by Isabel Wolff
“Of course we can,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s change the subject,” he added with sudden studied brightness. “Let’s talk about your slogans. I think they’re marvelous,” he continued enthusiastically. “That one for Which? magazine was brilliant—how did it go, now? Oh yes, that’s it, Don’t Get Done Get Which? That was a classic.”
“That was years ago,” I said.
“But I still remember it,” he said, “which proves it must have worked. And that one for Dulux paint. Your Most Brilliant Liquid Asset, wasn’t that it? Fantastic. What are you working on now?”
“Love Hearts,” I said, “for Valentine’s Day. A TV campaign—the manufacturers are spending a fortune on it. It’s a big risk for them.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“Well, you know the inscriptions on the sweets,” I said.
“Yes. ‘Love Me,’ ‘Be Mine,’ that kind of thing.”
“Yes, exactly. Well, I’ve made up these poems out of them, and they’ll be recited by actors—with club music and special effects and fast editing. It sounds silly,” I added apologetically, “ads always do sound silly when you describe them cold, but I think it’ll look quite good.”
“That is so brilliant,” he said admiringly. “It sounds marvelous.”
“Oh it’s only advertising, Nick,” I said. “It’s not exactly world-changing stuff. It doesn’t prevent wars, or feed the hungry.” Or house the homeless, I thought ruefully. “How’s Jonathan?” I added. “Is he getting nervous about the wedding?”
“Oh yes—he worries about it the whole time. It’s only two months away. You are going, aren’t you?”
“Yes I am.”
“Well, Yorkshire’s a bit of a trek,” he said. “Why don’t we go up together?”
“Yes,” I said happily. “That would be fun.”
“Hummmmmm . . . Oooooohhhhh . . . Aaahhhhhhh . . . Hummmmmmmm . . . Ooooooohhhhh . . . Aaaaaaaah!”
“OK—it’s time for our break,” said Jessie. “Let’s take ten minutes, and then Rosie’s going to tell us all about the birth of little Emily. Aren’t you, Rosie?”
“Yes I am,” said Rosie, with a shy smile.
Pat and I made a dash for the soft toy pile—I got Rupert Bear—and then we went into the kitchen. “I can’t wait to hear Rosie spill the beans,” boomed Pat as she tucked Paddington more firmly under her left arm.
“Nor can I,” I lied as I put a camomile teabag into a gaily painted ceramic mug.
“I suspect she’ll make it sound easier than it really was,” Pat continued, as we one-handedly stirred the infusions and then carried them back to the drawing room. “Did you see the game last night?” she added.
“Game?”
“Arsenal blasted Chelsea four-one—phenomenal score. Or is rugger more your kind of thing?”
“Er, no,” I said. “Tennis, actually.”
“Tennis, eh? Now, Martina Navratilova’s one of my heroines.”
“Really?”
“And Billie-Jean King, of course—what a star. So, tennis is your scene, is it Tiffany?”
“Uh, well . . .”
“Suppose you’ll be going to Eastbourne?”
“Er, no . . . don’t think so.”
“So you follow the women’s game,” she said with a loud, dirty laugh.
“I wouldn’t put it like that,” I said. “I mean I do like tennis. But actually, what I really prefer is synchronized swimming.”
“Ladies’ tennis! Ha! Bet you’ve got a good forehand, Tiffany!”
I handed Sally the mug of herbal tea, trying not to slop it all over the stripped wooden floor. She was wearing a smocked denim top and loose-fitting trousers.
“I can’t wait to hear what Rosie has to say,” she said. Suddenly, Jessie clapped her hands to bring the break to an end.
“OK Rosie—all yours,” she said, giving her a beatific smile. Rosie, a pretty girl in her late twenties, stood up. Her baby slept peacefully in a moses basket at her feet.
“Well,” said Rosie. “I had Emily two weeks ago. At University College hospital. It was quite an experience.”
All eleven expectant mothers craned their necks forward eagerly.
“In fact it was—unbelievable,” Rosie went on. “It was incredible. It was completely unforgettable and I’m never bloody well doing it again—at least, not without five epidurals. It was horrible,” she added roundly. “And if you think I’m going to stand here and tell you how brilliant it was, and what a wonderful, life-affirming experience, well you’re in for a disappointment.”
“Oh Rosie, please don’t say that,” said Jessie, looking distinctly uncomfortable. But Rosie was just getting into her stride.
“I’d been having contractions for twenty-four hours—I thought I was going to burst open like John Hurt in Alien. And when people say that giving birth is like trying to shit a melon—they’re wrong. It’s more like producing a sack of coal. The pain’s disgusting,” she said. “I was bellowing like an animal, I had bodily fluids pouring out of every orifice . . .”
“Oh Rosie—please!” said Jessie.
“No Jessie—I’m going to tell the truth,” said Rosie. “There’s this conspiracy that we all have to pretend that childbirth is wonderful—when it isn’t, it’s horrible, horrible, and so stressful. And I felt totally degraded. Not human at all—I’ve seen a cat give birth with more grace than I did. But I couldn’t help it. I howled, I screamed, I bellowed. I cried out for my mother. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’ I yelled. My husband couldn’t take it—he left the room, I don’t blame him. In fact I told him to get lost. Because I didn’t want him to see me in that state. Thrashing about like a stuck pig. Screaming and crying. And I hated the baby for doing this to me—it practically tore me in two, and I had to have forty-five stitches and I couldn’t walk for a week afterward. And all the humming and all the deep breathing in the world didn’t make the slightest difference—the only thing that would have helped me was a nice, neat Caesarian.” Silence descended like a stone.
“Well—thank you, Rosie,” said Jessie. “I’m sure everyone will find that very encouraging.”
We all sat there, stunned. I made a mental decision to adopt. Then I looked at the girl sitting next to me—her baby was due the following week. She was staring at the floor, swallowing visibly. And then I looked at Lesley, who had less than two months to go. She was blinking back a tear, and Pat’s arm was around her. Poor Sally, I thought. Poor, poor Sally. I looked at her. She was—oh for God’s sake—she was smiling!
“What an absolutely amazing experience that must have been,” she whispered to me excitedly. “What a vital, searing, epic thing to go through.”
“Didn’t it put you off, then?” I asked, amazed.
“Oh—of course not,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t be silly, Tiff. And in fact it only makes me more determined than ever to have the baby at home.”
February
Now, according to the February edition of Brides and Setting up Home magazine, the fabric of choice for this summer’s wedding belles is shot satin. Personally I much prefer good old silk dupion, but apparently that’s frightfully old hat. What can I be thinking of—walking up the aisle with all these nice men from the Caroline Clarke Introduction Agency in a hopelessly unfashionable frock! I can almost hear the titters in the back pews now. “Silk dupion ? I ask you! Well, she never did have much of a clue. Still, could be worse, at least it’s not polyester moiré. But poor old Tiffany. Yes, she never was terribly, you know, stylish.” Stylish. That’s what Phil Anderer used to say to me—I’m sorry darling, but it’s just not very, stylish. Look, would you go and change?” And, like an obedient dog, I would. Isn’t that appalling? Who’d have guessed that I had a brain, and a spirit, free will and self-respect? But, you see, I knew that if I said to him, as I should have done, “No I won’t bloody well go and change and, by the way, who the hell do you think you are?” he’d have got hysterical, as he so often did, and I really hate unpleas
ant scenes. Can’t cope with them at all. Now, professional disputes I can hack. I’m quite prepared to stick to my guns. For example, when I was at Gurgle Gargle Peggoty I once got very very worked up about Tiny Tears at a board meeting. But when it comes to heated confrontations with boyfriends, it’s a different story. So I’ve always given in. Gone along. Chickened out. Backed off. Shied away. It’s not that I’m a coward, you understand—it’s just that I’m afraid. Oh no, I’m really not one for rows.
Thus did my mind wander back and forth as I picked snowdrops in the front garden this morning. And I reflected, with a considerable degree of satisfaction, combined with cautious optimism, that I had, at least, made a very positive start to the New Year. I mean I’ve kept one of my resolutions—I’ve joined a dating agency. However, I must confess that I have broken my other one, in that I have not yet quite stopped thinking about Seriously Successful. In fact I think about him rather a lot, even when I’m asleep because, you see, he tends to come back to me in my dreams. But obviously, once I start to meet blokes from Caroline Clarke, then obviously I will stop thinking about him, because, obviously, I’ll fall in love with one of them instead, obviously. Anyway, I completed my form and sent in three very good snaps of myself taken last year; they’re flattering without being, I believe, in any way misleading, and—imagine my agitation, dear reader!—I should start to receive some profiles soon. OK, this is how it works. If, say, A likes the look of B, then B is sent A’s profile. And if B likes A’s profile, he/she tells the agency, and the phone numbers are exchanged. Simple. It’s going to be quite an adventure. I’m bound to fall in love. And that will solve all my problems. I must say it would be nice if I would fall in love before Valentine’s Day next week. I’m dreading it. And OK, I know it’s only a commercial thing—and God, I mean, who cares really, such a load of bull, isn’t it? But the fact is that if you’re single, and all you get on February the fourteenth is an overdue notice on your council tax, or a reminder to have your three-yearly smear, well, frankly, you feel like killing yourself. And the shops have been selling those wretched cards with their sickly, syrupy, saccharine sentiments since Boxing Day, so it’s impossible to avoid. Anyway, I decided to distract myself from the anxieties of being excluded from the nation’s annual lovefest by boning up on childbirth. I still wouldn’t know an episiotomy from a pineapple and, as Sally’s determined to be so laborious about the whole business, I suppose I’ll have to know what’s what.
This morning I went down to Waterston’s and came back with an armful of baby books—Having a Baby, Your Pregnancy—Questions and Answers, Planning for a Healthy Baby, Having Babies, Natural Pregnancy and The Baby Bible. Some of the photos—my God—I had to find a chair before I could bear to look at them, and I thought to myself as I sat there with my legs crossed, Childbirth? You have got to be joking. I now definitely plan to adopt. Two children. Aged eighteen. When I’ve got myself a nice bloke, that is, which shouldn’t take too long. Because, actually, the profiles have now started to arrive. This morning. In the post. An envelope stamped “Personal” plopped onto the mat containing profiles of men who want to meet me. Quite a lot of them, actually. There’s Derek from Datchett who’s in computers and likes “evening barbecues and moonlit walks with a warm scented breeze.” Well how about a moonlit walk with a warm, scented Tiffany Trott, Derek? And there’s Kevin from Hounslow who believes “a sense of humanity is essential”—hear hear, Kevin! And Toby from Barnes who is looking for someone “environmentally aware.” Well that’s me, Toby! I always put my bottles in the recycle bin, and I am a passionate devotee of public transport over the nasty, noxious motor car! Then there’s John who’s into black-and-white photography and ooh—is that a Ferrari he’s leaning against in the photo? Then I quite like the look of George, for whom “traditional values are important, particularly trust.” Well I’m right with you on that one, George! Trust me. Then there’s Jeff, who is divorced and lives in Clapham with his three young sons, oh “and their nanny.” And I must say Leo, a data collection manager from Thames Ditton, sounds rather nice. He’s not that attractive, but he says he’s looking for someone with a “sense of fun.” Well that’s me, Leo! Fun’s my middle name. Actually, it isn’t—it’s Nicola—which was a bit of a silly choice, really; I mean, when I was at Downingham the sight of my initialed trunk used to cause guffaws—and occasionally panic. Where was I? Oh yes, looking at Leo and, um, Roger who’s a librarian and describes himself as “a bit of a character” who enjoys “lively socializing” and “sun worshipping.” And then, and then, there’s Patrick. Now Patrick is forty-one, divorced, and a management consultant. He plays tennis and is also a qualified pilot. He has no children—oh oh, hope he’s not infertile, I’d better ask him—and he claims to be “easy-going, loyal, honest, open and trustworthy.” That sounds really good. He’s also, may I say, rather tasty-looking, with black hair and blue eyes, about six foot. And in his photo he’s standing on a hotel balcony with what looks like the Eiffel Tower in the background, so he’s obviously terribly widely traveled too—and he’s got a lovely smile. And nowhere on his form does the word “golf” appear at all! Now, Patrick purports to be looking for “someone with a sense of humor who doesn’t take themselves too seriously. Someone who is intelligent, independent, successful, supportive and kind.” Well Patrick, look no further!
“He does look rather a dish,” said Lizzie when she came round on Monday. She had just got back from Easter Island and looked very tanned—because of course it’s hot in Chile at this time of year. And she seemed happy. Very happy. Glowing. She flicked through my pile of profiles with a thoughtful, judicious air.
“What you want,” she said with her customary emphasis, “is someone who is your equal in every way—someone who you won’t want to dominate, and who won’t dominate you. That’s the secret of success you know, Tiffany—a balanced relationship where neither partner has the upper hand too much. I think that’s why Martin and I have been so happy all these years.”
I stared at her. I didn’t say a thing. As I say, I try to avoid rows, so I simply said, “You’re absolutely right.”
“But,” she added sensibly. “You musn’t put all your eggs in one basket. Patrick looks nice, but you should see some of the other chaps, too. You may find that you really like them, and then you’ll have a choice.”
“Only if they like me,” I said.
“Of course they’ll like you, Tiffany,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.” And that made me feel good. So I phoned the agency, right there and then, and said yes to four of the ten blokes including, well, especially, Patrick.
“You know about Emma, don’t you?” said Lizzie as she showed me her holiday snaps.
“No. Haven’t seen her for ages,” I said. “She’s gone rather quiet. Have another Jaffa Cake. Gosh, these statues look amazing.”
“They’re incredible. Basalt. The tallest are thirty feet high. No one knows how they put them up. Anyway,” she added, “about Emma. I suppose you’ve heard?”
I looked at her blankly. “Heard what?” I replied. Gosh I do hate it when people gossip about other people who they know. “Tell me all about it,” I said. “What’s happened?”
“Well,” said Lizzie, lighting another cigarette. “She’s met someone.”
“That’s brilliant news,” I said. “Oh, that’s a lovely one of you, Lizzie. That explains why I haven’t heard from her for weeks. Apart from one or two rather odd messages on my machine. But I don’t blame her—in the early stages you just don’t want to talk about it, do you? Easter Island’s quite bleak, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, it’s not tropical,” said Lizzie. “Nothing much in the way of palm trees or piña coladas. But there’s another reason why Emma’s not talking about her chap.”
“Oh. What’s that?”
“He’s married!”
“Gosh,” I said. Well that was entirely her own affair, as it were. Of absolutely no concern to anyone else. “Who is he?” I said.
&nb
sp; “It’s one of the parents. She’d been giving his daughter some extra tuition after school, and he used to come and pick her up, and apparently he picked Emma up at the same time.”
“Oh.” And then I had an awful, awful thought. “It isn’t Seriously Successful, is it?” I certainly hoped Emma wouldn’t stoop so low as to steal other single women’s married boyfriends from right under their noses, even if they weren’t actually going out with them and in fact had only ever met them twice. And then I remembered, his daughter’s at Benenden. Phew.
“Tiffany—you’re obsessed with that man.”
“No I am,” I said indignantly. We sipped our coffee in silence. “That surprises me about Emma,” I said as I bit into my seventh Jaffa Cake. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d have, you know, done that.”
“Well, she has,” said Lizzie, “and the ordure is about to hit the ventilator. Her headmaster’s found out about it and her job’s on the line.” But this was terrible. Her job had nothing to do with her private life.
“They’re hoping to keep it out of the papers,” Lizzie added.
“Why on earth would it be in the papers?” I said.
“Because the man in question is a Labour MP.”
That’s the drawback about having such a big majority, isn’t it? Too many MP’s, not enough work to go round, with the net result that some backbenchers, frustrated by their lack of promotion and left with too little to do, are tempted to, well, put it about a bit. Yes, I blame the government. But poor Emma. What a ghastly situation. Imagine going to the newsagent one morning, on what seems like a perfectly normal day, to find your face splashed across the front page of the Mirror, the Mail and the Sun above headlines such as these: TOTTENHAM TROLLOP TEMPTS LABOUR’S LARRY! PLEASE MISS! A BLACK MARK FOR LABOUR’S LAWRENCE BRIGHT! I was horrified. It was disgusting. I bought them all. Still, at least they were nice pictures—she looked very pretty, even if she was staring mournfully out of an upstairs window as though she were a hostage which, in a way, she was. Poor Emma, I thought. Trapped by the tabloids. So she was Lawrence Bright’s “sultry thirty-something brunette.” But what a mess. And it made me realize how very foolish it is to get involved with married men. It always leads to disaster and sordidness and frustration and tabloid exposure and, well, thank God I hadn’t gone down that road myself. I decided to send her an anonymous Valentine card to cheer her up in her darkest hour. I also thought I’d give her some advice about deep breathing—after all, this was a crisis.
