The Making of Minty Malone (23 page)

But Mr Hunt had already gone. He had rushed out of the studio, then disappeared, at a run, to his waiting ministerial car.

‘Now don’t wowwy, evewyone!’ Melinda shouted into the mike. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds – Oh fuuUUUUCCCKKK!!!!’

‘Shut the microphone!’ shouted Jack. ‘Shut it! And put on that tape!’

The engineer shut the fader, put on the tape I’d edited, then Jack and Wesley went through to the studio, and hauled Melinda out.

‘But I want to stay!’ she screamed. ‘Think of the watings we’d get! We could get a Sony Award for this. Think of the splash in
Bwoadcast
!’

‘That’s exactly what I am thinking of,’ said Jack, as he helped her into a chair.

‘Wesley, call an ambulance. Minty – get in that studio.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll have to finish the programme for her. You’ve got two minutes left on this tape.’

‘I don’t
want
Minty to pwesent the pwogwamme,’ wailed Melinda. ‘It’s
my
pwogwamme – not hers!’ But I was already pushing on the studio door. I was on my way.

Melinda’s waters breaking three weeks early like that was my lucky, well, break. You hear about this kind of thing happening. Disaster strikes the star, and the understudy steps on-stage.
Only, I wasn’t actually the understudy. Jack had booked Nina Edwards from Chat FM’s drive-time show to stand in for Melinda. But when he heard me do it, he changed his mind. And so now, it’s me – it’s me! Me!
Me
! Presenting London FM’s flagship show. Thank you, God! Thank you very, very much. Thank you for letting something NICE happen to me at last! This goes some way, may I add, God, to counteracting the disastrously negative effects of my nuptial catastrophe. Oh yes, I really think you’re getting the hang of it now. And you’ve decided to give me the chance to shine. Mind you – that’s not hard. A Guatemalan goat with a cleft palate could have presented the programme better than Melinda. And of course, I had the added advantage of having written her script. So when I stepped into the studio that fateful afternoon last week, I already knew it inside out. Because I’d written every word. All I had to do was read it. It was quite a lively show one way and another, and when I signed off and stepped out of the studio, everybody clapped! And Jack hugged me and said, ‘Well done.’ And I felt a bit tearful then, because I do really admire Jack and, well, it had been a stressful afternoon. And Melinda had her baby that evening, a little girl, and we all sent her some flowers.

‘Before the news, a reminder that at 2 p.m. you can hear today’s edition of
Capitalise
,’ I heard Barry the announcer say, ‘presented by Minty Malone.’ And I got a warm glow inside, mingled with a burst of adrenaline. And the feeling that for once, just for once, all was well with my world. Because this is my launch pad. I’m determined to fly. And I can cope with anything, even having to swap bedrooms with Amber. Which I don’t really mind. I can afford to be generous, after all. I mean, my career’s going
so
well now. I’m feeling so much more confident. I’ve worked out why Dominic left me. And I’m going to work on that. And I’ve cleared up my misunderstanding with Joe – his book’s
wonderful
, by the way. Though I did find myself wondering why, if Helen
isn’t
dating Joe, she’d gone to Paris again …But then I put it out of my mind.
Because my priority now is my career, and myself. My brand
new
self. New Mint.

‘
My darlingest Minty
,’ wrote Ron the Stalker, on pink paper strewn with silver hearts. ‘
You stepped bravely into the breach, as it were, and saved the day for London FM. What a star performance, sweetheart. I couldn’t fault you. You were as smooth as silk. But DON’T YOU GO GETTING IDEAS ABOVE YOUR RADIO STATION!!! Don’t go getting any BIG IDEAS just because you’ve landed yourself a LUCKY BREAK, you stupid girl!! You’re still MY Minty, OK? You belong to ME. So don’t forget it. Your ever-loving, ever-listening, Ron.
’

Eeeuuuughhh. Yuk. Oh well. I didn’t mind, because I’d had some genuine, non-nutty fan mail too. About five letters so far, which isn’t bad for a week’s work. And all highly complimentary. What balm to my battered ego. And when we’re in the studio, Sophie and Wesley and Monica and the others run around after me as though I were some film star. They offer to get me tea and biscuits, and of course I always refuse because I wouldn’t want to put them to any trouble, but it does amuse me because it’s as though my status has completely changed. Everyone’s so respectful. And I keep saying, ‘No, no, don’t worry, I don’t need a thing.’ But on the other hand, their attention is nice.

‘Would you like some coffee, Minty?’ said Wesley, as we prepared to start the run-through for the programme earlier today.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Something to eat?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

‘Or a cold drink, maybe?’

‘It’s OK, Wes. Thanks.’

‘Happy with the running order?’

‘Yes. Fine.’

‘Oh, Minty, it’s so nice working with you,’ he said, with a simpering smile. He came a little closer. And I thought, why
doesn’t he get some new clothes? His gear’s as outdated as a Rubik cube. ‘You’re so professional, Minty,’ he breathed, ‘you don’t ask anyone for help, you just get on with it and you’re so lovely and –’

‘How’s Deirdre?’ I cut in strategically.

‘Well, actually, Minty, it’s funny you should mention Deirdre, because –’ He stopped. Jack had come into the studio, with Monica and Sophie, ready for the run-through.

Jack gave Wesley a pointed look, then we sat and made a few last-minute adjustments to the script.

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeep.
This is London FM and it’s two o’clock,’ said the continuity announcer an hour later, ‘time for today’s edition of
Capitalise
with Minty Malone.’

‘Hello,’ I said, as I leant towards the mike. ‘Today, Russia’s mafia: how extensive is their network in London? We meet the singer whose haunting voice helped make
The English Patient
a global hit. We preview the Preacher of the Year Award, and take a serious look at sermons. But first: the masculinity crisis – has feminism broken men? With me to discuss this issue are radical feminist Natalie Moore, who writes for the
Guardian
, and Bob Ladd, editor of
Loaded.
And we’re keen to hear
your
views too, so do call the
Capitalise
hotline on 0200 200 200 and join us, live, on air.’

To begin with, the discussion was very polite:

‘– do you really think so, Natalie?’

‘– I’m not quite sure I agree with that, Bob.’

‘– yes, yes, I see what you mean.’

‘– mmm, with respect, I have a different view.’

But then it got a little more heated, and within a couple of minutes, they were at each other’s throats.

‘Masculinity crisis! What a joke!’ spat Natalie.

‘Come off it!’ replied Bob Ladd. ‘Men have it tough these days.’

‘Oh yeah? My heart bleeds.’

‘What are blokes supposed to do?’

‘You’ve subjugated us for centuries and now you’re trying to get us to feel sorry for you too!’

‘You should!’

‘Well, the vast majority of us don’t!’

‘With respect, Natalie,’ I intervened, ‘don’t you think Bob has a point when he says that men feel they no longer have a role?’

‘All I know,’ she said, conceding not a micron of ground, ‘is that men have had it all their own way for aeons, and now, at last, it’s
our
turn.’

‘OK, open it out,’ Wesley whispered into my headphones. I glanced at the callers’ names beginning to flash up on my computer screen.

‘Well, on Line I now we have Malcolm from South Croydon. Malcolm, welcome to the show.’ He was patched through and we could hear the amplified phone line buzz and thrum.

‘Erm,’ Malcolm began, and his voice was shaking, ‘I’m having a masculinity crisis.’

‘Oh dear. Why’s that?’

‘Because my wife upped and went last year. She took the kids, cleared out the house, and took me to the cleaners. I live in a bedsit now.’

‘Well, Malcolm, I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘What an awful story.’

‘It’s a
typical
story, isn’t it?’ Bob Ladd cut in. ‘You women, you’ve got it all your own way now. We’re just sperm banks. You take us for what you can get, then throw us away like shells.’

‘Yes, but we don’t know
why
Malcolm’s wife left him, do we?’ Natalie interrupted. ‘Women don’t leave unless there’s a good reason. He was probably violent,’ she said, thumping the soundproofed table with an audible ‘thud’. ‘
Were
you violent, Malcolm?’

‘I’m sorry, Natalie,’ I intervened, ‘but we can’t expect Malcolm to answer a question like that.’

‘No, I
was not
!’ said Malcolm indignantly. ‘Hardly ever!’

‘Thank you, Malcolm. Now, on Line 2 we have Frances, calling from Dulwich.’

‘We know there’s a masculinity crisis,’ Frances began,
‘because the Samaritans are receiving record numbers of calls from depressed men, and this suggests that they’re not adjusting well to a world in which women seem not to need them.’

‘That’s a very good point, Frances,’ I said. ‘Thank you. And now on Line 3, calling from Battersea, is …Mrs Dympna Malone.’ Dympna Malone? Oh God.

‘Hello, everyone,’ Mummy crooned. In the background we could hear barking, yapping and whining. She giggled. ‘Sorry about the noise, but it’s my day down at the dogs’ home. DOWN BOY! DOWN! Ooh, you are a
naughty
puppy! Anyway, I’d just like to say that I’m having a car boot sale next Saturday at my home in Maida Vale in aid of the new Willesden refuge for battered men.’

‘Battered men!’ Natalie spat. ‘They don’t exist!’

‘Oh yes they do,’ said Mum. ‘And we’ve got some. So that’s 28 Churchill Road W9 …’ I made frantic, slashing gestures across my throat to Wesley.

‘ …next Saturday at two.’

‘Thank you for that, er, Dympna,’ I said, as they faded her out. ‘And on Line 6 now we have …ah …a retired accountant. Called, um,
Bob.
Hello, Bob,’ I said. ‘Are you having a masculinity crisis?’

‘I certainly am,’ said Dad pointedly. ‘Because I never get to see my wife. I retired two months ago,’ he went on. ‘And I’ve seen her about three times since then. She’s rather taken up with her fund-raising,’ he went on meaningfully. ‘So I don’t get much of a look-in.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘In fact, there are times,’ Dad went on darkly, ‘when I seriously wonder whether my marriage can survive.’ Oh heavens. I really hoped Mum was listening to that, but the chances were she’d gone straight back to her stray dogs.

‘Well, Bob, I hope you can get your wife to, er, scale it down a bit. And now on Line 4 …’ Oh
God.

‘Right, everyone, just listen, it’s Amber Dane here. Author of
A Public Convenience
, which, incidentally, is a brilliant novel
– I do recommend it – published by Hedder Hodline at a very reasonable ten pounds.’

‘What’s your
point
, caller?’ I said.

‘Well, Minty, I agree with everything Natalie Moore has been saying.’

‘Oh good!’ said Natalie with a smirk.

‘Men have treated women appallingly for centuries,’ Amber went on. ‘My ex-boyfriend, for example. He dumped me four months ago. Just like that. For no good reason. Just because I don’t want to have children. Outrageous! Obviously I can’t tell you his name …Oh, all right then, it’s Charles Edworthy and he lives in Parson’s Green and he works in the City and he –’

‘Thank you
very
much for joining us today,’ I said brightly as Amber swam into libellous waters and was swiftly faded out. ‘And now, on Line 6 we have, er …Joe Bridges.’ Oh, why couldn’t they put through some people I
didn’t
know? On the other hand, it was lovely to hear Joe’s voice.

‘Hello …?’ I heard him say. He was clearly on a mobile phone.

‘Hello, Joe,’ I said. ‘What’s your view on all this?’

‘Well …I’m in a cab, and the driver has your programme on and we were both very interested in what you’ve all been saying so we decided to call. I mean …I do think it’s a hard time to be a man, because, well, a lot of women don’t seem to like men much any more.’

‘Yeah!’ we heard the cabbie say. “Ere, give us the phone, mate.’ There was a clunk as the mobile phone changed hands. ‘Look, right, I agree with my passenger and I fink the problem
is
, right, that men and women just don’t communicate nicely with each other – know what I mean? OI! GET OUT THE FRIGGIN’ WAY, YER STUPID COW!! Sorry ‘bout that. Bleedin’ women drivers! Where was I? Oh yeah, communication. Respect. I mean, granted, geezers ‘ave given women a hard time, right, but now they ain’t ‘alf gettin’ their own back.’ There was a grinding sound as the phone changed hands.

‘That’s right,’ we heard Joe say. ‘Women seem insensitive
to how hard it is for men these days, when we often don’t know what women really want.’

‘There does seem to be enormous distrust now between the sexes,’ I said, adjusting my headphones.

‘But too many women have, say, one bad experience with a man,’ he went on, ‘then assume that we’re all the same. That’s what women say. That men are “all the same”. But we’re not.’

‘Oh yes you ARE!’ shouted Natalie Moore.

‘No, hear me out,’ said Joe. ‘This is a debate. And my main point is that women should be more generous in their attitudes to men, because they can afford to be, because at last things are going their way …Hang on, Minty.’ There was another awkward clunk.

‘Right, it’s me again,’ said the driver. ‘Now, my wife left me too. Absolutely no good reason. I’m not difficult – OI! WHY DON’T YER INDICATE, YER STUPID WANKER?!! – And I really don’t know what she saw in the other bloke. I mean, she’s a housewife of forty-two, and he’s a twenty-five-year-old construction worker! I ask you. Anyway, even though she left me, right, she got the ‘ouse and the kids. What did
I
get? The bleedin’ record collection …’

There was more hand noise as the phone was passed back again.

‘I’ll tell you what I think would help in this conflict between the sexes,’ said Joe feelingly. ‘What would help is if we told each other the truth. That’s all I want to say, really. Anyway, I’ve got to go now – this is Terminal 3, isn’t it? Anyway, thanks for listening. Bye.’