Читать книгу The Trials of Tiffany Trott - Isabel Wolff - Страница 9

By the next morning I was much, much calmer. ‘What a bastard,’ I raged to myself. I mean, what a copper-bottomed swine. Disgusting behaviour. Part-time girlfriend indeed! Seriously Successful? Seriously Sleazy. Seriously Shabby. Seriously Scurrilous. But I have only myself to blame – serves me right for doing something so patently risky. Might have known there’d be 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 – whilst I reflected on Seriously Successful’s appalling behaviour 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 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 enquired.

‘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 for ever and ever. End of story,’ I said.

‘Well, more or less,’ she replied. ‘I suppose forty years is for ever 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 people say about the complexity of modern family life, the probability of divorce, the natural tendency towards 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 relaxed view, but it’s simply how I feel. I mean, the first time my mother met my father the only thing he offered her was a ticket to a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. What did Seriously Successful offer me the first time we met? A position as his part-time girlfriend. Charming. Very flattering. Thanks a bunch. Well, you can bog off with your impertinent propositions, Seriously Sick – I decline. And then of course there’s another reason why I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole, and that is that Seriously Successful is ipso facto an unfaithful fellow. Obviously he is, by the very nature of what he was proposing to me. Now, I know what it’s like to be with an unfaithful man, and it’s not nice at all. And I’m not doing that again. Not after Phil Anderer. No way. But then, well, that was my fault. Because it wasn’t as though I wasn’t warned about Phillip – I was. When I first met him everyone said, ‘Don’t Even Think About It!’ – because of his ghastly reputation. And what did I do? I not only thought about it. I did it. I got involved. And I got hurt.

‘It meant nothing,’ Phillip shouted at me, when I found out for certain what I had suspected for some time. ‘It meant absolutely nothing. Do you think I’d risk everything we’ve got for some pathetic little bimbo?’ To be honest, I wasn’t at all sure what we had got. Not sure at all, in fact. But he was very, very persuasive that I should stay.

‘Do you think I’d do anything to jeopardise my relationship with you?’ he said, in a softer tone of voice this time.

‘You just did,’ I pointed out tearfully. But later, I thought maybe I was being small-minded and unfair. Perhaps he just needed to do a bit more growing up – even though he was thirty-six. But quite frankly, when he came back from the ‘golf course’ again with cheap, alien scent clinging to his House of Fraser diamond-patterned jumper, I was thrown into renewed despair. Another bloody ‘birdie’, I realised bitterly. Then you know exactly what they’re up to – his mother’s words came back to haunt me. But then after three husbands I can understand her being, shall we say, a little circumspect. However, having persuaded me to stay, and let another year go by, Phillip had the nerve to dump me. It was horrible, and I’m never, ever, ever, ever going out with anyone dodgy ever again. So you can bugger off with your offensive offers, Seriously Slimy. Yes, just bugger right off, get lost, never darken my door again, let alone buy me dinner at the Ritz or flirt with me or pay me compliments or laugh at my jokes or make me giggle and …

Just then the doorbell rang. Funny. I wasn’t expecting anyone. A man was standing there. With an enormous bouquet. Who the hell … ?

‘Miss Trott?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. Over his shoulder I could see a van marked Moyses Stevens.

‘Flowers,’ he said. ‘For you.’

I brought them into the kitchen, put them in the sink – they wouldn’t fit even my largest jug – and just sat and stared. It was like a floral fireworks display, a golden explosion of yellow gerbera, lemon-coloured carnations, saffron-shaded roses, banana-yellow berberis, white love-in-a-mist and buttery-coloured stocks, all bound together with a curly, primrose ribbon and topped by delicately spiralling twigs. Heaven. And tucked inside the cellophane wrap was a letter.

My dear Tiffany

I specifically asked the florist – Mr Stevens does make exceedingly good bouquets – for something in yellow. Yellow for cowardice. My cowardice, at not being straightforward with you from the start. Can you forgive me? I must say I was rather taken aback by your anger – you were rather fierce you know – but I’ve tried to see things from your point of view. I can only apologise for having upset you with my facetious and offensive offer. I was, in fact, trying to be honest with you, but I appear to have insulted you instead and I can only say that I hope you’ll forgive me enough to remain, at least, my friend. SS PS Graded Grains Make Finer Flowers.

Oh. Well. Gosh. Gosh. I mean, that’s a nice letter. That’s a really nice letter. And what an incredibly thoughtful thing to do. Perhaps I’ve been a bit over the top. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him. How did he know my address? Oh yes, he had my card. But what a lovely thing to do. He is nice – Oh God oh God oh God, why does he have to be married? Just my luck. Maybe I should think about it. Maybe we could be friends. Why not? Everyone needs friends, and he’s so funny, and so interesting, and he’s got such good taste in ties, and we get on incredibly well. I’m sure we could at least be pals. I’m sure we could. I’m sure.

‘You must be out of your tiny mind!’ said Lizzie, as we strolled round Harrods Food Hall the following Saturday – or rather, as I traipsed after her while she filled her basket with an assortment of prodigiously expensive groceries in preparation for lunch in her garden the following day. ‘Don’t have anything to do with him,’ she reiterated slowly.

‘But I like him,’ I said, as we queued at the charcuterie counter.

‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ she said, as a jolly-looking man in a white coat planed slices off a Hungarian boar. ‘Seriously Successful is not available. He’s married. And, what’s more, he’s told you that he’s never going to get divorced – a pound of Parma ham, please – and you just haven’t got time to waste. Oh, and I’ll have six honey-glazed poussins as well. Basically Tiffany, you’re nearly –’

‘I know,’ I said wearily, ‘I’m nearly fifty.’

‘Exactly. So if you really want to get married stick to single men – God knows there must be enough of them out there. I mean, I really don’t mind if you marry a divorcé, Tiffany,’ she added, as we surveyed the rows of French cheeses.

‘That’s a relief,’ I said absently.

‘I mean, if you married a divorcé you could still get married in church, or at the very least have a blessing and wear a nice dress and everything. And have bridesmaids,’ she added. ‘But getting involved with a married man is not something that should be undertaken “unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly”, as they say. Half a pound of nettle-wrapped Cornish Yarg, please. In fact it should not be undertaken at all.’

‘But I’m not going to get involved with him – he only wants to be friends,’ I pointed out.

This was greeted with a derisive snort. ‘Friends? Don’t you realise that that’s a Trojan horse? If you become “friends” with him, I guarantee it will be only a matter of weeks before you’re sitting desperately by the phone dressed down to the nines in your La Perla, while his wife’s private detective is parked outside your house with his video camera trained on your bedroom window. Is that really what you want? Because that, Tiffany, is exactly what happens to mistresses.’

Mistresses? Mistress. What an awful word. God, no. No way. Lizzie may be brutal, but she’s right.

‘I’m only thinking of you, Tiffany,’ she said, as we wandered through the perfumery department on the ground floor. ‘You’ve been up enough dead ends with men to fill a cemetery. You can’t afford another mistake. Just write to Seriously Successful, thank him for his flowers and tell him, firmly, but very politely, that you can’t possibly remain in touch. Are you OK for moisturiser?’ she added as she dotted ‘Fracas’ behind her ears.

‘Yes,’ I replied as I dismally sprayed ‘Happy’ onto my left wrist.

‘Have you tried the new Elizabeth Lauderstein ceramide complex containing alpha hydroxy serum derived from fruit acids?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fantastic isn’t it?’

‘Incredible. Lizzie, do you think these expensive unguents really work?’ I asked.

‘I believe they do,’ she said simply. ‘OK, Tiff, let’s head home.’

‘Thank You For Not Smoking’, said the sign in the taxi in which we headed up towards Lizzie’s house in Hampstead. Lizzie pushed her Ray Bans further up her exquisitely sculpted nose and lit another Marlboro Light.

‘You know, Tiffany, I’ve been thinking about it all and the fact is that you’re going about this whole thing the wrong way.’

‘What do you mean, wrong way?’ I asked, opening a window to let out the smoke.

‘Well, you’ve been answering ads, and I think it would be far, far better to put one in yourself,’ she explained. ‘That way you’d be more in control. You could filter out the husbands and the head-bangers. I’ll help you write it,’ she added. ‘I’m good at that kind of things – we can do it right now in fact.’

The taxi turned left off Rosslyn Hill and came to a stop half-way down Downshire Hill, outside Lizzie’s house. A vast, white-washed early Victorian pile with a fifty-foot garden – and that’s just at the front. Lizzie and Martin have lived here for eight years, and it’s worth well over a million now. I struggled out of the taxi with her array of Harrods carriers, just like I used to help her carry her trunks up the stairs when we were at school. She went and tapped on the window and Mrs Burton came and opened the door.

‘Thanks, Mrs B,’ she said. ‘We’re loaded down with stuff for tomorrow. I’ve been a bit naughty in Harrods, but never mind,’ she added with a grin, ‘Martin can afford it, and he likes to feed all my girlfriends properly. Where is Martin, Mrs B?’ she enquired.

‘Mowing the lawn,’ Mrs Burton replied.

‘Oh good. I told him it needed doing. OK, Tiffany, will you help me put this stuff away?’

Now, I’m not a jealous person – I’m really not. But, it’s just that whenever I go round to Lizzie’s house I always feel awfully, well, jealous. Even though she’s my best and oldest friend, my envy levels rocket. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the forty-foot Colefax and Fowlered drawing-room and the expanses 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 is it, I wondered later as I telephone the classified ads section of the newspaper to dictate my personal ad, that the men I don’t want – who I really, really don’t want – are always the ones who want me? Why is it always the men I find boring and unattractive who offer to spoil me and treat me well and worship the ground I walk on? And why is it that the ones I really, really like are the ones who treat me like dirt? Isn’t that odd? I just don’t get it. But I’m not having it any longer – I’m taking control. I’m going for what I want and I’m going to find it, with my very own sales pitch in the ‘Ladies’ section of a lonely hearts column.

‘I’ve put a lonely hearts ad in the Saturday Rendezvous section of The Times,’ I announced slightly squiffily at lunch the following day. Lizzie, Catherine, Emma, Frances, Sally and I were sipping Pimms by the pergola. In the background, Martin was painting the French windows, assisted by Alice and Amy, whilst we all contemplated the first course of our annual al fresco lunch – Ogen melon and Parma ham.

‘My God that’s so brave!’ said Frances, stirring her Pimms with a straw. ‘Very courageous of you, Tiffany. I admire that. Well done you!’

‘I didn’t say I’m climbing backwards up Mount Everest,’ I explained. ‘Or crossing the Atlantic in a cardboard box. I merely said that I’ve put a personal ad in The Times.’

‘It’s still bloody brave of you, Tiffany,’ insisted Frances. ‘What courage! I’d never have the nerve to do that.’

‘Nor would I!’ chorused the others.

‘Why ever not?’ I asked. ‘Lots of people do.’

‘Well, it would be very artificial,’ said Sally, swatting away a wasp. ‘I prefer to leave my choice of mate to Fate.’

‘Me too,’ said Emma, adjusting the strap of her sundress. ‘I’d rather meet someone in a romantic way, you know, just, bump into them one day … ’

‘Where?’ I asked. ‘By the photocopier? Or the fax machine?’

‘Noooo,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘In the cinema queue, or on the Northern Line, or on a plane, or … ’

‘How many people do you know who’ve met their partners like that?’ I asked.

‘Er. Er. Well, none actually. But I’m sure it does happen. I wouldn’t do a lonely hearts ad because I wouldn’t want to meet someone in such an obviously contrived way. It would spoil it. But I think you’re really brave.’

‘Yes,’ chorused the others. ‘You’re really, really brave, Tiffany.’

‘She isn’t brave, she’s stupid,’ said Lizzie forthrightly, ‘and I say that because her ad is completely truthful. I recommended the judicious use of lying, but she wouldn’t have it. She’s even put in her age. And “One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.”’ She smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Oscar Wilde,’ she explained. ‘A Woman of No Importance.’ Of course. From Lizzie’s great days in Worthing.

‘Did you ever hear again from that married chap you met at the Ritz?’ asked Sally.

‘Er, yes, yes I did actually,’ I said with a sudden and tremendous pang, which took me by surprise. ‘To be honest he’s really not that bad, ha ha ha! Sent me some rather nice flowers actually. To say sorry. I wish … I mean I would like … ’ My voice trailed away.

‘What Tiffany means is that she wishes she could see him again, but I have told her that this is out of the question,’ said Lizzie. ‘She’s got to keep her eye on the ball. Martin! Don’t forget to give it two coats!’

‘What did you do?’ said Emma.

‘I wrote back to him and thanked him, but said that unfortunately circumstances would conspire to keep us apart.’

‘Maybe he’ll get divorced,’ said Frances. ‘Everyone else does. Luckily for me!’

‘He won’t contemplate it,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s worried about the effect it would have on his daughter.’

‘So he’d rather have affairs instead,’ said Lizzie, rolling her eyes towards the cloudless sky. ‘Charming.’

‘Common,’ said Frances, fishing a strawberry out of her glass.

‘Understandable,’ said Emma quietly. ‘If his marriage really is very unhappy.’ I looked at her. She had gone red. Then she suddenly stood up and helped Lizzie collect up the plates.

‘Er, has anyone actually met anyone they like?’ Sally asked.

We all looked blankly at each other. ‘Nope,’ said Frances. Emma shook her head, and said nothing, though I could see that she was still blushing.

‘What about you, Sally?’ I said.

‘No luck,’ she said with a happy shrug. ‘Perhaps I’ll meet someone on holiday next week. Some heavenly Maharajah. Or maybe the Taj Mahal will work its magic for me.’

‘Like it did for Princess Diana, you mean,’ said Frances with a grim little laugh.

‘I’m interested in someone,’ announced Catherine.

‘Yes?’ we all said.

‘Well, I met him at Alison and Angus’s dinner party in June. Tiffany was there. He’s an acc—’

‘Oh God, not that dreary accountant?’ I said incredulously. ‘Not that boring-looking bloke in the bad suit who lives in Barnet and probably plays golf ?’

Catherine gave me a withering look. I didn’t know why. ‘He’s very nice, actually,’ she said coldly. ‘And he’s interesting, too. And he’s particularly interesting on the subject of art. He’s got quite a collection of –’

‘Etchings?’ I said.

‘Augustus Johns, actually.’ Gosh. ‘I mean, Tiffany, why do you assume he’s boring just because he’s an accountant? You’re quite wrong.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, aware of the familiar taste of shoe leather.

‘And nor does it follow that men with interesting jobs are interesting people,’ Catherine added. ‘I mean Phillip had an interesting job, didn’t he?’ she continued. ‘And though I would never have told you this at the time, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt your feelings,’ she added pointedly, ‘I thought he was one of the most boring and conversationless men I have ever met.’ This could not be denied. ‘And I don’t think Alex set the world on fire either,’ she added. This was also true. ‘But my friend Hugh, who’s an accountant, is actually rather interesting,’ she concluded sniffily. ‘So please don’t sneer, Tiffany.’

‘God I feel such a heel,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the Pimms. Can I have some more?’

‘Anyway, Augustus John was incredibly prolific and he lived a long time, so there’s a lot of his work out there. Loads of it, in fact. And Hugh’s been quietly collecting small paintings and sketches for years. And after that dinner party he asked me to clean a small portrait that John did of his wife Dorelia, and when he came to collect it yesterday he asked me if I’d like to have dinner with him next week.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ I said, feeling guilty and also stupid. ‘Try and find out if he has any nice colleagues. Single ones, of course.’

Suddenly Amy appeared, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, party sandals, pink sun-glasses and clutching a small leather vanity case. She looked as if she was about to set off on some cheap Iberian package. ‘What are you all TALKING about?’ she shouted. Amy has a very loud voice.

‘We’re talking about boyfriends,’ said Lizzie.

Amy opened her case and took out one of her eleven Barbie dolls. ‘BARBIE’S got a BOYFRIEND,’ she yelled. ‘He’s called KEN. She’s going to MARRY HIM. I’ve got her a BRIDE’S DRESS.’

‘Amy darling,’ said Lizzie. ‘I keep telling you, Barbie is never going to marry Ken.’ Bewilderment and disappointment spread across Amy’s face. ‘Barbie has been going out with Ken for almost forty years without tying the knot,’ Lizzie explained patiently as she passed round the honey-glazed poussins. ‘I’m afraid Barbie is a commitophobe.’

‘What’s a COMMITOPHOBE, Mummy?’

‘Someone who doesn’t want to get married, darling. And I don’t want you to be one when you grow up.’

‘What are you all talking about?’ said Alice, whose blonde pigtails were spattered with black paint.

‘Boyfriends,’ said Frances.

‘ALICE has got a BOYFRIEND,’ Amy yelled. ‘He’s called TOM. He’s in her CLASS. But I HAVEN’T got one.’

‘That’s because you’re too young,’ said Alice wisely. ‘You still watch the Teletubbies. You’re a baby.’ Amy didn’t appear to resent this slur.

‘How old’s your boyfriend, Alice?’ Catherine enquired with a smile.

‘He’s eight and a quarter,’ she replied. ‘And Tom’s mummy, Mrs Hamilton, she’s got a boyfriend too.’

‘Good God!’ said Lizzie. ‘Has she?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘Tom told me. He’s called Peter. He works with her. In the bank. But Tom’s daddy doesn’t know. Should I tell him?’ she added.

‘No,’ said Lizzie. ‘No. Don’t. Social death, darling.’

‘Tiffany, have you got a boyfriend yet?’ asked Alice.

‘Er, no,’ I said. ‘I haven’t.’ She went off and sat on the swing with a vaguely disappointed air.

‘You know, it’s horrible being single in the summer,’ I said vehemently. ‘All those happy couples snogging in the park, or playing tennis or strolling hand in hand through the pounding surf … ’

‘Personally I think it’s much worse in the winter,’ said Emma, ‘having no-one to snuggle up to in front of an open fire on some romantic weekend break.’

‘No, I think it’s worse being single in the spring,’ said Catherine. ‘When everything’s growing and thrusting and the sun’s shining, and it’s all so horribly happy. April really is the cruellest month, in my view.’

‘Being single in autumn is the worst,’ said Sally ruefully, ‘because there’s no-one to kick through the leaves with in the park or hold hands with at fireworks displays.’

‘Well, I often envy you single girls,’ said Lizzie darkly. ‘I’d love to be single again.’

‘Well, we’d love to be you,’ said Catherine, ‘with such a nice husband.’

Lizzie gave a hollow little laugh. I thought that was mean. I glanced at Martin, quietly painting away.

‘Love is a gilded cage,’ said Emma drunkenly.

‘No – “Love conquers all,”’ said Catherine.

‘“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,”’ said Frances, with a smirk. ‘I’m glad that’s true – otherwise I’d be unemployed!’

‘“Love’s the noblest frailty of the mind,”’ said Lizzie. ‘Dryden.’

‘“Love’s not Time’s fool,”’ said Sally. ‘Shakespeare.’

‘“The course of true love never did run smooth,”’ said Emma. ‘Ditto.’ And for some reason, that cheered me up – I didn’t know why.

‘Come on, Tiffany – your turn!’ they all chorused.

‘Er – “Better to have loved and lost than never loved at all,”’ I said. ‘Tennyson.’

‘However,’ said Lizzie, ‘according to George Bernard Shaw “there is no love sincerer than the love of food.” So eat up, everyone!’