The Making of Minty Malone (24 page)

Oh. Damn. He’d gone. Pity. It was just getting interesting. And it was so nice to hear his voice. And I thought how much I liked his voice. Then I thought how much I’d like to hear his voice again. After the programme I found myself wishing that Joe would ring me back, but he didn’t and I didn’t have his number, and I’d lost my contact address sheet from the course and I wondered about phoning the Nice Factor to get it, but decided not to. And then I remembered what he’d said:
‘This is Terminal 3, isn’t it?’ Ah. Oh. I wondered where he was going. And why. And who he might be with. And how much he liked them. Then I resolved to put Joe to the back of my mind, because he’s obviously very busy, and so am I.

You see, after I’d saved the day when Melinda’s waters broke, a colleague of Natalie Moore’s phoned me from the
Guardian
and said she was writing a feature on new voices in radio, and she included a bit about me. And then
that
got picked up by the media editor of
The Times
, Rosie Brown. And she rang and said she’d like to do a short interview with me, which she did, and it appeared, complete with a rather nice photo of me sitting at the microphone. And Jack put it up on the noticeboard, and I must say every time I walk past it my heart does swell a bit. It was headlined ‘Fresh Mint’, which made me laugh. And Rosie Brown had described me as one of a new breed of independent young women working in independent radio. ‘Minty Malone is single, successful, and utterly dedicated to the job,’ the article read. ‘Her relaxed style on air, and user-friendly demeanour masks a steely determination to succeed.’ And I felt hugely flattered, though I’d never have described myself as ‘steely’ in a million years. Strong, perhaps – yes, I think that’s what I’d have said: ‘Strong Mint.’ Definitely. ‘Extra-Strong’, in fact. And it was strange to see my face looming out of the pages of a newspaper, and to know that hundreds and thousands of people had read it including, perhaps, people I knew.

Of course, I wondered whether Dominic had seen it, and what on earth he’d thought. It would have been a bit of a shock. One or two friends did phone to say they’d spotted it, but Helen didn’t contact me, though I know she reads
The Times.
And I just don’t know
what’
s going on there. Or why she’s being so remote. It’s all a bit of a mystery, to be frank. But I couldn’t beat myself up about it. Things were going so well for me now. I wallowed in the knowledge that I’d be presenting the programme for the next six months. And of course, Jack was paying me more. Not as much as Melinda – she got £500 a show – but a lot more than what I’d been
getting as a reporter. And the word from Sir Percy was that he was happy for me to present
Capitalise
in Melinda’s absence. In any case, with all his business interests he hardly ever has time to listen. So I was on a kind of high. I felt that I was living in a fairy tale as for three weeks I presented the programme and felt my horizons spread and expand.

‘Thank you very much for joining us today,’ I said, as I watched the second hand judder towards the figure ‘12’ on the studio clock. ‘Don’t forget to make a date with us tomorrow at the same time, on 82.3 FM. So until then, from me, Minty Malone, and from all of us on
Capitalise
, goodbye.’ I removed my cans and pushed through the sound-proofed double doors.

‘Well done, Minty!’ said Jack. ‘The duty desk have just rung to say they’ve had some more nice calls about you from listeners.’

‘Ooh, good.’

‘You’re really getting into your stride with it now. I’m very impressed.’

‘Thanks. I feel quite at home with it all, really. It doesn’t take long.’

‘I knew you could do it,’ said Jack.

‘Oh yes, Minty, you’re brilliant at it,’ said Wesley. ‘You’re a natural. And it’s really
great
that you don’t have a speech impediment.’

‘I must say, it does help,’ I said with a grin. And we collected up the scripts and tapes and took them back to the office, and sat down to have the usual post-mortem meeting on the programme. And we were all laughing and joking and congratulating ourselves on how well everything seemed to be going and how the ratings were beginning to lift, when we heard rapid footsteps in the corridor and a strangulated cry. Suddenly the door burst open, and there was Melinda, red in the face, and clutching her three-week-old baby.

‘Melinda!’ said Jack.

‘Melinda?’ said Sophie.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ Wesley asked.

‘Well …’ she was out of breath. She’d obviously been running. ‘I’ve been listening to the pwogwamme wecently, and I thought I’d better come back. So I’ve decided not to take my maternity leave after all – I’ve swapped it for a parking space!!’

Jack did what he could. He politely told Sir Percy that it was in Melinda’s interest to take time off and that, whereas he valued her highly as a presenter, he felt that her return to work was too soon. He also pointed out that, although I had been doing an excellent stand-in job, Melinda’s position was secure. But Sir Percy said it was up to Melinda what she did, and he didn’t have the time or inclination to get involved. So she did come back. And there was nothing anyone could do. And she brought her baby, Pocahontas, with her. And her nanny.

‘Successful working mums like me can’t afford to take time off,’ Melinda announced at the Monday meeting. ‘And I’m afwaid to say that I thought the pwogwamme was suffewing duwing my absence.’

‘Thank you, Melinda,’ I said. My face prickled with suppressed rage. I wanted to weep and wail.

‘Oh, no offence to you, Minty,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault. But of course you don’t have my long expewience of pwesenting.’

‘Minty’s been doing a brilliant job,’ said Jack, reddening with indignation. ‘No one could have done it better.’

At that, Melinda looked annoyed. And everyone knew the real reason why she’d come flying back – she was worried because she knew I was doing it well.

‘Please don’t feel you’ve failed,’ she said, looking at me.

‘I don’t feel that at all,’ I replied.

‘Anyway, Minty, there’s nothing
wong
with being just a weporter,’ she went on with sledgehammer tact. ‘And I don’t want you to be jealous of me just because you’re not going to be pwesenting the pwogwamme
any
more. And I am.’

I looked at her and felt my tears subside.
Right.

‘Oh, I’m not jealous, Melinda,’ I corrected her calmly. ‘What an absurd suggestion. I’m
furious
!’ I said. ‘I’m furious that a
fifth-rate fatso like you should get the plum presenting job purely because of her connections!’

There was a collective gasp. Everyone was staring at me, slack-mouthed. Did Minty say that? I could almost hear them thinking. Did Minty
really
say that? Jack’s eyes were on stalks. So were Wesley’s. So were my own. I did say it. I actually said it! I said something completely and utterly not nice. I stared at Melinda. The colour had drained from her face. But instead of erupting, as I thought she would, she seemed determined to remain composed.

‘I’m pwepared to overlook that nasty wemark,’ she said carefully, ‘because I know you must be vewy disappointed that things haven’t worked out. You were getting cawwied away, Minty. You were getting big ideas. It’s all vewy well being in
The Times
and all that, but, quite fwankly, that was just a flash in the pan.’

‘Waaaaaah! Waaaaah!’ The nanny passed the bawling baby to Melinda, who opened her shirt, flipped out a breast the size of a football and marbled like Stilton, then carried on talking.

‘I think I’m a sort of wole model weally,’ she went on happily. ‘Citwonella Pwatt’s wong. Modern working women
can
have it all – and I’m living pwoof!’

And so I was demoted. The Harpies had swooped down and scooped up my feast. I had managed to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory. On the game board of life I had not passed ‘Go’. In fact, I had shot up the longest ladder, only to hit a huge python with my very next throw. I thought my heart would break as I went back to being a reporter. Or rather, to being the marriage and maternity correspondent of London FM. I seemed to get nothing but features on nursery provision and civil Christenings, and fostering and dropping sperm counts …

‘Child benefit,’ I heard Jack say the following Monday.

‘What?’ I said. He’d caught me by surprise. I was reading the job ads in the
Guardian
media pages.

‘Child benefit,’ he repeated as he came and stood by my
desk. ‘I think we ought to do something on it and-’ he stopped, and peered at the paper, where I had ringed three adverts in red. I felt my face flush as I folded the
Guardian
away.

‘Minty …’ said Jack quietly. He looked rather depressed. ‘I hope you’re not going to leave.’

‘Well …’ I began awkwardly. I didn’t want Jack to know I was looking around, but I had to move on, and my recent presenting experience, although abbreviated, would stand me in good stead.

‘Please don’t go,’ said Jack, twisting a piece of tape.

‘I might have to,’ I replied. ‘I’m not getting very far here.’

Jack sighed, then pulled up a chair.

‘Look, I know it’s hard for you now,’ he whispered, with a subtle glance at Melinda. ‘My hands are tied, as you know. But the situation could change.’

‘How?’ I whispered back. ‘Melinda’s never going to leave. And there’s nothing else here I can present.
Capitalise
is the only feature programme we do.’

‘Well, I intend to bring in some new shows,’ Jack explained. ‘Just as soon as our ratings pick up. And when that happens you’ll be my first choice to front one of those.’

‘But how likely
is
that?’ I asked. ‘Our ratings are terrible. I love it here,’ I went on, ‘but I can’t hang around for some golden opportunity that may never arise.’

‘Well,’ he said with a sigh as he stood up, ‘you must do whatever you feel right.’

Though it didn’t feel right to be looking for other jobs. In fact, it felt utterly wrong. It felt like a betrayal. And the thought of actually leaving London FM filled me with dismay. But I didn’t know how else to cope with the sharp disappointment of what had happened. The jagged graph line of my life had taken another downwards dive. I felt like Sisyphus, pushing a huge boulder up the steep mountainside. And every time I’d almost reached the peak, the rock would roll back down. ‘
Dum spiro, spero
,’ I said to myself vainly. And sometimes, ‘
Dum spero, spiro.
’ But the fact was that I was
dis
pirited. Dismayed.
Which is why I was very glad, a few days later, when Joe called me again.

‘Sorry I didn’t ring you after that phone-in,’ he said, ‘but I was on my way to New York. I thought you were very good, by the way – you’re a brilliant presenter.’

‘No I’m not,’ I said flatly.

‘Oh yes you are!’ he said confidently.

‘Oh no I’m
not
!’

‘Oh …I see, you want me to insult you. OK, you’re a crap presenter.’

‘I’m not a crap presenter.’

‘God, there’s no pleasing you, is there?’

‘I’m not a crap presenter,’ I reiterated crisply. ‘I’m a crap
reporter.
’

‘What?’

‘I’m just a reporter again. Melinda came back early.’

‘Oh. Bad luck.’

‘Quite.’

‘So you must be feeling a bit low.’

‘Yes,’ I said wearily. ‘I
am.
’

‘Then let me take you out to dinner, to cheer you up.’

‘You’ll take me out to dinner?’ I said, brightening. ‘Where?’ And I hoped he’d suggest Odette’s, in Regent’s Park Road, because Odette’s is expensive and chic. But instead he said, ‘Would Pizza Express be OK?’

So on Saturday evening I set off for Camden to meet him. I could have got the Tube or a bus, but I preferred to walk. The dismal weather matched my mood. A dense fog filled the streets. A clammy rain was starting to fall. The broad brown plane leaves lay like severed hands, and the air smelled of mould and decay. I turned my collar up as I crossed over Regent’s Canal, where a solitary barge, lamps aglow, belched woodsmoke into the night. As I entered Parkway the blue neon lettering on the restaurant cut through the mist like a knife. I pushed on the glass doors and there was Joe, reading, beneath an enormous mirror. Suddenly he looked up and smiled.

‘Nasty to see you again,’ he said delightedly, giving me a friendly hug.

‘Ditto with bells on!’

‘Drink?’

‘Yes. Drink,’ I replied, with a meaningful air. ‘I’ve got a whole lot of sorrows to drown.’ I glanced around as Joe ordered a bottle of wine. There were small, marble-topped tables and simple wooden chairs and, nearby, some tall, potted palms. Their curving fronds fanned out over our heads, framing Joe and me in the glass. He poured the Chardonnay as we studied the menu.

‘I’m going to have either the Veneziana, or the American,’ he said judiciously.

‘It’ll be the Four Seasons for me,’ I said. And with each successive sip of wine I felt my cares drift away, like clouds. Joe was looking so attractive, I thought, as he told me about his trip to New York.

‘I met Julian Jones. He scouts for Paramount.’

‘That sounds promising,’ I said.

‘He likes my book,’ Joe explained. ‘But he says the script needs some more rewrites before he’s prepared to pitch it to Hollywood.’

‘And will you do that?’

‘Yes. Because he’s right. He gave me some other advice too. He said I should move to LA.’

‘Oh.’
Oh.
‘Why?’ I asked, aware of a sudden sinking of my heart.

‘Because if I go there, and hassle people, I stand a much better chance of success.’

‘So, will you go?’ I asked, apprehensively.

‘I might,’ he replied. ‘But not yet.’ And the surge of relief I felt when he said that took me by surprise. ‘Now, what about you, Minty?’ he went on. ‘What are
your
plans?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said with a shrug. I had another large sip of wine. I knew I shouldn’t drink too much – it always goes right to my head – but today I felt like it. ‘My boss wants me to stay,’ I explained. ‘But I feel I’ve got to move on.’

‘Yes,’ said Joe with a funny little smile. ‘I think you have.’ And at that, we looked at each other and, emboldened by the booze, I held his gaze for a moment.