The Trials of Tiffany Trott
An engaging first novel by the bestselling author of THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU and A VINTAGE AFFAIR.Tiffany Trott is attractive, eligible and sparky – so why is she (as her bossy best friend puts it) ‘a complete failure with men’?Stung into indignant action, she decides she’ll hunt down Mr Right herself – or even Mr All Right, who’s got to be better than the Mr Catastrophics who litter her recent past. So begins Tiffany’s eventful odyssey through the love jungle, from blindingly bland dates to introduction agencies, small ads and Club Med.But as she ponders her puzzling lack of a life partner, Tiffany watches her friends face problems of their own – and begins to wonder whether marriage and motherhood is quite what she wants after all…
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The Trials of Tiffany Trott
Isabel Wolff
For my parents.
And in memory of my brother
Simon Paul Wolff.
The funniest person I ever knew.
Table of Contents
OK. Champagne – tick; Cheesy Wotsits – tick; flowers – tick; balloons – tick; streamers – tick; cake – tick; candles – tick – oh God, oh God, where are the candleholders? Blast – I haven’t got thirty-seven, I’ve only got, um … eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Blast. Blast. Where’s that list gone? Oh here it is. Right. Where was I? Oh yes … candleholders … Twiglets – tick; Hula Hoops – tick; assorted mixed nuts – tick; nosh – tick. Oh gosh. Nosh. Rather a lot of that. I mean, how are we going to get through 150 prawn toasts, 200 devils-on-horseback, 350 cocktail sausages glazed with honey and tarragon, 180 oak-smoked salmon appetizers and 223 spinach and cheese miniroulades? How exactly are six people expected to eat all that? Plus the ninety-five chocolate éclairs? Just six of us. Half a dozen. Or precisely twelve per cent of the original invitation list. Bit of a disappointment, and I’d had such high hopes for this evening. I’d had the sitting-room decorated specially. Terribly pretty Osborne and Little wallpaper and a hand-gilded chandelier. But then I felt like pushing the boat out a bit this year. Going the whole hog. After all, I’ve got something to celebrate – a Very Serious Relationship with a really nice bloke. Alex. My boyfriend. My chap. So nice. Lovely in fact. Really, really lovely. And there are still quite a few people who haven’t met him, and I really wanted to have this party for him as much as for me. And now it’s going to be a bit of a damp squib. But that’s the really annoying thing about entertaining, isn’t it? The way people cancel at the last minute, when you’ve already done all the shopping. Unfortunately I’ve had quite a lot of cancellations – forty-four actually – which means my big bash for fifty is now going to be rather a discreet little affair. This means it is most unlikely to make the society pages of the Highbury and Islington Express. Blast. But then all my friends are having crises with their babysitters, or their nannies have resigned, or their offspring are off-colour or their husbands are unhappy. It’s such a bore when the majority of one’s pals are married and family pressures take precedence over fun. For example, Angus and Alison cancelled this morning because Jack’s got ‘botty trouble’ – did she really have to be quite so graphic about it?
‘I’m terribly worried, it’s gone all sort of greeny-yellowy-orangey,’ she said.
‘Thank you for sharing that with me,’ I replied crisply. Actually, I didn’t say that at all, I simply said, ‘Poor little thing, what a terrible shame. Anyway, thanks for letting me know.’ Then at lunchtime Jane and Peter blew me out because their au pair’s bogged off with the boy next door, and even Lizzie – my best and oldest friend – even Lizzie can’t come.
‘Sorry, darling,’ she said when she called me yesterday morning. ‘I’m really really sorry, but I’d totally forgotten it’s half-term, and I want to take the girls away.’
‘Oh, well, never mind,’ I said, philosophically. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Birdwatching in Botswana. The Okavango’s divine at this time of year.’
Crikey – some half-term treat, I thought, beats a day out at the zoo.
‘I’ve just managed to pick up a last-minute package with Cox and Kings,’ she said, audibly drawing on a cigarette. ‘We’re flying to Gabarone tonight.’
‘Is Martin going with you?’ I enquired.
‘Don’t be silly, Tiff,’ she said with a loud snort. ‘He’s working.’ Of course. Silly me. Poor Martin. And then Rachel phoned last night to say she couldn’t face the party because she’s got terrible morning sickness (‘But my party’s in the evening,’ I pointed out); and two hours later Daisy rang to say she’s got funny pains in her lower abdomen and daren’t come out because it’s probably the baby arriving early. Then this morning Robert phoned to say his mother-in-law’s ill, so they can’t come, and then Felicity rang to say that Thomas is teething and won’t stop blubbing and so that’s it – now we are six. Six singles, as it happens: Sally, Kit, Catherine, Frances, Emma, me and, of course, Alex. My boyfriend. My chap. I may not have a husband but at least I’ve got a bloke. Which is more than can be said for my other single women friends. Poor things. Must be so depressing for them. Being single. At our age. Dreadful. And incomprehensible – after all, they’re so eligible. And so attractive. Especially Sally. She’s really gorgeous. And she’s loaded. But even Sally finds it hard to meet decent blokes. Luckily for me I’ve got Alex. Phew. And it’s serious. Actually I’ve been going out with him for quite a long time now – eight months, three weeks and five days. In fact, well, put it this way – I’ve just taken out a subscription to
