by Isabel Wolff
I washed my hands and reapplied my concealer—the early start had left a pale penumbra under each eye. Then I went back downstairs, where lunch was about to begin. Nick and I were on different tables; he went to his, which looked large, and rather lively, and I found my way to mine. And sitting there already was the punky bridesmaid. She gave me a welcoming smile. And seated on her right was a rather thin, crisp-looking woman whom I took to be the mother. And on the other side was—keep calm Tiffany, keep calm—oooooooh! Mmmmmmmmm! Ooooooooh!
“Hallo Tiffany,” said Seriously Successful calmly. “I noticed you in church. Quite an entrance. Did you manage to wrap your present? Darling, this is Tiffany Trott,” he said. “Tiffany, this is my wife, Olivia, and my daughter, Saskia.”
“Saskia and I have just met, actually,” I said. “Upstairs.”
“Tiffany’s in advertising, darling,” he said to his wife. “That’s how we met.”
“Yes. That’s right,” I said. “Through advertising.” This explanation seemed to satisfy Olivia. She smiled at me in a reasonably friendly fashion, then spread her napkin over the lap of her black Issy Miyake tunic. She looked austere and detached, but also tired and strained as we all made awkward conversation over the lobster salad.
“More wine, Olivia?” said Seriously Successful coldly.
“Yes please darling,” she replied in an equally frigid fashion. What was his name, anyway? I still didn’t know, and she just called him “darling” all the time, in this acidulous tone of voice.
“I’d like some wine too, please,” I said holding out my glass. I’m sure it’s beautifully chilled by now in this frosty atmosphere.
“Well, I really don’t think you should, Tiffany,” he said, “in your condition.” Bastard.
“You see Olivia, Tiffany is expecting a baby,” said Seriously Successful. “Aren’t you, Tiffany?”
“Well, I really don’t want to disc—”
“She’s going to be a single mother,” he added.
“Oh, what a good idea,” said Olivia, to my utter surprise.
“So, she can’t drink, of course, which is a pity as this is a particularly good Sauvignon and I happen to know that Tiffany is rather partial to Sauvignon.”
“Yes. Yes I am,” I said as he placed the bottle beyond my reach.
“And I certainly don’t think you should be eating seafood, Tiffany,” he continued as he whisked away my starter and handed it to a passing waiter. “It would be very irresponsible of you to risk it,” he added seriously. “Wouldn’t it?” Bastard. “Though I must say,” he went on smoothly as he poured me some mineral water, “you really don’t look pregnant at all. What a very discreet little bump you’ve got there Tiffany. In fact—I do hope you won’t mind my saying this—it’s the discreetest I’ve ever seen. So much so that when I saw you in the church I said to myself, ‘Well, Is She Or Isn’t She?’ ” Bastard. “When’s it due?” he continued.
“I really don’t want to talk ab—”
“May, isn’t it?” he inquired, giving me a penetrating stare. “Isn’t that what you said, Tiffany? May?” Right. That was it. I know I’d misled him and everything, but this was simply going too far. He’d made his point. And I couldn’t answer back in front of the family. I decided to ignore him completely and talk to his wife instead. That would really get up his nose.
“Olivia, what’s your connection with Jonathan and Sarah?” I asked.
“I’m Sarah’s first cousin,” she replied. But then why weren’t they at the engagement bash?
“What a pity you missed their party,” I said to her. “It was rather good. It was at the East India Club.”
“We missed it because Olivia opened the invitation and then forgot to tell me about it, didn’t you Olivia?” said Seriously Successful. His wife glared at him. “You always ‘forget’ to tell me when there’s something going on which I might possibly enjoy,” he added.
“Oh, look I hope you’re not going to start arguing again, you two,” said Saskia wearily. She looked at me and rolled her eyes heavenward. “They bickered all the way up here in the car,” she whispered. “For four and a half hours nonstop! I had to tell them to shut up.” Oh dear.
“Saskia, I do wish you’d take off all that horrible makeup,” said Seriously Successful suddenly. “You look awful.”
“No I don’t, Dad,” said Saskia.
“Darling, I’m afraid you do,” he replied. “You look as though someone’s punched you in the face. And your accent—it’s terrible. What’s the point of sending you to Benenden if you’re going to come out sounding like Barbara Windsor?”
“At least she doesn’t sound like Elizabeth Windsor,” said his wife acidly. “And as for her makeup—Saskia must be free to express herself in whichever way she chooses.”
“My wife has very progressive views about children’s education, deportment, behavior and appearance,” said Seriously Successful to me, “whereas I’m . . .”
“Stuffy, uptight and old-fashioned,” said his wife sharply. My head was swinging from left to right as if I were on Wimbledon Center Court.
“I am not old-fashioned,” said Seriously Successful.
“Yes you are,” said his wife.
“No I’m not.”
“I’m afraid you are.”
“He is, you know,” whispered Saskia. “He’d like me to wear”—she’d pulled a face—“Laura Ashley. And—yeeeuch!—Liberty. And the pictures he likes are dead boring, whereas Mum likes really modern stuff. She ought to run a gallery—she’d be good at that.” This observation presented me with a good opportunity to change the subject, while simultaneously annoying Seriously Successful again.
“What sort of art interests you?” I asked Olivia.
“Abstract, Expressionist, post-modern, and of course conceptual,” she said. “I think it’s thrilling. I’ve never shared my husband’s taste for dreary landscapes, sporting prints, and self-indulgent Rococo and Baroque—I like art that is contemporary, vivid and relevant to today.”
“I really can’t see how bits of dead animal are relevant to anything,” said Seriously Successful as he cut into his lamb.
“I love Tracey Emin’s work,” said Olivia, ignoring him. “And Rachel Whiteread’s installations are extremely haunting and thought-provoking. And I’m very interested in video art as well.” Her husband was groaning audibly.
“Do you ever go to the Oscar Reeds gallery?” I asked her as a waitress spooned tiny new potatoes onto our plates. “The owner’s a bit of a bore, but I think you’d like the work.”
“Oh yes,” she said cryptically as she picked up her knife and fork. “I know all about Oscar Reeds.” Now what did that mean? It probably meant that Oscar Reeds had insulted her as well.
“How are your ante-natal classes going, Tiffany?” said Seriously Successful with a hefty sip of Bordeaux. “Are the breathing exercises going well?”
“Yes. Very well,” I said truthfully.
“Would you like to demonstrate?” he inquired.
“No. No, I wouldn’t.” God, he was knocking back the booze.
“Well, just lay off the soft cheese, OK?” he hissed tipsily, as the dessert course arrived. “I don’t want to see you touch that dolcelatte.”
“And I don’t want to see you drink and drive,” I countered.
“I’m not,” he retorted indignantly, “I never do. We’re staying in the village tonight.”
Oh. And then the champagne came around, our glasses were filled and Jonathan and Sarah cut the cake, and then speeches were made and they were short and funny, just as they should be, and it was all so, well, perfect, really. And I thought, this is how it’s going to be when Patrick and I tie the knot. Just like this. And then the band struck up, and Sarah and Jonathan took to the dance floor while we all watched and clapped, and then, gradually, everyone else joined in. Fathers dancing with daughters, mothers with sons, grandparents with teenage grandchildren, husbands with wives, and then Saskia dashed off and fo
und herself a young boy to twirl around with and . . . oh God. My heart sank. Pamela Roach! In a fetching, low-cut wigwam in bubble-gum pink. She was on the dance floor, gyrating furiously with a hideous-looking man of about fifty-five. She looked gloriously happy as she wobbled around with him, twisting and shaking her expansive frame to the tune of “Do You Think I’m Sexy?” by Rod Stewart. I lowered my head then hid my face behind my right hand. I didn’t want to be spotted.
“What’s the matter, Tiffany?” said Seriously Successful suddenly. “Toothache? Or is it indigestion? You mothers-to-be should be careful about your diet. Here,” he said, passing me some grapes. “The Snack You Can Eat Between Meals.” I gave him a withering look: drop dead, gorgeous. “Or would you like a little top-up?” he went on, offering me the cafetière. “There’s An Awful Lot of Coffee in Brazil you know, Tiffany. Or perhaps, ooh, no, of course not—you should be drinking herbal tea instead, shouldn’t you?”
Olivia was looking at her husband, then at me, nonplussed. “You’re behaving even more strangely than usual,” she said to Seriously Successful disapprovingly, as she popped a bright blue capsule into her mouth.
“Not at all,” he said. “It’s All Because the Lady Loves . . . oh, who’s this?”
“Tiffany! Tiffany,” barked Pamela. “You must be blind! Didn’t you see me? I’ve been waving at you from the dance floor!”
“Pamela, hasn’t anyone ever told you that redheads should never, ever, ever, even on pain of death, wear pink?” I said. Actually I didn’t say that. I said, “Oh sorry. Didn’t see you. Fancy bumping into you again.”
“Well, after the engagement party I did a bit of research at Somerset House,” she began breathlessly. “And I discovered that I’m related to Jonathan by marriage. And when I told Sarah that I am in fact a second cousin of his, three times removed, on my mother’s father’s side, she very kindly sent me an invitation.”
“Oh, I’m a cousin too,” said Olivia with sudden interest. “Now which side are you on—the Fitzroys or the McCallums?”
Pamela looked blankly at her. And then a blush the color of sunburn spread from her throat up to her face. “Oh, er, er . . . the er, Fitzroys,” she offered.
“Oh, they’re a very interesting family,” said Olivia. “Do sit down and I’ll tell you all about them. I’ve done a very detailed family history, actually . . .”
“Well . . . I really don’t want to bother you,” said Pamela, suddenly retreating. “I only came over to say hello to Tiffany, and in fact my partner’s waiting for me over there.” She rushed off again and was soon swallowed up in the colorful shoal of shuffling dancers.
“How odd,” said Olivia. “Well, excuse me while I powder my nose.”
“Tiffany,” said Seriously Successful with sudden quietness when she’d gone.
“Yes?”
“Why did you tell me you were pregnant?”
“I didn’t,” I said truthfully.
“But, I don’t understand,” he said with an inebriated sigh. “All those childcare books.”
“My friend Sally’s having a baby,” I explained. “In May. I’m her birthing partner.”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, I see. I made a mistake, then.”
“Yes. You did.”
“It was a bit mean of you, not to put me right,” he said resentfully.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “In the circumstances.”
Seriously Successful glanced wistfully at the dancers, and then he looked at me and said, “Tiffany . . .”
“Yes?”
“I wonder. Would you . . . would you like to . . . ?”
“Trotters!” Suddenly Nick was standing next to me, extending his hand. “Come on, Trotters. Come and have a dance.” He smiled at Seriously Successful, and at Olivia, who’d just returned. “Nick Walker,” he said politely. “Do excuse us.”
“Oh. Oh. Yes, Nick,” I said as he led me onto the dance floor. And to be honest I was glad to have a break from Seriously Successful’s domestic disharmony. Frankly it was a bit of a strain. I glanced at him from time to time as Nick gently whirled me around. He remained at the table, sitting there, silently, with his wife. And he looked miserable. Quite miserable. And I felt for him. I really did. But Seriously Successful’s problems were not my business, his unhappy marriage none of my affair. Though at least he hadn’t lied about his circumstances, as many men do. He and his wife seemed completely different, their incompatibility clear for all to see. And Olivia was obviously unhappy, too. Very unhappy. Was that why she wore black to weddings?
March Continued
ARNOLPHE: My grasp of conjugal cunning is complete.
I’m an expert on uxorial deceit.
I’ve taken steps, moreover, to prevent
My cuckolding. She’s wholly innocent
Is my bride. Yes, a clot. . .
“Want one?” I whispered to Patrick.
“No thanks,” he said.
CHRYSALDE: I can’t quite see.
ARNOLPHE: I’m marrying a fool. No flies on me.
“Have a Continental Truffle?” I said, offering him the box again.
“Er, no thanks, Tiffany,” he whispered back.
“How about a Lemon Dream?”
“No, no really.” I looked at the leaflet in the box, I could just make out what it said in the half-light.
“It says it’s a ‘light, lemon fondant cream draped in rich dark chocolate.’ ”
“No thanks. Not for me.”
“How about a Nut Swirl?”
“Er, no.”
ARNOLPHE: I’m sure your wife’s as virtuous as can be.
But one with brains is not a good idea.
And certain husbands I could name pay dear
For taking on the intellectual type.
“Isn’t Peter Bowles marvelous,” I said.
“Yes.”
“He’s one of my favorite actors.”
“Good.”
“Did you see him in To the Manor Born?”
“No.”
“He was fantastic.”
“Shhhhhh!” said someone, very noisily, behind us.
ARNOLPHE: The sort of wife I want is one, in short,
Who wouldn’t think a single, knowing thought.
As for her pastimes, I’ll allow her three:
Sewing; churchgoing; loving me.
CHRYSALDE: You want a total imbecile. I see.
ARNOLPHE: I’d rather someone stupid and quite plain
Than absolutely gorgeous with a brain.
“Bloody funny,” I said, as the curtain came down for the interval in a shower of applause. “Bloody funny. God, I love Sheridan.”
“It’s Molière actually,” Patrick pointed out.
“Oh, so it is,” I said as we made our way into the bar. “Silly me. Are you enjoying it, Patrick?” I asked him when he came back with our drinks.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s very amusing.” Amusing? It was hilarious.
“Do you want a Black Magic now?” I said, offering him the box.
“Oh, OK then,” he said. “Can I have a Hazelnut Cluster?” Christ, I’d eaten those. In fact I’d eaten most of the others as well. All except . . .
“Why don’t you have a Raspberry Roulade?”
“What?”
“A light and luscious fondant cream draped in rich, dark chocolate.”
“Oh, right,” and then I had another sip of red wine and suddenly the five-minute bell sounded and we trooped back into the dress circle.
The second half flew by in a flash, although it was quite hard concentrating on the play when my knees were nearly touching Patrick’s. And it was so romantic, sitting there in the warm darkness on our red velvet seats, laughing at the witty translation and giggling at Arnolphe, this narrow-minded merchant who wants to marry his young ward, but is obsessed with the fear of being made a cuckold. And the whole point of the play is that Arnolphe’s elaborate plans to preserve her chastity serve only to drive her into the ar
ms of his handsome young rival. I thought it was a scream—deeply and richly ironic—but to be honest Patrick didn’t find it as funny as I did. And I think I know the reason why. Because afterward, when we went to dinner, I asked him why he had got divorced.
“My wife had an affair,” he said as he tore a piece off his bread roll.
“Oh. Oh.” I wasn’t quite sure what else to say, so I just said, “Bad luck,” and tried to change the subject. We talked a bit more about the play. And about the fact that Arnolphe is looking for someone thick, because he’s too scared to marry an intelligent woman in case she deceives him.
“There are lots of men like Arnolphe,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, men who don’t want clever women. They find them threatening. Not so much because they’re worried they’ll have affairs, but because they feel they’ll be put in the shade. Take my friend Frances, for example. She’s got an intellect the size of several planets. She got a double first at Oxford and is head of family law at a top London practice. But men just don’t seem very interested in her.”
“Is she good-looking?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, she is. But it’s the big brain, you see. They don’t like it. I keep telling her to dumb down a bit, you know, go back to school, retake her O levels and fail them, but she just won’t listen. She says men are boring, but that’s only because she’s too clever for most of them. Luckily, I don’t have that problem.”
Patrick didn’t contradict me. “Well, I think intelligence is extremely attractive,” he said.
“But lots of men don’t take the same view.”
“On the Continent it’s considered very chic for a man to have a clever wife or mistress,” he added, “as long as they’re attractive too, of course. And I’m the same. To me, the woman’s brain is her most important organ.”
“I got quite a high 2:2,” I offered.
“In fact, intelligence is the most attractive asset a woman can have.”
“And two C grades at A level.”
“In fact,” he went on purposefully as he cut into his steak, “it’s the only thing that really matters.”
