The Trials of Tiffany Trott by Isabel Wolff

being . . . um . . . alone. So we’re just being really sensible about our completely puzzling lack of a life partner and resorting to a little artifice.
    “Hellooooo,” I whispered into the receiver in the most Felicity Kendalish voice I could manage. “My name’s Tiffany. Tiffany Trott. Now, I know you’ll have heard from about seventeen million unforgettable girls in their twenties and thirties, but you don’t need them—you need me! Why? Because I’m happy and busy, and I like jokes and I’m thirty-seven, single, and um . . . desperate—ha ha ha! No, but seriously . . . I’m short, blonde, on the fat side and quite jolly. Ummmm . . . so there we have it. That’s me, Tiffany. Tiffany Trott. So please give me a call soon. P.S.: I hope you don’t like golf. P.P.S.: Isn’t this fun?”
    Wow! That’s it. I hope he gives me a ring—preferably one with a big diamond on it, lozenge cut. On the other hand a larger square emerald would be nice or —and this is dead trendy—a right knuckleduster of an aquamarine. Yes, according to this month’s edition of Brides and Setting Up Home magazine, aquamarines are the stone of choice. In the meantime, there’s dinner with Angus and Alison this evening. I suppose I’ll be the only single woman—as usual. And as usual they’ll have invited along some dreary, physiognomically challenged, halitotic ex-army chap for me, who will have absolutely nothing to say. And seeing me struggle to extract conversation out of him over the curried avocado will make Alison and Angus think how lucky they are to be married, and thank God for that Young Conservatives do in Croydon in 1982, otherwise they’d never have met each other and they’d have ended up sad singles too, like poor, poor Tiffany.
     
    p. 43 Got that one completely wrong. On several counts. I wasn’t the only single woman—Catherine was there too, thank God. And my “date” was OK-looking-bordering-on-the-almost-acceptable. A GP in his early forties. And he certainly wasn’t dreary. Oh no. He had plenty to say.
    Hello, I thought to myself when we were introduced, you’re a bit of all right. A damn sight better than the usual pond life they dredge up on my behalf. He was very flirty. Very animated. He giggled a lot. He drank a lot. Though, like me, he politely declined Alison’s homemade cheese and peanut dip. But he looked incredibly fit and he had a lovely tan. I wasn’t too keen on his stubby little mustache or the gold bracelet on his left wrist, but I really liked his natty turquoise silk embroidered waistcoat. Very unusual. Though Catherine didn’t seem that impressed with him—she looked at him, then looked at me, and discreetly rolled her eyes. But personally, I rather liked the look of him.
    Anyway, Angus and Alison ushered us all into the dining room, and they sat Catherine next to this accountant—now he did look dreary—and they put me next to the GP, who was called Sebastian. And we started to make small talk over the macaroni-cheese-stuffed eggs, and he politely asked me about my interests. And when I said tennis, he said, “What do you play—singles?” I found that awfully amusing. And then he kept going on, rather oddly I thought, about how gorgeous-looking Greg Rusedski is and how much he’d like to be on Greg’s receiving end.
    “Now, there’s herby apple-glazed pork roast next,” said Alison. “Or blue cheese chicken rolls if you’re vegetarian.”
    Anyway, then because Abigail whatsername was pregnant—smugly rubbing her vast stomach all evening—the conversation naturally turned to babies.
    “Are you hoping to have children?” Sebastian asked me, passing me the bowl of cheesy-topped vegetables.
    p. 44 “Well . . . yes . . . yes, I am actually,” I replied, as I passed it on. I didn’t really want to discuss it, to be honest, but he didn’t seem to pick up on that at all.
    And then he said, “How old are you?” At this point everyone suddenly