Isabel Wolff - The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘We’re so sorry, but Lizzie and Martin aren’t here at the moment,’ declaimed her recorded voice. ‘But please do leave us a message … ’ God, so theatrical – you’d think she was auditioning for the RSC – ‘and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.’ Damn. I pressed the red button. Who could I talk to instead? I had to talk to someone. Sally. She’d dish out some sympathy. If she wasn’t in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Washington or Paris. Ring ring. Ring ring.

‘Hallo,’ said Sally.

‘Sally, it’s Tiffany and I just wanted to tell you … ’

‘Tiffany! How are you?’

‘Very pissed off actually, because you see I’ve just been on a date, a blind date … ’

‘Gosh, that’s brave.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. Or rather it’s not really brave, it’s stupid. Because you see I met this bloke, this adventurous, seriously successful managing director … ’

‘Yes? Sounds OK. What happened?’ The bus stopped in Shaftesbury Avenue, then – ding ding ! - it moved off again.

‘Well, it was all going very well,’ I said. ‘I thought he was terribly attractive, and very interesting and incredibly funny … ’

‘Oh hang on, Tiffany, I’ve just got to catch the business headlines on Sky … ’ Her voice returned a minute later. ‘It’s OK, I was just checking the Dow Jones. Carry on. So what happened?’ Ding ding !

‘Well, it was going really well,’ I repeated. ‘And he seemed very interested in me, and I was certainly very interested in him and then … ’

‘Yes?’

‘Move down inside the bus please!’ Ding ding !

‘He told me that he was married and was only looking for a part-time girlfriend. What do you think of that?’

‘I think that’s awful,’ said the elderly woman sitting behind me. I turned round and looked at her. ‘I hope you gave him what for,’ she said.

‘Yes, I did actually. I was extremely insult—Sally? Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How ghastly. What a creep. But didn’t his ad say that he was married?’

‘No. It didn’t say he was married,’ I said dismally, as we chugged up Rosebery Avenue. ‘It simply said that he was looking for an unforgettable girl in her twenties or thirties to “spoil a little or even a lot”.’ A guffaw arose from behind me. What the hell was so funny? I turned round again and glared at the other passengers.

‘But Tiffany, you should have known,’ said Sally. Ding ding !

‘How?’

‘Because an offer to “spoil” a woman is shorthand for seeking a mistress. Like an offer to “pamper” her, or a request for “discretion”. You’ve got to learn the code if you’re going to do this kind of thing.’

‘Well I didn’t know that,’ I wailed. ‘I know that GSOH means Good Sense of Humour and I know VGSOH means Very Good Sense of Humour and that WLTM means Would Like To Meet.’

‘And LTR means Long Term Relationship,’ added Sally.

‘Does it?’

‘And W/E means “well-endowed”.’

‘Really? Good God! Anyway, I didn’t know that offering to “spoil” someone meant you already had a wife.’

‘Everyone knows that,’ said the middle-aged man across the aisle from me, unhelpfully.

‘Well, I didn’t – OK?’ I said. ‘Anyway Sally, Sally are you there? Hi. I’m just really, really pissed off. Seriously Successful? Seriously Swine-ish more like.’

‘What’s his real name?’ she asked, as we left the Angel.

‘God, I don’t know. I never asked,’ I said. ‘Anyway, whatever Seriously Slimy’s real name is, is no concern of mine. Seriously Unscrupulous … ’

‘Seriously Shallow,’ said the woman behind me.

‘Yes.’

‘And Seriously Sad,’ she concluded.

‘Quite. I mean, Sally, what on earth did he take me for?’

‘Never mind, Tiffany, that was bad luck,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner. Are you going to Lizzie’s for lunch on Sunday?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Well I’ll see you then,’ she said. ‘And chin up.’

I put my mobile phone away and took out my paper. Doing the crossword would calm me down. Bastard. Bastard. Fifteen across: Fool about with high-flyer. Seven letters, first letter, ‘S’. Couldn’t do it. I stood up and rang the bell. As I made my way to the back of the bus an elderly man made a beckoning gesture.

‘Why don’t you join Dateline?’ he said in a gravelly whisper. ‘Much safer. I think these personal ads are rather risky myself.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I’ll think about it.’

Fool about with high-flyer. I turned it over and over in my mind as I got off at my stop and walked down Ockendon Road. Oh God, there were cyclists on the bloody footpath again.

‘It’s the People’s Pavement you know!’ I called out as the boy whizzed past, practically clipping my left ear. God I was in a bad mood. A really bad mood. Damn Seriously Successful. Damn him. Fool about with high-flyer, I thought. High-flyer. And then it came to me – with a pang – skylark.

By the next morning I was much, much calmer. ‘What a bastard,’ I raged to myself. I mean, what a copper-bottomed swine. Disgusting behaviour. Part-time girlfriend indeed! Seriously Successful? Seriously Sleazy. Seriously Shabby. Seriously Scurrilous. But I have only myself to blame – serves me right for doing something so patently risky. Might have known there’d be a catch with this catch. I mean he’s very attractive, at least I think so. And he’s got very good manners, and he’s very amusing and very good company and all that and yes, he’s very successful, and very well-dressed and very sophisticated too and very charismatic. But he’s also very married. Blast. Blast. I stabbed away at the antique roses – I’ve done two small petals actually – whilst I reflected on Seriously Successful’s appalling behaviour and my continuing bad luck with blokes. Then the phone rang. I went into the hall and picked up the receiver.

‘Oh hello Tiffany, it’s um – ha ha ha ha! – Peter here.’ Oh God. This was all I needed. ‘Tiffany, are you there?’ I heard him squeak.

‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ I said, ‘but … ’

‘Well, ha ha ha! It was so nice to meet you the other day, Tiffany, and I just thought we ought to arrange that game of tennis.’ Ought we? Oh God, no.

‘I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation owing to a subsequent engagement,’ I said, recalling Oscar Wilde’s solution to these dilemmas. Actually I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, fast.

‘Can you go and get your diary?’ I heard him say.

‘Er, yes, hang on a second,’ I said, suddenly inspired. But I didn’t go into my study. I went to the front door, opened it, and rang my bell hard. Twice. And then I rang it again.

‘Oh Peter, I’m so sorry but there’s someone at the door,’ I said breathlessly. ‘I’d better answer it … ’

‘Oh well, I’ll hold on,’ he said cheerfully.

‘No, don’t do that, Peter, I’ll ring you back. Bye.’

‘But you don’t have my num—’

Phew. Phew. I went back into the sitting-room. And then the phone rang again. Bloody Peter Fitz-Harrod. Why couldn’t he take a hint? This time I’d tell him. I’d just pluck up the courage to say, sorry, but that I’d prefer him not to call.

‘Yesss!’ I hissed into the receiver.

‘Darling, what on earth’s the matter?’ said Mum. ‘You sound awful.’