The Making of Minty Malone (28 page)

‘Charlie didn’t like him,’ said Helen. ‘He told me he didn’t really want to be best man. And look at the mess he was left with! Dominic phoned once or twice, to try and sort of apologise, but Charlie pretended to be out. You’re
well
out of it, Minty,’ she went on vehemently. ‘I mean, why would you want to be with a man who treated you like that
before
you were married?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes, why? I mean, why did you stay with him?’

Why.
Why
? God I
hate
that question. That’s what everyone asks me, and, quite frankly, I wish they
wouldn’t.

‘Well, relationships are …complex, aren’t they?’ I replied, carefully. ‘People are in them for all sorts of things. And nothing’s ever
all
bad. Sometimes Dom was nice to me, and he took a great interest in my career.’

‘He just thought it looked good,’ said Helen, cutting off a length of Cellophane, ‘to have a wife with a glamorous broadcasting career. That’s why he was interested. I bet if you’d been a teacher, or a nurse, or a florist like me, he wouldn’t have looked at you twice.’ This had the ring of truth. ‘And you changed, Minty,’ she went on. ‘You went all quiet, as though you were a dog that’s scared it’s going to be beaten. You became –’ she waved her secateurs at me – ‘not your true self. In fact, Minty, you were a bit of a doormat.’

‘I know. And I think, ironically,
that’s
why he dumped me.’

‘But he
wanted
you to be a doormat! That’s
exactly
what he wanted.’

‘Yes, but then he lost interest. In becoming a doormat I’d lost his respect. You see, I think that, in a way, what happened to me was my fault, for being too nice. For agreeing to all that crap.’

‘But you’re still doing it!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re
still
being too nice to Dominic. I mean, my God, Minty – you’re even taking the
blame
!’

‘Well, a relationship’s about two people,’ I said. ‘I was one of them. And it can’t have been
entirely
his fault.’

‘He’s shallow and inadequate, Minty. He’s ruthlessly selfish and he’s cruel. That’s why he did what he did.’

‘But what I don’t understand is, why would a man plan a wedding to the degree that Dominic did – draw up a prenuptial agreement, and even take out wedding insurance – if he didn’t intend to go ahead with it on the day? It just doesn’t make
sense
, Helen. That’s what gets me down. Not fully knowing why.
That’s
what’s holding me back. And that’s why I messed up with Joe.’

‘Then ring Dominic and demand to know. Demand a satisfactory explanation.’

‘I don’t want to ring him.’

‘Then go round to his house and
make
him explain. You have a right to do that, Minty, because what he did was terrible.’

‘I’m not going to do that,’ I said firmly. ‘My pride won’t let me. Anyway, it’s too late.’

‘Then you may never find out, which means you’ll never move on. It will fester for years,’ she added, as she snipped off a length of yellow ribbon. ‘Joe’s right – you do have too much baggage. Sorry to be so forthright,’ she said. ‘This is the first time I’ve really spoken to you about Dominic since Paris. And I couldn’t say all this then because it was too soon. And because of what’s happened to me, I didn’t have the chance to talk to you before.’ I looked at Helen’s engagement ring. It was a large, dark pink ruby, surrounded by small diamonds.

‘So, when’s the wedding?’

‘February the fourteenth.’

‘Valentine’s Day,’ I said.

‘Charlie’s a stupid bastard,’ said Amber, again. ‘Go on. Say it. Charlie. Is. A. Stupid. Bastard.’ Pedro stared at her blankly, then blinked.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ I said. Amber secured a length of silvery tinsel to Pedro’s cage, which he duly started to shred.

‘Do you want to put the fairy on top of the tree – or shall I?’ she said. She’d spent all morning decorating a small conifer which was now positioned, baubles twinkling, in the window.

‘You can do it,’ I said. I was reading the
Weekly Star.
What did Sheryl von Strumpfhosen’s horrorscope predict for me today? I turned to Libra. The scales. The sign of partnership and balance, I thought with a bitter little smile. ‘Libra, your optimistic outlook is about to be restored,’ wrote Sheryl. ‘You’ll be inundated with opportunities to enjoy yourself. The skies are brightening ahead.’ Hmmm. I allowed myself to feel cautiously optimistic. Then I looked at Cancer to see what lay in store
for Dom. I can’t break the habit. I always read his sign as well. I found myself hoping it was bad. ‘Cancer,’ wrote Sheryl, ‘after a turbulent and difficult time, you are shortly to get everything you deserve.’ My heart leapt. Good. Something bad was going to come his way. And then I found myself wondering what Joe’s star sign is, but I didn’t know. I looked at the Christmas card I’d just written to him. I’d simply signed it, ‘Love, Minty’. Yes, please love Minty, I thought.

‘Isn’t Christmas
fun
?’ I heard Amber say. She genuinely seemed to be enjoying herself. In fact, all things considered, she’d recovered remarkably well from the trauma of the ball.

‘You know, Mint, it’s a relief,’ she said again, as she hung up some paper chains. ‘And the reason it’s a relief is because it just goes to show how shallow Charlie is. Just waltzing off with your friend Helen within
minutes
of dumping me.’

‘Er …yes,’ I said.

‘It proves he has no fine feelings. None. And
what
a cliché!’ she exclaimed, contemptuously. ‘Best man goes off with bridesmaid. I
ask
you!’

And when she said that I realised that something had been salvaged from the ruins of my wedding day. Some human happiness at least, though not my own.

‘In fact, I’m so disappointed in Charlie,’ I heard Amber say, ‘that I’m taking him out of the book.’

‘Oh, good,’ I replied.

‘I mean, I wouldn’t like him to believe I was even
thinking
about him,’ she went on with a tight little laugh, ‘let alone
immortalising
him in a work of art.’.

‘Oh, quite. I don’t think he’ll be too disappointed.’

‘And now that I know what a shallow, spineless drip he is, well – I just think, what a lucky escape. And I’ve had an epiphany, Minty. A revelation. I mean, Charlie was
OK
, but he was a bit boring. What I
really
need is a sparky kind of bloke.’

‘Sparky?’

‘Yes,’ she said, as she flicked on the fairy lights and they
began to wink and flash. ‘A witty bloke. That’s what I need. A bloke with a bit of bottom.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said.

‘Oh, hel-lo,’ squawked Pedro as the phone rang out. ‘Hello!’ he screeched again. Amber picked up the phone. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Who? …Oh Christ – not you again!’ She rolled her eyes theatrically at me. ‘Look,’ I heard her say. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? No …No, I don’t want to go out to dinner with you. I’ve got better things to do with my time …Like what? How dare you!’ She rolled her eyes at me. ‘I’ve got a novel to write here …No, you can’t be in it. There’s a waiting list, you know …Well, it’s two years if you want to be portrayed sympathetically; if you want to be portrayed
un
sympathetically, I’m afraid it’s three …Yes, I’m
quite
sure I don’t want the pleasure of your company …No, I’m not tempted in the slightest. In fact, I think you’ve got a bit of a nerve after your performance at the Savoy …Yes, yes, I do understand that you wouldn’t charge me on this occasion …Yes …Yes, I agree that two hundred pounds down to nothing represents an excellent discount. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to offer this unrepeatable bargain to someone else, because I’m just not interested. Got that? Thank you
so
much for calling. And a very Happy Christmas to you too.’

‘Some people!’ she giggled as she came back into the sitting room. She heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘What on earth makes Laurie think I’d have anything to do with a man who hires himself out to strange women?’

‘Hello?’ I called as I turned the lock in the door on New Year’s Day. ‘Anybody home?’ That was funny, Amber said she was going to be here over Christmas, working on the book. Where on earth was she? ‘Hello! Amber?’ I called again. No reply. How odd. There was Pedro, in his cage, asleep, his head tucked into the nook between his wings. But there was silence elsewhere. Perhaps she was working upstairs and hadn’t heard me come in. Maybe she’d gone out. But I could see her coat, on its peg. I opened the sitting-room door. The television was on. And there was Amber, sitting in front of it, with tears streaming down her face. On the screen was a brown, floppyeared rabbit, lying on a table at the vet’s. The camera closed in on its back leg, which looked damaged. Then the shot widened to reveal Rolf Harris.

‘Well, poor little Fluffy’s in a right old state here,’ said Rolf cheerfully to camera. ‘That encounter with the neighbour’s lawn mower has left him rather the worse for wear.’

‘Uh – uh …’ Amber sobbed quietly.

‘His left hind leg’s broken in two places and I’m afraid it looks like bad news. We could even be talking amputation.’

‘Oh
no
!’ moaned Amber. Her cheeks were stained with dark rivulets of mascara, her chin was dimpled with distress. The rabbit stiffened as the vet injected it. I sat down quietly on a chair.

‘Now, will Fluffy make it – or won’t he?’ said Rolf, pushing his glasses a bit further up his nose. ‘Well, personally I’m not putting any money on it. Sometimes small animals don’t come
out of the anaesthetic,’ he went on in a confidential whisper. ‘Their little systems just won’t take it. So we’ve got a very tense wait ahead of us, folks …’

‘I can’t watch,’ said Amber, standing up. ‘Just …tell me what happens, will you, Minty?’ I heard her footsteps creaking up the stairs.

‘In the meantime,’ said Rolf, ‘let’s see how Willy the Wallaby is doing down at the animal sanctuary after that fight he got into with Pat the pot-bellied pig …’

‘It’s OK, Amber,’ I called up the stairs, five minutes later. ‘The rabbit’s better now.’ I heard her door creak open.

‘It’s better,’ I repeated.

‘The bunny?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did they …?’ she asked tremulously.

‘No,’ I said. ‘They didn’t. They put two steel pins in, and he’s hopping about again now, good as new. Come and look.’ She flew downstairs, and stared at the screen, a damp Kleenex clasped in one hand. And there was Fluffy, limping slightly as he moved gingerly around his pen.

‘Thank God,’ she breathed. ‘Thank
God.
’ She smiled, and wiped her eyes. She’s just like Pedro, I thought, again, as the credits rolled. She’s a sentimental old bird too.

‘Anyway, Happy New Year,’ I said.

‘Oh, Happy New Year!’ beamed Amber, now fully recovered. ‘How was Christmas?’ she enquired, as she turned off the TV and took my coat.

‘It was fine,’ I replied, as we went into the kitchen. ‘A bit quiet, though. Mum spent the whole time down at Crisis, dishing out turkey to the homeless. So it was just Dad and me.’

‘Oh,’ said Amber.

‘There was a bit of a row, actually,’ I confided, as she put on the kettle. ‘Dad told Mum that
he
was having a Crisis at Christmas, but it made no difference. She refused point-blank to come home.’

‘Minty,’ said Amber, ‘why has Auntie Dympna got this, you know, obsession about good works?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Maybe it was discovering that Saint Dympna was the patron saint of lunatics. That might be the answer. Or it could be something to do with her frontal lobes. All I know is, Dad’s at the end of his tether. He threatened her with divorce.’

‘My God!’

‘Mind you, he’s always doing that. And usually it’s a joke. But now that he’s retired, I’m not quite sure that it is a joke any more.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘He’s very unhappy. He never sees her.’

‘What does he do with himself?’

‘He goes to the golf club. He reads. He listens to the radio. But he’s really fed up. He says he doesn’t want to go into his dotage alone.’

‘Don’t blame him.’

‘He’s all for giving to charity,’ I added. ‘But he told Mum, yet again, that she should leave some room for us.’

‘Poor Uncle David,’ Amber murmured as she made me a cup of coffee. ‘You know, Auntie Dympna’s just like Mrs Jellyby in
Bleak House
,’ she went on authoritatively. ‘Madly raising money for the poor of West Africa while her own children run around half-starving and in rags.
Bleak House
is such a wonderful novel,’ she went on expansively, as she passed me a biscuit. ‘A scathing portrayal of a society permeated with greed, hypocrisy and guilt. A masterpiece of narrative art.’ And when she said that, I thought, yet again, how interesting Amber is when she’s talking about classic books, and how I could listen to her all day. And I thought, too, how strange it is that such a clever and perceptive critic should write such tosh herself.

‘Anyway – here it is!’ she said. ‘Ta-dah!’ She plopped her latest manuscript down on the kitchen table with a theatrical flourish. ‘I proudly present
Animal Passion
!’

‘Gosh, you’ve finished it – congratulations!’

‘No!
Really
?’ squawked Pedro, waking up. He blinked, then shook himself, and began to preen his wings.

‘I worked on it all over Christmas,’ said Amber excitedly. ‘Twelve hours a day. I felt driven, uplifted and inspired. And I really think that, with this one, I’m finally going to break through.’

And so we cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate the completion of her ninth book and the start of a New Year which would bring – we knew not what. For some people, of course, it would bring weddings, and babies. Helen, for example. And hundreds and thousands of others, I thought, as I surveyed the ‘Forthcoming Marriages’ column in
The Times.
There are always so many engagements at this time of year – just as there are always so many divorce petitions too. Christmas seems to be a fault line, causing domestic upheavals, either for better or for worse. And I was just idly going through the announcements – Mr R. McDonald to Miss B. King, Mr S. Bingley to Miss A. Bradford, Mr J. Collins to Miss L. Harper, Mr T. Firkin to Miss K. Frog – my eyes lazily scanning downwards – Parker to Knoll, Marks to Spencer, Harvey to Nicholls, Fortnum to Mason – blah, blah, blah, Oh,
so
many – Whites to Lilly, Ede to Ravenscroft, Laurent to Perrier, Lane to Park …

Lane
? My heart began to beat wildly, and I felt blood suffuse my face. ‘
The engagement is announced
,’ I read, ‘
between Dominic, only son of Mr N. Lane of Birmingham South, and Mrs M. Lane of Sutton Coldfield, and Virginia, elder daughter of Mr and Mrs C. Park of Highview House, Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire.
’ Dominic? Dominic?
Engaged
? And then it was my turn to burst into tears.

‘How
could
he?’ I sobbed. ‘How
could
he, so soon?’

‘It’s fucking outrageous,’ said Amber. ‘Bastard,’ she added for good measure. ‘Mind you,’ she went on bitterly, ‘that’s what Charlie did.’

‘Yes, but Charlie had a good reason, Amber. Let’s face it, he wanted children, and you didn’t.’

‘Too bloody right. They ruin your figure, and you can’t go out for eighteen years. And by the time you can, none of your friends want to see you because you’re both incontinent
and
moronic.’

‘OK, that’s how
you
feel,’ I said, rolling my tear-filled eyes. ‘But Charlie didn’t agree. So you had to part. That’s quite understandable. But I don’t understand how Dominic could find someone else so quickly, let alone know them well enough to propose.’ I wept. ‘
Unless
 …?’ A cold hand clutched at my heart.

‘You don’t think that he …and she …?’ Amber said. Her eyes had narrowed to slits. I could see the mental wheels grind and turn.

‘I don’t know,’ I murmured hoarsely. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Well, maybe
that’s
the reason,’ she said, quietly. ‘Maybe
that’s
your answer, Minty.’

‘Maybe it is,’ I croaked. I felt sick. How naive of me, how very naive, to think he hadn’t been unfaithful.

‘
Or
, she’s up the duff, like Helen,’ Amber suggested. ‘On the other hand,’ she added judiciously, ‘I can’t quite imagine him doing the decent thing if she were.’

And the awful fact is, Amber was right.

‘No,
that
wouldn’t be it,’ I wept. ‘He probably – uh – uh –
loves
her. He was probably – uh – having an affair. But then, why didn’t he break it off with me
before
?’

‘Minty …’ said Amber, quietly. She was peeling an apple for Pedro.

‘What?’

‘Well, I don’t know whether this is the right time to tell you this, but I know Virginia Park.’

‘Oh,’ I whispered. I was shocked.

‘Do you want to know?’ she asked. ‘Shall I tell you?’ I looked at her. I wasn’t sure.

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘Tell me.’

‘Well, she’s from quite a rich family,’ Amber began.

‘You can tell that from the address,’ I said miserably. I looked at the announcement again. ‘Highview House, Melton Mowbray.’

‘She’s a pork-pie heiress.’

‘Oh. Well. Good for her. But how do you know?’

‘Because she was at school with me.’

‘Ah.’ Fear gripped my heart. I thought I was going to vomit. ‘Is she pretty?’ I asked.

‘Well, pretty ordinary,’ said Amber, expansively. ‘She’s got a horsey-looking face, ankles thicker than Hillary Clinton’s and no perceptible upper lip. And she must be thirty-eight if she’s a day, because she was four years above me.’ This cheered me up, a bit. Though it also surprised me greatly.

‘It’s not like Dominic to go for an older woman,’ I pointed out. ‘He said he could never understand why some men married women a few years older than themselves. He said he thought it was wrong and that he’d never do it.’

‘Ah, but Virginia’s loaded. So maybe he’s been generous enough to make an exception in her case.’

‘But he’s got money of his
own
,’ I said. ‘I just can’t quite see that swaying him. Of course they’re smart,’ I added bitterly, ‘he’d love that. A bit of background. Mixing with the county set.’

‘Oh, they’re not really smart,’ said Amber dismissively. ‘At school we used to tease her for being such a
nouve.
’

‘Oh.’

‘We called her Porky Parky. And Miss Piggy. Her family were very …aspiring.’

‘Just like Dominic, then.’

‘She had this really over-elocuted voice,’ Amber went on. ‘It was bizarre. And the family had no taste. We used to scream with laughter when the gold Porsche turned up on Speech Day.’

‘Really?’

‘And she was a real bossy boots. She was a prefect – just loved ticking me off. How extraordinary to think that he’s marrying
her
,’ said Amber with an uncomprehending shrug.

Marrying her. My God. This was all too much. I buried my head in my arms.

‘Happy New Year,’ said the postman as I left the house for work. I just gave him a grim little smile. Because it wasn’t a
Happy New Year. It was a miserable one. In fact it was the worst one I’d ever had. Yet again, Sheryl von Strumpfhosen had got it completely and utterly wrong. ‘The skies are brightening ahead,’ she’d predicted. Bullseye, Sheryl! Oh yes, things are
really
looking up. And as for Dominic’s – he was getting ‘everything he deserved’, was he? Did he really deserve to be happy with someone else, I thought bitterly, let alone so soon? I mean, it was one thing to have been abandoned by him on my wedding day. It was quite another that he’d gaily gone on to someone else –
and
made a commitment – within a mere five months! The pain, which had begun to ebb away slightly, now flooded back, redoubled. My wound stung anew, as though it had been sprinkled with sulphuric acid.

Going into work the next day was agonising. I felt intolerant and sharp. And my disappointment at losing out to Melinda grated on me even more.

‘Minteeeee,’ she said, in her wheedling, ‘help me’ tone.

‘Yes?’ I said, trying not to breathe in through my nose. She was changing the baby on her desk.

‘Chwist!’ she said. ‘It’s the nappy fwom hell!’

‘Why don’t you get your nanny to do it?’ I snapped. ‘Preferably in the car park!’

‘Because I sacked her. She was useless. And I haven’t got another one yet. Do you know, Minty, I’ve alweady been thwough
thwee
nannies. Can you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘I can.’

‘Anyway, Minty,’ Melinda went on, blissfully oblivious to my Arctic
froideur
, ‘I just wondered whether you could tell me about the Euwo again. I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.’

‘I’m awfully sorry, Melinda,’ I said with formal pleasantness, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand it myself.’

‘Minty,’ said Wesley. He looked excited as he came into the office with a pile of tapes.

‘I’m sorry, Wesley,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time to help you edit your tapes, so you’ll just have to do it yourself.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask you to help me,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to tell you something. I wanted to tell you something about –’

‘I’m sorry, Wesley,’ I said, putting on my headphones. ‘I’m really busy and I don’t have the time.’ Zero Tolerance. That’s what I had. And Maximum Misanthropy. I didn’t want to know about anyone else’s problems. My heart had calcified. And round it I’d installed a drawbridge, a moat and six Rottweilers. The Nice Factor would be proud of me.

Jack looked dismal too, but I didn’t try to find out why. I was determined simply to keep my head down and quietly slog away; to bury my memories of Dominic and this latest development under fathomless layers of work.

Over the next few days I churned out features on – Oh God – civil weddings, and teenage mums, and fifty-five-year-old women expecting Petri-dished-up twins. I’d rather do boring financial stories, I thought crossly, or sport, or fashion or hedgehog racing in Milton Keynes –
anything
rather than all this marriage and maternity stuff which only exacerbated my pain. And having to trek off to see Citronella Pratt was an added sore.