The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

who wrote, ‘I am sexually insatiable and am looking for a gorgeous babe with class, intelligence, superb breasts and a big bum.’

      ‘Well, you’ve got the bum,’ said Lizzie.

      ‘My God – look at this!’ I said, holding up a red foil-wrapped chocolate.

      ‘Don’t eat it!’ Lizzie screamed, snatching it out of my hand and rushing to the bin. ‘It’s probably poisoned!’

      I glanced at the accompanying letter. ‘Oh Baby, the thought of you keeps me awake at night,’ the sender had written, ‘you’re really playing havoc with my sleep patterns. Please, baby, don’t be cruel to me. You know I really, really, really LOVE YOU.’

      ‘Eighty-five per cent of these men appear to be deranged,’ I said. ‘And the ones that aren’t deranged are largely boring.’ For the same tedious phrases kept popping up over and over again: ‘incurable romantic … all my own hair … red Porsche … all my own teeth … golf in the Algarve … almost divorced … tropical sunsets … no baggage … that special lady … two ex-wives … young at heart … five children … give me a bell’.

      ‘I’ve got to stop,’ I said suddenly to Lizzie. ‘I can’t take any more. It’s making me feel sick.’

      ‘OK, we’ll go through the rest another time, but don’t forget to phone that stockbroker,’ she said as she left. ‘I mean a stockbroker would be fine – just look at me!’

      Yes, just look at Lizzie, I thought, as she got into her Mercedes. She had gone from actorly impoverishment to a seven-bedroom house in Hampstead. But does she love successful-but-not-terribly-exciting Martin? I have never liked to ask. Anyway, I left a brief, friendly message on Ian the stockbroker’s answerphone and then got ready for the Eat ‘n’ Greet Sensational Singles Party. Quick shower, then black cocktail dress, chunky pearls at wrist and neck, strappy sandals, hair piled up, mascara and lip-liner – voilà!

      ‘You look lovely,’ said Kate generously, when she came to collect me at seven.

      ‘No, you look much prettier than me,’ I said, ‘and much younger too, may I say.’

      ‘Oh, no you look incredibly young – only, ooh, twenty-five,’ she countered.

      ‘But you look – seventeen!’ I insisted. ‘Are you sure you’re old enough to be in command of a motorised vehicle?’ Having a New Best Friend who’s exactly the same age as me and also single is marvellous – Kate and I compete to pay each other the most lavish, ego-lifting compliments which we would obviously be receiving regularly from blokes were it not for our tragic and frankly perplexing singledom. As we drove through south-east London our confidence began to decline.

      ‘It’ll be full of desperate, desperate women and really sad men,’ I said as we cruised up the drive of the Dulwich Country Club, set in twelve acres of fabulous parkland. And was it my imagination, or were the regular members of the club sniggering at us as we walked up the steps? And I could swear that the girl from Eat ‘n’ Greet gave us a sweet but pitying smile as she ticked us off the list on her leatherette clipboard.

      ‘Here we go,’ said Kate, as we were ushered into the champagne reception. She gave my hand an encouraging squeeze. ‘Just smile.’

      It’s funny how human nature accentuates the negative. In the conservatory there were about 150 people aged between thirty and fifty-five, but somehow all I could see was men with grey hair and women d’un certain âge trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys in shiny giftwrap frocks. My heart sank and my jaw was already aching from maintaining my rictus grin. This was hell. What was I doing here? It was dreadful, dreadful, dreadful. But then I began to notice a few men who were perfectly-OK-looking – bordering – on – the – almost – acceptable – in fact some of them looked quite handsome, especially in their DJs. And there were some rather gorgeous girls, too.

      ‘Oh, she’s pretty,’ I whispered to Kate as we circulated.

      ‘You’re here to meet men, Tiffany, don’t look at the women. And just keep smiling.’

      It seemed to work. If you beam at a totally strange man, he will beam right back. In fact he will come up to you, politely introduce himself and ask you your name. Good heavens! We’d only been there ten minutes and we’d already met three chaps each! Then a gong sounded and we went in to dinner. I found myself chatting to a tall, blond, aristocratic-looking bloke called Piers. Bit of all right actually, and dead posh.

      ‘I say,’ he said as he consulted the table plan. ‘You’re sitting next to me, Tiffany, how lovely.’

      I think this singles scene is really marvellous. It’s such fun. It really is. It’s a gas. But there are drawbacks. I mean, there I was sitting next to aristocratic-looking Piers, and he was telling me all about his divorce and how his wife was unfaithful to him four times – oh how could she, I thought to myself as I stared into his cobalt eyes. And I was just about to start telling him all about my unhappy relationships, and really getting quite interested in him, and to be honest hardly saying a word to the man on my right, which was a bit rude really, except that he was quite happily chatting to a pretty redhead in personnel, when a gong suddenly sounded.

      ‘We’d like the ladies to stay seated and all the gentlemen to move thu-ree tables to their left purleeze,’ said the major-domo.

      Piers looked stricken. ‘But I don’t want to move,’ he said. ‘I’m really very happy just where I am.’ The blood rushed to my cheeks. I smiled shyly at him. ‘Well, I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘After pudding. And we’ll carry on from there.’

      ‘I’ll … wait for you,’ I said encouragingly, as the white chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis arrived. Piers gave me a little wave as he headed off and then I saw him sit down at a distant table, next to a woman whose youth and attractiveness I could not accurately ascertain at seventy-five feet. Then two new men came to sit on either side of me, both of them OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable. From the other side of the table Kate gave me a little grin – she seemed to be having a jolly time too and was happily chatting away to a charming demolitions expert. Good, we were both getting our fair share of nice chaps.

      ‘Hallo, erm … erm … ’

      ‘Tiffany,’ I said, helpfully holding up my name card. ‘Tiffany Trott.’ I shook hands with my new neighbour, who on closer inspection was rather handsome, though he seemed to have had a teensy weensy bit too much to drink.

      ‘And who are you?’ I enquired.

      ‘My name’s Terry,’ he said. Terry!

      ‘That’s interesting,’ I said, ‘because actually Terry is my least favourite male Christian name – ha ha ha! After Kevin and Duane, of course.’ Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, ‘Hello and welcome.’ He laughed. I don’t know why.

      ‘Now Tiffany, what do you do?’ he asked. Gosh! Getting right down to business here.

      ‘Er, try and guess!’ I challenged him teasingly.

      ‘Well … er … I think you’re a … um, secretary,’ he said as he poured us both some rather good Chablis. I must have looked a bit taken aback because he quickly added, ‘But you’re clearly a very high-powered one. You probably work for a Senior Sales Manager.’ Now I must say this disappointed me. Why had he not assumed that I was employed in some more glamorous field, say as an actress, croupier, television presenter or international horsewoman?

      ‘Wrong!’ I said. ‘I’m a builder.’

      ‘Get away!’ he replied. ‘Are you really?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not. Actually, I’m in advertising. I’m a copywriter.’

      ‘What,’ he said, ‘writing ads? Go To Work On An Egg – that kind of malarky?’

      ‘Yes,’