Free The Trials of Tiffany Trott by Isabel Wolff Page B

a catch with this catch. I mean he’s very attractive, at least I think so. And he’s got very good manners, and he’s very amusing and very good company and all that and yes, he’s very successful, and very well-dressed and very sophisticated too and very charismatic. But he’s also very married. Blast. Blast. I stabbed away at the antique roses—I’ve done two small petals actually—while I reflected on Seriously Successful’s appalling behavior and my continuing bad luck with blokes. Then the phone rang. I went into the hall and picked up the receiver.
    “Oh hello Tiffany, it’s um—ha ha ha ha!—Peter here.” Oh God. This was all I needed. “Tiffany, are you there?” I heard him squeak.
    “Er, yes. Yes, I am,” I said, “but . . .”
    “Well, ha ha ha! It was so nice to meet you the other day, Tiffany, and I just thought we ought to arrange that game of tennis.” Ought we? Oh God, no.
    “I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation owing to a subsequent engagement,” I said, recalling Oscar Wilde’s solution p. 60 to these dilemmas. Actually I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, fast.
    “Can you go and get your diary?” I heard him say.
    “Er, yes, hang on a second,” I said, suddenly inspired. But I didn’t go into my study. I went to the front door, opened it, and rang my bell hard. Twice. And then I rang it again.
    “Oh Peter, I’m so sorry but there’s someone at the door,” I said breathlessly. “I’d better answer it . . .”
    “Oh well, I’ll hold on,” he said cheerfully.
    “No, don’t do that, Peter, I’ll ring you back. Bye.”
    “But you don’t have my num—”
    Phew. Phew. I went back into the sitting-room. And then the phone rang again. Bloody Peter Fitz-Harrod. Why couldn’t he take a hint? This time I’d tell him. I’d just pluck up the courage to say, sorry, but that I’d prefer him not to call.
    “ Yesss !” I hissed into the receiver.
    “Darling, what on earth’s the matter?” said Mum. “You sound awful.”
    “Oh, hello, Mum. I feel awful,” I said. “I’m pissed off. With men.”
    “Never mind,” she said. “I’m sure there’s someone nice just around the corner.”
    “I’m sure there isn’t ,” I said.
    “Haven’t you met anyone new yet?” she inquired.
    “Oh yes. One or two. But no one I’d bother telling you about,” I said bitterly. “No one I’ll be bringing home for tea, if that’s what you mean. No one who’s going to be any use, to use that old-fashioned phrase.”
    “Oh dear. It’s just so difficult these days,” she said. “It’s not like it was when Daddy and I were young. I mean, when we were young—”
    “I know,” I interjected. “You just met someone you liked, and they became your boyfriend, and then before too long you got engaged, and then you got married, and you stayed married forever and ever. End of story,” I said.
    p. 61 “Well, more or less,” she replied. “I suppose forty years is forever and ever, isn’t it?”
    Forty years. My parents have been married for forty years. Four decades; four hundred and eighty months; two thousand and eighty weeks; fourteen thousand, five hundred and sixty days; three hundred and fifty thousand hours; twenty-one million minutes; one billion, two hundred and fifty-eight million seconds, give or take a few. They’ve been married all that time. Happily married, too. And no affairs. I know that. Because I asked them. And that’s the kind of marriage I’d like myself. And I don’t care what bien-pensant [right-minded] people say about the complexity of modern family life, the probability of divorce, the natural tendency toward serial monogamy and the changing social mores of our times. I know exactly what I want. I want to be married to the same man, for a minimum of four decades—possibly five, like the Queen—and no infidelity, thank you! I’m sorry to be so vehement on this point, I know that others may take a more