The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ve got no intention of moving out yet. I’m not going to abandon you while you’re still getting over Dom.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good.’

  ‘And you’re really helping me get over Charlie.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘So you’ve got me for quite a while,’ she said, happily. ‘And in any case, it’s such fun, sharing a flat, isn’t it, Mint?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘Do you know,’ she went on, as we took off our coats, ‘it reminds me of that lovely canal holiday we had in 1983.’

  Oh God. That was awful. I was on a barge with Amber, Auntie Flo and Uncle Ed, and their miniature dachshund, Mungo. It rained every day, the boat was freezing, and I had to share a tiny berth with Amber. Then one morning Mungo was standing on the deck, and he saw another dog on the towpath. And he started barking at it. And he barked so hard that he fell off the boat, into the canal. And Amber had made me jump into the water and save him. She was hysterical. She adored that dog. ‘Go on, Minty!’ she screamed. ‘You’ve got no alternative!’ And before I could point out that it wasn’t my dog, and why couldn’t she rescue him, I had jumped in after Mungo, only to see that he was happily swimming for the bank. But I was too nice to refuse. So I jumped. I think I’ve been jumping all my life.

  ‘No, I really love living with you Minty,’ said Amber, warmly. ‘But you must let me contribute to the bills,’ she added, as she picked up the phone.

  ‘OK,’ I said quickly. ‘Yes. Yes, I will. That would be nice.’ Then I went upstairs. I went into my bedroom, opened my cupboard and all the drawers, and confronted my clothes. I removed all the things that Dominic had given me. The Sloaney skirts, and shoes with silly buckles and bows; the headbands and the silk scarves. The green wellies and the waxed down jacket, the neat twinsets and the plaid. Into a black bin-liner it went. And yes, even the Hermès bag. That too. It all had to go. Every stitch. Every thread. ‘Take yourself back’ – that’s what Joe had said. And that’s what I would do.

  So on Saturday morning I dropped my bulging bin-liner off at the Camden branch of Oxfam, then I got the Tube down to Covent Garden. In Neal Street I darted in and out of the shops, surveying the rails of trendy clothes. I bought things I’d never bought before – a black leather jacket, Ally Capellino jeans, Red or Dead kick flares, and apron dresses and cropped T-shirts and floaty, calf-length skirts. Then I went to have my hair trimmed at my usual salon, Headlines.

  ‘So how’s married life?’ asked Chris, my friendly stylist, as he put a shiny black gown round me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, truthfully. ‘It all went wrong.’

  ‘Did it?’ he said, aghast. ‘You poor darling. Want to talk about it?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I replied. I sat before a tall blue mirror, near the window. Before me on the counter was an array of brushes; the hairdryers were slotted into their holsters like sleeping guns. Chris picked up my hair, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

  ‘An inch off?’ he enquired. I looked at myself long and hard.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘At least.’

  ‘Maybe two?’ he suggested, as he began to brush it through.

  ‘Yes. Two …two would be fine.’ It hadn’t been trimmed since July. Maybe he should take three inches off, I thought. Or four. Or five. I scrutinised my reflection. Or six inches, or seven. Dominic liked it long. Perhaps Chris should take off eight or nine.

  ‘Cut it all off,’ I announced. ‘I don’t want long hair any more.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said. He looked shocked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, giddily. ‘I’m sure. And then …I’d like it coloured. Streaked. With some, I don’t know, reddish highlights.’

  ‘Total transformation, then?’

  ‘Yes. Total transformation,’ I agreed. ‘I want to reinvent myself.’

  ‘Are you sure you want it short?’ he said as he lifted his shears.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure. I want it really, really short.’

  And as Chris’s scissors flashed in the spotlights, shining black loops fell to the floor, like the links of a chain. I may not be light-hearted, but I’ll be light-headed, I thought as the long tendrils fell away. The other stylists were looking, and grinning as Chris sliced into my hair. Occasionally he straightened my head with his hands, checking that the length matched exactly on either side. And now he wasn’t shearing, he was snipping, grasping the hair between index and middle finger, and cutting it, straight, across his comb. Samson’s strength drained away when his hair was cut – but I felt mine return. For the first time in months, I felt invigorated, strong.

  ‘This looks great!’ Chris exclaimed. ‘We can really see you now.’ It was true. There was my jawline, and my ears. And the curve of my cheekbones. And how strange to feel the air on the back of my neck. I began to laugh. I felt elated, slightly intoxicated, as this unfamiliar image emerged.

  ‘Movin’ on up,’ blared from the salon hi-fi. I looked at the mass of black hair, lying on the floor at my feet like a tangle of discarded tape. My hair had been edited, cut, chopped down into a short, boyish bob. Chris passed a soft brush over the nape of my neck, and held up the mirror for me to see. I liked it so much, I almost clapped. Then the colourist, Angela, came over with her chart of swatches. What should I have? Topaz? Mahogany? Burgundy, or Garnet? Cyclamen? Safari? What exotic options, I thought. I chose Cayenne – a coppery colour. Hot, peppery, Cayenne. My highlights would look like flames. I was rekindling my fire. Angela brushed on the pink paste, then neatly folded the hair into tiny tinfoil parcels. My eyes smarted slightly from the ammoniac tang of the dye, but I felt great. I felt fantastic. Do something radical, they said. And I was. I glanced out of the window, on to Shaftesbury Avenue, as the lunchtime shoppers hurried by. Then I flicked through New Woman, Zest, Self and OK! Yes, I thought, I am a New Woman, with Zest, and I’m going to look after my Self and then I’ll be OK!

  I reflected on how much Dominic would hate my new style – good. I wished he could see it. But I knew this was very unlikely. There was no contact between us, and our social circles did not overlap. We lived in different parts of town and we never went to the same places. So the chance of an unscheduled encounter was practically nil. This meant I’d had to satisfy myself with idle fantasies of revenge. I had played them over and over in my mind, like favourite videos. As Angela coloured my hair, I replayed these revenge dramas again. I imagined turning up at his house, in a dawn raid, and forcing him, at gunpoint, to tell me why he’d run out on me in church. Then I visualised meeting him, by chance, in the street, and looking right through him, as though he didn’t exist. And now I was driving along, towards a zebra crossing, and suddenly Dominic was stepping out. But in my dream I was not slowing down and coming to a complete stop, as recommended by the Highway Code. No, I was accelerating towards him, fast. And then, here I was arriving at the Opera House with my extremely successful new man, who probably runs the World Bank or something of that kind. And to my astonishment, as our car pulls up, I see Dominic standing outside. He’s obviously waiting for someone. Clearly someone far less attractive and intelligent than me. And he’s looking a little bit down at heel, his clients having all deserted him in disgust at his ghastly behaviour. So he’s not looking too good. He hasn’t shaved recently. His coat could do with a clean. His blond hair has receded somewhat, no doubt due to all the stress. Whereas I am looking radiant. In fact, I have never looked better. And as my new beau escorts me up the steps to our waiting box, I’m generous enough to turn and give Dominic a sweet but pitying smile …

  I sighed, then glanced at the girl sitting next to me. I’d been far too self-absorbed to notice her properly before. Her long blonde hair had been washed and trimmed. Now it was being Carmen-rollered into big, fat, bouncy curls which were being swept up on top of her head. She looked as though she were about to step on to the set of some lavish costume drama. By contrast, I loo
ked like a human colander, with my layers of tinfoil pockets, like armour plating, rattling gently against my head. I looked absurd. I wanted to laugh out loud. So I did. I laughed. And then I glanced at my neighbour again, and I immediately stopped laughing, and a dull pain filled my chest. A garland of fresh flowers had been placed on her head. Tiny rosebuds and gardenia, jasmine and stephanotis had been threaded on to a base of ivy, which was being carefully pinned in place. She looked radiantly lovely. And this was her wedding day. I told myself that it was all right. That I didn’t mind. Because I was getting over Dominic now.

  ‘Are you OK, Minty?’ said Angela.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Fine.’

  ‘The vapour from the dye stings the eyes,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I nodded. ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Well, almost done,’ she added, ‘and then we’ll leave it to take.’ I smiled at her, blankly, then looked at my neighbour again. Now I noticed the sapphire glinting on her ring finger, and caught snatches of her conversation:

  ‘About a hundred …finger buffet …Berkatex …quite simple …three, and two pages …Mombassa.’

  Suddenly she seemed to fade from view, and I took her place, in my Neil Cunningham dress, and my tiara, and my veil, and next to me, standing there, was Dominic. And he was saying, ‘No …no, John …’fraid not.’ And the memory of it made me feel sick. But then I thought, What’s done is done. I can’t put the clock back. I’ve got to accept what happened, and move forward. And in any case, I thought expansively, would Dominic have made me happy? No, of course not. I knew that. And that was a key to moving on. Self-knowledge. Accepting and recognising. Having the good sense to realise that though it was extremely painful and of course desperately humiliating, it was, strangely, all for the best, because Dominic wouldn’t have made me happy at all, in fact. Dominic …DOMINIC! I shot to my feet. That was Dominic! Walking past the window. I’d just seen him. I’d know that blond head anywhere. Dominic! In a flash I was out of the shop, and running down the street. I was conscious that my hair was covered with forty pockets of tinfoil, but I simply didn’t care. The adrenaline rush made me fly as though I were running for my life. I was aware of my black nylon gown flapping in the wind and of the bemused stares of passers-by.

  ‘– It’s the caped crusader!’

  ‘– Nah! Halloween innit?’

  ‘– look at that hairstyle! Crazy cow!’

  I passed the Shaftesbury Theatre and came to St Giles’ Circus but the pedestrian traffic light turned red. Damn! There was Dominic striding along, fast, and now he was passing the Oasis Health Centre and turning left into Endell Street. Taxis chugged past, with a foul eructation of diesel fumes; Lycra-clad cyclists rang their bells and ranted at cars; a bus thundered towards me, then stopped. The lights had changed again. Thank God! But where was Dominic? I couldn’t see him now. I couldn’t. But I had to speak to him. I had to. I had to talk to him and tell him that I was really getting over him and was hardly even affected by it any more. That’s what I wanted to say. I flew down the street, heart pounding, and there he was, already well towards the bottom. I wanted to shout out, ‘Dominic! Look! I’m getting over you! I’m really moving forward! Can’t you see? And I understand what happened, Dominic – well, I think I do – and I’m really sorry if I made you lose respect for me by being so pathetic, it must have been awful for you, but I’m not like that now!’ And I passed Henry’s wine bar, and then came to the Rock and Sole fish and chip shop, and now Dominic was turning right. And he passed the Armani Emporium, but didn’t stop to look in the window, which surprised me, as he can never normally resist. And I could see his blond head bobbing down the street as he strode along; and I could smell freshly ground coffee beans as I passed Coffee Republic, and I was panting and I had a stitch. I hadn’t sprinted like this in years. Now he was crossing James Street, and heading into Covent Garden Tube. And I was gaining on him, because he’d stopped to put his ticket in the automatic barrier. And I wanted to talk to him, I just wanted to ask him whether my theory was, in fact, correct. ‘Dominic!’ I wanted to shout. ‘Please could you confirm that the reason you dumped me on my wedding day was because you no longer thought highly enough of me? I’d just like you to confirm that for me, Dominic, so that I can really move forward. Not that I’m not moving forward, Dominic. In fact, I’m almost completely over you now. As you can see.’ Oh God, he was going through the barrier.

  ‘Dominic!’ I shouted. ‘Dom!’ And I saw him pass through, and I had my ticket in my pocket, and I put it in, but it beeped and said ‘Seek Assistance’. But the only person who could give me assistance was Dom. So I called out, ‘Dominic! Dominic! Please stop!’ But still he didn’t seem to hear. And I was so out of breath, and feeling very conscious now of what a bizarre figure I cut. And I shouted again, much louder now, ‘DOMINIC!! DOMINIC!! COME BACK!!!’ And it worked. He heard. Because from the other side of the barrier he turned round – at last, at last, he turned. And he looked utterly astonished. Gobsmacked. Thunderstruck. Not because of my bizarre, tinfoiled hair, or my flapping salon gown. But because it wasn’t Dominic at all.

  ‘Er …can I help you?’ said this man, on whom I’d never set eyes before. Same hair. Same build. Approximately same age. That was all. Of course it wasn’t Dominic. How could I have thought it was?

  ‘Are you all right?’ he enquired politely, though he was clearly aghast.

  ‘I’m …fine,’ I said weakly. ‘I’m …’ I could feel the familiar ache in my throat, and my eyes began to swim. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, hyperventilating from exertion and shock. ‘You see, I thought, I thought …’ But he was already heading for the lift. Then I leant against the station wall, and covered my face with my hands.

  November

  ‘Minty?’ Jack enquired when I went into the Monday morning meeting. I gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘Good God,’ he enunciated, slowly. ‘Suits you,’ he added admiringly. ‘Bit radical, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Precisely.’ I ran my hands through my inchlong coppery hair which I had slicked down with a little gel. They’d go wild for me at the Candy Bar. I was almost sorry not to be going back. Suddenly, Suzie Saucisson appeared in her normal bluestocking mode. She peered at me through her pebble specs.

  ‘Wow!’ she breathed. ‘Different! I’m amazed Tom let you in.’

  ‘He was a bit doubtful at first.’

  ‘Nice colour,’ she added. ‘Hey! Great jacket too.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was wearing my Ally Capellino suit.

  ‘You look so …modern,’ she went on, wonderingly, as she took her place at the table.

  ‘Thoroughly Modern Minty, that’s me!’

  ‘Well, we’ve got to be thoroughly modern too,’ she said with a vehement air. ‘Jack,’ she went on, ‘before we begin the meeting, can we talk about digital training?’

  ‘Oh, some other time,’ he replied, irritably. He picked up a piece of yellow leader tape and began twisting and stretching it in his hands. He was as coiled and tense as a watch-spring. And it was only ten o’clock.

  ‘We’ve really got to crack on with it,’ Sophie announced, as she consulted her clipboard.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Jack testily.

  ‘But some people round here don’t want to know. Wesley, for example,’ she added indignantly. ‘He’s refusing to go on the training course. Aren’t you?’

  ‘It does sound awfully difficult,’ Wesley whined. ‘And you know I don’t like computers.’

  ‘But we’ve got to get to grips with the new technology!’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘We’re like the toffs on the Titanic, gaily kicking up our heels while the digital iceberg looms.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll get round to it sometime,’ said Jack, with forced casualness. He seemed, as usual, to have other things on his mind.

  ‘No, we must get down to it now,’ she repeated. ‘We’re a laughing stock at Broadcast – they can’t believe we still use tape.’

  ‘Sophie,’ said Jack car
efully, ‘as you’re blessed with such a remarkable intellect, perhaps you could explain where we’re going to get the money to pay for all this new equipment?’

  ‘I’ll ask Uncle Percy,’ said Melinda. ‘He’s got thwee million in his cuwwent account.’ Then she burped, loudly. ‘Oops! Sowwy!’ she giggled. ‘Wind,’ she confided, as she patted her mountainous bump.

  ‘I think the changeover to digital technology should be a priority,’ Sophie persisted. ‘We’re at the dawning of a new century. A new age.’ Her eyes shone with evangelical fervour.

  ‘I said I’ll sort it out,’ said Jack with scarcely concealed annoyance. ‘But first we’ve got to get the ratings up. Why? Because we have to deliver the …?’

  ‘Listeners,’ we all said, wearily.

  ‘Who attract the …?’

  ‘Advertisers.’

  ‘Who provide our …?’

  ‘Rev-en-ue!’

  ‘Right. So, let’s hear your ideas.’

  ‘Look, I really don’t think it can wait,’ Sophie went on with an exasperated air. ‘We’re dinosaurs,’ she added desperately. ‘And we all know what happened to them!’

  ‘Sophie!’ Jack replied with frosty hauteur. I could hear the scraping of rank being pulled. ‘May I remind you that you’re not in charge here.’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘And I am. So I’ll decide.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘So please don’t push your luck.’

  ‘OK, but –’

  ‘And I, for one, won’t be dictated to by you.’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got to move ahead, adapt …’

  ‘Bugger off!’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on. Just bugger off! Bugger. Right. Off.’

  There was a short, shocked silence. Sophie reddened, then fled in tears. We shifted uncomfortably in our seats, and exchanged subtle glances.

  ‘Gosh, that’s a bit wude,’ I heard Melinda whisper to Wesley. And it was. It was incredibly rude. Jack was very short-tempered these days. Sophie may have been a bit pushy – but then she was very young. More to the point, she was right.