Read Online The Trials of Tiffany Trott by Isabel Wolff - Free Book Online
Authors: Isabel Wolff
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you do?”
“I’m an advertising copywriter.”
“Oh. Go To Work On An Egg—Vorsprung Durch Technik, that kind of thing,” he said.
“Yes. That sort of thing. Pick Up a Penguin.”
“Don’t Leave Home Without It.”
“Helps You Work, Rest and Play.”
“Lifts and Separates.”
“Things Happen After a Badedas Bath.”
“Refreshes the Parts Other Beers Cannot Reach.”
“Simple. But Brilliant.”
“Pure Genius,” he said. “Now, tell me, are you really short and fat?”
“No, not really,” I said.
“Well, that’s a pity, because I like small cuddly women.”
“Nor could I conceivably be described as tall and thin,” I pointed out. “And are you really ‘Seriously Successful’?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, that’s a pity, because on the whole I prefer life’s losers and the walking wounded.”
On and on we bantered. A man with a quick wit—fantastic! Better still, he got my jokes.
Unlike Phil Anderer: “You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Phillip would say. “No,” I’d reply, while wondering whether he was going to tell me, yet again, that it was my “abject” dress sense, or the fact that I “talked too much” or had “too many little opinions.”
“What is my problem?” I’d say wearily. “Tell me.”
“You’ve got no sense of humor . . .”
“Now, I think we should meet,” said Seriously Successful after about twenty minutes of happy badinage. “Do you like the Ritz?” Do fish like water?
p. 49 “Love it.”
“Good. I’ll book a table for two on . . . Thursday? At eight o’clock?”
“Fabbo,” I said. “See you there. But hang on a mo—how will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be wearing a Hermès tie,” he said. “What about you?”
“I wear contact lenses.”
“Good. That’ll be easy then.”
Wahay! I’m having dinner at the Ritz with a quite possibly gorgeous, successful, charming, and very amusing man, complete with outsize bank balance and impeccable taste in neckwear. Does winning the lottery feel this good?
On Thursday evening I showered, dressed carefully in an elegant little Alberta Ferretti linen suit which I’ve had for five years but love, and set off for Piccadilly on the number 38 bus. As I walked through the revolving doors of the Ritz for the second time in a fortnight, trying not to look as though I was on another blind date—and desperately hoping not to see Peter Fitz-Harrod again—I spotted a rather interesting-looking man standing at the reception. Tall, with wavy chestnut hair, fine features and chocolate-brown eyes, he wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he looked very animated and alert. He was beautifully besuited in a Prince of Wales check and, as I approached, I noticed that he had his tie twisted round so the label was showing. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, then suddenly broke into a broad smile.
“Hallo, Tiffany Trott,” he said confidently.
“Hello, Seriously Successful,” I replied.
“The Effect is Shattering,” he added.
“Thank you. It’s Good to Talk.”
“Let’s eat,” he said, gently taking hold of my left elbow and steering me, along the pink-and-green carpet, through the Palm Court bar, toward the restaurant. Now, I thought this instant physical contact was a little bit forward, but I didn’t p. 50 mind. In fact, I rather liked it. It was nice. Seriously Successful was obviously at home in the Ritz—the waiters all seemed to know him. We were shown to a table on the left, near the large gilded figures of Neptune and his Nereid. The tablecloths were of the heaviest white damask, the china a pure turquoise blue. A silver vase containing two Stargazer lilies scented the surrounding air. I breathed it all in. It was lovely. I looked around at the other diners, substituting for their faces those of Noël Coward, Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh and the Aga Khan.
“There’s so much history in this room, isn’t there?” I said.
“Oh
“I’m an advertising copywriter.”
“Oh. Go To Work On An Egg—Vorsprung Durch Technik, that kind of thing,” he said.
“Yes. That sort of thing. Pick Up a Penguin.”
“Don’t Leave Home Without It.”
“Helps You Work, Rest and Play.”
“Lifts and Separates.”
“Things Happen After a Badedas Bath.”
“Refreshes the Parts Other Beers Cannot Reach.”
“Simple. But Brilliant.”
“Pure Genius,” he said. “Now, tell me, are you really short and fat?”
“No, not really,” I said.
“Well, that’s a pity, because I like small cuddly women.”
“Nor could I conceivably be described as tall and thin,” I pointed out. “And are you really ‘Seriously Successful’?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, that’s a pity, because on the whole I prefer life’s losers and the walking wounded.”
On and on we bantered. A man with a quick wit—fantastic! Better still, he got my jokes.
Unlike Phil Anderer: “You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Phillip would say. “No,” I’d reply, while wondering whether he was going to tell me, yet again, that it was my “abject” dress sense, or the fact that I “talked too much” or had “too many little opinions.”
“What is my problem?” I’d say wearily. “Tell me.”
“You’ve got no sense of humor . . .”
“Now, I think we should meet,” said Seriously Successful after about twenty minutes of happy badinage. “Do you like the Ritz?” Do fish like water?
p. 49 “Love it.”
“Good. I’ll book a table for two on . . . Thursday? At eight o’clock?”
“Fabbo,” I said. “See you there. But hang on a mo—how will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be wearing a Hermès tie,” he said. “What about you?”
“I wear contact lenses.”
“Good. That’ll be easy then.”
Wahay! I’m having dinner at the Ritz with a quite possibly gorgeous, successful, charming, and very amusing man, complete with outsize bank balance and impeccable taste in neckwear. Does winning the lottery feel this good?
On Thursday evening I showered, dressed carefully in an elegant little Alberta Ferretti linen suit which I’ve had for five years but love, and set off for Piccadilly on the number 38 bus. As I walked through the revolving doors of the Ritz for the second time in a fortnight, trying not to look as though I was on another blind date—and desperately hoping not to see Peter Fitz-Harrod again—I spotted a rather interesting-looking man standing at the reception. Tall, with wavy chestnut hair, fine features and chocolate-brown eyes, he wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he looked very animated and alert. He was beautifully besuited in a Prince of Wales check and, as I approached, I noticed that he had his tie twisted round so the label was showing. He looked at me, raised his eyebrows inquiringly, then suddenly broke into a broad smile.
“Hallo, Tiffany Trott,” he said confidently.
“Hello, Seriously Successful,” I replied.
“The Effect is Shattering,” he added.
“Thank you. It’s Good to Talk.”
“Let’s eat,” he said, gently taking hold of my left elbow and steering me, along the pink-and-green carpet, through the Palm Court bar, toward the restaurant. Now, I thought this instant physical contact was a little bit forward, but I didn’t p. 50 mind. In fact, I rather liked it. It was nice. Seriously Successful was obviously at home in the Ritz—the waiters all seemed to know him. We were shown to a table on the left, near the large gilded figures of Neptune and his Nereid. The tablecloths were of the heaviest white damask, the china a pure turquoise blue. A silver vase containing two Stargazer lilies scented the surrounding air. I breathed it all in. It was lovely. I looked around at the other diners, substituting for their faces those of Noël Coward, Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh and the Aga Khan.
“There’s so much history in this room, isn’t there?” I said.
“Oh
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