The Making of Minty Malone (45 page)

‘Oh, look!’ said Amber, as we passed a large, square building, framed by an avenue of tall fountains like aquatic poplars. ‘That’s the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion,’ she explained, as the car idled at the lights. ‘That’s where they have the Oscars. I wonder what’s going on there tonight?’ For indeed, there was some sort of event in progress. Expensive cars had pulled up, and out of them stepped men in dinner jackets and women in evening dresses. And there were TV crews, and arc lights, and the phosphorescent flash of the paparazzi.

‘There’s a big premiere,’ said our driver. ‘I think it’s the new Bruce Willis. Wouldja look at this traffic!’ he complained. Indeed, the road was now clogged, bumper to bumper, with Mercedes, Porsches and Ferraris. But Amber and I didn’t mind. We weren’t late. And the sight of so many elegantly dressed people had somehow cheered me up a little. So I wound the window down to get a better view. And there were all these immensely glamorous people, smiling and laughing as they walked into the theatre, occasionally waving at the waiting crowd.

‘Oh, look – there’s Meryl Streep,’ said Amber. ‘What a great dress.’

‘And that one, there,’ I said, as a pretty girl of about twenty-five stepped out of a sleek, treacly, stretch limo. Her silvery sheath spangled and sparkled in the blinding television lights. She was laughing. She looked radiant. And now her escort was taking her arm, and gently tucking it under his own. Then I heard someone shout, ‘Over here!’ and they both turned and smiled as the cameras flashed.

And as they turned, I gasped. And I gasped because it was Joe.

‘Joe,’ I breathed. He was standing thirty feet from me, no more. There he was. Right there. And I was about to open the car door and get out, when I felt Amber’s restraining hand on my arm.

‘Don’t, Minty,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

And she said it for a good reason. For suddenly the girl’s arms were round Joe’s neck and he was kissing her as though he’d never stop.

‘Money well spent,’ I reiterated bleakly, as our cab drove towards Primrose Hill. ‘Money. Well. Spent.’ I emitted a hollow laugh. It sounded like a cross between a cough and a bark. ‘It wasn’t even
my
money,’ I added, guiltily. ‘It was yours.’

‘I don’t mind about that,’ said Amber. ‘I just wish it had …worked.’

‘It didn’t work,’ I said dismally. ‘It was a mistake. I feel so …terrible.’

‘Yes, but at least now, you know,’ she said philosophically as we turned into Princess Road. This was true. How did Emily Dickinson put it? Oh yes: ‘To know the worst leaves no dread more.’ And that image of Joe was the worst. It was seared into my memory as if stamped there by a flaming brand. I pressed my mental rewind and masochistically played the scene
through again. Frame 1: Joe stands there, with Unknown Girl. Frame 2: He takes UG’s arm. Frame 3: UG smiles up at him. Frame 4: They pose for the waiting cameras. Frame 5: God, I
hate
this frame – Joe and UG exchange a long, lingering kiss. Frame 6: They walk into the theatre, arm in arm. And cut. I had flown six thousand miles to look for Joe, and that was how I’d found him.

‘Mummy’s home!’ Amber called out as she turned the key in the lock. ‘My God!’ she said, as Perdita came swaying towards her. ‘She’s doubled in size!’

This was true. Perdita’s pregnancy had progressed apace. She looked as though she’d swallowed a large rabbit.

‘Mummy’s home now,’ said Amber again as she bent down to stroke the cat. But where was
my
Mummy? This was odd.

‘Mum?’ I called as we took off our coats. There was no reply. The sitting room was empty. I went into the kitchen. And there she was, outside, hunched over the garden table.

‘Mum, what’s the matter?’

‘Oh, hello, darling.’ Her face shone with false brightness though I saw her surreptitiously mop her eyes. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said in a voice she was struggling to control. The cat’s fine,’ she said. ‘Pedro’s fine. Everything’s just …fine.’ She made as if to blow her nose, but burst into fresh tears instead.

‘Mum, what is it?’

‘I’m afraid something awful’s happened,’ she said with a teary gasp.

‘What?’

‘Something terrible.’ She tucked a lock of silvery hair behind her ear.

‘Tell me.’

‘Things are never going to be the same again.’

‘Why? What’s
happened
? And then I knew. It was Dad. Dad had left her. He’d been warning her for months, and she’d ignored him. And now he’d finally gone off. He’d gone off with another woman.

‘It’s Dad, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘This is about Dad, isn’t it?’

‘No! No, it’s not about him. It’s …this!’ Another sob escaped her as she pointed to the front page of the
Evening Standard.

‘RADIO STAR’S MUM IN CHARITY SCANDAL!’ trumpeted the headline. ‘PROBE INTO MISSING FUNDS!’ I looked, aghast, at Mum, and then I rapidly scanned the first two paragraphs:

Dympna Malone, mother of London FM’s star presenter, Minty Malone, is being investigated following allegations that she embezzled thousands of pounds from the international relief organisation, Camfam. Mrs Malone, a familiar figure on the London fund-raising circuit, has been dismissed as a fund-raiser, pending an enquiry by the Charity Commissioners. Criminal charges may be preferred …

‘
Mum
,’ I breathed, ‘were you stealing?’ I was shocked to my core. I was also shocked at finding myself described as a ‘star presenter’. ‘Did you steal this money?’ I asked again.

‘Of
course
I didn’t,’ she said indignantly.

‘Thank God for that.’

‘It was a grey area.’

‘A grey area?’ Hadn’t I heard that somewhere before? ‘Mummy, theft is theft.’

‘It wasn’t
really
theft,’ she said carefully. ‘It was …redistribution, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Camfam’s got
so
much money – millions and millions. People are always giving to Camfam. But three months ago I got involved with the Canine Prosthetics Association.’

‘The
what
?’

‘The CPA,’ she explained. ‘They make artificial limbs for dogs. And they’ve hardly got any money at all. So I decided to give what I’d raised for Camfam to them instead.’

‘
Ah.
How much?’

‘Only five thousand pounds.’

‘How did you raise it?’

‘Bring-and-buys, car boot sales – the usual. But instead of sending the money to Camfam I put it in my own account instead. I didn’t
keep
it though,’ she went on emphatically. ‘I paid it straight out again to the CPA.’

‘Oh God.’

‘But, Minty, these poor little dogs on three legs, it’s heartbreaking to see them. I just felt
so
sorry for them. And I’ve never done anything like this before, and I didn’t think anybody would mind. But now they’re making this
awful
fuss!’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Camfam have banned me, and I might …I might …’ she put her hand to her eyes. ‘I might end up going to
jail
!’ This was terrible. Terrible.

‘Does Dad know?’

‘
Everyone
knows,’ she said dismally.

I was surprised by how sanguine about it Dad was when I phoned him later. He sounded quite calm and he said he doubted that she’d get a prison sentence.

‘It’ll probably be a big fine,’ he said, ‘as she didn’t keep the money herself. She still can’t quite see that she did anything wrong.’

On my first day back to work, everyone was very tactful. They all asked me if I’d enjoyed LA, but no one mentioned Mum. And this despite the fact that it had been picked up by all the papers. Eventually, I brought up the subject myself at the morning meeting, so that I could tell them the truth. Because I’d hate anyone to think that my mother had taken the money for herself.

‘Still, I suppose it’s all publicity for the station,’ I concluded with a mirthless laugh.

But the whole thing was dreadful. It was really worrying. And on top of the shock of seeing Joe with his new woman, and chronic jet-lag – I was having trouble sleeping at night. So at three o’clock this morning I turned on my bedside radio and heard a familiar voice:

‘That weally is cwap!’ I heard Melinda say to one of her late-night nutters. ‘I mean, people go on and on about dolphins,’ she said. ‘But what about the
tuna
?’

‘What about the tuna?’ said the caller in a puzzled tone.

‘Well, they get eaten, just because they’re not cute-looking with smiley faces and big foreheads. But who wowwies about
that
?’ she exclaimed. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow. A few minutes later she had taken a call about wheelchair access on London’s buses.

‘I think it’s
widiculous
that all the buses have got to be fitted with wheelchair-fwiendly doors,’ she said.

‘Why is it ridiculous?’ asked her guest.

‘Because disabled people don’t
use
buses – evewyone knows that. I mean, when was the last time
you
saw someone in a wheelchair getting on a bus?’

And she was so rude to her guests! It was unbelievable. If they disagreed with her, they just got abuse.

‘Oh, why don’t you give your tonsils a holiday!’ I heard her say to Kevin from Forest Hill. ‘Wind your neck in!’ she snapped at Bill from Beckenham. Thank God the audience was so small, I thought as I finally drifted off to sleep, just a few thousand insomniacs and eccentrics and spaced-out kids returning from raves.

The next few days were tense, as we waited to see whether Camfam would press charges. Mum’s bank account was investigated by all her other charities to make sure that she hadn’t ‘redistributed’ their money too. The whole thing was hideous. Added to which, Perdita now looked fit to explode. Her distended belly swayed from side to side like a bag and she could hardly drag herself around. We’d prepared a birthing suite for her, in the form of a large cardboard box which we’d lined with kitchen paper and placed in a nook on the landing. And two days went by. Then three. And still she showed no sign of parturiting. The tension was terrible. Then, on the fourth day, I came back from work to find Amber in a complete state.

‘I think she’s going into labour,’ she said.

‘Miaaaooooow!!!!!’ said Perdita. She was making such a din. She wouldn’t sit still, she couldn’t bear to be left alone, and she just kept mewing and screaming at us.

‘MIAOOOWWWWW!!!!’ She was almost hysterical. This wasn’t quite what we’d expected.

‘I thought Laurie said she’d just slope off somewhere and quietly pop the kittens out.’

‘No. I’ve just phoned him,’ Amber replied. ‘He thinks she might want us to be midwives, because maiden queens are sometimes nervous.’

And so we both sat there, and stroked her, as the long process began.

‘MIAOOOWWWWW!’ she cried again, louder now.

‘I wonder how long it’ll take?’ said Amber.

‘A couple of hours, I guess.’

We watched a portable telly to pass the time while we waited. First we watched
Blue Peter
, then the
Six O’Clock News.
And then we turned over to
Coronation Street
and watched that too. After that we watched
Brookside
and then the
National Lottery Live.
And still there was no sign. So we sat through the
Nine O’Clock News
and
X-Files
, and still nothing had happened. But by the time the credits were rolling on
Newsnight
, Perdita was having major contractions. One minute she would be lying there, perfectly happily, and the next minute her swollen little body had gone into spasm. And in between these alarming convulsions she was purring like a lawnmower, which surprised us.

By midnight her contractions were much closer together. Every time one came she would open her mouth, go rigid with pain, and emit an eerie, silent scream. It was frightening to see the unstoppable forces of nature take hold. And if either Amber or I moved a muscle, Perdita would get in a panic and cry. By two in the morning she was lying, exhausted, on her side, panting, her little pink tongue hanging out.

‘She’s ready to conk out and she hasn’t even given birth yet,’ said Amber desperately.

‘Perhaps we should play her some music,’ I said. So I turned
on the radio. And there was Melinda. We listened for a minute or two, transfixed. If incompetence had been her trade mark before, now it was simple abuse.

‘– why don’t you hang up, you borwing old fart!’

‘– give your tongue a west!’

‘– get off the line, you sadfuck!’

‘– put your teeth in, Gwandpa!’

‘Why is she so
rude
?’ said Amber, aghast.

‘I guess it’s because she hates doing the night shift,’ I replied. ‘She wishes she was still presenting
Capitalise
, so she takes her aggro out on her listeners.’

‘She’ll be lucky if she’s not reported to the Broadcasting Standards people,’ Amber said.

‘And now a commercial bweak,’ we heard Melinda say.

‘
Landscape gardening is an art. Why not consult Easiplant? We’re experts in this field …
’

I switched the radio off. And by now it was three a.m. and still Perdita hadn’t given birth. Then, suddenly, we saw something. A little bubble appeared, and then something white, and a tiny damp furry thing like a drowned mouse slithered out on to the newspaper. Perdita whipped round, bit through its umbilicus and began to lick the new-born kitten with her rasping tongue.

‘It
was
the tortoiseshell at number 31,’ I said confidently as tigery stripes were revealed.

‘Thank God it wasn’t that ginger one,’ said Amber, with a smile of relief. And suddenly the kitten stretched its front paws, no bigger than paperclips, and groped its way blindly forward.

‘Wow!’ said Amber, as it found a nipple and began to suck. Perdita was purring, and mewing, and then she contracted again, and within minutes another kitten slipped out in its sac and was vigorously cleaned up as it latched on.

‘Twins!’ I said. And then we heard this odd, crunching sound.

‘Oh look!’ said Amber rapturously. ‘She’s eating her after-birth! Isn’t that
lovely
, Minty!’

‘Suppose so,’ I said, queasily.