Isabel Wolff - The Making of Minty Malone

For Jonathan and Catharine Anja and Paul-Mattias

Cover Page

Title Page The Making of Minty Malone Isabel Wolff

Dedication For Jonathan and Catharine Anja and Paul-Mattias

July

August

September

October

November

December

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

Acknowledgements

Permissions

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Where is it where is it where is it please please please where IS it? Where. Is. My. Bloody. Tiara? Oh God oh God where did I put it? I had it two minutes ago. I had it here, right here. I took it out of the box and then I put it down while I did my nails. I had it I had it I HAD it and now it’s gone and I can’t find it anywhere but it must be somewhere it just must be and oh no, I’m SO behind with everything and oh God what a nightmare I’m going to be so late ! They’ll be slow handclapping by the time I get there, that is if they haven’t walked out or gone to the pub. Well, they’ll just have to bloody well wait because nothing’s going to happen without me. It’s my day. Not theirs. Mine. That’s what everyone’s been saying to me, ever since I got engaged. ‘It’s your day, Minty! You must have exactly what you want!’ In fact, Mum said it again, just ten minutes ago, as she headed out of the front door.

‘Remember, it’s your day, darling!’ she called serenely from the garden gate. ‘You must have exactly what you want!’

‘Yes, but what I want is your help , Mum. My dress has got thirty-five loop fastenings.’

‘Yes, I know that, darling, but I’ve got to get down to the church.’

‘And aren’t you supposed to brush my hair or something?’

‘I haven’t got time, Minty – it’s bad form for the bride’s mother to arrive late.’

‘And it’s bad form for the bride to arrive without her frock on, which is what’s going to happen if I don’t get some help round here.’

‘Now, keep calm, Minty,’ said Mum blithely. ‘Helen will be back soon, and she’ll help you. That’s what bridesmaids are for. See you later, darling – byee!’ She blew me a customary kiss and was gone. Damn.

And then the phone rang. It was Helen, ringing on her mobile from the church, where she was still fiddling with the flowers.

‘Bit of a crisis, Mint – the peonies are wilting. They’ve gone all floppy in the heat.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘But don’t worry,’ she said soothingly, ‘I’m just sticking fuse wire up their backsides and then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Well, please don’t do that to me if you see me begin to wilt.’

‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ she said calmly. ‘And that will leave us with a good – ooh, ten minutes to finish getting ready. OK?’

‘OK. What? No! It isn’t OK. What do you mean , ten minutes?”

‘Now look, Minty, it’s going to be fine, so please don’t panic – it’s much too hot.’ Helen’s right. It is. Much too hot. In fact it’s boiling. Thirty degrees already. And I’m afraid I am starting to panic because I haven’t got enough time and I’m not going to turn up all red in the face and crying with my make-up sliming off. I’m not I’m not I’m NOT, and oh God the car’s going to be here in forty-five minutes and I’m still in my knickers and bra and I haven’t done my face and there are going to be two hundred and eighty people staring at every square inch of me and I don’t know WHERE my tiara is OR my veil and my nails STILL aren’t dry so I can’t put my dress on and I’m completely out of control here and – AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!! Oh God – the phone again! Just what I need.

‘YES!’ I said.

‘Minty!’ It was Amber. My cousin. Beautiful. Very beautiful, but bossy. ‘Now keep calm!’ she barked. ‘Keep calm there!’

‘I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I’ve lost my tiara and I haven’t got my dress on and I don’t know where my veil is and it’s much too hot, and Mum’s gone off to the church and I haven’t got anyone to help and I’m totally out of CONTROL!’

‘Right, deep breathing time,’ she said. ‘Sit down, Minty. Sit down and b-r-e-a-t-h-e d-e-e-p-l-y. That’s it. In …Out …In …Out … And relax. Right. Feeling better?’

‘Yes,’ I said. And I was. ‘Much better. Pheeeewwwwww. How’s Charlie’s speech going?’ I said as I blew on my nails.

‘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!