The Making of Minty Malone

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.’