The Making of Minty Malone (33 page)

‘Sophie, here’s
your
tea,’ she crooned. ‘With lemon, and half a teaspoon of sugar, just like you always pwefer.’ The ice caps were in danger of melting at this rate.

‘Oh, thanks, Melinda,’ Sophie replied, as she stood by the fax machine.

‘And what
nice
shoes!’ Melinda exclaimed. ‘Are they new, Sophie?’ She was as transparent as a trout stream.

‘Er, yes, they are,’ Sophie replied as she tapped in the number.

‘Well, I think they’re
gweat.
Kurt Geiger?’

‘Ferragamo, actually,’ said Sophie. Gosh.

‘I love your suit too,’ said Melinda. ‘It almost looks like Chanel.’

‘Um …it
is
Chanel, actually,’ said Sophie with a self-conscious grin. Good Lord. I’d noticed Sophie’s startling sartorial transformation of late, but I didn’t like to comment. Like me, she had changed her image. But in her case she had upgraded herself from Next and River Island to bankbreakingly expensive designer wear. I had concluded that the Candy Bar was paying her well, because London FM certainly wasn’t.

‘I do like that jacket you’re wearwing today, Wesley,’ said Melinda, as she put a cup of coffee down on his desk.

‘Well, that’s very sweet of you to say so,’ he said. In fact, it was quite a smart sports jacket.

‘And how’s Deirdwe?’ Melinda enquired solicitously. ‘How’s it all going on the bump fwont?’

‘Oh, the bump’s really going very well, actually,’ he replied with a rapt smile. ‘She’s just had another scan.’

‘It’s
so
exciting having a baby,’ Melinda went on with a beatific smirk. ‘Perhaps your baby and mine can play together. We could ask the bosses to install a cweche.’

‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘Perhaps.’

Then Jack swept in. He’d just come back from a pow-wow with the Board. As he hung up his coat, we anxiously scrutinised his face, trying to read in it signs which might give away what had been resolved. Would there be a merger? A takeover? A buy-out? A bye-bye?

‘Hello, Jack – what a
super
tie!’ gushed Melinda. ‘I’ve just got evewyone some coffee. Would you like me to go and get some for you too?’

‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘But I would like to have a word with you, Melinda, in my office, if that’s all right.’

‘Oh, of
course
it’s all wight,’ she replied benignly. ‘I’m just coming.’

Jack went into his office, held the door open for Melinda, then shut it firmly behind her. We all exchanged meaningful glances. What was going to happen? There was silence for about five seconds. And then we knew.

‘NOOOOOOO!!!!’ we heard her scream. ‘NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!’ This was followed by violent sobbing.

‘You can’t do this to me!’ we heard her blub. ‘You just CAN’T.’ We craned to hear what was going on. In between Melinda’s ululations, we could hear Jack’s muted interjections.

‘YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!’ she screamed again. ‘Don’t you wealise who I
am
? Uncle Percy would be FUWIOUS.’ And then the door crashed open, and Melinda came flying out, her tear-stained face contorted with rage.

‘He’s twying to sack me!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s twying to get wid of me. As if it isn’t enough having lost Uncle Percy in such twagic circumstances.’

We all returned her beseeching looks with blank ones. What on earth did she expect us to say?

‘I want you all to stand
up
for me!’ Melinda almost screamed. ‘It’s totally unfair. He’s twying to victimise me.’

By now, Jack had emerged from his office and was standing in the doorway, his face reddening with suppressed rage. In his hands he was twisting a length of yellow leader tape. But his voice, when he spoke, was calm.

‘Melinda, would you please come back into my office, so that we can discuss this in private?’

‘NO!’ she shouted. ‘I won’t. I want evewyone to hear how badly you’ve tweated me.’

‘I would like to resume this conversation in the privacy of my office,’ he reiterated.

‘NO!’ she shouted. ‘If you’ve got anything to say to me, say it in fwont of the team! Or are you
afwaid
to, Jack?’ she taunted. That did it.

‘No, I’m not afraid of anything,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m just trying to do my job. And part of my job, Melinda, is to inform you that your contract has not been renewed. Right, everyone,’ he said, ‘since Melinda insists that we discuss things in here, I’m happy to tell you that, after lengthy deliberations, the Board of MG have decided, on balance, to keep the station on.’

‘Thank God!’ Sophie shouted. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

‘They have also appointed me Managing Director, with total responsibility for the output. One of my priorities now is, of course, to lift the ratings. And I intend to accomplish this by replacing Melinda with Minty, as presenter of
Capitalise.
’

My heart sang. I struggled to suppress an ecstatic smile.

‘You can’t do that!’ Melinda spat. ‘She’s not vewy good.’

‘Yes, she is,’ said Jack. ‘She’s very good indeed.’

‘I’ve still got some power awound here, you know,’ Melinda hissed.

‘No, you haven’t,’ said Jack simply. ‘Now that Sir Percy is no longer …with us, you don’t have any power at all.’

‘But …’ she was wheedling now, aware that aggression had failed, ‘I’m the most popular pwesenter that London FM’s ever had.’

‘Melinda,’ said Jack, with magnificent serenity, ‘you delude yourself. You’re about as popular as a fart in a crowded lift.’

‘That’s vewy
wude
!’ she spat.

‘Your voice is atrocious,’ he went on calmly. ‘You have a conspicuous speech impediment. And you make so many fluffs I’m surprised we don’t have a special vacuum cleaner to hoover them up. But worst of all, you are incapable of writing a simple link without your colleagues’ help. Melinda, let me be quite blunt here. As a professional broadcaster, you are “cwap”.’

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she hissed.

‘No,’ said Jack. ‘You don’t. What I was going to tell you, before you insisted on continuing our conference out here, was that in recognition of the two years you have worked for the station, you will of course get an appropriate pay-off, to be negotiated with the accountants. Thank you for your contribution to London FM, goodbye.’ Jack returned to his office and shut the door.

‘I was lying about your tie!’ she shouted at the closed door. ‘It’s howwible. Just like you!’ Then she picked up her bag, and the baby, and came and stood in front of my desk.

‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied, Minty,’ she spat. ‘I hope you’re
weally
happy.’ And of course I was. Ecstatically. But I was careful to say absolutely nothing.

‘And as for the west of you,’ she snarled, ‘I …I …’ Words, never her strong point, suddenly deserted her. She gave us a valedictory glare, and was gone.

‘More Turmoil at London FM!’ trumpeted
Broadcast’s
front page a few days later. They love us. They absolutely love us. We provide them with great copy, you see. It’s like a soap opera. And Melinda’s furious departure was another dramatic twist in the tale. On the inside pages they did a big piece about the station, and described the changes that have been made
in the past week – including a very tough new stalking policy. All letters from nutters are now sent straight to the police. And the article praised the way Jack had promoted Sophie to edit
Capitalise
and how, at twenty-two, she’s the youngest editor in the programme’s history. They did a big number on me, too; about how I was Jack’s first choice to present the show. And – get this – they called me ‘The New Voice of London FM’. I nearly died.

Then the next morning the
Evening Standard
phoned up and said they wanted to do a feature on us too. It was to be a ‘Day in the life of’ kind of piece, and so this woman came along with a photographer and they trailed us at work, from the morning meeting at nine thirty, until we came off air. The piece came out this morning – in fact, I’ve got it in front of me now – and it really does look good. It’s a double-page spread, entitled ‘The Retuning of London FM’. There’s a photo of Sophie chairing the meeting; and there’s one of me with my headphones on, and there’s a fun photo of us all laughing and joking after we’ve just come off air at two forty-five. And there was a very nice one of Jack sitting in his office, taking a phone call, looking very relaxed – well, he
is
a lot more relaxed these days, since he kicked
derrière
at home. He says the girls – and Jane – are now treating him with considerably more respect. And he was quoted as saying that he wants to keep a strong current affairs element in the programme, and that he hopes to avoid the dumbing down of news which goes on all too often elsewhere. He also said it was his intention to introduce a number of new programmes to the schedule in due course. And that before long he would steer the station into the brave new digital age.

So finally things are starting to go well, and the programme’s going like a dream. To top it all, I got a call from Joe, which I was thrilled about. And the reason why I was thrilled was because he’s not in London at the moment. He’s with his parents in Manchester while he does some extra research for one of the characters – I think she’s the little boy’s teacher. Joe told me he’s been going through all the old family
photos and letters with his mum. And he’s there for ten days, but he gave me a call. So I was feeling incredibly happy. In fact, I was having a very good day.

‘What a super piece in the
Standard
, Minty,’ said Mum, when she rang me at work after the show. ‘Now, I can’t talk for long because I’m at the Badger Trust AGM, but I just wanted to tell you what a lovely photo it is of you, darling. I wonder if Daddy’s seen it?’ she added vaguely.

‘Haven’t you spoken to him?’

‘Oh no, I’ve been so busy recently,’ she replied. ‘I haven’t seen him for
days.
Ships in the night, and all that!’

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘you told us you’d tone it down.’

‘Tone what down, Minty?’

‘All your charity stuff. You said you’d tone it down when Dad retired.’

‘Yes, darling, I know.’

‘Well, he’s been retired for nearly five months.’

‘
Has
he?’ she said, dumbfounded. ‘Good Lord! I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t even noticed. Of course he’s retired, that’s right. Anyway, if you want to talk to me later, ring between six and seven because I’ve got a bring-and-buy for the Red Cross before that, and a drinks party for Action on Addiction afterwards.’

‘I wish someone would take some action on
your
addiction,’ I said crisply. ‘You’re just a hopeless philanthropolic!’

It’s great being a presenter. I love it. Not just because of the obvious advantages that go with the job – i.e. career progress, higher job satisfaction, increased earnings, elevated professional status and occasional media interest. No, I love it for the following very specific reasons: a) I don’t have to interview Citronella Pratt any more; b) I can go home earlier; and c) I’m a lot happier. So much so that some of my anguish about Dominic and his new engagement has lifted. I do feel more cheerful. For the first time, I feel I’m able to cope. The pendulum has swung back in my favour. And that’s what life is like. The rich tapestry and all that. The ineffable multiplicity. What Emily Dickinson calls ‘The mixing bells and palls’ of existence. Something utterly dreadful happens – being dumped on your wedding day, for example – and then, to balance things up a bit, a piece of good luck comes along. Like my promotion. Though I was sorry that it only came about because of what happened to poor old Sir Percy.

Anyway, what I’m really enjoying, apart from the work itself, is the fact that, once the programme’s over, I’m free to leave. No longer do I have to stay at my desk, editing features late into the night, then walking around with eyes like peanuts the following morning. It’s Monica’s turn to do that now. She said she’d always wanted to be a reporter, and so in the general reshuffle that went on, Jack promoted her too. She’s thrilled. She’s young and keen and she’s got the broadcasting bug, so she doesn’t mind the hard graft. Anyway, my job is simply to present the programme. And it’s great not having to help
everyone any more. So once we come off air, that’s it. I can go. Usually, however, I don’t. I like to hang around in the office for a while chatting to everyone, though Wesley does nothing but talk about his impending fatherhood – he’s a total baby bore these days. And I read the papers and make a couple of calls, and then, at about four thirty, I toddle off. So today I arrived back home at about five fifteen, and there was Amber, on the phone, as usual.

‘’ello,’ I heard her say, ‘eez zat Borrrders boo-ookshop? Ah. Zees is Sylvie Dupont speekeenger.’ Oh God, not
that
old trick again. ‘Ah em joost reenging to pless an orrrrder for a vairy gooder boook zat all my frrrenz ‘ave bin telleeng me to bah. Eet eez colled
A Public Convenience
by zat vairy good rrrriter, Amber Dane. I would lak to orderrr
dix
, er, I min, ten copees,
s’il vous plaît …Oui, oui …Merci …Au revoir …
HA!’ She was laughing as she put the phone down.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘You’ll accidentally on purpose forget to go and collect the books.’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a smirk. ‘And then they’ll have to sell them.’

‘How many bookshops have you done this in?’

‘Thirty-three,’ she said. ‘In a number of different foreign accents. I’m particularly proud of my Russian one. Do you want to hear it?’

‘No, thanks. I hope you remember whether you’re Russian or French when they phone you back to say the books have arrived.’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Minty. I always give a false number.’

‘You’re dreadful,’ I said with a laugh.

‘Look, it’s hard enough being a writer as it is. You’ve got to pull every trick in the book.’ Suddenly Perdita appeared and jumped, purring and mewing, on to Amber’s lap.

‘She looks so well,’ I said, stroking her head. ‘She’s really put on weight.’

‘Yes, but not too much, because we don’t want her becoming a little fatso, do we, darling? Now, Perdita, shall we show Auntie Minty what Mummy bought you from Harrods today?’
Amber gave me a beatific smile, then disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a fur-lined basket, and a personalised porcelain cat plate.

‘These are the
dernier cri
in feline accessories,’ she announced, happily. ‘Nothing but the best will do.’

‘Lucky Perdita,’ I said, ‘that someone loves you so much.’

Amber opened a tin of pilchards in aspic, then piled the new plate high.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ I said. ‘If she eats too much she’ll be sick. Anyway, I think she looks just right.’

‘No, I think she’s still growing,’ said Amber, as Perdita got stuck in. ‘And remember, Minty, we’ve got to compensate for her unfortunate start in life.’

‘Hello!’ squawked Pedro. The phone was ringing. It was probably one of Amber’s bookshops. ‘How are you?’ Pedro screeched as I went into the hall. ‘Yes …yes …yes,’ I heard him say in a bored sort of way as I picked up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Is that Minty Malone?’ said an unknown female voice. Whoever she was, she sounded distressed. I was so taken aback by her tone, I didn’t answer straight away.

‘Is that Minty Malone?’ enquired the voice again, more urgently now.

‘Er, yes. It is,’ I replied. ‘Who is it?’ There was a moment’s silence, which unnerved me.

‘We don’t know each other,’ the voice went on, carefully. It was a very posh voice. ‘But I really need to talk to you.’ She pronounced it ‘rarely’.

‘Why?’

‘My name’s Virginia Park.’

The hall carpet rushed up to greet me as I sank on to the adjacent chair. My face seemed to have heated to boiling point, and my heart was banging like a drum.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she enquired in a voice which quavered with emotion.

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I do.’

‘I rarely need to talk to you,’ she repeated.

‘What for?’ I said. I felt sick.

‘Because I think you’d want to know.’

‘Know
what
?’ I heard myself say. I was fearful and yet agog.

‘It’s Dominic,’ she said, quietly. ‘I’m ringing about Dominic.’ Well, I knew
that.
Why
else
would she call? What was this about? Oh God. A sudden fear gripped my heart. Oh God. Oh no. Please, no. He’d been hateful to me, but I wouldn’t wish him any harm. Visions of Dominic plastered all over the Ml, or being bagged up after some unpleasant accident, sprang into my mind. That’s why she was calling me, because his mother was too distraught.

‘Is he dead?’ I said. I felt sick. ‘Just tell me. Has something happened? Is he dead?’

‘No he
isn’t
dead,’ she spat. ‘I bloody well wish he was!’

‘Then why on earth are you ringing?’

‘Because …’ and now there was an audible sob. ‘Because the bastard’s just broken it off.’

‘We were supposed to get married in May,’ I heard her say between teary gasps. ‘My dress was almost ready. All the hotels had been booked. And we’d posed in
Leicestershire Life.
’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘But last week, we were having dinner, and all of a sudden Dominic said – uh uh – that he didn’t want to get married. That he couldn’t – uh uh – go through with it. He said that he
wouldn’t
– uh uh – go through with it. He said that he’d made a stupid mistake, and that everything had changed.’

‘Oh,’ I said. I was too shocked to say anything else.

‘I haven’t slept,’ she said. ‘I feel suicidal. I just don’t know what to do. And I knew about you,’ she continued. ‘I’d asked him about you once or twice. I’d seen your name and phone number in his address book. He’d crossed it out, but it was still legible.’

‘Oh,’ I said, again. I found myself wishing she hadn’t told me that.

‘So when I was collecting my things from his house, I wrote your number down. And then this morning I saw that piece
about you in the
Evening Standard
, and I just
had
to talk to you.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Because, I thought, after what he did to you, you might be able to give me some advice.’

‘How do you know what he did to me?’ I asked. ‘I can’t imagine him volunteering the information. In fact,’ I went on, and now a cold fear gripped my heart, ‘I’d like to know when you met him.’

‘Oh, years ago,’ she replied. ‘We went out briefly, in the early nineties.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘I was crazy about him, but it didn’t last long. And then last July I bumped into him again, in Harrods. And he seemed in a real state. He mentioned that he was getting married and told me he had wedding nerves. And I wished him good luck, and thought no more of it. But then, to my surprise, he contacted me in early August – he still had my number from before. And so I asked him how the wedding had gone.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Well, he didn’t really want to talk about it.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t. But what did he say? How did he explain it?’

‘He said that he hadn’t got married after all because, how did he put it? Oh yes. Because there’d been “a problem with the church” …’

A problem with the church? A problem with the
church
??? Was
that
what he told people? That there’d been a problem with the church! I nearly choked.

‘The only problem with the church,’ I said with icy emphasis, ‘was Dominic’s sudden departure from it, mid marriage, in front of two hundred and eighty people.’

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘He didn’t put it like that.’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ I replied. And then something cracked inside me. Something finally broke. Gone was my suppressed sadness. In its place was rage.

‘It’s so humiliating,’ I heard Virginia Park say. She was crying again.

‘You’re dead right,’ I said. ‘It
is.
’

‘The engagement was in the paper,’ she wept. ‘Absolutely everyone knew. I just feel so, so, awful,’ she said. She pronounced it ‘say’. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed. ‘I haven’t done a stroke of wark.’

‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ I said again, louder now, as I rose to my feet.

‘Yes? What?’

‘REJOICE!!! That’s what you should do. REJOICE!’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Rejoice that you have been spared from marrying a man so low, so, so …contemptible, so craven, so caddish …’ My God, all these words seemed to begin with ‘c’. ‘Such a coward, such a cur, such a …’

‘Chicken!’ interjected Amber, who had been sitting quietly on the stairs. I could hear Virginia Park sobbing.

‘I’m sorry for you,’ I said. I was clutching the side of the hall table now. ‘I’m sorry that you’re suffering. Because I suffered too. But you asked me for my advice. And I’m giving it. Let me repeat it. Let me shout it from the rooftops: REJOICE!! I say unto you – REJOICE!! And be GLAD!! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! For He has delivered you. GOODBYE!!’

I put the phone down. I felt sick and faint. Despite my bravado, I found tears coursing down my face while unanswered questions raced through my mind. How many guests were they going to have? What proportion of them were his clients? Was she the reason Dominic jilted me? And why had he dropped her too? Was this simply Olympic-level commitment-phobia, or was there method in his marital madness? I sat on the hall chair, staring wild-eyed into space, pressing my mental ‘Rewind’ button, and replaying what she’d said.

She said she’d met him in July, just before our wedding,
and that he’d seemed very nervous. He
was
very nervous. I’d noticed that too. But then, when he isn’t trying to sell someone something, he does appear nervous and neurotic. Because he’s pretty insecure. So I’d simply attributed his anxiety to premarital tension and, God knows, I’d had a bit of that myself.

I looked at Amber. She was waiting for me to tell her what was going on. But I was so shocked by this latest twist in the tale that I hardly knew where to begin. And I was just about to inform her that Dominic had jilted Miss Piggy too when the phone suddenly rang again. I let it ring once. Twice. Three times. And then I picked it up.

‘Yes?’ I said, with weary wariness.

‘It’s me again,’ said Virginia Park miserably. She was still crying. I visualised her fleshless upper lip covered in tears and snot.

‘I feel so awful,’ she moaned. ‘I just need to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I felt exhausted.

‘Please.’

‘Look, I can’t add anything to what I’ve just said. I don’t want to get involved. It’s too painful. I’m sorry. I’ve been through enough and I want to protect myself now. I’m sorry, Virginia. I really am. Goodbye.’ I put the phone down. Ten seconds later, it rang again. Oh God, I
wished
she’d get the message. Some people are just so thick-skinned! I picked it up.

‘Look!’ I said. ‘I really
can’t
help you. I’m
very
sorry for you. But I can’t enlighten you about Dominic’s behaviour any more than I have. And although you want to talk about him, I’m afraid
I
don’t, because, to be quite honest, I’d simply like to forget that I
ever
met him.’

There was silence at the other end. Thank God. I’d got through to her, at last. I could do without all this. Life was stressful enough as it was. And I looked at Amber and sighed and rolled my eyes, and was just about to hang up when I heard an all-too-familiar voice say, very quietly, ‘Actually, Minty, it’s me.’

‘Don’t,’ said Amber, when I put the phone down on Dominic three minutes later. ‘Please, don’t meet him.’ I looked at her.

‘Has my hair gone white?’ I enquired. ‘Have deep cracks appeared on my face?’ She shook her head. ‘I feel I’ve aged fifty years in the last ten minutes.’ I was shaking. My palms and brow were damp. Hearing his voice again had seriously disturbed me. But hearing him ask to meet me had shocked me to my core.

‘I don’t think you should see him,’ she said again, more forcefully now. She passed me a tissue. ‘What’s the point?’ We went into the kitchen, where she reached up for what was left of the cooking brandy.

‘I have to see him,’ I croaked. ‘Because then I might understand. He says he’s going to explain everything. He says that there are things I don’t know. Things he couldn’t tell me at the time.’ Amber was rolling her eyes and had stuck two fingers to her temple. I looked at her. ‘He said he felt awful about what happened.’

‘About what
happened
?’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s a typical Dominic construction, isn’t it? About what he
did
, you mean!’

‘Yes, that’s what he meant. That he feels sorry about what he did. But he says there was a reason for it.’

‘The reason is,’ said Amber, vehemently, ‘that the man’s a flaky fuck-up with no moral fibre.’ I looked at her bleakly. ‘He has all the backbone of an earthworm,’ she added. ‘No, I’m sorry, that’s unfair to earthworms. He has less.’