Isabel Wolff - The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Happy Birthday, Tiffany,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks!’ I replied. I could hear the pattering of heavy rain on the path, and, from the sitting-room, the strains of ‘Happy Birthday’. ‘Alex, I’ve been so worried, where are you?’ Happy Birthday to you …

‘Well, actually, to be honest, I just couldn’t face it,’ he said. Happy Birthday to you …

‘In fact, Tiffany … ’ Happy Birthday Dear Tiffaneeeee …

‘ … there’s something I’ve really got to tell you.’

Happy Birthday to you!!!

Isn’t it annoying being dumped? I mean, it’s really not enjoyable at all. Getting the Big E. Being handed your cards. Especially when you’re thirty-seven. Especially when you thought the bloke was about to propose. Especially when you thought that, within a matter of mere months, or possibly even weeks, you would be progressing triumphantly up the aisle to ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. Oh no. Being chucked was definitely not quite what I had in mind on my thirty-seventh birthday. You see, I was convinced Alex was on the point of seeking my hand in marriage – he said he had something to tell me. Instead he simply looked me in the eye the following day and said, ‘I just can’t face it.’

‘Face what?’ I asked suspiciously as we sat at my kitchen table. There was a silence, during which he looked uncomfortable, but calm. His rather soft, girlish lips were pursed together, his cowlick of chestnut hair brushed forward onto his brow. I do wish he wouldn’t do it like that, I found myself thinking, it makes him look like Tony Blair. Then he spoke, and out it all came, in a guilty, logorrhoeic rush.

‘Isimplycan’tfacethefactthatI’mstringingyoualongandwastingyourtime.’ Ah. Oh. Oh dear. He looked rather stricken, then he took a deep breath, inhaling through his aquiline nose. ‘You see I feel under pressure to marry you, Tiffany, and I don’t want to get married, but I know that’s what you’d like.’

‘Oh no, no, no, no, no. I’m not bothered about that at all,’ I said, sipping my Nescafé. ‘Really. I honestly hadn’t given it a thought. I was perfectly happy to go on as we were. Marriage? Good Lord, no. It never entered my mind.’

His face expressed a mixture of puzzlement and relief. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose I was misled by the way you kept stopping outside Berkertex and looking in the window at Cartier and going up to the bridal department at Peter Jones and flicking through wedding stationery in WH Smith. I thought you … I thought you wanted … anyway, the fact is that I really can’t stand the thought of marrying you, Tiffany. Nothing personal,’ he added quickly. ‘But you see, I don’t want to get married to anyone. Ever.’

‘Why not?’ I enquired, hoping that my bright, but not too brittle demeanour would mask my grievous disappointment.

‘Well, I’ve really been thinking about it, and it’s lots of things,’ he said. ‘For a start I like my own space. I’ve never lived with a woman. And I hate the idea of a woman … you know, messing up my things. And then – and this is the main thing –’ he gave a little shudder, ‘the thought of children.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Babies. To be honest the whole idea makes me feel sick. All that crying, and all that, you know, effluent. At both ends. I just don’t think I could handle that at all.’

‘But you’re so good with children,’ I pointed out accurately, whilst mentally congratulating myself for remaining calm. ‘Your nephew and niece adore you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t see them every day. It’s different. And I didn’t really bother with them until they were both safely out of nappies.’

‘But Alex,’ I said slowly, ‘if you don’t ever want to get married, why did you bother to go out with me in the first place?’

‘I liked you. I mean I do like you, Tiffany. And you share a lot of my interests – I mean you like going to art galleries with me, and the ballet –’

‘– and the theatre,’ I interjected.

‘Yes, and the theatre.’

‘And the opera.’

‘Yes, and the opera.’

‘And contemporary dance.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And lunchtime talks at the Royal Academy.’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘And the London Film Festival.’

‘Yes … ’

‘And video installations at the ICA.’

‘Yes, yes, all that kind of thing … ’

‘And any number of jazz venues.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes. I’m not looking for anything else.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. You just wanted a companion. A female escort. For assorted cultural pursuits.’

‘Well, no – I wanted friendship too. But somehow, well … I could just see the way things were shaping up, and I felt it was time to come clean. I’m sorry if I ruined your party,’ he added. ‘But I just couldn’t face all your friends, knowing that.’

‘It’s all right, Alex,’ I said, fingering the Elizabeth Bradley antique roses tapestry kit he’d brought me as a birthday present. ‘I really don’t mind. Please don’t feel bad about anything. And especially please don’t feel bad about the fact that you’ve just wasted eight months of my life!’ I hissed. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I just said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take you off my BT Friends and Family list.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘Would you like some more coffee?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, staring at his empty cup with a pained expression. ‘But you know, Tiffany … ’

‘Yes?’

He looked genuinely upset now. This was obviously very tough for him. ‘You know I can’t bear instant,’ he said. ‘It really offends my tastebuds. I gave you some very good Algerian arabica the other day, can’t we have some of that?’

‘Of course we can,’ I agreed.

Later that day, as I sat stabbing away at the antique roses canvas with my tapestry needle, reflecting on my newly single status and on the fact that I myself could perhaps be described as an antique rose, Alex phoned. He sounded nervous and unhappy. For one mad, heady instant I thought he might have changed his mind.

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Tiffany, there’s something else I meant to say this morning,’ he said. ‘Now, I know you’re probably feeling a bit cross with me … ’

‘No, not at all,’ I lied.

‘And I’m sorry to have let you down and everything, but I really hope you’ll do me one big favour.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If I can.’

‘Well, I know you’re probably feeling a bit cross with me and everything … ’

‘Look, I’m not cross,’ I said crossly. ‘Just tell me what you want, will you, I’m trying to make a cushion-cover here.’

‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t, sort of, bad-mouth me to everyone.’

‘No,’ I said wearily, ‘I won’t. Why should I? You’ve been perfectly nice to me.’

‘And I’d especially be grateful if you didn’t tell everyone about that time … ’

‘What time?’

‘That time you found me, you know … ’ His voice trailed away.

‘Oh. You mean the time I discovered you in my bedroom dressed in my most expensive Janet Reger?’ There was an awkward silence.

‘Well, yes. That time.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Of course I won’t tell anyone. And I won’t tell them about the Laura Ashley either.’

‘You should tell everyone about that,’ said Lizzie when she got back from Botswana. ‘That’ll serve him right for dumping you. Bastard. And on your birthday. Bastard.’