The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

are you, Tiffany?’ he enquired, narrowing his hazel eyes.

      ‘Guess!’ I said boldly.

      ‘Well, I think you’re … twenty-nine,’ he said, passing me an Elizabeth Shaw after-dinner mint.

      ‘I think I love you,’ I said.

      ‘Do you? Tiffany, I think I may be a little bit thick for you, but will you marry me?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You see, you’ve kept me hanging around. Normally I expect men to propose within five minutes but you’ve kept me waiting … ’ I glanced at my watch,’ … twelve.’

      ‘I think you’re lovely.’

      ‘I think you’re a bit pissed.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said as the band struck up for the dancing. ‘But in the morning I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be lovely.’ Ah. Obviously an educated fellow.

      ‘Well, that’s very gallant of you,’ I said. Now, this banter was all very well, but dinner was well and truly over by now and I rather wished that Piers would come back and rescue me. Where was he? Not at his table. I glanced round the dance floor and suddenly my blood ran cold. Piers! Draped around an elegant brunette. How could he? The fickleness of men! I absently bit the burnt almond off a petit-four and poured myself another glass of wine. Terry was chatting animatedly to the woman on his left – no doubt proposing matrimony to her as well. Kate was deep in conversation with a tree surgeon. And I was completely alone. Here I was at a party with 149 other Sensational Singles and not one of them was talking to me. I know, I thought to myself, I’ll go to the ladies’ loo. That way I’ll avoid looking as though no-one’s remotely interested in me. Three men and several dances later I found my way to the powder room on the floor below – very tastefully done up in pseudo Sanderson. As I went over to the basin I noticed two thirty-something women adjusting their make-up in the threeway mirrors.

      ‘God the men here are ghastly,’ said one of them, whose voice I was sure I recognised.

      ‘Yes. Wish I was a lesbian,’ said her friend with a snort. ‘The girls are much better-looking than the guys!’

      ‘But then in my experience the men are always pretty useless at these kinds of things,’ said woman number one. ‘I really don’t know why I bother.’ Suddenly she looked up as she said this, and saw me squishing orchid-scented liquid soap onto my hands. I tried to avoid her gaze, but damn! I’d been spotted.

      ‘Tiffany Trott!’ she said accusingly.

      ‘Oh – ha ha! Hello, Pamela,’ I said. ‘Fancy meeting you here, ha ha ha!’ I pulled down a paper towel from the dispenser.

      ‘Long time no see,’ she said. Not long enough. ‘It’s been years. How are you?’

      ‘Fine. Fine,’ I said. ‘Fine.’

      ‘Still single, though?’ she said, with just a hint of satisfaction.

      ‘No, actually I’m married with five children,’ I said, ‘I just come to these sorts of occasions for kicks.’ Actually I didn’t really say that at all. I said, ‘Yup. That’s right. Single – ha ha! I’m freelance now, so I don’t meet nearly as many people as I used to. This seemed like a sensible thing to do.’ I was aware that she was looking me up and down.

      ‘You look very, fit,’ she said grudgingly. Fit. That was always the most generous thing she could ever manage to say.

      ‘I am fit,’ I said brightly. ‘I play a lot of tennis these days.’ You should try it you hideous lardarse!

      ‘Still in ad-biz?’ she enquired, combing her short, wispy red hair. I nodded. ‘Doesn’t the triviality of it ever get you down?’ she added. She always used to ask me that.

      ‘Oh no, I find it rather stimulating, actually.’ And in any case we can’t all be English language teachers, can we? God this was awful – it was bad enough being abandoned by Piers without running into ghastly Pamela Roach in the ladies’ loo.

      ‘Still in Stoke Newington?’ she asked as she removed her huge, pink preppy glasses and reapplied her trademark blue eyeshadow.

      ‘No, I’ve moved to Islington actually.’

      ‘Oh. Doing very well for yourself then,’ she said resentfully. And suddenly I remembered exactly why I had never liked her. This constant resentment, and the gatecrashing – not to mention the time I had accidentally left my beloved cashmere cardigan at her flat and it had come back two months later, stuffed in a carrier bag, worn to bits, and stained with black ink from the topless felt tip she had been carrying about in one of the pockets. I never forgave her for that. But persistent and pachydermatous, it took her seven years to get the message.

      ‘Are you enjoying this evening?’ she enquired carefully. By which I knew she really meant, ‘Are you having a better time than me?’

      ‘Oh yes – yes,’ I said. ‘It’s quite good fun. I’ve met some rather nice people actually. How about you?’

      ‘Well, there are so few attractive men,’ she said.

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve met some very nice-looking ones,’ I replied. Though unfortunately the one I liked the most has just deserted me for a gorgeous brunette.

      ‘Well, I haven’t spotted any,’ she insisted. ‘And I’m really not going to compromise. I don’t see why I should.’

      I looked at her: spaghetti straps over Herculean shoulders; a strategically-placed feather boa only half disguising the apparent lack of neck; the perpendicular line of her wide, square body uninterrupted by perceptible breasts or a waist; the large, pudgy hands and plate-like feet, and I thought, as I always thought when we were at college, just who are you trying to kid? It’s strange how it’s always the least attractive women who express the most reluctance to compromise. And then I think of someone like Sally, and she says things like, ‘Who on earth would want me?’ But the fact is, Sally is beautiful. And as for me, well my ambitions extend no further than Mr OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable. God, I hope I find him.

      ‘If you see any good-looking men, put them my way,’ Pamela instructed me as she applied another layer of black eyeliner.

      ‘Er, sure,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to bump into you,’ I carried on mendaciously, ‘but I’d better get back to my table – I’m here with a friend.’

      ‘Have you got a card?’ she asked as she replaced her glasses. ‘I don’t have your new address.’

      ‘Er – no, um – I’ll pop one in the post,’ I lied.

      ‘Keep in touch,’ she called after me.

      ‘Yes. Yes.’ I won’t.

      Phew. Phew. Damn. That’s the problem with these kinds of events, I reflected as I found my way back to my table. It’s such a small world – and that’s the pitfall – you could easily bump into someone you knew and that would be so embarrassing, so dispiriting, especially if you were feeling vulnerable anyway, being seen by someone you didn’t even like and it was ghastly …

      ‘Tiffany?’ Aaaahhh! What is this? What’s going on? Oh my God, I’ve been spotted again. Who the hell was this?

      ‘It is Tiffany, isn’t it?’ said this tall, handsome chap with grey hair and blue eyes whom I vaguely recognised.

      ‘I’ve been trying to catch your eye all evening,’ he said. ‘Jonathan de Beauvoir. Do you remember?’ Of course. Jonathan de Beauvoir. We’d met at that drinks party in Drayton Gardens four years ago. He was terribly nice. He had a very pretty girlfriend then – what on earth was he doing here?

      ‘I remember you very well,’ I said. ‘We met at that party in Kensington. You were with … er … Sarah then, weren’t you?’