The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘No, no, really, please, there’s no need,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a red satin basque, underwired –’ I glanced at her flat chest – ‘and cut enticingly low.’ Anything less enticing than the image of Citronella dressed in this was hard to imagine. ‘It has some very naughty details like these two flaps here –’ she pointed to the chest. ‘And the marabou trim along the straps. A friend of mine suggested it,’ she went on, ‘when I told her about our problem. So I bought it out of an Ann Summers catalogue, and, well …’ She giggled. ‘It did the trick. Within just three years, we had our daughter, so I can heartily recommend this approach to your audience.’

  ‘What a nice story,’ I said, whilst feeling sorry for Citronella that she’d had to put on sexy lingerie to get her husband to do the business. ‘However,’ I went on with as much tact as I could muster, ‘I’d like to talk about the moral implications of reproductive medicine, rather than your own experiences.’ I was desperate just to get the interview done, and get out. Eventually I’d managed to extract a couple of usable sentences out of her.

  ‘I don’t approve of fertility treatment,’ she said. ‘There are too many ethical issues involved. But those poor, poor women who are so desperate to conceive are hardly going to concern themselves with that.’

  ‘I don’t think women should concern themselves with the ethics of fertility treatment,’ said Godfrey Barnes. ‘I don’t!’ he added roundly. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s about morals!’

  We were sitting in his cluttered consultating room in his clinic near Camden Square, and I was delighted with his brilliantly uninhibited views. This would make great radio, I thought, as the cassette went round and round. He was forthright and robust – no mealy-mouthed circumlocution here. None of that mimsy, attention-killing, ‘Well, on the one hand, this – but on the other hand, that. It depends …’ sort of thing. Oh, no. He was almost reckless in what he said. He was also devastatingly attractive.

  ‘My motto is, “Let There Be Life!”’ he exclaimed, with a stentorian laugh. ‘I’m here to bring babies into the world.’

  This was fantastic. I was enjoying myself. I was actually enjoying myself, something I hadn’t done for months – though, obviously, I wasn’t actually flirting with him. It’s very unprofessional to flirt with your subjects. And in any case I wasn’t ready to start flirting with anyone yet. I was still so miserable about Dom. So, no, I definitely wasn’t flirting. Absolutely not. Though I was glad that I’d bothered to put on scent, make-up, and my smartest little Phase Eight suit with the tiny slit up the side of the skirt. I flicked back my hair, then held the microphone a little closer.

  ‘So you’ve got a lot of women pregnant then?’ I said, with a kind of jokey provocation. He seemed to like this, because a broad smile lit up his handsome face.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ruffling his right hand through his thick, auburn hair. ‘I’ve made lots of women pregnant, hundreds and hundreds – as you can see!’ He waved his right hand at the noticeboard, which was plastered with photos of babies. There were babies on their fronts, and babies on their backs; there were babies in high chairs, and babies in the bath. There were babies being pushed in their buggies, and babies being dandled on knees. There were babies in blue romper suits and babies in tiny pink dresses. There were twins and triplets. Boys and girls. He seemed to beam at them all with a kind of paternal pride.

  ‘Do you see yourself as God?’ I asked with a smile. ‘That’s how you’re often described.’

  He roared with laughter again, and I found myself laughing too. He really was an exceptionally charming and charismatic man. Thank God I remembered to put on some mascara, I thought, as I gazed into his twinkly green eyes.

  ‘God is the creator,’ he said. ‘I’m simply creative. And don’t forget, these women are paying – and fertility treatment doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Do you ever think it wrong that women should pay?’ I asked. ‘One of “your” babies – if I can put it that way – costs between five and ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Is it wrong for someone to pay to have a heart transplant?’ he enquired. ‘Or to pay to have their hip replaced? To me, an inability to conceive is simply a medical disorder, which reproductive science can cure.’ He picked up a clean test tube and began rolling it between his hands. ‘To me, being paid to treat an infertile woman is no more immoral than being paid to fit an elderly man with a pacemaker. In that instance, life is prolonged,’ he added. ‘In my own case, life is begun.’

  ‘And finally, to what do you owe your exceptional success rate?’ I asked. He laughed again, his handsome face creasing softly at eyes and mouth. Then, suddenly, his expression changed again, and he seemed hesitant, almost shy.

  ‘I really don’t know the answer to that,’ he said. ‘I just think I’ve been very lucky.’ And he looked down, and then he looked up, and held my gaze in his. And somehow I didn’t want to look away. In fact, my insides were melting. I wanted to sit there forever, and bathe in the light of his lovely, twinkly green eyes. What a remarkable man, I thought. I could have talked to him forever, but the interview had come to an end.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ I said truthfully as I stopped the tape. ‘I don’t know how I’ll cut it down.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do it very well,’ he said. ‘You seem to be a capable young woman.’

  ‘Goodbye, Professor Barnes,’ I said, as I stepped out into the waiting room. ‘It was very interesting meeting you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Minty,’ he replied. He shook my hand, and his eyes twinkled and sparkled again. ‘Now,’ he went on, clapping his hands together, ‘my next appointment is with – Oh, there you are, Deirdre! That’s it – come in, and let’s get cracking!’

  ‘It was rather embarrassing,’ I said to Amber the following Saturday as we lounged by the koi carp pool in the Sanctuary spa. We were having one of our ‘pampering’ days. Amber had handed in her latest chapter, and my piece on fertility treatment had gone down well. We had decided to reward ourselves with a day of sybaritic relaxation in an all-female environment.

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked, adjusting her thick white towelling robe. She reeked of geranium oil and patchouli from her recent aromatherapy.

  ‘I just smiled at her, and said, “Hello, Deirdre!” What else could I do?’

  ‘Did she seem embarrassed?’ she asked above the gurgle of the fountain.

  ‘Well, it’s hard to tell. Actually, I think she probably was,’ I said. ‘Not just because I’d seen her in the clinic, but because she hasn’t seen me since –’ I suddenly felt sick – ‘the wedding.’

  ‘Of course.’ Amber grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘Poor Mint.’

  ‘So, Deirdre was probably just as embarrassed to see me. In fact, I’m sure she was,’ I went on, ‘because she wouldn’t stop smiling. That’s what people do when they’re embarrassed: they smile to cover it up.’

  ‘I bet it’s the fertility drugs she’s on,’ said Amber with a grimace. ‘All those hormones probably make you go mad.’

  ‘Or maybe she’s just happy that she’s finally taking some action,’ I suggested. ‘I mean, she was grinning like an idiot as she went in to Professor Barnes’ office. I don’t know why Wesley wasn’t with her,’ I added. ‘Perhaps he’s already done his bit. Poor old Deirdre – I hope it works. She’s so determined to have a baby.’

  ‘And I’m really determined not to have one,’ said Amber with a shudder. ‘The thought of it makes me feel sick!’ I looked at her lovely profile, and thought it a terrible shame. ‘I always think Cyril Connolly put it very well,’ she went on. ‘He said that there is no more sombre enemy to great art than the pram standing in the hall.’

  ‘Amber,’ I said, fiddling with the frond of a neighbouring fern, ‘can I ask you something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something rather personal?’

  ‘Feel free.’

  ‘You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s
OK. Go ahead.’

  ‘No, really, because it’s quite a difficult thing to ask someone, even if you know them very well.’

  ‘What IS it?’ she said.

  ‘And I’d hate you to think I was being nosey.’

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Christ, I hope you don’t conduct your interviews like this,’ she groaned.

  ‘OK. Right …Amber,’ I said, ‘if you’re so keen not to have kids, then why, er, don’t you get yourself sterilised?’

  ‘Because, Minty,’ she said, ‘as you well know, I’m terrified of hospitals.’

  Oh. I didn’t know this, actually. I must have forgotten.

  ‘I’m bored of all these books,’ Amber added with an exasperated shrug. I looked at the pile of them stacked up on the wicker table by her side: Stop Thinking Start Living; Happy No Matter What; The Power of Positive Thinking; Rainbows Through the Rain; Breaking Up Without Cracking Up; Pulling Your Own Strings; The Power is Within You; Be Happy – Now!

  ‘Don’t they help?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They don’t. Bloody waste of ninety quid.’

  After Dominic dumped me I’d found myself looking at selfhelp books like these, but none of them had appealed. I needed a book called, How to Get Over It When You’ve Been Jilted in Front of Everyone You Know, or How. to Maintain a Dignified Silence about a Dreadfully Embarrassing Incident in Your Past. How to Stop Having Homicidal Fantasies about Your Former Fiancé would be a helpful one, too. Sadly for me, the shops didn’t seem to have books with titles like these.

  ‘God, Charlie was a bastard!’ said Amber, yet again, as she put down 14,000 Things to Be Happy About. And then she went on about him, non-stop, for half an hour. About how ‘cruel’ he was to dump her, and how ‘callous’, and how he’d ‘wasted her time’. I mean, it’s ridiculous. She’s so self-deluding. Charlie wanted kids; she didn’t. End of point. I didn’t blame Charlie at all. He was a decent guy. He’d really tried to make it work. But he couldn’t make it work because he and Amber were incompatible – or rather, their goals in life were. She keeps saying that what happened to her was ‘shocking’. But it wasn’t shocking. It was inevitable. And anyone could have seen it coming, because that relationship just wasn’t working.

  No, it was what happened to me that was shocking. A lightning rod. A bolt entirely out of the blue. I’d had no idea that Dominic could do that to me. I’d had absolutely no preparation for what happened. But do I sit here and bitch about Dominic and what a complete cad and utter bastard he was? No. I don’t. And despite the awful thing that he did, and the fact that I still don’t really understand it, I’m making steady progress. It’s only been three months, but I’m moving on. Unlike Amber. I picked up a copy of Elle and idly flicked over the pages. And all of a sudden I found myself staring, mournfully, at one of the male models in a fashion feature. He reminded me a little bit of Dom. Something about the mouth. And his hair was a similar shade of blond. I let out an involuntary sigh.

  ‘Maybe if,’ I whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe if I’d put more effort into my relationship with Dominic.’

  ‘Minty, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Maybe if I’d put more effort into my relationship with Dominic, he wouldn’t have dumped me,’ I said quietly. Amber was staring at me. ‘You see, I’m still trying to work out why it happened,’ I explained. ‘Maybe it was somehow my fault.’

  ‘Minty,’ said Amber, ‘I have one thing to say to you: NO.’

  ‘Maybe I could have done more.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe if I hadn’t objected when he objected to the dress I wore for our engagement party.’

  ‘No,’ said Amber, again. ‘Wrong!’

  ‘Or maybe if I hadn’t expressed regret about the fact that he wanted to go on honeymoon to Paris rather than Venice – having said which, I really didn’t say very much about it. I didn’t, you know, rub it in or anything.’

  ‘Minty, nope.’

  ‘Or maybe if I’d been a better cook.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Minty.’

  ‘I mean, I’m not that brilliant at it.’

  ‘You’re a very good cook!’ Amber retorted.

  ‘Maybe if I hadn’t talked too much when he was tired,’ I sighed. ‘He often was tired, you know. He didn’t sleep at all well.’

  ‘Minty, you’re being boring.’

  ‘Maybe if I’d shown more enthusiasm for fly-fishing. Maybe if –’

  ‘Maybe if he’d been a decent, normal, stable man,’ Amber cut in smartly. ‘You must stop this, Minty. You’re just deluding yourself. And worse, you’re taking the blame. God, I’m getting bored of this place,’ she added with a weary sigh. ‘Pass me Tatler and Harpers, would you?’

  I handed them across. I certainly didn’t want to read them myself, because I knew I’d be unable to resist looking at the society wedding photos, and that would set me off. So I picked up New Woman instead, and was idly flicking through the fashion and the ads, when an article suddenly caught my eye.

  ‘ARE YOU TOO NICE?’ the headline demanded. ‘Are you easily manipulated by others?’ it enquired. Yes, I thought to myself, I am. ‘Do you constantly put other peoples’ wishes before your own?’ Only if they want me to. ‘Do you find it hard to say no?’ YES! ‘Then you’re a prime candidate for the Nice Factor.’ This, the piece explained, was a course for people who find it hard to say, or do, what they really want. I quickly scribbled down the phone number, then read on, with a thumping heart. ‘Do you apologise when it’s not your fault?’ Yes. But then it often is. ‘Do you have a nice smile perpetually glued in place, while inside you’re in a rage?’ Yes, yes, I thought, that’s me. ‘Do you constantly allow other people to set the agenda …?’

  ‘Christ, I’m bored,’ said Amber. ‘I’ve had enough pampering, I think. Let’s get out of here, Mint. Come on.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sighed inwardly. I wanted to stay a bit longer. We’d only been there two hours and we’d bought vouchers for the whole day. I was enjoying myself, it was so restful and calm.

  ‘Come on, Mint,’ said Amber, again. I reluctantly picked up my towel. We showered and changed, then walked down Long Acre towards the Tube. We looked in the windows of Paul Smith and Nicole Farhi, and then we came to Books Etc. Amber drew to a halt. ‘I just –’ she began. Oh no. ‘I just want to check how it’s doing,’ she said, as she went through the door.

  I idly looked at the books as Amber searched the shelves. Then she went up to the till.

  ‘A Public Convenience,’ she said, ‘where is it?’

  ‘Sorry, what title was that?’ the young man enquired politely.

  ‘A Public Convenience!’ she reiterated with theatrical puzzlement, as though she had said. War and Peace. But his face was as blank as a sheet of typing paper. We could hear no bells ringing there.

  ‘Don’t know that one,’ he said, with a cheerful shrug. ‘Never heard of it. I’ll just look it up on the computer. Sorry, what was it called again?’

  ‘A. Pub. Lic. Con. Ve. Ni. Ence.’

  ‘Who’s it by?’

  ‘Amber Dane.’

  ‘Nope,’ he said as he tap-tapped away. ‘Can’t see it. Sorry, but we don’t appear to stock that one.’

  ‘Well, you should stock it,’ said Amber, reddening with incipient rage. ‘It’s a brilliant book. It was number 63 in The Times top forty.’

  ‘I can order it for you,’ he went on helpfully. ‘If you’d like to give me your name.’

  Amber’s quivering face suggested that an internal war was raging between ambition and embarrassment.

  ‘Minty Malone,’ she said suddenly, with a lop-sided little smile. ‘My name’s Minty Malone.’

  I rolled my eyes and groaned.

  ‘It’ll take about a week.’

  ‘Oh, now look here,’ Amber went on. ‘I’m sure you must have it. It’s only been out since July.’

  �
��Well, have you looked in the Contemporary Fiction section?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not there.’

  ‘And have you checked in New Titles?’

  ‘Yes. Ditto.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid that means we don’t have it.’

  ‘Or,’ she said, ‘you did have it, and you’ve sold out.’

  ‘Well …’ he said carefully, ‘I don’t think that’s the case, otherwise I’d recognise the name. What’s the cover like?’

  I wandered round the shop while Amber argued about her novel. Shiny book jackets featuring women in wedding dresses seemed to thrust themselves into my face. Well Groomed! punned one, Altar Ego, quipped a second; Hitched, said a third, and of course, Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married. Unlike Minty Malone, I thought bitterly. I spotted A Sudden Change of Heart by Barbara Taylor Bradford, and What About Me? by Alan Smith. Everywhere I looked there were fanged traps to catch my heart. I glanced at the Contemporary Fiction shelf. There was no sign of Amber’s novel, but there were five copies of Joe’s, and underneath was a tiny review, which had been handwritten by one of the staff:

  This book is a gem. I loved it. In fact, it made me late for work. Although it’s about a boy and his dog, it’s told in an unsentimental way which makes it all the more powerful. This is a redemptive story which moved me to tears and laughter and lived with me long after I’d turned the final page.

  Ruth

  On a table nearby there were another eight to ten copies of Pios stacked up in a neat pile. A woman had picked one up and was turning it over in her hands. I watched her eyes scan the blurb, and then she took it over to the till. I decided to buy one too, just out of curiosity, of course, as we’d met. And I was standing in the queue, looking at Joe’s photo on the inside back cover, and thinking that Helen was right, he really was quite good-looking in an unshowy, slightly scruffy sort of way, when Amber strode up to the counter, her face aflame.