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Authors: Isabel Wolff
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yes,” he replied. “Edward the Seventh was a regular. Just think, he and Alice Keppel may have dined at this very table.”
Seriously Successful ordered the wine with obvious savoir boire and kept smiling at me over the top of his menu as I perused the hors d’oeuvres. “Oak-smoked wild salmon—£17.50.” Maybe I’d have the mosaic of Devon crab, or the toasted game salad with celeriac wafers, or the artichoke heart with wild mushrooms and asparagus. I really couldn’t decide.
“I do hope you’ll have something really high-calorie,” said Seriously Successful suddenly. “I love curvy women. May I recommend the terrine of foie gras followed by the roast rack of lamb with a large helping of Dauphinois potatoes, and then the double chocolate mousse—with added cream, of course.”
“I’m not sure that’ll be enough,” I said, though the truth was I had the butterflies and didn’t know how I was going to eat anything. I found him so damned attractive. He was very conservative, and yet artistic, too—a devastating combination. He told me about his work—publishing trade magazines—and his passion for playing the cello, which he said he practices every morning. He also told me about his farmhouse in Sussex, and his luxury apartment in Piccadilly—in the Albany apartments no less.
“So the Ritz is really your local,” I said as our main course arrived.
p. 51 “Yes. And Fortnum and Mason’s is my corner shop,” he replied. “These little stores are so useful.” He grinned. I smiled back. How incredible to think that such a nice-looking, funny, generous, stylish, eligible man was still single! Amazing. What a piece of luck. Thank God I’d been brave enough to answer his ad, I thought, as I listened to the gentle clattering of silver cutlery. It was such a sensible thing to have done. We talked with startling ease about, well, lots of things—recent films and books, tennis technique and travel, birth signs, politics and paintings, love, life and earth. And of course advertising, which he loves. In fact he has an encyclopedic knowledge of slogans and straplines, including one or two of my own. This was highly gratifying. The evening was going brilliantly well. And then, as the waiters took away our plates after the main course, Seriously Successful removed his napkin from his lap and looked me straight in the eye. And I thought he was going to say, “Miss Trott. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!” Instead, he leant forward and said, “Now Tiffany, I’ve got a little proposition for you.”
What is wrong with men? Why do they always give me such a hard time? After all, it’s not as though I’ve failed to make any effort with them. Have I not cooked for them and ironed their shirts, including that rather tricky bit at the base of the collar? Have I not planted their gardens and watered their window boxes? Have I not posted their letters and picked up their prescriptions and collected swatches of carpet and curtain fabric when they were having their houses done up? Have I not changed my clothes when they told me they didn’t like them, and lost weight when they said I was too fat? Have I not—have I not trotted after them round the bloody golf course shouting, “MARVELOUS SHOT!”—even when the ball was clearly heading for the lake? So what, precisely, is the damn problem? p. 52 Why is there always some matrimony-murdering sting in the tail? Take Seriously Successful, for example. There I was at the Ritz, lost in love, mentally rehearsing his wedding speech, and naming our children (Heidi, Hildegarde, Lysander, Tarquin and Max) when Fate, with malice aforethought, sneezed in my ashtray again.
“Now, I don’t want you to be shocked,” said Seriously Successful, seriously. “But I’ve got this little proposition for you. For us, actually.”
“Oh, what’s that, then?” I
Seriously Successful ordered the wine with obvious savoir boire and kept smiling at me over the top of his menu as I perused the hors d’oeuvres. “Oak-smoked wild salmon—£17.50.” Maybe I’d have the mosaic of Devon crab, or the toasted game salad with celeriac wafers, or the artichoke heart with wild mushrooms and asparagus. I really couldn’t decide.
“I do hope you’ll have something really high-calorie,” said Seriously Successful suddenly. “I love curvy women. May I recommend the terrine of foie gras followed by the roast rack of lamb with a large helping of Dauphinois potatoes, and then the double chocolate mousse—with added cream, of course.”
“I’m not sure that’ll be enough,” I said, though the truth was I had the butterflies and didn’t know how I was going to eat anything. I found him so damned attractive. He was very conservative, and yet artistic, too—a devastating combination. He told me about his work—publishing trade magazines—and his passion for playing the cello, which he said he practices every morning. He also told me about his farmhouse in Sussex, and his luxury apartment in Piccadilly—in the Albany apartments no less.
“So the Ritz is really your local,” I said as our main course arrived.
p. 51 “Yes. And Fortnum and Mason’s is my corner shop,” he replied. “These little stores are so useful.” He grinned. I smiled back. How incredible to think that such a nice-looking, funny, generous, stylish, eligible man was still single! Amazing. What a piece of luck. Thank God I’d been brave enough to answer his ad, I thought, as I listened to the gentle clattering of silver cutlery. It was such a sensible thing to have done. We talked with startling ease about, well, lots of things—recent films and books, tennis technique and travel, birth signs, politics and paintings, love, life and earth. And of course advertising, which he loves. In fact he has an encyclopedic knowledge of slogans and straplines, including one or two of my own. This was highly gratifying. The evening was going brilliantly well. And then, as the waiters took away our plates after the main course, Seriously Successful removed his napkin from his lap and looked me straight in the eye. And I thought he was going to say, “Miss Trott. In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!” Instead, he leant forward and said, “Now Tiffany, I’ve got a little proposition for you.”
What is wrong with men? Why do they always give me such a hard time? After all, it’s not as though I’ve failed to make any effort with them. Have I not cooked for them and ironed their shirts, including that rather tricky bit at the base of the collar? Have I not planted their gardens and watered their window boxes? Have I not posted their letters and picked up their prescriptions and collected swatches of carpet and curtain fabric when they were having their houses done up? Have I not changed my clothes when they told me they didn’t like them, and lost weight when they said I was too fat? Have I not—have I not trotted after them round the bloody golf course shouting, “MARVELOUS SHOT!”—even when the ball was clearly heading for the lake? So what, precisely, is the damn problem? p. 52 Why is there always some matrimony-murdering sting in the tail? Take Seriously Successful, for example. There I was at the Ritz, lost in love, mentally rehearsing his wedding speech, and naming our children (Heidi, Hildegarde, Lysander, Tarquin and Max) when Fate, with malice aforethought, sneezed in my ashtray again.
“Now, I don’t want you to be shocked,” said Seriously Successful, seriously. “But I’ve got this little proposition for you. For us, actually.”
“Oh, what’s that, then?” I
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