The Trials of Tiffany Trott (32 page)

Now, I had told Patrick that I’d meet him at the club and I’d given him clear directions. And I’d booked a court for two hours, because I thought we’d need at least half an hour to warm up and then an hour and a half to play a couple of sets—unless he totally demolished me, which I thought he probably would, given his success at Junior Wimbledon in the early seventies. Anyway, when I arrived I noticed that there was a new coach—very attractive actually. And so I went upstairs to change, and when I came down I couldn’t help noticing that two-headed Alan was talking to this new coach and in fact seemed to be on rather friendly terms with her. They were giggling about something and she was looking at him in an interested, intimate kind of way as she gave him some advice about his forehand and I thought—that’s great! That’s really great, Alan. Because personally I find you about as attractive as a baboon’s bottom, but she obviously has no objections to you, and
chacun à son go
ût,
as they say. And anyway, I was in love and feeling generous, overflowing with human kindness and under
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standing in fact, because, well, Patrick is a really gorgeous-looking bloke. And nice. Incredibly nice. And very successful.

Anyway, we’d arranged to meet at the club at two-thirty, and it was a wonderful spring afternoon. The trees were just coming into leaf, there were tulips and hyacinth nodding in every flowerbed, and the birds were twittering joyfully as I sat outside, on the terrace, waiting. And by two forty-five Patrick still hadn’t showed up, which was odd, because he’s normally
very
reliable. So I had a cup of coffee, and watched the players batting the balls back and forth with varying degrees of energy and skill. And then I picked up the
Telegraph.
And then, when I’d finished reading the news and features, I scrutinized the stock market report, and then I perused the sports pages, and after that I turned to the back page and looked at the crossword. And then I found that I’d done three quarters of the crossword, and Patrick still hadn’t arrived. And it was
three
forty-five. And I must say my anxiety levels were really quite high by now. Somewhere just below the summit of K2. So I read
The Times,
just glancing, only out of curiosity of course, at the personal ads in the Rendezvous section. And then I started to do
The Times
crossword, and I’d got halfway through that, and was just struggling with fourteen down, when I thought, where the
hell
is he? Because I knew there could be no confusion about the day, or the time, or the venue, because I’d written it all down on a piece of paper when I’d given him directions to the club. “Oh, Patrick, please, please, please arrive soon,” I said to myself. “Please.” And the sun had gone in by now, and the clouds were massing, battleship gray, and
still
he hadn’t arrived and I thought, what the
hell
is going on here? Suddenly I heard the phone ring, and through the window I saw the new coach pick it up. Then she came out onto the terrace and said, “Tiffany?” I nodded. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Julia. I’m new here. Someone called Patrick Miller just phoned for you.”

Patrick! Thank
God
! Everything was going to be all right. “I forgive you Patrick, don’t worry, I really don’t mind that you’re
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almost two hours late,” I said to myself. “Just hurry up and get here in one piece.”

“He was just calling to say—”

“That he’d be arriving shortly?” I interjected.

“No. To say that he had to cancel.”

“What?”

“Cancel,” she said. “He sends his apologies.”

“
Cancel
?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Did he give a reason?” I added.

“No,” she said, shaking her tobacco-brown curls.

“He just phoned to cancel?” Julia nodded. “As in—not coming?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Did he
definitely
use the word ‘cancel’?” I asked.

“Definitely,” she said.

“You couldn’t possibly—sorry, I know you’re new and everything—but you couldn’t possibly have made a mistake, could you, or misheard?”

“No,” she said. “He said ‘cancel.’ He said, ‘Please could you tell Tiffany Trott that I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel.’ Those are the very words he used.”

“Cancel, as in, not turn up?” I said. “Look, Julia, can I just clarify this again? He said ‘cancel’? Is that right? Spelt, C.A.N.C.E.L.?”

“Yes. Cancel. As in no show. Cancel.”

“And you’re absolutely
sure
about that?” I said again.

“One hundred percent,” she said.

“I see,” I said, fingering the fabric of my new tennis dress. “So he’s not coming, then.”

“No,” she said. “He isn’t.”

“I understand,” I said. “He’s canceled?”

“Yes. Yes. He has.”

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Then Alan appeared. “Hello Tiffany,” he said. “Great new tennis dress you’ve got on there!”

“Thanks,” I said absently.

“Have you got anyone to play with?” he asked.

“No,” I said dismally.

“Why don’t you two have a game?” said Julia. “You’d like to play again, wouldn’t you, Alan? And you need lots of practice for the tournament.”

“Sure,” he said. “Come on, Tiffany.”

“Er, it’s OK,” I said. “I think I’ll just . . . to be honest I don’t really feel like playing that much today. Wasn’t
really
in the mood for it, anyway,” I said as I put my new headband back in my bag. “Got a bit of a dodgy ankle, to be honest. Didn’t really feel . . . and it looks like rain. Look Julia, can I just get this absolutely straight, once and for all, to clear up any possible misunderstanding. Patrick’s not coming. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“He said, ‘I’m canceling.’ Correct?”

“Correct.”

“And it was definitely the same Patrick Miller, was it?” I said.

“Well, do you know two?” she inquired. Good point. Very good point.

“No,” I said bleakly. “I don’t.”

I went upstairs to the changing room, a knife revolving slowly in my heart. I removed the Sergio Tacchini cardigan, my Fred Perry dress, my new Wilson shoes and Lillywhites socks, and got dressed again. And then I made my way home. And when I opened the front door my answer phone wasn’t winking at me—cheering me up with the promise of some plausible explanation from Patrick. It was just staring at me, blankly. It had absolutely nothing to say. And then another thing struck me—he’d spoken to Julia, so why could he not have asked to speak to
me,
to explain his nonappearance, or at least to apologize in person? I didn’t understand that at all.
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Then I sat at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands, and cried. I really, really cried. The tears were streaming down my face, and I had a quick look in the hall mirror and I was a complete mess—my face segmented by wet streaks of smeary, brown mascara. And the whites of my eyes were red and veined, and my usually smooth brow was furrowed and corrugated with disappointment and distress and . . .
ring ring! Ring ring!

“Yes?”

“Tiffany. It’s Patrick.”

“Yes?”

“Look, I’m sorry about the tennis . . .”

“Yes.”

“But you see I got myself a bit tied up . . .” Tied up? “Did you wait there long?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’re a bit cross with me?”

“Er, well, yes. Yes. I am.”

“I’m really sorry, but, you know how it is . . .”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“I just didn’t realize the time and I . . .”

“Look,” I said, “I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses. All I know is that you stood me up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I stood you up; you could have played with someone else.”

“I didn’t
want
to play with anyone else. I wanted to play with you. And you let me sit there, waiting, for almost two hours.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Tiffany.”

“And then you don’t even bother to speak to me personally . . .”

“But it was tricky, I was on a mobile phone.” Mobile phone? He didn’t
have
a mobile phone as far as I knew.

“You just buggered me about—like all the rest.”

“What do you mean, buggered you about?”

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“You’re buggering me about.”

“No I’m not,” he said.

“Yes you are, Patrick. And the fact is that I paid £700 to join Caroline Clark.”

“Look, I said I’m sorry.”

“And I didn’t pay that kind of money to be buggered about.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Tiffany.”

“Because why would I pay £700 to be buggered about in an introduction agency when I know several men out there in the real world, who, I’m confident, would do it free of charge?”

“Tiffany, I
am
sorry . . .”

“Sorry? Ha!”

“How can I make it up to you?”

“I’m sick of men behaving like this . . .”

“Would you let me buy you dinner?”

“Just sick of it . . .”

“There’s a very nice restaurant I know . . .”

“Treating me like dirt . . .”

“It’s got a really nice menu . . .”

“As though I’m just no one. Someone to be trifled with . . .”

“They do lovely desserts . . .”

“And then discarded . . . I mean I’m sick of it. Sick. To. Death. Of. It. I just feel like . . .”

“Tiffany?”

“. . . doing something
desperate . . .
”

“Would you let me . . .”

“. . . like jumping off a tall building.”

“. . . get a word in edgeway . . .”

“. . . or entering a Carmelite convent . . .”

“. . . because I really would like to . . .”

“. . . or moving to Milton Keynes!”

“. . . see you.”

“All men are
bastards.
All of them. Bastards. Even the nice ones. And I’m afraid that’s all there is . . .”

“TIFFANY—”

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“. . . to it.”

“. . . WILL YOU HAVE DINNER WITH ME ON TUESDAY?”

“Oh. OK. Yes. All right.”

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What a difference a date makes. Patrick poured me another glass of champagne and gave me a dazzling smile. I was in Bertorelli’s in Charlotte Street, and I was in heaven. I was feeling happy and looking good. I had had a full leg wax. And I had completely accepted Patrick’s apology for not turning up at the tennis club. He said he had “got delayed,” and well, getting delayed can happen to anyone, can’t it? Especially when you’re a very busy and successful person like Patrick. And when you’ve had a lot on your mind recently, like the enormous size of your wife’s divorce settlement. And, goodness me, I’m not going to start pressurizing the guy—after all, I haven’t known him that long. I now realize that I had no right to get upset with him when he was unfortunately delayed last Saturday, thereby preventing him from keeping his rendezvous with me at the tennis club. Oh no—I’m not one of these mad women who start making demands on a bloke within half an hour of meeting them. I’m not one of those “bunny-boilers,” I think the expression is (cf Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction),
who think the bloke’s dead keen when he isn’t, or when he just needs a little more time before he feels he can commit—like twenty years or so. Because I know from my own experience that it’s a mistake to say “OK, where, exactly, is this relationship going?” when you’ve only been seeing the guy for about—ooh—three years, and who can blame a bloke for turning round and saying, “Well, I don’t think it’s going anywhere,” like Phil Anderer did
_p. 342
to me? Because I asked for it, didn’t I? By asking. Yes. And so I’m really into giving men space at the moment. Lots of space. And after all I’ve only known Patrick for three weeks, and OK, he did tell me to go “on hold” at the agency, which meant that I haven’t been meeting any other blokes. But I just don’t agree with Lizzie that it would be sensible to meet as many chaps as possible to begin with and then see what happens with Patrick. Because the fact is that Patrick is The One. I know that he’s very,
very
keen on me, and doesn’t want other men to meet me, which is why he told me to go on hold. He’s being very possessive, which is really rather flattering, actually. And so I
have
been on hold ever since I met him. And there we were, sitting in Bertorelli’s—such a perfect venue for a romantic dinner tête-à-tête—and he’d ordered champagne and we were sharing some foie gras, followed by brain-friendly steak and the crispiest French fries. And I was looking pretty damn good I can tell you, and I was feeling very, very confident, and laughing just the right amount. And I was on the point of telling Patrick that I had put him on my BT Friends and Family list, when he suddenly gave me a meaningful look. Very meaningful. And deep. It thrilled me to my core. And then he made an announcement.

“We’re going to the South of France,” he said with a smile. “That’s what I really wanted to tell you. That’s why I wanted to have dinner with you tonight, Tiffany.” The South of France—
wow
!

“How
fantastic
,” I said. “When?”

“Well, I don’t know. Probably the week after next. For a fortnight . . .”

A fortnight. What heaven. We could go to Antibes, and Cap Ferrat, and do a little gambling in Monte Carlo, and maybe we’d get to see Princess Caroline, and of course Nice would be nice.

“I’ve still got to work out the best date for us both . . .”

“Well, I’m really flexible about work,” I said.

“And I’ve got to look at exactly how much leave I’ve got left.”

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“Of course,” I said.

“And on the availability of accommodation.”

“Quite.”

“The weather should be lovely.”

“Oh,
yes
.”

“But obviously it all depends on when she can get away.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? I’ve met someone. We’re going on hold together.”

“Met someone?” I said.
What do you mean
“
met someone
”—
you’ve just met
me.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’ve met someone. And I’m going on hold. With her.”

“I see,” I said. And then I thought, I had my legs waxed for this man.

“But—I thought
I
was on hold with you,” I pointed out.

“Oh, I don’t know why you thought that,” he said, casually spearing a chip.

“Because you told me, after our first date, when you phoned me up the very next morning, that I ought to put myself ‘on hold’ and not meet any other blokes,” I said. “That’s why!”

“Oh, I was only joking, Tiffany! I didn’t mean it.”

“So you weren’t on hold yourself?” I said.

“No.”

“But
I
was.”

“So it seems.”

“And so you’ve been meeting other women? All this time?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have. Why not?”

“How many?” I asked, fiddling with my serrated knife.

“Oooh,” he started counting on two hands, then three, then four, “seventeen,” he said.

“Seventeen?” He was seventeen-timing me?

“And now I have met someone I want to go on hold with,” he said with another sip of sparkling wine. “And so we are. Going on hold. And then we’re going on holiday. But I wanted to have
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dinner with you because I did feel bad about not turning up for tennis, but you see Sarah Jane asked me to go shopping with her, and that’s why I got delayed. We were stuck in a traffic jam on the King’s Road and that’s why I couldn’t make it, but I did
try
to let you know and luckily her Mercedes has a car phone. Tiffany . . . Tiffany, where are you
going
?”

“I’m going to get my GUN!”

“Why do men do this to me?” I asked Lizzie, again, as we walked around the National Gallery the following Sunday. “Why, why, why, why,
why
?”

“Because they’re bastards,” she said calmly as she stopped to light another cigarette in front of a rather gaudy Gauguin.

“Madam. No smoking!” said a guard crossly.

“Yes, but why do I
allow
them to treat me like this?” I said as she stubbed out her Marlboro Light in a fire bucket. “Why do I let them get away with it?”

“Because you’re so stupid,” she said. “Next question?”

“What should I do?”

“Complain.”

“To whom?”

“To the introduction agency, of course,” she replied as we wandered past a group of Italian tourists into the adjacent room.

“But how can I reasonably complain about the fact that Patrick Miller prefers someone else to me?” I said as we studied a serene-looking pastoral by Poussin.

“Well
I
would,” she said simply. And so I did. I phoned Caroline Clarke up at ten o’clock the next morning.

“Well, it is rather unfortunate,”she said sympathetically. “There seems to have been a communication failure here. But I must say I was a bit surprised when you said you wanted to go on hold at such an early stage.”

“Now, this
other woman
,” I spat. “Sarah Jane. Horrible name, incidentally . . .”

“Ye-es,” said Caroline cautiously.

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“Well, I know she’s a client of yours and so you can’t really say very much . . .”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“But just tell me
everything
about her,” I said. “Tell me, for example, what she’s got that I haven’t.”

“I really
can’t
tell you anything, Tiffany. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, is she stunningly attractive?” Silence. “Is she?” I persisted. “I can take it, you know.”

“Well, well, no,” said Caroline reluctantly. “She’s, well, average, I’d say.” Average! Ha!

“And is she incredibly intelligent, by any chance?”

“Well Tiffany, I really don’t want to say . . .”

“I mean, are we talking Mensa here? Are we?”

“Er, well no. I don’t think we are.”

“And is she . . .” I braced myself, “. . .
younger
than me?”

“No, no. She’s about the same age.” Mmmm. No advantage there then. “And is she richer than I am?” I inquired. There was an awkward silence. “By which I mean,” I continued, “has she got more money than me?”

“Well Tiffany, I really don’t think it would make you feel any better if I were to answer that
particular
question, and in fact I’ve already said more than I’d have chosen to do, but you’ve been so terribly pressing. And in any case, this conversation just isn’t going to help you very much.”

But now I knew what I needed to know. Patrick was interested only in money, because he was going out with this physically repulsive, ageing woman who was also as thick as two short planks—and
why
? Because she had cash. Shallow, hypocritical bastard. Going on about how a woman’s most appealing asset is her intellect when what he really had in mind was her bank balance. Right.

“Well, there are certain things I’d like to tell you about Patrick Miller,” I said. “Now, I’m not sneaking on him or anything,” I added, “but I feel you should know that he stood me up—at my tennis club. I waited there for two hours.”

_p. 346
“Oh dear.”

“And then there was another time when he said he’d ring me and he
didn’t
,” I said. “And I had to ring
him
.”

“Oh.”

“And then—now I’m not telling tales or anything—but there was another time when . . .”

“Look Tiffany, just
forget
Patrick,” said Caroline calmly. “There’s no point in thinking about him anymore. I’ll find you someone
much
nicer.”

And so that’s what she’s been doing—and the profiles just keep on coming. And every day there’s some bloke or other ringing up wanting to meet me—which is balm to my battered ego. But it can be a bit confusing. For example, this morning the phone rang, and this voice said, “Oh hello, Tiffany, this is John here. From
Hertford
.” That’s the codified way of saying they’re from the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency rather than from, say, the gas board, or MI5. Anyway, he said, “This is John”—and I didn’t know who the hell it was because I’ve received the profiles of several men called John.

So I said, “Are you John the surgeon, John the sales executive, John the ophthalmologist, John the businessman or John the Baptist, ha ha ha!” And he said that he was John the surgeon, and so we chatted, and arranged to meet at a wine bar in Soho. And he was perfectly-OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable, except that he made one fundamental mistake.

We’d had a couple of drinks and we were getting on reasonably well when he said, “And what do you like to do in your spare time, Stephanie?”

“Tiffany,” I said. “It’s Tiffany.”

“Oh sorry,” he said, “of course it is. Anyway, do tell me about your leisure interests—do you like country walks, Stephanie, or stamp collecting?”

“It’s Tiffany,” I said again, with a little more emphasis this time.

_p. 347
“Oh Stephanie, I’m so sorry,” he said. “You must think me really rather crass.”

“Yes,” I suddenly said, “I do.
Why
do you keep
[deep]
calling me Stephanie?” I inquired as I picked up my bag.

“Because that’s my ex-wife’s name,” he said with a mournful look in his eye.

After that I met a banker called Anthony. He sounded OK over the phone and his photo was quite attractive. I met him at the Waldorf, in the Palm Court. And he was fatter in real life than he was in the photo—much fatter. And he didn’t smile. Or laugh. In fact he seemed to have had a triple humor bypass and was completely immune to my jokes. Didn’t get them at all. Not even the one about the farmer and the trailer-load of penguins. Nor did he ask me anything about myself. Not one thing. He just talked about the ERM. Nonstop. For an hour and forty-five minutes. “Gorden Brown . . .” I heard him say. “Interest rates still far too high . . . Single European Currency . . . fluctuating Deutschmark . . .” And as one narcoleptic gem after another dropped from his lips, I thought, I wonder whether he’d actually notice if I put my head down on the table and had a little sleep? “Convergence criteria . . . all depends on the Swiss franc of course . . .” No. I’m sure he wouldn’t notice a thing. “The lire’s been given a very easy ride . . .” But I decided against it—it was much easier just to leave.

“Tell me,” I said as I stood up, “have you met many women from the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency?” He blanched visibly, and looked quite shocked, as though I had just said something unspeakably vulgar. Because, you see, some people don’t like to refer to the fact that that is how they met. In fact Anthony looked at me as though I had just said, “Have you always had hemorrhoids?”

“Er, well, yes,” he blurted out, as a red stain spread from his neck up to his ears. “Quite a few, actually.”

“Didn’t you like any of them?” I inquired. I was curious, you see.

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“No,” he said flatly. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” he said with an involuntary shrug, “I thought they were all very boring.”

Shortly after that I met a cardiologist called Chris, and a theater director called Hugo, but he was six foot six and he gave me vertigo. And then there was Andrew, an estate agent, and Joe, a restaurateur, and Ray, a solicitor, whose specialty, unfortunately, was defending pedophiles and this would
not
have gone down terribly well at the tennis club. And there was a Scottish architect called Hamish and an industrial chemist called Mark, but he was as camp as a convention of scoutmasters and had a badly pockmarked face. And then there was a charming chartered surveyor called Shaun, but he lived too far away, and then there was Wayne. I rather liked Wayne, who was a computer salesman, but when we met he kept saying that he was very worried about “gold diggers.” Gold diggers?

“Well, did you bring your bank statements?” I said. Actually, I didn’t say that, I just sat there wondering what on earth he could mean. After all, he was hardly in the Wall Street league. Gold diggers?

“You see, I do have a very comfortable lifestyle,” he explained. What was I supposed to say to that? “Congratulations!”? “And so obviously I have to be very careful,” he added. In fact, he said it twice. And we’d met at the Atlantic Bar, and all we’d had was a bottle of house wine costing eleven quid. But when the bill came he fumbled about awkwardly and then he looked at me inquiringly, and he said, “Well, how should we do this then?” And so I just handed the waiter the cash. Because, you see, I’d understood that Wayne has to be “very careful.”