The Making of Minty Malone
Isabel Wolff
A sparkling novel by the bestselling author of THE VERY PICTURE OF YOU and A VINTAGE AFFAIR.Everyone likes radio reporter Minty – she’s so terribly nice. But being nice doesn’t save her from being jilted at the very altar by her attractive but domineering fiancé Dominic.Ditched rather than hitched, a shocked Minty takes stock, and, on her husbandless honeymoon, she vows to become just a little less ‘nice’, and sets out on a Quest for the Self, in which she will finally learn how to say ‘No’.But Dominic’s devastating desertion has left her with an unhealed wound, which opens up again when Minty stumbles upon the real reason for Dominic’s dreadful defection. Faced with the ugly truth, she prepares to move on, let go, and learn how to say ‘Yes’ once more.
The Making of Minty Malone
Isabel Wolff
For Jonathan and Catharine Anja and Paul-Mattias
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u69bc1567-f924-56c5-80ff-f601f4687f0b)
Title Page (#ucbd12ede-ca84-54aa-b7b7-f37c6619667b)
Dedication (#u4cc2822c-44c3-5789-8add-866f69881d07)
July (#u7a3d02f7-ab19-5325-80e9-b1bb12e273b9)
August (#uf837bb6e-bfe4-5952-9978-fe2c40e1bc8c)
September (#uf2ca82dc-a245-5c1e-8cab-161c5c6c7d17)
October (#litres_trial_promo)
November (#litres_trial_promo)
December (#litres_trial_promo)
January (#litres_trial_promo)
February (#litres_trial_promo)
March (#litres_trial_promo)
April (#litres_trial_promo)
May (#litres_trial_promo)
June (#litres_trial_promo)
July (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Permissions (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
July (#ulink_676184c0-20de-5099-a597-f8ef81455a4f)
Where is it where is it where is it please please please where IS it? Where. Is. My. Bloody. Tiara? Oh God oh God where did I put it? I had it two minutes ago. I had it here, right here. I took it out of the box and then I put it down while I did my nails. I had it I had it I HAD it and now it’s gone and I can’t find it anywhere but it must be somewhere it just must be and oh no, I’m SO behind with everything and oh God what a nightmare I’m going to be so late! They’ll be slow handclapping by the time I get there, that is if they haven’t walked out or gone to the pub. Well, they’ll just have to bloody well wait because nothing’s going to happen without me. It’s my day. Not theirs. Mine. That’s what everyone’s been saying to me, ever since I got engaged. ‘It’s your day, Minty! You must have exactly what you want!’ In fact, Mum said it again, just ten minutes ago, as she headed out of the front door.
‘Remember, it’s your day, darling!’ she called serenely from the garden gate. ‘You must have exactly what you want!’
‘Yes, but what I want is your help, Mum. My dress has got thirty-five loop fastenings.’
‘Yes, I know that, darling, but I’ve got to get down to the church.’
‘And aren’t you supposed to brush my hair or something?’
‘I haven’t got time, Minty – it’s bad form for the bride’s mother to arrive late.’
‘And it’s bad form for the bride to arrive without her frock on, which is what’s going to happen if I don’t get some help round here.’
‘Now, keep calm, Minty,’ said Mum blithely. ‘Helen will be back soon, and she’ll help you. That’s what bridesmaids are for. See you later, darling – byee!’ She blew me a customary kiss and was gone. Damn.
And then the phone rang. It was Helen, ringing on her mobile from the church, where she was still fiddling with the flowers.
‘Bit of a crisis, Mint – the peonies are wilting. They’ve gone all floppy in the heat.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘But don’t worry,’ she said soothingly, ‘I’m just sticking fuse wire up their backsides and then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Well, please don’t do that to me if you see me begin to wilt.’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ she said calmly. ‘And that will leave us with a good – ooh, ten minutes to finish getting ready. OK?’
‘OK. What? No! It isn’t OK. What do you mean, ten minutes?”
‘Now look, Minty, it’s going to be fine, so please don’t panic – it’s much too hot.’ Helen’s right. It is. Much too hot. In fact it’s boiling. Thirty degrees already. And I’m afraid I am starting to panic because I haven’t got enough time and I’m not going to turn up all red in the face and crying with my make-up sliming off. I’m not I’m not I’m NOT, and oh God the car’s going to be here in forty-five minutes and I’m still in my knickers and bra and I haven’t done my face and there are going to be two hundred and eighty people staring at every square inch of me and I don’t know WHERE my tiara is OR my veil and my nails STILL aren’t dry so I can’t put my dress on and I’m completely out of control here and – AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!! Oh God – the phone again! Just what I need.
‘YES!’ I said.
‘Minty!’ It was Amber. My cousin. Beautiful. Very beautiful, but bossy. ‘Now keep calm!’ she barked. ‘Keep calm there!’
‘I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I’ve lost my tiara and I haven’t got my dress on and I don’t know where my veil is and it’s much too hot, and Mum’s gone off to the church and I haven’t got anyone to help and I’m totally out of CONTROL!’
‘Right, deep breathing time,’ she said. ‘Sit down, Minty. Sit down and b-r-e-a-t-h-e d-e-e-p-l-y. That’s it. In …Out …In …Out …And relax. Right. Feeling better?’
‘Yes,’ I said. And I was. ‘Much better. Pheeeewwwwww. How’s Charlie’s speech going?’ I said as I blew on my nails.
‘Well, it’s all right now,’ she replied. ‘But of course I had to completely re-write it for him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was useless, that’s why. And he said, “Look, darling, it’s my speech. I’d rather it was in my own words.” So I said; “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Charlie, I’m the writer round here.”’ This is true. She’s a novelist.
‘Anyway, at least he looks smart,’ she went on. ‘Can’t have the best man looking a mess. Anyway, must dash. Now, don’t worry, Minty. And remember,’ she added, ‘it’s your day – you must have exactly what you want!’
Well, I am getting exactly what I want. Or rather exactly who I want. And that’s Dominic. My beloved. He’s exactly what I want. Why? Well, he just is. And that’s all there is to it. Right. Quick glance at the kitchen clock: forty minutes to go. I’ve been trying to keep panic at bay by consulting my marriage handbook, Nearly Wed, but it’s not much use. Where’s Dad? Oh, there he is – standing by the clematis, having what he calls a ‘nutritious cigarette’. At least he’s ready. That’s something. But then it’s so easy for men, isn’t it? I mean, all Dominic’s got to do today is put on his penguin suit and stand there and say ‘I do.’
OK, nails are dry. On with the slap. Not too much. Just a touch. Don’t want to overdo it. Some brides look awful – ten tons of make-up and hair sprayed to the texture of a Brillo Pad. All I’m going to have is a quick flick of eyeliner …mascara – waterproof, of course, in case I blub, which I’m sure I will …lip-liner …a smidgen of lipstick and …a little powder on nose and chin. Voilà! Quickly check in mirror and – ah! There it is. Silly me. My tiara. On my head. OK – dress. Damn. Bloody loop fastenings. Can’t do them up. Hands shaking. With nerves. And exhaustion. Hardly surprising after organising this nuptial jamboree entirely by myself. But then, to be fair. Dad’s still working full-time and Mum’s been very busy recently, what with the badger sanctuary and the campaign to save the Venezuelan swamp hog. She loves fund-raising. In fact, she’s addicted to it – has been as long as I can remember. And naturally I’d never have asked Dominic to help. He’s much too busy with his work. He’s doing terribly well at the moment. Making a mint! – no irony intended. Minty Lane. That’s what I’ll be in approximately an hour and a half from now. Araminta Lane. Or rather, Mrs Dominic Lane. That sounds OK. Could certainly be a lot worse – Mrs Dominic Sourbutts, for example, or Mrs Dominic Frogg. Not that it would have made the slightest difference – I’d still have loved him to bits, and I’d still be marrying him today. Right. Shoes. One. Two. Satin. Very pretty but a bit tight.
At least my horoscope was OK. Highly satisfactory. Extremely auspicious, even. ‘Libra,’ wrote Sheryl von Strumpfhosen, ‘your love life takes an upward turn this weekend, when romantic Venus enters Leo.’ Not that I take astrology seriously. A load of bollocks really, isn’t it? Having said which, I think she’s clearly spot-on with her prediction that ‘Saturday will be emotional and rather revealing as important foundations are laid.’ Oh God, these bloody buttons!
‘Minty –’ it was Dad, calling from the garden – ‘need any help?’
‘Well …’ I could hardly ask my father to do up my wedding dress. On the other hand, it was only the top ones, and I was desperate.
‘Now, where’s your mother?’ he enquired as he did them up. ‘Has she gone to rattle a bucket somewhere?’ he went on wearily. ‘It’s Saturday so it must be the Elderly Distressed Dolphins Association, or is it the Foundation for Drug-Addicted Spanish Donkeys?’
‘No, she’s gone down to the church. Thanks, Dad.’
Dad jokes about Mum’s charitable activities, but the truth is he finds it very difficult. He hardly ever sees her. Says she’s always at some fund-raising do or other. Or some committee meeting. He says he can’t compete with Mum’s myriad good causes. He says she’s a charity junkie. But she won’t scale it down. Though I think she probably will when he retires in a couple of months. But for now she’s obsessed with being what they call a ‘tireless campaigner’, though her methods are a bit unorthodox. I mean, I thought her buffet in aid of the Belgravia Bulimics’ Association was not in very good taste, and nor was the drinks party she organised for Alcoholics Anonymous. The invitations said, ‘Sponsored by Johnny Walker’. But then she always says gaily that ‘the means justify the ends.’ That’s her answer to everything. And of course she does raise loads of money. Thousands, sometimes. Which is why they turn a blind eye. Anyway, because of her charity commitments she left the wedding entirely to me. And Dad has kindly picked up the bill, which is incredibly nice of him, because it’s enormous. It’s twenty-eight thousand pounds. In fact – look, don’t think I’m bragging or anything – that’s more than twice the cost of the average London wedding.
‘Well, you look lovely, Minty,’ said Dad, standing back to admire me. ‘And it’s going to be an unforgettable day.’
He’s right, I thought. People will talk about it for years. Well, weeks maybe. But the Malones are pushing that boat right out. That’s what Dominic wanted, you see. A ‘smart’ London wedding. Something a bit overstated. For example, the reception’s at the Waldorf. A sit-down lunch for two hundred and eighty people. That’s a lot, isn’t it? Quite a few of them are Dominic’s clients, actually. I’ve never met them, but if I can help him in his career by inviting ninety-three total strangers to my big day then I really don’t mind at all. Because I love Dom to bits.
Take this dress, for instance. Very chic and all that, but it wasn’t my first choice. When we first got engaged I said I’d like an antique lace dress, Vic-Wardian style, with lots of sequins and beading and a long, floaty train. But Dom pulled such a face that I somehow lost enthusiasm for the idea. He said that modern wedding dresses were best, and explained that Neil Cunningham’s ones are ‘the business’, and he pointed out that that’s where Ffion Jenkins and Darcey Bussell got theirs. He’d read that in Nigel Dempster. Or was it Tatler? Anyway, to cut a long story short, Neil Cunningham it is. And never mind that people kept saying, ‘It’s your day, Minty, you must have exactly what you want!’ because even though it wasn’t exactly what I wanted, it didn’t take me long to realise that Dom was absolutely right – this dress does look great! And I only thought I preferred the other one. He’s got very good taste, you see. Much better than mine. And he loves this dress. He absolutely loves it and, yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride’s wedding dress before the big day. But he didn’t. He just asked if he could see a picture of it. And naturally I agreed, because I wouldn’t want to wear anything that he didn’t think looked right. Because the only thing I want, the thing I want ‘exactly’, is for Dominic to be happy.
Here’s what we’re having for lunch: a tricolore salad of vine-ripened tomatoes, followed by pan-seared swordfish, with a Riesling gateau and strawberry coulis for pudding and a lake of Laurent-Perrier. Now, that little lot works out at eighteen grand alone; and then my dress cost two and a half thousand, and Helen’s bridesmaid dress was another grand, and what with the engagement announcements, wedding stationery, car hire, the church, the organist’s fee, the goingaway outfits, the ring, the honeymoon and the photographer (stills and video), the grand total comes to twenty-eight thousand six hundred and thirty-two pounds and seventy-two pence, including VAT. That’s how it all breaks down.
Ah – here’s my veil. On top of the cupboard. Mmmm …looks nice. Petticoat’s a bit scratchy, though. Yes, it’s going to be a really big bash with a string trio and everything. Mum wanted to run a tombola during the reception for the Hedgehog Foundation, but I told her I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Anyway, as I say, it’s a big wedding, though I’d have been happy with something much smaller – no more than a hundred. In fact, fifty would have been fine. Or even forty. Or thirty. Or twenty. And I can quite understand why some people opt for a beach-side ceremony in Bali or a skinflint register office job. But Dominic felt we should do it properly and have something really upmarket. So we are. He thought we might even be able to get it written up in ‘Jennifer’s Diary’, so I rang Harpers & Queen, and they were very polite, and said it certainly sounded like a splendid occasion, but somehow I don’t think they’ll be showing up today. But at least Dom will know I tried.
I’m quite laid back in lots of ways. Unlike Dominic. He’s much more ambitious than me. For example, he persuaded me to invite lots of people from work in case it helps my career.
‘Professional schmoozing is important, Minty,’ he said, when we were having dinner at Le Caprice one evening.
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said, fiddling with my fork.
‘It is,’ he said. ‘It helps to oil the wheels.’
‘No, I think the best thing is to break your bottom and deliver the goods.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Dominic with an indulgent smile, ‘if you carry on with that silly attitude you’ll never get to be a radio presenter.’
‘Won’t I?’
‘No. You’ll simply carry on being a reporter. Honestly, Minty, you are a bit of a twit – you should be wining and dining the bosses whenever you get the chance.’
‘Should I?’
‘Yes,’ he said, firmly. ‘You should.’
Dom’s quite ambitious for me, you see. Which is nice. He’s very keen for me to do well at London FM. He thinks it’s about time I was promoted, because I’ve been working there for over three years. And I try and explain that it’s not like that. That there’s no smooth career progression from reporter to presenter. You have to be incredibly lucky for that to happen. Or incredibly well-connected, like our ‘star’ presenter, Melinda. Dom says I should be more pushy. And although I don’t really agree with him – and to be honest, I’m pretty happy as I am – I do like the fact that he’s so interested in my career. You see, I don’t really get that at home. I mean, don’t get me wrong: my parents are great. But they’re not that interested in what I do. Never have been, really. Mum’s priority has always been her charities, and Dad’s always been so involved at work. He works incredibly long hours because he’s got his own firm of chartered accountants. And then my brother Robert’s been living in Australia for the past four years. So no one in the family takes much interest in what I do. But Dominic does. He takes a close interest. And that’s nice. He makes me feel very secure, I suppose. Not just because he’s successful – though he is – but because he’s very good at organising everything. He likes to set the agenda. He’s definitely the one in charge. I don’t mind any more. I’ve got used to it. And most of the time I find myself going along with whatever he wants to do. I suppose I’ve got set in his ways. Dom has a very nice lifestyle; we eat out quite a bit, for example. He likes to go to expensive places, like the Ivy or the Bluebird Café. Which is lovely, and well, why not? He’s got the cash, and it’s fun. And he’s always springing surprises on me – like that lovely three-day cricket match at the Oval, and a super golfing weekend at Gleneagles. Not that I play myself. And fishing, of course. We go fishing a lot. Well, he fishes, I sit on the bank and read. Which I quite enjoy. There are so many nice surprises like that with Dominic. He always knows what he wants, too. He’s very clear about that. And what he seemed to want right from the very start was me. I was a bit taken aback by that, because he’s a very attractive and successful guy. I mean, he could have had anybody. But he chose me, and of course I found that really, really flattering.
Another good thing about Dom – he’s very practical. And that makes me feel sort of safe with him. For example, he suggested we take out wedding insurance, just in case anything goes wrong. So he sold Dad a policy with Paramutual, which will cover potential disasters such as my dress not being ready in time, or the Waldorf burning down, or flash floods in the Strand. He felt it was important for us to have ‘total peace of mind’ on our big day. And he’s right. Do you know there are even policies to protect newlyweds in case their marital home is burgled while they’re on honeymoon? We didn’t think that was necessary as we won’t be away for very long because Dominic’s so busy at the moment. Between you and me, I’d have loved two weeks in the Caribbean, on Nevis, say, or Necker. Or ten days in Venice – that would have been wonderful. But we can’t do that because Dom won’t fly anywhere. He thinks it’s too risky with our overcrowded skies, and, because of his work – insurance, or ‘Risk-Biz’, as he likes to call it – he is in fact au fait with the crash and fatality records of all the major airlines. So we’re going to Paris, on Eurostar, for four days. Which will be fab. And I don’t mind the fact that I’ve been to Paris eleven times before, because a) it’s a lovely city, and b) I’m sensitive to Dominic’s fear of flying. He can’t help it. You see, he tends to anticipate things that can go wrong. And he’s right. So many unexpected disasters can happen in life, so it’s always best to be prepared. Which is why he persuaded me to fill in a comprehensive prenuptial agreement when we got engaged. I don’t blame him. He’s got a lot to lose. And, of course, we’ve taken out travel insurance for Paris. Just in case.
Actually, that’s my secret nickname for him: ‘Justin Case’. But I haven’t told him that. I’m not sure he’d find it funny. I did try teasing him once or twice, in the beginning, but it was obvious that he didn’t really like it, so I soon learned not to do it again! But he’s a complete whizz when it comes to business. He’s got a magic touch. That’s how we met. He rang up one day, totally out of the blue, and said he was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend (I still can’t remember for the life of me exactly which friend it was), and he said there was something ‘very important’ he wanted to discuss with me. He wouldn’t say over the phone what it was, but it certainly sounded intriguing, and he had such a lovely voice, and he was so friendly, and before I knew what had happened, I’d agreed to meet him. Largely out of curiosity. So he offered to come up to my flat in Primrose Hill. And the bell rang, and there on the doorstep was this incredibly attractive man. He was so good-looking I nearly fainted! He was tall, with blond hair – not that wimpy white-blond hair, but a deep, burnished sandy colour, as though he’d just trekked across the Sahara. And his eyes were this startling blue. Like the blue of Sri Lankan sapphires. And he stood there, holding out his hand, and smiling at me – very good teeth, too, incidentally. So I invited him in, and made him a cup of coffee while he asked me questions about my date of birth, my general health and whether or not I smoked or had AIDS, and he made some very flattering comments about my interior décor – even though he confessed not long afterwards that he hadn’t liked it at all! Then he whipped out his laptop computer and a pile of graphs and charts, and looked at me in a very serious and meaningful way which thrilled me to my core.
‘Now, Minty, here you are. Here. In 1970,’ he said pointing to the left-hand side of the graph, ‘and you’ve just been born. OK?’ I nodded. I was indeed born in 1970. Then he pointed to the extreme right-hand side of the chart. ‘And here you are again, Minty. In the year 2050. And you’re dead.’
‘Oh. Um, yes. Suppose I am.’
‘Now, Minty,’ he went on, fixing me with a penetrating look, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
‘Do about it? Well, there’s not much I can do really.’
‘Oh yes there is, Minty,’ he said with a zealous gleam in his eye. ‘There’s a lot you can do about it. You can protect yourself – and your loved ones – against it.’
And suddenly, the penny dropped. I don’t know why it had taken so long, I suppose I was distracted by his genial manner and his good looks.
‘You’re an insurance salesman,’ I said, and I couldn’t help laughing.
But he didn’t laugh. In fact, he bristled.
‘I’m an IFA, actually,’ he pointed out. ‘An Independent Financial Adviser. And it’s not insurance, Minty. It’s assurance.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.
‘Now, Minty, I do think you could benefit from my help here,’ he went on with a benevolent smile. And I don’t know what it was, his compelling personality, the way he kept using my Christian name, the heady scent of his aftershave, or his irresistible charm, but before I knew what had happened I had signed on several dotted lines, thereby embarking on a life-long commitment to the Dreddful Accident Insurance Company, the Colossal Pension Fund, as well as purchasing accidental death coverage with Irish Widows. And now here I am, a mere eighteen months later, making a life-long commitment to him too. And I really couldn’t be happier. I mean, Dominic and I just clicked after that first encounter. We really clicked.
As I say, I find him terribly attractive. You see, I’ve always had this secret thing about blond men. Some women don’t go for them at all, but I’ve always liked them. They’re unusual, for a start, and then they’re so different to me. I look vaguely Mediterranean, with long, wavy, dark hair and eyes the colour of espresso. But Dominic’s the opposite. He’s so fair. So English. I’ll tell you who he looks like: Ashley in Gone with the Wind. Gorgeous. Physical attraction is so important, isn’t it?
And of course we’re very compatible. Well, we are now. In the beginning we weren’t. I’d be the first to admit that. As I say, he liked fishing – I hated it. He played a lot of cricket. It bored me to bits. He loved shopping – especially for clothes – and, frankly, I’m not that bothered. He wasn’t a bit interested in going to art galleries and the theatre, whereas I adore seeing exhibitions and plays. And films. I love films. In fact, I’m quite well-watched. I’d travelled an awful lot too, whereas Dom was terrified of flying and had hardly set foot outside the British Isles. So, to tell you the truth, it didn’t look good at first. But now, the situation’s changed completely. We’re terribly compatible. Because I’ve made myself like all the things he likes! So I go and watch him fly-fishing; I watch him play cricket; and I’ll happily sit and watch Eurosports with him. Unless it’s snooker. Or darts. And if there’s some fascinating documentary or first-rate period drama, well, I can always watch it upstairs on his tiny black-and-white. But that’s how we get on. And I know we’re compatible, because we filled in a compatibility questionnaire – and we passed! And I haven’t just given up all my previous interests. I mean, I still get to go to the theatre sometimes, and the Tate, but I go with my girlfriends, because of course I’d never make Dominic do anything he didn’t want to do.
But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t give way so much. And I do know what you mean. But these are minor things to me, and in any relationship there’s bound to be a lot of give and take. And I’m keeping my eye on the wider picture here, which is that I really love Dom. So these are small sacrifices to make. And in any case, I absolutely hate making a fuss about anything. I’m very ‘nice’. That’s what everyone says about me – that I’m terribly ‘nice’. They’ve always said that. And I simply loathe confrontations of any kind. I just can’t handle them at all. So, if it’s a small matter, I’m more than happy to give in because, to my mind, it’s simply not worth making a fuss. And as far as Dominic’s refusal to travel goes, well, I’m philosophical about that because I’ve already seen lots of places. Anyway, I quite like holidays in England or Wales. I mean, it’s all very well gadding about in Malaysia or Mauritius, the Med or Martinique, Venezuela or Venice, the Caymans, Kenya or Hong Kong – but just think of what you’re missing on your own doorstep! Dominic and I have had some lovely weekends in Norfolk. And Scotland. And the Lake District. Been there twice. In any case, one should try and be satisfied. And I am. I’m very happy with my lot, thank you very much. And you’ve got to decide who it is you want. Who you want to be with. And, for better or for worse, I want to be with Dominic. Because I adore him. Absolutely. He’s The One. Nothing makes me happier than being round at his place, cooking something for him. Although I’d be the first to agree with him that I’m a pretty rotten cook. I mean, you don’t so much carve my roast chickens, as shake them! But I’m going to do a course and learn how to do it properly, because I’m really mad about Dominic.
Mind you, now we’re on the subject, it wouldn’t be true to say that I like everything about him – that would be impossible. No one likes everything about their partner, do they? Between you and me, I really don’t like the way he tries to sell people policies at parties. I do find it a bit embarrassing. Not that I’d mention it to him, of course. And I don’t think he should automatically call people by their Christian names. And I’m not too keen on the way he wears his sunglasses all the time, even when it’s overcast. And the funny thing is that when it’s hot and bright, he wears them on top of his head! And I’m not that crazy about his low-slung, red, Japanese convertible – it’s really not my kind of car at all. I feel a bit idiotic in it, to be honest, and it certainly isn’t eco-friendly on the fuel front, which drives Mum mad as she’s a fund-raiser for Pals of the Planet. And I’m not mad about the way he snaps his fingers at waiters, and does a little scribble in the air when he wants the bill. And it does depress me when he goes on and on about his great days at Uppingham. It’s so unnecessary and, I mean, it’s not exactly a big deal, is it? And one of these days someone will say, ‘Oh, really? I was there too, you know. Which house were you in?’ and then he’ll be sunk. He’s been very lucky so far. And naturally I always keep quiet and change the subject as soon as I can. Personally, I can’t see what’s wrong with saying he went to Sutton Coldfield Secondary Modern. But for some reason he seems rather ashamed of it.
Another thing: he rarely mentions his father. In fact, he isn’t even invited to the wedding, which is awful. Though what can I do? Dominic insists that it would upset his mother if he were there. I think the real reason is that his father’s a mechanic. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Being a mechanic is fine. But Dom doesn’t seem to think so. Whenever I ask him about his dad, or suggest we go and see him, he just changes the subject, and I think that’s a terrible shame. Dom’s much closer to his mother, Madge. In fact, he adores her. It’s ‘Mummy’ this, and ‘Mummy’ that, which is rather sweet. In a way. Anyway, I do think it’s great to be marrying a man who has such a strong relationship with his mother. She thinks the world of him too. She’s terribly proud of what he’s achieved, and he’s been very good to her. Bought her a house in Solihull after her divorce. He’s devoted. And she’d never let on that his real name isn’t Dominic at all. It’s Neil. I discovered this by accident a few weeks ago when I happened to see his driving licence. I was quite surprised, and so I asked him about it. And he confessed that the reason was that when he came down to London fifteen years ago he felt that Neil wasn’t quite the right kind of name for him. To be honest, I think Neil’s a pretty awful name too, so I don’t blame him for changing it. And I mean, I can’t talk, because Minty isn’t my real name either. Or at least, it’s only my middle name. I was actually christened Irene Araminta, after my two grandmothers, but from day one I’ve always been known as Minty. But Dominic just wanted to be Dominic because he thought it had the right sort of ring.
So, as you can see, he’s got his little tender spots, his problem areas and his peccadilloes. And I’m not blind to them. I can see them all. As clear as day. But they don’t affect how I feel about him. Because a) I love him, and b) I understand him. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’ve got him sussed. And when you know where someone’s coming from, then you can overlook their little foibles, because to understand is to forgive.
Because the fact is, despite his confident exterior, Dominic’s pretty insecure. About his background, mostly. Wants to feel he’s transcended his unpromising beginnings, although I’d rather he was open about it and proud of having come so far from, well, a sort of council estate, really. But it seems to bother him, though I really don’t know why. I thought everyone wanted to be working class these days. But his mother says he’s always been very ‘aspiring’. That’s the word she used. Keen to ‘improve himself’, as they say. That’s why designer labels are so important to him, and being seen in the ‘right’ places, and saying the ‘right’ things. And that’s why he’s very keen on books about etiquette, etc. For example, in his downstairs loo, you’ll find The Sloane Ranger Handbook, Jilly Cooper’s Class, The Done Thing, and Miss Manners, because he’s very keen to cut the mustard in smart circles now. He does make quite a lot of money, actually. Commission, most of it. He’s done terribly well out of pensions. And he gets invited to lots of corporate do’s by the insurance companies whose products he sells – they ask him to Ascot and Henley and all that, and so he really wants to pass the test. And that’s only natural, isn’t it? And the point is that I love Dominic. I do, really. I love him for who he is, and for what he’s achieved, and for the fact that he’s worked so hard and come so far. I admire him all the more precisely because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth and didn’t have the benefit of granny’s money, like I did, which is how I was able to buy my flat. Dominic had to do it all by himself. And he did. And I do respect that. But I just wish he could have a little more selfconfidence. I hope that’s something that marriage will give him.
So I encourage him as much as I can, and I’d never, ever criticise him – even if I wanted to, which I don’t – because a) he’s always promptly dropped girlfriends who did criticise him in any way whatsoever, and b) I’m certainly not perfect myself. Far from it, in fact, as he often likes to point out. Because here I am letting you in on Dominic’s little foibles, when, let’s face it, I’ve got plenty of my own. For instance, Dom thinks I talk too much. He’s always said that – right from the start. I thought that was a bit odd, to be honest, because no one else has ever said that to me, but I guess I must have been doing it without realising. Dom doesn’t like it if I try and have conversations which he thinks are too ‘serious’, because he thinks that’s boring and not the Done Thing. He read somewhere that smart people don’t talk about serious issues. They mostly like to talk about things that are ‘amusing’. Not politics, for a start. Or King Lear. Or Camille Paglia. So I often have to bite my tongue to make sure I don’t say anything interesting and annoy him. Because he does get quite annoyed. Well, very annoyed, actually.
My taste in clothes is not that great either, but luckily Dominic’s really improved it for me. Because he’s always impeccably turned out. Which I like, because, let’s face it, so many men don’t bother much these days. Anyway, no one had ever pointed out to me that I could do with a bit of advice on that front. He said I looked like a ‘superannuated student’. And he was right. I did. I probably picked it up from Mum. She favours the Bloomsbury look – her things are long and floaty and a bit ‘arty’ – all from charity shops, of course. Dom said he’d never let me go round looking like that. Now, he likes clothes that are well cut, expensive-looking and ‘smart’ – Gucci, for example. Which is a bit hard when you’re on a small salary like I am, though at least I don’t have a mortgage. And so when I first started going out with him I found there were lots of things I couldn’t wear. He called them my ‘nightmares’. And that surprised me too, because none of my previous boyfriends felt like that at all. Anyway, Dom told me to throw them all out, but I objected to that, so I put them in boxes under my bed.
He’s always buying me things. Clothes, mostly. He loves shopping for clothes for me. I felt a bit awkward about that to begin with. In fact, it made me feel quite uncomfortable. And I wasn’t at all sure it was right. But Madge said I should let him do it, because he wants to, and he can afford to. So I go along with it. Even if I’m not crazy about spending most of Saturday in Harvey Nichols, and even if I’m not crazy about his choice. I mean, he bought me a Hermès bag recently. I know – so expensive! He said he wanted me to have one. And of course I threw my arms round him and said how thrilled I was, and how generous he was – which he is, don’t get me wrong. He’s very generous. But, to be frank, I don’t actually like it – though I would never have said so in a million years. And naturally I use it all the time. Now, whenever I give him something that he doesn’t like, I’m afraid it has to go back to the shop. I’ve sort of got used to it now, I suppose. But I really like to please Dominic because, well, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?
I’ve always been like that. I’ve always liked to smooth things over, for there to be no arguments or conflict, and for everything to be …nice. That’s what everyone says about me – ‘Minty’s so nice!’ And that’s nice, isn’t it? That they all think I’m so nice. And because I do like to be nice, I always indulge Dominic, because I know him so well, and you have to accept everyone as they are. That’s what Dominic says. And you can’t change people, can you? Especially when they’re thirty-five like he is and –
Oh God, here I am droning on, as Dominic would say, boring you to bits, and look at the time: 10.15! God, God, God. Maybe I should pray. I do feel quite scared, to be honest. ‘Till death us do part,’ and all that. ‘As long as ye both shall live.’ The awesome commitment we’re about to make to each other. The fact that I’m about to become Mrs Dominic Lane and – oh, thank goodness, thank goodness, Helen’s back.
We set off for church within fifteen minutes. Helen checked that my thirty-five loops were all fastened, and that my make-up and hair looked good, then I did up her dress, we shouted for Dad and jumped in the Bentley, which had been waiting for half an hour. We all sat in the back; I had Helen’s bouquet of white anemones and pink roses lying on my lap. It wasn’t one of those stiff, wired bouquets that I always think look equally at home on top of coffins; it was a simple posy, loosely tied, as though she had plucked the flowers from the garden minutes before. In fact, they’d been hot-housed in Holland, flown in overnight, and she’d bought them from New Covent Garden at three o’clock that morning. Helen’s a genius with flowers. It’s as though she’s just stuck them in – like that – with absolutely no thought or planning. But hers is the art that conceals art, and her arrangements have the informal, tumbling beauty of Dutch flower paintings.
Anyway, Helen and Dad and I were chatting away nervously as we left Primrose Hill in the leaden heat of a mid morning in late July. The twenty-eighth, actually, a date I knew I would remember all my life, as I remember the date of my birth. And I was so glad to have Helen with me. I’ve known her for twelve years – since Edinburgh – and we’ve remained in pretty close touch ever since. She read economics and then went to work for Metrobank, where she did terribly well. But three years ago there was one of these mega-mergers and she was made redundant, so she used her pay-off to fund her pipe-dream: it’s called Floribunda, and it’s in Covent Garden, where she lives. It’s so tiny – Lilliputian, in fact – that you hardly dare turn round for fear of sending tubs of phlox and foxglove flying. But she’s really in demand – she got a call from Jerry Hall the other day. And what’s so nice about Helen is that she’s totally unspoilt by her success. Her bridesmaid’s dress looked lovely: ice blue, also by Neil Cunningham, and designed to harmonise with mine. She’d tied her hair – a hank of pale apricot silk – into a neat, simple twist, and dressed it with two pink rosebuds. And although she looked gorgeous, I’d have liked little bridesmaids too, a Montessori school of tiny girls nose-picking and stumbling their way up the aisle. But I don’t know any of the right age. I’m sure someone could make a bomb hiring them out. Anyway, I wanted to have someone to support me – after all, Dominic had Charlie – so I asked Helen to be my maid of honour.
As we made our way through Camden, past Euston Station, and Russell Square, I felt like the Queen. The car shone with a treacly blackness and the two white ribbons fluttered stiffly on the bonnet as we drove through the hot, crowded streets. People looked, and grinned, and one or two even waved. And then we went down Kingsway and passed the great arched entrance to Bush House, and turned left past St Clement Danes into Fleet Street. And there were the Law Courts, and the old Daily Express building, and Prêt à Manger, and I thought happily, I’m Prêt à Marrier!
I could hear the bells tolling – I mean, ringing. And then suddenly there was the tall steeple of St Bride’s, with its five tiers, like a wedding cake, and I thought, clever Christopher Wren. And one or two late-comers were hurrying into the church and by now my stomach was lurching and churning like a tumble-dryer and – Oh God, Melinda! London FM’s star presenter with her boring husband, Roger. Trust her not to turn up on time. And what a terrible dress! All that money, I thought, and so little taste. I mean, I know she’s five months pregnant and everything, so I don’t want to be unfair, but it really was awful. Chintz. Pink. Very Sanderson. She looked as though she’d been badly upholstered. And to top it all, she’d got this kind of Scud missile wobbling on her head.
I stepped out of the car, smiling for the video man and the official photographer who were waiting on the pavement. Then Helen smoothed the front of my dress, I took Dad’s arm, and we all walked into the cool of the porch. I spotted Robert – he was ushering – though I couldn’t see Dom. And I suddenly panicked! So I got Dad to go in and have a peep, and he just smiled, and said that, yes, Dominic was safely there, at the altar, with Charlie. And I could hear the hum of muted voices as the organist played the Saint-Saëns. Then the music drew to an end and a hush descended and Robert gave us the nod.
‘OK, Minty, we’re off,’ whispered Daddy with a smile, and we stepped forward as the first chords of the Mendelssohn rang out and everyone rose to their feet. And suddenly, in that instant, I was so, so thrilled I’d chosen St Bride’s. It’s not that I’m particularly religious – I’m not really, and nor is Dom. In fact, he said very little during our sessions with the vicar. But of all the churches in Central London, St Bride’s was the one that felt right. It’s the journalists’ church – the Cathedral of Fleet Street – and that was another reason for choosing it. And you see, I’ve always had this thing about churches that were bombed in the War. Coventry Cathedral, for example, or St Paul’s. And St Bride’s was bombed too; in December 1940, a single V2 left it a smouldering shell. But it arose, like a phoenix, from its ashes. And the vicar explained that the destruction had a silver lining, because it laid bare the Roman crypts. And no one had known they were there, and this enabled them to add a thousand years to the history of the church. Which proves how good can sometimes come out of the most terrible events because without that devastation St Bride’s would never have revealed its hidden depths. And I was thinking of that again as I walked up the aisle, adren-aline-pumped and overwrought and nervous, and tearful, and happy. As the sunlight flooded in through the plain glass windows in wide, striated rays, I lifted my eyes to the vaulted ceiling painted in white and gold, and then dropped my gaze to the black and white marble tiles which were polished to a watery sheen. And the air was heavy with the sweet smell of beeswax and the voluptuous scent of Helen’s flowers. Her two arrangements took my breath away. They were magnificent. As big as telephone kiosks – a tumbling mass of scabious, stocks and pink peonies, freesia and sweet peas; and she’d tied a little posy of white anemones to the end of every pew.
And there was Dominic, with his back to me, his blond head lit by the sun. And I thought, he looks like the Angel Gabriel himself in the Annunciation by Fra Angelico. Charlie was standing next to him, looking typically serious and kind, and he turned and gave me such a nice, encouraging little smile. Because the box pews face sideways in St Bride’s, I could see everyone as we passed, their Order of Service sheets fluttering in their hands like big white moths. First I spotted Jack, my editor, smiling at me in his usual amused and sardonic way, and next to him was his wife Jane and her sulky-looking teenage daughters, both dressed in post-Punk black and pink; and there was Amber looking wonderfully cool and elegant in lime green. In the pew behind was Wesley from work, with Deirdre, of course – oh, she did look dreary, but then she always does, poor thing; between you and me, I think weddings are a sore point with her. And there was my mother in her flowing Bohemian dress, and her extraordinary, flower-smothered hat. On the groom’s side I spotted Dom’s mother, Madge, and lots of people I didn’t recognise who must have been his clients. And everyone was looking at me, and smiling, and I knew that I was, as the expression goes, ‘the cynosure of every eye’. Then Helen lifted my veil and took my bouquet, and tucked herself into a pew next to Mum. The wedding had begun.
And it was going well. Really smoothly. It was all so …lovely. Dominic looked a bit anxious, so I gently squeezed his hand. And we sang ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, he and I singing it quite quietly, and he looked a little agitated, but that was because there was this wasp buzzing about, and it was hovering close to him, and he had to flap it away once or twice. Then Amber stepped forward and read the ‘Desiderata’, beautifully, because she’s got a fantastic voice. Then we sang ‘Jerusalem’ and then came The Marriage. And the Rector, John Oakes, said why marriage was important, and why it should not be undertaken lightly, wantonly or unadvisedly; and then he called on the congregation to state whether they knew of any impediment why Dominic and I should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony. And that was a heart-stopping moment. In fact I hated it – even though I knew that no one was likely to come crashing in at the back raising loud objections or waving marriage certificates about. But still it made me very anxious, and so I was relieved when that bit was over and we went forward to the next part. But the wasp kept buzzing about, and it simply wouldn’t leave Dom alone, and he was getting a bit rattled and red in the face, so I gently swotted at it with my Order of Service. And the vicar said:
‘Dominic, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the Holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’
There was a pause. An unscheduled pause. What we radio people call ‘dead air’. And the pause went on for quite a bit, greatly to my surprise. But then, eventually, Dominic spoke.
‘We-ll,’ he began, and he swallowed, as though he might otherwise choke. ‘We-ll,’ he said again, then stopped. Then he heaved this enormous sigh. And then he just stared at the painting of Christ, crucified, over the altar. And in the ensuing silence, which felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than five seconds, I felt as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice-water, despite the oppressive heat of the day.
‘Wilt thou?’ repeated the vicar helpfully. There was another silence, which seemed to hum and throb. I watched a bead of sweat trickle down Dominic’s face, from his temple to his chin.
‘Wilt thou? Mm?’ The vicar’s face was red too, by now. And his brow was gleaming and moist. He stared at Dominic, willing him to speak. And at last, Dominic did.
‘Well …’ he stuttered. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well …’ he tried again.
‘Wilt thou?’
‘No, John,’ said Dom quietly, ‘I’m afraid I won’t.’
I was staring at the vicar, and the vicar was staring at Dominic. And then I looked at Dominic too, and was suddenly very sorry that I’d chosen St Bride’s because my by now reddening face was fully visible to every single person in that church.
‘Come along, Dominic,’ said the vicar, sotto voce with a tight little smile. ‘Let’s try it again. Wilt thou love Irene Araminta and honour her etcetera, etcetera, etcetera – so long as ye both shall live?’
‘No,’ said Dominic, more forcefully this time, ‘‘fraid not.’ And now, as I stared at him, I was conscious of the sound of wood gently creaking, as people shifted in their pews.
‘Dominic!’ It was Charlie. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s press on with it, shall we?’
‘I can’t,’ Dominic said, with a slow, regretful shake of his head. He looked terrible. He looked distraught. ‘I just can’t,’ he said again. And at that point, somehow, I managed to speak.
‘Are you ill, Dom?’ I whispered. ‘Do you feel unwell?’ He looked at me, and moaned.
‘No. No, I’m not ill. I’m well. There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘Then what’s the matter?’ I croaked. My mouth felt dry as dust and I was aware of disconcerted susurrations from behind.
‘The matter is …’ he said. ‘The matter is …that these are such serious vows, Minty. Vows I may not be able to keep. And it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the fact that we’re in church.’
‘Yes,’ I said weakly, ‘I know.’
‘And in church you just can’t lie and hope to get away with it,’ he went on. ‘And I’ve been thinking about God a lot recently, because actually, Minty, although you may not have realised this, I’m a deeply religious person.’
‘Dom, whatever are you talking about?’ I murmured. ‘You never go to church.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to go to church to be religious, and now that I’m standing here, before the altar, in the sight of God, I know I just can’t go through with it. Because I’d have to promise to love you and comfort you and keep myself only unto you and all the rest of it, Minty, and that’s pretty serious stuff, you know.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do know that, actually.’
‘And it’s only now that I’m standing here, that I realise how huge these vows are. It’s only now,’ he went on, ‘that I’m beginning to comprehend the enormity of what I’m being asked to do.’
‘Not “enormity”, Dom,’ I whispered, ‘that means something bad. I think you mean enormousness.’
‘Please don’t correct me, Minty. I mean the magnitude of it. Of what I’m being asked to give up.’
‘Yes, but, you knew that before,’ I breathed, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat.
‘Yes. But I didn’t understand it before. What it truly means. But now I’m here, in church, I do. These huge promises. And I’m just not prepared to make them because, frankly, Minty, as you well know, there are lots of things about you that really …annoy me.’ At this a sudden murmur arose from the pews, like the uprush of small birds from a field. I could hear nervous, interrogative titters, and the sound of breath being sharply inhaled.
‘They say it’s the little things that get to you in the end,’ he said, ‘and it’s the little things that have got to me about you. I mean, you’re so untidy,’ he went on, getting into his stride now. His tenor voice was rising to an almost girlish timbre, which is what happens when he gets worked up. ‘You talk such rubbish half the time,’ he went on, ‘and you never know when to shut up.’
‘What do you expect?’ I said, my heart now banging in my chest. ‘As you know, I’m a) half Irish, and b) a professional broadcaster.’
‘You really get me down,’ he whined. ‘I’ve been trying to put all my doubts about you to the back of my mind, but I can’t any longer, I simply can’t, because I think we’d …we’d …we’d be bound to come unstuck! I’m sorry, Minty, but I just can’t go through with this.’ My jaw dropped. It dropped wide open. I must have looked a picture of cretinous idiocy as I absorbed what he had just said. I glanced at Dad, but his mouth was agape too. And Mum and Helen seemed frozen, in a state close to catatonia. Then Charlie intervened again.
‘Look, do us all a favour, old man. Cut the crap, will you – sorry, Vicar – and just say “I do”, there’s a good chap.’
This seemed to be the last straw, and then that bally wasp came buzzing back.
‘No. No, I won’t,’ said Dom, swatting it away from his per-spiration-beaded face. ‘I won’t say that, simply to please you and everyone else. I’m not a puppet, you know. This is a free country. You can’t make me go through with this. And I won’t. I’m determined to think of myself – at last!’ He turned ninety degrees and faced the gawping crowd. And I could see the fear in his face as he realised how exposed he now was to their contempt. ‘Look, I’m …sorry about this everyone,’ he said, nervously running a finger round his wing collar. ‘I …er …know some of you have come from quite a long way. A very long way away in some cases, like my Aunt Beth, for example, who’s come down from Aberdeen. But, well, the fact is, I can’t do this. I hope you all understand. And once again, I’m …well …I’m sorry.’ Then something of the old Dominic returned, as he felt himself take command of the situation once more. ‘However,’ he went on smoothly, ‘I would like to point out that there is a comprehensive insurance policy in place, which should take care of everything.’ He swallowed, and breathed deeply. And then he looked at me.
‘Look, Minty. It just wasn’t going to work out. I think if you were honest, you’d admit that yourself.’ And then he began to walk away from me, down the aisle, with a very determined air. And as he picked up speed he almost skidded on the highly polished floor, and I actually shouted after him, ‘Careful, Dom! Don’t slip!’ But he didn’t. He carried on walking until he reached the door, his shoes snapping smartly, almost brightly, across the gleaming tiles.
I don’t really remember what happened in the minutes immediately after that. I think it’s been erased from my mind, as one erases unwanted footage from an old video. I do remember trying to recall some comforting or possibly even useful phrases from Nearly Wed, but couldn’t think of a single one, except for the chapter heading: ‘How to Survive the Happiest Day of Your Life’. Apart from that, I think I simply stood there, immobile, clutching my Order of Service. I didn’t have a clue what to do. I just hoped that the camcorder had been switched off. Charlie had run after Dominic, but had come back, three minutes later, alone.
‘He got on a bus,’ he whispered to me, and to Dad and Helen, who had now stepped forward in a protective pincer movement around me. And I found this piece of news very odd, because Dominic loathes public transport.
‘Couldn’t you have chased after him?’ suggested Dad.
‘No, it was a number 11, it was going pretty fast.’
‘I see,’ said Dad seriously. We looked vainly at the vicar but he didn’t seem to know what to do.
‘This has never, ever happened during my ministry,’ he said, a piece of information which did little to cheer me up.
By now, people were whispering loudly in their pews, and many looked distraught. Amber was opening and closing her mouth like an outraged carp.
‘What the hell’s that plonker playing at?’ she demanded in her over-bearing, Cheltenham Ladies way. ‘What a bastard!’ she added, as she clambered out of her pew. ‘What a sh—’
‘Shhhh! Madam,’ said the vicar, ‘this is a house of God.’
‘I don’t care if it’s the house of bloody Bernarda Alba!’ she flung back. ‘That man’s just jilted my cousin!’
Jilted! It cut through me like a knife. Jilted. That was it: I’d been jilted. Amber was right. And it wasn’t a moment’s aberration, because the minutes were now ticking by, and Dominic still hadn’t reappeared. And I could hear another wedding party gathering outside, so I didn’t see how Dom and I were going to have time to make our vows even if he did come back, which by now I very much doubted. And anyway, if there’s one thing I know about Dominic, more than anything else, one constant, immutable characteristic, it’s the fact that once he’s made up his mind to do something, he will never, ever go back.
Dad sat down, and put his head in his hands. Mum and Helen looked equally distraught. And then I looked down the pews, scanning the faces of those who had witnessed my shame. There was Jack, not knowing where to look, and his step-daughters, who were stifling giggles; next to them was Melinda, her podgy hand clapped to her mouth in a melodramatic tableau of shock; and Wesley was tut-tutting away to Deirdre and shaking his head, and Auntie Flo was crying, and no one knew what to say or where to look. But they were all trying hard not to look at me, in the way that nice people avert their eyes when passing the scene of some dreadful crash. And that’s what I felt like. A corpse, lying on the road. Hit and run. I hadn’t been cut. I didn’t have a scratch, but my blood had been spilled for all to see.
By now Charlie and the vicar were conferring agitatedly. Someone would have to decide what to do, I realised vaguely. Charlie took charge. He came up to me, and laid his hand on my arm in a reassuring way.
‘Shall we go to the Waldorf, Minty? Do you want to go?’
‘What?’
‘We can’t stay here.’
‘What? Oh …no.’
‘You see, I don’t think Dom’s coming back and the next party’s starting to arrive. I suggest we all go to the Waldorf, try and calm down, and at least have a little lunch and plan what to do. Do you agree, Minty? Is that OK? Remember, it’s your day. We’ll all do exactly what you want!’
‘Well …yes, why not?’ I said, with a reasonableness that astounded me. I think I even tried to smile.
‘She’s in shock,’ Amber announced loudly. She put her arm round me. ‘You’re in shock, Minty. Don’t worry, it’s only to be expected.’
‘I’m sure everything’s going to be OK, Minty,’ said Helen, taking one of my hands in both hers. ‘I’m sure he’s just been possessed by some temporary …you know …insanity.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said calmly. ‘Please could someone tell the photographer and the video chap to go home?’
‘What a bastard!’ said Amber, again.
‘Please, madam,’ repeated the vicar.
‘Come on, Minty,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to the hotel!’ And she and Dad led me out of the church, one on each arm, as though I were an invalid. Indeed, the waiting Bentley might as well have been an ambulance – I half expected to see a blue flashing light revolving on its roof. And the shocked voices of the congregation were drowned out by the voices clamouring in my head. They said, Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?
‘Um …this is a somewhat unusual situation,’ announced Charlie, as we all sat down to our vine-ripened tomatoes in the Waldorf’s Adelphi Suite half an hour later. He nervously fiddled with his buttonhole as he faced the assembled guests. ‘Now, I don’t want to speculate as to why Dominic seems to have got cold feet –’
‘Cold?’ interjected Amber acidly. ‘They were deep frozen.’
‘Thank you, Amber. As I say, I refuse to speculate about Dominic’s behaviour this morning,’ Charlie went on, ‘except to say that he has been working rather hard recently. Very hard, in fact. And he has seemed rather preoccupied lately, so, er, I suspect that er, professional pressure is largely to blame. And I think the best thing is if we just try to enjoy our lunch, and, er, try to, er, well …’ his voice trailed away ‘ …enjoy our lunch.’
And the waiters came round with the Laurent Perrier – in the circumstances we’d decided not to have a reception line – and people drank it, and chatted in low, respectful voices. They sat huddled round their tables like spies, as they swapped theories about Dom’s dramatic exit.
‘– another woman?’ I heard someone ask.
‘– dunno.’
‘– already married?’
‘– nervous breakdown?’
‘– always a bit flaky.’
‘– totally humiliating.’
‘– what about the presents?’
I was on the top table, of course, but instead of sitting there with my new husband, I was next to my bridesmaid and the best man, and my parents, brother and cousin. And Madge, unfortunately. She’d come along to the Waldorf, too.
‘Well, at least I got to wear my new Windsmoor,’ she said with a satisfied shrug. ‘It cost an absolute bomb.’
‘Windsmoor? I say,’ said Amber incredulously. She seemed more outraged than me.
‘Do you have any notion as to why your son has done this?’ Dad enquired with stiff civility.
‘Well, I suppose he felt that it wasn’t right, and that he just couldn’t go through with it,’ she offered. ‘He’s got such integrity like that.’
‘Integrity!’ Amber spat.
‘Amber, Amber, please,’ said Charlie. ‘It doesn’t help.’
‘Nice tiara, by the way, Minty,’ said Madge.
‘Thanks.’
‘And you can keep the griddle pan.’ I was too shocked to take in this happy news.
‘Never mind, Minty, darling,’ said Mum, putting a solicitous arm round my shoulder. ‘I always thought the man was a first-class shyster and rotter, I can’t deny it, and – oooh, sorry, Madge!’ Mum blushed. ‘An appalling waste of twenty-eight grand, though,’ she added regretfully.
‘Is that all you can think of, Dympna?’ Dad asked wearily, as a waiter flicked a large napkin on to her lap.
‘Well, just think of all the homeless bats and battered wives you could save with that lot!’ she retorted. ‘What about the insurance policy?’ she asked.
‘Charlie phoned the helpline on his mobile,’ Dad replied. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t appear to cover stage-fright.’
So we sat there eating our lunch, amid the curiously merry clatter of cutlery on china, and the pan-seared swordfish arrived and everyone said it was very good, though obviously I couldn’t eat a thing; and the string trio were playing ‘Solitaire’, which I thought was extremely insensitive, and I was just making a mental decision not to tip them when Charlie’s mobile phone went off. He flicked it on, and stood up.
‘Yes? Yes?’ I heard him say. Then he said, ‘Look, Dom, don’t tell me this, tell Minty. You’ve got to talk to her, old chap – I’m going to put her on to you right now.’
I grabbed the outstretched phone as though it were a lifeline and I a drowning man. ‘Dom, Dom it’s me. Listen …Yes …Yes, OK …Thanks …No, Dominic, don’t hang up. Don’t. Please, Dom, don’t! …Thanks, Dom. No, don’t go, Dominic! Don’t, Dominic …Dom –’
He’d gone. And then, at last, I burst into tears.
‘What did he say?’ asked Charlie, after a minute.
‘He said …he said, I can keep the engagement ring.’
‘Ah, that’s nice of him,’ said Madge with a benevolent smile. ‘He was always very generous like that.’
‘And the honeymoon.’
‘Heart of gold, really.’
Mum shot her a poisonous look.
‘But how can I go on my honeymoon on my own?’ I wailed.
‘I’ll come with you, Minty,’ Helen said.
And so at ten to five Helen and I left the Waldorf in a cab – she’d already dashed home to get her passport and a weekend bag. And we were waved off by everyone, which felt rather strange; I decided, in the circumstances, not to throw my bouquet. I left it with all my wedding gear, which Dad said he’d take back to Primrose Hill. And as I crossed the Thames in the taxi with my bridesmaid instead of my bridegroom, I kept thinking, ‘Where’s Dominic? Where is he? Where?’ Was he still on the bus? Unlikely. Was he back in Clapham? When had he decided on his course of action? Was it pure coup de théâtre, or a genuine éclaircissement – and why was I thinking in French?
‘I don’t think he’ll be back,’ Madge had announced, as she sipped her coffee.
‘What makes you so sure?’ Charlie enquired testily. Tempers were frayed by now.
‘Well, once he makes up his mind about something he never changes it,’ she said, patting her perm. ‘Like I say, he’s got such integrity like that.’
‘Oh, why don’t you shut up about Dominic’s blasted “integrity”?’ said Amber, with a ferocity which struck me as rude. ‘Look what he’s done to Minty!’
‘Well, it is unfortunate,’ agreed Madge, with an air of regret. ‘But much better to pull out now than later on.’
‘No!’ I said in a voice I barely recognised as my own. ‘I’d rather he’d gone through with it, just gone through with it, and divorced me tomorrow, if that’s how he felt.’
‘But he’s got such a lot to lose,’ she said.
‘Well, I’ve lost all my dignity!’ I replied. ‘It’s so humiliating,’ I wailed, as I tried to avoid the pitying looks of the catering staff. ‘And in front of every single person I know.’ And it was then that I suddenly regretted having let Dominic persuade me to invite half the staff of London FM. How could I work there again, after this? I looked at my napkin – it was smeared with mascara, which annoyed me because I’d paid £24 for it and had been assured by the woman in the shop that it was completely waterproof. I looked at my watch. It was ten to four, and the train to Paris was at five fifteen.
‘I think you should go,’ said Dad again.
‘Why don’t you go,’ I said, ‘with Mum?’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It’s the Anorexia Association Ball on Tuesday. I’ve got to look after Lord Eatmore, he’s the sponsor.’
‘Go with Helen, Minty,’ said Dad. ‘That way, if Dominic wants to ring you, he’ll know where you are.’
Oh yes. Dominic would know that all right. The George V. The Honeymoon Suite. That’s what he’d asked me to book and, very obediently, I had. So that’s where he could ring me. He could ring me there and explain. Perhaps he’d even come over and talk to me in person. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t – because I knew that Madge was right.
In The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne the heroine, Hester, is made to wear the letter ‘A’ on her dress. ‘A’ for Adultery. ‘A’ to indicate her public shame. As Helen and I swished through the Kent countryside on Eurostar, I thought, maybe I should wear ‘J’, for jilted. This would save people constantly coming up to me in the coming weeks and asking me why I looked so strained, and why I hardly ate, and why I had this mad, staring expression in my eyes. It would be the emotional equivalent of a black armband, easily read from afar, and leaving nothing to be said – except perhaps for the occasional, and entirely voluntary, sympathetic gesture.
And I thought too, as I gazed at the sunlit fields, of how incredibly unlucky I’d been. I’d had more chance of being blown up by a terrorist bomb, or hit by a flying cow, than being deserted, in church, mid marriage. And I thought of Sheryl von Strumpfhosen and of how she’d got my horoscope so horribly wrong: ‘Your love life takes an upward turn this weekend,’ she’d written. Upward turn? And then I remembered my marriage manual, Nearly Wed, and a grim smile spread across my lips. I thought as well of all the kind things people had said as I left the hotel. ‘Chin up, Minty!’ ‘Probably all for the best …’ ‘Expect he’ll come running back!’ ‘Thought you looked lovely, by the way.’ They had crawled and cringed with embarrassment, brows corrugated with confusion and concern. I’d felt almost sorrier for them than for myself. I mean, what do you say? And then, I realised, with a heart like lead, that it wasn’t just the people who were in church. It was the hundreds of others who’d read that I was engaged.
Because it was in the papers, of course. In the engagement columns of both the Telegraph, and The Times. That had been the first cog to turn, setting in motion the invincible wedding machine. And then I regretted putting it in on a Saturday, when it would have been spotted by everyone I know. And so for months to come I would have to explain again and again that, ‘No, I’m still Minty Malone, actually,’ and ‘No, I didn’t get married, after all,’ and ‘No – no particular reason, ha ha ha! It just didn’t, you know, work out.’ ‘These things happen,’ I’d have to say, brightly. ‘All for the best and all that.’ Oh God. I was interrupted from Bride’s Dread Revisited by the distant clink of a trolley.
‘Please eat something,’ said Helen. ‘The steward’s just coming –’ She reddened.
‘Up the aisle?’ I enquired bleakly.
‘Please, Minty,’ she said, as he approached. ‘You didn’t eat anything at lunch.’
Eat? I was still so shocked I could hardly breathe.
‘Champagne, madam?’
Champagne? I never wanted to see another glass of that as long as I lived.
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘You have it, Helen.’
‘Lamb or duck, madam?’
‘Neither, thanks.’
‘Nothing at all for madam?’ enquired the steward with an air of concern.
‘No. Nothing for madam. And, actually, it isn’t madam, it’s still miss.’
The steward retreated with a wounded air. Helen picked up her knife and fork.
‘I’m sure Dominic will be back,’ she said, trying to comfort me, yet again.
Helen’s like that. She’s very kind-hearted. She’s very optimistic too, like her name, Spero – ‘I hope.’ In fact, her family motto is Dum Spiro, Spero – ‘While I breathe, I hope.’ Yes, I thought, Helen’s always hopeful. But today she was quite, quite wrong.
‘He won’t come back,’ I said. ‘He never, ever changes his mind about anything. It’s over, Helen. Over and out.’
She shook her head, and murmured, for the umpteenth time, ‘Incredible.’ And then, determined to cheer me up, she began to regale me with other nuptial nightmares she’d read about in women’s magazines. The groom who discovered he’d married a transsexual; the best man who didn’t show; the bride who ran off with a woman she’d met at her hen night; the collapsing or flying marquees. Helen was an expert. Helen knew them all.
‘Did you hear the one about the coronation chicken?’ she asked, as she sipped her Bordeaux.
‘No.’
‘It claimed five lives at a reception in Reigate.’
‘How dreadful.’
‘Then there was this awful punch-up at a marriage in Maidstone.’
‘Really?’
‘The bride spent her wedding night in jail.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘And there was a woman in Kent who was married and widowed on the same day!’
‘No!’
‘The groom said, “I do,” then dropped stone-dead. Heart attack, apparently, brought on by all the stress.’
‘Oh God.’
‘And I know someone else whose granny croaked at the reception.’
‘Really?’
‘She went face down in the trifle during the speeches.’
‘Terrible,’ I murmured. And though Helen meant well, this litany of wedding-day disasters was beginning to get me down. I was glad when we pulled into Paris.
‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best,’ she said, as we got off the train. ‘And I’m sure you’ll meet someone else – I mean, if Dominic doesn’t come back,’ she added quickly.
And I thought, yes, maybe I’ll meet someone else. Maybe, like Nancy Mitford’s heroine, Linda, in The Pursuit of Love, I’ll encounter some charming French aristocrat right here at the Gare du Nord. That would be wonderfully convenient. But there were no aristocrats in sight, just an interminable queue for the cabs.
‘Le George V, s’il vous plaît,’ Helen said to the driver, and soon we were speeding through the streets, the windows wide open, inhaling the pungent Parisian aroma of petrol fumes, tobacco and pissoirs. At the bottom of Rue La Fayette stood the Opera House, as ornate and fanciful as a wedding cake, I reflected bitterly. Then we crossed the Place de la Concorde and entered the bustling Champs Elysées.
‘Elysian Fields,’ I said acidly. The sight of a shop window full of bridal gowns dealt me a knife-blow. A wedding car festooned with white ribbons pulled past and I thought I was going to be sick. Ahead of us was the Arc de Triomphe, massive and emphatic. It seemed to mock me after my decidedly unheroic disaster in St Bride’s. I was glad when the driver turned left into Avenue George V, and we couldn’t see it any more.
‘Congratulations, Madame Lane!’ The concierge beamed at me. ‘The Four Seasons George V Hotel would like to extend to you and your ‘usband, our warmest félicitations! Er, is Monsieur Lane just coming, madame?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘he isn’t. And it’s still “mademoiselle”, by the way.’ The concierge reddened as he called a bellboy to take care of our bags.
‘Ah. I see,’ he said, as he slid the registration form across the counter for me to sign. ‘Alors, never mind, as you English like to say.’
‘I do mind,’ I pointed out. ‘I mind very much, actually. But I was persuaded not to waste the trip, so I’ve come with my bridesmaid, instead.’ Helen gave the concierge an awkward smile.
‘Eh bien, why not?’ he said. ‘The Honeymoon Suite is on the eighth floor, mademoiselles. The lifts are just there on your right. I ‘ope you will enjoy your stay.’
‘I think that’s rather unlikely,’ I said. ‘In the circumstances.’
‘Please remember, madame –’
‘–oiselle.’
‘– that we are entirely at your disposal,’ he went on. ‘At the George V no request is too big, too small, or too unusual.’
‘OK. Then can you get my fiancé back?’
‘Our staff are on hand night and day.’
‘He ran off, you see, in church.’
‘If you need help, unpacking your shopping …’
‘In front of everyone I know …’
‘Or you’d like something laundered or ironed …’
‘It was so humiliating …’
‘Then we will be pleased to do it for you.’
‘It was awful.’
‘At any time.’
‘Just awful.’
‘We are here for you round ze clock.’
‘It was terrible,’ I whispered. ‘Terrible.’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’
The marble reception desk had begun to blur and I was aware of Helen’s hand pressing gently on my arm.
‘Come on, Minty,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go and find the room.’
To call it a ‘room’ was like calling St Paul’s a church. The bedroom was about thirty feet long, with an enormous walk-in wardrobe. There was also a private sitting room, a huge bathroom, a separate shower room, and a terrace. The walls were painted a soft yellow, and there were antiques everywhere. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; its lustre drops looked like tears.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, sinking into the boat-sized bed. I looked at the huge bouquet of congratulatory pink roses and the bottle of chilling champagne. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said again. ‘It’s just so …’ A hot tear splashed on to my hand.
‘Oh, Minty,’ Helen said, and she was almost crying too. ‘Incredible,’ she repeated, putting her arm round me. ‘Just unbelievable.’
‘Yes,’ I wept, ‘but it’s true. He did it. And it’s only now that it’s beginning to sink in.’
‘But why did he do it?’ she said, shaking her head.
‘I don’t know,’ I sobbed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, Minty – you’re well out of it,’ she said, furiously blinking away her tears. ‘You don’t want a man capable of such a cowardly, despicable act. You’re well out of it,’ she reiterated, crossly.
And I thought, I’m going to keep on hearing that – again and again. That’s what people will say: ‘You’re well out of it, Minty. Well out.’ And though it won’t help, they’ll be right. It’s bad enough when a man breaks off his engagement, but doing a runner in the church? Outrageous! ‘You’re well shot of him!’ everyone will tell me confidently. ‘What a cad!’ they’ll add. Oh God.
Helen stood up and opened the French windows. I followed her out on to the terrace. Pretty pots of tumbling geraniums stood in each corner, and a white satin ribbon had been threaded through the wrought-iron balcony. The table had been laid, for two, with a white damask cloth, sparkling silver cutlery, gleaming porcelain, candles and flowers. The perfect setting for a romantic sunset dinner à deux. I just couldn’t bear it.
‘I’ll ask them to clear it away,’ I said, bleakly. Then I sat down and took in the view. Ahead of us, to the right, was the Eiffel Tower, its cast-iron fretwork now illuminated like electric lace. To our left was the spire of the American Cathedral, and, further off, the gilded dome of Les Invalides. And then my eye caught the Pont de I’Alma, and the eternal flame by the tunnel in which Princess Diana had died. Worse things happen, I thought to myself, with a jolt. This is dreadful. Dreadful. But no one’s dead.
‘You will come through this, Minty,’ Helen said quietly. ‘You won’t believe that now. But you will. And I know you’ll be happy again one day.’ And as she said that her gold crest ring glinted in the evening sun.
‘Dum Spiro, Spero,’ I said to myself. Yes. While I have breath, I hope.
‘Audrey Hepburn stayed here,’ said Helen excitedly in the hotel dining room the following morning. ‘And Greta Garbo. And Sophia Loren. And Jerry Hall.’
‘And Minty Malone,’ I added bitterly, ‘the world-famous jiltee – and winner of the Miss Havisham Memorial Prize.’
Lack of sleep had left me in an edgy, sardonic mood. It wasn’t that Helen’s presence in the bed had disturbed me – it was so big I’d hardly noticed. It was simply that I’d been far too stressed to sleep. So at two a.m. I’d got up and wandered around the suite in my nightie, wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth. Then I’d rung reception.
‘Oui, madame?’ It was the same concierge, still on duty.
‘You did say “round the clock”, didn’t you?’ I whispered.
‘Oui, madame.’
‘Could you get me something then?’
‘Of course, madame. At the George V no request is too big, too small, or too unusual.’
‘In that case, can you get me a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. In English, please,’ I added.
‘And you would like this when, madame?’
‘Now.’
‘Eh, bien sur …we do have a small bibliothèque. I will ‘ave a look.’
‘Thank you.’
Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and a bellboy appeared, clutching a leather-bound copy of the book. I gave him twenty francs. Then I sat down in the sitting room and turned the thin pages until I found what I was looking for.
[Miss Havisham] was dressed in rich materials – satins, and lace, and silks – all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white …But I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone …
‘How are you feeling, Minty?’ I heard Helen say.
‘How do I feel? Well, just a bit pissed off.’ My new, ironic levity surprised me. ‘I’m going to design a new range of bridal wear,’ I added.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m going to call it “Anti-Nuptia”.’
‘Oh, Minty.’
I looked round the dining room and felt sick. It was full of infatuated couples. Just what you need when you’ve been abandoned by your husband-to-be. They all looked sated with sex as they locked eyeballs, and tenderly rubbed ankles under the tables.
‘Why don’t you eat something?’ Helen said.
‘I can’t.’
‘Go on, try,’ she said, pushing a basket of croissants towards me.
‘Impossible,’ I said. And it was. I’ve never dieted. I’ve never really had to. But now it was as though someone had turned off the tap in my brain marked ‘Eat’. The petit pains might as well have been made of plastic for all the interest they aroused in me. All I could manage was a few sips of sugary tea.
‘What shall we do today?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘I haven’t been to Paris since I was twelve.’
‘I know it pretty well,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve been here eleven times.’
‘Minty,’ said Helen slowly, while she delicately chomped on a pain au chocolat. ‘Why did you choose Paris for your honeymoon when you’d already been here so often?’
‘I didn’t choose it,’ I replied. ‘Dominic did. I would have preferred Venice,’ I went on with a shrug, ‘but Dom said the train journey would take too long, and so Paris it was.’
‘I see,’ she said, archly. ‘That was nice of you.’
‘And of course Paris is a lovely city.’
‘Minty …’ said Helen, carefully. She was fiddling with her teaspoon.
‘Yes?’ Why on earth was she looking at me like that?
‘Minty,’ she began again, ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you often seemed to do what Dominic wanted.’
I thought about this for a few seconds.
‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘I suppose I did.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Why? God, why did she have to ask me that? ‘Because I loved him,’ I replied, ‘that’s why. And because …’ I felt my throat constrict ‘ …I just wanted him to be happy.’
She nodded. ‘Well, what shall we do today?’ she said, briskly changing the subject.
‘We can do whatever you like,’ I said, bleakly. ‘We’ll be tourists.’
And we were. That first morning we walked along the Seine then crossed the Jardin des Tuileries into the Rue de Rivoli. People strolled under the colonnaded passageways or sat outside, smoking in the warm sunlight. We crossed the Place du Carrousel and walked towards the Louvre. Helen gasped when she saw the glass pyramid, its triangular panes glinting and flashing in the midday sun.
‘It’s incredible!’ she said. ‘It’s like a gigantic diamond.’
‘Yes,’ I replied flatly. I fiddled with my engagement ring – a solitaire – which I still wore, on my right hand.
‘Let’s find the Mona Lisa,’ said Helen as we made our way inside. We walked up the wide balustraded stairway on to the first floor of the Denon Wing. We paused before paintings by Botticelli, Bellini and Caravaggio, and altarpieces by Giotto and Cimabue. In one gallery was a painting by Veronese, so vast it filled one wall.
‘It’s the Wedding at Cana,’ said Helen, looking at the guide. ‘That was Christ’s first miracle, wasn’t it, when the wine ran out?’
I found myself wishing He could have performed a similar stunt for me when my husband-to-be ran out. We passed through a long, window-lined corridor, which glowed with rich paintings. Mantegna’s martyred St Sebastian, pierced with sharp arrows, couldn’t have been in more pain than I. My shards were psychological, but no less sharp for that.
We followed the signs and found the Mona Lisa behind bulletproof glass in Room 6. A bank of people stood in front of her, discussing her elusive smile.
‘– Oh, she’s so cute!’
‘– Che bella ragazza.’
‘– Sie ist so schone.’
‘– That’s real art, Art.’
‘– Elle est si mystérieuse, si triste.’
‘– her child had just died, you know.’
‘God, how awful,’ said Helen. Then she read from the entry in the guide:
“‘When Leonardo began this portrait, the young woman was in mourning for her baby daughter; this is why she wears a black veil over her head. To lift her spirits, Leonardo brought musicians and clowns into his studio. Their antics brought a smile to her lips, a smile of indefinable sadness and great gentleness which made the portrait famous.” So she was feeling terrible,’ Helen added. ‘And yet she managed to smile.’
That’s what I’ll do, I thought. I’ll erect my own bulletproof glass, and shield myself behind that. And I’ll wear a smile, so that no one will detect my pain. I decided to practise. I straightened my shoulders and raised my drooping head. I opened my eyes wider, and turned up the corners of my mouth. And it began to work, because as I looked up I caught the eye of a young man and, to my surprise, he smiled back. It reminded me of the lovely smile that Charlie had given me in church. And I suddenly remembered wishing that it had been Dominic who’d smiled. And now I knew why he hadn’t.
‘You’re well out of it,’ said Helen again, as we wandered downstairs. I was too weary to reply. In any case, I didn’t have the energy for anger – I was still anaesthetised by shock.
‘I mean, why go that far – that far – and then say “no”?’
‘He’s in the risk-business,’ I said bleakly. ‘He was unhappy with the small print so he decided not to close the deal. He exercised the ultimate get-out clause.’
‘Yes, but why was he unhappy?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What a cad,’ said Helen. ‘You should sue him for breach of promise.’
‘It doesn’t exist in British law.’
‘Well, make him pay for the wedding, then.’
‘No – too undignified.’
‘If it were me, I’d be instructing solicitors,’ she said. ‘And fancy letting himself down like that in front of all his clients. I hope they all leave him,’ she exclaimed.
‘They won’t,’ I said. ‘And even if they did, he’d soon pick up new ones. He’s very persuasive.’ Dominic’s powers of persuasion were indeed legendary. He had once famously sold a Pet Protect policy to a woman who had no animals. Oh yes, Dominic would survive all right. The question was, would I?
The next two days passed in a blur as we wandered slowly around the city. We visited the Musée d’Orsay, the Bois de Boulogne and the cemetery at Père Lachaise. And I’d thought Père Lachaise would be too sad, but it wasn’t, it was a surprisingly happy place, like a friendly little citadel of the celebrated dead. We found Colette’s grave, and Balzac’s and Chopin’s and Oscar Wilde’s. And Jim Morrison’s, of course, which was strewn with red roses, candles and cigarette butts, and empty whisky bottles.
The next day, our last, we walked to the Eiffel Tower. We queued for an hour at the Pillier Ouest, while hawkers tried to sell us souvenirs. ‘To help you remember your stay in Paris,’ one of them pleaded.
‘I could never forget it,’ I said. We bought our tickets then went clanking skywards in the lift. Up and up it went, the vast wheels turning and grinding like the wheels of a Victorian mine-shaft. We passed the first landing stage, then the second, our ears popping as we floated up through the elaborate iron fretwork to the top. We were nearly a thousand feet above ground as we stepped out on to the viewing platform, the wind snatching spitefully at our hair and clothes. Up here, a slightly hysterical atmosphere prevailed. People grinned and gasped as they took in the view. Their eyes popped in disbelief. A young couple laughed and hugged each other as they peered out through the suicide-inhibiting mesh. Below us, to the left, was a football pitch which looked as though it had been cut from green felt. The players scurried across it like ants, and we could hear the whistles and shouts of the fans. In front of us was the Palais de Chaillot, and the broad brown band of the Seine. Along its banks, barges rocked gently on their moorings, and the reflected ripples of the river dappled the windows nearby. Away to our right was Montmartre, and the slender white domes of Sacré-Coeur and, ahead of us, further off, the brutalist towers of La Defense. The whole city lay spread beneath our feet, topped by a pale miasma of carbon monoxide. We could hear nothing but the whistling wind, and the dull roar of a million cars.
‘Look how far we can see!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘It must be fifty miles or more!’
Indeed, the distance to the horizon made me feel strangely elated, intoxicated almost, and a poem by Emily Dickinson sprang into my mind: ‘As if the Sea should part/And show a further Sea/And that – a further …’ And I thought, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go right to the horizon, to the circumference, far, far away from what happened to me in church. I refuse to let Dominic’s desertion become the defining event of my life. I refuse to let one man destroy my dignity and sense of self. I resolved in that instant to be the exact opposite of that sad old relic, Miss Havisham. She entombed herself in her house, and her silk wedding dress became her shroud. But my bridal gown would be a cocoon, from which I would emerge, reborn. I will recover from this, I vowed, as the wind whipped my face and made my eyes sting with tears. I’ll start again. I shall be reborn. Made new. New Mint. I shall turn my catastrophe into a catalyst for change. I shall …I shall …
All at once I felt dizzy. It might have been the height, or the strange perspective, or maybe it was lack of food. I clutched the rail, and shut my eyes. Then the squeak and shriek of the pulley announced the return of the lift. The doors drew back with a throaty click, and a new batch of tourists was disgorged. Helen and I stepped in and began our long descent to the ground.
‘Where now?’ she said, as we walked away, slightly unsteadily, through the milling crowd.
‘Latin Quarter?’
‘OK.’
‘A little stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg?’
‘Fine. How do we get there?’
‘Let’s take the Metro,’ I said.
As we walked down the steps into the station at Champs de Mars, we were hit by the dank, oily aroma of the underground, and the sound of a violin. Its tone was rich and sweet, and as we entered the tunnel it grew louder. I found myself wanting to follow the sound as though it were Ariadne’s thread. Halfway down the main walkway we found its source. An old man in a shabby black coat was playing a honey-coloured violin. His hair was sparse and white. His hands were papery and thin, and the veins on them stood out like pale blue wires. He must have been in his late seventies, maybe more. He’d rigged up a portable cassette player to provide ad hoc accompaniment, and he was playing Schubert’s Ave Maria. We automatically slowed our steps. He drew to the end of the piece, lifted off the bow, paused for a second, then began to play an old, familiar song. And as we stopped to listen, the words ran through my mind.
I see trees of green, red roses too …
‘How lovely,’ said Helen.
I see them bloom, for me and you …
‘Lovely,’ she repeated.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
His violin case was open at his feet. A few coins shone brightly against the worn black felt.
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white …
I put my hands in my jacket pocket, and drew out a 50-centime piece. Not enough. Not nearly.
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night …
I opened my bag for a note.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
Twenty francs? That would do. Or perhaps fifty. Or a hundred? It was only a tenner, after all.
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’, ‘How do you do?’ They’re really sayin’, ‘I love you.’
That’s what Dominic said to me, when he proposed. But it wasn’t true. I knew that now. I looked at my diamond ring, sparkling on my right hand. Its facets flashed like frost.
I hear babies cry, I watch them grow,
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know …
I hesitated for a second, then pulled it off, and placed it amongst the coins.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
‘Merci, madame,’ I heard our busker say. ‘Merci, madame. Merci.’ He looked uncertain, so I smiled. Then we turned and walked away.
‘Are you sure?’ Helen said, handing me a tissue.
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure.’
And I think to myself …what a wonderful world.
‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.
‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’
‘That’s nice.’
We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and fall on their swings.
‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’
‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.
‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men were hunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.
‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.
‘– hors-jeu!’
‘– c’est nul!’
‘– veux-tu?!’
‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Aah! Putain!’
‘Espèce de con!’
‘Especially that one, there.’
‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’
‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’
‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’
‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.
A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.
‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.
‘Vous voulez jouer?’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
‘Would you like to play?’
‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.
‘You play with them,’ I said to her.
‘Not without you.’
‘Go on. I’ll watch.’
‘No, no – we’ll both play.’
‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’
‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’
‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?
‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.
Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.
‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.
‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.
‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.
‘What?’
‘Centre forward?’
‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’
‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’
‘I don’t even know what they are.’
‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.
We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.
‘Sorry about that,’ I groaned.
‘Forget it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We’ll still win.’ Now my heart was pounding as Joe and Pierre wrestled for the ball again. The excitement was high as it skidded around the pitch, and it was hard to concentrate, because Joe talked all the time.
‘What do you do, Minty?’
‘Oh, er …I’m a radio journalist,’ I said, amazed that he could simultaneously concentrate on the game and converse. ‘What about you?’ I enquired, though I was only being polite.
‘I’m a writer,’ he replied. ‘And where do you work?’
‘London FM. On a magazine programme called Capitalise.’ ‘Oh, I know it. Current affairs and features.’ Suddenly, Helen’s half-back kicked the ball so hard that it bounced right off the pitch. Play stopped for a few seconds as she went chasing after it.
‘I like Capitalise,’ said Joe. ‘I listen to it quite a bit.’
‘Do you live in London, then?’ I asked him.
‘On and off,’ he replied. ‘I’m teaching a creative writing course here for the summer, but I’ll be back in London in mid October. Where are you staying?’
Why all the questions? I wondered. And then Helen reappeared with the ball.
‘OK – le throw-in!’ said Pierre.
‘So where are you staying?’ Joe asked again, as the ball bounced on to the pitch.
‘Umm, the George V, actually.’ I didn’t want to explain why. He gave a long, low whistle, then he passed the ball back to me.
‘Le George V. Wow!’
‘Only for four days,’ I said, as I moved my goalie across to counter the threat from Pierre’s centre half.
‘Good save, Minty!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘And when do you go back?’
‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’
Why was he so inquisitive? I didn’t even know the man. He fired at the goal. And in it went.
‘Thank you! That’s two-one,’ he yelled. ‘Can I give you a ring?’ he said suddenly, as Helen put a new ball down.
‘What?’ I said, as play resumed.
‘Can I call you?’ he repeated. ‘Can I call you when I’m back in London?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I replied, surprised.
‘We could play table football,’ he said. ‘We could play at Café Kick.’
‘Oh.’ How forward. And how very depressing, I thought. He was trying to pick me up. He obviously did this all the time. With women he hardly knew. I didn’t need this, I thought crossly. I’d just been jilted, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want a man ringing me ever again. Humiliating me ever again. Hurting me ever again.
‘Penalty!’ shouted Pierre.
‘Would it be all right if I took your number, Minty?’ Joe asked me again, as he passed the ball back.
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I repeated tersely. I struck the ball, hard, and a shout went up.
‘Own goal, Minty!’ everyone cried.
August (#ulink_abb41fdb-a529-5e93-b638-af041bb4979e)
‘’Ad a nice time, luv?’ enquired the driver of the cab I flagged down outside Waterloo. Helen had gone to Holland Park to see her parents.
‘Sort of. Well, not really.’
‘What was it, ‘oliday?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Honeymoon.’
‘Where’s your ‘usband then?’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘You ain’t got one?’
‘No. He ran away.’
‘ ‘E did a runner?’ said the driver incredulously. He turned round to face me and almost crashed the cab.
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘During the service. So I went with my bridesmaid instead.’
‘’E did a runner!’
He was chortling and shaking his head.
‘Bleedin’ ‘ell. I ‘ope you never catch him.’
‘I shan’t even try,’ I said.
My spirits drooped like dead flowers as we drove through the dusty streets. My brief holiday was over; reality was rolling in. I could have wept as we passed the Waldorf. And the sight of a church made me feel sick. I thought, sinkingly, of work and dreaded having to return. How would I face my colleagues, and what on earth would they say? I would be an object of pity and derision, I decided as we bounced north. I would be suffocated by their sympathy, choked by their concern.
We drew up outside my flat and I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign. It would have to come down, I realised; I wouldn’t be going anywhere now. And for the first time I felt a flutter of something like relief, because Clapham Common isn’t really my scene. And I knew that the one thing I wouldn’t miss about seeing Dom was that twice-weekly fifteen-stop trip down the Northern Line. Then I realised, with a stab of dismay, that I’d have to retrieve my stuff from his flat. There wasn’t much; very little, in fact, considering that we’d been engaged. Just my toothbrush, an old jacket and some books. Dom said he didn’t want me to leave too much there in case Madge thought we were ‘living in sin’. And I was just wondering how I’d get my things back, and thinking how agonising this would be, when I noticed two bulging Safeway bags leaning against the front door. Stapled to one was an envelope marked ‘Minty’ in a familiar backward-sloping hand. I turned the key in the lock, picked them up, and went into the silence of my flat. I grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and opened the envelope with a pounding heart.
I thought this would make it easier for you, Minty. Sorry, but I just knew it wasn’t right. No hard feelings?Best wishes, Dom.
Best wishes! Best wishes? The man who just four days ago I was set to marry; the man whose children I was going to have; the man whose boxer shorts I had washed – and ironed – was now politely sending me best wishes? And actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, I do have hard feelings, Dom! In fact, they’re as hard as granite or flint. No hard feelings? They’re as hard as an unripe pear. And look how quickly he’d returned my things! Hardly am I back from my honeymoon before I’m bundled out of his life in two plastic bags. Outrageous! After what he did. Outrageous! For all he knew, I might have thrown myself in the Seine.
Fired up by a Vesuvius of suppressed anger, I tore off my jacket, threw open the windows, and put on my rubber gloves. Others may drink or take drugs to relieve stress. Personally, I clean. So I hoovered and dusted and tidied. I mopped, and polished and washed. In a frenzy of fastidiousness, I even scraped the gunge out of the oven, and wiped the grime from the window panes. Only then, when I’d spent three hours in a state of hysterical hygienicity, did I feel my blood pressure drop.
Now I felt sufficiently calm to confront the wedding presents. Dad had left me a note saying he’d put these in the sitting room. I’d deliberately avoided looking in there, but now I opened the door. Attractively wrapped packages were stacked in vertiginous piles on the sofa and chairs and almost covered the floor. It was like Christmas, without the joy. They were encased in shining silver or pearly white, and topped with tassels and bows. Tiny envelopes fluttered on the ends of curled ribbons and bore the legend, ‘Minty and Dom’. I looked again at the note from Dad. ‘Everyone said you can keep the presents,’ he wrote. ‘They’re for you to do with as you want.’ I had already decided what I would do. I opened each gift, carefully noting down what it was, and who it was from. An Alessi toaster. Dominic had asked for that. It was from one of his clients. Right. Oxfam. An oil drizzler from Auntie Clare. That could go to Age Concern. Some library steps from Cousin Peter – very nice: Barnado’s. A CD rack from Pat and Jo: the British Heart Foundation shop. His’n’Hers bathrobes from Dominic’s old flatmate: Relate, I thought with a grim little smile. An embroidered laundry bag from Wesley: Sue Ryder. Two pairs of candlesticks: Scope. I plodded through the vast pile, mentally distributing the items amongst the charity shops of North London, as bandits distribute their loot. But the most expensive things I kept for Mum, to be auctioned at her next charity ball. The painting that her brother, Brian, had given us, for example. He’s an Academician, so that would fetch quite a bit. A set of solid silver teaspoons from my godfather, worth three hundred at least. Six crystal whisky tumblers bought from Thomas Goode, and the Wedgwood tea service, of course. Mum was more than welcome to that – she’d paid for it, after all, and there was no way I could keep it now.
In fact, I wasn’t going to keep anything. Not a thing. Miss Havisham might have turned herself into a living shrine to her day of shame, but I would do the reverse. There would be no reminders of my wedding: no yellowing gown, no mouldering cake – not so much as a crumb. I would divest myself of everything associated with that dreadful, dreadful day. I would remove every trace, as criminals attempt to eradicate the evidence of their crimes. I went and looked at my wedding dress again. The dress I hadn’t even liked. The dress I had bought to please Dom. It was hanging, heavily, in its thick, plastic cover on the back of my bedroom door. And on the chair were my satin slippers, wrapped in tissue, and placed side by side in their box. And the bouquet was laid out on the windowsill, where it was already drying in the warm summer air, and the sequins on my veil sparkled and winked in the rays of the late evening sun.
On the bedside table were some Order of Service sheets. I picked one up, sat down on the bed, and turned it over in my hands. ‘St Bride’s Church, Fleet Street, London,’ it announced in deeply engraved black letters; ‘Saturday, July 28th’. And beneath, on the left, ‘Araminta’, and then ‘Dominic’ to the right. There were also two boxes of confetti. Unopened. At these, I almost cried. But I didn’t. Instead I found myself thinking about Charlie, and about how well he’d tried to cope, and how awful it had been for him too, and how decent and good he is. And I thought how lucky Amber is to have him. He would never have done what Dom did. It’ll be their turn next, I reflected, enviously, as I wrapped tissue paper round my veil. But their wedding will be joyful, I thought, unlike my cruel and shambolic day.
In my study were three boxes of embossed ‘thank you’ cards, engraved with my new married name. So on each one I Tippexed out Lane, and wrote ‘Malone’ instead. Alone, I realised bitterly. I thought it best, in the circumstances, to keep the messages brief, though in certain cases, I did mention Paris and how delightful I’d found the George V and how nice it was of Helen to come with me and how we’d sort of enjoyed ourselves, in a funny sort of way. But I avoided saying how ‘useful’ I was going to find their spice racks, or their milk frothers, or their hurricane lanterns, because it wouldn’t have been true. They were all destined for other hands. And I must have been sitting there for about two hours I suppose, writing card after card after card, when it happened. The tears came, and I couldn’t see to write any more. I was just so angry. So angry. It possessed me like a physical pain. How could he? How could he have hurt and humiliated me so much? And then just casually dropping off my things like that and suggesting there’d be no hard feelings?! No hard feelings?
I did what I had resolved not to do – I picked up the phone. I’d speak to him. I’d bloody well let rip with a few hard feelings. He’d be dodging my hard feelings like stones. My heart was banging in my chest as I started to dial. 01 …I’d tell him what I thought of him …81 …I’d been so good to him …9 …even inviting his …2 …bloody clients to my …4 …bloody wedding – people I’d never even met. And Dad picking up the bill for all this …5 …without so much as a word …2 …3 …And then Dom just running out of church as though he were leaving some boring play. By now I burned with an incandescent fury that would have illuminated a small town. I’d never take him back after what he’d done to me. I was white hot. I was spitting fire I …I …Christ! Who was that?
The doorbell had rung, and was ringing again, hard. I slammed down the phone. Dominic! It was Dominic! He’d come to say that it was all a terrible mistake and to beg my forgiveness and to tell me that he would wear sackcloth and ashes for a year – no, two – if only I would take him back. I wiped my eyes and hurtled downstairs. Dominic! Dominic! Yes, of course I’ll have you back! Let’s wipe that slate clean, Dominic! We can work it out. I flung open the door.
‘Domin– Oh! Amber!’
‘Oh, Minty!’ she wailed. She staggered inside and flung her arms round me. ‘Oh, Minty,’ she wept. ‘It was so awful!’
‘Well, yes it was,’ I said. ‘It was terrible.’
She was sobbing on to my shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he could do that.’
‘I know.’
‘It was such a shock.’
‘You’re telling me!’
‘Such a dreadful thing to do.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Dreadful.’
‘Woof!’
Oh God, she’d brought Pedro, I realised. Her parrot. And then I thought, why has she brought Pedro? And why is she here at ten p.m. with Pedro and a weekend bag?
‘Amber, what’s going on?’
‘It’s …it’s – Charlie,’ she sobbed.
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing’s happened to him,’ she howled. ‘It’s what’s happened to me. Oh, Minty, Minty – I’ve been dumped!’
There’s nothing like someone else’s misery to make you forget your own. I don’t really like to admit this, but Amber’s anguish instantly cheered me up. Even though I’m terribly fond of her, and have known her all my life. She staggered inside with her stuff, and sat sobbing in the kitchen. Pedro was squawking in the sitting room – I’d decided to install him in there because he’s an incredibly noisy bird and our nerves were on edge.
Great fat tears coursed down Amber’s cheeks as she told me what had occurred. It was all because of me, apparently. Or rather, it was because of what had happened to me in church. I suppose you might call it the Domino Effect – or perhaps the Dominic Effect.
‘When Charlie heard Dom say those things to you, about not being able to make those promises, it really affected him,’ she explained between teary gasps. ‘He said he knew then that he could never make those promises to me.’
‘But you’ve always seemed so happy.’
‘Well I thought so too,’ she wept, throwing up her hands in a pietà of grief. ‘I mean, I was happy.’
‘I know.’
‘But Charlie was so shocked by what Dom did to you that the next day he blurted out that we’d have to break up too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Because he said he knew he could never do such an awful thing to me. So he said it had to come to an end, now, before it went too far, because …because …He says we just don’t have a future.’ Her large green eyes brimmed with tears, then overflowed again.
‘Why does he say that?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘Because of the children,’ she howled.
‘What children?’
‘The children I don’t want!’
Ah. That. The baby issue. It’s the big issue for Amber. Or rather, there isn’t going to be any issue, because Amber has never wanted kids.
‘But he knew how you felt about having children, didn’t he?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, pressing a tear-sodden tissue to her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s always known, but he was hoping I’d change my mind. But I’m not going to. And he should respect that, because it’s my choice. But he can’t see that,’ she wailed. ‘Because he’s so selfish! He says he wants to have a family. Bastard!’
‘Er, that is quite an important …’ I said tentatively. ‘I mean, I always assumed he knew your views and didn’t mind.’
‘Well, he does mind. He’s always minded; and we’ve been together two years. And he said if I still don’t want kids, then we’ve got to break up, because he’d like to find someone who does.’
‘Hmmm, I don’t entirely …’
‘And so we had a huge row about it,’ she went on. ‘And I pointed out that I’m not a bloody breeding machine and he should want me for myself!’
‘I see …’
‘But he won’t accept that.’
‘Ah …’
‘So I told him that in that case he’d have to move out,’ she went on. ‘And he said, “But it’s my flat.”’
‘Oh yes. So it is.’
‘So I came straight round here, Minty. Because I need somewhere to stay. Is that OK? Just for a bit.’
‘Er …of course.’
‘Thanks, Mint.’ Her tears subsided. ‘Gosh, it looks clean in here.’
I always thought Amber should have bought her own place. She should have done it years ago. It’s not as though she didn’t have the cash. She did. We both did. Granny was loaded, you see. Her books had made her rich. And when she died, we were each left eighty grand. Robert used his to emigrate to Australia; I put mine towards this flat. But Amber invested hers very cleverly so that she could live off the interest, leaving herself free to give up the day-job and write. She’s a novelist too, like Granny. She bangs one out every year. And although she’s only thirty-three, she’s already written eight. But where Granny wrote good romantic fiction, Amber’s are harder to define. For example, her latest book, A Public Convenience, is a sort of political mystery. It was published six weeks ago, but I don’t think it’s done very well. She’s already halfway through her ninth novel, which will be published next June. Apparently this one’s an ‘unusual’ love story, set in an abattoir. Anyway, Amber had always rented before she moved in with Charlie, and that’s why she needed somewhere now.
I have the space – my flat’s quite big. And in any case, I’d never have refused. We’re first cousins but we feel more like sisters, probably because our mothers are twins. But to look at us you’d never guess that Amber and I were related. She has a shining helmet of honey-blonde hair and enormous, pale green eyes. She’s absolutely gorgeous, in a foxy sort of way, with high cheekbones that taper to a pointed chin. She’s slim, like me, though taller. Much taller. In fact, she’s six foot one. But she likes her height. She’s proud of it. No slouching or stooping there. She’s rather uninhibited. And she’s very clever. Well, in some ways she is. She’s also extremely well read. You can tell that from the way she talks. It’s Thackeray this, and Dr Johnson that and William Hazlitt the other, and, ‘As Balzac used to say …’ She reviews books too, occasionally. It doesn’t pay much, but it keeps her ‘in’ with the publishing crowd. Or what Dominic liked to call ‘Lit-Biz’.
Anyway, I gave her the spare room, which isn’t huge, but it’s fine as a temporary measure, and she installed her things in there. And of course she had to bring Pedro – I understood that. They’re inseparable. And although he’s rather annoying, I’m fond of him too, in a way. He reminds me of Granny. And that’s not just because Granny had him for so long, but because he sounds exactly like her.
‘Oh, super, darling!’ he likes to say. And ‘No! Really?’ in a scandalised tone of voice. ‘I say!’ he squawks sometimes, like an avian Terry Thomas. Or, ‘What a funny thing!’ – Granny used to say that all the time. He’s got her cackling laugh too. Down to a tee. It’s shattering, and so authentic that I find myself saying, ‘What’s so funny, Granny?’ although she’s been dead for six years. Whenever the phone rings he says, ‘Oh, hello’ – like that. And then, ‘How are you?’ And, ‘Yes …yes …yes …’ in a desultory sort of way. When he’s not having one-sided telephone conversations, he whistles, and screeches and – this is really annoying – he barks. Whenever he hears the doorbell, he emits a volley of soprano yaps because that’s what Granny’s Yorkshire terrier, Audrey, used to do.
Pedro’s a Festive Amazon, just over a foot long, with peagreen plumage, a blue and red cap, and a vivid, scarlet waistcoat which is only visible when he spreads his wings. Granny bought him in Colombia in 1955, when she was doing the research for An Amazon Affair. She’d stopped at a little town called Leticia, on the border with Brazil and Peru, and in the market was a man selling young parrots which were crammed into crates. Granny was so appalled she bought Pedro, and brought him home on the plane. He spoke very good Spanish in those days – he’d picked it up in the market. He could say, ‘Loros! Hermosos loros! Comprenme a mi!’ – Parrots! Lovely parrots! Get your parrots here! And ‘Page uno, lleve dos!’ – Buy one, get one free! He also used to shout, ‘Cuidado que pica!’ – Watch your fingers! and ‘Cuanto me dijo? Tan caro!’ – How much? You must be fucking joking! He’s forgotten most of his Spanish now, though I think it might come back if we practised it with him. He loves really authoritative female voices – Mrs Thatcher’s, for example. He used to shriek with excitement and bob up and down whenever he heard her speak. These days Esther Rantzen tends to have the same effect. Anyway, he and Granny were inseparable for almost forty years. And when she died, we didn’t know how he’d cope. But in her will she left him to Amber – ‘An Amazon for an Amazon,’ she wrote wryly – and luckily, though parrots are loyal to one person, Pedro adapted well. In fact, they adore each other. He likes to ride around on her shoulder, and nibble her blonde hair, or listen to her reading out bits of her latest book.
Anyway, Amber and I have always been very close, so the next morning she offered to drive me round London while I disposed of the wedding gifts. She said she didn’t mind, and that she’d welcome any distraction from her distress. She’d looked awful at breakfast, obviously hadn’t slept, and she kept trying to put the sugar in the fridge.
‘Are you sure you can concentrate enough to drive?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Woof! Woof!’
We’d already had the post – who on earth could that be? I opened the door to find a man standing there with a huge bouquet.
‘Miss Amber Dane?’ he enquired, as I stared at the profusion of pink roses.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But she’s here.’ I signed the proffered delivery sheet and carried the bouquet into the flat. The cellophane said ‘Floribunda’. How odd. Why on earth would Helen send Amber flowers?
‘They’re from Charlie!’ Amber screamed, grabbing the tiny white envelope. ‘It’s his handwriting, and he wants me back. It’s only been a few hours, but he’s already realised he’s made a dreadful mistake.’ She ripped open the envelope and removed the small, rectangular card. She read it in a flash, then I saw the light fade in her eyes.
‘He should have sent a wreath,’ she said bitterly, handing the card to me.
‘I’m really very sorry it had to be like this,’ Charlie had written. ‘I do hope you’re all right, Amber, and that you’ll wish to be friends one day.’
And I thought, Dominic didn’t send me flowers. Dominic didn’t offer me the hand of friendship. Dominic offered me nothing but a few of my possessions stuffed into two plastic bags.
‘I can’t bear to look at them,’ said Amber, as she picked up her car keys and bag. ‘I’ll give them to the hospital.’ So we went first to the Royal Free, where she left the bouquet at the reception, then we got on with the task in hand. We had to make a total of five trips because there were so many wedding presents and Amber’s car is very small. Her black Mini hovered like a fly on the double yellow lines while I dived in with the gifts. I felt like Lady Bountiful with a horn of plenty as I distributed my brand-new luxury goods. Cut glass and kettles and picnic rugs flowed forth from my outstretched arms.
‘Don’t you want this?’ said the woman in the Red Cross shop as I handed her an exquisite Waterford bowl.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t.’
Amber was a bit aggrieved about the Antonio Carluccio truffle-grater and the River Café Cookbook, but I wouldn’t relent – it all had to go. Every item. Every atom. And as we drove round Camden and Hampstead her mood began to lift. And she went on and on about what a bastard Dominic was and how she’d like to kill him for what he did to me. And then she went on about what a bastard Charlie is, too, which isn’t true at all. And I don’t blame him for dumping Amber, though I’d never dare say that to her. So I tentatively asked her if she was sure she wasn’t making a mistake with Charlie and that she wouldn’t one day change her mind.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘Do you really think I’d want to go through that? It’s barbaric!’ And then she went on and on, again, about the awful things that happen when you’re pregnant. The nausea and cramps, the swollen ankles and the varicose veins. ‘The heartburn and the thousand natural shocks,’ as she likes to put it, not to mention the haemorrhoids and hair-loss.
‘Basically, Minty, a foetus is a parasite,’ she declared as we pulled away from the kerb. ‘It will suck the calcium out of your teeth, the iron out of your blood, and the vitamins from your food. It’s like a fast-growing tumour, taking over your body.’ And then she went on about the horrors of childbirth itself. The pain of parturition: the screaming, the stitches and the blood. But worse than any of these, she says, is the loss of mental power.
‘It is a well-known fact that a woman’s brain shrinks during pregnancy,’ she said, with spurious authority, as I got into the car again.
‘Well, yes, but not by the 70 per cent you claim,’ I replied, as we set off. ‘I think that statistic may be, you know, not quite right.’
‘I’m sure it is right,’ she said, pursing her lips and shaking her head. ‘I have a number of extremely intellectual friends who, the minute they got pregnant, took out subscriptions to Hello!’
And then she started talking about Dominic again and what a ‘total shyster’ he was and how, if it hadn’t been for him jilting me, Charlie would never have dumped her. I didn’t agree with this analysis, but obviously I didn’t say so. I never argue with Amber. I’ve never really argued with anyone, though I’m beginning to think I should. And then she went on and on about how she’s going to put Dominic in her next book. And I said, ‘Please, Amber, please, please don’t.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said with a sly smile as we hurtled home. ‘I’ll do it very subtly.’
Subtly? Amber has all the subtlety of a commando raid.
‘No, really, Minty, I’ll disguise him totally,’ she went on in that pseudo-soothing way of hers. ‘I’ll call him Dominic Lane, thirty-five, a blond insurance salesman from Clapham Common, so no one will know who he is!’ And she laughed maniacally at this as she jumped another red light.
That’s just the kind of thing she would do, though. Because the truth is, she doesn’t disguise people at all. It’s appalling. I don’t know how she gets away with it. For example, I featured in one of her books, Fat Chance, as ‘Mindy’, a frustrated radio reporter with ambitions to be a presenter. She’d even given ‘Mindy’ my long curly dark hair and the same address in Primrose Hill. Mum was in the next one, The Hideaway, which was a sort of Aga-saga set in London W9. And of course everyone knew it was Mum. In fact, Amber made it so obvious I don’t know why she didn’t just call the character Dympna Malone and be done with it. And when Mum and I eventually said that we’d really rather not be in any more of her books, thanks, because, well, we’d just rather not, she went into her usual spiel about how she was only creating ‘composites’ and how no one could possibly think it was us. And we’d heard that convenient, self-serving lie so many times before.
‘Why don’t you try using a little, you know, imagination, dear?’ Mum suggested sweetly. ‘Next time, why don’t you just try and make the characters up?’
Amber gave Mum this funny, and not particularly friendly look, while I stared at the floor.
‘Auntie Dympna,’ she said seriously, ‘I’m a novelist. It’s my job to “hold the mirror up to nature,” as the Prince of Denmark himself once put it.’
‘Yes, but it’s a metaphorical mirror, dear,’ Mum pointed out without malice.
At this, Amber picked up one of her books and opened it at the second page. ‘“This novel …”’ she announced, reading aloud, ‘“is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities, is entirely co-incidental.” Entirely,’ she added, pointedly.
So that was that. At least we haven’t come off too badly in Amber’s books, though I don’t think Mum enjoyed being portrayed as an eccentrically dressed, late middle-aged woman, indiscriminately raising money by highly dubious and quite possibly criminal methods for any charitable cause she could lay her hands on. But it’s worse for Amber’s exes. She’s terribly hard on them. In they all go. Unfavourably, of course, as paedophiles, axe-murderers, benefit cheats, adulterers, gangsters, drug-dealers, hairdressers and petty crooks. Totally defamatory. I’m amazed they don’t sue. Too embarrassed, I suppose, to admit it might be them. I guess this is what Amber banks on, but one day her luck will run out.
Still, even though there are certain, well, tensions, there, I like having her around. At the moment we help staunch each other’s wounds. Hand each other hankies. Try and make each other eat – I’ve lost six pounds since Saturday, and my hips are starting to show.
Amber’s making Charlie pay to have all her stuff sent over in a van. She said that as he’d dumped her, he’d have to pay to get her out. So on Friday a white transit van pulled up in Princess Road and out came box after box. Loads of books, of course, and her computer; three pictures, and a couple of lamps; a bedside table and an easy chair, and several suitcases of clothes. And there was kitchen equipment too. I felt sorry for her as she took the things in, with tears streaming down her face. I was a bit concerned, to be honest, about where it would all go. Well, she’ll only be here for a while, I told myself. And I’ve a big half-landing, and a shed.
‘Hello!’ squawked Pedro. The phone. Dominic! I picked it up. Dom –!
‘Minty …’ My heart sank. It was Jack.
‘Hello, Jack,’ I said warily.
‘Minty, look …’
‘What is it?’ I said, though I knew exactly why he’d called.
‘I won’t beat about the bush, Minty. When are you coming back?’
I sank on to the hall chair.
‘I’m not ready yet,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s barely a week. Please, please give me more time.’
‘Well …’
‘Compassionate leave?’
‘You don’t qualify – you’re not bereaved.’
‘I am bereaved!’ I moaned. ‘In a way …’ I just couldn’t face them all yet. ‘I’m …bereft,’ I added quietly, swallowing hard.
‘I need you here, Minty,’ Jack said. ‘And I think it will be good for you to come back to work. Get it over with. As you know, we’re all very …sorry.’
‘That’s what makes it so much worse,’ I wailed. ‘I don’t want your sympathy.’ I was crying now. I couldn’t help it. ‘Dominic took all my dignity,’ I sobbed. ‘Every shred of it. Every last bit. I’d rather he’d have shot me!’
‘I’d rather you’d have shot him!’ said Jack. ‘A hundred years ago someone would have done it for you. Would you like me to get up a posse?’ he added. ‘I’m sure I could round up a few willing volunteers to avenge your wounded honour.’
All at once, I had visions of Dominic being pursued round London by lasso-wielding cowboys, led by Jack, with a shining sheriff’s badge. And at that, I laughed. I laughed and laughed. And I suddenly realised it was the first time I had laughed since Saturday. Then I laughed again, madly, and couldn’t stop. I was hysterical. I was literally hysterical, I think.
‘Nine o’clock on Monday, then?’ said Jack brightly, after a pause. I sighed, deeply. Then sighed again.
‘Make it nine-thirty,’ I said.
The next day, Saturday, my ‘weekiversary’, I dealt with my wedding dress and shoes. These I took to Wedding Belles, an upmarket second-hand bridal dress agency just behind Earl’s Court. I looked at the ranks of white and ivory gowns rustling on their rails, and wondered what tales they might tell.
‘It’s lovely,’ breathed the proprietor, as she inspected it for ice-cream stains and drops of champagne. ‘I should be able to charge £800 at least,’ she went on enthusiastically, ‘so that’s £400 for you.’ Or rather, for Cancer Research. ‘You must have looked fantastic,’ she added as she pinned a label on to the dress. ‘Did it go well?’
‘It was sensational,’ I replied. ‘It went without a hitch.’
‘And did you cry?’ she asked as she hung it up.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I cried.’
And that was it. Nothing left. Or almost nothing. Dad had already taken Granny’s tiara back to the bank. All that remained now was Nearly Wed, my bouquet and my veil. So on Sunday evening, at about nine, Amber drove me down to the Embankment, and we walked up the steps on to Waterloo Bridge. Gulls circled, screeching, over the water, and the windows from the office buildings flashed red and gold in the setting sun. A river cruiser passed underneath, and up floated music, voices and laughter. I watched the wake stream out, spreading and widening to touch both banks. Then I opened my bag, took out Nearly Wed and dropped it into the water. Amber and I didn’t exchange a word as I removed my veil, and a pair of sewing shears. She helped me hold it over the rail as I cut into the voile, slicing the fabric into fragments which the stiff breeze snatched away. One by one they flew up, then fluttered down like confetti. Some pieces seemed to go on for miles, dancing up and down over the water like big white butterflies. All that remained now was the bouquet. I looked at it one last time, remembering how happy I had felt as it had lain across my lap in the beribboned Bentley just a week before. The petals were no longer plump and fresh, but hung limp and translucent on their stems. I recalled how much I had been looking forward to throwing it on my wedding day. I would throw it now, instead.
‘Go on,’ Amber urged.
I grasped the posy firmly, pulled back my arm, and hurled it with a force which lifted me on to the balls of my feet. It shot out of my hand and flew down. I heard the faintest splash, then saw it quickly borne away, spinning gently in the whorls and eddies which studded the surface of the river. In a few hours, I reflected, it would reach the open sea.
‘Your turn now,’ I said.
‘Right,’ declared Amber with a fierce little laugh, ‘I’m going to change my life too!’ She opened her bag, and removed from it a well-thumbed copy of The Rules. She smiled sweetly, ripped it clean in half, then tossed both bits over the side. ‘I’m not interested in “capturing the heart of Mr Right”!’ she yelled. ‘I’m not going to give a damn about being single either!’ she added. At this she took out Bridget Jones’ Diary, and flung it as far as it would go. ‘Bye bye, Bridget Bollocks!’ she called out gaily as it hit the Thames. Then she took out What Men Want. Up that went too, high into the air, then down, down, down. ‘I don’t care what men bloody well want!’ she yelled, to the amusement of a couple passing by. ‘It’s what I want. And I don’t want babies. I don’t even want marriage. But I do want my books to win prizes!’
Ah. That was a tricky one. I tried to think of something tactful.
‘Maybe you’ll get the Romantic Novelists’ Prize,’ I said, with genuine enthusiasm. But Amber gave me a dirty look and I knew that I had blundered.
‘It’s the Booker I was thinking of, actually,’ she said tartly. ‘And the Whitbread, not to mention the Orange Prize for Fiction. Of course, I wouldn’t expect to win all three,’ she added quickly.
‘Of course not, no,’ I replied. ‘Still, there’s a first time for everything,’ I said, with hypocritical encouragement as we walked down the steps to the car.
‘You must understand that my books are literary, Minty,’ she explained to me yet again, as she opened the door. ‘The Romantic Novelists’ Prize is for’ – she winced – ‘commercial books.’
‘I see,’ I said, though I didn’t. Because I’ve never really understood this literary/commercial divide. I mean, to me, either a book is well written, and diverting, or it isn’t. Either it compels your attention, or it doesn’t. Either the public will buy it, or they won’t. And the public don’t seem to buy very many of Amber’s. I wanted to drop the subject because, to be frank, it’s a minefield, but Amber just wouldn’t let it go.
‘I have a very select, discerning readership,’ she acknowledged, ‘because I’m not writing “popular fiction”.’ This was absolutely true. ‘So I accept that I’m never going to be a bestseller,’ she enunciated disdainfully, ‘because I’m not in that kind of market.’
‘But …’ I could hear the ice begin to crack and groan beneath my feet.
‘But what?’ she pressed, as we drove up Eversholt Street.
‘But, well, writers like, say, Julian Barnes and William Boyd, Ian McEwan and Carol Shields …’ I ventured.
‘Yes?’
‘ …Helen Dunmore, Kate Atkinson and E. Annie Proulx.’
‘What about them?’ she said testily, as she changed up a gear.
‘Well, they’re literary writers, aren’t they?’
‘Ye-es,’ she conceded.
‘And their books are often bestsellers.’
Amber looked as though she had suddenly noticed an unpleasant smell.
‘Clearly, Minty,’ she said, as the speedometer touched fifty-five, ‘you know nothing about contemporary fiction. No, I’m really going to go for it,’ she vowed as we hurtled through our third red light. ‘I’m simply determined to break through.’
As for me, I’d decided I was simply determined to survive.
‘Erectile problems? Try – NIAGRA!’ said the cheery pseudo-American voice-over artist as I pushed on the revolving door. I entered the building, flashed a smile and my ID at Tom, then walked slowly up the stairs. London FM’s output poured forth from every speaker; it’s a bit like pollution – hard to avoid. It’s in the reception area, the corridors and the lifts. It’s in the boardroom and the basement canteen. It’s in every single office, and the stationery cupboard. It even seeps into the loos.
‘So remember – NIAGRA! Get out £9.99 and get it UP!’
Delightful, I thought, as I studied my pale reflection in the Ladies on the third floor. And then I thought, oh dear. You see, whenever London FM is going through a bad patch, the ads get worse and worse. In fact, they act as an unofficial barometer for the station’s health, which is not very good right now.
‘Unsightly fat on your upper arms?’ enquired a solicitous female voice. No, I thought as I lifted them up to brush my long, dark hair. ‘Ugly dimples on hips and thighs?’ I gazed at my shrunken middle. Nope. ‘Introducing the new Bum and Tum Slim – THE fast, effective way to lose inches.’ I don’t want to lose any more inches, I thought – I’d lost half a stone in a week.
I glanced at my watch, and a sharp surge of adrenaline began to make my heart race. Nine thirty. No putting it off. I’d have to go in and face them all now. At least then it’d be over with, I thought wearily, as I picked up my bag. The staring. The stifled titters. The sudden silences when I walked by; the giggles by the coffee machine, the furtive conversations by the fax.
Breathing deeply, I walked through the newsroom, passed the sales department and went into the Capitalise office. Mayhem met my eyes. Once again, the cleaners had failed to show. Books and papers spilled across desks; wastepaper bins overflowed. A spaghetti of editing tape lay on the floor, while an upturned cup dripped tea on to the carpet. In one corner a printer spewed out sheets of script which no one bothered to collect. Where was everyone? I wondered. What on earth was going on? Then, from the adjacent boardroom came a shrill, familiar voice, and I realised that the planning meeting had started early. I opened the door and crept in. Good. They were too busy arguing to notice me.
‘CWAP!’ screeched Melinda Mitten, our ‘star’ presenter, and I marvelled yet again at how a woman with a serious speech impediment could have become a professional broadcaster. Actually, there’s a simple explanation for this: a) her uncle owns the station and b) her uncle owns the station. He’s Sir Percy Mitten, the hosiery king. Very big in tights. And his stockings were always said by those who knew to be the ‘denier cri’. But two years ago he sold Pretty Penny for, well, a pretty penny, and decided to buy London FM. Like many a business baron he wanted to move into the media, and owning a radio station had become de rigueur. Once derided as brown-paper-and-Sellotape outfits struggling to survive, commercial radio stations had acquired a certain cachet. In fact, they were the ultimate accessory for the successful industrialist with his eye on a seat in the Lords. And so we turned up for work one day to find we’d been the target of a takeover. Our owners had sold us, like a used car, to the Mitten Group. No one had had a clue. Not even Jack. It was a fait accompli. He’d been informed about it on his mobile phone as he made his way into work. For a while, chaos reigned. No one knew what to expect. Words like ‘rationalisation’ and ‘belt-tightening’ were bandied about like balls. Anyone over thirty-five was told to expect their cards. Bob Harper, ‘the voice of London FM’, was summoned and summarily sacked and, the next day, Melinda arrived in a Porsche and a cloud of Poison.
‘Hello, evewyone,’ she’d said amiably. ‘I’m the new pwesenter.’
In the event, apart from Melinda’s arrival, life remained remarkably unchanged. There was gossip about us in Broadcast, of course, and there were also dark mutterings about Jack. Some claimed he had lost his authority and should have fallen on his sword. But he was forty, a dangerous age in an industry driven by youth. I was very relieved that he stayed. It was Jack who’d given me my first break. I didn’t know anything about radio – I’d been teaching for five years – but all of a sudden I got the broadcasting bug, and so I pestered Jack. I wrote to him, and got a rejection letter. I wrote again, and got another. Then I went round to London FM, just behind the Angel, and asked his assistant, Monica, if he’d see me. She told me he was too busy. So I went back again the next day, and this time, he agreed. Monica showed me into his office. Jack was sitting staring at his computer. He was in his late thirties, and he was very attractive.
‘Look, I don’t mind seeing you,’ he said, after a minute. ‘But, as I told you, I don’t have any vacancies. In any case, I only employ trained people.’
‘Can’t you train me?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t have the money.’
‘Well, how much does it cost?’
‘That’s not the point,’ he said, slightly irritably. ‘It’s not even as though you’ve been a journalist.’ This was true. I wasn’t exactly an enticing prospect. ‘Whenever I appoint someone,’ he explained, ‘I have to justify that choice to Management. And I’m afraid I just don’t have the budget to run a kindergarten for beginners.’ He handed me back my CV. ‘I’m very sorry. I admire your persistence, but I’m afraid I really can’t help.’
‘But I want to be a radio journalist,’ I said, as if that were all the explanation that was required. ‘I really think I’d be good.’
‘You haven’t got any experience,’ he countered wearily. ‘So I simply can’t agree.’
But I’d stayed in there, trying to make him change his mind. Looking back, I’m astonished at my boldness. In the end, he’d nearly lost his temper. He had shown me the Himalayan pile of CVs lying on his desk. He’d made me listen to the show-reels of three of his top reporters. He’d told me to try my luck making coffee at the Beeb. But, like Velcro, I had stuck.
‘I’ll work for nothing,’ I said.
‘We’re not allowed to do that,’ he replied. He leaned towards me across his huge, paper-strewn desk, hands clasped together as if in prayer. When he spoke again, he was almost whispering. ‘You can’t edit tape; you’ve never interviewed anyone; you’ve no idea how to make a feature, and you wouldn’t know a microphone from a baseball bat. I need competent, talented, experienced people, Minty, and I’m afraid that’s all there is to it.’
‘OK, I know I’m not experienced, but I am very enthusiastic and I’d learn very quickly if you’d just give me a chance, and you see, I’ve been reading this book about radio production, so I already know quite a lot.’
‘A book?’ he said, wryly. ‘Very impressive. Right,’ he said, with a penetrating stare, ‘what are “cans”?
‘Headphones.’
‘What does “dubbing” mean?’
‘Copying.’
‘“De-umming”?’
‘Taking out all the glitches – the ums and ah’s.’
‘What about “wild-track”?’ He had picked up a piece of yellow leader tape and was twisting it in his hands.
‘Er …background noise, like birdsong, or traffic.’
‘More or less. What’s “popping”?’
‘Distortion on the microphone.’
‘OK. What are “bands”?’ He had swivelled round in his chair and was tapping something out on his computer keyboard.
‘Edited speech inserts,’ I said.
‘What’s a “pot-cut”?’ He went over to the printer, which started up with a high-pitched whine.
‘An early coming-out point on an insert, when a live programme is running short of time.’
This quiz was starting to get me down. He tapped something out on his computer.
‘What does “i.p.s.” mean?’
‘Inches per second.’
‘Very good. What’s a “simulrec”?’ And now he was printing something out.
‘I really haven’t the faintest.’ This was ridiculous.
‘The same interview recorded in two different places and edited together later.’ He was scanning the page with his eyes.
‘What’s a segue?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I didn’t like this. I was on my feet.
‘Music or speech which follows on from something else without an intervening explanatory link.’ He folded the printout in two. ‘What’s a “Lyrec”?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ I said. ‘And I don’t really care any more.’
‘It’s a portable reel-to-reel tape-recorder, rather oldfashioned but still used for OB’s. What’s an “OB”?’
‘An Outside Bloody Broadcast,’ I said, sweeping up my bag from the floor. ‘These are just boring technical terms,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to know them. I want to be a reporter, not a sound engineer. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I think I’ll try somewhere else.’ I reached for the door handle, but Jack was holding that piece of folded paper out to me. I took it and opened it up.
‘Right,’ he said. He was behind his desk, staring at me with his dark brown eyes. ‘That’s a news despatch about the environmental protest in Lambeth. There are plans for a hypermarket there, with a new link road, and the eco-warriors are creating.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘In fact, my Moth-’ I bit my lip. I decided to keep Mum out of it. ‘It’s been in the papers,’ I said.
Jack clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair.
‘I want you to go down there and collect some material. I want some wild-track of the bulldozers, and a few vox-pops from the protesters – no more than six – which will accompany an interview we’re running tomorrow. My assistant Monica will get you a tape-recorder,’ he said, as he turned back to his computer. ‘Make sure you hold the lead still so that it doesn’t crackle, and keep the mike no more than a hand-span away from your subject’s mouth. When you get back I’ll find a spare producer to help you cut it down.’ He looked at me, seriously. ‘I expect you to mess this up a bit, because you’ve never done it before. But if you screw it up completely, I don’t want to see you again.’
That’s how I got started. And because Mum was there, collecting for the pressure group Eco-Logical, she knew all the campaigners and helped me get some really good quotes. Jack was happy with what I’d done, so he gave me a freelance reporting shift. Then, a week later, he gave me another. And then another. Soon, I began to compile longer pieces, quite complex ones – they took me ages to begin with. Sometimes – though I’d never tell anyone this – they took all night to do. Then, a few months later, it happened: one of the staff reporters was poached by Channel 4 News and there I was, on the spot. That was three years ago. My life seemed complete. I had fallen in love with radio; and then I fell in love with Dominic too.
‘That weely is cwap!’ Melinda screeched again, as I sat down in the boardroom on my first day back.
‘I thought Wesley’s idea was rather good,’ Jack said.
‘Oh, thanks, Jack,’ simpered Wesley. ‘Do you really think so?’ And then Wesley noticed me, and smiled.
‘Oh, hel-lo, Minty,’ he said. Then his features folded into an expression of sympathetic concern. ‘Minty, look, I’d just like to say –’
‘Wesley!’ Jack cut in. ‘Kindly tell us all who you would invite into the studio for this item on astrology.’
‘Well,’ he began. ‘Well …’ Wesley never has any ideas. His mind was clearly as empty as the Outback as he pursed his lips, then stared at the floor.
‘How about an astrologer?’ Jack prompted crisply.
‘Yeah!’ said Wesley. ‘Fab! Brilliant idea. There’s that woman from the Weekly Star …’
‘Sheryl von Strumpfhosen?’ I offered.
‘Yeah. Thanks, Minty.’
‘She’s no good,’ I added bitterly.
‘Minty, look,’ said Wesley, ‘I’d really just like to say-’
I felt my face redden, and my heartbeat rise, but Jack deflected him again.
‘What other ideas do you have, Wesley?’
‘Well …’ Wesley began. ‘Well …’ He ran a limp hand over his balding head, then fiddled with the top button of his polyester shirt. He cast his watery blue eyes to the ceiling, and made funny little sucking noises with his teeth, but inspiration clearly eluded him.
‘Anyone else?’ said Jack tersely. Silence. As usual, none of the producers had a clue. They always leave it to Sophie, our new researcher. She’s just out of Oxford, ferociously ambitious, and as sharp as broken glass.
‘Sophie, are you prepared to help your clueless colleagues?’ said Jack.
She consulted her clipboard, tucked her hair behind one ear and pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose.
‘There’s a report out today on drug-taking in schools,’ she began crisply, ‘and there’s another appeal being launched to save Bart’s. I see from the publishing catalogues that a new biography of Boris Yeltsin is published this week, so I’ve put in a bid for the author, and of course the shortlist for the Turner Prize is being announced in three days.’
‘Excellent,’ said Jack. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, I’ve spoken to Peter Greenaway’s publicist and I’ve set up an exclusive interview pegged to his new film. We’ve also got another special report coming down the line from the Edinburgh Festival.’
‘Good,’ said Jack. But Sophie hadn’t finished.
‘There’s been yet another resignation at the Royal Opera House; and I’d like to draw everyone’s attention to a very interesting new survey on the declining popularity of marriage,’ she went on enthusiastically. ‘The statistics show that marriages have fallen to an all-time low, so I thought we could get Minty to compile a report on “the myth of wedded bliss” – it’s an absolutely fascinating subject, you know-’
Jack opened his mouth to intervene, but Melinda got there first:
‘How can we possibly ask Minty to do that?’ she enquired indignantly. ‘The poor girl’s just been JILTED!’
My face reddened and my bowels shrank. Bloody Melinda. Stupid cow. Then, to my horror, Melinda stood up, and placed two fat, richly bejewelled hands across her vast stomach.
‘I’d like to say that I think we should all be vewy kind to Minty,’ she announced, ‘because she’s just been thwough something tewwible. Something weally, weally, humiliating. And I just want to say, Minty, that I think you’re VEWY BWAVE!’ She had finished. She sat down and beamed at everyone, as though expecting a round of applause.
In the embarrassed silence they all looked at the floor, while I tried to remember when Melinda’s maternity leave was due to start. It wasn’t that long now. Two or three months? I couldn’t wait. And then I looked at her again and I thought, Amber’s right. She’s right about the horrors of pregnancy, and here was the living proof. Melinda’s fat, bare legs were veined like dolcelatte; she needed iron girders in her bra; short and plump to begin with, she looked as though she’d swallowed a tractor tyre. Particularly in those defiantly tight maternity clothes she sometimes wears. Today a skimpy T-shirt was stretched over her epic bulge. ‘Let Me Out!’ it read. No, let me out, I thought. And she’s a really terrible broadcaster. She can’t say her ‘R’s, for a start. And she makes so many fluffs – it’s appalling. You could stuff cushions with them. I mean, she’s always mis-reading her script. Spoonerisms, in particular, abound. Here are a few she’s slipped up on recently: ‘Warring bankers in the City’; ‘The shining wits of New Labour’; and twice now she has managed to mispronounce the ‘Cunning Stunts’ theatre company, despite extensive practice beforehand. We all cringe – and the letters of complaint that we get! But it’s all water off a duck’s back to Melinda. She thinks she’s marvellous. The cwème de la cwème. Well, she’s certainly rich and thick. I mean, who but Melinda would have welcomed David Blunkett into the studio with the cheery salutation, ‘Hello, David! Long time no see!’ But if there’s the slightest whiff of criticism of her, she goes bleating to Uncle Percy. In the end, that’s why everyone tolerates her. We simply have no choice.
‘Vewy bwave,’ she muttered again, then gave me an earnest sort of smile.
You see, the fact is, she likes me. That’s the awful part. Probably because she relies on me to write her cues. She’s useless, you see. Especially when it comes to current affairs. For example, she thinks Bosnia Herzegovina’s the Wonderbra model. Nor is she much better on cultural things. In May she astonished Ian McEwan – and all of us – by describing him as ‘one of Bwitain’s finest Shakespearwean actors’. Anyway, because she’s so hopeless, she’s forever asking me for help. And though I don’t like her, I’ve always obliged. Why? Because I’m nice. That’s what everyone says about me. ‘Minty’s really nice.’ ‘Why don’t you ask Minty?’ I hear them say. ‘She’ll help you,’ and, ‘Oh, just take it to Minty.’ ‘Oh, no, Minty doesn’t mind,’ they add. But actually, Minty does mind. Minty minds rather a lot. That’s what nobody realises. And though I smile and nod, inside I’m in a rage because, recently, I’ve started to realise that I’m fed up with being nice. The fact is my colleagues exploit me. They really do. And it’s beginning to get me down. Wesley’s the worst. He never edits his interviews down in time, and then he rings me from the studio half an hour before he goes on air and says he’s way over and please would I come and cut six minutes out of this feature, or five and a half out of that, and so I stand there, with my heart banging like a drum, slashing tape against the clock. I could really do without the extra stress, but somehow I can never say ‘no’.
‘Vewy bwave,’ muttered Melinda again. And then her eyebrows drooped theatrically, and she flashed me this compassionate smile.
But I was determined to salvage my pride. I was determined to keep my vow. I was determined not to cave in. I was determined, determined to come through.
‘I’m perfectly happy to compile that piece about attitudes to marriage,’ I said stiffly. ‘Why on earth would anyone think I’d mind?’ They all shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
‘OK, then,’ said Jack, ‘do it, and we’ll run it tomorrow. But don’t forget Citronella Pratt.’ Damn! Citronella Pratt! I’d forgotten. Quelle horreur – and on my first day back.
‘Do I have to?’ I said, backtracking. ‘I’d rather chew tinfoil.’
‘I’m afraid you do,’ said Jack. ‘You know how it is.’
Yes, I do. You see there’s one thing I don’t like about working in commercial radio and that’s the constant concessions we have to make to our sponsors and advertisers. For example, Mazota cars advertise regularly on London FM and, believe it or not, this affects our news priorities. Balkan massacres, Middle Eastern airstrikes and catastrophic earthquakes are wiped off the bulletins if there’s anything about road pricing, or taxation on company cars. It’s sickening, and I suppose it’s corrupt; but we just have to live with it and remember that old adage about the piper and the tune. And Citronella Pratt, a right-wing housewife with a column in the Sunday Semaphore, falls into this category too. We often interview her for our programmes. Not because we admire her brain, which is mediocre, or her views, which are venomous, but because her husband is the chairman of Happy Bot, the nappy manufacturer which sponsors our weather reports. So to keep Mr Happy Bot happy, we have to interview his wife. And she would know if we used anyone else, because she listens to us all the time.
‘Sorry about that, Minty,’ said Jack, as the meeting broke up. ‘Just a quick Citronella soundbite will do.’
I went over to my desk, which had been borrowed during my absence and left in a terrible mess. I began to clear up, then realised that someone was standing over me. It was Wesley and he looked distraught.
‘Minty, I’d just like to say –’
‘What?’ I said, as I took my portable tape-recorder out of the top drawer.
‘I don’t know how he could do that,’ he went on miserably, shaking his balding head. ‘How could anyone do that to you?’
‘How could anyone do that to anyone?’ I said quietly, as I slotted in a clean cassette.
Wesley stood a little closer. ‘You’re so wonderful Minty,’ he whispered.
Oh God, no. No, not this.
‘You’re so attractive …’
Please. No. I’d forgotten that my newly single status meant that I’d be fighting off boring old Wesley again. When I was with Dominic he’d at least had the decency to stop.
‘I know you rejected me before,’ he went on, with a martyred air, ‘but I just want you to know that I’m still here for you.’
‘Thanks, Wesley,’ I said disinterestedly, as I plugged in the microphone. ‘Testing, one, two, three, four, five. Hey, who’s been using my tape-recorder? The batteries are almost flat!’
Wesley had now perched on the edge of my desk as I did my best to ignore him.
‘Dominic wasn’t right for you, Minty,’ I heard him say as I put in four new Ever-Readys. ‘And look how he’s let you down.’
‘I’m not discussing it,’ I said, rather sharply. ‘Anyway, I’ve got far more pressing things on my mind, like this feature, which I have a day to prepare.’ I got out my contacts book and turned to ‘M’ for marriage. Wesley glanced round the office to make sure he couldn’t be heard.
‘I’d do anything for you, Minty,’ he murmured, ‘you know that.’
‘Then please let me get on with my work,’ I replied. But he didn’t seem to hear.
‘I’d even leave Deirdre for you.’ Oh no. Not that again.
‘I don’t think you should,’ I said with uncharacteristic firmness as I picked up the phone. ‘In fact, Wesley, I strongly advise you against any such course of action!’ Wesley looked a bit shocked at my spiky tone of voice, and, to be honest, it surprised me too. I wouldn’t normally have been so sharp, I realised, as I began to dial.
‘Deirdre’s just not very …exciting,’ I heard Wesley say. This was true. They were a perfect match. ‘But you’re wonderful, Minty,’ he droned. ‘You’re so clever, you’re such fun –’
‘Leave me alone please, Wesley.’
‘You’ve always been the girl of my dreams, Minty,’ he whined, with a wounded air. ‘Why won’t you give me a chance?’
‘Because – Oh, hello, is Citronella Pratt there? – because I’ll never give anyone a chance, ever again.’
In the long run I was grateful to Jack for making me come back to work. I had very little time to think about Dominic as I rushed round London that first day, collecting material for my feature. I interviewed two couples who preferred to cohabit; a divorcee who refused to remarry; a woman who was happily single, and a spokesperson from the marriage charity, It Takes Two.
Then, with a sinking heart, I went to interview Citronella Pratt. I’d left her until the end, so that I could truthfully say I was short of time. I always sit there, like a prisoner, an expression of polite interest Grip-fixed to my face, while she drones on about the success of Mr Happy Bot, or the new car they’re buying, or the wonderful villa they’re doing up in Provence, or the prodigious progress of the infant Sienna.
A pretty girl, who I knew to be the nanny, opened the door of the Pratt homestead in Hampstead, a rambling Victorian house in a road leading up to the Heath. ‘Leave us, please, Françoise!’ said Citronella, as though the girl were a lady’s maid. And this surprised me, because Citronella often fills up her column with guff about her ‘miracle nanny, Françoise’, and how she’s better than anyone else’s nanny, and about the lavish gifts she bestows on her as an inducement to stay. Last week she bragged that she’d given Françoise a top-of-the-range BMW – there was no sign of this, however, in the drive.
We went through the toy-strewn hallway to the ‘study’, which resembled the childcare section of my local Waterstones. Books on child psychology, baby care and pregnancy lined the walls from floor to ceiling. This, they seemed to declare, with territorial emphasis, was Citronella’s field of expertise. I glanced at her as I unravelled my microphone lead, and wondered yet again at the gap between her photo-byline and the reality confronting me now. The girlish image in the photo, chin resting beguilingly on steepled hands, bore little resemblance to the pneumatic, late thirty-something woman with grey-blonde hair and beaky nose who sat before me now. I also found myself reflecting on the power of patronage. Citronella had never been a journalist, and had nothing very edifying to say; but her views on women chimed with those of her reactionary editor, Tim Lawton. They had met at a dinner party six months before, and so impressed was he with her poisonous opinions about her own sex, that he had taken out his cheque book and signed her up on the spot. And so Citronella had become Goebbels to his Hitler in the war he was waging against women. Her pieces should have been headlined ‘Fifth Column’, I always thought, as week after week she set out to demoralise successful, single females. She wrote of boats leaving port, and of women left ‘on the shelf’. She wrote of the ‘impossibility of having it all’. Men, she had once notoriously opined, do not want to marry career women in their thirties. In fact, she went on, they do not want to marry women in their thirties at all. For thirty-something women, she explained, are no longer attractive, and so men – and who can blame them? – naturally want women in their twenties. In her piece the following week she had bragged that the twelve sacks of hatemail she had received were simply ‘proof positive’ that she was right.
When not using her column to persecute single professional women, Citronella likes to boast of her own domestic ‘bliss’. ‘In our large house in Hampstead …’ her pieces often begin. Or, ‘In our corner of Gloucestershire …’ where the Pratts have a country house. Or she will rhapsodise about the joys of motherhood as though no woman had ever given birth before. I adjusted the microphone and pressed ‘record’ with a heavy heart.
‘I do think it’s so sad that marriage is going out of fashion,’ she said, sweetly, as she smoothed down her sack-like dress. ‘When I think how happy my own marriage is –’ Here we go, I thought – ‘to my wonderful and, well …’ she smiled coyly, ‘very brilliant husband …’
‘Of course,’ I said, as I surreptitiously pressed the ‘pause’ button, and remembered the hen-pecked little man who had carried her bag at our Christmas party.
‘ …then I grieve for the women today who will never know such happiness. Now, I have many single women friends,’ she went on. I did my best not to look surprised. ‘And of course they’re very brave about it all. But I know that their cheerfulness masks tremendous unhappiness. It’s so sad. Are you married?’ she asked.
This took me aback. My heart skipped several beats. ‘No,’ I managed to say. ‘I’m single.’
‘But don’t you want to marry?’ she enquired. She had cocked her head to one side.
‘Not any more,’ I said casually. ‘I did once.’
‘Why? Did something awful happen to you?’ she enquired. Her tone of voice was soft and solicitous. But her eyes were bright with spite. A sudden fear gripped my heart. Did she know what Dominic had done to me? Perhaps she’d somehow heard, on the grapevine. It was sensational, after all. Everyone would know. My skin prickled with embarrassment and I felt sick to think that I would now be the subject of a kind of awe-struck gossip:
‘– Did you hear what happened to Minty Malone?’
‘– What?’
‘– Jilted.’
‘– Good Godz!’
‘– On her wedding day.’
‘– No!’
‘– And in the church!!’
It was all too easy to imagine. I fiddled with the tape-recorder while I struggled to control myself. I mentally counted to three, to let the lump in my throat subside, and then I managed to speak. ‘Nothing happened,’ I said with nonchalant discretion. ‘I just don’t want to marry, that’s all. Lots of women don’t these days. That’s why I’ve been asked to do this piece.’
Citronella composed her features into a mask of saccharine concern, then smiled, revealing large, square teeth the colour of Cheddar.
‘But don’t you think you’re missing out on one of life’s richest treasures?’ she pressed on, softly, as her quivering antennae probed for my tender spots. I darted behind my bullet-proof glass.
‘My opinions in this are irrelevant,’ I pointed out with as much cheery bonhomie as I could muster. ‘I’m just the reporter,’ I added, with a smile. ‘I’d like to know what you think.’ I pressed the ‘record’ button again and held the microphone under her double chin.
‘Well, I do feel very sad,’ she went on with a regretful sigh – ‘sad’ seemed to be her favourite word – ‘when I look at women of my own generation who have had, yes, admittedly successful careers, but who now know that they will never marry or have children. Whereas my life is just, well, magical.’
‘But people marry so much later these days,’ I said.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she said.
‘It is true,’ I said, with a toughness which, again, felt unfamiliar. ‘According to my research,’ I continued smoothly, ‘the average age at which men and women marry has gone up by six years since 1992. And the fastest-growing group of new mothers is the over thirty-fives.’ This piece of information seemed to irritate her, but I pressed straight on.
‘However, the fact remains that the number of weddings has dropped by 20 per cent. I’d like to ask you why you think there’s this new reluctance’ – I thought of Dominic – ‘to marry.’
‘The problem is,’ she began confidently, ‘that there’s such a chronic shortage of single men.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not right,’ I corrected her confidently. Though despite my new boldness, my heart was beating like a drum. ‘There are actually more single men than single women.’
‘Oh. Oh …Well, let me put it another way,’ she said. ‘There are so few single men worth marrying. That’s the problem. It’s awfully sad. In my own case, well, I was very lucky. I met Andrew, and apparently, he was just bowled over.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said. I even smiled. She smiled back.
‘And so, just seven years later, we were married, and we’ve been blissfully happy ever since,’ she went on smugly. ‘Terribly happy.’
This was getting me down. So I stood up.
‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I said with professional courtesy. ‘I think I’d better be getting back now.’
‘But are you sure you’ve got enough material?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, yes,’ I replied. ‘Plenty.’
‘Did you know that the Fred Behr Carpet Warehouse is having a half-price sale?’
‘A half-price sale?’
‘Yes – a half-price sale. Isn’t that incredible?!’
‘Incredible! Half-price, did you say?’
‘Yes that’s what I said – half-price. Imagine! That’s 50 per cent off!!!’
‘Did you say 50 per cent? I just can’t BELIEVE it!!!’
‘Nor can I – 50 per cent off!! I just CAN’T believe it EITHER!!!
‘Nor can I!!! I just CAN’T believe it!!! I just can’t BELIEVE it!!!’
Personally, I can’t believe that our ads are now so bad. Lots of them are like that, presented as conversations between two increasingly amazed people. We used to have witty ads, ingeniously written mini-dramas brilliantly performed by famous actors. But now all our adverts are crap. The upmarket companies won’t advertise with us any more because they know our audience share is falling. Worse, we’re not even managing to sell all our advertising space, so our revenue’s way down. When the figures are good, we all know about it because the sales team go round with deep tans from their incentive holidays in the Virgin Islands or the Seychelles. But at the moment their faces are as etiolated as chalk or Cheshire cheese. Not that we see much of them. We don’t. They’re on the phone all day, pitching desperately. Occasionally they come into the Capitalise office and give us grief if we’ve put an ad on air in an awkward place. We hate it when they do that, though I thought they were quite justified in blowing up Wesley for broadcasting an ad for the Providential Insurance Company – strapline: ‘Because Life’s So Uncertain’ – during coverage of Princess Diana’s funeral. He didn’t mean to; as usual his timings were out and he was suddenly twenty-five seconds short. So he grabbed that ad because he knew it would fill the gap exactly. And it did. But the station got a lot of flak and Providential withdrew their account.
Wesley’d had lots of disasters like that, I reflected as I dubbed my interviews from cassette on to quarter-inch tape. The only reason he’d survived was because he’d been here so long he’s unsackable. It would cost them far too much to get rid of him. They just don’t have the cash. In fact, they don’t have the cash for anything here, least of all the new digital editing equipment; at London FM we still use tape.
‘Embarrassing nasal hair? Try the Norton Nostril Trimmer! –Removes hairy excrescences from ears, and eyebrows too! Has removable head for easy cleaning by brushing or blowing! Just £5.95, or £9.95 for the deluxe model. All major credit cards accepted, please allow twenty-eight days for delivery!’
I glanced at the clock, it was five to seven.
‘And now a quick look at the weather,’ said Barry, the continuity announcer, with his usual drunken slur, ‘brought to you by Happy Bot, the disposable nappy that baby’s botty loves best.’
I turned down the speakers in the office. I couldn’t work with that racket going on. I knew I’d be there all evening, editing, but for once I didn’t mind. In fact, I was glad, because it gave me no time to think about Dominic. I was oblivious to everything as I sat there at my tape machine with my headphones on, my white editing pencil tucked behind one ear. My razor blade glinted in the strip lights as I slashed away, lengths of discarded tape falling like shiny brown streamers to the carpet-tiled floor. I love the physicality of chopping tape. It’s so satisfying. Clicking a computer mouse on a little pair of digital scissors just isn’t the same. But that’s what we’ll soon be doing.
As I wielded the blade, a tangled mess of cast-offs and cutouts fell on the floor at my feet. Citronella Pratt sounded like Minnie Mouse as I spooled through her at double speed: ‘Very-happy – soawfulbeingsingle – terriblysad,pooryou – ohyesI’msohappilymarried – veryveryhappilymarried – Very.’ And I thought it odd that she needed to keep saying that, because I’ve always thought that happiness, like charm and like sensitivity, tends to proclaim itself. I salvaged one twenty-second soundbite from her fifteen minutes of boastful bile, then took my knife to the other interviews. Soon they were neatly banded up on a seven-inch spool, with spacers of yellow leader tape between, ready to be played out in the programme the following day. All I had to do now was to write my script. I looked at the clock. It was ten thirty. With luck I’d be home by one.
The office was deserted, everyone had gone home hours before. It had the melancholy atmosphere of an English seaside town in winter. I sat at the computer, and began to type. And I was just thinking how calm and peaceful it was and how the script wouldn’t take that long to do, and I was congratulating myself too on not crying or cracking up on my first day back, despite the emotional stress I was under, when I heard the sound of a newspaper being rustled. It was coming from Jack’s office. How odd. Who on earth was in there at this time? I opened the door. Sitting at his desk, at ten forty-five, quietly reading the Guardian, was Jack.
‘Oh, hi, Minty,’ he said.
‘Er, hi. You’re here late.’
‘Am I? Oh well, I had some, er …stuff to do,’ he said. Oh. That was odd. ‘I hope your first day back wasn’t too bad,’ he added gently. ‘Thanks for coming in. We need you.’ And he gave me such a nice smile. So I smiled back. And there was a little pause. Just a beat. Then Jack lowered his paper and said, ‘Are you all right, Minty?’ And you know, how when you’re really low, and someone you like and respect looks at you, and asks you if you’re all right? Well, it’s fatal. Before I knew what had happened my eyes had filled.
‘It’s OK,’ I heard Jack say, as I struggled to compose myself. ‘You can cry in front of me.’ I sniffed, and nodded, and then a small sob escaped me, and suddenly my cheeks were wet.
‘Come and sit down, Minty. It’s all right.’ I sat in the chair by his desk, and he opened his drawer and handed me a tissue.
‘I guess you’ll be doing this quite a bit.’ I nodded. It was true. ‘Can I give you a little advice?’ he said softly. I nodded again. ‘It’s simply to try and remember that old expression: “And this too shall pass.”’
No, I thought bitterly. This will never pass. A part of my life has been ruined. I’d been publicly deserted. I’d been ditched. I’d been dumped. I’d been discarded, dropped, dismissed. And it hit me that in the lexicon of rejection, all the words seem to start with ‘D’. Dominic had disowned me. He had disavowed me. He had divested himself of me. He had disappeared. Through a door. Now he was distant. And I thought I’d die.
‘Nothing stays the same, Minty,’ I heard Jack say. ‘And, for you, this won’t stay the same.’
‘It will. It will,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ll never get over it. Never.’
‘You will,’ said Jack. ‘And at least, here, you’re among friends.’ At that, he placed his hand, just for a moment, on mine. ‘Now, how was the awful Mrs Happy Bot?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Well, she was …awful!’ I said, dabbing at my eyes, and trying to smile. ‘You know, the usual conceited guff. She’s such a pain.’
‘She certainly is,’ he exclaimed. ‘In fact,’ he added, ‘she’s an absolute fucking pain in the arse!’ And with that we both started laughing. And I suddenly wanted to throw my arms round Jack and thank him for being so nice. He has this cool, sarcastic exterior, but he’s so, so kind. And he’s so attractive, I found myself thinking, not for the first time. I’d had this secret little ‘thing’ about Jack when I first started at London FM. But nothing had ever happened because, well, he was my boss. And then he’d started seeing Jane and, not long after that, I’d met Dom. Still, Jack was lovely. A lovely man. But why on earth was he in the office so late?
‘Aren’t you worried about the time, Jack?’
‘What?’
‘It’s eleven,’ I said, glancing at the large clock on his wall.
‘Is it?’ he said, wonderingly. ‘Oh yes, so it is.’
‘Won’t Jane be worried?’ They’d only been married six months.
Jack didn’t reply. In fact, he seemed to avoid my eyes as he reached for his jacket and put it on.
‘You’re right, Minty,’ he said quietly. ‘Guess I’d better be getting along.’ Then he picked up his paper, and I saw that he’d almost finished the crossword.
‘Yes,’ he said, and he emitted a long, weary sigh. ‘I guess it’s time to go Home, Sweet Home.’
September (#ulink_957cecd3-79a1-538c-a786-a5c013d76d96)
‘What a funny thing!’ screeched Pedro from his domed steel cage. Indeed, I thought, what a funny thing.
I was standing in the kitchen, where a strange sight had just met my eyes. All the cupboards, normally a refulgent white, had turned yellow overnight. They were plastered with primrose-hued Post-It notes. Every single one. They fluttered in the stiff breeze from the open window, like tiny Tibetan prayer flags, except that they tended to be deprecatory, rather than imprecatory, in tone. ‘Snores!’ said one, and then, in brackets, ‘very loudly’. ‘Could NEVER see my point of view’, declared the next. ‘Very poor judgement’, accused its neighbour. ‘Beginning to lose his hair’, alleged a fourth. ‘Just won’t LISTEN!’ snapped a fifth. ‘Putting on weight’, pointed out a sixth. ‘“Selfish”’, announced the note on the freezer. ‘Forgot my birthday’, spat the one on the spice rack. ‘Lousy taste in ties’, trumpeted the one on the tumble dryer. ‘Could be short-tempered’, sneaked the one on the fridge. Everywhere I looked, every vertical surface, bore some unpleasant legend about Charlie. Amber must have used at least five packs.
‘I say,’ squawked Pedro. He emitted a long, low whistle. ‘I say,’ he said again. Then he clawed at the yellow Post-It on his cage (‘Failed Ancient Greek O-level’), before shredding it with his razor-edged beak.
Poor Charlie, I thought as I peeled the one off the toaster (‘Stubborn’), he didn’t deserve all this. I put in two slices of wholemeal bread and turned it up to ‘high’. There was a creak on the stairs, then Amber appeared, framed in the doorway in her velvet dressing gown, like some portrait by John Singer Sargent. What a pity, I thought. All that beauty, marred by bitterness.
‘You’ve got to accentuate the negative,’ she said, slightly sheepishly, as she removed a Post-It from the kettle (‘Complete wimp’) and filled it.
‘You should do it too, you know, Minty,’ she added as she unscrewed the jar of coffee (‘Pathetic’). ‘You’ll find it really helps.’
‘No, thanks,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s just not my style.’
And then, out of curiosity, I tried to imagine what my yellow stickies might say. ‘Jilted me, during my wedding, in front of every single person I know’; ‘Extremely domineering’; ‘Had a violent temper if crossed’; ‘Constantly tried to sell insurance policies to my friends’; ‘Very rude about my mother’; ‘Dictated what I wore’; ‘Criticised what I said’; ‘Undermined me at every turn’. Oh, they would be far, far worse than anything Amber could come up with about Charlie. ‘Shallow’ was another obvious one for Dom, while ‘Deeply neurotic’ also sprang to mind.
Whereas Charlie’s very stable. He really is. He’s also honourable. In every way. He’s the Honourable Charles Edworthy, you see, because his father’s a life peer. And Amber told me that Charlie had been a bit surprised when Dominic had asked him to be his best man, because they hadn’t known each other long, having only met through me. But I knew Dominic well enough to guess the reason at once – he’d thought it would look good in the ‘Weddings’ column of The Times. ‘Best man was the Hon. Charles Edworthy,’ it would say. But that announcement, like my marriage, had been unexpectedly cancelled.
In any case, I knew all the bad news about Dominic. I didn’t need to write it down. It had been tucked into the back of my mind for the best part of two years. But the funny thing is that I’d accepted all those negative factors. It’s not as though I wasn’t aware of them – I was. They troubled me. And though, on the surface, I made out everything was fine, inside I was filled with dismay. So I did what I did at work. I edited the bad things out. I excised them, just as I remove the rubbish from my radio interviews. At work, I review all my recorded material, and then skilfully cut out the crap – all the bits that jar, or don’t fit; the inarticulate, or plain boring parts, the hesitations and the repetitions – I remove them all, so that the end result is smooth and easy on the ear. And that’s what I’d done with Dominic. But why? Why did I? People have begun to ask me that. Well, there’s a complicated answer.
First of all, because I suppose I try to accentuate the positive. See the good things. And there were good things, too, about Dom. He was attractive, and generous, and successful. He was also very ambitious for me, which I liked. And of course he seemed to be very fond of me – though not, as it turned out, quite fond enough. But that’s why I decided that I could live with all his faults. Because I thought he loved me. Because, out of all the women he could have had, he’d chosen me. And that was flattering. Then I’m not the sort of person to make a fuss, however unhappy I feel. As I say, I always like to keep things smooth and ‘nice’. And that’s the main reason why I kept quiet – because I hate confrontations of any kind and I really don’t handle them well. Particularly when it comes to personal relationships. I’m terrified of giving offence. Because if I give offence, then I might be rejected. So I avoid giving offence, like the plague.
That’s why I’m not going to say anything to Amber about the fact that she’s making no attempt to find her own place. Nor am I going to complain about the way she leaves her washing up, despite being here all day. Nor do I intend to bring up the subject of the phone. She spends at least two hours every evening on it, droning away to anyone who’ll listen about how ‘bloody appallingly’ she’s been treated by Charlie. And I do wish she wouldn’t do this, not least because I’d like to use the phone myself.
Amber, meanwhile, had opened Pedro’s cage, and he was now perched on her shoulder, affectionately nibbling her hair. They’re very alike, I suddenly thought. Birds of a feather, in fact. They’re strikingly good-looking, attention-grabbing, profoundly irritating and time-warped.
‘Super, darling!’ screeched Pedro, as she handed him a sunflower seed.
‘I wish you’d learn how to say, “Charlie’s a bastard,”’ she said to him with a regretful air. This is extremely unlikely. a) Pedro was very fond of Charlie, and b) he hasn’t added a single word to his vocabulary since 1962. He’s like an old record in that way, and the needle is well and truly stuck.
‘He’s going in the next novel,’ Amber said, with a smile.
‘Who, Pedro?’
‘No, Charlie, of course.’
‘Oh dear. As what?’
‘As an effete toff called Carl Elworthy who turns out to be a serial killer!’
‘Poor chap,’ I said.
‘What do you mean, “Poor chap”?’ she retorted, as she applied bitter orange marmalade to my toast. ‘Poor me, you mean.’ She bit into it with a loud ‘crunch’, then tore off a tiny piece for Pedro. He took it daintily, then his bulbous, black tongue ground it around his beak, like a pestle in a mortar.
‘What a bastard,’ she said again.
I wanted to tell Amber the truth – that I didn’t blame Charlie at all. That I thought she was over the top. But I didn’t because I’m a bit frightened of Amber, just like Charlie was.
‘Scary, isn’t she?’ he’d once whispered to me, slightly tipsily, at a drinks party.
‘Oh yes!’ I said, surprised at his candour. ‘I mean, well, you know, a bit!’ And then we’d both blushed guiltily, like conspirators, and gone, ‘Ha ha ha!’
‘We’re going to get over this, Minty,’ Amber added, as Pedro waddled down her arm. ‘We’re going to forget men,’ she said. ‘We’re not going to bother with the bastards at all. In fact, we’re going to enjoy ourselves without them, we’re going to …’
‘Celibate?’ I said wryly.
‘No, cerebrate,’ she announced happily. ‘We’re going to cultivate the life of the mind!’ She stirred her coffee excitedly then buttered my second piece of toast. ‘The key words for us, Mint, are Protect, Pamper and Improve – with the emphasis firmly on “Improve”. And we’re going to spend time with women, too, Minty. Clever women. I know,’ she went on enthusiastically, ‘let’s start an all-women’s book club! They’re extremely fashionable – Ruby Wax is in one, and so are French and Saunders. We could call ours the BBBC.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Brilliant Broads Book Club!’
‘I say!’ Pedro squawked.
‘We could have really intellectual evenings, with plenty of booze thrown in! We could hold them here!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Mint?’
‘Oh! Well, no, all right, if you set it up,’ I said as I picked up my bag. ‘I haven’t got time to organise it myself. And – Oh Christ, I’ll be late for work!’
‘Constipated? Then take Green Light for inner cleanliness …’
Oh God, not this one again, I thought, an hour later as I sat at my desk chewing the rubbery breakfast roll I’d bought in the canteen.
‘Just one little Green Light and you’ll be raring to GO! Only £3.95 from all good chemists. Or £5.95 for economy size.’
All of a sudden Jack appeared. He was tense. We knew this, because he was twisting a length of yellow leader tape in his hands.
‘Meeting!’ he barked. ‘And you’d better have lots of ideas after our impressive performance in the ratings.’
We all knew about this – it was plastered over the front page of Broadcast. ‘London FM Loses Grip! Audiences Right Down!’ We’d slumped by a disastrous 10 per cent in the quarterly figures compiled by RAJAR. We trooped into the boardroom, where Jack was fiddling with the speakers, trying to eliminate the incessant sound of the output. It’s like trying to cope with an unwanted guest, babbling away nonstop.
‘Do YOU have athlete’s foot? Then try Fungaway, the topperformance treatment for toe fungus of every kind. Fungaway works by –’ Click. Jack had found the switch. Silence. Thank God for that.
Then Melinda’s face lit up. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘Celebwity diseases!’
‘What?’ we all said.
‘Celebwity Diseases!’ she announced. ‘We could make it a wegular spot!’ She then went on to explain that this Hollywood actor had herpes, and that director was said to have AIDS, and she’d heard that a well-known British soap star was known to have chronic piles, and why didn’t we do a weekly feature in which the stars would discuss their ailments?
‘Great idea, Melinda,’ said Jack. ‘We’ll give it the thought it deserves.’
Melinda beamed, and shot me an excited smile.
‘Anyone else?’ said Jack.
This time, shaken by the declining audience figures, we had come fairly well prepared. Newspapers and magazines had been read, Time Out and Premiere studied, the Celebrity Bulletin had been scrutinised, and the Future Events List given more than a glance.
‘– London Fashion Week.’
‘– Tall Persons convention.’
‘– New show by Theatre de Complicité.’
‘– Alternative health exhibition.’
‘– Royal Opera House – new crisis.’
Half an hour later we had come up with enough feature ideas and suggestions for studio guests to fill the next three editions of the programme. We’d bought ourselves some time.
‘Minty’s piece about marriage went down well with the listeners,’ Jack went on. ‘We’ve had lots of letters asking us to do more social affairs stories like that. So I’d like Minty to compile a series of in-depth features, and we could run one every week. Right. What are the big social trends of the moment?’
‘Um …singleness?’
‘– Divorce.’
‘– Family breakdown?’
‘– Child support.’
‘– Nursery provision.’
‘– Late motherhood.’
‘– Fertility treatment,’ added Sophie. ‘The first test-tube baby, Louise Brown, is twenty-one this year,’ she went on knowledgeably. ‘We could use that as a peg to look at what reproductive science has achieved since then.’
‘Minty could interview Deirdwe!’ said Melinda happily.
‘Why?’ said Jack.
‘Because evewyone knows that Wesley’s been twying to get her pwegnant for years!’
’– er, anyone seen my stopwatch?’
‘– good piece in the Guardian about Fergie.’
‘– we really should do something about the cleaners.’
‘– see Prisoner Cell Block H last night?’
‘I know a vewy good fertility doctor, Wesley,’ Melinda went on benignly. ‘Not that I needed him myself!’ she added with an asinine laugh as she tapped her bulging middle. ‘I’ll wite his name down for you,’ she pressed on with tank-like persistence, as she groped in her bag for a pen. ‘It’s Pwofessor Godfwey Barnes.’
‘It’s quite all right, Melinda,’ Wesley replied, curtly. ‘I’m sure I’m quite capable of getting Deirdre pregnant in the conventional way.’ It was a good retort, but I doubted it was true. I remembered Deirdre confiding in me at the London FM Christmas party that her lack of a baby was entirely Wesley’s fault.
‘It’s certainly not my eggs,’ she’d whispered, as we sipped cheap Frascati out of plastic beakers. ‘I had my ovaries checked out and they’re fine. Absolutely fine. My eggs aren’t scrambled at all,’ she went on with a tinkling laugh.
‘Oh, well, good,’ I said, feeling slightly embarrassed that she’d chosen to share this information with me.
‘The doctor said it’s all shipshape,’ she continued. ‘Even though I’m thirty-nine. He said it must be Wesley’s sperm.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘It’s lazy,’ she giggled. ‘A bit like him! But he refuses point-blank to come to the clinic.’
‘Well, I hope he changes his mind,’ I’d said. What else could I say? Poor Deirdre. She was laughing about it, but she was clearly very sad. I felt sorry for her. She was nice. And she’d lived with Wesley for eight years, with neither a wedding ring nor a child to show for it. And this must have been all the more galling for her, because she was the supervisor at their local Mothercare. No wonder she always looked so dowdy and downbeat.
‘No, weally, Wesley, this doctor’s jolly good …’ Melinda was carrying on, impervious to our embarrassed coughs, while Wesley’s face radiated a heat I could almost feel.
‘Thank you very much, Melinda,’ said Jack. ‘Meeting over. Sophie, would you ring publicity, and tell them to make sure that all the radio critics know about Minty’s series.’
Half an hour later, Jack and I had drawn up the plan for my Social Trends slot. It would be hard work, I reflected as I returned to my desk; but that was a good thing because then I’d have no time to think about Dominic. What’s more, it was a good career move, and might take me closer to my professional goal.
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