The Trials of Tiffany Trott. Isabel Wolff

the one who does something clever in computers?’

      ‘Dead boring.’

      ‘And what about that solicitor you told me you’d met at the tennis club? I’m sure you said he’d called you.’

      ‘Mummy – he’s got two heads.’

      ‘Oh. Well at least you can’t say that no-one asks you out.’

      ‘Yes I can. Because those ones don’t count.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I’m not interested in them. In fact I’m not interested in men full stop. In any case I really don’t need a husband.’

      ‘Darling, don’t say that.’

      ‘No. I’m absolutely fine on my own.’

      ‘No you’re not. You’re miserable.’

      ‘Only because I’ve had the wrong attitude. The thing to do is to embrace aloneness. Take spinsterhood seriously.’

      ‘Darling, no-one will take you seriously if you say things like that.’

      ‘No, honestly, Mum, I’ll be brilliant at it. I’ll really apply myself. I’ll get a cat and knit blankets for the Red Cross. I’ll develop a passion for cricket and crosswords –’

      ‘You don’t do crosswords, darling.’

      ‘I’ll learn. And I’ll man cake stalls at bring-and-buys. And I’ll selflessly babysit for all my friends. I’ll be the most professional spinster there’s ever been – I’ll probably pick up an award for it. Spinster of the Year – Tiffany Trott, brackets “Miss”, close brackets.’

      ‘Darling, I’m afraid this negative and unhelpful attitude won’t get you anywhere.’

      ‘I’m just being realistic.’

      ‘Nihilistic, darling.’

      ‘But I’m unlikely to meet anyone new.’

      ‘Don’t be silly, darling, of course you are.’

      ‘No I’m not. Because I read in the paper the other day that forty-five per cent of us meet our partners through mutual friends and I’ve already met all my friends’ friends. And twenty-one per cent of us meet them through work.’

      ‘Darling, I do wish you could get a proper job again. All you do is sit on your own writing slogans all day.’

      ‘But Freelancers Have Freedom!’

      ‘Yes, but you’re not meeting any men. Except for Kit. Why didn’t you marry Kit, Tiffany?’

      ‘I don’t want to go through all that again, Mummy. Anyway, he loves Portia.’

      ‘Don’t your friends know anyone?’

      ‘No. And when I think about the men I have met through my set they’ve been disastrous – especially Phillip.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ she said meaningfully. Feckless, unfeeling Phil Anderer.

      ‘But men!’ I spat. ‘Who needs them? Not me. Anyway,’ I added, ‘I’m not going through all that grief again. No way. Forget it. No. Thank. You.’

      Two hours later, the phone rang. It was Lizzie. ‘Now listen to this, Tiffany,’ she said, audibly rustling a newspaper. ‘Listen very carefully.’

      ‘OK. I’m listening.’

      She cleared her throat theatrically. ‘ “Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, Sensuous Academic, thirty-six, seeks Feminine Friend to share Laughter, Love and … Life?”’ She managed to get a melodramatic, upward inflection into the final word.

      ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘You read it very well. What about it?’

      ‘It’s a personal ad,’ she explained.

      ‘I know.’

      ‘From the Telegraph.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘In fact it’s a particularly appealing one, don’t you think?’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘And you’re going to reply to it, aren’t you, Tiffany?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said suddenly. ‘I am.’

      

      I also said yes when Lizzie told me that she wanted me to go on a blind date with a colleague of Martin’s. Did I say no-one ever introduces me to matrimonially-minded males? Let me take it back right now!

      ‘He’s called Peter Fitz-Harrod,’ she said, when she’d finished telling me about the Tall, Athletic Academic. ‘He’s in syndicated loans, whatever they are. I think he lends money to Mozambique. I met him at a company do last week,’ she explained. ‘He’s forty-two, divorced, with two small children. He’s really quite good-looking,’ she added, ‘and very keen to marry again.’

      Now I have absolutely no objections to divorced men – as long as the first wife is dead, ha ha! – so I told Lizzie she could give him my number. Then I sat down to write my reply to the Tall, Athletic Academic. I soon got stuck with my pen poised over my best quality oyster-coloured Conqueror paper. How on earth should I go about it? I mean, what the hell do people say? Do they write, ‘Dear Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied … ’, or, ‘Dear Abundantly Erotic Existentialist … ’, or, ‘Dear Bewitching Brunette, fifty-seven and a half … ’? What does protocol require? Maybe I should come clean and say, ‘Hallo there, my. incredibly bossy best friend saw your intriguing ad and told me that if I don’t reply she’ll kill me.’ Maybe I should say, ‘Hi! My name’s Tiffany. I think I could be your feminine friend.’ Feminine Friend? It sounds like a brand of tampon. Maybe I should start, ‘Dear Box Number ML2445219X.’ Maybe I should simply write, ‘Dear Sir … ’

      I decided to go shopping instead. There’s nothing like a trip to Oxford Street on the number 73 to clear the brain, and soon I was entertaining positive thoughts about Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, etc (think I’ll just call him ‘Tall’ for short). By the time the bus was speeding down Essex Road we’d been out to dinner twice. As it pulled away from the Angel he’d shyly held my hand. By the time we turned into Pentonville Road he’d come up to meet my parents. As we drove past Euston station our engagement announcement was in The Times, and by the time we pulled up outside Selfridges half an hour later, we were married with two children and living in Cambridge where he is undoubtedly professor of something terribly impressive, such as cytogenetics. Bus journeys do not normally give rise to such pleasant fantasies. Usually they remind me of the appalling problems I have with men. For example, I step happily on board the number 24, confident that I am going, say, to Hampstead. It all seems perfectly straightforward, the destination quite clear. But then, just as I’m relaxing into my book – ding ding! ‘Last Stop. All Change!’ and there I am, marooned at the grottier end of Camden. And when I gently remonstrate with the bus conductor about my unexpectedly abbreviated journey, he calmly points to the front of the bus where it says, in very large letters, ‘Camden High Street Only’. And that’s what it’s been like with men. I have failed to read the signs. So I have allowed them to lead me not just up the garden path, but through the front door, into the house, through the sitting-room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, before being shown out through the back door – usually with instructions to cut the grass before I leave. Unfortunately this whole process takes quite a long time, as I have learnt to my great chagrin.

      What a fool I am – what a damned, silly little fool. I have let selfish, commitment-shy men tie me up for too long. I have cooked my own goose and stuffed it. Perhaps I could get Tony Blair to introduce legislation, I mused, as I went over to the expensive unguents counter. I’m sure he’d oblige if I asked him to be tough on commitophobia – tough on the causes of commitophobia. Men would not be allowed to monopolise women over the age of thirty-three for more