Isabel Wolff - The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Oooh goodee,’ I said. ‘Is that us?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are we going, then?’

‘Yes. We most certainly are.’

The following day I was in my sunny sitting-room going through my record collection; I’ve never had the heart to chuck out my vinyl, somehow CDs just aren’t the same. I was sorting through the singles, and thinking as I did so that what I would really prefer is Long Play, when the phone rang.

‘Tiffany!’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s me.’

‘Oh. Hello.’ He sounded rather cross.

‘I got your letter this morning.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I just wanted to tell you how disappointed I am. Very disappointed. And hurt. Very hurt. Very.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that there really doesn’t seem to be much point. In the circumstances.’

‘No point? No point in even being pals?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s no point, because the point is that you’re not free.’

‘But married people can have friendships, Tiffany. It is allowed, you know.’

‘Yes, but they have to choose them carefully. And I don’t think our friendship would be wise.’

‘All I want to do is see you from time to time,’ he said plaintively.

‘Well, that’s not a good idea,’ I said.

‘And I know you’d like to see me.’

‘Well … ’

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he persisted.

‘Well, OK, yes, I admit it.’

‘Aha!’

‘But circumstances … ’

‘ … will conspire to keep us apart,’ he said in an irritating sing-song voice.

‘Yes. Yes. That’s right.’

‘But surely we could have dinner together sometimes,’ he persisted. ‘Or see a film? Now, there’s a wonderful concert coming up at the Barbican,’ he went on animatedly. ‘Yo-Yo Ma is playing the Bach unaccompanied cello suites and I really want to go. Why don’t you come with me?’

‘Well … well it sounds lovely, but I just don’t think I should.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t wish to be tempted. That’s why.’

‘So you are tempted,’ he replied triumphantly.

‘Well, well –’

‘Say it!’

‘Yes, I am. OK. Yes. I’m tempted. Happy?’

‘You like me?’

‘Yes. I like you a lot.’ In fact I find you Seriously Sexy.

‘I like you too,’ he came back, more warmly now. ‘In fact, Tiffany, “You’re the Right One, the Bright One”.’

‘Purleeze!’

‘You’re my One and Toblerony!’

‘Now listen, Seriously Successful!’ I said crossly. ‘This really won’t do … anyway, what is your real name?’

‘I’m not telling you,’ he said defensively.

‘Why not?’

‘I refuse to tell you, unless you agree to go to that concert with me.’

‘Well I’m not going to,’ I retorted.

‘Oh, why not?’ he said.

‘Because I know that it would be wrong for me because I’ve got to keep my eye on the ball and frankly, you’re way off-side.’

‘But Tiffany, we could have such fun … ’

‘I keep telling you, I don’t want to have fun.’

‘We could do such nice things together.’

‘I can do nice things anyway.’

‘But Tiffany, we communicate so wel—’

I put the phone down. And then I said, ‘Sorry.’

Who’d have thought that sorting out replies to a lonely hearts ad would be such a mammoth task? I mean, these bulging buff envelopes marked ‘Private and Confidential’ just keep plopping onto the mat.

‘OK, OK, I take it back,’ said Lizzie as we sat at my kitchen table going through the replies. ‘I didn’t think you’d get any. No need to crow. But just think how many you would have got if you’d followed my advice.’

‘I think 114 is quite enough,’ I said as she lit another cigarette. ‘I’m not greedy.’

We sorted them into three piles: Yes, Maybe, and You Have Got To Be Joking.

‘Now here’s a really nice one,’ said Lizzie, waving a blurred photo of Son-of-Quasimodo, fifty-seven, at me.

‘You have got to be joking,’ I said crisply.

‘Why? He’s very suitable,’ she said.

‘He isn’t suitable. He’s hideous,’ I replied.

‘He’s not hideous,’ she said indignantly, exuding two plumes of smoke from her elegant nostrils. ‘He’s a senior partner in a City law firm. He’s probably on 200k. I don’t call 200k hideous. And make sure you phone that stockbroker.’

‘OK, I will,’ I said. ‘But only because he’s OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable and because I liked his witty letter. It’s not about money,’ I added. ‘I mean, Alan has a lot of money. But I don’t care, because I’m not interested. All I’m looking for is a golf-hating commitophile with good character, reasonable backhand and complete absence of facial hair. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Probably,’ she replied. ‘Now here’s a lovely guy,’ she said with a smirk, handing me a piece of torn-off graph paper.

Dear Sparky Girl, I read. Can I light your fire? My name is Stavros. I am art student. Are you blonde? I need pretty sexy blonde model. I do portraits. You could be chapter in history of art. You could be my model only. But maybe, if you really sexy, you could be more than model. But if you ring me, and if you sexy blonde, I buy you meal for sure.

‘Point taken,’ I said, wavering only slightly before consigning Stavros to the You Have Got To Be Joking pile. It was distressing to see how big that pile had grown; it was full of probation officers, undertakers, astrologists, men called Terry, and a bloke from Acacia Avenue, Billericay, who wrote, ‘If I am not in when you call, please leave a message with the security men, pool guy, my housekeeper, or one of my five full-time gardeners.’ One letter was all in German and contained a photo of a man with waist-length brown hair who said he worked in Düsseldorf airport. Another was from a computer consultant called John who wrote, ‘I am sexually insatiable and am looking for a gorgeous babe with class, intelligence, superb breasts and a big bum.’

‘Well, you’ve got the bum,’ said Lizzie.

‘My God – look at this!’ I said, holding up a red foil-wrapped chocolate.

‘Don’t eat it!’ Lizzie screamed, snatching it out of my hand and rushing to the bin. ‘It’s probably poisoned !’

I glanced at the accompanying letter. ‘Oh Baby, the thought of you keeps me awake at night,’ the sender had written, ‘you’re really playing havoc with my sleep patterns. Please, baby, don’t be cruel to me. You know I really, really, really LOVE YOU.’

‘Eighty-five per cent of these men appear to be deranged,’ I said. ‘And the ones that aren’t deranged are largely boring.’ For the same tedious phrases kept popping up over and over again: ‘incurable romantic … all my own hair … red Porsche … all my own teeth … golf in the Algarve … almost divorced … tropical sunsets … no baggage … that special lady … two ex-wives … young at heart … five children … give me a bell’.

‘I’ve got to stop,’ I said suddenly to Lizzie. ‘I can’t take any more. It’s making me feel sick.’

‘OK, we’ll go through the rest another time, but don’t forget to phone that stockbroker,’ she said as she left. ‘I mean a stockbroker would be fine – just look at me!’

Yes, just look at Lizzie, I thought, as she got into her Mercedes. She had gone from actorly impoverishment to a seven-bedroom house in Hampstead. But does she love successful-but-not-terribly-exciting Martin? I have never liked to ask. Anyway, I left a brief, friendly message on Ian the stockbroker’s answerphone and then got ready for the Eat ‘n’ Greet Sensational Singles Party. Quick shower, then black cocktail dress, chunky pearls at wrist and neck, strappy sandals, hair piled up, mascara and lip-liner – voilà !