Isabel Wolff - The Making of Minty Malone

Because it was in the papers, of course. In the engagement columns of both the Telegraph , and The Times. That had been the first cog to turn, setting in motion the invincible wedding machine. And then I regretted putting it in on a Saturday, when it would have been spotted by everyone I know. And so for months to come I would have to explain again and again that, ‘No, I’m still Minty Malone, actually,’ and ‘No, I didn’t get married, after all,’ and ‘No – no particular reason, ha ha ha! It just didn’t, you know, work out.’ ‘These things happen,’ I’d have to say, brightly. ‘All for the best and all that.’ Oh God. I was interrupted from Bride’s Dread Revisited by the distant clink of a trolley.

‘Please eat something,’ said Helen. ‘The steward’s just coming –’ She reddened.

‘Up the aisle?’ I enquired bleakly.

‘Please, Minty,’ she said, as he approached. ‘You didn’t eat anything at lunch.’

Eat? I was still so shocked I could hardly breathe.

‘Champagne, madam?’

Champagne? I never wanted to see another glass of that as long as I lived.

‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘You have it, Helen.’

‘Lamb or duck, madam?’

‘Neither, thanks.’

‘Nothing at all for madam?’ enquired the steward with an air of concern.

‘No. Nothing for madam. And, actually, it isn’t madam, it’s still miss.’

The steward retreated with a wounded air. Helen picked up her knife and fork.

‘I’m sure Dominic will be back,’ she said, trying to comfort me, yet again.

Helen’s like that. She’s very kind-hearted. She’s very optimistic too, like her name, Spero – ‘I hope.’ In fact, her family motto is Dum Spiro, Spero – ‘While I breathe, I hope.’ Yes, I thought, Helen’s always hopeful. But today she was quite, quite wrong.

‘He won’t come back,’ I said. ‘He never, ever changes his mind about anything. It’s over, Helen. Over and out.’

She shook her head, and murmured, for the umpteenth time, ‘Incredible.’ And then, determined to cheer me up, she began to regale me with other nuptial nightmares she’d read about in women’s magazines. The groom who discovered he’d married a transsexual; the best man who didn’t show; the bride who ran off with a woman she’d met at her hen night; the collapsing or flying marquees. Helen was an expert. Helen knew them all.

‘Did you hear the one about the coronation chicken?’ she asked, as she sipped her Bordeaux.

‘No.’

‘It claimed five lives at a reception in Reigate.’

‘How dreadful.’

‘Then there was this awful punch-up at a marriage in Maidstone.’

‘Really?’

‘The bride spent her wedding night in jail.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘And there was a woman in Kent who was married and widowed on the same day!’

‘No!’

‘The groom said, “I do,” then dropped stone-dead. Heart attack, apparently, brought on by all the stress.’

‘Oh God.’

‘And I know someone else whose granny croaked at the reception.’

‘Really?’

‘She went face down in the trifle during the speeches.’

‘Terrible,’ I murmured. And though Helen meant well, this litany of wedding-day disasters was beginning to get me down. I was glad when we pulled into Paris.

‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best,’ she said, as we got off the train. ‘And I’m sure you’ll meet someone else – I mean, if Dominic doesn’t come back,’ she added quickly.

And I thought, yes, maybe I’ll meet someone else. Maybe, like Nancy Mitford’s heroine, Linda, in The Pursuit of Love , I’ll encounter some charming French aristocrat right here at the Gare du Nord. That would be wonderfully convenient. But there were no aristocrats in sight, just an interminable queue for the cabs.

‘ Le George V, s’il vous plaît ,’ Helen said to the driver, and soon we were speeding through the streets, the windows wide open, inhaling the pungent Parisian aroma of petrol fumes, tobacco and pissoirs. At the bottom of Rue La Fayette stood the Opera House, as ornate and fanciful as a wedding cake, I reflected bitterly. Then we crossed the Place de la Concorde and entered the bustling Champs Elysées.

‘Elysian Fields,’ I said acidly. The sight of a shop window full of bridal gowns dealt me a knife-blow. A wedding car festooned with white ribbons pulled past and I thought I was going to be sick. Ahead of us was the Arc de Triomphe, massive and emphatic. It seemed to mock me after my decidedly unheroic disaster in St Bride’s. I was glad when the driver turned left into Avenue George V, and we couldn’t see it any more.

‘Congratulations, Madame Lane!’ The concierge beamed at me. ‘The Four Seasons George V Hotel would like to extend to you and your ‘usband, our warmest félicitations ! Er, is Monsieur Lane just coming, madame?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he isn’t. And it’s still “mademoiselle”, by the way.’ The concierge reddened as he called a bellboy to take care of our bags.

‘Ah. I see,’ he said, as he slid the registration form across the counter for me to sign. ‘ Alors , never mind, as you English like to say.’

‘I do mind,’ I pointed out. ‘I mind very much, actually. But I was persuaded not to waste the trip, so I’ve come with my bridesmaid, instead.’ Helen gave the concierge an awkward smile.

‘ Eh bien , why not?’ he said. ‘The Honeymoon Suite is on the eighth floor, mademoiselles. The lifts are just there on your right. I ‘ope you will enjoy your stay.’

‘I think that’s rather unlikely,’ I said. ‘In the circumstances.’

‘Please remember, madame –’

‘–oiselle.’

‘– that we are entirely at your disposal,’ he went on. ‘At the George V no request is too big, too small, or too unusual.’

‘OK. Then can you get my fiancé back?’

‘Our staff are on hand night and day.’

‘He ran off, you see, in church.’

‘If you need help, unpacking your shopping …’

‘In front of everyone I know …’

‘Or you’d like something laundered or ironed …’

‘It was so humiliating …’

‘Then we will be pleased to do it for you.’

‘It was awful.’

‘At any time.’

‘Just awful.’

‘We are here for you round ze clock.’

‘It was terrible,’ I whispered. ‘ Terrible. ’

‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

The marble reception desk had begun to blur and I was aware of Helen’s hand pressing gently on my arm.

‘Come on, Minty,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go and find the room.’

To call it a ‘room’ was like calling St Paul’s a church. The bedroom was about thirty feet long, with an enormous walk-in wardrobe. There was also a private sitting room, a huge bathroom, a separate shower room, and a terrace. The walls were painted a soft yellow, and there were antiques everywhere. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; its lustre drops looked like tears.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said, sinking into the boat-sized bed. I looked at the huge bouquet of congratulatory pink roses and the bottle of chilling champagne. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said again. ‘It’s just so …’ A hot tear splashed on to my hand.

‘Oh, Minty,’ Helen said, and she was almost crying too. ‘Incredible,’ she repeated, putting her arm round me. ‘Just unbelievable.’

‘Yes,’ I wept, ‘but it’s true. He did it. And it’s only now that it’s beginning to sink in.’

‘But why did he do it?’ she said, shaking her head.

‘I don’t know,’ I sobbed. ‘I don’t know. ’

‘Oh, Minty – you’re well out of it,’ she said, furiously blinking away her tears. ‘You don’t want a man capable of such a cowardly, despicable act. You’re well out of it,’ she reiterated, crossly.