The Making of Minty Malone (35 page)

‘I didn’t con anyone,’ Dominic insisted.

‘Didn’t you
know
that you were selling them something less valuable than what they already had?’ He was silent.

‘No. Not really.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Didn’t you tell them about all the commission?’

‘Yes, of course I did. I didn’t pull the wool over anyone’s eyes.’

‘Ah, but did you tell them that your commission wasn’t being paid by the insurance company? That it was coming directly out of their premiums? Did you tell them that?’

‘Well …as I say, it was a grey area.’

‘Seems pretty black and white to me.’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t my fault. Remember, when this all started, the Tories had been really pushing private pensions. I genuinely felt I was helping my clients. And of course the Robert Maxwell business gave company pensions a very bad name. People
wanted
private pensions. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘it was the industry’s fault for failing to regulate it properly.’

‘And you got into trouble.’

‘Yes,’ he confessed, ‘I did. And it’s been a nightmare.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘A nightmare,’ he said again. ‘It had been rumbling on for months,’ he explained. ‘And there are these plans to pay compensation. The insurance companies are going to be shelling out twenty
billion
pounds for this.’

‘Surely that’s their problem, not yours.’

‘Yes. But then in early July, a rumour began to circulate that some independent financial advisers might be made personally liable. And I learned that I was one of them.’

‘You would have had to cough up?’

‘Yes. To the tune of around twenty thousand pounds per client. Minty –’ he leant forward – ‘I have nearly two hundred clients.’

‘Yes, I know. Half of them were at our wedding.’

‘That works out at four
million
pounds.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’

‘I genuinely believed that I was about to lose everything,’
he said. ‘Every last penny that I’d earned. Everything I’d built up from such a tough start in life.’

‘Oh, don’t give me the sob story.’

‘But you don’t understand, Minty, because your life was so much easier than mine.’

‘Not once I’d met you.’

‘It’s not fair of you to judge me, when your background was so different from mine. You had private education. Then you went to university. And your grandmother’s legacy enabled you to buy your flat. I didn’t have any of that. I’d built up everything entirely by myself.’

‘Look, I know that. I respected you for it. In fact, it was always a strong point in your favour. But that’s not the issue here.’

‘Yes, it is,’ he insisted. ‘Because it was the threat to what I’d built up which was gnawing away at me. I can’t tell you how terrified I was to think I’d lose it all. And so I got myself in a
total
panic. I don’t know how I managed to function normally.’

‘You didn’t function normally. You jilted me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’m truly sorry for what I did to you.’

‘Thank you. I accept your apology. Though I think you could at least have had the “decency” – if that’s the right word – to call it off beforehand. Like you’ve done with Virginia Park.’

‘But the wedding was just so …unstoppable,’ he said. ‘It was like a juggernaut. And every time I wanted to say, “I’m sorry, Minty, but I can’t go through with it,” you’d tell me something about your dress, or the catering details, or the flowers or whatever. You were so happy. How could I cancel it?’

‘Well, you should have done,’ I said. ‘It was rather embarrassing having it cancelled like that on the day. It’s passed into local legend in Primrose Hill,’ I said. ‘They sing ballads about it in the pub: “The Jilting of Minty Malone”.’

We paused while the waiter removed the plates from our
first course. Dominic couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to do a little discreet rubber-necking.

‘Isn’t that Stephen Fry,’ he said, ‘just coming in?’

I glanced to my left. ‘Yes.’ And as Stephen Fry passed our table, he caught my eye and smiled politely and said, ‘Hello, Minty.’ I smiled back.

‘Do you
know
him?’ said Dominic, agog.

‘Not really. I interviewed him on Tuesday. But I’m going to his book launch next week.’

‘Oh, so Radio-Biz is obviously going well.’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘It is.’

‘You’ve made it,’ he said. ‘You’re a presenter.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I never thought it would happen. But I am.’ The waiter appeared and placed the duck in front of me and the shepherd’s pie in front of Dominic, then retreated. ‘So where were we?’ I said brightly above the gentle babble of the other diners. ‘Ah, yes, you were facing financial ruin, and you wanted to call off our wedding.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now,
why
did you want to call it off, Dominic?’ I enquired. I felt that, now, we were getting to the crux. He dipped his fork into the shepherd’s pie, then looked at me.

‘To protect you,’ he said. I almost choked.

‘
Protect
me?’ I enquired.

‘Yes. How could I put you through all that?’

‘You
did
put me through “all that”,’ I said.

‘I mean, how could I put you through all the worry and anxiety of my financial ruin. It just wouldn’t have been
fair
to you.’

‘But I had a job, Dominic.’

‘Yes, but, with respect, Minty, you weren’t earning much. Then.’
Then
? ‘I was so proud of what I had to offer you,’ he added. ‘And it was all going to be taken away.’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t marrying you because of what you’d
got
,’ I said. ‘I was marrying you because I believed I loved you. That’s what I believed. Then.’

‘But I didn’t feel it was fair to put you in a position where
I wouldn’t be able to support you properly. Pay for anything. Buy you anything.’

‘I didn’t
need
anything.’

‘We wouldn’t have been able to afford a house in a good area.’

‘But I have a nice flat in Primrose Hill. We could have lived there, Dom. Or we could have sold it and bought a house somewhere less fashionable until you were on your feet again. There’s no mortgage on my flat, Dominic. I’m not a pauper, you know.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But …’

‘But what?’

‘But …our standard of living would have been so much lower than what you were expecting. And I just didn’t feel that it was
right
for me to expose you to all my problems. In any case,’ he continued, ‘I was in a complete panic. I wanted to tell you, but could never find the right moment. Then before I knew it the wedding day had dawned, and I was standing there in the church, and I just knew I couldn’t go through with it.’

‘So you didn’t. We were about to make our vows,’ I pointed out. ‘But then, to my utter astonishment, you
dis
avowed me.’

‘Oh God, Minty!’ he said. ‘Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think it was easy, doing what I did? Running out on you in front of all my clients?’
All my clients
?

‘But the other problem that I have, of course, is that you said such nasty things to me. In front of everyone. You said – and do correct me if I’m wrong, Dominic. You always do correct me if I’m wrong. And even if I’m right, you still like to correct me – but you said that I was very untidy.’

‘But, darling, you are,’ he said, with an indulgent smile.

‘And you said that I talked too much and never knew when to shut up.’

‘Well, I was in a state,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know
what
I was saying. I was trying to come up with reasons, excuses, for what I was about to do. And in any case, darling’ – he reached for my hand – ‘you
do
talk too much. You love talking, don’t you,
darling. Talking, talking, talking. Little Minty Mintola just loves to talk. And it
is
annoying, darling.’

‘It isn’t annoying. It’s
normal.
’

‘Oh, darling,’ he said again.

My knife hovered over my plate. I put it down.

‘You know, Dominic, you’ve always portrayed me very falsely. I really don’t know why.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said peevishly.

‘You’ve made out, right from the start, that I’m this garrulous idiot, jabbering away nineteen to the dozen, unaware that no one’s listening. That I’m “boring” everyone, as you always liked to say. That I’m droning on and on, like some tedious, uninvited guest.’

‘But you
do
talk a lot, darling.’

‘It’s called conversation, Dominic. It’s called making conversation. That’s what normal people do. And that’s what I was trying to do with you. To oil the wheels of our relationship, because you were often so quiet. Is it because you have so little to say yourself, that you crush conversation in others?’

‘No, it’s just that you
do
like to chatter on, and it can be quite exhausting. And you know I don’t sleep well, and I work very hard and I need to relax when I’m at home.’

‘But too much silence can be a strain. You see, Dominic, you talk very little, unless you’re actively trying to sell someone something. Then, of course, you talk. Out comes the patter. But you don’t really have a lot to say for yourself otherwise, do you?’

‘I …’

‘You don’t really ever express any opinions or views on anything. You’re not interested in any exchange of ideas.’

He rolled his eyes, theatrically. ‘That’s because you’re talking so much I can’t get a word in edgeways.’

‘Rubbish!’ I said. ‘It’s because you don’t have much to say. Or you can’t be bothered to think of anything. You’re quite uninformed. Perhaps because you’ve spent the last fifteen years making money during the day, and watching Sky Sports
by night. And apart from a few relationships and a few golfing holidays, that’s really all you’ve done.’

‘I …’

‘You’re not an entertaining or thoughtful person, Dominic. In fact – can I be frank here? – you’re boring. Did I ever tell you that? You’re a very boring man.’

‘I …’

‘You’ve never taken any risks. Or done anything daring. You’ve never even travelled.’

‘Only because I’m terrified of flying. It’s a phobia.’

‘No, it’s not, it’s an excuse. It’s not the
flying
you were scared of, Dom. It’s what you might find at the other end. You’ve never challenged yourself in any way. And you certainly never challenged me. You’re just so, so boring, Dominic. You’re very attractive,’ I added. ‘But you’re so boring. I thought I’d die of boredom when I was with you.’

‘Now look here, Minty, I –’

‘And I wouldn’t have minded so much if you’d at least been decent and kind. But you weren’t. You were the
opposite.
You spent most of the time undermining me. You took my kindness for granted. You sapped my confidence and sense of self. You controlled what I said, what I did, and what I wore.’

‘Then why didn’t you complain, if it was as bad as you say?’

‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it? You’re quite right. Why
didn’t
I complain? Because I was too nice, that’s why. Because I wanted to keep everything nice and smooth. Because I hated scenes. Because I was afraid to confront you. But I’m not afraid of that now.’

‘So I see.’

‘I’ve changed, Dominic. Haven’t you noticed? You were always telling me to go and change – and now I have.’

‘Yes, I know. I first noticed it when I read those articles about you. You do look different.’ He reached for my hand again. ‘But I don’t mind, Minty.’
I don’t mind
???

‘I’m not talking about my
appearance
, Dominic. I’m talking about my
self.
Who I
am.
And I’m quite different now – changed, changed utterly, to coin a phrase. I used to be nice,
Dominic. Too nice. But I’m not quite so nice any more. I’m not nasty,’ I added quickly. ‘Though you may now think I am. But I’m certainly not nice. Because being nice got me nowhere. And it’s taken me thirty years to find that out.’

‘Minty, you’re saying all this because you’re so angry,’ he said. ‘You’re punishing me for what I did. And I knew this might happen, I was ready for it. You don’t mean it, Minty. Let’s face it.’

‘No, let’s face
this
,’ I said, calmly. ‘Let’s face the fact that you’re a wanker. And let’s face the fact that I
do
mean every word. And if my comments have been a little negative, it’s because I now know that you’ve been lying.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said indignantly.

‘Yes, you have. Just as you lie to people about your name and about where you went to school. I’m not suggesting that you were lying about the pensions thing, or the fact that you were in a terrible state about it all. But you’ve been lying about your motives for doing what you did. And now, at last, I’ve worked it out.’ I put down my knife and fork. And I looked at him, still careful to maintain the pleasant expression I’d worn all evening.

‘The reason why you wanted out was not because you didn’t want to “put me through” the financial crisis you thought you were going to suffer. It was because you realised, no doubt with some regret, that I was no longer rich enough for you to marry in your newly impoverished state.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘I think it
is
true. And you said that Virginia Park was irrelevant. But she isn’t. Because she told me that she’d met you three weeks before our wedding. And I think – and again, do correct me if I’m wrong – that you decided, then, in your hysterical state, that you were going to ditch me, and marry her. Because even if you lost everything, with all Virginia’s money, you’d be able to maintain your smart lifestyle. But you couldn’t have done that with me. With me you would have had only a Standard Life. We wouldn’t have gone shopping in Bond Street for quite a while.’

‘You’re wrong,’ he said again.

‘I think I’m right. You see, I didn’t talk to Virginia for long. But it was long enough. And she told me that she knew you before. She also let slip that she’d been very keen. And then you met her again, in July, and there she was – still single. And you knew you’d only have to snap your fingers to have her come running back. But, crucially, you knew that with her you could be Park Lane. And it wouldn’t matter if you couldn’t bring home the bacon for a bit, because she had enough rashers of her own. I think it’s very appropriate, Dominic, that you’re telling me such pork pies.’