The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.

  ‘Aah! Putain!’

  ‘Espèce de con!’

  ‘Especially that one, there.’

  ‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’

  ‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’

  ‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’

  ‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.

  A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.

  ‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.

  ‘Vous voulez jouer?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  ‘Would you like to play?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.

  ‘You play with them,’ I said to her.

  ‘Not without you.’

  ‘Go on. I’ll watch.’

  ‘No, no – we’ll both play.’

  ‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’

  ‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?

  ‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.

  Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.

  ‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.

  ‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.

  ‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Centre forward?’

  ‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’

  ‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’

  ‘I don’t even know what they are.’

  ‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.

  We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I groaned.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We’ll still win.’ Now my heart was pounding as Joe and Pierre wrestled for the ball again. The excitement was high as it skidded around the pitch, and it was hard to concentrate, because Joe talked all the time.

  ‘What do you do, Minty?’

  ‘Oh, er …I’m a radio journalist,’ I said, amazed that he could simultaneously concentrate on the game and converse. ‘What about you?’ I enquired, though I was only being polite.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ he replied. ‘And where do you work?’

  ‘London FM. On a magazine programme called Capitalise.’ ‘Oh, I know it. Current affairs and features.’ Suddenly, Helen’s half-back kicked the ball so hard that it bounced right off the pitch. Play stopped for a few seconds as she went chasing after it.

  ‘I like Capitalise,’ said Joe. ‘I listen to it quite a bit.’

  ‘Do you live in London, then?’ I asked him.

  ‘On and off,’ he replied. ‘I’m teaching a creative writing course here for the summer, but I’ll be back in London in mid October. Where are you staying?’

  Why all the questions? I wondered. And then Helen reappeared with the ball.

  ‘OK – le throw-in!’ said Pierre.

  ‘So where are you staying?’ Joe asked again, as the ball bounced on to the pitch.

  ‘Umm, the George V, actually.’ I didn’t want to explain why. He gave a long, low whistle, then he passed the ball back to me.

  ‘Le George V. Wow!’

  ‘Only for four days,’ I said, as I moved my goalie across to counter the threat from Pierre’s centre half.

  ‘Good save, Minty!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘And when do you go back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’

  Why was he so inquisitive? I didn’t even know the man. He fired at the goal. And in it went.

  ‘Thank you! That’s two-one,’ he yelled. ‘Can I give you a ring?’ he said suddenly, as Helen put a new ball down.

  ‘What?’ I said, as play resumed.

  ‘Can I call you?’ he repeated. ‘Can I call you when I’m back in London?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I replied, surprised.

  ‘We could play table football,’ he said. ‘We could play at Café Kick.’

  ‘Oh.’ How forward. And how very depressing, I thought. He was trying to pick me up. He obviously did this all the time. With women he hardly knew. I didn’t need this, I thought crossly. I’d just been jilted, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want a man ringing me ever again. Humiliating me ever again. Hurting me ever again.

  ‘Penalty!’ shouted Pierre.

  ‘Would it be all right if I took your number, Minty?’ Joe asked me again, as he passed the ball back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I repeated tersely. I struck the ball, hard, and a shout went up.

  ‘Own goal, Minty!’ everyone cried.

  August

  ‘’Ad a nice time, luv?’ enquired the driver of the cab I flagged down outside Waterloo. Helen had gone to Holland Park to see her parents.

  ‘Sort of. Well, not really.’

  ‘What was it, ‘oliday?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Honeymoon.’

  ‘Where’s your ‘usband then?’

  ‘I haven’t got one.’

  ‘You ain’t got one?’

  ‘No. He ran away.’

  ‘ ‘E did a runner?’ said the driver incredulously. He turned round to face me and almost crashed the cab.

  ‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘During the service. So I went with my bridesmaid instead.’

  ‘’E did a runner!’

  He was chortling and shaking his head.
/>
  ‘Bleedin’ ‘ell. I ‘ope you never catch him.’

  ‘I shan’t even try,’ I said.

  My spirits drooped like dead flowers as we drove through the dusty streets. My brief holiday was over; reality was rolling in. I could have wept as we passed the Waldorf. And the sight of a church made me feel sick. I thought, sinkingly, of work and dreaded having to return. How would I face my colleagues, and what on earth would they say? I would be an object of pity and derision, I decided as we bounced north. I would be suffocated by their sympathy, choked by their concern.

  We drew up outside my flat and I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign. It would have to come down, I realised; I wouldn’t be going anywhere now. And for the first time I felt a flutter of something like relief, because Clapham Common isn’t really my scene. And I knew that the one thing I wouldn’t miss about seeing Dom was that twice-weekly fifteen-stop trip down the Northern Line. Then I realised, with a stab of dismay, that I’d have to retrieve my stuff from his flat. There wasn’t much; very little, in fact, considering that we’d been engaged. Just my toothbrush, an old jacket and some books. Dom said he didn’t want me to leave too much there in case Madge thought we were ‘living in sin’. And I was just wondering how I’d get my things back, and thinking how agonising this would be, when I noticed two bulging Safeway bags leaning against the front door. Stapled to one was an envelope marked ‘Minty’ in a familiar backward-sloping hand. I turned the key in the lock, picked them up, and went into the silence of my flat. I grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer and opened the envelope with a pounding heart.

  I thought this would make it easier for you, Minty. Sorry, but I just knew it wasn’t right. No hard feelings?

  Best wishes, Dom.

  Best wishes! Best wishes? The man who just four days ago I was set to marry; the man whose children I was going to have; the man whose boxer shorts I had washed – and ironed – was now politely sending me best wishes? And actually, if you don’t mind my saying so, I do have hard feelings, Dom! In fact, they’re as hard as granite or flint. No hard feelings? They’re as hard as an unripe pear. And look how quickly he’d returned my things! Hardly am I back from my honeymoon before I’m bundled out of his life in two plastic bags. Outrageous! After what he did. Outrageous! For all he knew, I might have thrown myself in the Seine.

  Fired up by a Vesuvius of suppressed anger, I tore off my jacket, threw open the windows, and put on my rubber gloves. Others may drink or take drugs to relieve stress. Personally, I clean. So I hoovered and dusted and tidied. I mopped, and polished and washed. In a frenzy of fastidiousness, I even scraped the gunge out of the oven, and wiped the grime from the window panes. Only then, when I’d spent three hours in a state of hysterical hygienicity, did I feel my blood pressure drop.

  Now I felt sufficiently calm to confront the wedding presents. Dad had left me a note saying he’d put these in the sitting room. I’d deliberately avoided looking in there, but now I opened the door. Attractively wrapped packages were stacked in vertiginous piles on the sofa and chairs and almost covered the floor. It was like Christmas, without the joy. They were encased in shining silver or pearly white, and topped with tassels and bows. Tiny envelopes fluttered on the ends of curled ribbons and bore the legend, ‘Minty and Dom’. I looked again at the note from Dad. ‘Everyone said you can keep the presents,’ he wrote. ‘They’re for you to do with as you want.’ I had already decided what I would do. I opened each gift, carefully noting down what it was, and who it was from. An Alessi toaster. Dominic had asked for that. It was from one of his clients. Right. Oxfam. An oil drizzler from Auntie Clare. That could go to Age Concern. Some library steps from Cousin Peter – very nice: Barnado’s. A CD rack from Pat and Jo: the British Heart Foundation shop. His’n’Hers bathrobes from Dominic’s old flatmate: Relate, I thought with a grim little smile. An embroidered laundry bag from Wesley: Sue Ryder. Two pairs of candlesticks: Scope. I plodded through the vast pile, mentally distributing the items amongst the charity shops of North London, as bandits distribute their loot. But the most expensive things I kept for Mum, to be auctioned at her next charity ball. The painting that her brother, Brian, had given us, for example. He’s an Academician, so that would fetch quite a bit. A set of solid silver teaspoons from my godfather, worth three hundred at least. Six crystal whisky tumblers bought from Thomas Goode, and the Wedgwood tea service, of course. Mum was more than welcome to that – she’d paid for it, after all, and there was no way I could keep it now.

  In fact, I wasn’t going to keep anything. Not a thing. Miss Havisham might have turned herself into a living shrine to her day of shame, but I would do the reverse. There would be no reminders of my wedding: no yellowing gown, no mouldering cake – not so much as a crumb. I would divest myself of everything associated with that dreadful, dreadful day. I would remove every trace, as criminals attempt to eradicate the evidence of their crimes. I went and looked at my wedding dress again. The dress I hadn’t even liked. The dress I had bought to please Dom. It was hanging, heavily, in its thick, plastic cover on the back of my bedroom door. And on the chair were my satin slippers, wrapped in tissue, and placed side by side in their box. And the bouquet was laid out on the windowsill, where it was already drying in the warm summer air, and the sequins on my veil sparkled and winked in the rays of the late evening sun.

  On the bedside table were some Order of Service sheets. I picked one up, sat down on the bed, and turned it over in my hands. ‘St Bride’s Church, Fleet Street, London,’ it announced in deeply engraved black letters; ‘Saturday, July 28th’. And beneath, on the left, ‘Araminta’, and then ‘Dominic’ to the right. There were also two boxes of confetti. Unopened. At these, I almost cried. But I didn’t. Instead I found myself thinking about Charlie, and about how well he’d tried to cope, and how awful it had been for him too, and how decent and good he is. And I thought how lucky Amber is to have him. He would never have done what Dom did. It’ll be their turn next, I reflected, enviously, as I wrapped tissue paper round my veil. But their wedding will be joyful, I thought, unlike my cruel and shambolic day.

  In my study were three boxes of embossed ‘thank you’ cards, engraved with my new married name. So on each one I Tippexed out Lane, and wrote ‘Malone’ instead. Alone, I realised bitterly. I thought it best, in the circumstances, to keep the messages brief, though in certain cases, I did mention Paris and how delightful I’d found the George V and how nice it was of Helen to come with me and how we’d sort of enjoyed ourselves, in a funny sort of way. But I avoided saying how ‘useful’ I was going to find their spice racks, or their milk frothers, or their hurricane lanterns, because it wouldn’t have been true. They were all destined for other hands. And I must have been sitting there for about two hours I suppose, writing card after card after card, when it happened. The tears came, and I couldn’t see to write any more. I was just so angry. So angry. It possessed me like a physical pain. How could he? How could he have hurt and humiliated me so much? And then just casually dropping off my things like that and suggesting there’d be no hard feelings?! No hard feelings?

  I did what I had resolved not to do – I picked up the phone. I’d speak to him. I’d bloody well let rip with a few hard feelings. He’d be dodging my hard feelings like stones. My heart was banging in my chest as I started to dial. 01 …I’d tell him what I thought of him …81 …I’d been so good to him …9 …even inviting his …2 …bloody clients to my …4 …bloody wedding – people I’d never even met. And Dad picking up the bill for all this …5 …without so much as a word …2 …3 …And then Dom just running out of church as though he were leaving some boring play. By now I burned with an incandescent fury that would have illuminated a small town. I’d never take him back after what he’d done to me. I was white hot. I was spitting fire I …I …Christ! Who was that?

  The doorbell had rung, and was ringing again, hard. I slammed down the phone. Dominic! It was Dominic! He’d come to say that it was all a terrible mistake and to beg my forgive
ness and to tell me that he would wear sackcloth and ashes for a year – no, two – if only I would take him back. I wiped my eyes and hurtled downstairs. Dominic! Dominic! Yes, of course I’ll have you back! Let’s wipe that slate clean, Dominic! We can work it out. I flung open the door.

  ‘Domin– Oh! Amber!’

  ‘Oh, Minty!’ she wailed. She staggered inside and flung her arms round me. ‘Oh, Minty,’ she wept. ‘It was so awful!’

  ‘Well, yes it was,’ I said. ‘It was terrible.’

  She was sobbing on to my shoulder. ‘I don’t know how he could do that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It was such a shock.’

  ‘You’re telling me!’

  ‘Such a dreadful thing to do.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was. Dreadful.’

  ‘Woof!’

  Oh God, she’d brought Pedro, I realised. Her parrot. And then I thought, why has she brought Pedro? And why is she here at ten p.m. with Pedro and a weekend bag?

  ‘Amber, what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s …it’s – Charlie,’ she sobbed.

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened to him,’ she howled. ‘It’s what’s happened to me. Oh, Minty, Minty – I’ve been dumped!’

  There’s nothing like someone else’s misery to make you forget your own. I don’t really like to admit this, but Amber’s anguish instantly cheered me up. Even though I’m terribly fond of her, and have known her all my life. She staggered inside with her stuff, and sat sobbing in the kitchen. Pedro was squawking in the sitting room – I’d decided to install him in there because he’s an incredibly noisy bird and our nerves were on edge.

  Great fat tears coursed down Amber’s cheeks as she told me what had occurred. It was all because of me, apparently. Or rather, it was because of what had happened to me in church. I suppose you might call it the Domino Effect – or perhaps the Dominic Effect.

  ‘When Charlie heard Dom say those things to you, about not being able to make those promises, it really affected him,’ she explained between teary gasps. ‘He said he knew then that he could never make those promises to me.’