by Isabel Wolff
“Eat ’n’ Greet. This Saturday. Huge summer party in prestigious venue for Successful and Attractive Single People.”
“Oooh goodee,” I said. “Is that us?”
“Of course.”
“Are we going, then?”
“Yes. We most certainly are.”
The following day I was in my sunny sitting room going through my record collection; I’ve never had the heart to chuck out my vinyl, somehow CD’s just aren’t the same. I was sorting through the singles, and thinking as I did so that what I would really prefer is Long Play, when the phone rang.
“Tiffany!”
“Yes.”
“It’s me.”
“Oh. Hello.” He sounded rather cross.
“I got your letter this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And I just wanted to tell you how disappointed I am. Very disappointed. And hurt. Very hurt. Very.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that there really doesn’t seem to be much point. In the circumstances.”
“No point? No point in even being pals?”
“No,” I said. “There’s no point, because the point is that you’re not free.”
“But married people can have friendships, Tiffany. It is allowed, you know.”
“Yes, but they have to choose them carefully. And I don’t think our friendship would be wise.”
“All I want to do is see you from time to time,” he said plaintively.
“Well, that’s not a good idea,” I said.
“And I know you’d like to see me.”
“Well . . .”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” he persisted.
“Well, OK, yes, I admit it.”
“Aha!”
“But circumstances . . .”
“. . . will conspire to keep us apart,” he said in an irritating sing song voice.
“Yes. Yes. That’s right.”
“But surely we could have dinner together sometimes,” he persisted. “Or see a film? Now, there’s a wonderful concert coming up at the Barbican,” he went on animatedly. “Yo-Yo Ma is playing the Bach unaccompanied cello suites and I really want to go. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Well . . . well it sounds lovely, but I just don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to be tempted. That’s why.”
“So you are tempted,” he replied triumphantly.
“Well, well—”
“Say it!”
“Yes, I am. OK. Yes. I’m tempted. Happy?”
“You like me?”
“Yes. I like you a lot.” In fact I find you Seriously Sexy.
“I like you too,” he came back, more warmly now. “In fact, Tiffany, ‘You’re the Right One, the Bright One.’ ”
“Purleeze!”
“You’re my One and Toblerony!”
“Now listen, Seriously Successful!” I said crossly. “This really won’t do . . . anyway, what is your real name?”
“I’m not telling you,” he said defensively.
“Why not?”
“I refuse to tell you, unless you agree to go to that concert with me.”
“Well I’m not going to,” I retorted.
“Oh, why not?” he said.
“Because I know that it would be wrong for me because I’ve got to keep my eye on the ball and frankly, you’re way off-side.”
“But Tiffany, we could have such fun . . .”
“I keep telling you, I don’t want to have fun.”
“We could do such nice things together.”
“I can do nice things anyway.”
“But Tiffany, we communicate so wel—”
I put the phone down. And then I said, “Sorry.”
Who’d have thought that sorting out replies to a lonely hearts ad would be such a mammoth task? I mean, these bulging buff envelopes marked “Private and Confidential” just keep plopping onto the mat.
“OK, OK, I take it back,” said Lizzie as we sat at my kitchen table going through the replies. “I didn’t think you’d get any. No need to crow. But just think how many you would have got if you’d followed my advice.”
“I think 114 is quite enough,” I said as she lit another cigarette. “I’m not greedy.”
We sorted them into three piles: Yes, Maybe, and You Have Got To Be Joking.
“Now here’s a really nice one,” said Lizzie, waving a blurred photo of Son-of-Quasimodo, fifty-seven, at me.
“You have got to be joking,” I said crisply.
“Why? He’s very suitable,” she said.
“He isn’t suitable. He’s hideous,” I replied.
“He’s not hideous,” she said indignantly, exuding two plumes of smoke from her elegant nostrils. “He’s a senior partner in a City law firm. He’s probably in 200k. I don’t call 200k hideous. And make sure you phone that stockbroker.”
“OK, I will,” I said. “But only because he’s OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable and because I liked his witty letter. It’s not about money,” I added. “I mean, Alan has a lot of money. But I don’t care, because I’m not interested. All I’m looking for is a golf-hating commitophile with good character, reasonable backhand and complete absence of facial hair. Is that too much to ask?”
“Probably,” she replied. “Now here’s a lovely guy,” she said with a smirk, handing me a piece of torn-off graph paper.
Dear Sparky Girl, I read. Can I light your fire? My name is Stavros. I am art student. Are you blonde? I need pretty sexy blonde model. I do portraits. You could be chapter in history of art. You could be my model only. But maybe, if you really sexy, you could be more than model. But if you ring me, and if you sexy blonde, I buy you meal for sure.
“Point taken,” I said, wavering only slightly before consigning Stavros to the You Have Got To Be Joking pile. It was distressing to see how big that pile had grown; it was full of probation officers, undertakers, astrologists, men called Terry, and a bloke from Acacia Avenue, Billericay, who wrote, “If I am not in when you call, please leave a message with the security men, pool guy, my housekeeper, or one of my five full-time gardeners.” One letter was all in German and contained a photo of a man with waist-length brown hair who said he worked in Düsseldorf airport. Another was from a computer consultant called John who wrote, “I am sexually insatiable and am looking for a gorgeous babe with class, intelligence, superb breasts and a big bum.”
“Well, you’ve got the bum,” said Lizzie.
“My God—look at this!” I said, holding up a red foiled-wrapped chocolate.
“Don’t eat it!” Lizzie screamed, snatching it out of my hand and rushing to the bin. “It’s probably poisoned!”
I glanced at the accompanying letter. “Oh Baby, the thought of you keeps me awake at night,” the sender had written, “you’re really playing havoc with my sleep patterns. Please, baby, don’t be cruel to me. You know I really, really, really LOVE YOU.”
“Eighty-five percent of these men appear to be deranged,” I said. “And the ones that aren’t deranged are largely boring.” For the same tedious phrases kept popping up over and over again: “incurable romantic . . . all my own hair . . . red Porsche . . . all my own teeth . . . golf in the Algarve . . . almost divorced . . . tropical sunsets . . . no baggage . . . that special lady . . . two ex-wives . . . young at heart . . . five children . . . give me a call.”
“I’ve got to stop,” I said suddenly to Lizzie. “I can’t take any more. It’s making me feel sick.”
“OK, we’ll go through the rest another time, but don’t forget to phone that stockbroker,” she said as she left. “I mean a stockbroker would be fine—just look at me!”
Yes, just look at Lizzie, I thought, as she got into her Mercedes. She had gone from actorly impoverishment to a seven-bedroom house in Hampstead. But does she love successful-but-not-terribly-exciting Martin? I have never liked to ask. Anyway, I left a brief, friendly message on I
an the stockbroker’s answer phone and then got ready for the Eat ’n’ Greet Sensational Singles Party. Quick shower, then black cocktail dress, chunky pearls at wrist and neck, strappy sandals, hair piled up, mascara and lip-liner—voilà!
“You look lovely,” said Kate generously, when she came to collect me at seven.
“No, you look much prettier than me,” I said, “and much younger too, may I say.”
“Oh, no you look incredibly young—only, ooh, twenty-five,” she countered.
“But you look—seventeen!” I insisted. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be in command of a motorized vehicle?” Having a New Best Friend who’s exactly the same age as me and also single is marvelous—Kate and I compete to pay each other the most lavish, ego-lifting compliments which we would obviously be receiving regularly from blokes were it not for our tragic and frankly perplexing singledom. As we drove through south east London our confidence began to decline.
“It’ll be full of desperate, desperate women and really sad men,” I said as we cruised up the drive of the Dulwich Country Club, set in twelve acres of fabulous parkland. And was it my imagination, or were the regular members of the club sniggering at us as we walked up the steps? And I could swear that the girl from Eat ’n’ Greet gave us a sweet but pitying smile as she ticked us off the list on her leatherette clipboard.
“Here we go,” said Kate, as we were ushered into the champagne reception. She gave my hand an encouraging squeeze. “Just smile.”
It’s funny how human nature accentuates the negative. In the conservatory there were about 150 people aged between thirty and fifty-five, but somehow all I could see was men with gray hair and women d’un certain âge trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys in shiny giftwrap frocks. My heart sank and my jaw was already aching from maintaining my rictus grin. This was hell. What was I doing here? it was dreadful, dreadful, dreadful. But then I began to notice a few men who were perfectly-OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable—in fact some of them looked quite handsome, especially in their DJs. And there were some rather gorgeous girls, too.
“Oh, she’s pretty,” I whispered to Kate as we circulated.
“You’re here to meet men, Tiffany, don’t look at the women. And just keep smiling.”
It seemed to work. If you beam at a totally strange man, he will beam right back. In fact he will come up to you, politely introduce himself and ask you your name. Good heavens! We’d only been there ten minutes and we’d already met three chaps each! Then a gong sounded and we went in to dinner. I found myself chatting to a tall, blond, aristocratic-looking bloke called Piers. Bit of all right actually, and dead posh.
“I say,” he said as he consulted the table plan. “You’re sitting next to me, Tiffany, how lovely.”
I think this singles scene is really marvelous. It’s such fun. It really is. It’s a gas. But there are drawbacks. I mean, there I was sitting next to aristocratic-looking Piers, and he was telling me all about his divorce and how his wife was unfaithful to him four times—oh how could she, I thought to myself as I stared into his cobalt eyes. And I was just about to start telling him all about my unhappy relationships, and really getting quite interested in him, and to be honest hardly saying a word to the man on my right, which was a bit rude really, except that he was quite happily chatting to a pretty redhead in personnel, when a gong suddenly sounded.
“We’d like the ladies to stay seated and all the gentlemen to move thu-ree tables to their left purleeze,” said the major-domo.
Piers looked stricken. “But I don’t want to move,” he said. “I’m really very happy just where I am.” The blood rushed to my cheeks. I smiled shyly at him. “Well, I’ll be back,” he said. “After dessert. And we’ll carry on from there.”
“I’ll . . . wait for you,” I said encouragingly, as the white chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis arrived. Piers gave me a little wave as he headed off and then I saw him sit down at a distant table, next to a woman whose youth and attractiveness I could not accurately ascertain at seventy-five feet. Then two new men came to sit on either side of me, both of them OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable. From the other side of the table Kate gave me a little grin—she seemed to be having a jolly time too and was happily chatting away to a charming demolitions expert. Good, we were both getting our fair share of nice chaps.
“Hallo, erm . . . erm . . .”
“Tiffany,” I said, helpfully holding up my name card. “Tiffany Trott.” I shook hands with my new neighbor, who on closer inspection was rather handsome, though he seemed to have had a teensy weensy bit too much to drink.
“And who are you?” I inquired.
“My name’s Terry,” he said. Terry!
“That’s interesting,” I said, “because actually Terry is my least favorite male Christian name—ha ha ha! After Kevin and Duane, of course.” Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, “Hello and welcome.” He laughed. I don’t know why.
“Now Tiffany, what do you do?” he asked. Gosh! Getting right down to business here.
“Er, try and guess!” I challenged him teasingly.
“Well . . . er . . . I think you’re a . . . um, secretary,” he said as he poured us both some rather good Chablis. I must have looked a bit taken aback because he quickly added, “But you’re clearly a very high-powered one. You probably work for a Senior Sales Manager.” Now I must say this disappointed me. Why had he not assumed that I was employed in some more glamorous field, say as an actress, croupier, television presenter or international horsewoman?
“Wrong!” I said. “I’m a builder.”
“Get away!” he replied. “Are you really?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. Actually, I’m in advertising. I’m a copywriter.”
“What,” he said, “writing ads? Go To Work On An Egg—that kind of malarky?”
“Yes,” I said. “That sort of thing.”
“Vorsprung Durch Technik?”
“Yup. That’s it. What do you do?”
“I work on an oil rig. In the North Sea. Bloody dangerous. Never at home. Two divorces. Three kids. Loads of alimony. And how old are you, Tiffany?” he inquired, narrowing his hazel eyes.
“Guess!” I said boldly.
“Well, I think you’re . . . twenty-nine,” he said, passing me an Elizabeth Shaw after-dinner mint.
“I think I love you,” I said.
“Do you? Tiffany, I think I may be a little bit thick for you, but will you marry me?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “You see, you’ve kept me hanging around. Normally I expect men to propose within five minutes but you’ve kept me waiting . . .” I glanced at my watch, “. . . twelve.”
“I think you’re lovely.”
“I think you’re a bit pissed.”
“Yes,” he said as the band struck up for the dancing. “But in the morning I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be lovely.” Ah. Obviously an educated fellow.
“Well, that’s very gallant of you,” I said. Now, this banter was all very well, but dinner was well and truly over by now and I rather wished that Piers would come back and rescue me. Where was he? Not at his table. I glanced round the dance floor and suddenly my blood ran cold. Piers! Draped around an elegant brunette. How could he? The fickleness of men! I absently bit the burnt almond off a petit-four and poured myself another glass of wine. Terry was chatting animatedly to the woman on his left—no doubt proposing matrimony to her as well. Kate was deep in conversation with a tree surgeon. And I was completely alone. Here I was at a party with 149 other Sensational Singles and not one of them was talking to me. I know, I thought to myself, I’ll go to the ladies’ loo. That way I’ll avoid looking as though no one’s remotely interested in me. Three men and several dances later I found my way to the powder room on the floor below—very tastefully done up in pseudo Sanderson. As I went over to the basin I noticed two thirty-something women adjusting their makeup in the three-way mirrors.
“God the men here are ghastly,” said one of them, whose voice I was sure I recognized.
“Yes. Wish I was a lesbian,” said her friend with a snort. “The girls are much better-looking than the guys!”
“But then in my experience the men are always pretty useless at these kinds of things,” said woman number one. “I really don’t know why I bother.” Suddenly she looked up as she said this, and saw me squishing orchid-scented liquid soap onto my hands. I tried to avoid her gaze, but damn! I’d been spotted.
“Tiffany Trott!” she said accusingly.
“Oh—ha ha! Hello, Pamela,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here, ha ha ha!” I pulled down a paper towel from the dispenser.
“Long time no see,” she said. Not long enough. “It’s been years. How are you?”
“Fine. Fine,” I said. “Fine.”
“Still single, though?” she said, with just a hint of satisfaction.
“No, actually I’m married with five children,” I said, “I just come to these sorts of occasions for kicks.” Actually I didn’t really say that at all. I said, “Yup. That’s right. Single—ha ha! I’m freelance now, so I don’t meet nearly as many people as I used to. This seemed like a sensible thing to do.” I was aware that she was looking me up and down.
“You look very, fit,” she said grudgingly. Fit. That was always the most generous thing she could ever manage to say.
“I am fit,” I said brightly. “I play a lot of tennis these days.” You should try it you hideous lardarse!
“Still in ad-biz?” she inquired, combing her short, wispy red hair. I nodded. “Doesn’t the triviality of it ever get you down?” she added. She always used to ask me that.
