The Making of Minty Malone (3 page)

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.