The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

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.’

      ‘Oh, hello, Mum. I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I’m pissed off. With men.’

      ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner.’

      ‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ I said.

      ‘Haven’t you met anyone new yet?’ she enquired.

      ‘Oh yes. One or two. But no-one I’d bother telling you about,’ I said bitterly. ‘No-one I’ll be bringing home for tea, if that’s what you mean. No-one who’s going to be any use, to use that old-fashioned phrase.’

      ‘Oh dear. It’s just so difficult these days,’ she said. ‘It’s not like it was when Daddy and I were young. I mean, when we were young –’

      ‘I know,’ I interjected. ‘You just met someone you liked, and they became your boyfriend, and then before too long you got engaged, and then you got married, and you stayed married for ever and ever. End of story,’ I said.

      ‘Well, more or less,’ she replied. ‘I suppose forty years is for ever and ever, isn’t it?’

      Forty years. My parents have been married for forty years. Four decades; four hundred and eighty months; two thousand and eighty weeks; fourteen thousand, five hundred and sixty days; three hundred and fifty thousand hours; twenty-one million minutes; one billion, two hundred and fifty-eight million seconds, give or take a few. They’ve been married all that time. Happily married, too. And no affairs. I know that. Because I asked them. And that’s the kind of marriage I’d like myself. And I don’t care what bien-pensant people say about the complexity of modern family life, the probability of divorce, the natural tendency towards serial monogamy and the changing social mores of our times. I know exactly what I want. I want to be married to the same man, for a minimum of four decades – possibly five, like the Queen – and no infidelity, thank you! I’m sorry to be so vehement on this point, I know that others may take a more relaxed view, but it’s simply how I feel. I mean, the first time my mother met my father the only thing he offered her was a ticket to a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. What did Seriously Successful offer me the first time we met? A position as his part-time girlfriend. Charming. Very flattering. Thanks a bunch. Well, you can bog off with your impertinent propositions, Seriously Sick – I decline. And then of course there’s another reason why I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole, and that is that Seriously Successful is ipso facto an unfaithful fellow. Obviously he is, by the very nature of what he was proposing to me. Now, I know what it’s like to be with an unfaithful man, and it’s not nice at all. And I’m not doing that again. Not after Phil Anderer. No way. But then, well, that was my fault. Because it wasn’t as though I wasn’t warned about Phillip – I was. When I first met him everyone said, ‘Don’t Even Think About It!’ – because of his ghastly reputation. And what did I do? I not only thought about it. I did it. I got involved. And I got hurt.

      ‘It meant nothing,’ Phillip shouted at me, when I found out for certain what I had suspected for some time. ‘It meant absolutely nothing. Do you think I’d risk everything we’ve got for some pathetic little bimbo?’ To be honest, I wasn’t at all sure what we had got. Not sure at all, in fact. But he was very, very persuasive that I should stay.

      ‘Do you think I’d do anything to jeopardise my relationship with you?’ he said, in a softer tone of voice this time.

      ‘You just did,’ I pointed out tearfully. But later, I thought maybe I was being small-minded and unfair. Perhaps he just needed to do a bit more growing up – even though he was thirty-six. But quite frankly, when he came back from the ‘golf course’ again with cheap, alien scent clinging to his House of Fraser diamond-patterned jumper, I was thrown into renewed despair. Another bloody ‘birdie’, I realised bitterly. Then you know exactly what they’re up to – his mother’s words came back to haunt me. But then after three husbands I can understand her being, shall we say, a little circumspect. However, having persuaded me to stay, and let another year go by, Phillip had the nerve to dump me. It was horrible, and I’m never, ever, ever, ever going out with anyone dodgy ever again. So you can bugger off with your offensive offers, Seriously Slimy. Yes, just bugger right off, get lost, never darken my door again, let alone buy me dinner at the Ritz or flirt with me or pay me compliments or laugh at my jokes or make me giggle and …

      Just then the doorbell rang. Funny. I wasn’t expecting anyone. A man was standing there. With an enormous bouquet. Who the hell … ?

      ‘Miss Trott?’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ I said. Over his shoulder I could see a van marked Moyses Stevens.

      ‘Flowers,’ he said. ‘For you.’

      I brought them into the kitchen, put them in the sink – they wouldn’t fit even my largest jug – and just sat and stared. It was like a floral fireworks display, a golden explosion of yellow gerbera, lemon-coloured carnations, saffron-shaded roses, banana-yellow berberis, white love-in-a-mist and buttery-coloured stocks, all bound together with a curly, primrose ribbon and topped by delicately spiralling twigs. Heaven. And tucked inside the cellophane wrap was a letter.

      My dear Tiffany

      I specifically asked the florist – Mr Stevens does make exceedingly good bouquets – for something in yellow. Yellow for cowardice. My cowardice, at not being straightforward with you from the start. Can you forgive me? I must say I was rather taken aback by your anger – you were rather fierce you know – but I’ve tried to see things from your point of view. I can only apologise for having upset you with my facetious and offensive offer. I was, in fact, trying to be honest with you, but I appear to have insulted you instead and I can only say that I hope you’ll forgive me enough to remain, at least, my friend. SS PS Graded Grains Make Finer Flowers.

      Oh. Well. Gosh. Gosh. I mean, that’s a nice letter. That’s a really nice letter. And what an incredibly thoughtful thing to do. Perhaps I’ve been a bit over the top. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him. How did he know my address? Oh yes, he had my card. But what a lovely thing to do. He is nice – Oh God oh God oh God, why does he have to be married? Just my luck. Maybe I should think about it. Maybe we could be friends. Why not? Everyone needs friends, and he’s so funny, and so interesting, and he’s got such good taste in ties, and we get on incredibly well. I’m sure we could at least be pals. I’m sure we could. I’m sure.

      ‘You must be out of your tiny mind!’ said Lizzie, as we strolled round Harrods Food Hall the following Saturday – or rather, as I traipsed after her while she filled her basket with an