by Isabel Wolff
Actually, that’s my secret nickname for him: ‘Justin Case’. But I haven’t told him that. I’m not sure he’d find it funny. I did try teasing him once or twice, in the beginning, but it was obvious that he didn’t really like it, so I soon learned not to do it again! But he’s a complete whizz when it comes to business. He’s got a magic touch. That’s how we met. He rang up one day, totally out of the blue, and said he was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend (I still can’t remember for the life of me exactly which friend it was), and he said there was something ‘very important’ he wanted to discuss with me. He wouldn’t say over the phone what it was, but it certainly sounded intriguing, and he had such a lovely voice, and he was so friendly, and before I knew what had happened, I’d agreed to meet him. Largely out of curiosity. So he offered to come up to my flat in Primrose Hill. And the bell rang, and there on the doorstep was this incredibly attractive man. He was so good-looking I nearly fainted! He was tall, with blond hair – not that wimpy white-blond hair, but a deep, burnished sandy colour, as though he’d just trekked across the Sahara. And his eyes were this startling blue. Like the blue of Sri Lankan sapphires. And he stood there, holding out his hand, and smiling at me – very good teeth, too, incidentally. So I invited him in, and made him a cup of coffee while he asked me questions about my date of birth, my general health and whether or not I smoked or had AIDS, and he made some very flattering comments about my interior décor – even though he confessed not long afterwards that he hadn’t liked it at all! Then he whipped out his laptop computer and a pile of graphs and charts, and looked at me in a very serious and meaningful way which thrilled me to my core.
‘Now, Minty, here you are. Here. In 1970,’ he said pointing to the left-hand side of the graph, ‘and you’ve just been born. OK?’ I nodded. I was indeed born in 1970. Then he pointed to the extreme right-hand side of the chart. ‘And here you are again, Minty. In the year 2050. And you’re dead.’
‘Oh. Um, yes. Suppose I am.’
‘Now, Minty,’ he went on, fixing me with a penetrating look, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
‘Do about it? Well, there’s not much I can do really.’
‘Oh yes there is, Minty,’ he said with a zealous gleam in his eye. ‘There’s a lot you can do about it. You can protect yourself – and your loved ones – against it.’
And suddenly, the penny dropped. I don’t know why it had taken so long, I suppose I was distracted by his genial manner and his good looks.
‘You’re an insurance salesman,’ I said, and I couldn’t help laughing.
But he didn’t laugh. In fact, he bristled.
‘I’m an IFA, actually,’ he pointed out. ‘An Independent Financial Adviser. And it’s not insurance, Minty. It’s assurance.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.
‘Now, Minty, I do think you could benefit from my help here,’ he went on with a benevolent smile. And I don’t know what it was, his compelling personality, the way he kept using my Christian name, the heady scent of his aftershave, or his irresistible charm, but before I knew what had happened I had signed on several dotted lines, thereby embarking on a life-long commitment to the Dreddful Accident Insurance Company, the Colossal Pension Fund, as well as purchasing accidental death coverage with Irish Widows. And now here I am, a mere eighteen months later, making a life-long commitment to him too. And I really couldn’t be happier. I mean, Dominic and I just clicked after that first encounter. We really clicked.
As I say, I find him terribly attractive. You see, I’ve always had this secret thing about blond men. Some women don’t go for them at all, but I’ve always liked them. They’re unusual, for a start, and then they’re so different to me. I look vaguely Mediterranean, with long, wavy, dark hair and eyes the colour of espresso. But Dominic’s the opposite. He’s so fair. So English. I’ll tell you who he looks like: Ashley in Gone with the Wind. Gorgeous. Physical attraction is so important, isn’t it?
And of course we’re very compatible. Well, we are now. In the beginning we weren’t. I’d be the first to admit that. As I say, he liked fishing – I hated it. He played a lot of cricket. It bored me to bits. He loved shopping – especially for clothes – and, frankly, I’m not that bothered. He wasn’t a bit interested in going to art galleries and the theatre, whereas I adore seeing exhibitions and plays. And films. I love films. In fact, I’m quite well-watched. I’d travelled an awful lot too, whereas Dom was terrified of flying and had hardly set foot outside the British Isles. So, to tell you the truth, it didn’t look good at first. But now, the situation’s changed completely. We’re terribly compatible. Because I’ve made myself like all the things he likes! So I go and watch him fly-fishing; I watch him play cricket; and I’ll happily sit and watch Eurosports with him. Unless it’s snooker. Or darts. And if there’s some fascinating documentary or first-rate period drama, well, I can always watch it upstairs on his tiny black-and-white. But that’s how we get on. And I know we’re compatible, because we filled in a compatibility questionnaire – and we passed! And I haven’t just given up all my previous interests. I mean, I still get to go to the theatre sometimes, and the Tate, but I go with my girlfriends, because of course I’d never make Dominic do anything he didn’t want to do.
But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t give way so much. And I do know what you mean. But these are minor things to me, and in any relationship there’s bound to be a lot of give and take. And I’m keeping my eye on the wider picture here, which is that I really love Dom. So these are small sacrifices to make. And in any case, I absolutely hate making a fuss about anything. I’m very ‘nice’. That’s what everyone says about me – that I’m terribly ‘nice’. They’ve always said that. And I simply loathe confrontations of any kind. I just can’t handle them at all. So, if it’s a small matter, I’m more than happy to give in because, to my mind, it’s simply not worth making a fuss. And as far as Dominic’s refusal to travel goes, well, I’m philosophical about that because I’ve already seen lots of places. Anyway, I quite like holidays in England or Wales. I mean, it’s all very well gadding about in Malaysia or Mauritius, the Med or Martinique, Venezuela or Venice, the Caymans, Kenya or Hong Kong – but just think of what you’re missing on your own doorstep! Dominic and I have had some lovely weekends in Norfolk. And Scotland. And the Lake District. Been there twice. In any case, one should try and be satisfied. And I am. I’m very happy with my lot, thank you very much. And you’ve got to decide who it is you want. Who you want to be with. And, for better or for worse, I want to be with Dominic. Because I adore him. Absolutely. He’s The One. Nothing makes me happier than being round at his place, cooking something for him. Although I’d be the first to agree with him that I’m a pretty rotten cook. I mean, you don’t so much carve my roast chickens, as shake them! But I’m going to do a course and learn how to do it properly, because I’m really mad about Dominic.
Mind you, now we’re on the subject, it wouldn’t be true to say that I like everything about him – that would be impossible. No one likes everything about their partner, do they? Between you and me, I really don’t like the way he tries to sell people policies at parties. I do find it a bit embarrassing. Not that I’d mention it to him, of course. And I don’t think he should automatically call people by their Christian names. And I’m not too keen on the way he wears his sunglasses all the time, even when it’s overcast. And the funny thing is that when it’s hot and bright, he wears them on top of his head! And I’m not that crazy about his low-slung, red, Japanese convertible – it’s really not my kind of car at all. I feel a bit idiotic in it, to be honest, and it certainly isn’t eco-friendly on the fuel front, which drives Mum mad as she’s a fund-raiser for Pals of the Planet. And I’m not mad about the way he snaps his fingers at waiters, and does a little scribble in the air when he wants the bill. And it does depress me when he goes on and on about his great days at Uppingham. It’s so unnecessary and, I mean, it’s not exactly a big de
al, is it? And one of these days someone will say, ‘Oh, really? I was there too, you know. Which house were you in?’ and then he’ll be sunk. He’s been very lucky so far. And naturally I always keep quiet and change the subject as soon as I can. Personally, I can’t see what’s wrong with saying he went to Sutton Coldfield Secondary Modern. But for some reason he seems rather ashamed of it.
Another thing: he rarely mentions his father. In fact, he isn’t even invited to the wedding, which is awful. Though what can I do? Dominic insists that it would upset his mother if he were there. I think the real reason is that his father’s a mechanic. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Being a mechanic is fine. But Dom doesn’t seem to think so. Whenever I ask him about his dad, or suggest we go and see him, he just changes the subject, and I think that’s a terrible shame. Dom’s much closer to his mother, Madge. In fact, he adores her. It’s ‘Mummy’ this, and ‘Mummy’ that, which is rather sweet. In a way. Anyway, I do think it’s great to be marrying a man who has such a strong relationship with his mother. She thinks the world of him too. She’s terribly proud of what he’s achieved, and he’s been very good to her. Bought her a house in Solihull after her divorce. He’s devoted. And she’d never let on that his real name isn’t Dominic at all. It’s Neil. I discovered this by accident a few weeks ago when I happened to see his driving licence. I was quite surprised, and so I asked him about it. And he confessed that the reason was that when he came down to London fifteen years ago he felt that Neil wasn’t quite the right kind of name for him. To be honest, I think Neil’s a pretty awful name too, so I don’t blame him for changing it. And I mean, I can’t talk, because Minty isn’t my real name either. Or at least, it’s only my middle name. I was actually christened Irene Araminta, after my two grandmothers, but from day one I’ve always been known as Minty. But Dominic just wanted to be Dominic because he thought it had the right sort of ring.
So, as you can see, he’s got his little tender spots, his problem areas and his peccadilloes. And I’m not blind to them. I can see them all. As clear as day. But they don’t affect how I feel about him. Because a) I love him, and b) I understand him. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’ve got him sussed. And when you know where someone’s coming from, then you can overlook their little foibles, because to understand is to forgive.
Because the fact is, despite his confident exterior, Dominic’s pretty insecure. About his background, mostly. Wants to feel he’s transcended his unpromising beginnings, although I’d rather he was open about it and proud of having come so far from, well, a sort of council estate, really. But it seems to bother him, though I really don’t know why. I thought everyone wanted to be working class these days. But his mother says he’s always been very ‘aspiring’. That’s the word she used. Keen to ‘improve himself’, as they say. That’s why designer labels are so important to him, and being seen in the ‘right’ places, and saying the ‘right’ things. And that’s why he’s very keen on books about etiquette, etc. For example, in his downstairs loo, you’ll find The Sloane Ranger Handbook, Jilly Cooper’s Class, The Done Thing, and Miss Manners, because he’s very keen to cut the mustard in smart circles now. He does make quite a lot of money, actually. Commission, most of it. He’s done terribly well out of pensions. And he gets invited to lots of corporate do’s by the insurance companies whose products he sells – they ask him to Ascot and Henley and all that, and so he really wants to pass the test. And that’s only natural, isn’t it? And the point is that I love Dominic. I do, really. I love him for who he is, and for what he’s achieved, and for the fact that he’s worked so hard and come so far. I admire him all the more precisely because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth and didn’t have the benefit of granny’s money, like I did, which is how I was able to buy my flat. Dominic had to do it all by himself. And he did. And I do respect that. But I just wish he could have a little more selfconfidence. I hope that’s something that marriage will give him.
So I encourage him as much as I can, and I’d never, ever criticise him – even if I wanted to, which I don’t – because a) he’s always promptly dropped girlfriends who did criticise him in any way whatsoever, and b) I’m certainly not perfect myself. Far from it, in fact, as he often likes to point out. Because here I am letting you in on Dominic’s little foibles, when, let’s face it, I’ve got plenty of my own. For instance, Dom thinks I talk too much. He’s always said that – right from the start. I thought that was a bit odd, to be honest, because no one else has ever said that to me, but I guess I must have been doing it without realising. Dom doesn’t like it if I try and have conversations which he thinks are too ‘serious’, because he thinks that’s boring and not the Done Thing. He read somewhere that smart people don’t talk about serious issues. They mostly like to talk about things that are ‘amusing’. Not politics, for a start. Or King Lear. Or Camille Paglia. So I often have to bite my tongue to make sure I don’t say anything interesting and annoy him. Because he does get quite annoyed. Well, very annoyed, actually.
My taste in clothes is not that great either, but luckily Dominic’s really improved it for me. Because he’s always impeccably turned out. Which I like, because, let’s face it, so many men don’t bother much these days. Anyway, no one had ever pointed out to me that I could do with a bit of advice on that front. He said I looked like a ‘superannuated student’. And he was right. I did. I probably picked it up from Mum. She favours the Bloomsbury look – her things are long and floaty and a bit ‘arty’ – all from charity shops, of course. Dom said he’d never let me go round looking like that. Now, he likes clothes that are well cut, expensive-looking and ‘smart’ – Gucci, for example. Which is a bit hard when you’re on a small salary like I am, though at least I don’t have a mortgage. And so when I first started going out with him I found there were lots of things I couldn’t wear. He called them my ‘nightmares’. And that surprised me too, because none of my previous boyfriends felt like that at all. Anyway, Dom told me to throw them all out, but I objected to that, so I put them in boxes under my bed.
He’s always buying me things. Clothes, mostly. He loves shopping for clothes for me. I felt a bit awkward about that to begin with. In fact, it made me feel quite uncomfortable. And I wasn’t at all sure it was right. But Madge said I should let him do it, because he wants to, and he can afford to. So I go along with it. Even if I’m not crazy about spending most of Saturday in Harvey Nichols, and even if I’m not crazy about his choice. I mean, he bought me a Hermès bag recently. I know – so expensive! He said he wanted me to have one. And of course I threw my arms round him and said how thrilled I was, and how generous he was – which he is, don’t get me wrong. He’s very generous. But, to be frank, I don’t actually like it – though I would never have said so in a million years. And naturally I use it all the time. Now, whenever I give him something that he doesn’t like, I’m afraid it has to go back to the shop. I’ve sort of got used to it now, I suppose. But I really like to please Dominic because, well, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?
I’ve always been like that. I’ve always liked to smooth things over, for there to be no arguments or conflict, and for everything to be …nice. That’s what everyone says about me – ‘Minty’s so nice!’ And that’s nice, isn’t it? That they all think I’m so nice. And because I do like to be nice, I always indulge Dominic, because I know him so well, and you have to accept everyone as they are. That’s what Dominic says. And you can’t change people, can you? Especially when they’re thirty-five like he is and –
Oh God, here I am droning on, as Dominic would say, boring you to bits, and look at the time: 10.15! God, God, God. Maybe I should pray. I do feel quite scared, to be honest. ‘Till death us do part,’ and all that. ‘As long as ye both shall live.’ The awesome commitment we’re about to make to each other. The fact that I’m about to become Mrs Dominic Lane and – oh, thank goodness, thank goodness, Helen’s back.
We set off for church within fifteen minutes. Helen che
cked that my thirty-five loops were all fastened, and that my make-up and hair looked good, then I did up her dress, we shouted for Dad and jumped in the Bentley, which had been waiting for half an hour. We all sat in the back; I had Helen’s bouquet of white anemones and pink roses lying on my lap. It wasn’t one of those stiff, wired bouquets that I always think look equally at home on top of coffins; it was a simple posy, loosely tied, as though she had plucked the flowers from the garden minutes before. In fact, they’d been hot-housed in Holland, flown in overnight, and she’d bought them from New Covent Garden at three o’clock that morning. Helen’s a genius with flowers. It’s as though she’s just stuck them in – like that – with absolutely no thought or planning. But hers is the art that conceals art, and her arrangements have the informal, tumbling beauty of Dutch flower paintings.
Anyway, Helen and Dad and I were chatting away nervously as we left Primrose Hill in the leaden heat of a mid morning in late July. The twenty-eighth, actually, a date I knew I would remember all my life, as I remember the date of my birth. And I was so glad to have Helen with me. I’ve known her for twelve years – since Edinburgh – and we’ve remained in pretty close touch ever since. She read economics and then went to work for Metrobank, where she did terribly well. But three years ago there was one of these mega-mergers and she was made redundant, so she used her pay-off to fund her pipe-dream: it’s called Floribunda, and it’s in Covent Garden, where she lives. It’s so tiny – Lilliputian, in fact – that you hardly dare turn round for fear of sending tubs of phlox and foxglove flying. But she’s really in demand – she got a call from Jerry Hall the other day. And what’s so nice about Helen is that she’s totally unspoilt by her success. Her bridesmaid’s dress looked lovely: ice blue, also by Neil Cunningham, and designed to harmonise with mine. She’d tied her hair – a hank of pale apricot silk – into a neat, simple twist, and dressed it with two pink rosebuds. And although she looked gorgeous, I’d have liked little bridesmaids too, a Montessori school of tiny girls nose-picking and stumbling their way up the aisle. But I don’t know any of the right age. I’m sure someone could make a bomb hiring them out. Anyway, I wanted to have someone to support me – after all, Dominic had Charlie – so I asked Helen to be my maid of honour.