‘Maybe if,’ I whispered.
‘What?’
‘Maybe if I’d put more effort into my relationship with Dominic.’
‘Minty, what are you talking about?’
‘Maybe if I’d put more effort into my relationship with Dominic, he wouldn’t have dumped me,’ I said quietly. Amber was staring at me. ‘You see, I’m still trying to work out
why
it happened,’ I explained. ‘Maybe it was somehow my fault.’
‘Minty,’ said Amber, ‘I have one thing to say to you: NO.’
‘Maybe I could have done more.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe if I hadn’t objected when
he
objected to the dress I wore for our engagement party.’
‘No,’ said Amber, again. ‘Wrong!’
‘Or maybe if I hadn’t expressed regret about the fact that he wanted to go on honeymoon to Paris rather than Venice – having said which, I really didn’t say very much about it. I didn’t, you know, rub it in or anything.’
‘Minty, nope.’
‘Or maybe if I’d been a better cook.’
‘I don’t think so, Minty.’
‘I mean, I’m not that brilliant at it.’
‘You’re a very
good
cook!’ Amber retorted.
‘Maybe if I hadn’t talked too much when he was tired,’ I sighed. ‘He often was tired, you know. He didn’t sleep at all well.’
‘Minty, you’re being boring.’
‘Maybe if I’d shown more enthusiasm for fly-fishing. Maybe if –’
‘Maybe if he’d been a decent, normal,
stable
man,’ Amber cut in smartly. ‘You must
stop
this, Minty. You’re just deluding yourself. And worse, you’re taking the blame. God, I’m getting bored of this place,’ she added with a weary sigh. ‘Pass me
Tatler
and
Harpers
, would you?’
I handed them across. I certainly didn’t want to read them myself, because I knew I’d be unable to resist looking at the society wedding photos, and that would set me off. So I picked up
New Woman
instead, and was idly flicking through the fashion and the ads, when an article suddenly caught my eye.
‘
ARE YOU TOO NICE
?’ the headline demanded. ‘
Are you easily manipulated by others
?’ it enquired. Yes, I thought to myself, I am. ‘
Do you constantly put other peoples’ wishes before your own
?’ Only if they want me to. ‘
Do you find it hard to say no
?’ YES! ‘
Then you’re a prime candidate for the Nice Factor.
’ This, the piece explained, was a course for people who find it hard to say, or do, what they really want. I quickly scribbled down the phone number, then read on, with a thumping heart. ‘
Do you apologise when it’s not your fault
?’ Yes. But then it often
is. ‘Do you have a nice smile perpetually glued in place, while inside you’re in a rage
?’ Yes, yes, I thought, that’s me. ‘
Do you constantly allow other people to set the agenda …
?’
‘Christ, I’m bored,’ said Amber. ‘I’ve had enough pampering, I think. Let’s get out of here, Mint. Come on.’
‘Oh.’ I sighed inwardly. I wanted to stay a bit longer. We’d only been there two hours and we’d bought vouchers for the whole day. I was enjoying myself, it was so restful and calm.
‘Come on, Mint,’ said Amber, again. I reluctantly picked up my towel. We showered and changed, then walked down Long Acre towards the Tube. We looked in the windows of Paul Smith and Nicole Farhi, and then we came to Books Etc.
Amber drew to a halt. ‘I just –’ she began. Oh no. ‘I just want to check how it’s doing,’ she said, as she went through the door.
I idly looked at the books as Amber searched the shelves. Then she went up to the till.
‘
A Public Convenience
,’ she said, ‘where is it?’
‘Sorry, what title was that?’ the young man enquired politely.
‘
A Public Convenience
!’ she reiterated with theatrical puzzlement, as though she had said.
War and Peace.
But his face was as blank as a sheet of typing paper. We could hear no bells ringing there.
‘Don’t know that one,’ he said, with a cheerful shrug. ‘Never heard of it. I’ll just look it up on the computer. Sorry, what was it called again?’
‘
A. Pub. Lic. Con. Ve. Ni. Ence.
’
‘Who’s it by?’
‘Amber Dane.’
‘Nope,’ he said as he tap-tapped away. ‘Can’t see it. Sorry, but we don’t appear to stock that one.’
‘Well, you should stock it,’ said Amber, reddening with incipient rage. ‘It’s a
brilliant
book. It was number 63 in
The Times
top forty.’
‘I can order it for you,’ he went on helpfully. ‘If you’d like to give me your name.’
Amber’s quivering face suggested that an internal war was raging between ambition and embarrassment.
‘Minty Malone,’ she said suddenly, with a lop-sided little smile. ‘My name’s Minty Malone.’
I rolled my eyes and groaned.
‘It’ll take about a week.’
‘Oh, now look here,’ Amber went on. ‘I’m sure you must have it. It’s only been out since July.’
‘Well, have you looked in the Contemporary Fiction section?’
‘Yes. It’s not there.’
‘And have you checked in New Titles?’
‘Yes. Ditto.’
‘Then I’m afraid that means we don’t have it.’
‘Or,’ she said, ‘you
did
have it, and you’ve sold out.’
‘Well …’ he said carefully, ‘I don’t think that’s the case, otherwise I’d recognise the name. What’s the cover like?’
I wandered round the shop while Amber argued about her novel. Shiny book jackets featuring women in wedding dresses seemed to thrust themselves into my face.
Well Groomed
! punned one,
Altar Ego
, quipped a second;
Hitched
, said a third, and of course,
Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married.
Unlike Minty Malone, I thought bitterly. I spotted
A Sudden Change of Heart
by Barbara Taylor Bradford, and
What About Me
? by Alan Smith. Everywhere I looked there were fanged traps to catch my heart. I glanced at the Contemporary Fiction shelf. There was no sign of Amber’s novel, but there were five copies of Joe’s, and underneath was a tiny review, which had been handwritten by one of the staff:
This book is a gem. I loved it. In fact, it made me late for work. Although it’s about a boy and his dog, it’s told in an unsentimental way which makes it all the more powerful. This is a redemptive story which moved me to tears and laughter and lived with me long after I’d turned the final page.
Ruth
On a table nearby there were another eight to ten copies of
Pios
stacked up in a neat pile. A woman had picked one up and was turning it over in her hands. I watched her eyes scan the blurb, and then she took it over to the till. I decided to buy one too, just out of curiosity, of course, as we’d met. And I was standing in the queue, looking at Joe’s photo on the inside back cover, and thinking that Helen was right, he really
was
quite good-looking in an unshowy, slightly scruffy sort of way, when Amber strode up to the counter, her face aflame.
‘What the HELL do you think THIS is?’ she demanded.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember now. We did order one copy. I’m sorry about that. Where did you find it?’
‘In the Humour section!’ she exclaimed. ‘
God
knows what it was doing in
there.
’
‘Please, madam, don’t touch the display,’ he added, imploringly. Amber ignored him as she reached into the window and placed her book in the centre, at the front.
‘These people in bookshops are complete idiots,’ she said furiously, as we left the shop shortly afterwards. ‘They don’t know their Archer from their Eliot, Minty. You really have to spell it out.’
‘K-o-s,’ I said, ‘o-v-o-’
‘So it’s not double “S” then?’ Melinda enquired.
‘No, just the one,’ I explained.
‘It’s
so
important to get the spelling
cowwect
, isn’t it, Minty?’
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter,’ I said.
‘
Doesn’t it
?’ She looked confused.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not for radio.’
‘Oh. Yes.
Wight
,’ she said, as the penny clattered to the floor. She furrowed her brow as she pored over the thick file of cuttings. ‘I think cuwwent affairs is borwing, don’t you?’ she said with an exasperated sigh.
‘Er …not really.’
‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘the Clinton thing was quite interwesting.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I’m weally glad he got off.’
‘He certainly did.’
‘And the weason Wichard Nixon
didn’t
get off was because what he did was
so
sewious.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, Minty. It was far worse. I mean –
buggerwy
in the White House!’
‘Mmm.’
‘Now, could you just give me a hand with the House of
Lords cue too,’ she went on. ‘I’m doing a live interview with Bawoness Jay.’
‘Well …Wesley really ought to be briefing you, Melinda. He’s the producer, after all.’
‘He says he hasn’t got time. He’s still down in the studio, editing. Pleeeease, Minteeeeee,’ she whined. ‘Go on. I’ve only got two hours before I go on air.’
I sighed heavily. This was always happening, and I had my own work to do.
‘OK.’ I glanced at Melinda’s fat form as I tapped away on her computer. Today she was wearing a bump-hugging bodysuit in electric purple, and enough designer jewellery to bring a weightlifter to his knees. Her brown hair had been hennaed, then coiffed into a mass of springy curls. Her nails had been skilfully varnished, with two contrasting tones of blue. She reached into her Louis Vuitton shopper and took out a bundle of knitting.
‘It helps me concentwate,’ she said, as the large grey needles click-clacked away.
‘Something for the baby?’ I said, as I rewrote her cue.
‘No, it’s a mohair pwegnancy dwess for me.’
‘Melinda,’ said Jack. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve done another twelve wows.’
‘The script, Melinda. The script.’
‘Oh, it’s fine. It’s going weally well. Don’t wowwy – I’m all wight, Jack!’ This witticism seemed to amuse her and her expansive frame wobbled with mirth.
‘We’re doing the House of Lords cue,’ she explained. ‘And I think it’s
quite
wong that these people should have all these special wights and pwivileges just because of who they’re welated to!’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Melinda,’ said Jack tersely. ‘I’ll be back to read your script in an hour.’
‘He’s always so bad-tempered these days.’
‘Well, a little bit.’ It was true.
‘In fact, he’s a pain,’ whispered Melinda as she lifted a loop of wool over the top of her needle.
‘No, he isn’t,’ I said. ‘He’s wonderful.’ She pulled a face.
‘Oh, don’t be such a cweep, Minty,’ she said.
‘Melinda,’ I said sharply, ‘do you want me to help you with this cue or
not
?’ She looked taken aback by my tone. And I was pretty surprised myself. It felt new. It felt rather good. It felt nice, being a bit less …nice. ‘Well,
do
you?’ I said again.
‘Oh. Oh, er, yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I want your help, Minty. You’re so bwilliant at it.’
‘Sophie!’ we heard Jack call out as he returned to his office. ‘Would you please empty the bloody fax tray. God knows what we’ve got lurking in there!’
Sophie was on the phone, huddled over the receiver in a furtive fashion, and giggling, so I went to empty the overflowing tray. There were press releases for fashion shows and private views, new plays and film festivals, publicity puffs for C-list celebs, and masses of publishers’ hype. As I stood at the machine it emitted a high-pitched warble and began to extrude another sheet. ‘Come to the Candy Bar this Sunday!’ it announced. ‘Girls only. Dress smart.’ A women-only party. That sounded quite good fun, and in my present man-avoiding mood it seemed to appeal. Amber would probably come with me. I noted down the address then turned my attention back to Melinda’s script.
‘OK, that’s done. I’ve also written down five suggested questions about the voting rights of hereditary peers.’
‘Thanks, Minty,’ she beamed. ‘You’re a bwick.’
I sat down at my desk with my cuttings on adoption, the subject of my next big feature. As I went through the articles, identifying useful contacts and people to interview, I found one that featured Helen, who’s always been very open about the fact that she’s adopted. I decided to ask her if she’d give me a quote for my piece. So I rang the shop and her assistant Anna picked up the phone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘you’ve just missed her.’
‘I’ll call her tomorrow, then,’ I replied.
‘Well, she won’t be here tomorrow,’ Anna explained. ‘That’s why she’s gone home early. She’s going away for the weekend.’
‘How lovely,’ I said.
‘Yes. She’s going to Paris.’
‘Oh. Wow. Well, great.’ I was
right
, I thought, as I put the phone down. My analysis about Helen and Joe was correct. But I didn’t have long to ponder this because then Wesley called up from the studio, desperate.
‘Would you come and help me?’ he said. My heart sank so low it was practically underground. And then I thought to myself, no – no more helping other people. No more. That’s it. Enough.
‘I’m rather busy, Wesley.’
‘But I’ve got problems with my timings.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sure you can work it out.’
‘I’m not sure I can,’ he said. ‘Without your help.’ Oh God.
‘Well, how much are you over by?’ I asked.
‘Not much.’
‘How much?’
‘Well …about an hour and a half.’ An hour and a half? Christ! The programme was only forty-five minutes long.
‘Look, I’m busy,’ I said. ‘I’ve
got
to start phone-bashing for my next piece.’
‘Please, Minty,’ he whined. ‘I won’t ask you again. Promise. Promise. Promise. And I don’t want Jack to know. He’s really stressed: he’s been twisting bits of leader tape all day.’
‘Oh God, I …look, Wesley, I’ve only just finished writing Melinda’s script – and
you’re
supposed to do that.’
‘I know, Minty. But I’m really behind. Please, Minty …’ he whined, ‘you’re so good at it.’
‘But …’
‘You’re so fast at editing.’