The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Now, I don’t want you to be shocked,’ said Seriously Successful, seriously. ‘But I’ve got this little proposition for you. For us, actually.’

‘Oh, what’s that, then?’ I asked airily, fiddling with my pudding fork and hoping that what he had actually meant to say was that he had in mind a little proposal for me. Propositions always sound vaguely dodgy, don’t they?

He fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘You see,’ he began hesitantly, ‘my wife and I … ’

‘Your wife?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at me. ‘Wife.’

‘Oh.’ My heart did a bungee jump.

‘You see she … Olivia. That’s her name. Olivia and I … ’ He took a sip of water. He appeared to be struggling. ‘ … well … we don’t really get on. In fact, we were never really very compatible in the first place,’ he continued. ‘We’ve soldiered on for years, but recently we’ve just found it pretty intolerable. There’s never been anyone else involved,’ he added quickly. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think that. But it’s just that our marriage is, well, a bit of a farce, really.’

My hopes rose as swiftly on their elasticated rope as they had plummeted a moment before. In that case he could get divorced, couldn’t he, and it would all be OK? I could still have my dream man with his lovely voice and his smart suits and his exquisite neckwear and his jokes.

‘However,’ I heard him continue, ‘we are extremely unlikely to split up.’

‘Oh.’ Oh. ‘Why?’

‘Because her father is my main backer. He lent me a considerable amount of money when I set up my company fifteen years ago.’

‘I see.’

‘I had nothing then. Except my ideas, and my energy, and my ambition. And he enabled me to make a success of it. It would have been almost impossible otherwise. And it has been, well … ’

‘Seriously Successful?’ I suggested.

‘Yes,’ he said with a little shrug. ‘It has. That’s why I have the house in Sussex and the smart flat in town. That’s why I’m wearing a Savile Row suit and handmade shoes. That’s why my daughter goes to Benenden. All because Olivia’s father laid the foundations for my business success.’

‘But if the company’s done that well, couldn’t you just, well, pay him back?’ I ventured.

‘I have,’ he replied. ‘Of course I have. With interest. But it’s not as simple as that, because when he agreed to back me, he said he would only do it if I promised always to look after Olivia and never, ever leave her. That was the condition. He was very emphatic about it, and I said I would honour it. And I will. In any case,’ he carried on with a slight grimace, ‘divorce is so unpleasant, especially where children are involved. I really don’t want to inflict that on my daughter.’

‘Well personally I think adultery’s very unpleasant. I really don’t want to inflict that on myself.’

‘And the reason why I put in that ad is because I’m just, well, rather lonely and love-starved really, and I wanted to find someone I can care for and … ’

‘Spoil a little or even a lot,’ I said dismally.

‘Er. Yes. Yes. Exactly. Someone I can have fun with. And when I talked to you, and met you this evening, and was terribly attracted to you, which I am, then I knew that the person I could have fun with was you.’

‘What the hell makes you think I want to have fun?’ I said. ‘I don’t want any bloody fun. I want to get married.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t actually offer you marriage,’ he said. ‘Not as such. But we could still have a wonderful relationship,’ he added enthusiastically. ‘Though of course it would have to be part-time.’

‘Part-time? Oh I see,’ I said, twisting the handle of my pudding spoon. ‘Well, perhaps you could tell me what that would involve. I mean, how many days off would I get? And would I have any union rights? Would I get the usual benefits and sick pay, and could you guarantee me a minimum wage? And if I were to sign a contract what would happen if Britain signed up to the Social Chapter? You see I’ve got to think about these things.’

‘Don’t be bitter,’ he said, as the waiter arrived with the pudding and cheese. ‘Why did you assume that I was single?’

‘Because you didn’t say that you weren’t,’ I said, throwing my eyes up in anguish to the clouded, trompe l’oeil ceiling. ‘Why didn’t you just be done with it and say, “Suave businessman in dead-as-dodo marriage WLTM curvy girl for fun legovers with absolutely no view to future”? Anyway, you could have told me over the phone.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘But you should have said. We talked for long enough.’

‘Well, OK, I didn’t say because I liked the sound of you so much and I was afraid that if you knew my situation you wouldn’t agree to meet me.’

‘Too bloody right. Being someone’s side-order wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

‘I don’t know why you’re so shocked,’ he said, with an air of exasperation as he buttered a Bath Oliver. ‘I’m offering something very … civilised. And let’s face it, Tiffany, lots of people have these sorts of arrangements.’

‘Well, lots of people aren’t me,’ I said. My throat was aching with a suppressed sob; tears pricked the back of my eyes. I glanced away from him, taking in the Marie Antoinette interior with its shining mirrored panels and gilded chandeliers. Then I looked at him again.

‘You said it was a proposition. And I don’t accept it. So I’m afraid you’ll just have to put it to someone else.’ I put my napkin on the table and stood up. ‘I think I’ll go home now. Goodbye. Thank you very much for dinner.’

I walked out through the bar, aware of the happy babble of voices, and the merry chink of cut glass. My face was flaming with a combination of indignation and the humid, midsummer heat. What a bastard, I thought as I crossed Piccadilly. Who did he think he was? More importantly, who did he think I was? What a cad. What a … I flagged down the number 38 and stepped on board. Empty. Good. At least I could cry without being stared at.

‘Cheer up darling,’ said the conductor as I sat in the front seat shielding my face with my left hand. ‘It may never happen.’

‘I know,’ I said, as a large, hot tear plopped onto my lap. Especially if I make a habit of dating men like Seriously Successful. What a creep. What did he take me for? I reached into my bag and pulled out my mobile phone. I’d ring Lizzie right now and tell her what a bastard he was. Part-time girlfriend indeed! She’d be sympathetic. I dialled her number.

‘We’re so sorry, but Lizzie and Martin aren’t here at the moment,’ declaimed her recorded voice. ‘But please do leave us a message … ’ God, so theatrical – you’d think she was auditioning for the RSC – ‘and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.’ Damn. I pressed the red button. Who could I talk to instead? I had to talk to someone. Sally. She’d dish out some sympathy. If she wasn’t in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Washington or Paris. Ring ring. Ring ring.

‘Hallo,’ said Sally.

‘Sally, it’s Tiffany and I just wanted to tell you … ’

‘Tiffany! How are you?’

‘Very pissed off actually, because you see I’ve just been on a date, a blind date … ’

‘Gosh, that’s brave.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. Or rather it’s not really brave, it’s stupid. Because you see I met this bloke, this adventurous, seriously successful managing director … ’

‘Yes? Sounds OK. What happened?’ The bus stopped in Shaftesbury Avenue, then – ding ding! - it moved off again.

‘Well, it was all going very well,’ I said. ‘I thought he was terribly attractive, and very interesting and incredibly funny … ’

‘Oh hang on, Tiffany, I’ve just got to catch the business headlines on Sky … ’ Her voice returned a minute later. ‘It’s OK, I was just checking the Dow Jones. Carry on. So what happened?’ Ding ding!

‘Well, it was going really well,’ I repeated. ‘And he seemed very interested in me, and I was certainly very interested in him and then … ’

‘Yes?’

‘Move down inside the bus please!’ Ding ding!

‘He told me that he was married and was only looking for a part-time girlfriend. What do you think of that?’