Isabel Wolff - The Trials of Tiffany Trott

For my parents.

And in memory of my brother

Simon Paul Wolff.

The funniest person I ever knew.

Cover Page

Title Page The Trials of Tiffany Trott Isabel Wolff

Dedication For my parents. And in memory of my brother Simon Paul Wolff. The funniest person I ever knew.

May

June

June Continued

July

July Continued

August

August Continued

September

September Continued

October

October Continued

November

November Continued

November Continued

November Continued

December

December Continued

December Continued

January

January Continued

February

February Continued

March

March Continued

April

April Continued

May

May Continued

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OK. Champagne – tick; Cheesy Wotsits – tick; flowers – tick; balloons – tick; streamers – tick; cake – tick; candles – tick – oh God, oh God, where are the candleholders? Blast – I haven’t got thirty-seven, I’ve only got, um … eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Blast. Blast. Where’s that list gone? Oh here it is. Right. Where was I? Oh yes … candleholders … Twiglets – tick; Hula Hoops – tick; assorted mixed nuts – tick; nosh – tick. Oh gosh. Nosh. Rather a lot of that. I mean, how are we going to get through 150 prawn toasts, 200 devils-on-horseback, 350 cocktail sausages glazed with honey and tarragon, 180 oak-smoked salmon appetizers and 223 spinach and cheese miniroulades? How exactly are six people expected to eat all that? Plus the ninety-five chocolate éclairs? Just six of us. Half a dozen. Or precisely twelve per cent of the original invitation list. Bit of a disappointment, and I’d had such high hopes for this evening. I’d had the sitting-room decorated specially. Terribly pretty Osborne and Little wallpaper and a hand-gilded chandelier. But then I felt like pushing the boat out a bit this year. Going the whole hog. After all, I’ve got something to celebrate – a Very Serious Relationship with a really nice bloke. Alex. My boyfriend. My chap. So nice. Lovely in fact. Really, really lovely. And there are still quite a few people who haven’t met him, and I really wanted to have this party for him as much as for me. And now it’s going to be a bit of a damp squib. But that’s the really annoying thing about entertaining, isn’t it? The way people cancel at the last minute, when you’ve already done all the shopping. Unfortunately I’ve had quite a lot of cancellations – forty-four actually – which means my big bash for fifty is now going to be rather a discreet little affair. This means it is most unlikely to make the society pages of the Highbury and Islington Express. Blast. But then all my friends are having crises with their babysitters, or their nannies have resigned, or their offspring are off-colour or their husbands are unhappy. It’s such a bore when the majority of one’s pals are married and family pressures take precedence over fun. For example, Angus and Alison cancelled this morning because Jack’s got ‘botty trouble’ – did she really have to be quite so graphic about it?

‘I’m terribly worried, it’s gone all sort of greeny-yellowy-orangey,’ she said.

‘Thank you for sharing that with me,’ I replied crisply. Actually, I didn’t say that at all, I simply said, ‘Poor little thing, what a terrible shame. Anyway, thanks for letting me know.’ Then at lunchtime Jane and Peter blew me out because their au pair’s bogged off with the boy next door, and even Lizzie – my best and oldest friend – even Lizzie can’t come.

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said when she called me yesterday morning. ‘I’m really really sorry, but I’d totally forgotten it’s half-term, and I want to take the girls away.’

‘Oh, well, never mind,’ I said, philosophically. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Birdwatching in Botswana. The Okavango’s divine at this time of year.’

Crikey – some half-term treat, I thought, beats a day out at the zoo.

‘I’ve just managed to pick up a last-minute package with Cox and Kings,’ she said, audibly drawing on a cigarette. ‘We’re flying to Gabarone tonight.’

‘Is Martin going with you?’ I enquired.

‘Don’t be silly, Tiff,’ she said with a loud snort. ‘He’s working.’ Of course. Silly me. Poor Martin. And then Rachel phoned last night to say she couldn’t face the party because she’s got terrible morning sickness (‘But my party’s in the evening,’ I pointed out); and two hours later Daisy rang to say she’s got funny pains in her lower abdomen and daren’t come out because it’s probably the baby arriving early. Then this morning Robert phoned to say his mother-in-law’s ill, so they can’t come, and then Felicity rang to say that Thomas is teething and won’t stop blubbing and so that’s it – now we are six. Six singles, as it happens: Sally, Kit, Catherine, Frances, Emma, me and, of course, Alex. My boyfriend. My chap. I may not have a husband but at least I’ve got a bloke. Which is more than can be said for my other single women friends. Poor things. Must be so depressing for them. Being single. At our age. Dreadful. And incomprehensible – after all, they’re so eligible. And so attractive. Especially Sally. She’s really gorgeous. And she’s loaded. But even Sally finds it hard to meet decent blokes. Luckily for me I’ve got Alex. Phew. And it’s serious. Actually I’ve been going out with him for quite a long time now – eight months, three weeks and five days. In fact, well, put it this way – I’ve just taken out a subscription to Brides and Setting Up Home.

I’d like to say it was an unforgettable party. And in some ways it was. It started quite promisingly. Sally arrived first, at seven-thirty, which amazed me as she works twenty-nine hours a day in the City, and OK I know she earns a fortune – I mean her half-yearly bonus is probably twice my annual income – but even so, she’s so generous with it – she’d bought me a Hermés scarf. Wow! You don’t spot many of those around here. That should bring the area up a bit. I can see the headline in the local paper now: ‘Hermés Scarf Spotted in Unfashionable End of Islington. House Prices Hit New High’.

‘It was duty free,’ she said with a grin, ‘I got thirty per cent off it at Kennedy Airport. Oh Tiffany, you’ve decorated in here – it looks lovely!’ She removed her pale-pink cashmere cardigan, revealing slender, lightly-tanned arms.

‘God I’ve had an awful day,’ she said, slumping into the sofa. ‘The dollar dropped ten cents in half an hour this afternoon. It was panic stations. Sheer bloody hell.’

I always find it hard to visualise Sally at work, yelling into her phone in a testosterone-swamped, City dealing-room, screaming, ‘Sell! Sell! Sell!’ at the top of her voice. That’s what she does, not every day, but quite often, and it’s hard to imagine because she’s as delicate and fragile-looking as a porcelain doll. Unlike Frances, who arrived next. Now Frances is by contrast rather, well, solid. Handsome, I suppose you’d say. Impressive, distinguished-looking, like a Sheraton sideboard. She’s alarmingly bright, too – she got a double first in law at Oxford. I don’t think this endears her much to men.