The Making of Minty Malone

‘Well, it’s all right now,’ she replied. ‘But of course I had to completely re-write it for him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was useless, that’s why. And he said, “Look, darling, it’s my speech. I’d rather it was in my own words.” So I said; “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Charlie, I’m the writer round here.”’ This is true. She’s a novelist.

‘Anyway, at least he looks smart,’ she went on. ‘Can’t have the best man looking a mess. Anyway, must dash. Now, don’t worry, Minty. And remember,’ she added, ‘it’s your day – you must have exactly what you want!’

Well, I am getting exactly what I want. Or rather exactly who I want. And that’s Dominic. My beloved. He’s exactly what I want. Why? Well, he just is. And that’s all there is to it. Right. Quick glance at the kitchen clock: forty minutes to go. I’ve been trying to keep panic at bay by consulting my marriage handbook, Nearly Wed, but it’s not much use. Where’s Dad? Oh, there he is – standing by the clematis, having what he calls a ‘nutritious cigarette’. At least he’s ready. That’s something. But then it’s so easy for men, isn’t it? I mean, all Dominic’s got to do today is put on his penguin suit and stand there and say ‘I do.’

OK, nails are dry. On with the slap. Not too much. Just a touch. Don’t want to overdo it. Some brides look awful – ten tons of make-up and hair sprayed to the texture of a Brillo Pad. All I’m going to have is a quick flick of eyeliner …mascara – waterproof, of course, in case I blub, which I’m sure I will …lip-liner …a smidgen of lipstick and …a little powder on nose and chin. Voilà! Quickly check in mirror and – ah! There it is. Silly me. My tiara. On my head. OK – dress. Damn. Bloody loop fastenings. Can’t do them up. Hands shaking. With nerves. And exhaustion. Hardly surprising after organising this nuptial jamboree entirely by myself. But then, to be fair. Dad’s still working full-time and Mum’s been very busy recently, what with the badger sanctuary and the campaign to save the Venezuelan swamp hog. She loves fund-raising. In fact, she’s addicted to it – has been as long as I can remember. And naturally I’d never have asked Dominic to help. He’s much too busy with his work. He’s doing terribly well at the moment. Making a mint! – no irony intended. Minty Lane. That’s what I’ll be in approximately an hour and a half from now. Araminta Lane. Or rather, Mrs Dominic Lane. That sounds OK. Could certainly be a lot worse – Mrs Dominic Sourbutts, for example, or Mrs Dominic Frogg. Not that it would have made the slightest difference – I’d still have loved him to bits, and I’d still be marrying him today. Right. Shoes. One. Two. Satin. Very pretty but a bit tight.

At least my horoscope was OK. Highly satisfactory. Extremely auspicious, even. ‘Libra,’ wrote Sheryl von Strumpfhosen, ‘your love life takes an upward turn this weekend, when romantic Venus enters Leo.’ Not that I take astrology seriously. A load of bollocks really, isn’t it? Having said which, I think she’s clearly spot-on with her prediction that ‘Saturday will be emotional and rather revealing as important foundations are laid.’ Oh God, these bloody buttons!

‘Minty –’ it was Dad, calling from the garden – ‘need any help?’

‘Well …’ I could hardly ask my father to do up my wedding dress. On the other hand, it was only the top ones, and I was desperate.

‘Now, where’s your mother?’ he enquired as he did them up. ‘Has she gone to rattle a bucket somewhere?’ he went on wearily. ‘It’s Saturday so it must be the Elderly Distressed Dolphins Association, or is it the Foundation for Drug-Addicted Spanish Donkeys?’

‘No, she’s gone down to the church. Thanks, Dad.’

Dad jokes about Mum’s charitable activities, but the truth is he finds it very difficult. He hardly ever sees her. Says she’s always at some fund-raising do or other. Or some committee meeting. He says he can’t compete with Mum’s myriad good causes. He says she’s a charity junkie. But she won’t scale it down. Though I think she probably will when he retires in a couple of months. But for now she’s obsessed with being what they call a ‘tireless campaigner’, though her methods are a bit unorthodox. I mean, I thought her buffet in aid of the Belgravia Bulimics’ Association was not in very good taste, and nor was the drinks party she organised for Alcoholics Anonymous. The invitations said, ‘Sponsored by Johnny Walker’. But then she always says gaily that ‘the means justify the ends.’ That’s her answer to everything. And of course she does raise loads of money. Thousands, sometimes. Which is why they turn a blind eye. Anyway, because of her charity commitments she left the wedding entirely to me. And Dad has kindly picked up the bill, which is incredibly nice of him, because it’s enormous. It’s twenty-eight thousand pounds. In fact – look, don’t think I’m bragging or anything – that’s more than twice the cost of the average London wedding.

‘Well, you look lovely, Minty,’ said Dad, standing back to admire me. ‘And it’s going to be an unforgettable day.’

He’s right, I thought. People will talk about it for years. Well, weeks maybe. But the Malones are pushing that boat right out. That’s what Dominic wanted, you see. A ‘smart’ London wedding. Something a bit overstated. For example, the reception’s at the Waldorf. A sit-down lunch for two hundred and eighty people. That’s a lot, isn’t it? Quite a few of them are Dominic’s clients, actually. I’ve never met them, but if I can help him in his career by inviting ninety-three total strangers to my big day then I really don’t mind at all. Because I love Dom to bits.

Take this dress, for instance. Very chic and all that, but it wasn’t my first choice. When we first got engaged I said I’d like an antique lace dress, Vic-Wardian style, with lots of sequins and beading and a long, floaty train. But Dom pulled such a face that I somehow lost enthusiasm for the idea. He said that modern wedding dresses were best, and explained that Neil Cunningham’s ones are ‘the business’, and he pointed out that that’s where Ffion Jenkins and Darcey Bussell got theirs. He’d read that in Nigel Dempster. Or was it Tatler? Anyway, to cut a long story short, Neil Cunningham it is. And never mind that people kept saying, ‘It’s your day, Minty, you must have exactly what you want!’ because even though it wasn’t exactly what I wanted, it didn’t take me long to realise that Dom was absolutely right – this dress does look great! And I only thought I preferred the other one. He’s got very good taste, you see. Much better than mine. And he loves this dress. He absolutely loves it and, yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride’s wedding dress before the big day. But he didn’t. He just asked if he could see a picture of it. And naturally I agreed, because I wouldn’t want to wear anything that he didn’t think looked right. Because the only thing I want, the thing I want ‘exactly’, is for Dominic to be happy.

Here’s what we’re having for lunch: a tricolore salad of vine-ripened tomatoes, followed by pan-seared swordfish, with a Riesling gateau and strawberry coulis for pudding and a lake of Laurent-Perrier. Now, that little lot works out at eighteen grand alone; and then my dress cost two and a half thousand, and Helen’s bridesmaid dress was another grand, and what with the engagement announcements, wedding stationery, car hire, the church, the organist’s fee, the goingaway outfits, the ring, the honeymoon and the photographer (stills and video), the grand total comes to twenty-eight thousand six hundred and thirty-two pounds and seventy-two pence, including VAT. That’s how it all breaks down.

Ah – here’s my veil. On top of the cupboard. Mmmm …looks nice. Petticoat’s a bit scratchy, though. Yes, it’s going to be a really big bash with a string trio and everything. Mum wanted to run a tombola during the reception for the Hedgehog Foundation, but I told her I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Anyway, as I say, it’s a big wedding, though I’d have been happy with something much smaller – no more than a hundred. In fact, fifty would have been fine. Or even forty. Or thirty. Or twenty. And I can quite understand why some people opt for a beach-side ceremony in Bali or a skinflint register office job. But Dominic felt we should do it properly and have something really upmarket. So we are. He thought we might even be able to get it written up in ‘Jennifer’s Diary’, so I rang Harpers & Queen, and they were very polite, and said it certainly sounded like a splendid occasion, but somehow I don’t think they’ll be showing up today. But at least Dom will know I tried.

I’m quite laid back in lots of ways. Unlike Dominic. He’s much more ambitious than me. For example, he persuaded me to invite lots of people from work in case it helps my career.

‘Professional schmoozing is important, Minty,’ he said, when we were having dinner at Le Caprice one evening.

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said, fiddling with my fork.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘It helps to oil the wheels.’

‘No, I think the best thing is to break your bottom and deliver the goods.’

‘Oh, darling,’ said Dominic with an indulgent smile, ‘if you carry on with that silly attitude you’ll never get to be a radio presenter.’

‘Won’t I?’

‘No. You’ll simply carry on being a reporter. Honestly, Minty, you are a bit of a twit – you should be wining and dining the bosses whenever you get the chance.’

‘Should I?’

‘Yes,’ he said, firmly. ‘You should.’

Dom’s quite ambitious for me, you see. Which is nice. He’s very keen for me to do well at London FM. He thinks it’s about time I was promoted, because I’ve been working there for over three years. And I try and explain that it’s not like that. That there’s no smooth career progression from reporter to presenter. You have to be incredibly lucky for that to happen. Or incredibly well-connected, like our ‘star’ presenter, Melinda. Dom says I should be more pushy. And although I don’t really agree with him – and to be honest, I’m pretty happy as I am – I do like the fact that he’s so interested in my career. You see, I don’t really get that at home. I mean, don’t get me wrong: my parents are great. But they’re not that interested in what I do. Never have been, really. Mum’s priority has always been her charities, and Dad’s always been so involved at work. He works incredibly long hours because he’s got his own firm of chartered accountants. And then my brother Robert’s been living in Australia for the past four years. So no one in the family takes much interest in what I do. But Dominic does. He takes a close interest. And that’s nice. He makes me feel very secure, I suppose. Not just because he’s successful – though he is – but because he’s very good at organising everything. He likes to set the agenda. He’s definitely the one in charge. I don’t mind any more. I’ve got used to it. And most of the time I find myself going along with whatever he wants to do. I suppose I’ve got set in his ways. Dom has a very nice lifestyle; we eat out quite a bit, for example. He likes to go to expensive places, like the Ivy or the Bluebird Café. Which is lovely, and well, why not? He’s got the cash, and it’s fun. And he’s always springing surprises on me – like that lovely three-day cricket match at the Oval, and a super golfing weekend at Gleneagles. Not that I play myself. And fishing, of course. We go fishing a lot. Well, he fishes, I sit on the bank and read. Which I quite enjoy. There are so many nice surprises like that with Dominic. He always knows what he wants, too. He’s very clear about that. And what he seemed to want right from the very start was me. I was a bit taken aback by that, because he’s a very attractive and successful guy. I mean, he could have had anybody. But he chose me, and of course I found that really, really flattering.

Another good thing about Dom – he’s very practical. And that makes me feel sort of safe with him. For example, he suggested we take out wedding insurance, just in case anything goes wrong. So he sold Dad a policy with Paramutual, which will cover potential disasters such as my dress not being ready in time, or the Waldorf burning down, or flash floods in the Strand. He felt it was important for us to have ‘total peace of mind’ on our big day. And he’s right. Do you know there are even policies to protect newlyweds in case their marital home is burgled while they’re on honeymoon? We didn’t think that was necessary as we won’t be away for very long because Dominic’s so busy at the moment. Between you and me, I’d have loved two weeks in the Caribbean, on Nevis, say, or Necker. Or ten days in Venice – that would have been wonderful. But we can’t do that because Dom won’t fly anywhere. He thinks it’s too risky with our overcrowded skies, and, because of his work – insurance, or ‘Risk-Biz’, as he likes to call it – he is in fact au fait with the crash and fatality records of all the major airlines. So we’re going to Paris, on Eurostar, for four days. Which will be fab. And I don’t mind the fact that I’ve been to Paris eleven times before, because a) it’s a lovely city, and b) I’m sensitive to Dominic’s fear of flying. He can’t help it. You see, he tends to anticipate things that can go wrong. And he’s right. So many unexpected disasters can happen in life, so it’s always best to be prepared. Which is why he persuaded me to fill in a comprehensive prenuptial agreement when we got engaged. I don’t blame him. He’s got a lot to lose. And, of course, we’ve taken out travel insurance for Paris. Just in case.

Actually, that’s my secret nickname for him: ‘Justin Case’. But I haven’t told him that. I’m not sure he’d find it funny. I did try teasing him once or twice, in the beginning, but it was obvious that he didn’t really like it, so I soon learned not to do it again! But he’s a complete whizz when it comes to business. He’s got a magic touch. That’s how we met. He rang up one day, totally out of the blue, and said he was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend (I still can’t remember for the life of me exactly which friend it was), and he said there was something ‘very important’ he wanted to discuss with me. He wouldn’t say over the phone what it was, but it certainly sounded intriguing, and he had such a lovely voice, and he was so friendly, and before I knew what had happened, I’d agreed to meet him. Largely out of curiosity. So he offered to come up to my flat in Primrose Hill. And the bell rang, and there on the doorstep was this incredibly attractive man. He was so good-looking I nearly fainted! He was tall, with blond hair – not that wimpy white-blond hair, but a deep, burnished sandy colour, as though he’d just trekked across the Sahara. And his eyes were this startling blue. Like the blue of Sri Lankan sapphires. And he stood there, holding out his hand, and smiling at me – very good teeth, too, incidentally. So I invited him in, and made him a cup of coffee while he asked me questions about my date of birth, my general health and whether or not I smoked or had AIDS, and he made some very flattering comments about my interior décor – even though he confessed not long afterwards that he hadn’t liked it at all! Then he whipped out his laptop computer and a pile of graphs and charts, and looked at me in a very serious and meaningful way which thrilled me to my core.

‘Now, Minty, here you are. Here. In 1970,’ he said pointing to the left-hand side of the graph, ‘and you’ve just been born. OK?’ I nodded. I was indeed born in 1970. Then he pointed to the extreme right-hand side of the chart. ‘And here you are again, Minty. In the year 2050. And you’re dead.’

‘Oh. Um, yes. Suppose I am.’

‘Now, Minty,’ he went on, fixing me with a penetrating look, ‘what are you going to do about it?’

‘Do about it? Well, there’s not much I can do really.’

‘Oh yes there is, Minty,’ he said with a zealous gleam in his eye. ‘There’s a lot you can do about it. You can protect yourself – and your loved ones – against it.’

And suddenly, the penny dropped. I don’t know why it had taken so long, I suppose I was distracted by his genial manner and his good looks.

‘You’re an insurance salesman,’ I said, and I couldn’t help laughing.

But he didn’t laugh. In fact, he bristled.

‘I’m an IFA, actually,’ he pointed out. ‘An Independent Financial Adviser. And it’s not insurance, Minty. It’s assurance.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.

‘Now, Minty, I do think you could benefit from my help here,’ he went on with a benevolent smile. And I don’t know what it was, his compelling personality, the way he kept using my Christian name, the heady scent of his aftershave, or his irresistible charm, but before I knew what had happened I had signed on several dotted lines, thereby embarking on a life-long commitment to the Dreddful Accident Insurance Company, the Colossal Pension Fund, as well as purchasing accidental death coverage with Irish Widows. And now here I am, a mere eighteen months later, making a life-long commitment to him too. And I really couldn’t be happier. I mean, Dominic and I just clicked after that first encounter. We really clicked.

As I say, I find him terribly attractive. You see, I’ve always had this secret thing about blond men. Some women don’t go for them at all, but I’ve always liked them. They’re unusual, for a start, and then they’re so different to me. I look vaguely Mediterranean, with long, wavy, dark hair and eyes the colour of espresso. But Dominic’s the opposite. He’s so fair. So English. I’ll tell you who he looks like: Ashley in Gone with the Wind. Gorgeous. Physical attraction is so important, isn’t it?

And of course we’re very compatible. Well, we are now. In the beginning we weren’t. I’d be the first to admit that. As I say, he liked fishing – I hated it. He played a lot of cricket. It bored me to bits. He loved shopping – especially for clothes – and, frankly, I’m not that bothered. He wasn’t a bit interested in going to art galleries and the theatre, whereas I adore seeing exhibitions and plays. And films. I love films. In fact, I’m quite well-watched. I’d travelled an awful lot too, whereas Dom was terrified of flying and had hardly set foot outside the British Isles. So, to tell you the truth, it didn’t look good at first. But now, the situation’s changed completely. We’re terribly compatible. Because I’ve made myself like all the things he likes! So I go and watch him fly-fishing; I watch him play cricket; and I’ll happily sit and watch Eurosports with him. Unless it’s snooker. Or darts. And if there’s some fascinating documentary or first-rate period drama, well, I can always watch it upstairs on his tiny black-and-white. But that’s how we get on. And I know we’re compatible, because we filled in a compatibility questionnaire – and we passed! And I haven’t just given up all my previous interests. I mean, I still get to go to the theatre sometimes, and the Tate, but I go with my girlfriends, because of course I’d never make Dominic do anything he didn’t want to do.

But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t give way so much. And I do know what you mean. But these are minor things to me, and in any relationship there’s bound to be a lot of give and take. And I’m keeping my eye on the wider picture here, which is that I really love Dom. So these are small sacrifices to make. And in any case, I absolutely hate making a fuss about anything. I’m very ‘nice’. That’s what everyone says about me – that I’m terribly ‘nice’. They’ve always said that. And I simply loathe confrontations of any kind. I just can’t handle them at all. So, if it’s a small matter, I’m more than happy to give in because, to my mind, it’s simply not worth making a fuss. And as far as Dominic’s refusal to travel goes, well, I’m philosophical about that because I’ve already seen lots of places. Anyway, I quite like holidays in England or Wales. I mean, it’s all very well gadding about in Malaysia or Mauritius, the Med or Martinique, Venezuela or Venice, the Caymans, Kenya or Hong Kong – but just think of what you’re missing on your own doorstep! Dominic and I have had some lovely weekends in Norfolk. And Scotland. And the Lake District. Been there twice. In any case, one should try and be satisfied. And I am. I’m very happy with my lot, thank you very much. And you’ve got to decide who it is you want. Who you want to be with. And, for better or for worse, I want to be with Dominic. Because I adore him. Absolutely. He’s The One. Nothing makes me happier than being round at his place, cooking something for him. Although I’d be the first to agree with him that I’m a pretty rotten cook. I mean, you don’t so much carve my roast chickens, as shake them! But I’m going to do a course and learn how to do it properly, because I’m really mad about Dominic.

Mind you, now we’re on the subject, it wouldn’t be true to say that I like everything about him – that would be impossible. No one likes everything about their partner, do they? Between you and me, I really don’t like the way he tries to sell people policies at parties. I do find it a bit embarrassing. Not that I’d mention it to him, of course. And I don’t think he should automatically call people by their Christian names. And I’m not too keen on the way he wears his sunglasses all the time, even when it’s overcast. And the funny thing is that when it’s hot and bright, he wears them on top of his head! And I’m not that crazy about his low-slung, red, Japanese convertible – it’s really not my kind of car at all. I feel a bit idiotic in it, to be honest, and it certainly isn’t eco-friendly on the fuel front, which drives Mum mad as she’s a fund-raiser for Pals of the Planet. And I’m not mad about the way he snaps his fingers at waiters, and does a little scribble in the air when he wants the bill. And it does depress me when he goes on and on about his great days at Uppingham. It’s so unnecessary and, I mean, it’s not exactly a big deal, is it? And one of these days someone will say, ‘Oh, really? I was there too, you know. Which house were you in?’ and then he’ll be sunk. He’s been very lucky so far. And naturally I always keep quiet and change the subject as soon as I can. Personally, I can’t see what’s wrong with saying he went to Sutton Coldfield Secondary Modern. But for some reason he seems rather ashamed of it.

Another thing: he rarely mentions his father. In fact, he isn’t even invited to the wedding, which is awful. Though what can I do? Dominic insists that it would upset his mother if he were there. I think the real reason is that his father’s a mechanic. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Being a mechanic is fine. But Dom doesn’t seem to think so. Whenever I ask him about his dad, or suggest we go and see him, he just changes the subject, and I think that’s a terrible shame. Dom’s much closer to his mother, Madge. In fact, he adores her. It’s ‘Mummy’ this, and ‘Mummy’ that, which is rather sweet. In a way. Anyway, I do think it’s great to be marrying a man who has such a strong relationship with his mother. She thinks the world of him too. She’s terribly proud of what he’s achieved, and he’s been very good to her. Bought her a house in Solihull after her divorce. He’s devoted. And she’d never let on that his real name isn’t Dominic at all. It’s Neil. I discovered this by accident a few weeks ago when I happened to see his driving licence. I was quite surprised, and so I asked him about it. And he confessed that the reason was that when he came down to London fifteen years ago he felt that Neil wasn’t quite the right kind of name for him. To be honest, I think Neil’s a pretty awful name too, so I don’t blame him for changing it. And I mean, I can’t talk, because Minty isn’t my real name either. Or at least, it’s only my middle name. I was actually christened Irene Araminta, after my two grandmothers, but from day one I’ve always been known as Minty. But Dominic just wanted to be Dominic because he thought it had the right sort of ring.

So, as you can see, he’s got his little tender spots, his problem areas and his peccadilloes. And I’m not blind to them. I can see them all. As clear as day. But they don’t affect how I feel about him. Because a) I love him, and b) I understand him. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’ve got him sussed. And when you know where someone’s coming from, then you can overlook their little foibles, because to understand is to forgive.

Because the fact is, despite his confident exterior, Dominic’s pretty insecure. About his background, mostly. Wants to feel he’s transcended his unpromising beginnings, although I’d rather he was open about it and proud of having come so far from, well, a sort of council estate, really. But it seems to bother him, though I really don’t know why. I thought everyone wanted to be working class these days. But his mother says he’s always been very ‘aspiring’. That’s the word she used. Keen to ‘improve himself’, as they say. That’s why designer labels are so important to him, and being seen in the ‘right’ places, and saying the ‘right’ things. And that’s why he’s very keen on books about etiquette, etc. For example, in his downstairs loo, you’ll find The Sloane Ranger Handbook, Jilly Cooper’s Class, The Done Thing, and Miss Manners, because he’s very keen to cut the mustard in smart circles now. He does make quite a lot of money, actually. Commission, most of it. He’s done terribly well out of pensions. And he gets invited to lots of corporate do’s by the insurance companies whose products he sells – they ask him to Ascot and Henley and all that, and so he really wants to pass the test. And that’s only natural, isn’t it? And the point is that I love Dominic. I do, really. I love him for who he is, and for what he’s achieved, and for the fact that he’s worked so hard and come so far. I admire him all the more precisely because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth and didn’t have the benefit of granny’s money, like I did, which is how I was able to buy my flat. Dominic had to do it all by himself. And he did. And I do respect that. But I just wish he could have a little more selfconfidence. I hope that’s something that marriage will give him.

So I encourage him as much as I can, and I’d never, ever criticise him – even if I wanted to, which I don’t – because a) he’s always promptly dropped girlfriends who did criticise him in any way whatsoever, and b) I’m certainly not perfect myself. Far from it, in fact, as he often likes to point out. Because here I am letting you in on Dominic’s little foibles, when, let’s face it, I’ve got plenty of my own. For instance, Dom thinks I talk too much. He’s always said that – right from the start. I thought that was a bit odd, to be honest, because no one else has ever said that to me, but I guess I must have been doing it without realising. Dom doesn’t like it if I try and have conversations which he thinks are too ‘serious’, because he thinks that’s boring and not the Done Thing. He read somewhere that smart people don’t talk about serious issues. They mostly like to talk about things that are ‘amusing’. Not politics, for a start. Or King Lear. Or Camille Paglia. So I often have to bite my tongue to make sure I don’t say anything interesting and annoy him. Because he does get quite annoyed. Well, very annoyed, actually.

My taste in clothes is not that great either, but luckily Dominic’s really improved it for me. Because he’s always impeccably turned out. Which I like, because, let’s face it, so many men don’t bother much these days. Anyway, no one had ever pointed out to me that I could do with a bit of advice on that front. He said I looked like a ‘superannuated student’. And he was right. I did. I probably picked it up from Mum. She favours the Bloomsbury look – her things are long and floaty and a bit ‘arty’ – all from charity shops, of course. Dom said he’d never let me go round looking like that. Now, he likes clothes that are well cut, expensive-looking and ‘smart’ – Gucci, for example. Which is a bit hard when you’re on a small salary like I am, though at least I don’t have a mortgage. And so when I first started going out with him I found there were lots of things I couldn’t wear. He called them my ‘nightmares’. And that surprised me too, because none of my previous boyfriends felt like that at all. Anyway, Dom told me to throw them all out, but I objected to that, so I put them in boxes under my bed.