The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

want to see, I’ll get tickets for it, often queuing for returns. I buy them birthday cards to send to their mothers, and sew the buttons back onto their coats. And what do they do for me? Not ring when they said they would, then not even remember that they forgot to ring. And sometimes – and this is really annoying – they don’t turn up at all. All the ones I’ve been keenest on have treated me like that. Isn’t that strange? All except Alex, that is. Alex has always been so sweet. So considerate. So thoughtful. For example, he got me a really good discount on my Nina Campbell curtains and he gave me some excellent free advice about paint effects in my kitchen.

      ‘Look, no-one rag rolls any more, Tiffany,’ he said. ‘And spongeing is such, well, vieux chapeau. I suggest you go for a very simple colourwash in a pale tone, say eau de nil, with the barest hint of teal. That’s what I’ve just done for Lady Garsington – I could get some mixed for you too.’ He also showed me how to accessorise my bathroom properly, with antique stoneware bottles and waffle-weave bath towels and lovely pebble doorknobs – no more naff ceramic fish and bobbly bath mats. Oh no. I’ve really learnt a lot from him. I mean, what he doesn’t know about cracked glazes … but where was Alex, I wondered again. He’s usually as reliable as a Rolex. And then I found myself wondering what he’d got me for my birthday – probably a year’s subscription to the World of Interiors, or something tasteful in the soft furnishings line. He gave me a pair of wonderful velvet cushions in chrysan-themum yellow for Christmas – typically thoughtful. But that’s Alex all over – really, really nice and considerate although … now, I don’t want to sound disloyal or anything, but there is just one thing I’d criticise about him, and that is that he doesn’t play tennis – and I love it. In fact he’s not very sporty full stop. Also, I’m not too mad on his buttoned-right-up-to-the-neck winceyette pyjamas or his habit of playing Scrabble in bed. But then, well, you can’t have everything. It’s all a compromise, isn’t it? That’s what it’s all about. Taking the wider view. And it was so nice to meet someone caring and kind after my miserable time with Phillip. Phil. Commonly known as Phil Anderer. No, Alex was such a refreshing change after all that.

      Suddenly Kit stood up and went and leant against the French windows. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t bring Portia with me,’ he said. A slight frown furrowed his brow. ‘You see, she’s got one of her headaches. Didn’t feel up to it. But she said she didn’t mind if I came on my own. Didn’t want to spoil my fun. She’s very good like that. Not at all possessive. I offered to come round and look after her,’ he added with a rueful smile, ‘but she said she didn’t need me. Said she could do without me.’ What a surprise, I thought. From inside the dining-room we could hear the popping of champagne corks and the squeak of party blowers.

      ‘Wahay – let’s get sloshed,’ I heard Frances say.

      ‘Yeah – let’s,’ said Emma. ‘Let’s get really plastered. I mean it’s Friday. We work bloody hard. And this is a party. God these canapes are good. Pass me a mini pizza, would you? I had the most horrible lot of fifth-formers today – thick as pig-shit.’

      ‘Sally, please would you put your laptop away?’ Frances boomed. ‘Relax. The weekend starts here.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I heard Sally reply pleadingly. ‘I just need to have a quick look at Wall Street to see how the pound closed against the dollar – won’t be a sec.’

      ‘We’re doing the Napoleonic wars at the moment,’ Emma continued, ‘I’ve just been supervising their GCSE project and one particularly thick kid managed to get a nuclear submarine into the battle of Waterloo!’

      ‘That’s unbelievable,’ said Frances.

      ‘Quite,’ Emma replied.

      I looked at Kit. His black curly hair was a little long, his face appeared tired and strained. He was fiddling thoughtfully with the stem of his champagne flute. Then he turned to me and said, ‘I don’t know what to do, Tiff.’

      ‘About what?’ I said, though of course I knew. We’d had this conversation many times before.

      ‘About Portia,’ he said with a sigh.

      ‘Same problem?’ I asked.

      He nodded, mutely. ‘She says she needs more time,’ he explained with a shrug. ‘That she’s just not ready for it. Of course I don’t pressure her,’ he added. ‘I’m just hoping she’ll change her mind. But I’d really love to marry her. I’d love to settle down and have a family. This single life’s a drag.’

      ‘Hear hear!’ said Catherine, stepping through the French windows. ‘But you’re a rare bird, Kit – a man who actively wants to make a commitment. My God, I’d marry you tomorrow!’

      ‘Would you really?’ he said.

      ‘Yes. If you asked me. Why don’t you ask me?’ she added suddenly. ‘I’m sure we’d get on.’

      ‘Or me, Kit,’ said Sally, following behind. ‘I’d snap you up in a flash – you’d better watch out, Portia, I’m after your man!’ She giggled winsomely, but then an expression of real regret passed across her face. ‘I wish all men were like you, Kit, ready to bend the knee, then girls like us wouldn’t be crying into our hot chocolate every night.’

      ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Frances. ‘I’m not crying – I’m out clubbing. Much more satisfactory. And the music drowns out the loud tick-tock of my biological clock.’

      ‘I can’t hear mine,’ said Emma, ‘it’s digital.’

      ‘Mine sounds like Big Ben,’ said Frances. ‘Except that there’s no-one to wind it up. But do you know,’ she continued, peeling a quail’s egg, ‘I really don’t care; because finally, after thirty-six years, I’ve realised that the vast majority of men simply aren’t worth having. Anyway,’ she added, ‘who needs one? I’d rather go rollerblading in the park on a Saturday morning than go to Sainsbury’s with some totally useless bloke.’

      ‘I don’t think you really mean that,’ I said. ‘It’s because of what you do – I mean sorting out other people’s ghastly divorces all day would put anyone off marriage.’

      ‘It’s not just that,’ said Frances. ‘Though after fifteen years of establishing who threw the breadknife at who in 1979 you certainly do get a little jaundiced. It’s simply that most men are boring. Terribly, terribly boring. Except you, of course, Kit,’ she added quickly.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, peevishly.

      ‘I mean why should I go to all the trouble of pinning down some bloke,’ Frances was still going on, ‘only for him to bore me to death!’

      ‘Or run off with someone else,’ added Emma with sudden feeling. ‘Just like my father did.’

      ‘There just aren’t any really nice, interesting, decent, suitable, trustworthy men,’ Frances concluded comprehensively. Yes, there are, I thought to myself smugly. And I’ve got one.

      ‘I’m just facing facts,’ she said with a resigned air. ‘I’ve weighed up the evidence. And the evidence is not in our favour. So no Bland Dates for me,’ she added firmly. ‘I, for one, have decided to give wedded bliss a miss.’

      ‘Better single than badly accompanied,’ added Emma.

      ‘Quite!’ said Catherine.

      ‘Three million single women can’t be wrong,’ said Frances, who always has some handy statistic at the ready. ‘Anyway, why bother when over forty per cent of marriages end in divorce?’

      ‘And why do they end in divorce?’ asked Emma with sudden vehemence. ‘Because it’s usually the man’s fault. That’s why. It was certainly my father’s fault,’ she added fiercely. ‘He just fancied someone else. Plain and simple. And believe me, she was plain and simple. But she was younger than my mother,’ she went on bitterly. ‘Mum never