The Making of Minty Malone (36 page)

‘I didn’t want to marry Virginia,’ he said. ‘It was just a temporary insanity. A moment’s madness. She’d have driven me round the bend.’

‘No, the reason why you decided you didn’t want to marry her after all is because you knew you were off the hook. The crisis was over. I’ve just remembered something she told me that you said. You told her that you’d made a stupid mistake, and that “everything had changed”. And what had changed is that you were in the clear, so you didn’t need her cash any more.’

‘If it was money that motivated me, as you say, I’d have married her anyway. Then I’d have had a fantastic lifestyle, wouldn’t I, with all her money, and mine?’

‘That’s true. But you obviously didn’t
want
to marry her, and that’s why you cancelled the engagement.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, bitterly. ‘I didn’t want to marry her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s a
pain
,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’d forgotten just what a pain she is. She’s so bossy,’ he went on.

‘Unlike you, of course.’

‘She was trying to tell me what to do.’

‘Heaven forfend.’

‘And correcting me.’

‘Fancy that.’

‘And laying down the law. Trying to set the agenda. But I warned her about this,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘I warned her
– but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to go to the Caribbean and she knew I couldn’t fly, but she said to me, “Look, I don’t give a stuff about your bloody phobia. We’re going to Barbados.” And I said, “No, we’re not. Don’t you realise that half the world’s Jumbo jets are now twenty years old? Don’t you realise that air crash deaths have now reached record levels?” And she said, “If you think I’m never going to Sandy Lane again, you’ve got another think coming, Dominic. No arguing. We’re going. And you’re flying.” Can you imagine, Minty!’ He ran a nervous finger round his collar. ‘She’s not like you, Minty,’ he went on quietly. ‘She’s not sweet and nice, like you.’

‘That’s why you wanted me back. You remembered, once your crisis had passed, how sweet and nice I’d been. How compliant. How uncomplaining. What a dull little doormat I’d become.’

‘Oh God, I wish this nightmare had never
happened
,’ he whined. ‘It was all a false alarm. I wish we could just put the clock back. We
can
put the clock back, Minty.’

‘No, we can’t. I’d never realised quite how shallow you were, Dominic, until today. Until today I had never really fathomed the bottomless depths, as it were, of your shallowness. And now I have.’

‘Don’t you understand? I was in a state, I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

‘On the contrary,’ I replied, ‘you were thinking with calculated clarity. It was just the timing of it all you got wrong. And to think, all this time I’ve been blaming myself, Dominic! But it wasn’t my fault at all.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was mine. Mine.’ He raked his right hand through his hair. ‘Oh God, I’m a silly arse.’

‘Oh no, Dominic. You’re not,’ I said. ‘That’s unfair.’ I leant forward, and whispered, ‘You’re much,
much
worse.’ He didn’t reply. ‘It was all about money,’ I went on quietly. ‘That’s what it was about. That’s why I was totally humiliated in front of two hundred and eighty people. That’s why I’ve spent most of the last nine months in a state of acute mental distress.
Because you thought you were going to lose your
money.
’ He stared at the table cloth. And then I remembered something else he’d said in church.

‘And that lie you told, that lie about being “deeply religious”.’

‘I
am
deeply religious,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you’ve never bothered to find that out.’

‘But it was a part of you I never
saw
, so how on earth was I to know? Do forgive me, Dominic, for misjudging you. And as you’re so deeply religious, I’m sure you’ll be able to tell me what day it is today.’

‘What day? It’s Thursday, of course. What do you mean “what day”?’

‘Ah, but it’s not just any old Thursday, Dom, it’s Maundy Thursday today. Do you know what that commemorates? You’re deeply religious, so you’ll know.’ He looked blank.

‘Christ’s last supper,’ I informed him. ‘That’s what it commemorates. It’s our last supper too, by the way. And do you know what traditionally happens on Maundy Thursday?’

‘No,’ he said testily. ‘I don’t.’

‘The monarch distributes special, newly minted coins to the poor.’

‘You’re so knowledgeable,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Well, I confess we covered it in the programme today for one of our Easter reports so that does give me a head start. Newly minted coins,’ I said, again, wonderingly, now. ‘Newmint, Dominic, like me.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘this evening hasn’t been much of a success.’

‘On the contrary, Dominic. It’s been wonderful. I’m
so
glad I saw you again. But now I’m going to go home.’

‘Look, I made a terrible mistake,’ he said, as he saw me stand up. ‘What more do you want me to say?’

‘What more? Nothing. I’m quite satisfied.’

‘Minty, think of what a nice life we could have.’

‘A nice life?’

‘Yes. We could have a lovely house in Wandsworth.’

‘No thanks.’

‘We could be a powerful couple, Minty.’ Powerful?
Ah.
He did a little scribble in the air for the bill.

‘I don’t want to be powerful,’ I said as I picked up my bag. ‘I just want to be happy. And I could
never
have been happy with someone as low as you. Thanks for supper, Dom,’ I added with a smile. ‘I’m
so
glad I saw you again. CU next Tuesday!’ I exclaimed happily. Puzzlement furrowed his brow.

‘See you next Tuesday?’ he said. ‘See you next Tuesday?’

‘Think about it,’ I said. Then I left.

‘APRIL FOOL!’ I said to myself this morning when I glanced at the calendar. ‘I’m the biggest April Fool there is! And I’m a May Fool too, and a June Fool, and I was especially foolish in July, when I very “Nearly Wed” that contemptible man.’

Well, I’m not going to be a fool any more, I determined as I stood under the shower. Because at last I’d got everything sussed. I’d worked it all out. I’d suffered in the process, but it was worth it. Because I was reborn. I was new-Mint. At last, at last, I could move on. I said I was going to come through this, and I had. I felt as new as an Easter chick. I’d pecked my way out of my hard little shell, and I was going to stand in the sun, and thrive. ‘It was
all Dominic’s fault
,’ I said to myself wonderingly. It was
nothing
to do with me. I’d tortured myself
for months, but I wasn’t to blame in any way. In the end, the answer was simple – money. Cash. Lucre. Loot. Moolah. Profit and loss. It was as easy, and as brutal, as that. I was simply a casualty of his cupidity.

Thank
God
for Virginia Pork, I realised as I got dressed. Without her intervention I’d never have known just how low – how
shal
-low – Dominic was. Her unexpected phone call had been crucial. She had saved my psychological bacon. And so I smiled benignly at my fellow travellers as I rattled southwards on the Tube. Though there were fewer of them than usual because it was Good Friday. Indeed it was. A
very
Good Friday. It was a
fantastic
Friday because, at last –
at last
– I’d been set free. I glanced at my watch. Five to nine. I didn’t have to be at work until ten. So I didn’t go down to the Angel.
I got off at Embankment instead. And I walked along the Strand in the lemony sunshine with only a slight pang as I passed the Waldorf. But today it felt different. It wasn’t a stab of regret for what might have been. It was simply a pang for all the pain and crap that Dominic had made me endure. I crossed the Aldwych then carried on down Fleet Street, past the Law Courts and the old
Express
building, past Prêt à Manger, and then I turned right, into St Bride’s. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was something I had to do. It was an essential part of the process – the final act of letting go.

After hovering for a moment in the porch, I went inside. It was empty. Completely empty. And it felt as warm as breath. Today the flowers were yellow for Easter joy – a sunburst of daffodil buds and creamy tulips, and stiff stems of golden forsythia. I walked up the aisle once more, hearing my footsteps tap across the tiles, then I halted at the very same spot where I had stood with Dominic in July. And as I inhaled the honeyed scent of the beeswax, the echoing voices returned, like ghosts:

‘– Wilt thou?’
Wilt thou
?

’– No.’
No. No.

‘– sickness and in health.’
Sickness.

‘– just
can’t.’ Just can’t, just can’t.

‘– Come on, Dom.’
Come on.

‘– bound to come unstuck.’
Unstuck.

‘– Sshh! Madame!’
Ssshhh
!

‘– Don’t slip!’
Don’t slip, don’t slip
!

And then I looked up at the ceiling and tried to imagine seeing sky instead, and the walls all blackened and charred, and every pew on fire. That’s what happened to me, I thought. I was bombed too. I was reduced to rubble, left a gaping, broken shell. And I thought I’d never recover. But now I knew I would. I had been restored. I would be just as I was, yet different. A reconstruction of my former self, using fabric that wasn’t there before. I thought I ought to say something, but I didn’t quite know what. So I simply said, ‘Thank you!’ quite loudly, and then I decided to go. And as I made for the door
I passed a noticeboard marked ‘Intercessions’. It was thickly plastered with little handwritten requests for prayers. ‘Please pray that Julian and I will see each other again,’ said one; ‘Please pray for Alice, who is gravely ill,’ implored a second; ‘Please pray for my son, Tom, who is worried about his exams,’ asked a third; and then I read, ‘Please pray for my daughter, Minty, who is very unhappy.’ It was in Dad’s handwriting. He must have come back, after the wedding, because he wouldn’t have had time on the day. And I took it down, because I didn’t really need prayers so much any more. Then I wiped my eyes and walked to work.

‘From the sublime to the ridiculous.’ What an apt expression that is, I thought, as I stared at Wesley half an hour later. He did indeed look ridiculous. In fact, he looked bizarre. Not because he was dressed oddly or had shaved his head, but because he looked nine months pregnant. He …
ah
! I remembered what day it was and gave him a superior smile.

‘You can’t April Fool me,’ I said. ‘I know what you’re up to.’

‘It’s not an April Fool, Minty,’ he replied seriously as he rubbed his protruding stomach.

I stared at him. What else
could
it be? He looked as though he was about to give birth. In fact, he looked like that man in the silly poster ad which was supposed to encourage men to ‘take responsibility’.

‘Wesley, if it isn’t an April Fool, then what
is
it?’ I enquired.

‘I’m empathising.’

‘You’re doing what?’

‘I’m empathising. With Deirdre. So that I fully understand what she’s experiencing.’ He lifted his jumper to reveal what looked like a bulging green canvas bullet-proof vest tied with tape to his front.

‘It’s an empathy belly,’ he explained. ‘It’s for men. So they can really appreciate what their pregnant partners are going through.’

‘Oh.’

‘They’re American,’ he explained. ‘I bought it on the Internet. You can’t get them over here.’

‘Thank God you can’t,’ I said. ‘It looks awful. I mean, what self-respecting British man would wear one?’

‘Well …
I
would,’ Wesley replied with a slightly wounded air. ‘I think it’s a good idea. You can add stuffing to it, as the baby develops. Deirdre and I are six months gone,’ he explained. Then he stood up, and pressed his fingers into the small of his back.

‘Ooh, me back’s killing me,’ he said.

‘Wesley!’

‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘I get these terrible cramps –’

‘Spare us!’

‘And I keep wanting to puke.’

‘Please, Wesley!’ I pleaded with a laugh. ‘We had enough of that with Melinda.’

‘You know she’s coming back, don’t you?’ he said as he got out his Mothercare guide.

‘WHAT?’ The smile fell off my face and crashed to the floor.

‘Melinda’s coming back. Didn’t you know?’ I stared at him, aghast.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘It’s OK, Minty. Don’t worry – your job’s safe. She’s going to be working the graveyard shift.’

‘The nutters phone-in?’

‘Two a.m. until four. Jack had some gaps in the rota, and says she’ll be all right for that because she won’t have to write a script.’

‘That’s true.’

‘All she has to do is stay awake and yak to all the crazies.’

‘I’m surprised she accepted after the appalling row they had.’

‘Well, apparently, she’s desperate to come back and “bwoadcast”, and Jack was equally desperate to find someone willing to do it. Talk of the devil-’ Wesley added.

‘Good morning,’ said Jack cheerfully. He’s
so
much happier these days. ‘The office looks very tidy,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Did the cleaners slip up and remember to come? Wesley, I can’t help wondering why you’ve got a pillow stuffed up your jumper.’

‘It isn’t a pillow. It’s an empathy belly. For pregnant men.’

‘I
see
,’ said Jack. ‘Good morning, Minty,’ he added. ‘You look happy. In fact, you look blooming.’

‘Blooming?’ I said, wonderingly. ‘
Do
I?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do. Positively blooming.’ He picked up Wesley’s
Mother and Baby
book, then gave me a sideways smile. ‘You’re not in love, are you?’

‘What? Oh no. I’m just happy,’ I explained. ‘That’s all. I’ve had an epiphany.’

‘I think Deirdre’s going to be having one of those too,’ said Wesley with a grimace. ‘Apparently it’s very painful.’

‘Is it?’ said Jack.

‘No, not an episiotomy – an
epiphany
, a sudden flash.’

‘Sure it’s not your hormones?’ Wesley enquired, as he got out his Miriam Stoppard.

‘Yes, quite sure. It was a flash of
insight.
’

‘You look like you’re in love,’ Jack tossed over his shoulder, as he went through to his office.

‘Yes,’ said Monica, suddenly. ‘You do.’

‘Oh, don’t be so
ridiculous
, everyone,’ I exclaimed, with a little laugh. Then I picked up the phone and dialled Joe.

I wanted to tell him, you see. I wanted to tell Joe about my breakthrough. I wanted to tell him that I’d consigned Dominic to the waste-disposal unit of my past. So we arranged to meet at the Screen on the Green in Islington at six the following evening.

‘You look
repulsive
,’ he said admiringly, as he planted a noisy kiss on my cheek.

‘You look pretty cruddy yourself,’ I replied happily. ‘I mean that nicely, of course.’

‘I know you do,’ he said, as we went inside. I glanced at
him again. And it was as though, today, I could see him clearly, because Dom’s dark shadow had been lifted away. I wanted to tell him about my meeting with Dominic, but decided to wait until after the film, a new print of John Schlesinger’s classic version of
Far From the Madding Crowd.

‘Please don’t rattle your popcorn too loudly,’ Joe admonished me as the lights dimmed to darkness and the nylon drapes swished aside.

‘I don’t
have
any popcorn,’ I said.

‘And please don’t talk to me during the film,’ he went on as Julie Christie appeared on the screen. ‘It’s very annoying for everyone else.’

‘Shhh!’ said someone behind us.

‘See what I mean?’ I rolled my eyes.

‘And don’t grab me in the scary bits,’ he whispered. ‘I know what you’re like.’

‘There aren’t any scary bits,’ I whispered back.

‘Well, just keep your hands off me, OK,’ he said, as his right arm went round my shoulder. I laughed. And then I blushed. I felt inexplicably happy to find myself so close to Joe again. But soon I was lost on the hills of Wessex, caught up in Bathsheba’s struggles to keep her farm going, and her obsession with Sergeant Troy. But
anyone
could see that Troy’s a shallow cad, and that Bathsheba’s a complete
idiot
to keep on rejecting the wonderful Gabriel Oak. Finally, though, Bathsheba gets it right. ‘Whenever you look up,’ said Alan Bates to Julie Christie at the end, ‘there I shall be. And whenever I look up,’ he went on simply, ‘there will be you.’ And he smiles at her. And Julie Christie smiles back. And then the camera pans out and the credits roll.

‘That’s what I call a happy ending,’ I said as we left our seats. ‘She saw the light at last.’

‘But Hardy makes her suffer first,’ said Joe. ‘He was sadistic with his heroines – he liked to give them hell. Right,’ he said, and he tucked my arm under his. And freed now from Dominic, I felt something inside me jump. ‘Come with me,’ said
Joe in a commanding fashion. And then, because he’s so nice, he added, ‘Please.’

As we walked down Upper Street and along Rosebery Avenue, I just felt so,
so
happy. I was moving forward at last. And now I could move forward too with Joe. Surely we could be more than friends. All I had to do was convince him that at last I was over Dom. And I was. Dominic didn’t
matter
any more. I saw him as if in a dark, disturbing dream. Now I was waking up, and he was receding, like a spectre – ethereal, unreal. And here was Joe. All flesh and blood. His arm solid and strong beneath my own. And he was talking away about this film director and that one, which was fine, because he’s so knowledgeable, and I’m very interested in the cinema myself. Then we found ourselves passing Sadler’s Wells, and people were hurrying inside and, to my enormous surprise, I saw Dad. He was standing outside. He looked slightly agitated, which was strange as he’s normally quite calm. I guessed that Mum must be running late from one of her charity do’s.

‘Dad!’ I called. And then I remembered his note on the board at St Bride’s and I was filled with filial affection. ‘Daddy!’ I yelled again. But he hadn’t heard. He was just standing there, not waving, but frowning. And then, at last, he saw me – and the astonished expression on his face!

‘Minty?’ he said wonderingly.

‘Hello! What are you going to see?’

‘Oh. Erm …
Coppelia
,’ he replied; slightly edgily, I thought. And was it my imagination, or did he blush?

‘This is Joe,’ I said. And Joe and Dad shook hands. Then we stood there for a few seconds and Dad suddenly said, ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you both,’ as though he didn’t want us to hang around. And I found this more than a little odd.

‘Hope you enjoy the show,’ I said. ‘And I hope Mum turns up soon.’ Dad smiled, a rather tense kind of smile, I thought, and as Joe and I went on our way I told him about Mum’s obsession with good works. Then we crossed the road and turned left into Exmouth Market and stopped outside a place
called Café Kick. Inside, it was simply done, and there were three pub football tables.

‘I’ve always wanted to come here with you,’ Joe said. ‘But somehow, it just never seemed …right. Today it does.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It does. In fact, Joe, I want to tell you something. Something important.’

‘OK. Fire away.’ But he’d already put some money in one of the football tables, and seven cork balls clattered into the tray. I decided to tell him afterwards. First, I wanted to play.

‘Now, remember,’ said Joe, with an admonitory wag of his finger, ‘no spinning.’

‘Who do you think I am? Alastair Campbell?’

‘And no bananas.’

‘As if I would.’

‘And every time I beat you, you buy me a drink. And every time you beat me, I buy you one, ditto.’

‘Fair enough.’

The game started well. I was playing pretty aggressively, trying to break through Joe’s defences.

‘Great save!’ I shouted. ‘You’ve got very fast reactions. But not –’ I added, as I lined up my centre forward behind the ball – ‘quite fast enough. Thank you! One-nil!’ He bought me a Peroni. And then he scored, and I bought him one.