Читать книгу The Making of Minty Malone - Isabel Wolff - Страница 5

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!

‘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.

He’s always buying me things. Clothes, mostly. He loves shopping for clothes for me. I felt a bit awkward about that to begin with. In fact, it made me feel quite uncomfortable. And I wasn’t at all sure it was right. But Madge said I should let him do it, because he wants to, and he can afford to. So I go along with it. Even if I’m not crazy about spending most of Saturday in Harvey Nichols, and even if I’m not crazy about his choice. I mean, he bought me a Hermès bag recently. I know – so expensive! He said he wanted me to have one. And of course I threw my arms round him and said how thrilled I was, and how generous he was – which he is, don’t get me wrong. He’s very generous. But, to be frank, I don’t actually like it – though I would never have said so in a million years. And naturally I use it all the time. Now, whenever I give him something that he doesn’t like, I’m afraid it has to go back to the shop. I’ve sort of got used to it now, I suppose. But I really like to please Dominic because, well, it makes life so much easier, doesn’t it?

I’ve always been like that. I’ve always liked to smooth things over, for there to be no arguments or conflict, and for everything to be …nice. That’s what everyone says about me – ‘Minty’s so nice!’ And that’s nice, isn’t it? That they all think I’m so nice. And because I do like to be nice, I always indulge Dominic, because I know him so well, and you have to accept everyone as they are. That’s what Dominic says. And you can’t change people, can you? Especially when they’re thirty-five like he is and –

Oh God, here I am droning on, as Dominic would say, boring you to bits, and look at the time: 10.15! God, God, God. Maybe I should pray. I do feel quite scared, to be honest. ‘Till death us do part,’ and all that. ‘As long as ye both shall live.’ The awesome commitment we’re about to make to each other. The fact that I’m about to become Mrs Dominic Lane and – oh, thank goodness, thank goodness, Helen’s back.

We set off for church within fifteen minutes. Helen checked that my thirty-five loops were all fastened, and that my make-up and hair looked good, then I did up her dress, we shouted for Dad and jumped in the Bentley, which had been waiting for half an hour. We all sat in the back; I had Helen’s bouquet of white anemones and pink roses lying on my lap. It wasn’t one of those stiff, wired bouquets that I always think look equally at home on top of coffins; it was a simple posy, loosely tied, as though she had plucked the flowers from the garden minutes before. In fact, they’d been hot-housed in Holland, flown in overnight, and she’d bought them from New Covent Garden at three o’clock that morning. Helen’s a genius with flowers. It’s as though she’s just stuck them in – like that – with absolutely no thought or planning. But hers is the art that conceals art, and her arrangements have the informal, tumbling beauty of Dutch flower paintings.

Anyway, Helen and Dad and I were chatting away nervously as we left Primrose Hill in the leaden heat of a mid morning in late July. The twenty-eighth, actually, a date I knew I would remember all my life, as I remember the date of my birth. And I was so glad to have Helen with me. I’ve known her for twelve years – since Edinburgh – and we’ve remained in pretty close touch ever since. She read economics and then went to work for Metrobank, where she did terribly well. But three years ago there was one of these mega-mergers and she was made redundant, so she used her pay-off to fund her pipe-dream: it’s called Floribunda, and it’s in Covent Garden, where she lives. It’s so tiny – Lilliputian, in fact – that you hardly dare turn round for fear of sending tubs of phlox and foxglove flying. But she’s really in demand – she got a call from Jerry Hall the other day. And what’s so nice about Helen is that she’s totally unspoilt by her success. Her bridesmaid’s dress looked lovely: ice blue, also by Neil Cunningham, and designed to harmonise with mine. She’d tied her hair – a hank of pale apricot silk – into a neat, simple twist, and dressed it with two pink rosebuds. And although she looked gorgeous, I’d have liked little bridesmaids too, a Montessori school of tiny girls nose-picking and stumbling their way up the aisle. But I don’t know any of the right age. I’m sure someone could make a bomb hiring them out. Anyway, I wanted to have someone to support me – after all, Dominic had Charlie – so I asked Helen to be my maid of honour.

As we made our way through Camden, past Euston Station, and Russell Square, I felt like the Queen. The car shone with a treacly blackness and the two white ribbons fluttered stiffly on the bonnet as we drove through the hot, crowded streets. People looked, and grinned, and one or two even waved. And then we went down Kingsway and passed the great arched entrance to Bush House, and turned left past St Clement Danes into Fleet Street. And there were the Law Courts, and the old Daily Express building, and Prêt à Manger, and I thought happily, I’m Prêt à Marrier!

I could hear the bells tolling – I mean, ringing. And then suddenly there was the tall steeple of St Bride’s, with its five tiers, like a wedding cake, and I thought, clever Christopher Wren. And one or two late-comers were hurrying into the church and by now my stomach was lurching and churning like a tumble-dryer and – Oh God, Melinda! London FM’s star presenter with her boring husband, Roger. Trust her not to turn up on time. And what a terrible dress! All that money, I thought, and so little taste. I mean, I know she’s five months pregnant and everything, so I don’t want to be unfair, but it really was awful. Chintz. Pink. Very Sanderson. She looked as though she’d been badly upholstered. And to top it all, she’d got this kind of Scud missile wobbling on her head.

I stepped out of the car, smiling for the video man and the official photographer who were waiting on the pavement. Then Helen smoothed the front of my dress, I took Dad’s arm, and we all walked into the cool of the porch. I spotted Robert – he was ushering – though I couldn’t see Dom. And I suddenly panicked! So I got Dad to go in and have a peep, and he just smiled, and said that, yes, Dominic was safely there, at the altar, with Charlie. And I could hear the hum of muted voices as the organist played the Saint-Saëns. Then the music drew to an end and a hush descended and Robert gave us the nod.

‘OK, Minty, we’re off,’ whispered Daddy with a smile, and we stepped forward as the first chords of the Mendelssohn rang out and everyone rose to their feet. And suddenly, in that instant, I was so, so thrilled I’d chosen St Bride’s. It’s not that I’m particularly religious – I’m not really, and nor is Dom. In fact, he said very little during our sessions with the vicar. But of all the churches in Central London, St Bride’s was the one that felt right. It’s the journalists’ church – the Cathedral of Fleet Street – and that was another reason for choosing it. And you see, I’ve always had this thing about churches that were bombed in the War. Coventry Cathedral, for example, or St Paul’s. And St Bride’s was bombed too; in December 1940, a single V2 left it a smouldering shell. But it arose, like a phoenix, from its ashes. And the vicar explained that the destruction had a silver lining, because it laid bare the Roman crypts. And no one had known they were there, and this enabled them to add a thousand years to the history of the church. Which proves how good can sometimes come out of the most terrible events because without that devastation St Bride’s would never have revealed its hidden depths. And I was thinking of that again as I walked up the aisle, adren-aline-pumped and overwrought and nervous, and tearful, and happy. As the sunlight flooded in through the plain glass windows in wide, striated rays, I lifted my eyes to the vaulted ceiling painted in white and gold, and then dropped my gaze to the black and white marble tiles which were polished to a watery sheen. And the air was heavy with the sweet smell of beeswax and the voluptuous scent of Helen’s flowers. Her two arrangements took my breath away. They were magnificent. As big as telephone kiosks – a tumbling mass of scabious, stocks and pink peonies, freesia and sweet peas; and she’d tied a little posy of white anemones to the end of every pew.

And there was Dominic, with his back to me, his blond head lit by the sun. And I thought, he looks like the Angel Gabriel himself in the Annunciation by Fra Angelico. Charlie was standing next to him, looking typically serious and kind, and he turned and gave me such a nice, encouraging little smile. Because the box pews face sideways in St Bride’s, I could see everyone as we passed, their Order of Service sheets fluttering in their hands like big white moths. First I spotted Jack, my editor, smiling at me in his usual amused and sardonic way, and next to him was his wife Jane and her sulky-looking teenage daughters, both dressed in post-Punk black and pink; and there was Amber looking wonderfully cool and elegant in lime green. In the pew behind was Wesley from work, with Deirdre, of course – oh, she did look dreary, but then she always does, poor thing; between you and me, I think weddings are a sore point with her. And there was my mother in her flowing Bohemian dress, and her extraordinary, flower-smothered hat. On the groom’s side I spotted Dom’s mother, Madge, and lots of people I didn’t recognise who must have been his clients. And everyone was looking at me, and smiling, and I knew that I was, as the expression goes, ‘the cynosure of every eye’. Then Helen lifted my veil and took my bouquet, and tucked herself into a pew next to Mum. The wedding had begun.

And it was going well. Really smoothly. It was all so …lovely. Dominic looked a bit anxious, so I gently squeezed his hand. And we sang ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, he and I singing it quite quietly, and he looked a little agitated, but that was because there was this wasp buzzing about, and it was hovering close to him, and he had to flap it away once or twice. Then Amber stepped forward and read the ‘Desiderata’, beautifully, because she’s got a fantastic voice. Then we sang ‘Jerusalem’ and then came The Marriage. And the Rector, John Oakes, said why marriage was important, and why it should not be undertaken lightly, wantonly or unadvisedly; and then he called on the congregation to state whether they knew of any impediment why Dominic and I should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony. And that was a heart-stopping moment. In fact I hated it – even though I knew that no one was likely to come crashing in at the back raising loud objections or waving marriage certificates about. But still it made me very anxious, and so I was relieved when that bit was over and we went forward to the next part. But the wasp kept buzzing about, and it simply wouldn’t leave Dom alone, and he was getting a bit rattled and red in the face, so I gently swotted at it with my Order of Service. And the vicar said:

‘Dominic, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the Holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

There was a pause. An unscheduled pause. What we radio people call ‘dead air’. And the pause went on for quite a bit, greatly to my surprise. But then, eventually, Dominic spoke.

‘We-ll,’ he began, and he swallowed, as though he might otherwise choke. ‘We-ll,’ he said again, then stopped. Then he heaved this enormous sigh. And then he just stared at the painting of Christ, crucified, over the altar. And in the ensuing silence, which felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than five seconds, I felt as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice-water, despite the oppressive heat of the day.

‘Wilt thou?’ repeated the vicar helpfully. There was another silence, which seemed to hum and throb. I watched a bead of sweat trickle down Dominic’s face, from his temple to his chin.

‘Wilt thou? Mm?’ The vicar’s face was red too, by now. And his brow was gleaming and moist. He stared at Dominic, willing him to speak. And at last, Dominic did.

‘Well …’ he stuttered. Then he cleared his throat. ‘Well …’ he tried again.

‘Wilt thou?’

‘No, John,’ said Dom quietly, ‘I’m afraid I won’t.’

I was staring at the vicar, and the vicar was staring at Dominic. And then I looked at Dominic too, and was suddenly very sorry that I’d chosen St Bride’s because my by now reddening face was fully visible to every single person in that church.

‘Come along, Dominic,’ said the vicar, sotto voce with a tight little smile. ‘Let’s try it again. Wilt thou love Irene Araminta and honour her etcetera, etcetera, etcetera – so long as ye both shall live?’

‘No,’ said Dominic, more forcefully this time, ‘‘fraid not.’ And now, as I stared at him, I was conscious of the sound of wood gently creaking, as people shifted in their pews.

‘Dominic!’ It was Charlie. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s press on with it, shall we?’

‘I can’t,’ Dominic said, with a slow, regretful shake of his head. He looked terrible. He looked distraught. ‘I just can’t,’ he said again. And at that point, somehow, I managed to speak.

‘Are you ill, Dom?’ I whispered. ‘Do you feel unwell?’ He looked at me, and moaned.

‘No. No, I’m not ill. I’m well. There’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Then what’s the matter?’ I croaked. My mouth felt dry as dust and I was aware of disconcerted susurrations from behind.

‘The matter is …’ he said. ‘The matter is …that these are such serious vows, Minty. Vows I may not be able to keep. And it wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for the fact that we’re in church.’

‘Yes,’ I said weakly, ‘I know.’

‘And in church you just can’t lie and hope to get away with it,’ he went on. ‘And I’ve been thinking about God a lot recently, because actually, Minty, although you may not have realised this, I’m a deeply religious person.’

‘Dom, whatever are you talking about?’ I murmured. ‘You never go to church.’

‘Yes, but you don’t have to go to church to be religious, and now that I’m standing here, before the altar, in the sight of God, I know I just can’t go through with it. Because I’d have to promise to love you and comfort you and keep myself only unto you and all the rest of it, Minty, and that’s pretty serious stuff, you know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I do know that, actually.’

‘And it’s only now that I’m standing here, that I realise how huge these vows are. It’s only now,’ he went on, ‘that I’m beginning to comprehend the enormity of what I’m being asked to do.’

‘Not “enormity”, Dom,’ I whispered, ‘that means something bad. I think you mean enormousness.’

‘Please don’t correct me, Minty. I mean the magnitude of it. Of what I’m being asked to give up.’

‘Yes, but, you knew that before,’ I breathed, aware of a lemon-sized lump in my throat.

‘Yes. But I didn’t understand it before. What it truly means. But now I’m here, in church, I do. These huge promises. And I’m just not prepared to make them because, frankly, Minty, as you well know, there are lots of things about you that really …annoy me.’ At this a sudden murmur arose from the pews, like the uprush of small birds from a field. I could hear nervous, interrogative titters, and the sound of breath being sharply inhaled.

‘They say it’s the little things that get to you in the end,’ he said, ‘and it’s the little things that have got to me about you. I mean, you’re so untidy,’ he went on, getting into his stride now. His tenor voice was rising to an almost girlish timbre, which is what happens when he gets worked up. ‘You talk such rubbish half the time,’ he went on, ‘and you never know when to shut up.’

‘What do you expect?’ I said, my heart now banging in my chest. ‘As you know, I’m a) half Irish, and b) a professional broadcaster.’

‘You really get me down,’ he whined. ‘I’ve been trying to put all my doubts about you to the back of my mind, but I can’t any longer, I simply can’t, because I think we’d …we’d …we’d be bound to come unstuck! I’m sorry, Minty, but I just can’t go through with this.’ My jaw dropped. It dropped wide open. I must have looked a picture of cretinous idiocy as I absorbed what he had just said. I glanced at Dad, but his mouth was agape too. And Mum and Helen seemed frozen, in a state close to catatonia. Then Charlie intervened again.

‘Look, do us all a favour, old man. Cut the crap, will you – sorry, Vicar – and just say “I do”, there’s a good chap.’

This seemed to be the last straw, and then that bally wasp came buzzing back.

‘No. No, I won’t,’ said Dom, swatting it away from his per-spiration-beaded face. ‘I won’t say that, simply to please you and everyone else. I’m not a puppet, you know. This is a free country. You can’t make me go through with this. And I won’t. I’m determined to think of myself – at last!’ He turned ninety degrees and faced the gawping crowd. And I could see the fear in his face as he realised how exposed he now was to their contempt. ‘Look, I’m …sorry about this everyone,’ he said, nervously running a finger round his wing collar. ‘I …er …know some of you have come from quite a long way. A very long way away in some cases, like my Aunt Beth, for example, who’s come down from Aberdeen. But, well, the fact is, I can’t do this. I hope you all understand. And once again, I’m …well …I’m sorry.’ Then something of the old Dominic returned, as he felt himself take command of the situation once more. ‘However,’ he went on smoothly, ‘I would like to point out that there is a comprehensive insurance policy in place, which should take care of everything.’ He swallowed, and breathed deeply. And then he looked at me.

‘Look, Minty. It just wasn’t going to work out. I think if you were honest, you’d admit that yourself.’ And then he began to walk away from me, down the aisle, with a very determined air. And as he picked up speed he almost skidded on the highly polished floor, and I actually shouted after him, ‘Careful, Dom! Don’t slip!’ But he didn’t. He carried on walking until he reached the door, his shoes snapping smartly, almost brightly, across the gleaming tiles.

I don’t really remember what happened in the minutes immediately after that. I think it’s been erased from my mind, as one erases unwanted footage from an old video. I do remember trying to recall some comforting or possibly even useful phrases from Nearly Wed, but couldn’t think of a single one, except for the chapter heading: ‘How to Survive the Happiest Day of Your Life’. Apart from that, I think I simply stood there, immobile, clutching my Order of Service. I didn’t have a clue what to do. I just hoped that the camcorder had been switched off. Charlie had run after Dominic, but had come back, three minutes later, alone.

‘He got on a bus,’ he whispered to me, and to Dad and Helen, who had now stepped forward in a protective pincer movement around me. And I found this piece of news very odd, because Dominic loathes public transport.

‘Couldn’t you have chased after him?’ suggested Dad.

‘No, it was a number 11, it was going pretty fast.’

‘I see,’ said Dad seriously. We looked vainly at the vicar but he didn’t seem to know what to do.

‘This has never, ever happened during my ministry,’ he said, a piece of information which did little to cheer me up.

By now, people were whispering loudly in their pews, and many looked distraught. Amber was opening and closing her mouth like an outraged carp.

‘What the hell’s that plonker playing at?’ she demanded in her over-bearing, Cheltenham Ladies way. ‘What a bastard!’ she added, as she clambered out of her pew. ‘What a sh—’

‘Shhhh! Madam,’ said the vicar, ‘this is a house of God.’

‘I don’t care if it’s the house of bloody Bernarda Alba!’ she flung back. ‘That man’s just jilted my cousin!’

Jilted! It cut through me like a knife. Jilted. That was it: I’d been jilted. Amber was right. And it wasn’t a moment’s aberration, because the minutes were now ticking by, and Dominic still hadn’t reappeared. And I could hear another wedding party gathering outside, so I didn’t see how Dom and I were going to have time to make our vows even if he did come back, which by now I very much doubted. And anyway, if there’s one thing I know about Dominic, more than anything else, one constant, immutable characteristic, it’s the fact that once he’s made up his mind to do something, he will never, ever go back.

Dad sat down, and put his head in his hands. Mum and Helen looked equally distraught. And then I looked down the pews, scanning the faces of those who had witnessed my shame. There was Jack, not knowing where to look, and his step-daughters, who were stifling giggles; next to them was Melinda, her podgy hand clapped to her mouth in a melodramatic tableau of shock; and Wesley was tut-tutting away to Deirdre and shaking his head, and Auntie Flo was crying, and no one knew what to say or where to look. But they were all trying hard not to look at me, in the way that nice people avert their eyes when passing the scene of some dreadful crash. And that’s what I felt like. A corpse, lying on the road. Hit and run. I hadn’t been cut. I didn’t have a scratch, but my blood had been spilled for all to see.

By now Charlie and the vicar were conferring agitatedly. Someone would have to decide what to do, I realised vaguely. Charlie took charge. He came up to me, and laid his hand on my arm in a reassuring way.

‘Shall we go to the Waldorf, Minty? Do you want to go?’

‘What?’

‘We can’t stay here.’

‘What? Oh …no.’

‘You see, I don’t think Dom’s coming back and the next party’s starting to arrive. I suggest we all go to the Waldorf, try and calm down, and at least have a little lunch and plan what to do. Do you agree, Minty? Is that OK? Remember, it’s your day. We’ll all do exactly what you want!’

‘Well …yes, why not?’ I said, with a reasonableness that astounded me. I think I even tried to smile.

‘She’s in shock,’ Amber announced loudly. She put her arm round me. ‘You’re in shock, Minty. Don’t worry, it’s only to be expected.’

‘I’m sure everything’s going to be OK, Minty,’ said Helen, taking one of my hands in both hers. ‘I’m sure he’s just been possessed by some temporary …you know …insanity.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said calmly. ‘Please could someone tell the photographer and the video chap to go home?’

‘What a bastard!’ said Amber, again.

‘Please, madam,’ repeated the vicar.

‘Come on, Minty,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to the hotel!’ And she and Dad led me out of the church, one on each arm, as though I were an invalid. Indeed, the waiting Bentley might as well have been an ambulance – I half expected to see a blue flashing light revolving on its roof. And the shocked voices of the congregation were drowned out by the voices clamouring in my head. They said, Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?

‘Um …this is a somewhat unusual situation,’ announced Charlie, as we all sat down to our vine-ripened tomatoes in the Waldorf’s Adelphi Suite half an hour later. He nervously fiddled with his buttonhole as he faced the assembled guests. ‘Now, I don’t want to speculate as to why Dominic seems to have got cold feet –’

‘Cold?’ interjected Amber acidly. ‘They were deep frozen.’

‘Thank you, Amber. As I say, I refuse to speculate about Dominic’s behaviour this morning,’ Charlie went on, ‘except to say that he has been working rather hard recently. Very hard, in fact. And he has seemed rather preoccupied lately, so, er, I suspect that er, professional pressure is largely to blame. And I think the best thing is if we just try to enjoy our lunch, and, er, try to, er, well …’ his voice trailed away ‘ …enjoy our lunch.’

And the waiters came round with the Laurent Perrier – in the circumstances we’d decided not to have a reception line – and people drank it, and chatted in low, respectful voices. They sat huddled round their tables like spies, as they swapped theories about Dom’s dramatic exit.

‘– another woman?’ I heard someone ask.

‘– dunno.’

‘– already married?’

‘– nervous breakdown?’

‘– always a bit flaky.’

‘– totally humiliating.’

‘– what about the presents?’

I was on the top table, of course, but instead of sitting there with my new husband, I was next to my bridesmaid and the best man, and my parents, brother and cousin. And Madge, unfortunately. She’d come along to the Waldorf, too.

‘Well, at least I got to wear my new Windsmoor,’ she said with a satisfied shrug. ‘It cost an absolute bomb.’

‘Windsmoor? I say,’ said Amber incredulously. She seemed more outraged than me.

‘Do you have any notion as to why your son has done this?’ Dad enquired with stiff civility.

‘Well, I suppose he felt that it wasn’t right, and that he just couldn’t go through with it,’ she offered. ‘He’s got such integrity like that.’

‘Integrity!’ Amber spat.

‘Amber, Amber, please,’ said Charlie. ‘It doesn’t help.’

‘Nice tiara, by the way, Minty,’ said Madge.

‘Thanks.’

‘And you can keep the griddle pan.’ I was too shocked to take in this happy news.

‘Never mind, Minty, darling,’ said Mum, putting a solicitous arm round my shoulder. ‘I always thought the man was a first-class shyster and rotter, I can’t deny it, and – oooh, sorry, Madge!’ Mum blushed. ‘An appalling waste of twenty-eight grand, though,’ she added regretfully.

‘Is that all you can think of, Dympna?’ Dad asked wearily, as a waiter flicked a large napkin on to her lap.

‘Well, just think of all the homeless bats and battered wives you could save with that lot!’ she retorted. ‘What about the insurance policy?’ she asked.

‘Charlie phoned the helpline on his mobile,’ Dad replied. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t appear to cover stage-fright.’

So we sat there eating our lunch, amid the curiously merry clatter of cutlery on china, and the pan-seared swordfish arrived and everyone said it was very good, though obviously I couldn’t eat a thing; and the string trio were playing ‘Solitaire’, which I thought was extremely insensitive, and I was just making a mental decision not to tip them when Charlie’s mobile phone went off. He flicked it on, and stood up.

‘Yes? Yes?’ I heard him say. Then he said, ‘Look, Dom, don’t tell me this, tell Minty. You’ve got to talk to her, old chap – I’m going to put her on to you right now.’

I grabbed the outstretched phone as though it were a lifeline and I a drowning man. ‘Dom, Dom it’s me. Listen …Yes …Yes, OK …Thanks …No, Dominic, don’t hang up. Don’t. Please, Dom, don’t! …Thanks, Dom. No, don’t go, Dominic! Don’t, Dominic …Dom –’

He’d gone. And then, at last, I burst into tears.

‘What did he say?’ asked Charlie, after a minute.

‘He said …he said, I can keep the engagement ring.’

‘Ah, that’s nice of him,’ said Madge with a benevolent smile. ‘He was always very generous like that.’

‘And the honeymoon.’

‘Heart of gold, really.’

Mum shot her a poisonous look.

‘But how can I go on my honeymoon on my own?’ I wailed.

‘I’ll come with you, Minty,’ Helen said.

And so at ten to five Helen and I left the Waldorf in a cab – she’d already dashed home to get her passport and a weekend bag. And we were waved off by everyone, which felt rather strange; I decided, in the circumstances, not to throw my bouquet. I left it with all my wedding gear, which Dad said he’d take back to Primrose Hill. And as I crossed the Thames in the taxi with my bridesmaid instead of my bridegroom, I kept thinking, ‘Where’s Dominic? Where is he? Where?’ Was he still on the bus? Unlikely. Was he back in Clapham? When had he decided on his course of action? Was it pure coup de théâtre, or a genuine éclaircissement – and why was I thinking in French?

‘I don’t think he’ll be back,’ Madge had announced, as she sipped her coffee.

‘What makes you so sure?’ Charlie enquired testily. Tempers were frayed by now.

‘Well, once he makes up his mind about something he never changes it,’ she said, patting her perm. ‘Like I say, he’s got such integrity like that.’

‘Oh, why don’t you shut up about Dominic’s blasted “integrity”?’ said Amber, with a ferocity which struck me as rude. ‘Look what he’s done to Minty!’

‘Well, it is unfortunate,’ agreed Madge, with an air of regret. ‘But much better to pull out now than later on.’

‘No!’ I said in a voice I barely recognised as my own. ‘I’d rather he’d gone through with it, just gone through with it, and divorced me tomorrow, if that’s how he felt.’

‘But he’s got such a lot to lose,’ she said.

‘Well, I’ve lost all my dignity!’ I replied. ‘It’s so humiliating,’ I wailed, as I tried to avoid the pitying looks of the catering staff. ‘And in front of every single person I know.’ And it was then that I suddenly regretted having let Dominic persuade me to invite half the staff of London FM. How could I work there again, after this? I looked at my napkin – it was smeared with mascara, which annoyed me because I’d paid £24 for it and had been assured by the woman in the shop that it was completely waterproof. I looked at my watch. It was ten to four, and the train to Paris was at five fifteen.

‘I think you should go,’ said Dad again.

‘Why don’t you go,’ I said, ‘with Mum?’

‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘It’s the Anorexia Association Ball on Tuesday. I’ve got to look after Lord Eatmore, he’s the sponsor.’

‘Go with Helen, Minty,’ said Dad. ‘That way, if Dominic wants to ring you, he’ll know where you are.’

Oh yes. Dominic would know that all right. The George V. The Honeymoon Suite. That’s what he’d asked me to book and, very obediently, I had. So that’s where he could ring me. He could ring me there and explain. Perhaps he’d even come over and talk to me in person. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t – because I knew that Madge was right.

In The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne the heroine, Hester, is made to wear the letter ‘A’ on her dress. ‘A’ for Adultery. ‘A’ to indicate her public shame. As Helen and I swished through the Kent countryside on Eurostar, I thought, maybe I should wear ‘J’, for jilted. This would save people constantly coming up to me in the coming weeks and asking me why I looked so strained, and why I hardly ate, and why I had this mad, staring expression in my eyes. It would be the emotional equivalent of a black armband, easily read from afar, and leaving nothing to be said – except perhaps for the occasional, and entirely voluntary, sympathetic gesture.

And I thought too, as I gazed at the sunlit fields, of how incredibly unlucky I’d been. I’d had more chance of being blown up by a terrorist bomb, or hit by a flying cow, than being deserted, in church, mid marriage. And I thought of Sheryl von Strumpfhosen and of how she’d got my horoscope so horribly wrong: ‘Your love life takes an upward turn this weekend,’ she’d written. Upward turn? And then I remembered my marriage manual, Nearly Wed, and a grim smile spread across my lips. I thought as well of all the kind things people had said as I left the hotel. ‘Chin up, Minty!’ ‘Probably all for the best …’ ‘Expect he’ll come running back!’ ‘Thought you looked lovely, by the way.’ They had crawled and cringed with embarrassment, brows corrugated with confusion and concern. I’d felt almost sorrier for them than for myself. I mean, what do you say? And then, I realised, with a heart like lead, that it wasn’t just the people who were in church. It was the hundreds of others who’d read that I was engaged.

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.

And I thought, I’m going to keep on hearing that – again and again. That’s what people will say: ‘You’re well out of it, Minty. Well out.’ And though it won’t help, they’ll be right. It’s bad enough when a man breaks off his engagement, but doing a runner in the church? Outrageous! ‘You’re well shot of him!’ everyone will tell me confidently. ‘What a cad!’ they’ll add. Oh God.

Helen stood up and opened the French windows. I followed her out on to the terrace. Pretty pots of tumbling geraniums stood in each corner, and a white satin ribbon had been threaded through the wrought-iron balcony. The table had been laid, for two, with a white damask cloth, sparkling silver cutlery, gleaming porcelain, candles and flowers. The perfect setting for a romantic sunset dinner à deux. I just couldn’t bear it.

‘I’ll ask them to clear it away,’ I said, bleakly. Then I sat down and took in the view. Ahead of us, to the right, was the Eiffel Tower, its cast-iron fretwork now illuminated like electric lace. To our left was the spire of the American Cathedral, and, further off, the gilded dome of Les Invalides. And then my eye caught the Pont de I’Alma, and the eternal flame by the tunnel in which Princess Diana had died. Worse things happen, I thought to myself, with a jolt. This is dreadful. Dreadful. But no one’s dead.

‘You will come through this, Minty,’ Helen said quietly. ‘You won’t believe that now. But you will. And I know you’ll be happy again one day.’ And as she said that her gold crest ring glinted in the evening sun.

‘Dum Spiro, Spero,’ I said to myself. Yes. While I have breath, I hope.

‘Audrey Hepburn stayed here,’ said Helen excitedly in the hotel dining room the following morning. ‘And Greta Garbo. And Sophia Loren. And Jerry Hall.’

‘And Minty Malone,’ I added bitterly, ‘the world-famous jiltee – and winner of the Miss Havisham Memorial Prize.’

Lack of sleep had left me in an edgy, sardonic mood. It wasn’t that Helen’s presence in the bed had disturbed me – it was so big I’d hardly noticed. It was simply that I’d been far too stressed to sleep. So at two a.m. I’d got up and wandered around the suite in my nightie, wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth. Then I’d rung reception.

‘Oui, madame?’ It was the same concierge, still on duty.

‘You did say “round the clock”, didn’t you?’ I whispered.

‘Oui, madame.’

‘Could you get me something then?’

‘Of course, madame. At the George V no request is too big, too small, or too unusual.’

‘In that case, can you get me a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. In English, please,’ I added.

‘And you would like this when, madame?’

‘Now.’

‘Eh, bien sur …we do have a small bibliothèque. I will ‘ave a look.’

‘Thank you.’

Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and a bellboy appeared, clutching a leather-bound copy of the book. I gave him twenty francs. Then I sat down in the sitting room and turned the thin pages until I found what I was looking for.

[Miss Havisham] was dressed in rich materials – satins, and lace, and silks – all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white …But I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone …

‘How are you feeling, Minty?’ I heard Helen say.

‘How do I feel? Well, just a bit pissed off.’ My new, ironic levity surprised me. ‘I’m going to design a new range of bridal wear,’ I added.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’m going to call it “Anti-Nuptia”.’

‘Oh, Minty.’

I looked round the dining room and felt sick. It was full of infatuated couples. Just what you need when you’ve been abandoned by your husband-to-be. They all looked sated with sex as they locked eyeballs, and tenderly rubbed ankles under the tables.

‘Why don’t you eat something?’ Helen said.

‘I can’t.’

‘Go on, try,’ she said, pushing a basket of croissants towards me.

‘Impossible,’ I said. And it was. I’ve never dieted. I’ve never really had to. But now it was as though someone had turned off the tap in my brain marked ‘Eat’. The petit pains might as well have been made of plastic for all the interest they aroused in me. All I could manage was a few sips of sugary tea.

‘What shall we do today?’ I said.

‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘I haven’t been to Paris since I was twelve.’

‘I know it pretty well,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve been here eleven times.’

‘Minty,’ said Helen slowly, while she delicately chomped on a pain au chocolat. ‘Why did you choose Paris for your honeymoon when you’d already been here so often?’

‘I didn’t choose it,’ I replied. ‘Dominic did. I would have preferred Venice,’ I went on with a shrug, ‘but Dom said the train journey would take too long, and so Paris it was.’

‘I see,’ she said, archly. ‘That was nice of you.’

‘And of course Paris is a lovely city.’

‘Minty …’ said Helen, carefully. She was fiddling with her teaspoon.

‘Yes?’ Why on earth was she looking at me like that?

‘Minty,’ she began again, ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you often seemed to do what Dominic wanted.’

I thought about this for a few seconds.

‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘I suppose I did.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Why? God, why did she have to ask me that? ‘Because I loved him,’ I replied, ‘that’s why. And because …’ I felt my throat constrict ‘ …I just wanted him to be happy.’

She nodded. ‘Well, what shall we do today?’ she said, briskly changing the subject.

‘We can do whatever you like,’ I said, bleakly. ‘We’ll be tourists.’

And we were. That first morning we walked along the Seine then crossed the Jardin des Tuileries into the Rue de Rivoli. People strolled under the colonnaded passageways or sat outside, smoking in the warm sunlight. We crossed the Place du Carrousel and walked towards the Louvre. Helen gasped when she saw the glass pyramid, its triangular panes glinting and flashing in the midday sun.

‘It’s incredible!’ she said. ‘It’s like a gigantic diamond.’

‘Yes,’ I replied flatly. I fiddled with my engagement ring – a solitaire – which I still wore, on my right hand.

‘Let’s find the Mona Lisa,’ said Helen as we made our way inside. We walked up the wide balustraded stairway on to the first floor of the Denon Wing. We paused before paintings by Botticelli, Bellini and Caravaggio, and altarpieces by Giotto and Cimabue. In one gallery was a painting by Veronese, so vast it filled one wall.

‘It’s the Wedding at Cana,’ said Helen, looking at the guide. ‘That was Christ’s first miracle, wasn’t it, when the wine ran out?’

I found myself wishing He could have performed a similar stunt for me when my husband-to-be ran out. We passed through a long, window-lined corridor, which glowed with rich paintings. Mantegna’s martyred St Sebastian, pierced with sharp arrows, couldn’t have been in more pain than I. My shards were psychological, but no less sharp for that.

We followed the signs and found the Mona Lisa behind bulletproof glass in Room 6. A bank of people stood in front of her, discussing her elusive smile.

‘– Oh, she’s so cute!’

‘– Che bella ragazza.’

‘– Sie ist so schone.’

‘– That’s real art, Art.’

‘– Elle est si mystérieuse, si triste.’

‘– her child had just died, you know.’

‘God, how awful,’ said Helen. Then she read from the entry in the guide:

“‘When Leonardo began this portrait, the young woman was in mourning for her baby daughter; this is why she wears a black veil over her head. To lift her spirits, Leonardo brought musicians and clowns into his studio. Their antics brought a smile to her lips, a smile of indefinable sadness and great gentleness which made the portrait famous.” So she was feeling terrible,’ Helen added. ‘And yet she managed to smile.’

That’s what I’ll do, I thought. I’ll erect my own bulletproof glass, and shield myself behind that. And I’ll wear a smile, so that no one will detect my pain. I decided to practise. I straightened my shoulders and raised my drooping head. I opened my eyes wider, and turned up the corners of my mouth. And it began to work, because as I looked up I caught the eye of a young man and, to my surprise, he smiled back. It reminded me of the lovely smile that Charlie had given me in church. And I suddenly remembered wishing that it had been Dominic who’d smiled. And now I knew why he hadn’t.

‘You’re well out of it,’ said Helen again, as we wandered downstairs. I was too weary to reply. In any case, I didn’t have the energy for anger – I was still anaesthetised by shock.

‘I mean, why go that far – that far – and then say “no”?’

‘He’s in the risk-business,’ I said bleakly. ‘He was unhappy with the small print so he decided not to close the deal. He exercised the ultimate get-out clause.’

‘Yes, but why was he unhappy?’ she asked.

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

‘What a cad,’ said Helen. ‘You should sue him for breach of promise.’

‘It doesn’t exist in British law.’

‘Well, make him pay for the wedding, then.’

‘No – too undignified.’

‘If it were me, I’d be instructing solicitors,’ she said. ‘And fancy letting himself down like that in front of all his clients. I hope they all leave him,’ she exclaimed.

‘They won’t,’ I said. ‘And even if they did, he’d soon pick up new ones. He’s very persuasive.’ Dominic’s powers of persuasion were indeed legendary. He had once famously sold a Pet Protect policy to a woman who had no animals. Oh yes, Dominic would survive all right. The question was, would I?

The next two days passed in a blur as we wandered slowly around the city. We visited the Musée d’Orsay, the Bois de Boulogne and the cemetery at Père Lachaise. And I’d thought Père Lachaise would be too sad, but it wasn’t, it was a surprisingly happy place, like a friendly little citadel of the celebrated dead. We found Colette’s grave, and Balzac’s and Chopin’s and Oscar Wilde’s. And Jim Morrison’s, of course, which was strewn with red roses, candles and cigarette butts, and empty whisky bottles.

The next day, our last, we walked to the Eiffel Tower. We queued for an hour at the Pillier Ouest, while hawkers tried to sell us souvenirs. ‘To help you remember your stay in Paris,’ one of them pleaded.

‘I could never forget it,’ I said. We bought our tickets then went clanking skywards in the lift. Up and up it went, the vast wheels turning and grinding like the wheels of a Victorian mine-shaft. We passed the first landing stage, then the second, our ears popping as we floated up through the elaborate iron fretwork to the top. We were nearly a thousand feet above ground as we stepped out on to the viewing platform, the wind snatching spitefully at our hair and clothes. Up here, a slightly hysterical atmosphere prevailed. People grinned and gasped as they took in the view. Their eyes popped in disbelief. A young couple laughed and hugged each other as they peered out through the suicide-inhibiting mesh. Below us, to the left, was a football pitch which looked as though it had been cut from green felt. The players scurried across it like ants, and we could hear the whistles and shouts of the fans. In front of us was the Palais de Chaillot, and the broad brown band of the Seine. Along its banks, barges rocked gently on their moorings, and the reflected ripples of the river dappled the windows nearby. Away to our right was Montmartre, and the slender white domes of Sacré-Coeur and, ahead of us, further off, the brutalist towers of La Defense. The whole city lay spread beneath our feet, topped by a pale miasma of carbon monoxide. We could hear nothing but the whistling wind, and the dull roar of a million cars.

‘Look how far we can see!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘It must be fifty miles or more!’

Indeed, the distance to the horizon made me feel strangely elated, intoxicated almost, and a poem by Emily Dickinson sprang into my mind: ‘As if the Sea should part/And show a further Sea/And that – a further …’ And I thought, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go right to the horizon, to the circumference, far, far away from what happened to me in church. I refuse to let Dominic’s desertion become the defining event of my life. I refuse to let one man destroy my dignity and sense of self. I resolved in that instant to be the exact opposite of that sad old relic, Miss Havisham. She entombed herself in her house, and her silk wedding dress became her shroud. But my bridal gown would be a cocoon, from which I would emerge, reborn. I will recover from this, I vowed, as the wind whipped my face and made my eyes sting with tears. I’ll start again. I shall be reborn. Made new. New Mint. I shall turn my catastrophe into a catalyst for change. I shall …I shall …

All at once I felt dizzy. It might have been the height, or the strange perspective, or maybe it was lack of food. I clutched the rail, and shut my eyes. Then the squeak and shriek of the pulley announced the return of the lift. The doors drew back with a throaty click, and a new batch of tourists was disgorged. Helen and I stepped in and began our long descent to the ground.

‘Where now?’ she said, as we walked away, slightly unsteadily, through the milling crowd.

‘Latin Quarter?’

‘OK.’

‘A little stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg?’

‘Fine. How do we get there?’

‘Let’s take the Metro,’ I said.

As we walked down the steps into the station at Champs de Mars, we were hit by the dank, oily aroma of the underground, and the sound of a violin. Its tone was rich and sweet, and as we entered the tunnel it grew louder. I found myself wanting to follow the sound as though it were Ariadne’s thread. Halfway down the main walkway we found its source. An old man in a shabby black coat was playing a honey-coloured violin. His hair was sparse and white. His hands were papery and thin, and the veins on them stood out like pale blue wires. He must have been in his late seventies, maybe more. He’d rigged up a portable cassette player to provide ad hoc accompaniment, and he was playing Schubert’s Ave Maria. We automatically slowed our steps. He drew to the end of the piece, lifted off the bow, paused for a second, then began to play an old, familiar song. And as we stopped to listen, the words ran through my mind.

I see trees of green, red roses too …

‘How lovely,’ said Helen.

I see them bloom, for me and you …

‘Lovely,’ she repeated.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

His violin case was open at his feet. A few coins shone brightly against the worn black felt.

I see skies of blue, and clouds of white …

I put my hands in my jacket pocket, and drew out a 50-centime piece. Not enough. Not nearly.

The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night …

I opened my bag for a note.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

Twenty francs? That would do. Or perhaps fifty. Or a hundred? It was only a tenner, after all.

I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’, ‘How do you do?’ They’re really sayin’, ‘I love you.’

That’s what Dominic said to me, when he proposed. But it wasn’t true. I knew that now. I looked at my diamond ring, sparkling on my right hand. Its facets flashed like frost.

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow,

They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know …

I hesitated for a second, then pulled it off, and placed it amongst the coins.

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

‘Merci, madame,’ I heard our busker say. ‘Merci, madame. Merci.’ He looked uncertain, so I smiled. Then we turned and walked away.

‘Are you sure?’ Helen said, handing me a tissue.

‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure.’

And I think to myself …what a wonderful world.

‘What a wonderful place,’ said Helen half an hour later as we strolled through the Jardins du Luxembourg in the late afternoon sun. Middle-aged men played chess under the plane trees; people walked their dogs across the lawns, and children spun their yo-yos back and forth, flinging them out with theatrical flourish, then reeling them in again, fast. Lining the paths were flowerbeds filled with roses, and, in the distance, we could hear the soft ‘thwock!’ of tennis balls. Helen consulted the guide.

‘Isadora Duncan danced here,’ she said. ‘And Ernest Hemingway used to come and shoot the pigeons.’

‘That’s nice.’

We passed the octagonal pond in front of the Palais, and walked down an avenue of chestnut trees. Joggers ran past us, working off their foie gras; sunbathers and bookworms lounged in park chairs. We could hear the yapping of small dogs, and the chattering of birds. This unhurried existence was a million miles from the fume-filled avenues of the centre. There was childish laughter from a playground. We stopped for a second and watched a group of children rise and fall on their swings.

‘Do you want kids?’ I asked Helen.

She shrugged. ‘Maybe …Oh, I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘Only if I meet the right chap. But even then I wouldn’t want them for at least – ooh, three or four years. I’m much too busy,’ she added happily, as we turned out of the gardens. ‘And do you know, Mint, I really like being single.’

‘I wish I did,’ I said. Then I glanced at my watch. It was almost seven. We decided to get something to eat.

‘Chez Marc’, announced the bar in a narrow cobbled street off the Rue de Tournon. The tables outside were all taken, so we went inside. Waiters with white aprons whizzed round with trays on fingertips as though on invisible skates. A cirrus of cigarette smoke hung over the bar, and we could hear the chink of heavy crockery, and staccato bursts of male laughter. We could also hear the crack of plastic on cork. By the window a game of table football was in progress. Four young men were hunched over the rods, their knuckles white, as the ball banged and skittered around the pitch.

‘I used to love playing that,’ I said, as we sipped our beer. ‘On holiday, when we were little. I used to be quite good.’ The players were shouting encouragement, expostulating at penalties and screaming their heads off at every goal.

‘– hors-jeu!’

‘– c’est nul!’

‘– veux-tu?!’

‘French men are so good-looking, aren’t they?’ said Helen.

‘Aah! Putain!’

‘Espèce de con!’

‘Especially that one, there.’

‘That was a banana!’ he shouted, in a very un-Gallic way. ‘Bananas are not allowed. You’ve got to throw the ball in straight. Got that? !’

‘Bof!’ said his opponent. ‘Alors …’

‘And only five seconds to size up a shot! OK? Cinq secondes!’

‘D’accord, d’accord! Oh, le “Fair Play”,’ muttered his opponent crossly.

A free kick was awarded. A quick flick of the wrist, and the ball shot into the net.

‘Goal!’ Helen clapped. She couldn’t help it. They all turned and smiled. I didn’t have the energy to smile back. Then the waiter appeared with our pasta. I had eaten what I could when two of the players put on their jackets, shook hands with their opponents and left. The Englishman remained at the table. I looked at him discreetly. Helen was right. He was rather nice-looking, in an unshowy sort of way. His hair was dark, and a bit too long. His face looked open and kind. He was wearing jeans and Timberlands, and a rather faded green polo shirt. To my surprise he turned and looked at us.

‘Vous voulez jouer?’

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘Would you like to play?’

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said with a bitter little smile. ‘I’ve had enough penalty kicks recently.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s fun.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said.

‘Oh, but my friend and I need partners,’ he urged.

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to.’ I looked at Helen. She had a funny expression on her face.

‘You play with them,’ I said to her.

‘Not without you.’

‘Go on. I’ll watch.’

‘No, no – we’ll both play.’

‘No, we won’t,’ I said, ‘because I don’t want to.’

‘Well, I do, but I don’t want to play without you. Come on, Minty.’

‘What?’ Why on earth was she insisting?

‘Come on,’ she said again. And now she was on her feet. ‘We would like to play, actually,’ she announced to the waiting men.

Oh God. And in any case I couldn’t even get out. I was jammed in behind the table. Suddenly the English boy came over to me and stretched out his hand.

‘Come and play,’ he said. I looked at him. Then, very reluctantly, I held out my hand.

‘I’m Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’

‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.

‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.

‘What?’

‘Centre forward?’

‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’

‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’

‘I don’t even know what they are.’

‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.

We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.

‘Sorry about that,’ I groaned.

‘Forget it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We’ll still win.’ Now my heart was pounding as Joe and Pierre wrestled for the ball again. The excitement was high as it skidded around the pitch, and it was hard to concentrate, because Joe talked all the time.

‘What do you do, Minty?’

‘Oh, er …I’m a radio journalist,’ I said, amazed that he could simultaneously concentrate on the game and converse. ‘What about you?’ I enquired, though I was only being polite.

‘I’m a writer,’ he replied. ‘And where do you work?’

‘London FM. On a magazine programme called Capitalise.’ ‘Oh, I know it. Current affairs and features.’ Suddenly, Helen’s half-back kicked the ball so hard that it bounced right off the pitch. Play stopped for a few seconds as she went chasing after it.

‘I like Capitalise,’ said Joe. ‘I listen to it quite a bit.’

‘Do you live in London, then?’ I asked him.

‘On and off,’ he replied. ‘I’m teaching a creative writing course here for the summer, but I’ll be back in London in mid October. Where are you staying?’

Why all the questions? I wondered. And then Helen reappeared with the ball.

‘OK – le throw-in!’ said Pierre.

‘So where are you staying?’ Joe asked again, as the ball bounced on to the pitch.

‘Umm, the George V, actually.’ I didn’t want to explain why. He gave a long, low whistle, then he passed the ball back to me.

‘Le George V. Wow!’

‘Only for four days,’ I said, as I moved my goalie across to counter the threat from Pierre’s centre half.

‘Good save, Minty!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘And when do you go back?’

‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’

Why was he so inquisitive? I didn’t even know the man. He fired at the goal. And in it went.

‘Thank you! That’s two-one,’ he yelled. ‘Can I give you a ring?’ he said suddenly, as Helen put a new ball down.

‘What?’ I said, as play resumed.

‘Can I call you?’ he repeated. ‘Can I call you when I’m back in London?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I replied, surprised.

‘We could play table football,’ he said. ‘We could play at Café Kick.’

‘Oh.’ How forward. And how very depressing, I thought. He was trying to pick me up. He obviously did this all the time. With women he hardly knew. I didn’t need this, I thought crossly. I’d just been jilted, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want a man ringing me ever again. Humiliating me ever again. Hurting me ever again.

‘Penalty!’ shouted Pierre.

‘Would it be all right if I took your number, Minty?’ Joe asked me again, as he passed the ball back.

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I repeated tersely. I struck the ball, hard, and a shout went up.

‘Own goal, Minty!’ everyone cried.