The Making of Minty Malone

‘I do think it’s so sad that marriage is going out of fashion,’ she said, sweetly, as she smoothed down her sack-like dress. ‘When I think how happy my own marriage is –’ Here we go, I thought – ‘to my wonderful and, well …’ she smiled coyly, ‘very brilliant husband …’

‘Of course,’ I said, as I surreptitiously pressed the ‘pause’ button, and remembered the hen-pecked little man who had carried her bag at our Christmas party.

‘ …then I grieve for the women today who will never know such happiness. Now, I have many single women friends,’ she went on. I did my best not to look surprised. ‘And of course they’re very brave about it all. But I know that their cheerfulness masks tremendous unhappiness. It’s so sad. Are you married?’ she asked.

This took me aback. My heart skipped several beats. ‘No,’ I managed to say. ‘I’m single.’

‘But don’t you want to marry?’ she enquired. She had cocked her head to one side.

‘Not any more,’ I said casually. ‘I did once.’

‘Why? Did something awful happen to you?’ she enquired. Her tone of voice was soft and solicitous. But her eyes were bright with spite. A sudden fear gripped my heart. Did she know what Dominic had done to me? Perhaps she’d somehow heard, on the grapevine. It was sensational, after all. Everyone would know. My skin prickled with embarrassment and I felt sick to think that I would now be the subject of a kind of awe-struck gossip:

‘– Did you hear what happened to Minty Malone?’

‘– What?’

‘– Jilted.’

‘– Good Godz!’

‘– On her wedding day.’

‘– No!’

‘– And in the church!!’

It was all too easy to imagine. I fiddled with the tape-recorder while I struggled to control myself. I mentally counted to three, to let the lump in my throat subside, and then I managed to speak. ‘Nothing happened,’ I said with nonchalant discretion. ‘I just don’t want to marry, that’s all. Lots of women don’t these days. That’s why I’ve been asked to do this piece.’

Citronella composed her features into a mask of saccharine concern, then smiled, revealing large, square teeth the colour of Cheddar.

‘But don’t you think you’re missing out on one of life’s richest treasures?’ she pressed on, softly, as her quivering antennae probed for my tender spots. I darted behind my bullet-proof glass.

‘My opinions in this are irrelevant,’ I pointed out with as much cheery bonhomie as I could muster. ‘I’m just the reporter,’ I added, with a smile. ‘I’d like to know what you think.’ I pressed the ‘record’ button again and held the microphone under her double chin.

‘Well, I do feel very sad,’ she went on with a regretful sigh – ‘sad’ seemed to be her favourite word – ‘when I look at women of my own generation who have had, yes, admittedly successful careers, but who now know that they will never marry or have children. Whereas my life is just, well, magical.’

‘But people marry so much later these days,’ I said.

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she said.

‘It is true,’ I said, with a toughness which, again, felt unfamiliar. ‘According to my research,’ I continued smoothly, ‘the average age at which men and women marry has gone up by six years since 1992. And the fastest-growing group of new mothers is the over thirty-fives.’ This piece of information seemed to irritate her, but I pressed straight on.

‘However, the fact remains that the number of weddings has dropped by 20 per cent. I’d like to ask you why you think there’s this new reluctance’ – I thought of Dominic – ‘to marry.’

‘The problem is,’ she began confidently, ‘that there’s such a chronic shortage of single men.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not right,’ I corrected her confidently. Though despite my new boldness, my heart was beating like a drum. ‘There are actually more single men than single women.’

‘Oh. Oh …Well, let me put it another way,’ she said. ‘There are so few single men worth marrying. That’s the problem. It’s awfully sad. In my own case, well, I was very lucky. I met Andrew, and apparently, he was just bowled over.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said. I even smiled. She smiled back.

‘And so, just seven years later, we were married, and we’ve been blissfully happy ever since,’ she went on smugly. ‘Terribly happy.’

This was getting me down. So I stood up.

‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I said with professional courtesy. ‘I think I’d better be getting back now.’

‘But are you sure you’ve got enough material?’ she enquired.

‘Oh, yes,’ I replied. ‘Plenty.’

‘Did you know that the Fred Behr Carpet Warehouse is having a half-price sale?’

‘A half-price sale?’

‘Yes – a half-price sale. Isn’t that incredible?!’

‘Incredible! Half-price, did you say?’

‘Yes that’s what I said – half-price. Imagine! That’s 50 per cent off!!!’

‘Did you say 50 per cent? I just can’t BELIEVE it!!!’

‘Nor can I – 50 per cent off!! I just CAN’T believe it EITHER!!!

‘Nor can I!!! I just CAN’T believe it!!! I just can’t BELIEVE it!!!’

Personally, I can’t believe that our ads are now so bad. Lots of them are like that, presented as conversations between two increasingly amazed people. We used to have witty ads, ingeniously written mini-dramas brilliantly performed by famous actors. But now all our adverts are crap. The upmarket companies won’t advertise with us any more because they know our audience share is falling. Worse, we’re not even managing to sell all our advertising space, so our revenue’s way down. When the figures are good, we all know about it because the sales team go round with deep tans from their incentive holidays in the Virgin Islands or the Seychelles. But at the moment their faces are as etiolated as chalk or Cheshire cheese. Not that we see much of them. We don’t. They’re on the phone all day, pitching desperately. Occasionally they come into the Capitalise office and give us grief if we’ve put an ad on air in an awkward place. We hate it when they do that, though I thought they were quite justified in blowing up Wesley for broadcasting an ad for the Providential Insurance Company – strapline: ‘Because Life’s So Uncertain’ – during coverage of Princess Diana’s funeral. He didn’t mean to; as usual his timings were out and he was suddenly twenty-five seconds short. So he grabbed that ad because he knew it would fill the gap exactly. And it did. But the station got a lot of flak and Providential withdrew their account.

Wesley’d had lots of disasters like that, I reflected as I dubbed my interviews from cassette on to quarter-inch tape. The only reason he’d survived was because he’d been here so long he’s unsackable. It would cost them far too much to get rid of him. They just don’t have the cash. In fact, they don’t have the cash for anything here, least of all the new digital editing equipment; at London FM we still use tape.

‘Embarrassing nasal hair? Try the Norton Nostril Trimmer! –Removes hairy excrescences from ears, and eyebrows too! Has removable head for easy cleaning by brushing or blowing! Just £5.95, or £9.95 for the deluxe model. All major credit cards accepted, please allow twenty-eight days for delivery!’

I glanced at the clock, it was five to seven.

‘And now a quick look at the weather,’ said Barry, the continuity announcer, with his usual drunken slur, ‘brought to you by Happy Bot, the disposable nappy that baby’s botty loves best.’

I turned down the speakers in the office. I couldn’t work with that racket going on. I knew I’d be there all evening, editing, but for once I didn’t mind. In fact, I was glad, because it gave me no time to think about Dominic. I was oblivious to everything as I sat there at my tape machine with my headphones on, my white editing pencil tucked behind one ear. My razor blade glinted in the strip lights as I slashed away, lengths of discarded tape falling like shiny brown streamers to the carpet-tiled floor. I love the physicality of chopping tape. It’s so satisfying. Clicking a computer mouse on a little pair of digital scissors just isn’t the same. But that’s what we’ll soon be doing.

As I wielded the blade, a tangled mess of cast-offs and cutouts fell on the floor at my feet. Citronella Pratt sounded like Minnie Mouse as I spooled through her at double speed: ‘Very-happy – soawfulbeingsingle – terriblysad,pooryou – ohyesI’msohappilymarried – veryveryhappilymarried – Very.’ And I thought it odd that she needed to keep saying that, because I’ve always thought that happiness, like charm and like sensitivity, tends to proclaim itself. I salvaged one twenty-second soundbite from her fifteen minutes of boastful bile, then took my knife to the other interviews. Soon they were neatly banded up on a seven-inch spool, with spacers of yellow leader tape between, ready to be played out in the programme the following day. All I had to do now was to write my script. I looked at the clock. It was ten thirty. With luck I’d be home by one.

The office was deserted, everyone had gone home hours before. It had the melancholy atmosphere of an English seaside town in winter. I sat at the computer, and began to type. And I was just thinking how calm and peaceful it was and how the script wouldn’t take that long to do, and I was congratulating myself too on not crying or cracking up on my first day back, despite the emotional stress I was under, when I heard the sound of a newspaper being rustled. It was coming from Jack’s office. How odd. Who on earth was in there at this time? I opened the door. Sitting at his desk, at ten forty-five, quietly reading the Guardian, was Jack.

‘Oh, hi, Minty,’ he said.

‘Er, hi. You’re here late.’