The Making of Minty Malone

The Making of Minty Malone

Isabel Wolff

For Jonathan and Catharine Anja and Paul-Mattias

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

July

August

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

Acknowledgements

Permissions

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

July

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.