by Isabel Wolff
“I can’t hear mine,” said Emma, “it’s digital.”
“Mine sounds like Big Ben,” said Frances. “Except that there’s no one to wind it up. But do you know,” she continued, peeling a quail’s egg. “I really don’t care; because finally, after thirty-six years, I’ve realized that the vast majority of men simply aren’t worth having. Anyway,” she added, “who needs one? I’d rather go rollerblading in the park on a Saturday morning than go to Sainsbury’s with some totally useless bloke.”
“I don’t think you really mean that,” I said. “It’s because of what you do—I mean sorting out other people’s ghastly divorces all day would put anyone off marriage.”
“It’s not just that,” said Frances. “Though after fifteen years of establishing who threw the bread knife at who in 1979 you certainly do get a little jaundiced. It’s simply that most men are boring. Terribly, terribly boring. Except you, of course, Kit,” she added quickly.
“Thanks,” he said, peevishly.
“I mean why should I go to all the trouble of pinning down some bloke,” Frances was still going on, “only for him to bore me to death!”
“Or run off with someone else,” added Emma with sudden feeling. “Just like my father did.”
“There just aren’t any really nice, interesting, decent, suitable, trustworthy men,” Frances concluded comprehensively. Yes, there are, I thought to myself smugly. And I’ve got one.
“I’m just facing facts,” she said with a resigned air. “I’ve weighed up the evidence. And the evidence is not in our favor. So no Bland Dates for me,” she added firmly. “I, for one, have decided to give wedded bliss a miss.”
“Better single than badly accompanied,” added Emma.
“Quite!” said Catherine.
“Three million single women can’t be wrong,” said Frances, who always has some handy statistic at the ready. “Anyway, why bother when over forty percent of marriages end in divorce?”
“And why do they end in divorce?” asked Emma with sudden vehemence. “Because it’s usually the man’s fault. That’s why. It was certainly my father’s fault,” she added fiercely. “He just fancied someone else. Plain and simple. And believe me, she was plain and simple. But she was younger than my mother,” she went on bitterly. “Mum never got over it.”
“Men get far more out of marriage than women,” said Frances expansively. “Sixty percent of married women admitted in a recent survey that if they could have their time over again, they would not have married their husbands.”
“I’m really not enjoying this conversation much,” said Kit with an exasperated sigh. “I mean it’s so difficult for men these days. Women have made us all feel so . . . redundant.”
“You are redundant,” said Frances with benign ferocity. “What can a man give me that I don’t already have? I’ve got a house, a car, a good job, two holidays a year—long-haul—a wardrobe full of designer clothes and a mantelpiece that’s white with invitations. What on earth could a man add to that?”
“Grief!” said Emma rancorously.
“Ironing,” said Catherine.
“Boredom,” said Frances.
“Acute emotional stress,” said Emma.
“Arsenal,” said Catherine.
“Betrayal,” said Emma.
“A baby?” said Sally.
“Oh don’t be so old-fashioned,” said Frances. “You don’t need a man for that. How old are you now?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Well, if you’re that desperate to procreate, just pop down to the sperm bank or have a one-night stand.”
“Alternatively, you could arrange an intimate encounter with a turkey baster and a jam jar,” added Emma, with one of her explosive laughs. “I hear they’re very low maintenance and you wouldn’t need to buy any sexy lingerie!”
“Or, if you’re prepared to wait a few more years, you can dispense with the sperm altogether and get yourself cloned,” said Frances. “That day is not far off—remember Dolly the sheep?”
“I’d love to have a baby,” said Sally. “I really would. My parents would love me to have one too—they go on about it a bit, actually. But I’d never have one on my own,” she added purposefully. “Cloned, turkey-basted or otherwise.”
“Why not?” said Frances. “There’s no stigma these days. I’d do it myself only I’m far too lazy. All that getting up in the middle of the night would kill me at my age.”
“For God’s sake, you’re only thirty-six, not sixty-three!” said Catherine.
“What, precisely, are your objections to single motherhood, Sal?” Frances asked.
“Well, I just don’t think it’s fair on the child,” she said. “And then some poor man always ends up having to pay for it, even if he never gets to see it and it wasn’t even his decision to have it.”
“Then the silly bugger should have been more careful,” said Emma triumphantly.
“Well, yes. But, speaking personally—this is just my point of view, OK—I think it’s unfair and I know that, well, it’s something that I would never, ever do,” Sally said. Suddenly a high warble began to emanate from her Gucci handbag. “Sorry,” she said, getting out her mobile phone. “This’ll be my update on the U.S. Treasury Long Bond. It’s been a bit wobbly lately. Won’t be a moment.” She stepped back into the dining room, where we could see her pacing slowly back and forth while she talked, with evident agitation, to a colleague in New York.
“Lucky old Tiffany,” said Catherine, snapping a breadstick in half. “She doesn’t have to worry about all this sort of thing.”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Emma, shivering slightly in the cooling air. “She’s got a man. It’s all sewn up and she’s heading for a wedding.” She cupped her hand to her ear. “I can hear the peal of bells already. So when’s he going to pop the question, Tiff?”
“Oh gosh, well, I mean I don’t . . .” Pity the sun had gone in.
“Yes. When?” said Frances, with another gulp of champagne. “And can I be your maid of dishonor?”
“Well, ha ha ha! Uhm—I don’t know. . . er . . .” I glanced at the sky. A thick bank of cloud, gray as gunmetal, had begun to build up. Where had that come from?
“Are we all warm enough?” I asked. “And, er, who wants another parmesan and red pepper tartlet?” In fact, I was desperately trying to change the subject because, you see, I really didn’t want to rub it in—I mean the fact that I had a chap, and they didn’t. Because, to be quite honest, I had been sitting there, throughout that discussion, quietly thanking God for Alex. Even if he has got sloping shoulders and a rather girlish giggle which, to be perfectly frank, does make my heart sink at times. But, still, I thought, at least I don’t have to contemplate self-insemination or agonize about my ovaries because a) I’ve got a chap and b) I know for a fact that he likes kids. He really, really likes them. Loves them. I mean he’s awfully good with his niece and nephew—spoils them to bits—and I’m sure he’d be a brilliant father. He wouldn’t mind changing nappies. In fact he’d probably enjoy it. And OK, so I know he’s not perfect—in fact there are one or two other things about him that I’m really not crazy about, including his goatee beard, his outlandish taste in socks, and his thin, unmuscular thighs. But then no one’s perfect. It’s all about compromise, isn’t it? That’s what enlightened and mature people do. And Alex is really charming. Absolutely sweet, in fact. And certainly not the unfaithful type. Unlike Phil. In fact, when I first met Alex, he was such a gentleman it took him three months just to hold my hand. Which was rather nice. In a way. Anyway, I was quite sure that Alex was about to pop the question. I could tell by the vaguely nervous way in which he’d been looking at me recently. And eight months is quite long enough, isn’t it? At our age? I mean, he’s thirty-eight. I’m now thirty-seven. So what’s the point of hanging around? Why not just, well, get on with it? It’s not as though he’s got three-ex-wives and five children to support; he’s totally unencumbered—another very big point in his favor,
incidentally.
So while the others continued arguing about the changing roles of men and women and the declining popularity of marriage, I did some mental shopping for the wedding which would be in, what . . . September? Lovely month. Or if that was too soon, December. I love the idea of a winter wedding. Dead romantic. We could all sing “The Holly and the Ivy” by candlelight, and I could have tinsel draped over the altar and wear a captivating fur-trimmed train. Now where should I get the dress? Chelsea Design Studio? Catherine Walker? Terribly expensive, and in any case if Dad was spending that kind of money, I think Alex prefers Anthony Price. I know Alex would definitely want the flowers to come from Moyses Stevens. He’s very fussy about his floral arrangements. How many guests? A couple of hundred—217 to be exact, I’ve already drawn up the list, actually. Well, it’ll save time, won’t it? And what about the honeymoon? Probably somewhere arty, like Florence. Alex would really like that. Or maybe Seville. Or Bruges. Somewhere with loads of art galleries and at least seventeen cathedrals. And . . .
“Tiffany, where is Alex?” Catherine asked. “It’s a quarter past nine.”
“Er, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s stuck at work.”
“What’s he working on?” Emma inquired.
“Well, he’s doing up this big house in Pimlico, it’s a total wreck. Brown hessian on the walls. Formica kitchen. Exploding cauliflower carpets. He said he was going to be there all day, but . . . well, he should be here by now.”
“Maybe he’s had an accident,” said Frances helpfully.
“God, I hope not,” I said. I went inside and anxiously called his mobile phone. “Thank you for calling Vodafone 0236 112331,” intoned a robotic female voice.”Please leave your message after the tone.” Damn.
“Um, Alex, hi, um, it’s me. Tiffany, “ I said. “And I’m just wondering where you are. Um, hope you’re OK. I’m a bit worried about you, actually. But perhaps you’re on your way. I hope so, because it’s nine-fifteen now and everyone’s been here for quite a while, and to be honest it’s getting a little out of hand—ha ha ha! In fact there’s quite a heated debate going on about gender issues and that sort of thing and I think we need another man to balance it up a bit. So see you soon, I hope. Um. Tiffany.”
“Gosh it’s getting dark, isn’t it?” I heard Emma say. “Ooh—was that a spot of rain?”
“Women today have appalling attitudes toward 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 sued 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
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 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 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 inquired, hoping that my bright, but not too brittle demeanor 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 goo
d with children,” I pointed out accurately, while 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 theater,” I interjected.
“Yes, and the theater.”
“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.”
