The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  And then she looked at me and said, “Tiffany, why didn’t you marry Kit?”

  “Oh really, Portia, what a funny question . . . ha ha!”

  “No, reely, Tiffany . . . why didn’t you?” I pretended not to hear.

  Standing just behind us were Lizzie and Martin, and they were talking to Catherine. “No we’re not going skiing—we’re going somewhere rather special, actually,” I heard Lizzie say. “In January. Chile and Easter Island. Martin’s always wanted to go to Easter Island, haven’t you, darling?”

  “Yes,” he said happily. “I have.”

  “He’s always had a bee in his bonnet about those massive stone statues.”

  “Yes,” he responded, “ever since I was a little boy.”

  “They’re really interesting,” said Catherine excitedly. “No one knows how on earth they got there! I did them for A Level geography. You lucky things.”

  “Well I thought it was about time Martin got to do something he really wanted to do,” said Lizzie, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. “He works so hard. So my mother’s going to come and look after the girls.”

  Then I saw Kit and Martin engaged in animated conversation—and wondered whether they’d ever told Portia and Lizzie where it was they’d gone that weekend.

  “I know you think I’ve been a bitch to Kit,” I heard Portia say. What?

  “Good heavens no!” I lied, with a nervous sip of my Martini. “Why ever should I think that?”

  She threw back her head and swallowed the rest of her drink. “Because I ’ave been a bitch to him, that’s why. But he was so suffocating,” she continued, waving her spiked olive at me and swaying slightly. “All that pressure. I couldn’t stand it. All that pressure to have babies—as though that was all he needed me for. I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids. I’m still not sure.”

  “Well . . .”

  “And all those Teletubbies videos,” she went on. “And the trips to Ikea. And I felt such an idiot in that bleedin’ Discovery. It really got me down. He never understood, Tiffany. Until recently, he never understood that I wanted to choose, in my own time.”

  “Well, that’s very understandable,” I said.

  “Yes. And at last he seemed to realize that,” she said tipsily. “I don’t know what it was, but he stopped being so claustrophobic. He changed. In fact he . . . but Tiffany, I just wanted,” she leant forward. “I just wanted . . . to tell you something else.” Oh my God, I didn’t think I could take any more confessions from her. She put her hand on my arm. “I just wanted to tell you . . . how important you are to Kit,” she said. Oh God, oh God, I couldn’t take this. “And I’d never, ever stop you being close to him, because I know how much you mean to him. You always will.” I could feel my contact lenses slip and slide as my eyes began to fill.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I feel just the . . . really don’t know what I’d do without . . . er, sorry. Won’t be a sec.”

  I sat in the downstairs loo, crying quietly. I can’t take it when people get emotionally upfront with me. Can’t deal with it at all. Especially in my present, pre-Christmas, pissed-off frame of mind. And she’d hit the nail on the head. Why hadn’t I married Kit? It was too late now. But if I had married him then I wouldn’t have had such an awful time with Phillip, or such a frustrating relationship with Alex, and I wouldn’t now be going to hideous “dinner parties” in Shepherd’s Bush or pining after married men with girlfriends. I could have avoided all that, if I’d simply said “Yes” to Kit eight years ago. But I didn’t. I said “No.” So it’s all my own fault and I’ve been taking the consequences ever since. I splashed water on my face and went back into the sitting room, where the party was now in full swing.

  “We’re going to Easter Island together.”

  “Well, we’ll be in Verbier.”

  “We’re going to the South of France, actually.”

  “We’ll all be up in Norfolk.”

  “We always go to John’s parents.”

  We, we, we. All the way home. That’s what Christmas was about. We. Us. Our. But I wasn’t we. I was me. Myself. I. One. Singular. Single. Not double. A Lone Ranger. That was it. Lone. Alone. I probably always would be, I reflected miserably. With my crossword puzzles and my cross-stitch and my increasing crossness. I’d never ever, ever find my spiritual twin now. It was too late. And if I did he’d be married, just like Seriously Successful. Gosh, how much had I drunk? What a mistake, it always made me maudlin. I decided to leave. I could feel myself coming perilously close to emotional meltdown. Portia had simply triggered what had been welling up for weeks.

  “Oh Tiffany, do stay!” Frances boomed.

  “Well, it’s nine forty-five and I’m quite tired,” I said. “But thanks for a lovely evening. I think I’ll just slip away.”

  “Can’t I call you a cab?”

  “No, I’ll get one on the high street, really.”

  The pathetic fallacy was clearly not fallacious at all, I reflected bitterly as I left Frances’s house in the rain. The York flagstones were blurred beneath my feet as I tramped down Leverton Street and turned right onto Kentish Town Road. What a dismal scene. Litter, heavy with water and streaked with dirt, lifted up and down in the gutter. A Coke tin rattled out into the road and was crushed like paper under a passing car. The shop windows were rimmed with white glitter and winked and blinked with cheap lights. No sign of any taxis, and I’d forgotten my mobile phone. I’d have to wait for a bus. Damn. But as I stood at the nearest stop a man suddenly emerged out of a dark doorway and staggered toward me, a can of Fosters clutched to his concave chest. He was probably only forty-five but looked sixty, with his gray-white hair and beard, his gnarled, arthritic hands and painful, shuffling gait. Oh God, winos at Christmas. Run away, Tiffany. Run away.

  “HAPPY CHRISTMAS, YONG LADY!” he bellowed and then, oh God, oh God, he began to sing. In this cracked, but curiously lusty voice. “ ’way in a-a MANGER, no crib . . . A BED . . . the little Lord JAYSUS . . . oh JAYSUS lady, have you a little somting for the homeless?” he said.

  I dug in my pockets and felt a couple of pound coins. I handed them to him. But not kindly. Not in the spirit of goodwill, but simply to get rid of him. I wanted him to go away. Just leave me alone. I couldn’t take it. And there was no sign of a bus, and no taxis, but still the man stood there, belting out Christmas carols. And then he reached inside his coat and took out a postcard, and on it was a photo of Princess Diana in a pink satin gown and a diamond tiara, and her picture was seamed where it had been folded, and it was creased and cracked from wear. He showed it to me, and then he held it up with both hands and kissed it reverently, as orthodox Christians kiss icons. Then he slipped it back inside his fraying coat.

  “She was a ministhering ANGEL,” he said. “An ANGEL, that’s what she was . . .”

  “Yes. Yes,” I said dismally, and then the carols began again.

  “HARK THE HERALD ANGELS SI-ING . . .” That was it. I couldn’t stand it. He wasn’t going to move, so I’d have to. I’d have to wait at the next stop. And, as I walked away, my feet splashing into the puddles in the cracked paving stones, Seriously Successful hove into mental view again. I wondered whether things like this ever happened to him, and how much money he’d have given the man, and where he’d be spending Christmas. Not at home, with his parents, partnerless, like me. Probably with that beautiful girl I’d seen him with in the Ritz. The girl who’d had a good laugh at my silly postcard from Club Med. He’d probably take her skiing. Or perhaps whisk her away for some winter sun in, say, Tunisia, or Spain. Or perhaps she’d prefer Barbados. I was just torturing myself in this way and cursing myself again for not bringing my mobile phone with me when I found myself standing outside Radio Rentals. A thick bank of television screens flickered and danced in the window—all tuned to different channels. There was Jade Jewel, on location, somewhere exotic—where was it? It looked like the Cape. Next to her was David Dimbleby, waving
his script at the Question Time studio audience, and peering over his pince-nez. And there was Barbra Streisand in Hello, Dolly! on Channel Five. And on the TV next to that, Trevor McDonald on News at Ten, introducing some report . . . and suddenly—oh God, wouldn’t you know it?—there was Mungo Brown reporting from—where was he reporting from today? London. Kingsway. The word “Live” suddenly flashed up on the screen. He was standing with a group of homeless people, who were queuing for soup from a customized ice cream van. And Mungo was interviewing them, holding a large microphone under their bearded chins as they shivered in the damp, cold air. And then the camera followed him as he walked up to the van, and the shot closed in on the man in the thick donkey jacket who was dishing out the soup and . . . I caught my breath. What? What on earth . . . ? Why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t I know he did that kind of thing. My heart was banging in my chest. Why didn’t I know that Seriously Successful helped the homeless? I pressed my face to the window, but of course I couldn’t hear a word. What was he saying? I desperately wanted to hear. I wiped the rain off the glass and tried to lip read. I couldn’t make it out at all. But I could see that he looked vaguely irritated with Mungo, because Mungo then suddenly turned back to the camera, looking slightly discomfited, and I could see that he was signing off. I watched his lips: “This is Mungo Brown. For ITN. In Central London.” And then there was Trevor McDonald again.

  I was practically catatonic with shock. Seriously Successful, helping out with a soup van. Seriously Saintly. Oh God, oh God, and I’d thought so many bad things about him. I wished I hadn’t turned him down, I thought as I stepped onto the number 24.

  I wish I hadn’t said no to his part-time offer, because if I had said yes, then at least I’d have been able to spend time with him. We could have breathed the same air. Breathed the same . . . Ooooohhh! Hummmmmmmm! Oooooooooohhh! Hummmmmmmm! Ooooooohhh! Hummmmmmmm! These breathing exercises are terribly good for calming yourself down.

  “Are you all right?” said the woman sitting next to me.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not. I mean, yes, I am.”

  “You don’t look very well,” she said solicitously.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Really—thanks. Hummmmmmmm . . .”

  “You’re not pregnant, are you?” she asked.

  “Well, not exactly,” I said.

  December Continued

  “Hallo, Mungo,” I said, the following day. “It’s Tiffany here.”

  “Oh, hallo,” he said, somewhat unenthusiastically.

  “I’m just ringing to say that I saw you on the news last night.”

  “Well, you know, that’s not unusual.”

  “Oh I know, Mungo. I mean, you’re never off the small screen. But I just wanted to say that I thought your report about the homeless was really fantastic. Very hard hitting.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it was.”

  “It had me really staring at the television set.”

  “Thanks.”

  “With my hands reaching into my pockets.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “And that chap you interviewed, whatsisname . . . oh I don’t know, the bloke dishing out the soup . . .” I waited for Mungo to tell me his name. Please tell me his name, will you, Mungo? Please. “Er, I can’t quite remember what his name is from the report . . .”

  “Oh, that bloke in the van, you mean.”

  “Yes. Very interesting-looking chap.” Tell. Me. His. Name. “I just wondered . . .”

  “Interesting? Bloody unhelpful, actually. Didn’t even know who I was and didn’t seem to want to be interviewed at all.” Just tell me his bloody name, will you! “Despite the fact that I was giving him a chance to appear live on national TV. He blew it, in my view.”

  “Who is he, Mungo?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are lots of them. Well-heeled volunteers who make soup every week for the homeless and dish it up from an old ice-cream van. He’s loaded you see, they all are—that’s how they salve their consciences, by dispensing oxtail to the poor.”

  “Yes, but, his name. I need his name.”

  “God, I can’t remember. Never found out. He pissed me off, to be honest. Anyway, why do you want to know?” he added suspiciously. Ah. I’d already thought of that.

  “Well, I’d quite like to get involved with a charity like that myself, and I thought he might be able to give me some advice.”

  “You’d be better off speaking to his girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” A shard of glass pierced my right aorta.

  “At least I assume that’s who she was. I spoke to her before we began filming. She was hovering in the back of the van, out of camera shot.”

  “Oh.” Of course.

  “Rather attractive, actually,” he added. “Long curly hair. She’s called Grace. I managed to get her work number. Anyway, she’d know.”

  “Yes. I see. Well, not to worry.”

  “Don’t you want her number, then?”

  “Oh. No. No. It’s OK, thanks. Anyway, er, Happy Christmas!”

  All this had me thinking about Phil Anderer again. He used to go on and on and on about the homeless, about how disgraceful it was, and how pathetic the Tories were and how shameful that our streets should be filling up with unemployed people with no roof over their heads. He’d get quite hysterical about it, actually—well, he got hysterical about lots of things. And getting steamed up about the homeless was fine. In a way I liked it, but for the fact that I never, ever, in three years, saw him give money to a person on the street. Nor did he ever, ever, not even once, buy a copy of the Big Issue. In fact he’d walk straight past the vendors whilst I stopped, and I’d have to run after him to catch up. But he’d rant about it nonetheless. He saw no paradox in this, none at all—but his unconscious hypocrisy shrieked at me. And now here’s Seriously Successful quietly, anonymously, trying to do his bit. Oh dear. I think I love Seriously Successful. Even if he has got a wife. And a girlfriend.

  “Welcome to you all,” said Father Ambrose, “whether you’re regular parishioners or what I like to call my ‘hardy Christmas annuals.’ ” Mum and I giggled—we fall into exactly that category. She’s not the great churchgoer, and nor am I. We’re lapsed Catholics. Incidentally, why is it that Catholics seem to have the monopoly on lapsing? Why do we not hear about lapsed Protestants, lapsed Methodists or lapsed Muslims? Or lapsed Seventh Day Adventists? Or lapsed Mormons? Or lapsed Jehovah’s Witnesses, or lapsed Quakers or even, for that matter, lapsed Buddhists? Funny, isn’t it? Anyway, lapsed or not, we’d hate to miss Midnight Mass. It’s a ritual—no irony intended—a vital part of the year’s end. And our local Catholic church in Shropshire is so beautiful: Victorian Gothic revival, with an elegant, dizzying spire, and an altar designed by Pugin. Anyway, at twelve-thirty on Christmas morning, the final chords of the last carol died away . . . Oh come let us adore hi-im, Chri-ist, the Lord!, and then everyone filed up to see the huge nativity scene in the side chapel. There was Jesus lying in the hay-filled crib, his blue eyes and his tiny palms turned heavenward; next to him, Mary, looking distinctly un-postnatal considering what she’d just been through. And there was Joseph with a shy and mildly surprised expression on his plaster face; then two kneeling shepherds, a donkey and a lamb, and, in the distance, the approaching Magi, led by a shining star.

  Mum and I put some money in the offertory box and then knelt down to pray. Now, I’m not very good at praying. I usually find it rather embarrassing—well it is awkward isn’t it—like trying to make small talk at a drinks party with an irritatingly reticent stranger. What do you do then? What, the entire universe? Oh, that must keep you busy. Oh no, I really don’t find it easy talking to Him. But this time, I don’t know why, the words just seemed to flow.

  “Dear God,” I said. “Now, I really don’t want to sound negative or anything, but I don’t feel you’ve lived up to expectations over this past year. In fact, to be perfectly blunt, I think I’ve had quite a bum deal. Was it really necessary for me to be dump
ed on my birthday like that? Was that a crucial part of your divine plan? Well, to be quite frank, I’m not impressed, and I really think it’s time you pulled your finger out. I mean I know you’re extremely busy, what with the Middle East, Northern Ireland, the Russian Mafia, and world hunger et cetera, et cetera. And of course I realize that in the greater scheme of things I’m less than the size of a pimple on the face of a sub-atomic particle. But on the other hand you are omnipotent, and I’m sure you could deliver the goods for me if you really wanted to. So—no pressure or anything—just sort it out will you, say, within the next six months? Oh, and please bless everyone I love, including Seriously Successful, and if you could make him, miraculously, available, that would be greatly appreciated. Thanking you. Yours sincerely, Tiffany Trott, brackets Miss, close brackets.”

  “What about that nice accountant?” said Mum as we sat in the sitting room, after the Queen’s Speech. I looked out onto the garden—behind the yew hedge were open, rain-soaked fields, and an almost uninterrupted view across six miles of Shropshire countryside.

  “Er, I didn’t fancy him,” I replied as she cut the Christmas cake. “I’ve told you that.”

  “Well, what about that boy you were at school with—the rugger player?”

  “Married. Four children.” I looked at Dad. He was doing the crossword. He usually does it in twenty-five minutes, which is the average length of time it takes me to do one clue.

  “And what about Roger whatsisname from Bristol?” Mum continued.

  “Haven’t seen him since he stood me up at the National Theatre in 1988.”

  “Oh. Do you want a bit with a robin on, or a snowman?”

  “Er, snowman, please.”

  “And what about Peter Blake?”

  “Immigrated to Australia.”

  “Oh dear.” We chewed away in silence.

  “Well, what happened to Conrad Taylor, from the advertising agency.”

  “Engaged. I saw it in the paper last week. Lovely cake, Mum.”

  “And what about that radio producer you used to know?”