The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And I refused because, well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Joe, but you see, I didn’t want to go out with you be-’

  ‘Minty-’ he interrupted before I could go on to explain that I didn’t want to go out with anyone at that time. ‘Minty …’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick here.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want to go out with you.’

  ‘Didn’t you?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I was just being …friendly.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’m a friendly person.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And you looked so sad, you see.’

  ‘I was sad,’ I said with a sigh.

  ‘You looked terrible, actually.’

  ‘I felt terrible.’

  ‘In fact, you looked distraught.’

  ‘I was distraught,’ I said.

  ‘And Pierre and I needed partners for the table football, and you and Helen were there, and you both seemed very nice.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I only asked for your number because I thought we might remain, you know, friends.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I’ve got it straight now.’

  ‘And in any case, Minty, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I wouldn’t go out with you in a million years.’

  ‘Oh. Why’s that?’

  He looked at me seriously.

  ‘Because of what you’ve just been through. You’re not ready.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’

  ‘No. I don’t think you are. Some time ago I went out with a woman who was on the rebound,’ he explained. ‘She’d had a very bad time. But …she really hurt me. In fact, it was a disaster. So I vowed I’d never make that particular mistake again.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Too much baggage, Minty. I saw that on the course.’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘You’ve really got to recover before you go out with anyone new.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I was feeling slightly irritated by now.

  ‘You’ve got to move on a bit more.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know that.’

  ‘But I’d love to see you – just as a friend.’ Ah. ‘I mean, I was really glad when you turned up on that Nice Factor course, because – can I tell you something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, promise you won’t get too conceited?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Well …I think you’re a horrible old bat.’ A feeling of inexplicable happiness came over me, as though I’d dived into a vat of warm toffee.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said with a shy smile. ‘I think you’re ghastly too.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’ Gosh, he really was very nice-looking.

  ‘So we’re friends now, aren’t we, Minty?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sighed. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘So, no more misunderstandings, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good. In fact it’s excellent. Well,’ he added brightly, ‘I think I’ll be off.’ Then he smiled, and walked away. And I was suddenly very sorry when he turned the corner, and I couldn’t see him any more.

  ‘And now to family matters,’ said Melinda into the microphone the following Tuesday. ‘With me in the studio is Mike Hunt –’

  ‘I told her to say Michael!’ said Jack, furiously.

  ‘– the newly appointed Minister for Family Values. Now, Mike, could you tell the viewers – sowwy! I mean listeners – how you hope to stwengthen family life?’

  We were on air, live. Wesley was producing, Jack was supervising, and I was frantically cutting down a feature. I glanced at the clock – we’d gone on air at two. It was now twelve minutes past, and the piece I was editing was scheduled to go out at two fifteen. My knees felt weak and my pulse raced as I pressed the ‘Fast Forward’ button, stopped at the place I’d marked, then yanked out lengths of tape. Damn Wesley, I thought as I spooled back and forth, heart pounding, frantically slashing and splicing. He’d managed to exploit my good nature again. When is the Nice Factor going to kick in? I wondered, as the seconds ticked relentlessly away. I got to the end, then spun through it one more time to make sure there were no glitches.

  ‘Done it!’ I said, breathlessly, as I removed my ‘phones.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Wesley, as he sat at the switch-and-flashing-light-studded console. ‘Is it de-ummed?’

  ‘Yes. Smooth as a baby’s bum.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Mint. Oh God, my timings are out,’ he whined. They always are. He peered at his stopwatch. ‘Er …what’s one minute twenty plus two minutes fifty-three?’

  ‘Four minutes thirteen,’ I said.

  ‘Well of course the Labour Government is committed to family life,’ I heard the Right Honourable Michael Hunt say. ‘That’s why we’re going to make it compulsory for divorcing couples to seek counselling. And when it comes to the issue of single mothers, we strongly feel that the taxpayer should not have to pick up the tab.’

  ‘Quite wight!’ said Melinda. ‘Now, I’m pwegnant myself, Mr Hunt.’

  He gazed at her enormous bulge.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘One more minute, Melinda,’ Wesley whispered into her headphones on ‘talkback’. She nodded to show that she had heard.

  ‘Now, I’m not a single mother. I’m mawwied. My husband Woger’s a stockbwoker. But even if I were a single mother with absolutely no money, I’d never expect anyone else to cawwy the can for me.’

  ‘Ha!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘I work hard for my living. I support myself …’

  ‘With the aid of Uncle Percy,’ said Jack.

  ‘ …because I think that’s wight. And I think nothing of working wight up to the end of my pwegnancy,’ she went on. Oh God, she was getting carried away. ‘My baby’s not due for another thwee weeks, but I fully intend to go –’ Suddenly she gasped, and the electronic monitoring levels on the desk popped up like toast. Her lips compressed. Her eyes goggled. Then her features crumpled like an old sheet, and she opened her mouth and went ‘AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!’

  ‘Oh God!’ said Jack, standing up.

  ‘Good heavens!’ said the minister.

  ‘OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!!! Oh Chwist!’ she yelped. ‘My waters have just bwoken!’

  ‘Get her out of there!’ said Jack. He flew to the talkback.

  ‘Just sign off, Melinda! Sign off, and we’ll put on a tape.’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘No! I won’t! I want to share this with my fans. Do you think a few contwactions are going to stop me?’ We all gawped like goldfish through the glass.

  ‘It’s my duty to stay at this micwophone until the pwogwamme’s over!’ she announced. ‘If necessawy, I’m pwepared to give birth on air.’

  ‘Please don’t!’ said the Minister as he leapt to his feet.

  ‘Why not?’ said Melinda. Then she was felled by another spasm. ‘OOOOOOHHH! I mean …we’ve had death on air, haven’t we, listeners?’ she went on, as she clutched the green baize table. This was true. The octogenarian vicar who did Prayer for the Day had croaked – live, as it were – just a few months before. ‘So we can have birth on air too,’ she went on. ‘London FM is the station where anything can happen – OOOOWWWWWWW!!! – the whole of human life! And as the Minister for Family Values is actually here, in the studio, he might even give me a hand. Do you know what to do, Mr Hunt?’

  But Mr Hunt had already gone. He had rushed out of the studio, then disappeared, at a run, to his waiting ministerial car.

  ‘Now don’t wowwy, evewyone!’ Melinda shouted into the mike. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds – Oh fuuUUUUCCCKKK!!!!’

  ‘Shut the microphone!’ shouted Jack. ‘Shut it! And put on that tape!’

  The engineer shut the fader, put on the tape I’d edited, then Jack a
nd Wesley went through to the studio, and hauled Melinda out.

  ‘But I want to stay!’ she screamed. ‘Think of the watings we’d get! We could get a Sony Award for this. Think of the splash in Bwoadcast!’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am thinking of,’ said Jack, as he helped her into a chair.

  ‘Wesley, call an ambulance. Minty – get in that studio.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll have to finish the programme for her. You’ve got two minutes left on this tape.’

  ‘I don’t want Minty to pwesent the pwogwamme,’ wailed Melinda. ‘It’s my pwogwamme – not hers!’ But I was already pushing on the studio door. I was on my way.

  Melinda’s waters breaking three weeks early like that was my lucky, well, break. You hear about this kind of thing happening. Disaster strikes the star, and the understudy steps on-stage. Only, I wasn’t actually the understudy. Jack had booked Nina Edwards from Chat FM’s drive-time show to stand in for Melinda. But when he heard me do it, he changed his mind. And so now, it’s me – it’s me! Me! Me! Presenting London FM’s flagship show. Thank you, God! Thank you very, very much. Thank you for letting something NICE happen to me at last! This goes some way, may I add, God, to counteracting the disastrously negative effects of my nuptial catastrophe. Oh yes, I really think you’re getting the hang of it now. And you’ve decided to give me the chance to shine. Mind you – that’s not hard. A Guatemalan goat with a cleft palate could have presented the programme better than Melinda. And of course, I had the added advantage of having written her script. So when I stepped into the studio that fateful afternoon last week, I already knew it inside out. Because I’d written every word. All I had to do was read it. It was quite a lively show one way and another, and when I signed off and stepped out of the studio, everybody clapped! And Jack hugged me and said, ‘Well done.’ And I felt a bit tearful then, because I do really admire Jack and, well, it had been a stressful afternoon. And Melinda had her baby that evening, a little girl, and we all sent her some flowers.

  ‘Before the news, a reminder that at 2 p.m. you can hear today’s edition of Capitalise,’ I heard Barry the announcer say, ‘presented by Minty Malone.’ And I got a warm glow inside, mingled with a burst of adrenaline. And the feeling that for once, just for once, all was well with my world. Because this is my launch pad. I’m determined to fly. And I can cope with anything, even having to swap bedrooms with Amber. Which I don’t really mind. I can afford to be generous, after all. I mean, my career’s going so well now. I’m feeling so much more confident. I’ve worked out why Dominic left me. And I’m going to work on that. And I’ve cleared up my misunderstanding with Joe – his book’s wonderful, by the way. Though I did find myself wondering why, if Helen isn’t dating Joe, she’d gone to Paris again …But then I put it out of my mind. Because my priority now is my career, and myself. My brand new self. New Mint.

  ‘My darlingest Minty,’ wrote Ron the Stalker, on pink paper strewn with silver hearts. ‘You stepped bravely into the breach, as it were, and saved the day for London FM. What a star performance, sweetheart. I couldn’t fault you. You were as smooth as silk. But DON’T YOU GO GETTING IDEAS ABOVE YOUR RADIO STATION!!! Don’t go getting any BIG IDEAS just because you’ve landed yourself a LUCKY BREAK, you stupid girl!! You’re still MY Minty, OK? You belong to ME. So don’t forget it. Your ever-loving, ever-listening, Ron.’

  Eeeuuuughhh. Yuk. Oh well. I didn’t mind, because I’d had some genuine, non-nutty fan mail too. About five letters so far, which isn’t bad for a week’s work. And all highly complimentary. What balm to my battered ego. And when we’re in the studio, Sophie and Wesley and Monica and the others run around after me as though I were some film star. They offer to get me tea and biscuits, and of course I always refuse because I wouldn’t want to put them to any trouble, but it does amuse me because it’s as though my status has completely changed. Everyone’s so respectful. And I keep saying, ‘No, no, don’t worry, I don’t need a thing.’ But on the other hand, their attention is nice.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Minty?’ said Wesley, as we prepared to start the run-through for the programme earlier today.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’

  ‘Or a cold drink, maybe?’

  ‘It’s OK, Wes. Thanks.’

  ‘Happy with the running order?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  ‘Oh, Minty, it’s so nice working with you,’ he said, with a simpering smile. He came a little closer. And I thought, why doesn’t he get some new clothes? His gear’s as outdated as a Rubik cube. ‘You’re so professional, Minty,’ he breathed, ‘you don’t ask anyone for help, you just get on with it and you’re so lovely and –’

  ‘How’s Deirdre?’ I cut in strategically.

  ‘Well, actually, Minty, it’s funny you should mention Deirdre, because –’ He stopped. Jack had come into the studio, with Monica and Sophie, ready for the run-through.

  Jack gave Wesley a pointed look, then we sat and made a few last-minute adjustments to the script.

  Beep. Beep. Beeeeeep. This is London FM and it’s two o’clock,’ said the continuity announcer an hour later, ‘time for today’s edition of Capitalise with Minty Malone.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said, as I leant towards the mike. ‘Today, Russia’s mafia: how extensive is their network in London? We meet the singer whose haunting voice helped make The English Patient a global hit. We preview the Preacher of the Year Award, and take a serious look at sermons. But first: the masculinity crisis – has feminism broken men? With me to discuss this issue are radical feminist Natalie Moore, who writes for the Guardian, and Bob Ladd, editor of Loaded. And we’re keen to hear your views too, so do call the Capitalise hotline on 0200 200 200 and join us, live, on air.’

  To begin with, the discussion was very polite:

  ‘– do you really think so, Natalie?’

  ‘– I’m not quite sure I agree with that, Bob.’

  ‘– yes, yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘– mmm, with respect, I have a different view.’

  But then it got a little more heated, and within a couple of minutes, they were at each other’s throats.

  ‘Masculinity crisis! What a joke!’ spat Natalie.

  ‘Come off it!’ replied Bob Ladd. ‘Men have it tough these days.’

  ‘Oh yeah? My heart bleeds.’

  ‘What are blokes supposed to do?’

  ‘You’ve subjugated us for centuries and now you’re trying to get us to feel sorry for you too!’

  ‘You should!’

  ‘Well, the vast majority of us don’t!’

  ‘With respect, Natalie,’ I intervened, ‘don’t you think Bob has a point when he says that men feel they no longer have a role?’

  ‘All I know,’ she said, conceding not a micron of ground, ‘is that men have had it all their own way for aeons, and now, at last, it’s our turn.’

  ‘OK, open it out,’ Wesley whispered into my headphones. I glanced at the callers’ names beginning to flash up on my computer screen.

  ‘Well, on Line I now we have Malcolm from South Croydon. Malcolm, welcome to the show.’ He was patched through and we could hear the amplified phone line buzz and thrum.

  ‘Erm,’ Malcolm began, and his voice was shaking, ‘I’m having a masculinity crisis.’

  ‘Oh dear. Why’s that?’

  ‘Because my wife upped and went last year. She took the kids, cleared out the house, and took me to the cleaners. I live in a bedsit now.’

  ‘Well, Malcolm, I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘What an awful story.’

  ‘It’s a typical story, isn’t it?’ Bob Ladd cut in. ‘You women, you’ve got it all your own way now. We’re just sperm banks. You take us for what you can get, then throw us away like shells.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t know why Malcolm’s wife left him, do we?’ Natalie interrupted. ‘Women don’t leave unless there’s a good re
ason. He was probably violent,’ she said, thumping the soundproofed table with an audible ‘thud’. ‘Were you violent, Malcolm?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Natalie,’ I intervened, ‘but we can’t expect Malcolm to answer a question like that.’

  ‘No, I was not!’ said Malcolm indignantly. ‘Hardly ever!’

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm. Now, on Line 2 we have Frances, calling from Dulwich.’

  ‘We know there’s a masculinity crisis,’ Frances began, ‘because the Samaritans are receiving record numbers of calls from depressed men, and this suggests that they’re not adjusting well to a world in which women seem not to need them.’

  ‘That’s a very good point, Frances,’ I said. ‘Thank you. And now on Line 3, calling from Battersea, is …Mrs Dympna Malone.’ Dympna Malone? Oh God.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ Mummy crooned. In the background we could hear barking, yapping and whining. She giggled. ‘Sorry about the noise, but it’s my day down at the dogs’ home. DOWN BOY! DOWN! Ooh, you are a naughty puppy! Anyway, I’d just like to say that I’m having a car boot sale next Saturday at my home in Maida Vale in aid of the new Willesden refuge for battered men.’

  ‘Battered men!’ Natalie spat. ‘They don’t exist!’

  ‘Oh yes they do,’ said Mum. ‘And we’ve got some. So that’s 28 Churchill Road W9 …’ I made frantic, slashing gestures across my throat to Wesley.

  ‘ …next Saturday at two.’

  ‘Thank you for that, er, Dympna,’ I said, as they faded her out. ‘And on Line 6 now we have …ah …a retired accountant. Called, um, Bob. Hello, Bob,’ I said. ‘Are you having a masculinity crisis?’

  ‘I certainly am,’ said Dad pointedly. ‘Because I never get to see my wife. I retired two months ago,’ he went on. ‘And I’ve seen her about three times since then. She’s rather taken up with her fund-raising,’ he went on meaningfully. ‘So I don’t get much of a look-in.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘In fact, there are times,’ Dad went on darkly, ‘when I seriously wonder whether my marriage can survive.’ Oh heavens. I really hoped Mum was listening to that, but the chances were she’d gone straight back to her stray dogs.