Free The Trials of Tiffany Trott by Isabel Wolff

bitter,” he said, as the waiter arrived with the pudding and cheese. “Why did you assume that I was single?”
    “Because you didn’t say that you weren’t ,” I said, throwing my eyes up in anguish to the clouded, trompe l’oeil ceiling. “Why didn’t you just be done with it and say, ‘Suave businessman in dead-as-dodo marriage WLTM curvy girl for fun leg-overs with absolutely no view to future’? Anyway, you could have told me over the phone.”
    “You didn’t ask .”
    “But you should have said. We talked for long enough.”
    “Well, OK, I didn’t say because I liked the sound of you so much and I was afraid that if you knew my situation you wouldn’t agree to meet me.”
    “Too bloody right. Being someone’s side-order wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
    “I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” he said, with an air of exasperation as he buttered a Bath Oliver. “I’m offering something very . . . civilized. And let’s face it, Tiffany, lots of people have these sorts of arrangements.”
    “Well, lots of people aren’t me,” I said. My throat was aching with a suppressed sob; tears pricked the back of my eyes. I glanced away from him, taking in the Marie Antoinette p. 55 interior with its shining mirrored panels and gilded chandeliers. Then I looked at him again.
    “You said it was a proposition. And I don’t accept it. So I’m afraid you’ll just have to put it to someone else.” I put my napkin on the table and stood up. “I think I’ll go home now. Goodbye. Thank you very much for dinner.”
    I walked out through the bar, aware of the happy babble of voices, and the merry chink of cut glass. My face was flaming with a combination of indignation and the humid, midsummer heat. What a bastard, I thought as I crossed Piccadilly. Who did he think he was? More important, who did he think I was? What a cad. What a . . . I flagged down the number 38 and stepped on board. Empty. Good. At least I could cry without being stared at.
    “Cheer up darling,” said the conductor as I sat in the front seat shielding my face with my left hand. “It may never happen.”
    “I know,” I said, as a large, hot tear plopped onto my lap. Especially if I make a habit of dating men like Seriously Successful. What a creep. What did he take me for? I reached into my bag and pulled out my mobile phone. I’d ring Lizzie right now and tell her what a bastard he was. Part-time girlfriend indeed! She’d be sympathetic. I dialed [dialled] her number.
    “We’re so sorry, but Lizzie and Martin aren’t here at the moment,” declaimed her recorded voice. “But please do leave us a message . . .” God, so theatrical—you’d think she was auditioning for the RSC—“and we’ll get back to you just as soon as we can.” Damn. I pressed the red button. Who could I talk to instead? I had to talk to someone. Sally. She’d dish out some sympathy. If she wasn’t in New York, Tokyo, Frankfurt, Washington or Paris. Ring ring. Ring ring.
    “Hallo,” said Sally.
    “Sally, it’s Tiffany and I just wanted to tell you . . .”
    “Tiffany! How are you?”
    “Very pissed off actually, because see I’ve just been on a date, a blind date . . .”
    p. 56 “Gosh, that’s brave.”
    “Yes, I suppose it is. Or rather it’s not really brave, it’s stupid. Because you see I met this bloke, this adventurous, seriously successful managing director . . .”
    “Yes? Sounds OK. What happened?” The bus stopped in Shaftesbury Avenue, then— ding ding! —it moved off again.
    “Well, it was all going very well,” I said. “I thought he was terribly attractive, and very interesting and incredibly funny . . .”
    “Oh hang on, Tiffany, I’ve just got to catch the business headlines on Sky . . .” Her voice returned a minute later. “It’s OK, I was just checking the Dow Jones. Carry on. So what happened?” Ding ding!
    “Well, it was going really well,” I repeated. “And he