The Trials of Tiffany Trott

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But if I tell them that I am short and fat then, when they meet me, they’ll be so relieved, having had such low expectations of what I’m going to be like, that they’ll instantly fancy me to bits. You see I’ve worked it all out.’

‘If you tell them you’re short and fat,’ she said slowly, ‘you won’t get to meet them at all. I mean why do you think this Seriously Successful hasn’t called? I rest my case.’

When I got home, the phone rang. ‘Oh, hello, is that Tiffany?’ said the ‘Adventurous, Seriously Successful Managing Director, 41’, whose voice I instantly recognised.

‘Yes, it is,’ I said happily. ‘Hello!’

‘Thank you so much for replying to my ad,’ he said. ‘It was lovely to hear from you. You’re number sixteen million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, by the way.’

‘Oh dear – a disappointing response, then.’

‘And how many other Twin Souls ads have you replied to?’

‘Four hundred and fifty-six.’

‘I see. Well I think it’s very sensible of you not to overdo it. And what do you do?’

‘I’m an advertising copywriter.’

‘Oh. Go To Work On An Egg – Vorsprung Durch Technik, that kind of thing,’ he said.

‘Yes. That sort of thing. Pick Up a Penguin.’

‘Don’t Leave Home Without It.’

‘Helps You Work, Rest and Play.’

‘Lifts and Separates.’

‘Things Happen After a Badedas Bath.’

‘Refreshes the Parts Other Beers Cannot Reach.’

‘Simple. But Brilliant.’

‘Pure Genius,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me, are you really short and fat?’

‘No, not really,’ I said.

‘Well, that’s a pity, because I like small cuddly women.’

‘Nor could I conceivably be described as tall and thin,’ I pointed out. ‘And are you really “Seriously Successful”?’

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Well, that’s a pity, because on the whole I prefer life’s losers and the walking wounded.’

On and on we bantered. A man with a quick wit – fantastic! Better still, he got my jokes.

Unlike Phil Anderer: ‘You know what your problem is, don’t you?’ Phillip would say. ‘No,’ I’d reply, whilst wondering whether he was going to tell me, yet again, that it was my ‘abject’ dress sense, or the fact that I ‘talked too much’ or had ‘too many little opinions’.

‘What is my problem?’ I’d say wearily. ‘Tell me.’

‘You’ve got no sense of humour … ’

‘Now, I think we should meet,’ said Seriously Successful after about twenty minutes of happy badinage. ‘Do you like the Ritz?’ Do fish like water?

‘Love it.’

‘Good. I’ll book a table for two on … Thursday? At eight o’clock?’

‘Fabbo,’ I said. ‘See you there. But hang on a mo – how will I recognise you?’

‘I’ll be wearing a Hermes tie,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘I wear contact lenses.’

‘Good. That’ll be easy then.’

Wahay! I’m having dinner at the Ritz with a quite possibly gorgeous, successful, charming, and very amusing man, complete with outsize bank balance and impeccable taste in neckwear. Does winning the lottery feel this good?

On Thursday evening I showered, dressed carefully in an elegant little Alberta Ferretti linen suit which I’ve had for five years but love, and set off for Piccadilly on the number 38 bus. As I walked through the revolving doors of the Ritz for the second time in a fortnight, trying not to look as though I was on another blind date – and desperately hoping not to see Peter Fitz-Harrod again – I spotted a rather interesting-looking man standing at the reception. Tall, with wavy chestnut hair, fine features and chocolate-brown eyes, he wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he looked very animated and alert. He was beautifully besuited in a Prince of Wales check and, as I approached, I noticed that he had his tie twisted round so the label was showing. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows enquiringly, then suddenly broke into a broad smile.

‘Hallo, Tiffany Trott,’ he said confidently.

‘Hello, Seriously Successful,’ I replied.

‘The Effect is Shattering,’ he added.

‘Thank you. It’s Good to Talk.’

‘Let’s eat,’ he said, gently taking hold of my left elbow and steering me, along the pink-and-green carpet, through the Palm Court bar, towards the restaurant. Now, I thought this instant physical contact was a little bit forward, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I rather liked it. It was nice. Seriously Successful was obviously at home in the Ritz – the waiters all seemed to know him. We were shown to a table on the left, near the large gilded figures of Neptune and his Nereid. The tablecloths were of the heaviest white damask, the china a pure turquoise blue. A silver vase containing two Stargazer lilies scented the surrounding air. I breathed it all in. It was lovely. I looked around at the other diners, substituting their faces for those of Noel Coward, Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh and the Aga Khan.

‘There’s so much history in this room, isn’t there?’ I said.

‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘Edward the Seventh was a regular. Just think, he and Alice Keppel may have dined at this very table.’

Seriously Successful ordered the wine with obvious savoir boire and kept smiling at me over the top of his menu as I perused the hors d’oeuvres. ‘Oak-smoked wild salmon – £17.50.’ Maybe I’d have the mosaic of Devon crab, or the toasted game salad with celeriac wafers, or the artichoke heart with wild mushrooms and asparagus. I really couldn’t decide.

‘I do hope you’ll have something really high-calorie,’ said Seriously Successful suddenly. ‘I love curvy women. May I recommend the terrine of foie gras followed by the roast rack of lamb with a large helping of Dauphinois potatoes, and then the double chocolate mousse – with added cream, of course.’

‘I’m not sure that’ll be enough,’ I said, though the truth was I had the butterflies and didn’t know how I was going to eat anything. I found him so damned attractive. He was very conservative, and yet artistic, too – a devastating combination. He told me about his work – publishing trade magazines – and his passion for playing the cello, which he said he practises every morning. He also told me about his farmhouse in Sussex, and his luxury apartment in Piccadilly – in Albany no less – with Alan Clark living practically next door!

‘So the Ritz is really your local,’ I said as our main course arrived.

‘Yes. And Fortnum and Mason’s is my corner shop,’ he replied. ‘These little stores are so useful.’ He grinned. I smiled back. How incredible to think that such a nice-looking, funny, generous, stylish, eligible man was still single! Amazing. What a piece of luck. Thank God I’d been brave enough to answer his ad, I thought, as I listened to the gentle clattering of silver cutlery. It was such a sensible thing to have done. We talked with startling ease about, well, lots of things – recent films and books, tennis technique and travel, birth signs, politics and paintings, love, life and death. And of course advertising, which he loves. In fact he has an encyclopaedic knowledge of slogans and straplines, including one or two of my own. This was highly gratifying. The evening was going brilliantly well. And then, as the waiters took away our plates after the main course, Seriously Successful removed his napkin from his lap and looked me straight in the eye. And I thought he was going to say, ‘Miss Trott. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!’ Instead, he leant forward and said, ‘Now Tiffany, I’ve got a little proposition for you.’

What is wrong with men? Why do they always give me such a hard time? After all, it’s not as though I’ve failed to make any effort with them. Have I not cooked for them and ironed their shirts, including that rather tricky bit at the base of the collar? Have I not planted their gardens and watered their window boxes? Have I not posted their letters and picked up their prescriptions and collected swatches of carpet and curtain fabric when they were having their houses done up? Have I not changed my clothes when they told me they didn’t like them, and lost weight when they said I was too fat? Have I not – have I not trotted after them round the bloody golf course shouting, ‘MARVELLOUS SHOT!’ – even when the ball was clearly heading for the lake? So what, precisely, is the sodding problem? Why is there always some matrimony-murdering sting in the tail? Take Seriously Successful, for example. There I was at the Ritz, lost in love, mentally rehearsing his wedding speech, and naming our children (Heidi, Hildegarde, Lysander, Tarquin and Max) when Fate, with malice aforethought, sneezed in my ashtray again.