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‘I think that’s awful,’ said the elderly woman sitting behind me. I turned round and looked at her. ‘I hope you gave him what for,’ she said.
‘Yes, I did actually. I was extremely insult—Sally? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How ghastly. What a creep. But didn’t his ad say that he was married?’
‘No. It didn’t say he was married,’ I said dismally, as we chugged up Rosebery Avenue. ‘It simply said that he was looking for an unforgettable girl in her twenties or thirties to “spoil a little or even a lot”.’ A guffaw arose from behind me. What the hell was so funny? I turned round again and glared at the other passengers.
‘But Tiffany, you should have known,’ said Sally. Ding ding!
‘How?’
‘Because an offer to “spoil” a woman is shorthand for seeking a mistress. Like an offer to “pamper” her, or a request for “discretion”. You’ve got to learn the code if you’re going to do this kind of thing.’
‘Well I didn’t know that,’ I wailed. ‘I know that GSOH means Good Sense of Humour and I know VGSOH means Very Good Sense of Humour and that WLTM means Would Like To Meet.’
‘And LTR means Long Term Relationship,’ added Sally.
‘Does it?’
‘And W/E means “well-endowed”.’
‘Really? Good God! Anyway, I didn’t know that offering to “spoil” someone meant you already had a wife.’
‘Everyone knows that,’ said the middle-aged man across the aisle from me, unhelpfully.
‘Well, I didn’t – OK?’ I said. ‘Anyway Sally, Sally are you there? Hi. I’m just really, really pissed off. Seriously Successful? Seriously Swine-ish more like.’
‘What’s his real name?’ she asked, as we left the Angel.
‘God, I don’t know. I never asked,’ I said. ‘Anyway, whatever Seriously Slimy’s real name is, is no concern of mine. Seriously Unscrupulous … ’
‘Seriously Shallow,’ said the woman behind me.
‘Yes.’
‘And Seriously Sad,’ she concluded.
‘Quite. I mean, Sally, what on earth did he take me for?’
‘Never mind, Tiffany, that was bad luck,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner. Are you going to Lizzie’s for lunch on Sunday?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well I’ll see you then,’ she said. ‘And chin up.’
I put my mobile phone away and took out my paper. Doing the crossword would calm me down. Bastard. Bastard. Fifteen across: Fool about with high-flyer. Seven letters, first letter, ‘S’. Couldn’t do it. I stood up and rang the bell. As I made my way to the back of the bus an elderly man made a beckoning gesture.
‘Why don’t you join Dateline?’ he said in a gravelly whisper. ‘Much safer. I think these personal ads are rather risky myself.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
Fool about with high-flyer. I turned it over and over in my mind as I got off at my stop and walked down Ockendon Road. Oh God, there were cyclists on the bloody footpath again.
‘It’s the People’s Pavement you know!’ I called out as the boy whizzed past, practically clipping my left ear. God I was in a bad mood. A really bad mood. Damn Seriously Successful. Damn him. Fool about with high-flyer, I thought. High-flyer. And then it came to me – with a pang – skylark.
July Continued (#ulink_fcad8a51-60df-56d9-971c-1e89d5245de1)
By the next morning I was much, much calmer. ‘What a bastard,’ I raged to myself. I mean, what a copper-bottomed swine. Disgusting behaviour. Part-time girlfriend indeed! Seriously Successful? Seriously Sleazy. Seriously Shabby. Seriously Scurrilous. But I have only myself to blame – serves me right for doing something so patently risky. Might have known there’d be a catch with this catch. I mean he’s very attractive, at least I think so. And he’s got very good manners, and he’s very amusing and very good company and all that and yes, he’s very successful, and very well-dressed and very sophisticated too and very charismatic. But he’s also very married. Blast. Blast. I stabbed away at the antique roses – I’ve done two small petals actually – whilst I reflected on Seriously Successful’s appalling behaviour and my continuing bad luck with blokes. Then the phone rang. I went into the hall and picked up the receiver.
‘Oh hello Tiffany, it’s um – ha ha ha ha! – Peter here.’ Oh God. This was all I needed. ‘Tiffany, are you there?’ I heard him squeak.
‘Er, yes. Yes, I am,’ I said, ‘but … ’
‘Well, ha ha ha! It was so nice to meet you the other day, Tiffany, and I just thought we ought to arrange that game of tennis.’ Ought we? Oh God, no.
‘I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation owing to a subsequent engagement,’ I said, recalling Oscar Wilde’s solution to these dilemmas. Actually I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, fast.
‘Can you go and get your diary?’ I heard him say.
‘Er, yes, hang on a second,’ I said, suddenly inspired. But I didn’t go into my study. I went to the front door, opened it, and rang my bell hard. Twice. And then I rang it again.
‘Oh Peter, I’m so sorry but there’s someone at the door,’ I said breathlessly. ‘I’d better answer it … ’
‘Oh well, I’ll hold on,’ he said cheerfully.
‘No, don’t do that, Peter, I’ll ring you back. Bye.’
‘But you don’t have my num—’
Phew. Phew. I went back into the sitting-room. And then the phone rang again. Bloody Peter Fitz-Harrod. Why couldn’t he take a hint? This time I’d tell him. I’d just pluck up the courage to say, sorry, but that I’d prefer him not to call.
‘Yesss!’ I hissed into the receiver.
‘Darling, what on earth’s the matter?’ said Mum. ‘You sound awful.’
‘Oh, hello, Mum. I feel awful,’ I said. ‘I’m pissed off. With men.’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner.’
‘I’m sure there isn’t,’ I said.
‘Haven’t you met anyone new yet?’ she enquired.
‘Oh yes. One or two. But no-one I’d bother telling you about,’ I said bitterly. ‘No-one I’ll be bringing home for tea, if that’s what you mean. No-one who’s going to be any use, to use that old-fashioned phrase.’
‘Oh dear. It’s just so difficult these days,’ she said. ‘It’s not like it was when Daddy and I were young. I mean, when we were young –’
‘I know,’ I interjected. ‘You just met someone you liked, and they became your boyfriend, and then before too long you got engaged, and then you got married, and you stayed married for ever and ever. End of story,’ I said.
‘Well, more or less,’ she replied. ‘I suppose forty years is for ever and ever, isn’t it?’
Forty years. My parents have been married for forty years. Four decades; four hundred and eighty months; two thousand and eighty weeks; fourteen thousand, five hundred and sixty days; three hundred and fifty thousand hours; twenty-one million minutes; one billion, two hundred and fifty-eight million seconds, give or take a few. They’ve been married all that time. Happily married, too. And no affairs. I know that. Because I asked them. And that’s the kind of marriage I’d like myself. And I don’t care what bien-pensant people say about the complexity of modern family life, the probability of divorce, the natural tendency towards serial monogamy and the changing social mores of our times. I know exactly what I want. I want to be married to the same man, for a minimum of four decades – possibly five, like the Queen – and no infidelity, thank you! I’m sorry to be so vehement on this point, I know that others may take a more relaxed view, but it’s simply how I feel. I mean, the first time my mother met my father the only thing he offered her was a ticket to a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. What did Seriously Successful offer me the first time we met? A position as his part-time girlfriend. Charming. Very flattering. Thanks a bunch. Well, you can bog off with your impertinent propositions, Seriously Sick – I decline. And then of course there’s another reason why I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole, and that is that Seriously Successful is ipso facto an unfaithful fellow. Obviously he is, by the very nature of what he was proposing to me. Now, I know what it’s like to be with an unfaithful man, and it’s not nice at all. And I’m not doing that again. Not after Phil Anderer. No way. But then, well, that was my fault. Because it wasn’t as though I wasn’t warned about Phillip – I was. When I first met him everyone said, ‘Don’t Even Think About It!’ – because of his ghastly reputation. And what did I do? I not only thought about it. I did it. I got involved. And I got hurt.
‘It meant nothing,’ Phillip shouted at me, when I found out for certain what I had suspected for some time. ‘It meant absolutely nothing. Do you think I’d risk everything we’ve got for some pathetic little bimbo?’ To be honest, I wasn’t at all sure what we had got. Not sure at all, in fact. But he was very, very persuasive that I should stay.
‘Do you think I’d do anything to jeopardise my relationship with you?’ he said, in a softer tone of voice this time.
‘You just did,’ I pointed out tearfully. But later, I thought maybe I was being small-minded and unfair. Perhaps he just needed to do a bit more growing up – even though he was thirty-six. But quite frankly, when he came back from the ‘golf course’ again with cheap, alien scent clinging to his House of Fraser diamond-patterned jumper, I was thrown into renewed despair. Another bloody ‘birdie’, I realised bitterly. Then you know exactly what they’re up to – his mother’s words came back to haunt me. But then after three husbands I can understand her being, shall we say, a little circumspect. However, having persuaded me to stay, and let another year go by, Phillip had the nerve to dump me. It was horrible, and I’m never, ever, ever, ever going out with anyone dodgy ever again. So you can bugger off with your offensive offers, Seriously Slimy. Yes, just bugger right off, get lost, never darken my door again, let alone buy me dinner at the Ritz or flirt with me or pay me compliments or laugh at my jokes or make me giggle and …
Just then the doorbell rang. Funny. I wasn’t expecting anyone. A man was standing there. With an enormous bouquet. Who the hell … ?
‘Miss Trott?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. Over his shoulder I could see a van marked Moyses Stevens.
‘Flowers,’ he said. ‘For you.’
I brought them into the kitchen, put them in the sink – they wouldn’t fit even my largest jug – and just sat and stared. It was like a floral fireworks display, a golden explosion of yellow gerbera, lemon-coloured carnations, saffron-shaded roses, banana-yellow berberis, white love-in-a-mist and buttery-coloured stocks, all bound together with a curly, primrose ribbon and topped by delicately spiralling twigs. Heaven. And tucked inside the cellophane wrap was a letter.
My dear Tiffany
I specifically asked the florist – Mr Stevens does make exceedingly good bouquets – for something in yellow. Yellow for cowardice. My cowardice, at not being straightforward with you from the start. Can you forgive me? I must say I was rather taken aback by your anger – you were rather fierce you know – but I’ve tried to see things from your point of view. I can only apologise for having upset you with my facetious and offensive offer. I was, in fact, trying to be honest with you, but I appear to have insulted you instead and I can only say that I hope you’ll forgive me enough to remain, at least, my friend. SS PS Graded Grains Make Finer Flowers.
Oh. Well. Gosh. Gosh. I mean, that’s a nice letter. That’s a really nice letter. And what an incredibly thoughtful thing to do. Perhaps I’ve been a bit over the top. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him. How did he know my address? Oh yes, he had my card. But what a lovely thing to do. He is nice – Oh God oh God oh God, why does he have to be married? Just my luck. Maybe I should think about it. Maybe we could be friends. Why not? Everyone needs friends, and he’s so funny, and so interesting, and he’s got such good taste in ties, and we get on incredibly well. I’m sure we could at least be pals. I’m sure we could. I’m sure.
‘You must be out of your tiny mind!’ said Lizzie, as we strolled round Harrods Food Hall the following Saturday – or rather, as I traipsed after her while she filled her basket with an assortment of prodigiously expensive groceries in preparation for lunch in her garden the following day. ‘Don’t have anything to do with him,’ she reiterated slowly.
‘But I like him,’ I said, as we queued at the charcuterie counter.
‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ she said, as a jolly-looking man in a white coat planed slices off a Hungarian boar. ‘Seriously Successful is not available. He’s married. And, what’s more, he’s told you that he’s never going to get divorced – a pound of Parma ham, please – and you just haven’t got time to waste. Oh, and I’ll have six honey-glazed poussins as well. Basically Tiffany, you’re nearly –’
‘I know,’ I said wearily, ‘I’m nearly fifty.’
‘Exactly. So if you really want to get married stick to single men – God knows there must be enough of them out there. I mean, I really don’t mind if you marry a divorcé, Tiffany,’ she added, as we surveyed the rows of French cheeses.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said absently.
‘I mean, if you married a divorcé you could still get married in church, or at the very least have a blessing and wear a nice dress and everything. And have bridesmaids,’ she added. ‘But getting involved with a married man is not something that should be undertaken “unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly”, as they say. Half a pound of nettle-wrapped Cornish Yarg, please. In fact it should not be undertaken at all.’
‘But I’m not going to get involved with him – he only wants to be friends,’ I pointed out.
This was greeted with a derisive snort. ‘Friends? Don’t you realise that that’s a Trojan horse? If you become “friends” with him, I guarantee it will be only a matter of weeks before you’re sitting desperately by the phone dressed down to the nines in your La Perla, while his wife’s private detective is parked outside your house with his video camera trained on your bedroom window. Is that really what you want? Because that, Tiffany, is exactly what happens to mistresses.’
Mistresses? Mistress. What an awful word. God, no. No way. Lizzie may be brutal, but she’s right.
‘I’m only thinking of you, Tiffany,’ she said, as we wandered through the perfumery department on the ground floor. ‘You’ve been up enough dead ends with men to fill a cemetery. You can’t afford another mistake. Just write to Seriously Successful, thank him for his flowers and tell him, firmly, but very politely, that you can’t possibly remain in touch. Are you OK for moisturiser?’ she added as she dotted ‘Fracas’ behind her ears.
‘Yes,’ I replied as I dismally sprayed ‘Happy’ onto my left wrist.
‘Have you tried the new Elizabeth Lauderstein ceramide complex containing alpha hydroxy serum derived from fruit acids?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fantastic isn’t it?’
‘Incredible. Lizzie, do you think these expensive unguents really work?’ I asked.
‘I believe they do,’ she said simply. ‘OK, Tiff, let’s head home.’
‘Thank You For Not Smoking’, said the sign in the taxi in which we headed up towards Lizzie’s house in Hampstead. Lizzie pushed her Ray Bans further up her exquisitely sculpted nose and lit another Marlboro Light.
‘You know, Tiffany, I’ve been thinking about it all and the fact is that you’re going about this whole thing the wrong way.’
‘What do you mean, wrong way?’ I asked, opening a window to let out the smoke.
‘Well, you’ve been answering ads, and I think it would be far, far better to put one in yourself,’ she explained. ‘That way you’d be more in control. You could filter out the husbands and the head-bangers. I’ll help you write it,’ she added. ‘I’m good at that kind of things – we can do it right now in fact.’
The taxi turned left off Rosslyn Hill and came to a stop half-way down Downshire Hill, outside Lizzie’s house. A vast, white-washed early Victorian pile with a fifty-foot garden – and that’s just at the front. Lizzie and Martin have lived here for eight years, and it’s worth well over a million now. I struggled out of the taxi with her array of Harrods carriers, just like I used to help her carry her trunks up the stairs when we were at school. She went and tapped on the window and Mrs Burton came and opened the door.
‘Thanks, Mrs B,’ she said. ‘We’re loaded down with stuff for tomorrow. I’ve been a bit naughty in Harrods, but never mind,’ she added with a grin, ‘Martin can afford it, and he likes to feed all my girlfriends properly. Where is Martin, Mrs B?’ she enquired.
‘Mowing the lawn,’ Mrs Burton replied.
‘Oh good. I told him it needed doing. OK, Tiffany, will you help me put this stuff away?’
Now, I’m not a jealous person – I’m really not. But, it’s just that whenever I go round to Lizzie’s house I always feel awfully, well, jealous. Even though she’s my best and oldest friend, my envy levels rocket. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the forty-foot Colefax and Fowlered drawing-room and the expanses of spotless cream carpet. Maybe it’s the artful arrangements of exotic flowers in tall, handblown glass vases. Maybe it’s the beautifully rag-rolled walls or the serried ranks of antique silver frames on burnished mahogany. Perhaps it’s the hundred-foot garden complete with rose-drenched pergola. Or perhaps it’s the fact that she has two adorable children and a husband who loves her and who will never, ever be unfaithful or leave her for a younger model. Yes, I think that’s what it is. She has the luxury of a kind and faithful husband, and she has pledged to help me secure the same.
‘Now, listen to me, Tiffany,’ she said, as we sat in her hand-distressed Smallbone of Devizes kitchen. Through the open window I could see Martin strenuously pushing a mower up and down.
‘You are a product, Tiffany. A very desirable product. And you are about to sell yourself in the market place. Do not sell yourself short.’
‘OK,’ I said, sipping coffee from one of her Emma Bridgewater fig leaf and black olive spongeware mugs. ‘I won’t.’
‘Your pitch has got to be right or you’ll miss your target,’ she said, passing me a plate of chocolate olivers.
‘It’s OK, I know a thing or two about pitches,’ I said. ‘I mean I am a copywriter.’
‘No, Tiffany, sometimes I really don’t think you understand the first thing about advertising,’ she said, glancing out into the garden.
‘But my ads win awards! I got a bronze Lion at Cannes last year!’
‘Martin!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve missed the bit by the cotoneasta!’ He stopped, wiped the beads of sweat off his tonsured head, and turned the mower round.
‘Mind you, I don’t know why you want a husband, Tiffany, they’re all completely useless.’ Suddenly Amy and Alice appeared from the garden.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ said Amy, who is five.
‘Finding Tiffany a husband.’
