of spotless cream carpet. Maybe it’s the artful arrangements of exotic flowers in tall, handblown glass vases. Maybe it’s the beautifully rag-rolled walls or the serried ranks of antique silver frames on burnished mahogany. Perhaps it’s the hundred-foot garden complete with rose-drenched pergola. Or perhaps it’s the fact that she has two adorable children and a husband who loves her and who will never, ever be unfaithful or leave her for a younger model. Yes, I think that’s what it is. She has the luxury of a kind and faithful husband, and she has pledged to help me secure the same.
‘Now, listen to me, Tiffany,’ she said, as we sat in her hand-distressed Smallbone of Devizes kitchen. Through the open window I could see Martin strenuously pushing a mower up and down.
‘You are a product, Tiffany. A very desirable product. And you are about to sell yourself in the market place. Do not sell yourself short.’
‘OK,’ I said, sipping coffee from one of her Emma Bridgewater fig leaf and black olive spongeware mugs. ‘I won’t.’
‘Your pitch has got to be right or you’ll miss your target,’ she said, passing me a plate of chocolate olivers.
‘It’s OK, I know a thing or two about pitches,’ I said. ‘I mean I am a copywriter.’
‘No, Tiffany, sometimes I really don’t think you understand the first thing about advertising,’ she said, glancing out into the garden.
‘But my ads win awards! I got a bronze Lion at Cannes last year!’
‘Martin!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve missed the bit by the cotoneasta!’ He stopped, wiped the beads of sweat off his tonsured head, and turned the mower round.
‘Mind you, I don’t know why you want a husband, Tiffany, they’re all completely useless.’ Suddenly Amy and Alice appeared from the garden.
‘What are you doing, Mummy?’ said Amy, who is five.
‘Finding Tiffany a husband.’
‘Oh good, does that mean we’ll be bridesmaids?’ said Alice.
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘It does. Now go outside and play.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be your bridesmaid, Tiffany,’ said Alice, who is seven.
‘I think I’m more likely to be your bridesmaid,’ I said, ‘when I’m about fifty.’
‘OK Tiff, this is what I suggest,’ said Lizzie, waving a piece of paper at me. ‘Gorgeous blonde, thirty-two, size forty bust, interminable legs, fantastic personality, hugely successful, own delightful house, seeks extremely eligible man, minimum six foot, for permanent relationship. No losers. No cross-dressers. No kids.’
‘I think it contravenes the Trades Description Act,’ I said.
‘I know, but at least you’ll get lots of replies.’
‘I am not thirty-two, I’m thirty-seven. I do not have long legs – I have short ones. I do not have a size forty bust, and I am definitely not gorgeous.’
‘I know you’re not,’ she said. ‘But we’ve got to talk you up as they say in the City. It’s all a question of perception. I mean Martin’s always talking up his stocks and shares to his clients, and some of them go through the roof.’
‘Some of these men are going to go through the roof too,’ I said. ‘What’s the point in lying? Lying will only get me into trouble.’
‘Men lie,’ she said, accurately; and into my mind flashed Tall Athletic Neville, a towering sex-god, five foot eight.
‘Well, I’m not going to lie,’ I said, scribbling furiously. ‘Now this,’ I said, ‘is nearer the mark: “Sparky, kind-hearted girl, thirty-seven, not thin, likes tennis and hard work WLTM intelligent, amusing, single man, 36-45, for the purposes of matrimony. No facial hair. No golf players. Photo and letter please.”’
‘You won’t get any replies,’ Lizzie shouted down the path at me as I left to get ready for tennis. ‘Not a single one!’
Tennis always takes my mind off my troubles. Bashing balls about in my small North London club is so therapeutic. It gets the seratonin going, or is it endorphins? Maybe it’s melatonin? God, I can’t remember which. Anyway, whatever it is it releases stress, makes me feel happy. Or at least it would do if it wasn’t for that wretched man, Alan – such a fly in the ointment. Whenever I’m playing, there he is: the solicitor with two heads. Bald; bearded; thin. The man of my nightmares. It’s not at all flattering being fancied by an extremely unattractive man.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Not at all,’ I said airily as I sat in the sunshine on the terrace. We made our way onto one of the grass courts – at least he’s not a bad player. We played a couple of sets – he won six-two, six-two, in fact he always beats me six-two, six-two – and then we went and had tea.
‘Tiffany, would you like to see something at the cinema with me?’ he said as he poured me a cup of Earl Grey.
No, not really. ‘Ummmmm,’ I began.
‘The Everyman are doing a season of Truffaut.’
‘Well … ’
‘Or perhaps you’d like to go to the opera – the ENO are doing The Magic Flute again.’
‘Oh, er, seen that one actually.’
‘Right, then, how about something at that theatre?’
‘Well, you see, I’m really quite busy at the moment.’
He looked stricken. ‘Tiffany, you’re not seeing anyone are you?’
Sodding outrageous! ‘I really think that’s my business, Alan,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you want to go out with me, Tiffany? I don’t understand it. I’ve got everything a woman could want. I’ve got a huge house in Belsize Park; I’m very successful; I’m the faithful type, and I love children. I’d be a good father. What is the problem?’
‘Well, Alan,’ I said, ‘the problem is that though you are undoubtedly what they call a “catch”, I for one find you – how can I put this politely? Physically repulsive.’ Actually I didn’t say that at all. I simply said, ‘Alan, you’re terribly eligible, but I’m afraid I just don’t feel that the chemistry’s right and that’s all there is to it. So I’m not going to waste your time. I don’t think it’s nice to have one’s time wasted. And if this means you don’t want to play tennis with me any more, then I’d quite understand.’
‘Oh no, no, no – I’m not saying that,’ he interjected swiftly. ‘I’m not saying that at all. How about Glyndebourne?’ he called after me, as I went downstairs to change. ‘In the stalls? With a champagne picnic? Laurent Perrier, foie gras – the works?’
Oh yes. Yes. Glyndebourne. Glyndebourne would be lovely. I’d love to go to Glyndebourne – with anyone but you.
Why
