Isabel Wolff - The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Lucky old Tiffany,’ said Catherine, snapping a breadstick in half. ‘She doesn’t have to worry about all this sort of thing.’

‘No she doesn’t,’ said Emma, shivering slightly in the cooling air. ‘She’s got a man. It’s all sewn up and she’s heading for a wedding.’ She cupped her hand to her ear. ‘I can hear the peal of bells already. So when’s he going to pop the question, Tiff?’

‘Oh gosh, well, I mean I don’t … ’ Pity the sun had gone in.

‘Yes. When?’ said Frances, with another gulp of champagne. ‘And can I be your maid of dishonour?’

‘Well, ha ha ha! Erm – I don’t know … er … ’ I glanced at the sky. A thick bank of cloud, grey as gunmetal, had begun to build up. Where had that come from?

‘Are we all warm enough?’ I asked. ‘And, er, who wants another parmesan and red pepper tartlet?’ In fact, I was desperately trying to change the subject because, you see, I really didn’t want to rub it in – I mean the fact that I had a chap, and they didn’t. Because, to be quite honest, I had been sitting there, throughout that discussion, quietly thanking God for Alex. Even if he has got sloping shoulders and a rather girlish giggle which, to be perfectly frank, does make my heart sink at times. But, still, I thought, at least I don’t have to contemplate self-insemination or agonise about my ovaries because a) I’ve got a chap and b) I know for a fact that he likes kids. He really, really likes them. Loves them. I mean he’s awfully good with his niece and nephew – spoils them to bits – and I’m sure he’d be a brilliant father. He wouldn’t mind changing nappies. In fact he’d probably enjoy it. And OK, so I know he’s not perfect – in fact there are one or two other things about him that I’m really not crazy about, including his goatee beard, his outlandish taste in socks, and his thin, unmuscular thighs. But then no-one’s perfect. It’s all about compromise, isn’t it? That’s what enlightened and mature people do. And Alex is really charming. Absolutely sweet, in fact. And certainly not the unfaithful type. Unlike Phil. In fact, when I first met Alex, he was such a gentleman it took him three months just to hold my hand. Which was rather nice. In a way. Anyway, I was quite sure that Alex was about to pop the question. I could tell by the vaguely nervous way in which he’d been looking at me recently. And eight months is quite long enough, isn’t it? At our age? I mean, he’s thirty-eight. I’m now thirty-seven. So what’s the point of hanging around? Why not just, well, crack on with it? It’s not as though he’s got three ex-wives and five children to support; he’s totally unencumbered – another very big point in his favour, incidentally.

So whilst the others continued arguing about the changing roles of men and women and the declining popularity of marriage, I did some mental shopping for the wedding which would be in, what … September? Lovely month. Or if that was too soon, December. I love the idea of a winter wedding. Dead romantic. We could all sing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ by candlelight, and I could have tinsel draped over the altar and wear a captivating fur-trimmed train. Now where should I get the dress? Chelsea Design Studio? Catherine Walker? Terribly expensive, and in any case if Dad was spending that kind of money, I think Alex prefers Anthony Price. I know Alex would definitely want the flowers to come from Moyses Stevens. He’s very fussy about his floral arrangements. How many guests? A couple of hundred – 217 to be exact, I’ve already drawn up the list, actually. Well, it’ll save time, won’t it? And what about the honeymoon? Probably somewhere arty, like Florence. Alex would really like that. Or maybe Seville. Or Bruges. Somewhere with loads of art galleries and at least seventeen cathedrals. And …

‘Tiffany, where is Alex?’ Catherine asked. ‘It’s a quarter past nine.’

‘Er, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s stuck at work.’

‘What’s he working on?’ Emma enquired.

‘Well, he’s doing up this big house in Pimlico, it’s a total wreck. Brown hessian on the walls. Formica kitchen. Exploding cauliflower carpets. He said he was going to be there all day, but … well, he should be here by now.’

‘Maybe he’s had an accident,’ said Frances helpfully.

‘God, I hope not,’ I said. I went inside and anxiously called his mobile phone. ‘Thank you for calling Vodafone 0236 112331,’ intoned a robotic female voice. ‘Please leave your message after the tone.’ Damn.

‘Um, Alex, hi, um, it’s me. Tiffany,’ I said. ‘And I’m just wondering where you are. Um, hope you’re OK. I’m a bit worried about you, actually. But perhaps you’re on your way. I hope so, because it’s nine-fifteen now and everyone’s been here for quite a while, and to be honest it’s getting a little out of hand – ha ha ha! In fact there’s quite a heated debate going on about gender issues and that sort of thing and I think we need another man to balance it up a bit. So see you soon, I hope. Um. Tiffany.’

‘Gosh it’s getting dark, isn’t it?’ I heard Emma say. ‘Ooh – was that a spot of rain?’

‘Women today have appalling attitudes towards men,’ Kit was saying as everyone strolled inside, ‘and then you all wonder why we run a mile? It’s totally unfair. You refuse to compromise. You don’t want us unless we’re perfect.’

‘No, we don’t,’ they all shrieked, as they flopped onto the chairs and sofas in the sitting-room.

‘Yes, but are you perfect?’ asked Kit as he lowered himself onto the chaise-longue. ‘Ask yourselves that.’

‘Yes we are,’ they all shouted, ‘we’re totally fantastic! Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Er, yes,’ he replied gallantly.

‘Well I’d happily compromise,’ said Sally, ‘but I hardly ever get to meet men, unsuitable or otherwise.’

‘But you work with thousands of men in the City,’ said Catherine enviously.

‘Yes, but they never approach female colleagues because they’re terrified of being done for sexual harassment. In any case, they don’t regard us as real women – to them we’re just men in skirts. And then when I do meet a nice ordinary guy from outside the City, let’s say a doctor or a vet,’ Sally continued, ‘they tend to run a mile because I’m so … ’ She blushed. ‘I’m so … ’

‘Loaded!’ shrieked Frances and Emma in unison. Sally rolled her eyes.

‘Oh come on, Sally!’ persisted Emma. ‘Your luxury apartment in Chelsea Harbour, your colossal, six-figure salary, you can’t hide them from us, you know. A lot of men would find that totally emasculating.’

‘I was going to say because I’m so busy, actually,’ said Sally. ‘Options traders work horrible hours – that’s the price we pay. That’s the compromise I’ve made. I’m at my desk by seven-thirty every morning, and I’m there for twelve hours. I can’t even have lunch – a sandwich is brought to my desk. And I’m never really off the hook because I have to watch the markets round the clock. And the older I get, the harder it is. So don’t envy me my cash – I think I’d rather have a life.’

As I lit the candles on my cake I mentally gave thanks for my freelance status. I work hard, but at least I can choose my own hours and I don’t have to worry about exchange rates and closing prices at birthday parties – nor do I earn the kind of money which some men might find threatening.

Then, suddenly, I heard someone say, ‘Tiffany … Tiffany! Phone!’ Oh good, I thought as I lit the last candle, it must be Alex. And it was.