The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘Women today have appalling attitudes towards men,’ Kit was saying as everyone strolled inside, ‘and then you all wonder why we run a mile? It’s totally unfair. You refuse to compromise. You don’t want us unless we’re perfect.’

‘No, we don’t,’ they all shrieked, as they flopped onto the chairs and sofas in the sitting-room.

‘Yes, but are you perfect?’ asked Kit as he lowered himself onto the chaise-longue. ‘Ask yourselves that.’

‘Yes we are,’ they all shouted, ‘we’re totally fantastic! Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Er, yes,’ he replied gallantly.

‘Well I’d happily compromise,’ said Sally, ‘but I hardly ever get to meet men, unsuitable or otherwise.’

‘But you work with thousands of men in the City,’ said Catherine enviously.

‘Yes, but they never approach female colleagues because they’re terrified of being done for sexual harassment. In any case, they don’t regard us as real women – to them we’re just men in skirts. And then when I do meet a nice ordinary guy from outside the City, let’s say a doctor or a vet,’ Sally continued, ‘they tend to run a mile because I’m so … ’ She blushed. ‘I’m so … ’

‘Loaded!’ shrieked Frances and Emma in unison. Sally rolled her eyes.

‘Oh come on, Sally!’ persisted Emma. ‘Your luxury apartment in Chelsea Harbour, your colossal, six-figure salary, you can’t hide them from us, you know. A lot of men would find that totally emasculating.’

‘I was going to say because I’m so busy, actually,’ said Sally. ‘Options traders work horrible hours – that’s the price we pay. That’s the compromise I’ve made. I’m at my desk by seven-thirty every morning, and I’m there for twelve hours. I can’t even have lunch – a sandwich is brought to my desk. And I’m never really off the hook because I have to watch the markets round the clock. And the older I get, the harder it is. So don’t envy me my cash – I think I’d rather have a life.’

As I lit the candles on my cake I mentally gave thanks for my freelance status. I work hard, but at least I can choose my own hours and I don’t have to worry about exchange rates and closing prices at birthday parties – nor do I earn the kind of money which some men might find threatening.

Then, suddenly, I heard someone say, ‘Tiffany … Tiffany! Phone!’ Oh good, I thought as I lit the last candle, it must be Alex. And it was.

‘Happy Birthday, Tiffany,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks!’ I replied. I could hear the pattering of heavy rain on the path, and, from the sitting-room, the strains of ‘Happy Birthday’. ‘Alex, I’ve been so worried, where are you?’ Happy Birthday to you …

‘Well, actually, to be honest, I just couldn’t face it,’ he said. Happy Birthday to you …

‘In fact, Tiffany … ’ Happy Birthday Dear Tiffaneeeee …

‘ … there’s something I’ve really got to tell you.’

Happy Birthday to you!!!

June (#ulink_3a05c635-1166-5d21-bb19-cb28d8154ca4)

Isn’t it annoying being dumped? I mean, it’s really not enjoyable at all. Getting the Big E. Being handed your cards. Especially when you’re thirty-seven. Especially when you thought the bloke was about to propose. Especially when you thought that, within a matter of mere months, or possibly even weeks, you would be progressing triumphantly up the aisle to ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’. Oh no. Being chucked was definitely not quite what I had in mind on my thirty-seventh birthday. You see, I was convinced Alex was on the point of seeking my hand in marriage – he said he had something to tell me. Instead he simply looked me in the eye the following day and said, ‘I just can’t face it.’

‘Face what?’ I asked suspiciously as we sat at my kitchen table. There was a silence, during which he looked uncomfortable, but calm. His rather soft, girlish lips were pursed together, his cowlick of chestnut hair brushed forward onto his brow. I do wish he wouldn’t do it like that, I found myself thinking, it makes him look like Tony Blair. Then he spoke, and out it all came, in a guilty, logorrhoeic rush.

‘Isimplycan’tfacethefactthatI’mstringingyoualongandwastingyourtime.’ Ah. Oh. Oh dear. He looked rather stricken, then he took a deep breath, inhaling through his aquiline nose. ‘You see I feel under pressure to marry you, Tiffany, and I don’t want to get married, but I know that’s what you’d like.’

‘Oh no, no, no, no, no. I’m not bothered about that at all,’ I said, sipping my Nescafé. ‘Really. I honestly hadn’t given it a thought. I was perfectly happy to go on as we were. Marriage? Good Lord, no. It never entered my mind.’

His face expressed a mixture of puzzlement and relief. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose I was misled by the way you kept stopping outside Berkertex and looking in the window at Cartier and going up to the bridal department at Peter Jones and flicking through wedding stationery in WH Smith. I thought you … I thought you wanted … anyway, the fact is that I really can’t stand the thought of marrying you, Tiffany. Nothing personal,’ he added quickly. ‘But you see, I don’t want to get married to anyone. Ever.’

‘Why not?’ I enquired, hoping that my bright, but not too brittle demeanour would mask my grievous disappointment.

‘Well, I’ve really been thinking about it, and it’s lots of things,’ he said. ‘For a start I like my own space. I’ve never lived with a woman. And I hate the idea of a woman … you know, messing up my things. And then – and this is the main thing –’ he gave a little shudder, ‘the thought of children.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Babies. To be honest the whole idea makes me feel sick. All that crying, and all that, you know, effluent. At both ends. I just don’t think I could handle that at all.’

‘But you’re so good with children,’ I pointed out accurately, whilst mentally congratulating myself for remaining calm. ‘Your nephew and niece adore you.’

‘Yes, but I don’t see them every day. It’s different. And I didn’t really bother with them until they were both safely out of nappies.’

‘But Alex,’ I said slowly, ‘if you don’t ever want to get married, why did you bother to go out with me in the first place?’

‘I liked you. I mean I do like you, Tiffany. And you share a lot of my interests – I mean you like going to art galleries with me, and the ballet –’

‘– and the theatre,’ I interjected.

‘Yes, and the theatre.’

‘And the opera.’

‘Yes, and the opera.’

‘And contemporary dance.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘And lunchtime talks at the Royal Academy.’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

‘And the London Film Festival.’

‘Yes … ’

‘And video installations at the ICA.’

‘Yes, yes, all that kind of thing … ’

‘And any number of jazz venues.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes. I’m not looking for anything else.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. You just wanted a companion. A female escort. For assorted cultural pursuits.’

‘Well, no – I wanted friendship too. But somehow, well … I could just see the way things were shaping up, and I felt it was time to come clean. I’m sorry if I ruined your party,’ he added. ‘But I just couldn’t face all your friends, knowing that.’

‘It’s all right, Alex,’ I said, fingering the Elizabeth Bradley antique roses tapestry kit he’d brought me as a birthday present. ‘I really don’t mind. Please don’t feel bad about anything. And especially please don’t feel bad about the fact that you’ve just wasted eight months of my life!’ I hissed. Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I just said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take you off my BT Friends and Family list.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I understand.’

‘Would you like some more coffee?’ I asked.