all, but I’ve never been able to find a decent bloke—apart from Kit that is. But that’s another story. Though do, please, feel free to ask me about it afterward. Or him. It’s perfectly OK. We’re not embarrassed about it at all. And Portia knows everything. Everything. Anyway,” I continued, “I know that Kit and Portia are going to be blissfully happy in their marriage. Kit has been besotted with Portia from the day he first met her two and half years ago. I remember it well. In fact I remember it with some bitterness, because he was churning out totally useless artwork for a fortnight afterward and we subsequently lost the Wagon Wheels pitch. But he’d been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. Skewered, in fact. It really was love at first sight. Well, it was for Kit. As for Portia . . . well, I think it’s fair to say she didn’t feel the same at all.” More chuckling. “Well, not at first, that is.” Oh God, why was Kit rolling his eyes at me like that? “Anyway,” I pressed on. “That’s all in the past now. That bad patch they had. In fact it really was very bad. They weren’t getting on at all. It went on for ages and ages actually. About a year. And some of us wondered why they were bothering, frankly. But then, finally, they got it togeth
er. In the end. And now they couldn’t be more harmonious. As you can see. Yes, they’re going to be terribly happy, I know they are. And even though the vast majority of people who pledge undying love and devotion on their wedding day unerringly end up in court, I believe that Kit and Portia are destined for domestic bliss. And if not, I’m sure that Frances, who’s sitting at the back there, will give them a very good rate.”

  “It’s free for friends!” she called out cheerfully.

  “But Kit and Portia will be fine,” I continued. “They’ve got a tremendous amount in common. For example, they’re both very family-minded. In fact they’re so family-minded that they’ve decided not to hang about and I’m sure Portia and Kit won’t mind if I share with you the fact that—”

  “Tiffany!”

  “Portia is . . .”

  “. . . Tiffany, don’t!”

  “. . . three months pregnant!”

  This drew gasps, and then a round of applause.

  “Not that this is one of those undignified shotgun weddings, you understand,” I added. “No. Far from it. But it’s nice to know that we’re celebrating not just Kit and Portia’s wedding today, but the beginning of their happy, family life. And Kit, I’m really sorry I told you to sell the Discovery, because you’re going to need it after all.”

  “He certainly IS,” shouted Portia. “I’m ’aving TWINS!”