The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

to go through the roof too,’ I said. ‘What’s the point in lying? Lying will only get me into trouble.’

      ‘Men lie,’ she said, accurately; and into my mind flashed Tall Athletic Neville, a towering sex-god, five foot eight.

      ‘Well, I’m not going to lie,’ I said, scribbling furiously. ‘Now this,’ I said, ‘is nearer the mark: “Sparky, kind-hearted girl, thirty-seven, not thin, likes tennis and hard work WLTM intelligent, amusing, single man, 36-45, for the purposes of matrimony. No facial hair. No golf players. Photo and letter please.”’

      ‘You won’t get any replies,’ Lizzie shouted down the path at me as I left to get ready for tennis. ‘Not a single one!’

      Tennis always takes my mind off my troubles. Bashing balls about in my small North London club is so therapeutic. It gets the seratonin going, or is it endorphins? Maybe it’s melatonin? God, I can’t remember which. Anyway, whatever it is it releases stress, makes me feel happy. Or at least it would do if it wasn’t for that wretched man, Alan – such a fly in the ointment. Whenever I’m playing, there he is: the solicitor with two heads. Bald; bearded; thin. The man of my nightmares. It’s not at all flattering being fancied by an extremely unattractive man.

      ‘Mind if I join you?’

      ‘No. Not at all,’ I said airily as I sat in the sunshine on the terrace. We made our way onto one of the grass courts – at least he’s not a bad player. We played a couple of sets – he won six-two, six-two, in fact he always beats me six-two, six-two – and then we went and had tea.

      ‘Tiffany, would you like to see something at the cinema with me?’ he said as he poured me a cup of Earl Grey.

      No, not really. ‘Ummmmm,’ I began.

      ‘The Everyman are doing a season of Truffaut.’

      ‘Well … ’

      ‘Or perhaps you’d like to go to the opera – the ENO are doing The Magic Flute again.’

      ‘Oh, er, seen that one actually.’

      ‘Right, then, how about something at that theatre?’

      ‘Well, you see, I’m really quite busy at the moment.’

      He looked stricken. ‘Tiffany, you’re not seeing anyone are you?’

      Sodding outrageous! ‘I really think that’s my business, Alan,’ I said.

      ‘Why don’t you want to go out with me, Tiffany? I don’t understand it. I’ve got everything a woman could want. I’ve got a huge house in Belsize Park; I’m very successful; I’m the faithful type, and I love children. I’d be a good father. What is the problem?’

      ‘Well, Alan,’ I said, ‘the problem is that though you are undoubtedly what they call a “catch”, I for one find you – how can I put this politely? Physically repulsive.’ Actually I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, ‘Alan, you’re terribly eligible, but I’m afraid I just don’t feel that the chemistry’s right and that’s all there is to it. So I’m not going to waste your time. I don’t think it’s nice to have one’s time wasted. And if this means you don’t want to play tennis with me any more, then I’d quite understand.’

      ‘Oh no, no, no – I’m not saying that,’ he interjected swiftly. ‘I’m not saying that at all. How about Glyndebourne?’ he called after me, as I went downstairs to change. ‘In the stalls? With a champagne picnic? Laurent Perrier, foie gras – the works?’

      Oh yes. Yes. Glyndebourne. Glyndebourne would be lovely. I’d love to go to Glyndebourne – with anyone but you.

      Why is it, I wondered later as I telephone the classified ads section of the newspaper to dictate my personal ad, that the men I don’t want – who I really, really don’t want – are always the ones who want me? Why is it always the men I find boring and unattractive who offer to spoil me and treat me well and worship the ground I walk on? And why is it that the ones I really, really like are the ones who treat me like dirt? Isn’t that odd? I just don’t get it. But I’m not having it any longer – I’m taking control. I’m going for what I want and I’m going to find it, with my very own sales pitch in the ‘Ladies’ section of a lonely hearts column.

      ‘I’ve put a lonely hearts ad in the Saturday Rendezvous section of The Times,’ I announced slightly squiffily at lunch the following day. Lizzie, Catherine, Emma, Frances, Sally and I were sipping Pimms by the pergola. In the background, Martin was painting the French windows, assisted by Alice and Amy, whilst we all contemplated the first course of our annual al fresco lunch – Ogen melon and Parma ham.

      ‘My God that’s so brave!’ said Frances, stirring her Pimms with a straw. ‘Very courageous of you, Tiffany. I admire that. Well done you!’

      ‘I didn’t say I’m climbing backwards up Mount Everest,’ I explained. ‘Or crossing the Atlantic in a cardboard box. I merely said that I’ve put a personal ad in The Times.’

      ‘It’s still bloody brave of you, Tiffany,’ insisted Frances. ‘What courage! I’d never have the nerve to do that.’

      ‘Nor would I!’ chorused the others.

      ‘Why ever not?’ I asked. ‘Lots of people do.’

      ‘Well, it would be very artificial,’ said Sally, swatting away a wasp. ‘I prefer to leave my choice of mate to Fate.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Emma, adjusting the strap of her sundress. ‘I’d rather meet someone in a romantic way, you know, just, bump into them one day … ’

      ‘Where?’ I asked. ‘By the photocopier? Or the fax machine?’

      ‘Noooo,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘In the cinema queue, or on the Northern Line, or on a plane, or … ’

      ‘How many people do you know who’ve met their partners like that?’ I asked.

      ‘Er. Er. Well, none actually. But I’m sure it does happen. I wouldn’t do a lonely hearts ad because I wouldn’t want to meet someone in such an obviously contrived way. It would spoil it. But I think you’re really brave.’

      ‘Yes,’ chorused the others. ‘You’re really, really brave, Tiffany.’

      ‘She isn’t brave, she’s stupid,’ said Lizzie forthrightly, ‘and I say that because her ad is completely truthful. I recommended the judicious use of lying, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s even put in her age. And “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.”’ She smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Oscar Wilde,’ she explained. ‘A Woman of No Importance.’ Of course. From Lizzie’s great days in Worthing.

      ‘Did you ever hear again from that married chap you met at the Ritz?’ asked Sally.

      ‘Er, yes, yes I did actually,’ I said with a sudden and tremendous pang, which took me by surprise. ‘To be honest he’s really not that bad, ha ha ha! Sent me some rather nice flowers actually. To say sorry. I wish … I mean I would like … ’ My voice trailed away.

      ‘What Tiffany means is that she wishes she could see him again, but I have told her that this is out of the question,’ said Lizzie. ‘She’s got to keep her eye on the ball. Martin! Don’t forget to give it two coats!’

      ‘What did you do?’ said Emma.

      ‘I wrote back to him and thanked him, but said that unfortunately circumstances would conspire to keep us apart.’

      ‘Maybe he’ll get divorced,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone else does. Luckily for me!’

      ‘He won’t contemplate it,’ I said.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because he’s worried about