The Making of Minty Malone (32 page)

‘I loved her,’ he told the police. ‘I loved her despite her screechy voice and her speech impediment, and her glaring factual errors. But she didn’t appreciate my devotion. She took it for granted, failing to reply to a single one of my ninety-four letters. Yet despite her callous rejection, I continued to love her. But I could only take so much. It was a
crime passionel
,’ he added, knowledgeably, ‘so with a bit of luck, I’ll get away with a couple of years.’

Poor Sir Percy. Robert had injected the maraschino cherries with cyanide. It’s very quick. But what an awful way to go. We felt terrible for him. He seemed so amiable. And of course Melinda was distraught.
Distraught.
She was very fond of him. He was her uncle. Her favourite uncle. More importantly, he was her patron. And I fancied that the tears she shed at Putney Crematorium were for herself, as much as for him.

What would happen now, we all wondered, as the shock quickly gave way to consternation about the future of London FM. Jack attended an emergency board meeting with Sir Percy’s MG consortium, and was told that it would be business as usual for the time being.

‘Thank God,’ we heard Melinda murmur, when Jack answered our fearful questions in the boardroom later that day. ‘I think we should keep things
just
as they are,’ she announced. ‘As a twibute to Sir Percy. It’s what he would have wanted,’ she went on confidently. At that Jack maintained a significant silence. None of us were prepared to lay bets on anything. Our future seemed as fragile and complex as a cobweb. London FM might be sold. We could all lose our jobs. The number-crunchers might close it down, or turn it into a music-only station. Anything could happen. Anything at all.

The story was in the papers, of course. In fact, it made quite a splash. ‘PRETTY PENNY BARON POISONED!’ screamed the
Sun.
‘TIGHTS KNIGHT MURDERED!’ said the
Mail.
Sir Percy was obituarised in the
Telegraph
and
The Times
as a ‘man of vision’ whose contribution to the hosiery industry could not be underestimated. ‘He swiftly climbed the ladder in ladies’ tights,’ declared one commentator. ‘He was always on the run,’
claimed another. ‘He filled more stockings than Santa,’ announced a third. Poor, poor Sir Percy. He was only sixty-four. How sad. And it could so easily have been Melinda, I thought with, yes, I admit it, just a soupçon of regret.

I adjusted my fur hat and glanced discreetly around. I’d never been to a wedding here. The church was early English Gothic, the brown brickwork exterior stained black by exhaust fumes and acid rain. But inside it was light and bright, painted a creamy white, with two rows of battered mahogany pews. This was the first wedding I’d been to since my own. Helen said she would quite understand if I didn’t feel like coming to the service, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. After all, I had started the chain of events which had led to it. Or rather, Dominic had. It was the Dominic effect, again, I thought ruefully. Not that he was invited, of course. And I found myself wondering whether he’d have the nerve to marry Virginia Park in church, and whether she’d have to wear a Neil Cunningham dress too. How much would
their
reception cost? As much as twenty-eight grand? She was loaded, so perhaps it would cost even more. And would Dominic offer her father a comprehensive insurance policy to cover them in case of disaster? And would he have the gall to make a speech? And if he did, what on
earth
would he say?

Behind us, from the gallery, the choir sang ‘God Be In My Head’. And I found myself wondering how long it would take me to get Dominic
out
of my head. And I found myself wishing that I could press a ‘Fast Forward’ button like I do when I’m editing tape, and spin right through all the pain and the crap. But I couldn’t. I knew I’d have to endure it, in real time, minute by minute, day by day, until at last it began to recede. I looked at the flowers. Helen had done them herself, of course. They were red for Valentine’s Day. On either side of the steps leading up to the altar were two spectacular displays of scarlet amaryllis, relieved by sprays of large white orchids. And she’d attached a hand-tied bunch of red ranunculus to the end of every pew. In front of her, she had carried a huge bouquet of crimson roses, designed to cover, as far as possible, the swelling
curve of her bump. Helen has Great Expectations, I thought with a bittersweet smile.

Amber had been a bit down this morning, not surprisingly, when she saw me getting ready. But her mood lifted when she opened her mail. She had a card. A Valentine’s card. It had a little black cat on the front. She read the inscription, and snorted.

‘That’s very sweet of you, Minty,’ she said. I looked up, surprised, from my toast.

‘Very thoughtful of you,’ she said, laughing gently, and shaking her head. She handed it to me.

‘To Amber, with lots of love and kisses from your little pet,’ it was signed. And there were several crosses and four tiny paw prints.

‘I expect Perdita asked you to buy it for her, didn’t she?’ She planted a kiss on the cat’s nose.

‘What?’

‘It was a little conspiracy between you and Perdita, wasn’t it?’ she said with a knowing grin.

‘No,’ I said truthfully, ‘it wasn’t. Amber, I really can’t guess who it’s from …’ I lied. ‘Can you?’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh yes.’ And the penny crashed to the floor. And she suddenly looked disconcerted.

I don’t say anything to her about Laurie and how suitable he is, and how witty and amusing and nice. If I did, she’d run a mile, because she’s perverse like that. I mean, Laurie’s ideal. But she just can’t see it. I don’t know how anyone can be so blind.

‘Marriage was ordained for the mutual society of man and wife,’ I heard the vicar say, ‘and for the procreation of children.’ I braced myself. And then it came – the awful moment when Charlie was asked to make his vows. And the memory of Dominic’s reply to the very same question made me feel physically sick.

‘I will!’ Charlie said it so loudly that there was a slight echo. ‘I
will
,’ he said again. He was smiling. And so was Helen. Despite my current problems at work, and my bitter marital
memories, I couldn’t help smiling too. And it’s true that the more you smile, the more you feel like smiling, so by the time Helen and Charlie were walking down the aisle together, my mood had lifted once more.

As we shuffled out of our pews to the strains of the Widor Toccata, I turned and glimpsed a familiar figure. It was Joe. He was looking at me, warily. I anticipated that he’d be as cold towards me as the February day – after all, we hadn’t spoken for over two months. I didn’t know what to do, so I gave him a tight little smile. The kind of smile that indicates neither hostility nor overt affection. The kind of smile that, in the right circumstances, can simply open the door. And now he was coming towards me. But then we could hardly avoid each other, and so it was inevitable that we’d have to speak.

‘Hello,’ we said, in unison.

‘How are –?‘ we both tried again.

‘I –’ we said, simultaneously. And then, all of a sudden, we laughed. That’s all it took. From a distance the ice had looked thick enough to stand on, but we’d decided to skate on it instead.

‘What a hideous hat,’ said Joe. My heart leapt.

‘Thanks,’ I replied happily. ‘I hate your coat.’

‘Do you really mean that?’

‘You know I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.’

‘Your singing voice is awful,’ he added, as we walked out of the church, getting, here and there, I have to admit, some rather odd looks from other guests.

‘Is my voice really that bad?’ I enquired.

‘Like a bagful of cats,’ he said. ‘No, let me re-phrase that: like a bagful of cats on their way to the gravel pit to be drowned.’

‘That’s awfully nice of you,’ I said warmly. ‘I’ve been having lessons, actually.’

Joe and I stood side by side in the churchyard while Helen and Charlie posed for photographs, happily thinking up sweet-and-sour nothings to say to one another. Beneath our offensive badinage, I was thrilled that our rapport had been restored.

‘Your hair looks like a bog brush,’ I pointed out, as we walked down the path in the sunshine.

‘Thanks. Your lipstick’s vile.’

‘I’m afraid your socks do not harmonise with that suit.’

‘And your telephone manner is dire. That is,’ he went on pointedly, ‘if you deign to come to the phone at all.’ Ah. Game over.

‘I didn’t feel like it,’ I said as we turned left into St John’s Gardens.

‘Do you two want a lift to the Belvedere?’ Helen’s sister Kate called out as she unlocked the door of her car.

‘Oh, no thanks,’ we both said simultaneously, ‘we’d like to walk.’ And then we looked at each other and smiled. It wasn’t far to Holland Park. And in any case it was a fine morning. The birds were singing and the crocuses had begun to pierce the frozen earth like tiny spears. Though it was bitingly cold, there was the hint of a thaw. And on the overhanging branches we could glimpse slivers of green as the tight brown buds began to unfurl.

‘Why wouldn’t you speak to me?’ asked Joe, serious now, as we turned into Lansdowne Road. ‘Was it because I was so unfriendly to you after …’ He sighed. ‘You know?’

‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘that wasn’t the reason. Though at least we’re quits now, I suppose. The fact is that when you phoned, I wasn’t talking to anyone at all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I was just so …miserable.’

‘Why? No, let me guess: it’s Dominic, I suppose?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said wearily. ‘He’s getting married. He’s otherwise engaged.’

‘That’s quick work,’ said Joe.

‘It certainly is,’ I replied.

‘Are you all right now?’

‘I suppose so. Whatever “all right” means.’

We walked on in silence now, past huge white stuccoed houses, our feet crunching into the thin layer of sugary snow.

‘I know we’ve fallen out a bit, Minty,’ said Joe after a minute or two, ‘and I’m sorry about it, but I hope you understand.’

‘Of course I do,’ I said.

‘I just can’t afford to get myself in a mess again,’ he explained. ‘I was protecting myself, that’s all.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ I said. ‘In any case, you’re right. I did have too much baggage. I still do.’

‘Well, it’ll get lighter,’ he said, as we crossed the road. ‘Timing,’ Joe added.

‘What?’ I said.

‘It’s all a matter of timing,’ he explained. ‘The fact is, we met at the wrong time to be anything other than friends.’

I nodded my agreement, but the word ‘friends’ made me feel very depressed.

‘Any job prospects?’ he enquired.

‘Not yet. London FM’s been in turmoil.’

‘I read about it,’ he said. ‘Death by fairy cake. Awful.’

‘I know. No one knows what’s going to happen. How are your re-writes?’ I enquired.

‘Coming along,’ he said. ‘But the bad news is …’

‘Yes? We turn left here.’

‘That 90 per cent of film scripts never get made.’

‘Well, I’m sure yours will. I bet it’s brilliant.’ He gave my arm a grateful squeeze. ‘Where did you get the idea for your novel?’ I asked him as we entered Holland Park.

‘My mother’s Polish,’ he explained, as we walked through a dense copse of silver birches. ‘The story’s a true one, based on what happened to her elder brother. He was autistic. He was very disturbed and destructive. And no one knew anything about autism then, so they just wrote him off. He couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, even talk. Anyway, when he was nine he befriended this stray dog and it changed him. It seemed to unblock a part of his mind. And within a few months he began to speak, and
“Pios”
was the first thing he said.’

‘I loved the book,’ I said truthfully, as two squirrels bounced across our path. ‘In fact, it made me cry. It’s easy to imagine it on the screen.’

‘But it’s going to be very hard getting it there,’ he said. ‘Which is why I’ve decided to go to LA.’

‘Good idea,’ I replied, with a thin smile. ‘When are you off?’

‘In a few weeks. But we could insult each other longdistance.’

‘Fine,’ I said, with a stab of regret.

‘I’m sure you could write me some offensive E-Mail, Minty.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I could.’

‘We could continue to exchange gratuitous abuse.’

‘That would be nice. I could do it from the computer at work.’

‘But I hope I’ll see you again before I go,’ he said as we walked up the gentle slope into the Belvedere. He went ahead to the door, and held it open for me.

‘I know we’ve had our ups and down, Minty,’ he added as I walked through. ‘But I’d just like you to know that I still think you’re appalling.’

She really is
appalling
, I thought, as Melinda staggered into the office with a tray the following Monday morning. She’d been to get us all coffee. This was such a rare occurrence that I had seriously wondered whether she’d be able to find the canteen without assistance.

‘Here you are, Minty,’ she said soothingly as she placed a cup on my desk. ‘You did say milk, didn’t you?’

‘What? Oh, yes please. Thanks. Can I give you the money?’

‘Oh no, of course not, Minty!’ She rolled her eyes and laughed. ‘This one’s on me.’

‘Gosh, well, thanks.’

‘Anyway,’ she added with a giggle, ‘it was only a few Euwo’s! I’ve weally got the hang of that now.’

‘Well, good.’

‘Are you
sure
you don’t want me to get you some biscuits to go with it, Minty?’

‘I’m sure. Thanks.’

‘Because I weally like to help my colleagues. In any way I
can. In fact, I’m going shopping later, Minty, so do let me know if there’s anything you need fwom Harvey Nicks.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need anything. Honestly.’

‘Well, just ask,’ she said with a smile. ‘And what a
vewy
nice dwess you’ve got on, Minty,’ she added with tropical warmth.

‘Oh, thank you. It’s new.’

‘And that scarf goes
weally
well with it.’

‘Oh, er, thanks,’ I said again. The constant compliments were a little wearing. They’d been flowing for over a week. We all knew why, of course. To be frank, we found her sudden charm offensive.