The Making of Minty Malone

‘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

‘’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.