The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘What the HELL do you think THIS is?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember now. We did order one copy. I’m sorry about that. Where did you find it?’

  ‘In the Humour section!’ she exclaimed. ‘God knows what it was doing in there.’

  ‘Please, madam, don’t touch the display,’ he added, imploringly. Amber ignored him as she reached into the window and placed her book in the centre, at the front.

  ‘These people in bookshops are complete idiots,’ she said furiously, as we left the shop shortly afterwards. ‘They don’t know their Archer from their Eliot, Minty. You really have to spell it out.’

  ‘K-o-s,’ I said, ‘o-v-o-’

  ‘So it’s not double “S” then?’ Melinda enquired.

  ‘No, just the one,’ I explained.

  ‘It’s so important to get the spelling cowwect, isn’t it, Minty?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter,’ I said.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ She looked confused.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not for radio.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Wight,’ she said, as the penny clattered to the floor. She furrowed her brow as she pored over the thick file of cuttings. ‘I think cuwwent affairs is borwing, don’t you?’ she said with an exasperated sigh.

  ‘Er …not really.’

  ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘the Clinton thing was quite interwesting.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I’m weally glad he got off.’

  ‘He certainly did.’

  ‘And the weason Wichard Nixon didn’t get off was because what he did was so sewious.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes, Minty. It was far worse. I mean – buggerwy in the White House!’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Now, could you just give me a hand with the House of Lords cue too,’ she went on. ‘I’m doing a live interview with Bawoness Jay.’

  ‘Well …Wesley really ought to be briefing you, Melinda. He’s the producer, after all.’

  ‘He says he hasn’t got time. He’s still down in the studio, editing. Pleeeease, Minteeeeee,’ she whined. ‘Go on. I’ve only got two hours before I go on air.’

  I sighed heavily. This was always happening, and I had my own work to do.

  ‘OK.’ I glanced at Melinda’s fat form as I tapped away on her computer. Today she was wearing a bump-hugging bodysuit in electric purple, and enough designer jewellery to bring a weightlifter to his knees. Her brown hair had been hennaed, then coiffed into a mass of springy curls. Her nails had been skilfully varnished, with two contrasting tones of blue. She reached into her Louis Vuitton shopper and took out a bundle of knitting.

  ‘It helps me concentwate,’ she said, as the large grey needles click-clacked away.

  ‘Something for the baby?’ I said, as I rewrote her cue.

  ‘No, it’s a mohair pwegnancy dwess for me.’

  ‘Melinda,’ said Jack. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’ve done another twelve wows.’

  ‘The script, Melinda. The script.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine. It’s going weally well. Don’t wowwy – I’m all wight, Jack!’ This witticism seemed to amuse her and her expansive frame wobbled with mirth.

  ‘We’re doing the House of Lords cue,’ she explained. ‘And I think it’s quite wong that these people should have all these special wights and pwivileges just because of who they’re welated to!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Melinda,’ said Jack tersely. ‘I’ll be back to read your script in an hour.’

  ‘He’s always so bad-tempered these days.’

  ‘Well, a little bit.’ It was true.

  ‘In fact, he’s a pain,’ whispered Melinda as she lifted a loop of wool over the top of her needle.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ I said. ‘He’s wonderful.’ She pulled a face.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a cweep, Minty,’ she said.

  ‘Melinda,’ I said sharply, ‘do you want me to help you with this cue or not?’ She looked taken aback by my tone. And I was pretty surprised myself. It felt new. It felt rather good. It felt nice, being a bit less …nice. ‘Well, do you?’ I said again.

  ‘Oh. Oh, er, yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I want your help, Minty. You’re so bwilliant at it.’

  ‘Sophie!’ we heard Jack call out as he returned to his office. ‘Would you please empty the bloody fax tray. God knows what we’ve got lurking in there!’

  Sophie was on the phone, huddled over the receiver in a furtive fashion, and giggling, so I went to empty the overflowing tray. There were press releases for fashion shows and private views, new plays and film festivals, publicity puffs for C-list celebs, and masses of publishers’ hype. As I stood at the machine it emitted a high-pitched warble and began to extrude another sheet. ‘Come to the Candy Bar this Sunday!’ it announced. ‘Girls only. Dress smart.’ A women-only party. That sounded quite good fun, and in my present man-avoiding mood it seemed to appeal. Amber would probably come with me. I noted down the address then turned my attention back to Melinda’s script.

  ‘OK, that’s done. I’ve also written down five suggested questions about the voting rights of hereditary peers.’

  ‘Thanks, Minty,’ she beamed. ‘You’re a bwick.’

  I sat down at my desk with my cuttings on adoption, the subject of my next big feature. As I went through the articles, identifying useful contacts and people to interview, I found one that featured Helen, who’s always been very open about the fact that she’s adopted. I decided to ask her if she’d give me a quote for my piece. So I rang the shop and her assistant Anna picked up the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘you’ve just missed her.’

  ‘I’ll call her tomorrow, then,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, she won’t be here tomorrow,’ Anna explained. ‘That’s why she’s gone home early. She’s going away for the weekend.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. She’s going to Paris.’

  ‘Oh. Wow. Well, great.’ I was right, I thought, as I put the phone down. My analysis about Helen and Joe was correct. But I didn’t have long to ponder this because then Wesley called up from the studio, desperate.

  ‘Would you come and help me?’ he said. My heart sank so low it was practically underground. And then I thought to myself, no – no more helping other people. No more. That’s it. Enough.

  ‘I’m rather busy, Wesley.’

  ‘But I’ve got problems with my timings.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure you can work it out.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can,’ he said. ‘Without your help.’ Oh God.

  ‘Well, how much are you over by?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Well …about an hour and a half.’ An hour and a half? Christ! The programme was only forty-five minutes long.

  ‘Look, I’m busy,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to start phone-bashing for my next piece.’

  ‘Please, Minty,’ he whined. ‘I won’t ask you again. Promise. Promise. Promise. And I don’t want Jack to know. He’s really stressed: he’s been twisting bits of leader tape all day.’

  ‘Oh God, I …look, Wesley, I’ve only just finished writing Melinda’s script – and you’re supposed to do that.’

  ‘I know, Minty. But I’m really behind. Please, Minty …’ he whined, ‘you’re so good at it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You’re so fast at editing.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got-’

  ‘I just don’t think I can do it without you.’

  ‘Oh.’ God. God. God. ‘All right then,’ I hissed. ‘But this is the last time I do this, Wesley,’ I said with new-found directness. ‘Do you hear me? It’s the LAST time!’ Then I slammed down the phone. And when I looked up, everyone was staring at me as if I were a stranger.

  ‘Oh, Minty, I knew you’d help,’ said Wesley when I opened the door of Studio B five minutes later. His pale blue eyes seemed to mist over with grati
tude. ‘You’re so nice, Minty,’ he added as I surveyed his pile of unedited tapes with a sinking heart. ‘In fact, Minty, you really are the nicest person I know.’

  October

  ‘Yes, I suppose he was quite nice,’ I heard Amber say, as I took off my coat yesterday evening. She was on the blower, as usual. Our phone bill is equivalent to the national debt of Vanuatu. ‘I know,’ she went on seriously. ‘It’s awfully sad.’ Sad? What was she talking about? I don’t normally eavesdrop, but I was gripped. So I went into the kitchen, and put on the kettle.

  ‘Yes …yes …tragic, really,’ she said. Tragic? What was tragic? What on earth was she talking about?

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. ‘Stone dead.’ Who was dead? What was this? ‘It was at the Newport Pagnell bypass,’ she went on smoothly. ‘Yes, that’s right, by the Little Chef. He ran into an AA breakdown truck. He just wasn’t looking properly, and, well, that was that. Yes …awfully sad. Well, I always thought he was a hopeless driver. Lucky I didn’t marry him, wasn’t it? It could have been me!’

  Charlie? She was talking about Charlie. This was terrible. Terrible.

  ‘Yes, awfully sad,’ she repeated. ‘But there you go.’

  ‘Amber, is Charlie …dead?’ I asked, horrified, when she’d put the phone down.

  ‘Well, no,’ she said guiltily. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But you were just telling someone that he was dead. I heard you.’

  ‘Well …’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I was exaggerating slightly.’

  ‘Is he injured?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is he hurt in any way?’

  ‘Um …don’t believe so.’

  ‘Amber, why are you telling people that Charlie’s dead?’ This was outrageous.

  ‘Oh, I’m just pretending,’ she said, irritably. ‘It helps me get over him, you see.’ This was beyond the pale.

  ‘Amber,’ I said, ‘I really don’t think you should go round telling people that Charlie’s dead when he isn’t.’

  ‘Well,’ she said petulantly, ‘he’s dead to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think that’s awful,’ I said, as I went upstairs to get ready for the party at the Candy Bar.

  ‘Minty?’ Amber called out, as I ran the bath. ‘If Charlie were, you know, dead, do you think he’d want me to go to the funeral?’ I didn’t grace her with a reply. ‘And if so,’ she added, ‘what do you think I should wear?’

  I shut the door, undressed, stepped into the hot water, and lay back in the glistening, scented bubbles. And I found myself reflecting, not for the first time, on the quiet pleasures of the single life. No one dictating to me, for example. I was enjoying that. Being able to go to bed at midnight, or even later. That was lovely, because Dominic always went to bed so early. Usually by ten, and often before, because he didn’t sleep at all well. This meant we had to leave parties early, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind. I did. But he couldn’t help it. I understood that. And of course I never said anything, because you have to accept everything about your partner. That’s what Dominic always said. He’d say, ‘You’ve just got to let me be myself.’ But now, gradually, as time had begun to pass I’d given myself up to some of the simple joys of singledom. No need for constant compromise. Not having to shop and cook. Not having to sit on the Northern Line for hours at a time. The freedom to make my own rules. No longer having to align all my tastes to coincide with Dominic’s. No longer changing colour, like a psychic chameleon, to suit or anticipate his moods. I could do my own thing. I could be completely selfish. I could lie in the bath, like this – just like this – for half an hour or more. I could wallow and let my cares drift away. Yes, maybe the single life wasn’t so bad, I realised as I relaxed. It was certainly nice not being pushed around any more by anyone. It was really lovely in fact. It –’

  ‘Minty!’ Amber shouted from the other side of the door. ‘Hurry up in there, will you – I need to get a Tampax!’

  Oh God, I thought with a sinking heart, not more period drama. I hauled myself out, grabbed a towel, then opened the door.

  ‘Thanks, Mint. And don’t be too long, because I’d like a bath too.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘And we ought to leave in half an hour, so chop chop.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said wearily, as I pulled out the plug. Still, I told myself, I was very fond of Amber, and she was only here for a short while. Although, well, it had been three months, actually. Doesn’t time fly when you’re …? Well, doesn’t time fly.

  Forty minutes later, we were ready to leave. Amber was wearing her new William Hunt trouser suit. Very sharp. It’s navy with the hint of a pinstripe and she looked fantastic. She’s so tall and slim that she can wear trousers well. I had put on a Katharine Hamnett calf-length silk dress, which was one of the many things Dominic absolutely hated. He said I was much too short for it.

  ‘You see, Minty, you’re a little, tiny person,’ he’d said. And this had taken me aback, because I’d never thought of myself as short before. Not tall, of course. But not short.

  ‘Well, actually, I’m five foot five,’ I’d said. ‘And five foot five isn’t really short. It’s medium. You just think I’m small, because you’re tall. But actually I’m not really small at all.’

  ‘Oh, darling, you are,’ he said, and he wrapped his arms around me. ‘You’re really a very sweet, tiny little person.’

  ‘I really don’t …think I am, actually.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he said. ‘And tiny little people shouldn’t wear long things, should they, darling?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Should they?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Should they, darling little tiny Mintola?’

  ‘Um …no,’ I heard myself say.

  I’d tried to wear it once more after that. When we were on holiday. In the Lake District, last summer. But he’d got very cross about it. Very, very cross indeed. And I was determined to stick up for myself a bit, so I asked him why he was so angry, and wasn’t it a bit ridiculous, and why couldn’t I wear it, and wasn’t it my holiday too, after all? He’d had such an angry expression on his face, but I’d stuck to my guns and told him that the dress was perfectly OK, perfectly acceptable, and I just didn’t understand his objections to it. At this he’d gone bright red in the face and started waving his arms about – which is what he does when he’s angry, which is quite often …well, very often – and his voice had started to rise. And to distract myself I did what I usually did on these occasions: I mentally declined his name, from the Latin dominare, over and over again. ‘Domino, dominas, dominat, dominatum, dominatis, dominant! Domino, dominas, dominat …’ But still his voice was rising from its normal light tenor to a near-soprano, a sort of strained, falsetto whine, and suddenly he had shouted, ‘Clothes are very IMPORTANT to me!’ And, faced with his hysteria, I’d backed down. Because I didn’t know how to cope. I’d never encountered it before. So I reminded myself, as I changed, that he’s a very, very insecure man, and that’s what I have to understand. And to understand is to forgive. Isn’t it? But even so, it was very hard. Just a quiet life, I’d thought to myself wearily. A quiet life. An Equitable Life. That’s all I’d ever wanted, but with Dominic the premiums were too high.

  But now, I could please myself. So this evening I fished the dress out of the box under my bed and, with a naughty sense of liberation, put it on. And the funny thing is that even though Dominic had dumped me and everything, I felt guilty about wearing it. Isn’t that silly? It doesn’t matter any more! It was rather loose, of course, as I’d lost so much weight. But it looked fine. In fact, I felt quite glamorous in it as Amber and I walked over the railway bridge and entered Chalk Farm Tube. I glanced at the cream-painted wall on the southbound platform. ‘CHARLIE EDWORTHY IS A SHIT!!’ was still visible, in fuzzy, red letters, about a foot high. They really ought to remove it, I thought. Amber was lucky that no one had seen her.

  ‘I
’m going to do a course next Sunday,’ I announced, as we waited for the Tube.

  ‘Next Sunday?’ she said. ‘That’s your birthday.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s your thirtieth.’

  ‘Yes. And I’m going to spend it doing a course called the Nice Factor.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s for people who are too nice for their own good,’ I explained. ‘It’s for people who tend to get pushed around.’ Amber’s face lit up.

  ‘What a brilliant idea, Minty,’ she said. ‘I think I need it myself.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I do,’ she reiterated above the roar of the arriving train. ‘I mean, if I hadn’t been so nice to Charlie,’ she announced, as we rattled southwards, ‘then he wouldn’t have dumped me, would he? Yes, I see it all now,’ she said, as we got out at Leicester Square and walked up Charing Cross Road. ‘I was just too bloody nice to the bastard!’

  The Candy Bar was hard to miss as the sign was in large, loopy neon letters in gaudy pink and green. On the pavement, a woman bouncer stood guard.

  ‘Good – that’s to keep the beastly men out!’ said Amber vehemently, as we were waved inside.

  The party was in progress downstairs, and as we descended the steps into the Stygian darkness we realised, with some surprise, that everyone was in fancy dress. Milling around in the sepulchral gloom were about a hundred women. They were wearing either period dresses, or trouser suits and cravats. Funnily enough, and quite by chance, Amber and I fitted in quite well.

  ‘Hello, I’m Melissa,’ said a beautiful blonde in a pale turquoise satin evening dress and matching elbow-length gloves. ‘I run the Candy Bar.’

  ‘Great costumes!’ I said admiringly.

  ‘Well, on the first Sunday of every month we try to recreate the glamour of a more sparkling era,’ she said. ‘We wallow in the nostalgia of the twenties, thirties and forties. Now, would you like a drink?’ she added. ‘We have a range of really thrilling and seductive cocktails at the bar.’