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‘Oh good, does that mean we’ll be bridesmaids?’ said Alice.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘It does. Now go outside and play.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be your bridesmaid, Tiffany,’ said Alice, who is seven.
‘I think I’m more likely to be your bridesmaid,’ I said, ‘when I’m about fifty.’
‘OK Tiff, this is what I suggest,’ said Lizzie, waving a piece of paper at me. ‘Gorgeous blonde, thirty-two, size forty bust, interminable legs, fantastic personality, hugely successful, own delightful house, seeks extremely eligible man, minimum six foot, for permanent relationship. No losers. No cross-dressers. No kids.’
‘I think it contravenes the Trades Description Act,’ I said.
‘I know, but at least you’ll get lots of replies.’
‘I am not thirty-two, I’m thirty-seven. I do not have long legs – I have short ones. I do not have a size forty bust, and I am definitely not gorgeous.’
‘I know you’re not,’ she said. ‘But we’ve got to talk you up as they say in the City. It’s all a question of perception. I mean Martin’s always talking up his stocks and shares to his clients, and some of them go through the roof.’
‘Some of these men are going to go through the roof too,’ I said. ‘What’s the point in lying? Lying will only get me into trouble.’
‘Men lie,’ she said, accurately; and into my mind flashed Tall Athletic Neville, a towering sex-god, five foot eight.
‘Well, I’m not going to lie,’ I said, scribbling furiously. ‘Now this,’ I said, ‘is nearer the mark: “Sparky, kind-hearted girl, thirty-seven, not thin, likes tennis and hard work WLTM intelligent, amusing, single man, 36-45, for the purposes of matrimony. No facial hair. No golf players. Photo and letter please.”’
‘You won’t get any replies,’ Lizzie shouted down the path at me as I left to get ready for tennis. ‘Not a single one!’
Tennis always takes my mind off my troubles. Bashing balls about in my small North London club is so therapeutic. It gets the seratonin going, or is it endorphins? Maybe it’s melatonin? God, I can’t remember which. Anyway, whatever it is it releases stress, makes me feel happy. Or at least it would do if it wasn’t for that wretched man, Alan – such a fly in the ointment. Whenever I’m playing, there he is: the solicitor with two heads. Bald; bearded; thin. The man of my nightmares. It’s not at all flattering being fancied by an extremely unattractive man.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Not at all,’ I said airily as I sat in the sunshine on the terrace. We made our way onto one of the grass courts – at least he’s not a bad player. We played a couple of sets – he won six-two, six-two, in fact he always beats me six-two, six-two – and then we went and had tea.
‘Tiffany, would you like to see something at the cinema with me?’ he said as he poured me a cup of Earl Grey.
No, not really. ‘Ummmmm,’ I began.
‘The Everyman are doing a season of Truffaut.’
‘Well … ’
‘Or perhaps you’d like to go to the opera – the ENO are doing The Magic Flute again.’
‘Oh, er, seen that one actually.’
‘Right, then, how about something at that theatre?’
‘Well, you see, I’m really quite busy at the moment.’
He looked stricken. ‘Tiffany, you’re not seeing anyone are you?’
Sodding outrageous! ‘I really think that’s my business, Alan,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you want to go out with me, Tiffany? I don’t understand it. I’ve got everything a woman could want. I’ve got a huge house in Belsize Park; I’m very successful; I’m the faithful type, and I love children. I’d be a good father. What is the problem?’
‘Well, Alan,’ I said, ‘the problem is that though you are undoubtedly what they call a “catch”, I for one find you – how can I put this politely? Physically repulsive.’ Actually I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, ‘Alan, you’re terribly eligible, but I’m afraid I just don’t feel that the chemistry’s right and that’s all there is to it. So I’m not going to waste your time. I don’t think it’s nice to have one’s time wasted. And if this means you don’t want to play tennis with me any more, then I’d quite understand.’
‘Oh no, no, no – I’m not saying that,’ he interjected swiftly. ‘I’m not saying that at all. How about Glyndebourne?’ he called after me, as I went downstairs to change. ‘In the stalls? With a champagne picnic? Laurent Perrier, foie gras – the works?’
Oh yes. Yes. Glyndebourne. Glyndebourne would be lovely. I’d love to go to Glyndebourne – with anyone but you.
Why is it, I wondered later as I telephone the classified ads section of the newspaper to dictate my personal ad, that the men I don’t want – who I really, really don’t want – are always the ones who want me? Why is it always the men I find boring and unattractive who offer to spoil me and treat me well and worship the ground I walk on? And why is it that the ones I really, really like are the ones who treat me like dirt? Isn’t that odd? I just don’t get it. But I’m not having it any longer – I’m taking control. I’m going for what I want and I’m going to find it, with my very own sales pitch in the ‘Ladies’ section of a lonely hearts column.
‘I’ve put a lonely hearts ad in the Saturday Rendezvous section of The Times,’ I announced slightly squiffily at lunch the following day. Lizzie, Catherine, Emma, Frances, Sally and I were sipping Pimms by the pergola. In the background, Martin was painting the French windows, assisted by Alice and Amy, whilst we all contemplated the first course of our annual al fresco lunch – Ogen melon and Parma ham.
‘My God that’s so brave!’ said Frances, stirring her Pimms with a straw. ‘Very courageous of you, Tiffany. I admire that. Well done you!’
‘I didn’t say I’m climbing backwards up Mount Everest,’ I explained. ‘Or crossing the Atlantic in a cardboard box. I merely said that I’ve put a personal ad in The Times.’
‘It’s still bloody brave of you, Tiffany,’ insisted Frances. ‘What courage! I’d never have the nerve to do that.’
‘Nor would I!’ chorused the others.
‘Why ever not?’ I asked. ‘Lots of people do.’
‘Well, it would be very artificial,’ said Sally, swatting away a wasp. ‘I prefer to leave my choice of mate to Fate.’
‘Me too,’ said Emma, adjusting the strap of her sundress. ‘I’d rather meet someone in a romantic way, you know, just, bump into them one day … ’
‘Where?’ I asked. ‘By the photocopier? Or the fax machine?’
‘Noooo,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘In the cinema queue, or on the Northern Line, or on a plane, or … ’
‘How many people do you know who’ve met their partners like that?’ I asked.
‘Er. Er. Well, none actually. But I’m sure it does happen. I wouldn’t do a lonely hearts ad because I wouldn’t want to meet someone in such an obviously contrived way. It would spoil it. But I think you’re really brave.’
‘Yes,’ chorused the others. ‘You’re really, really brave, Tiffany.’
‘She isn’t brave, she’s stupid,’ said Lizzie forthrightly, ‘and I say that because her ad is completely truthful. I recommended the judicious use of lying, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s even put in her age. And “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.”’ She smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Oscar Wilde,’ she explained. ‘A Woman of No Importance.’ Of course. From Lizzie’s great days in Worthing.
‘Did you ever hear again from that married chap you met at the Ritz?’ asked Sally.
‘Er, yes, yes I did actually,’ I said with a sudden and tremendous pang, which took me by surprise. ‘To be honest he’s really not that bad, ha ha ha! Sent me some rather nice flowers actually. To say sorry. I wish … I mean I would like … ’ My voice trailed away.
‘What Tiffany means is that she wishes she could see him again, but I have told her that this is out of the question,’ said Lizzie. ‘She’s got to keep her eye on the ball. Martin! Don’t forget to give it two coats!’
‘What did you do?’ said Emma.
‘I wrote back to him and thanked him, but said that unfortunately circumstances would conspire to keep us apart.’
‘Maybe he’ll get divorced,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone else does. Luckily for me!’
‘He won’t contemplate it,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s worried about the effect it would have on his daughter.’
‘So he’d rather have affairs instead,’ said Lizzie, rolling her eyes towards the cloudless sky. ‘Charming.’
‘Common,’ said Frances, fishing a strawberry out of her glass.
‘Understandable,’ said Emma quietly. ‘If his marriage really is very unhappy.’ I looked at her. She had gone red. Then she suddenly stood up and helped Lizzie collect up the plates.
‘Er, has anyone actually met anyone they like?’ Sally asked.
We all looked blankly at each other. ‘Nope,’ said Frances. Emma shook her head, and said nothing, though I could see that she was still blushing.
‘What about you, Sally?’ I said.
‘No luck,’ she said with a happy shrug. ‘Perhaps I’ll meet someone on holiday next week. Some heavenly Maharajah. Or maybe the Taj Mahal will work its magic for me.’
‘Like it did for Princess Diana, you mean,’ said Frances with a grim little laugh.
‘I’m interested in someone,’ announced Catherine.
‘Yes?’ we all said.
‘Well, I met him at Alison and Angus’s dinner party in June. Tiffany was there. He’s an acc—’
‘Oh God, not that dreary accountant?’ I said incredulously. ‘Not that boring-looking bloke in the bad suit who lives in Barnet and probably plays golf ?’
Catherine gave me a withering look. I didn’t know why. ‘He’s very nice, actually,’ she said coldly. ‘And he’s interesting, too. And he’s particularly interesting on the subject of art. He’s got quite a collection of –’
‘Etchings?’ I said.
‘Augustus Johns, actually.’ Gosh. ‘I mean, Tiffany, why do you assume he’s boring just because he’s an accountant? You’re quite wrong.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, aware of the familiar taste of shoe leather.
‘And nor does it follow that men with interesting jobs are interesting people,’ Catherine added. ‘I mean Phillip had an interesting job, didn’t he?’ she continued. ‘And though I would never have told you this at the time, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt your feelings,’ she added pointedly, ‘I thought he was one of the most boring and conversationless men I have ever met.’ This could not be denied. ‘And I don’t think Alex set the world on fire either,’ she added. This was also true. ‘But my friend Hugh, who’s an accountant, is actually rather interesting,’ she concluded sniffily. ‘So please don’t sneer, Tiffany.’
‘God I feel such a heel,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the Pimms. Can I have some more?’
‘Anyway, Augustus John was incredibly prolific and he lived a long time, so there’s a lot of his work out there. Loads of it, in fact. And Hugh’s been quietly collecting small paintings and sketches for years. And after that dinner party he asked me to clean a small portrait that John did of his wife Dorelia, and when he came to collect it yesterday he asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him next week.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ I said, feeling guilty and also stupid. ‘Try and find out if he has any nice colleagues. Single ones, of course.’
Suddenly Amy appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, party sandals, pink sun-glasses and clutching a small leather vanity case. She looked as if she was about to set off on some cheap Iberian package. ‘What are you all TALKING about?’ she shouted. Amy has a very loud voice.
‘We’re talking about boyfriends,’ said Lizzie.
Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. ‘BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,’ she yelled. ‘He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.’
‘Amy darling,’ said Lizzie. ‘I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.’ Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. ‘Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,’ Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. ‘I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.’
‘What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?’
‘Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.’
‘What are you all talking about?’ said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.
‘Boyfriends,’ said Frances.
‘ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,’ Amy yelled. ‘He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.’
‘That’s because you’re too young,’ said Alice wisely. ‘You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.’ Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.
‘How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?’ Catherine enquired with a smile.
‘He’s eight and a quarter,’ she replied. ‘And Tom’s mummy, Mrs Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.’
‘Good God!’ said Lizzie. ‘Has she?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?’ she added.
‘No,’ said Lizzie. ‘No. Don’t. Social death, darling.’
‘Tiffany, have you got a boyfriend yet?’ asked Alice.
‘Er, no,’ I said. ‘I haven’t.’ She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.
‘You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,’ I said vehemently. ‘All those happy couples snogging in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf … ’
‘Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,’ said Emma, ‘having no-one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.’
‘No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,’ said Catherine. ‘When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruellest month, in my view.’
‘Being single in autumn is the worst,’ said Sally ruefully, ‘because there’s no-one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.’
‘Well, I often envy you single girls,’ said Lizzie darkly. ‘I’d love to be single again.’
‘Well, we’d love to be you,’ said Catherine, ‘with such a nice husband.’
Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.
‘Love is a gilded cage,’ said Emma drunkenly.
‘No – “Love conquers all,”’ said Catherine.
