name’s Kate,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Kate Spero.’
‘Tiffany,’ I said. ‘Tiffany Trott.’
‘Are you single?’ she asked, nodding at my copy of The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr Right.
‘Yes.’
‘So am I. Isn’t it a bore? I’m looking for TSS.’
‘TSS?’
‘That Special Someone.’
‘Oh. Well … good luck. Er – are you looking here?’ I asked, casting my eyes around.
‘Oh good God, no! I’m not gay,’ she explained, with a burst of surprised laughter. Oh. Got that wrong then. ‘No, I’m looking for a man,’ she added matter-of-factly. ‘But I just can’t find one anywhere.’ And then she said, ‘Do you know, I never thought I’d get to thirty-seven and still be single.’ And that was really, really amazing because that’s exactly what I say out loud to myself several times every day.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it a drag?’ And then we immediately told each other all about our past unhappy relationships since about – ooh, 1978 or so – revealing them as children proudly display their scars, though I decided not to tell her about my ad. Anyway I’m happy to say that Kate is now my New Best Friend. I mean, we’ve got so much in common. We’re the same age, both single and both desperate. Isn’t that an incredible coincidence? In fact, her birthday is a week after mine. Amazing!
‘What did you do on your birthday this year?’ she asked a few hours later as we strode across the Heath in the afternoon sunshine.
‘I got dumped by my boyfriend,’ I said. ‘What did you do?’
‘I cried all day,’ she replied happily. We walked on in silence for a while, stopping to watch a knot of children flying kites on Parliament Hill. And then Kate said, ‘You know, we should look for guys together. It’s much easier hunting in a pack.’ This was probably true. I’ve often wished that Frances and Emma and Sally would consider it, but they’re determined to leave their romantic happiness to the vagaries of Fate. Or God. But God really didn’t seem to be doing that much at the moment. I preferred Kate’s proactive approach.
‘What we need is singles dos,’ she said firmly. ‘There are lots of them – Eat ‘n’ Greet, Dine ‘n’ Shine, Dateless in Docklands, that kind of thing. I’ll do some research and let you know.’
‘What a brilliant idea,’ I said, as we parted. ‘You’re on.’
In the meantime I waited suspensefully – oh heavens, the torment! – for the replies to my small ad to arrive. Maybe Lizzie was right, I wondered as two and a half weeks went by. Maybe I wouldn’t get a single response – no irony intended, ha ha! Perhaps there isn’t much demand for sparky girls at the moment. Maybe dull girls are all the rage. But, just in case, I went in search of some more expensive unguents in order to look my best for any future blokes. I mean, at thirty-seven, one’s got to take action because, as Lizzie says, my face is going over to the enemy. But I’m not having it – no sir! Crows’ feet – eff off and die! Naso-labial lines – hold it right there!
‘Yes, yes, tricky … ’ said the woman on the expensive unguents counter in Selfridges. She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she scrutinised my skin. ‘You’ve got a luminosity problem,’ she announced.
‘Well, can anything be done about it?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I’ll pay.’
‘In that case the Helena Ardenique multi-action retinyl complex intensive lotion with added ceramides for active cell-renewal should do the trick,’ she explained. ‘Firmness and elasticity are measurably improved, lines and wrinkles diminished by a guaranteed forty-one and a half per cent and luminosity and skin-glow restored. What it does,’ she concluded, ‘is to make your skin “act younger”.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I said as I wrote out my cheque for seventy pounds.
Then I went home and there, there on the doormat, having arrived by the second post, was a plain, brown A5-sized envelope stamped, ‘Private and Confidential’. And inside that plain, brown envelope, dear reader, were no fewer than thirty-two letters! And what an assortment of writing paper – Basildon Bond, Croxley Script, Conqueror, Airmail, Andrex – ha ha! Some even had hearts and flowers stuck to the envelope! Some were typed, some were word-processed, some were neatly handwritten, whilst others were almost illegible. Illegible, but possibly quite eligible none the less, I hoped as I ripped into them with lepidopterous stomach and pounding heart.
For crying out loud! A Norfolk pig farmer! And, at forty-nine well outside my stated age-range! If I’d wanted a Norfolk pig farmer I’d have bloody well asked for one, wouldn’t I? I’d have placed my personal ad in the King’s Lynn Gazette or Pig Farmer’s Weekly. Anyway, the other replies broke down as follows: five accountants, twelve computer software designers, one data collection manager, two probation officers, one natural catastrophe modeller, three chiropodists, one stockbroker, one master mariner and six solicitors including … including … well, actually, I’m furious. Because when I opened reply number nineteen – a nice, thick pale-blue watermarked envelope – I found a longish letter inside and then this photo fell out, and stone the crows, it was none other than two-headed Alan from my tennis club! What the hell does he think he’s up to? He’s supposed to be infatuated with me, offering to take me to Glyndebourne and everything, and here he is tarting around the lonely hearts columns. I was outraged. And what a flatteringly out-of-date photo – obviously taken in about 1980, he’s much balder than that now! But I must say his letter was nice. It was very open, and said how much he’d like to get married and have children and what a good father he’d make, and how he wouldn’t mind changing nappies or anything, and in fact would probably even enjoy it. He also said he plays tennis twice a week and likes going to the opera – especially Glyndebourne – and went on about how his heart’s desire is a woman of good character complete with strong forehand. Well it’s forty-love to me, Alan, because I’m not bloody well replying, because I don’t think you should be two-timing me with sad women who advertise themselves in the personal columns of national newspapers. Actually, I feel a bit guilty about it, but I can’t write back, can I? I suppose I could always lie and say that due to unexpected demand the vacancy has now been filled. But I think that in the circs it’s better not to say anything. Keep mum. Poor bloke, he’d be mortified if he knew it was me (must tell Lizzie – she’ll hoot!). Then while I was reading letter number twenty-six – very witty actually – from the stockbroker, the phone rang. It was Kate.
‘Eat ‘n’ Greet. This Saturday. Huge summer party in prestigious venue for Successful and Attractive Single People.’
‘Oooh goodee,’ I said. ‘Is that us?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are we going, then?’
‘Yes. We most certainly are.’
The following day I was in my sunny sitting-room going through my record collection; I’ve never had the heart to chuck out my vinyl, somehow CDs just aren’t the same. I was sorting through the singles, and thinking as I did so that what I would really prefer is Long Play, when the phone rang.
‘Tiffany!’
‘Yes.’
