The Making of Minty Malone

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘What did you think, girls?’ Jack asked them.

  ‘It was really interesting,’ said Iolanthe with a shy smile. She seemed slightly awestruck by Amber.

  ‘I want to read that book now,’ said Topaz.

  ‘Good, so you’ve inflamed at least two hearts today, Amber. Can we go through the line-up again for the rest of the series?’ he went on as he tapped into the computer. ‘I’m just tweaking the schedules here.’

  ‘Right. Well, next week I’m talking to Antonia Byatt about Vanity Fair, then it’s Paul Theroux on Moby Dick; the following week I’ve booked John Major to talk about Barchester Towers …’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s a Trollope fan, isn’t he,’ said Jack. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And then there’s Victoria Glendinning on Far From the Madding Crowd, the German Ambassador on Buddenbrooks, and finally, Clare Tomalin on Great Expectations.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll see how the reviews come out, and then we might be looking at extending the series. Did you see Broadcast, by the way?’

  ‘No.’

  He handed his copy to Amber. There, on the inside front page, was a small piece about It’s a Classic! It said that Amber Dane had been the station’s first choice to present the new programme. ‘Dane is taking a break from novel-writing,’ it said, ‘in a bid to bring classic literature to a commercial audience.’

  ‘I’m not taking a break from novel-writing,’ she said, with a bitter laugh as we went into the Capitalise office. ‘I’m giving up. I mean, nine’s enough, isn’t it? Beethoven wrote nine symphonies for example, and so did Schubert. So did Ralph Vaughan Williams.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ I said, ‘nine’s …plenty.’

  I introduced Amber to everyone. Sophie was flirting with her like mad.

  ‘I thought you were fabulous,’ she said, fiddling with her hair.

  ‘Where’s Wesley?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s gone to get Deirdre and the baby. He’s bringing his daughter into work today too.’

  ‘She’s a bit young, isn’t she?’ said Monica. ‘She’s only three weeks old.’

  Suddenly Wesley appeared, the baby strapped to his front, in a sling. Deirdre beamed benignly at us all as Wesley showed her off.

  ‘Here’s Freya,’ he said proudly.

  ‘That’s an unusual name,’ I said.

  ‘It was my choice, really,’ said Deirdre with an enigmatic smile.

  ‘What lovely hair,’ said Topaz, stroking Freya’s head. ‘It’s auburn,’ she remarked.

  ‘My great, great, great grandfather on my mother’s father’s side had auburn hair, apparently,’ said Wesley.

  ‘And she’s got such lovely blue eyes,’ said Topaz.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Wesley. ‘Blue. Just like mine.’

  ‘They’re such twinkly eyes!’ exclaimed Iolanthe innocently as she peered, entranced, at the infant. ‘We’re having a baby too,’ she said. ‘In November. Our Mum’s a bit old, really, but we don’t mind.’

  ‘We’re going to be its godmothers,’ said Topaz.

  I was going to be a godmother too, I suddenly remembered. Helen had asked me to be godmother to Charlotte Araminta.

  ‘Babies are fun,’ said Deirdre gently to the girls.

  ‘Oh yes, babies are gweat fun!’ said Melinda. She’d suddenly appeared in the office – she was coming in to talk to Jack.

  ‘Wow!’ said Topaz, as Melinda put Pocahontas down in her car seat. ‘Another baby!’

  ‘It’s nice to see you, Melinda,’ I said. I could afford to be generous now. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Actually, Minty, it’s going bwilliantly,’ she said. ‘So bwilliantly, in fact, that Carlton TV have offered me a chat show!’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to be the new Jewwy Spwinger. Appawently they like my forthwight style.’

  ‘I bet they do.’

  ‘That’s why I want to see Jack – he’ll have to up the money a bit if he wants me to stay on here.’

  ‘Well, I hope he agrees,’ I said, truthfully. ‘You’re our golden goose.’

  ‘And how was the birth?’ I heard Amber ask Deirdre. ‘I bet it was a wonderful experience.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t too bad,’ Deirdre replied judiciously.

  And while everyone babbled about babies and childbirth, I flicked through the day’s papers. In the Independent was a photo of Godfrey Barnes, whose six-month prison sentence had just begun. According to the article, he was receiving a steady stream of female visitors, and money had been raised for an appeal. Then, just out of habit, I turned to Sheryl von Strumpfhosen. And although she never, ever gets it right – does she? – somehow I can never resist.

  ‘Libra, a delightful cosmic phase beckons,’ she predicted. ‘For this you may thank activity in Pluto, house of endings and new beginnings. But keep your wits about you this week and don’t turn down any invitations.’

  ‘Why don’t we go on holiday?’ said Joe a couple of days later.

  ‘What?’ I said. We were sitting outside on the bench. Joe was working on the script, and I was reading the Telegraph arts section, in which the radio critic Gillian Reynolds had given Amber the most brilliant review: ‘London FM’s new arts programming is a triumph,’ she wrote, ‘and It’s A Classic! is set to be the jewel in its crown. Amber Dane has natural authority,’ she went on, ‘but she is careful not to dominate. Instead she prompts her guests to speak eloquently and passionately about their chosen book. This is radio at its best,’ she concluded. ‘As for Dane’s voice – I could listen all day.’

  ‘That is wonderful,’ I said. ‘I think it’s the first really good review Amber’s ever had.’ I stroked Mary, who was sitting, purring on my lap. I missed Amber, and Perdita, and Pedro. But I had Mary. And for a few more weeks, I had Joe.

  ‘Why don’t we go on holiday’?

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I said, “Why don’t we go on holiday?’”

  ‘Why don’t we go on holiday?’ I repeated as a tiny ladybird landed on my hand.

  ‘Yes, why don’t we?’ he said. ‘Other couples do.’

  Other couples; I liked that.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘But Jack will need at least a week’s notice. And where would we go?’

  ‘Well, I know where I’d like to go.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I really hope you like this idea too, Minty.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ I said as the ladybird flew off.

  ‘It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘So I really hope you go for it as well.’

  ‘Joe, I don’t mind where we go, as long as you’re there.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. And he was grinning enthusiastically now. ‘Minty, I’ve always wanted to go on a canal holiday!’

  ‘A canal holiday?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t imagine anything more idyllic, can you?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘All that tranquillity.’

  ‘It’s quite tranquil here, Joe.’

  ‘That peace.’

  ‘London’s very quiet at this time of year.’

  ‘Just the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. Oh God.

  ‘So much to see along the way.’

  ‘So much.’

  ‘Just you, and me, and the canal. Wouldn’t that be great?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said thoughtfully. Joe smiled at me.

  ‘Say yes, Minty,’ he said. He looked so happy – how could I say no? Stuff what I’d learnt on the Nice Factor. ‘That would be lovely,’ I said.

  Well, Sheryl von Strumpfhosen did tell me not to turn down any invitations, I reminded myself as I waited for Joe to pick me up a few days later. I didn’t need to look at the calendar to know what day it was. It was Sunday, 28th July – exactly a year to the day since my wedding. What had Sheryl predicted then? Suddenly it came back to me. She�
��d said ‘Libra, your love life takes an upward turn this weekend.’ And I laughed, because I realised she was right. It did take an upward turn. Dominic left me and instead I met Joe. I smiled at that. And then I grinned. Then I began to laugh. And I couldn’t stop. I sat there, in the sitting room, quietly rocking with laughter. I sat in the silence of my flat, with my two packed bags, and thought of all that had happened in the intervening year. I reviewed it, spooling it through my mind like the material for a programme, but it was only now that it had any shape. I thought of the George V, and meeting Joe, and Amber’s anger with Charlie; I thought of Citronella, and the Nice Factor, and my hair-cut – it’s quite long again now. I remembered the ball, and Helen, and Laurie and Perdita and poor Sir Percy and Virginia Park, and I thought of Jack’s step-daughters, and Melinda, and of Los Angeles and the Four Seasons. Four seasons. That’s what had elapsed. Four seasons in which the wheel had turned for us all.

  ‘And here we are,’ I said to Mary. ‘We didn’t think we’d make it, did we? But we did.’ She blinked at me, and purred. I was just filled with happiness. I could afford to be generous about the canal holiday. It probably wouldn’t rain – in fact the weather’s perfect right now – and the boats are bound to be more comfortable than they were all those years ago. I was unlikely to have to throw myself in the water after someone else’s dog, and with just the two of us, it wouldn’t be too cramped. Maybe it would even be OK.

  I wondered which canal it was. Joe hadn’t told me because he wanted it to be a surprise. I went through them in my mind. Perhaps it would be the Shropshire Union. Or the Trent and Mersey. Or maybe the Kennet & Avon. Yes, that would be nice, I thought to myself – we’d drift through Oxfordshire and the West Country. It would probably be quite relaxing.

  There was a sudden honking from outside, the sound of a car door, and then I saw Joe running up the path.

  ‘Right,’ he said, as he came in, ‘let’s get going. Put Mary in the basket, we’ll drop her off on the way. And don’t forget your passport because the boat yard needs it as ID.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a requirement. Those barges are very expensive, Minty. How do they know we won’t just nick it?’

  ‘That is extremely unlikely,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that, do they? You’ve got to see it from their point of view.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll get it.’ Then I locked up the flat, and Joe picked up my bags.

  ‘I say,’ he said with a smile, ‘your baggage is light! It hardly weighs a thing!’

  Then we drove to Amber and Laurie’s with the cat. I wanted to stay there a few minutes and get the grand tour of their new place, but Joe was agitating because he’d told the boat yard we’d be there by two. So off we sped again. To be honest, I thought the whole point of canal holidays is that they’re meant to be calm affairs, but my stress levels were already climbing fast. Joe was so impatient with the traffic, because it was pretty slow going through the Angel, and then we hit the Euston Road, so I guessed we were going south.

  ‘Which canal are we going on?’ I said as we hurtled towards Shepherd’s Bush.

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Well, OK,’ he said. ‘It’s the Grand Union and we pick it up at Southall.’

  ‘Southall?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Southall. What’s wrong with Southall?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing. I’m sure Southall’s lovely.’

  Oh God. This is what happens when you’re nice. You agree to go on holiday to Southall.

  ‘Can you read maps?’ asked Joe.

  ‘No,’ I said truthfully. And he started talking about the A4 and the M4 and Junction this and Junction that and I just kept quiet because, as you know, map-reading is not my forte. But we were driving along on the M4 and I began to notice the signs. And I saw the sign for Junction 3 ahead of us, which announced that Southall was to the right. But Joe didn’t turn right. He turned left.

  ‘Joe, the sign said Southall was to the right.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, as he glanced in the mirror, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘And you admit you’re a useless navigator.’

  ‘Yes. Hopeless bordering on the moronic but I do know left from right. And we should have gone right there, but we went left, which is not right, it’s wrong.’

  ‘This is the alternative route,’ he said with what I thought was spurious authority.

  ‘Well, 180 degrees in the wrong direction is certainly alternative,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you bothered, Joe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But we’re going towards Heathrow now.’

  ‘Are we?’ he said. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Yes, we are. Look – Heathrow, Terminal 4.’ Joe kept quiet. ‘Terminal 3,’ I added, as we passed another sign.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joe. ‘We have gone wrong, haven’t we? Look, here’s Terminal 2.’ Joe swung into the car-park, grabbed a ticket and found a space. Then we got out, and he was smiling, and so was I by now. Then he took our bags and went inside.

  ‘It’s OK, I like canals,’ I said. ‘I would happily have gone on a canal holiday.’

  ‘I love canals too,’ he said, as he reached into his jacket and pulled out an airline docket. ‘Right, British Airways,’ he said, as we headed for the BA counter.

  ‘Joe, where are we going?’

  ‘Well, where would you like to go? There’s quite a choice, isn’t there?’ he said surveying the long line of check-in desks. ‘There’s Lisbon, Madrid, Barcelona, Alicante, Oslo, Gibraltar, or Paris. Do you fancy Paris again, Minty?’ And then he handed me the tickets, and I looked, and I smiled as I read: ‘Venice, Marco Polo.’

  ‘I told you I love canals,’ he said again. ‘Though I prefer the Grand Canal to the Grand Union, given the choice.’

  ‘How …wonderful,’ I said quietly, and I found it hard to say anything else.

  ‘Well,’ he said as we headed towards International Departures, hand in hand, ‘we both need a break, don’t we? I’ll be starting work on the film soon, and you’ve been so busy, so we should spend some time together. Won’t it be nice being on our own, Minty,’ he said, as we went through the gates. ‘Whenever you look up, there I shall be. Whenever I look up, there will be you. Won’t that be lovely, Minty?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I murmured.

  ‘And we need time together – before I go back to LA. But I hope you’ll be coming out there, Minty. The filming’s going to be such fun. Now, did I tell you about the casting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I think we’ve got Kevin Spacey on board, and lots of A-list women are interested in the female lead – Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, Winona Ryder and Helen Hunt.’

  ‘Wow!’ I said.

  ‘But do you know who I really want?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The one I really want.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Cameron Diaz!’

  ‘Cameron Diaz?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, squeezing my hand. ‘Apparently, she’s dead keen, and I think she’d be perfect for the part. You could come on set and meet her. And do you know, Minty, I’ve got this funny feeling that you’d both get on terribly well!’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be fun, Minty?’ he said as the plane took off.

  ‘That would be super, darling!’ I said.

  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted, as ever, to my brilliant agent, Clare Conville, and to my wonderful editor, Rachel Hore. Every author should be so lucky. I have many other people to thank as well, notably Peter Welch and Peter Parkinson for information about the world of insurance; Natasha Grüneberg and Julia Fleming for their insights into radio stations; Sam North and Williamson Howe for the lowdown on life in Hollywood, and Robin Chandler and Jo-Ellen Grzyb for inviting me back to the Nice Factor. I am also grateful to Meli
ssa-Jo and co. at the Candy Bar, to Roger Harrison at Eurostar, to Gerry Pitt at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, and to Jerry Seinfeld for being such a good sport. My thanks too to Chris ‘Kipper’ Dodds of Kip’s Flowers; to Tito and Sandra at Paul Nath Hair; to Darryl von Däniken for being such an entertaining walker, and to Harold and Deanna Pender – and their pet parrot, Rob – for expert psittacine advice. For translations from Neapolitan and Spanish I’d like to thank Maura Romano and Karina Fane. I’m also indebted to my parents, Paul and Ursula, and to Louise Clairmonte, for reading the manuscript and giving me invaluable feedback – and ideas – along the way. At HarperCollins I’m grateful to Anne O’Brien for her hawk-eyed honing, to Amanda McKelvie for another lovely cover; and to Fiona McIntosh, Cecilia McCullough, Jenny Parr, Yvette Cowles and Alex Young. At A.P. Watt I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Linda Shaughnessy, Barbara Taylor, Daniela Petracco, Yvonne Negron and, as always, Marian McCarthy.

  Permissions

  The publisher and the author have made all reasonable efforts to trace the copyright owners of the lyrics of the songs contained in this publication. In the event that any of the untraceable copyright owners come forward after the publication of this edition, the publisher and the author will endeavour to rectify the position accordingly.

  ‘What a Wonderful World’ Words and Music by George David Weiss and Bob Thiele © 1967 Range Road Music. Inc. Bug Music – Quartet Music Inc. and Abilene Music Inc. USA – Copyright renewed – All Rights Reserved – Reproduced by kind permission of Carlin Music Corp., London, NW1 8BD in respect of the 50% interest of Range Road Music Inc and Bug Music – Quartet Music on behalf of Bob Thiele. Also with kind permission of Abilene Music Inc./Memory Lane Music Ltd./Hornall Brothers Music Limited.

  About the Author

  Isabel Wolff was born in Warwickshire, read English at Cambridge and is the Sunday Times bestselling author of nine novels, all published worldwide. She lives in London with her family. For more information about Isabel and her books please visit her website, www.IsabelWolff.com or see her Isabel Wolff, Author page on Facebook.