by Isabel Wolff
Suddenly a man came up to us. “Do you want some coke, girls?”
“Oh, er, yes please,” I said. “A Diet Coke would be great.”
“Yes. I’d like a Diet Coke too,” said Kate. But the man just gave us a funny look and walked away. That wasn’t very friendly, was it? Oh well. And then Kate disappeared to the loo because she was unhappy about her hair, and I was just sitting there listening to the bang! bang! of the beat and watching the strobe lights when another chap came up to me. He was very young, but rather good-looking in a brutish kind of way. What on earth could he want?
“ ,” he said.
“What?” I replied.
“ .”
“I’m awfully sorry, I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” I said. “I’m afraid your shirt’s rather loud.”
“ DANCE?” I just managed to make out this time.
“Oh, would I like to dance with you? Well, er, er . . .” But before I could make up my mind he had grabbed my hand and was leading me onto the dance floor, where I was soon lost in the heaving, bobbing, bouncing mass of bodies.
I can understand it now. I can quite see how it happens. I mean, you hear about kids going to raves and dancing nonstop for eight or ten or even twelve hours, and you think, How do they do that? But now I know—you just get drawn into the rhythm of the thump! thump! thump! and before you know where you are you have danced yourself into a trance. And so I wasn’t at all surprised when I glanced at my watch at the Ministry of Sound to find that it was six A.M.
“That’s it, everyone!” said the DJ suddenly. “Night night. Gute Nacht. Beddy byes. Bog off.”
Suddenly the lights stopped strobing and the sonic boom! boom! ceased. I smiled at my male companion, the charming young Millwall supporter who had invited me onto the floor several hours earlier. At last! I would be able to talk to him. He was really rather good-looking despite the somewhat prognathous jaw.
“Thanks very much,” I said. “That was fun. I’m Tiffany, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Stephen,” he said, with what I thought was a slightly odd, intense stare. “But my friends all call me Broadmoor.”
“Er . . . what an amusing sobriquet,” I replied.
“You can call me Broadmoor too,” he continued, as we headed for the door. “Or,” he continued, “you can call me Stephen. Whichever you like, really. Whichever you prefer. Stephen. Or Broadmoor. I leave it up to you.”
“Gosh, um, thanks. That’s er, very flexible of you. Well, see you again sometime. Broadmoor.”
“When will you see me again, Tiffany?”
“When will I see you again? Er, to be honest, I really don’t know.”
“But I’d like to see you again, Tiffany. I really would.”
“Well that would be nice, but . . .”
“What’s your phone number, Tiffany?” He produced a small address book from his trouser pocket. “What’s your phone number?” he asked again, with the same disconcerting stare.
“Er. Er. I don’t know,” I said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Well, it’s probably because I’m so tired, but I really can’t remember it. I know it’s 2-2-6 something or other, but the rest of it . . .” I shrugged. “It’s just gone.”
“But I need your number, otherwise I can’t ring you up.” Quite.
“Well, the thing is . . .”
“What, Tiffany? What?” He was standing painfully close. I could have counted the beads of sweat on his face. Where was Kate? “You know, Tiffany,” I heard him say, “you’re just my type. You’ve got . . .” a loud, dirty sniff contorted his features, “class.”
“Well, I think I’m a bit too old for you, Broadmoor. I really do. How old are you?”
“Twenny-free.”
“Well, you see—I’m thirty-seven!”
“You’re taking a piss!” He looked shocked. “I didn’t realize you were that old. Fir-ee-seven? ’kinnell!”
“Yes, yes I am,” I said crisply. “I’m practically middle-aged, ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Well,” he said, replacing his address book and retreating, “it was very nice to mee chew. Fir-ee-seven? ’kinnell.”
Then Kate emerged out of the milling crowd—she was talking to a rather attractive chap, actually—and we staggered outside, blinking into the sunlight like vampires. Our ears were ringing and the ground appeared to rock beneath our feet. I felt as though I had just arrived at Boulogne after a particularly choppy crossing.
“Wasn’t that great?” said Kate, as we made for the station. Her complexion was as etiolated as a tin of Dulux “White With a Hint of Apple Green.”
“Do I look as ill as you?” I asked her.
“No. You look worse.”
“How do you feel?”
“Terrible, actually. But wasn’t it great?”
“Er, yes,” I said.
“That guy was really nice.”
“What guy?”
“The one I was talking to. Mike. He’s a doctor. He’s twenty-eight. I gave him my card.”
“That’s good.”
“But he works in Manchester.”
“That’s bad.”
We got the tube, which is delightfully uncrowded at six-thirty on a Sunday morning. I whizzed up to the Angel and, at seven a.m., I walked through my front door to the deathly hush of an Islington dawn. Thank God. Peace and quiet, although there was still clamor in my ears. In fact there were bells ringing. Loudly and insistently—ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring. And then I realized it wasn’t just in my ears. It was the phone. It was the phone ringing. And this was very strange, because my phone does not normally ring at seven A.M. on Sunday mornings. Seriously Successful! No—of course not—don’t be ridiculous, I said to myself as I picked up the receiver. Get a grip!
“Tiffany? Tiffany!” It was Lizzie. She sounded distraught. My God, what was going on?
“What’s happened?” I said. “Where are you?”
“In bed,” she said in a loud whisper. In the background I could hear strange gargling noises.
“Lizzie, what on earth’s the matter?” She sounded close to tears. And what on earth were those peculiar sounds? “Lizzie, why are you calling at this time?”
“It’s Martin,” she said. “He’s gone a bit . . . funny.”
“Funny? What do you mean, funny? Martin’s never funny.”
“I know. But he did it again last night.”
“Did what?”
“Disappeared.” Suddenly I realized what the noises off were—it was the sound of strenuous regurgitation and it was emanating from Lizzie’s en-suite bathroom.
“On Friday he disappeared without telling me where he was going,” she continued with an audible sob. “He didn’t reappear until dawn. I was frantic. And then last night he did the same thing again. Said he was ‘going out’ and that he didn’t have to tell me where. Said he’d go anywhere he bloody well liked. Anyway, he came back half an hour ago drunk as a monkey and has now got his head down the loo.”
“Well, that’s very, um, uncharacteristic behavior, that’s all I can say.”
“And when I asked him where he’d been he just gave me this funny, lopsided little smile, and said nothing. Nothing.” She sobbed. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think—in fact, I’m sure—he’s having an affair.”
“Oh Lizzie, don’t be silly. Martin’s not the type.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve always thought, but maybe he is the type and I just didn’t realize it. My God, men are such bastards!”
“Well, wait till he’s sober . . .”
“I know he’s got a new secretary—she’s only twenty-four . . .”
“. . . and then talk to him about it,” I continued.
“It’s probably her. Bet it is. Little tart.”
“He probably isn’t having an affair at all,” I said.
“. . . you know these women who work in the City ar
e ruthless.”
“. . . you need to calm down a bit, and then very gently . . .”
“. . . they’re all the type who’d steal your husband. All of them. Except Sally of course. God, maybe it’s Nicola Horlick! He met her once. In 1989.”
“. . . talk to him and ask him if there’s anything wrong, or if he’s unhappy about something.”
“He’d be very stupid if he did have an affair,” she suddenly announced. “Because I’d divorce him on the spot, and then I’d take him to the cleaners.”
“Lizzie, you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Specialist cleaners. Very expensive ones. In fact, the legal equivalent of Jeeves of Belgravia. I’d leave him without the shirt on his back. I’d . . . I’d . . . I can’t talk anymore,” she suddenly said. “I’llringyoulaterbye.”
I simply couldn’t believe that Martin was having an affair, I reflected as I got into bed. He just isn’t the type. Now Phil Anderer’s mother used to say in one of her many “advice-giving” sessions: “Tiffany—you can never tell. You’ve always got to be on your guard, because the quietest-looking men can go off and have an affair.” But I don’t believe Martin is capable of infidelity. I just don’t think he would do that. Some men would and some men wouldn’t. And Martin is in the latter category—unlike Phil Anderer. And unlike Seriously Successful, I thought bitterly. No, I don’t think Martin’s looking for a part-time girlfriend. And I say that with confidence, because into my mind flashed that bobbing, gleaming bald pate at the Ministry of Sound and the only thing I suspect Martin of is trying to have some fun.
September Continued
“I just don’t know what to do,” said Kit on Monday afternoon. He was sighing heavily as he stared into his cup of Algerian arabica. “God this coffee’s a bit strong, Tiff—can’t we just have Nescafé?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, chucking both our coffees down the sink. He looked rough. Obviously hadn’t slept. “Have a Jaffa Cake, Kit.” I pushed the plate toward him. “And then we really ought to get on—we’ve got work to do.”
“I’m too upset to work,” he said, shuffling in his chair. “I’ve been up all night. Worrying.”
“OK, let’s talk about it,” I said. “And then we must carry on with the pitch. We’ve got to win the Love Hearts campaign. I know we can do it.”
“Yes,” said Kit. “I think we can. Your copy ideas are really good. But”—he stared at the open packet of pastel-colored sweets—“it’s totally depressing doing the artwork for it, when my own love life’s going so badly.” He read out the inscriptions on the sherbet discs. “ ‘Forever Yours,’ ” he said joylessly. “ ‘Love Me,’ ‘Be Mine,’ ‘Darling.’ ‘Yes Please,’ ” he added with a bitter little laugh. “Or rather, ‘No Thanks.’ ‘Bog Off.’ ‘Get Lost.’ ” Then he rested his head in his hands. “Can’t we just watch Neighbors?” he asked. “I really don’t feel very creative today.”
Now, Kit is a very cheerful kind of chap. He’s always—how can I put this?—up. That’s what I’d say about him. He’s usually animated and smiling and talkative and, well, happy. But Portia’s giving him such a bad time at the moment—I haven’t seen him smile for weeks.
“I just don’t know what to do,” he groaned. “She won’t even return my calls.” He turned the palms of his hands toward the ceiling in frustration—I could almost see the stigmata.
“Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” I said, “she’s very lucky to have someone as devoted and considerate as you.” And I wish I’d married you myself when I had the chance.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “And I think I’m very lucky to be with her.”
“But why? She’s a shallow, Styrofoam-brained creature who isn’t fit to tie your shoelaces,” I said. Actually I didn’t say that at all. I didn’t say anything, because one has to be very, very tactful when offering advice to lovelorn friends. I just looked at him. He was so nice, so good-looking, so creative and considerate and kind. Oh God, Mummy was right, I reflected. She was right. Dad was right. Lizzie was right. Everyone was right. I should have married Kit. If I had, then I would not now be a pregeriatric single, I would not now be going on blind dates with married men and losers, I would not now be a front runner for the Nobel Prize for Spinsterdom. No. If I had married Kit, as I should have done, I would be in my eighth or ninth year of domestic bliss, with at least four, or maybe even five, delightful children, allowing for the possibility of twins.
“I really try not to pressure Portia,” Kit explained. “I know that’s a big turn-off for women, if they’re not quite sure about a guy. But then we’ve been together for eighteen months, and I want to get married, so I really feel that the crunch is coming. But she just won’t talk about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have bought the Discovery,” he added.
“Well, it might have been better to wait,” I said. “Until you were sure. Also, I really don’t think you should keep dragging her off to Hamleys—she knows you’re fond of kids.” He nodded in mute agreement.
“And I think taking her to Disneyland was probably a mistake. Does she ever explain why she’s not ready to settle down yet?” I added. “I mean, it’s not as though she’s that young—she’s thirty-two. You’d think that at thirty-two she’d quite like to get married.”
“Maybe she does want to get married—but just not to me,” he said bitterly. Oh, I do hope so, and then I can marry you myself.
“Well, I think if that really was the case, then she wouldn’t hang around at all,” I said. “Women are very pragmatic. I mean, she is fond of you, isn’t she?”
“I suppose so,” he said, popping a Love Heart into his mouth. “I think so. She says she is, but then there are times when I simply don’t believe her, because if she really was fond of me, then she’d accept, wouldn’t she?”
“Well, it’s obviously more complicated than that,” I said.
“Tiffany, I just don’t know what to do,” he said again, and this time there were tears standing in his eyes. I was shocked. I had never, ever seen him so distressed. It wrung my heart. I put my self-interest aside.
“Don’t be so nice to her,” I said suddenly. He looked horrified. “Don’t look after her and run around for her in the way that you do.”
“But she’s very vulnerable,” he said, eating another sweet. “She needs me.”
“You should withdraw a bit, and see what happens,” I added. “You let her take you for granted, because she knows that you’ll never give her a hard time. Perhaps you should give her a hard time,” I went on. He looked appalled. “Just for a little while. I mean, perhaps you shouldn’t always offer to pick her up from work.”
“Well, I don’t like the idea of her getting the bus,” he said, eating another Love Heart.
“And maybe you shouldn’t be quite so ready to rush round when her washing machine’s on the blink . . .”
“But she’s so impractical—I don’t think she’d even know who to call.”
“And if I were you I’d let her pay someone to do her garden—you don’t have to do it.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t take long.”
“Better still, let her do it herself.” He looked shocked.
“And you’re not a painter and decorator, so let her find a professional one next time her kitchen needs doing up. It’s not as though she hasn’t any cash.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “If you love someone you want to do lots of things for them, don’t you?”
“Yes, but Kit—you do too much.”
“So do you!” he said. “With men.” This was true. That’s why Kit and I are friends. We’re the same. And we get walked on.
“We’re both in the Love Gap,” I said. “I read about it in Options . . .”
“Yes. I’m in the Love Gap all right,” he interjected with a hollow laugh. “I’m in the Baby Gap, too.”
“The French say that in every relationship there is one person who is offering kisses, and one who is receiving them,” I
said, as he stuffed a handful of Love Hearts into his mouth. “Well, you and I are kissers, Kit,” I announced. “And kissers are losers, because we’ve got to get as well as to give. I mean, what do you get back from Portia?” There was what I can only describe as a pregnant pause.
“Not a lot, really,” he said miserably.
“Exactly. You know, Kit, you’re not a wimp,” I added. “Not at all. You’re a proper bloke. But when it comes to women, you’re hopelessly unassertive. Kit—please don’t eat all the Love Hearts, we need them. You’re too nice for your own good,” I went on. “And you get exploited. You meet a woman and you become the human equivalent of a ‘Welcome’ mat.”
“I am not a doormat!” he said, shocked.
“Yes, you are.”
“Well so are you!” he retorted.
“No I’m not.”
“You bloody well are,” he said, eating another Love Heart. “May I remind you that when we were going out together you used to iron my shirts. I never asked you to.”
“Well, you used to clean my shoes.”
“You used to do my washing up!” he flung back at me. “Including, might I add, the nasty burnt bits on the bottom of the saucepans.”
“You pruned my lilac tree for me,” I replied venomously. “And my wisteria.”
“Well, you used to take Fluffy to the vet for her flu jabs!”
“You repapered my bedroom!”
“You collected my prescriptions,” he hissed.
“You . . . you . . . dropped off my dry cleaning, even though it wasn’t on your route and wasn’t at all convenient!”
“Well, you took my car in for repairs.”
