‘Dominic!’ I shouted. ‘Dom!’ And I saw him pass through, and I had my ticket in my pocket, and I put it in, but it beeped and said ‘Seek Assistance’. But the only person who
could
give me assistance was Dom. So I called out, ‘Dominic! Dominic! Please
stop
!’ But still he didn’t seem to hear. And I was
so
out of breath, and feeling very conscious now of what a bizarre
figure I cut. And I shouted again, much louder now, ‘DOMINIC!! DOMINIC!! COME
BACK
!!!’ And it worked. He heard. Because from the other side of the barrier he turned round – at last, at
last
, he turned. And he looked utterly astonished. Gobsmacked. Thunderstruck. Not because of my bizarre, tinfoiled hair, or my flapping salon gown. But because it wasn’t Dominic at all.
‘Er …can I help you?’ said this man, on whom I’d never set eyes before. Same hair. Same build. Approximately same age. That was all. Of course it wasn’t Dominic. How could I have thought it
was
?
‘Are you all right?’ he enquired politely, though he was clearly aghast.
‘I’m …fine,’ I said weakly. ‘I’m …’ I could feel the familiar ache in my throat, and my eyes began to swim. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, hyperventilating from exertion and shock. ‘You see, I thought, I thought …’ But he was already heading for the lift. Then I leant against the station wall, and covered my face with my hands.
‘
Minty
?’ Jack enquired when I went into the Monday morning meeting. I gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘Good God,’ he enunciated, slowly. ‘Suits you,’ he added admiringly. ‘Bit radical, though.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Precisely.’ I ran my hands through my inchlong coppery hair which I had slicked down with a little gel. They’d go wild for me at the Candy Bar. I was almost sorry not to be going back. Suddenly, Suzie Saucisson appeared in her normal bluestocking mode. She peered at me through her pebble specs.
‘
Wow
!’ she breathed. ‘Different! I’m amazed Tom let you in.’
‘He was a bit doubtful at first.’
‘Nice colour,’ she added. ‘Hey! Great jacket too.’
‘Thanks.’ I was wearing my Ally Capellino suit.
‘You look so …
modern
,’ she went on, wonderingly, as she took her place at the table.
‘Thoroughly Modern Minty, that’s me!’
‘Well,
we’ve
got to be thoroughly modern too,’ she said with a vehement air. ‘Jack,’ she went on, ‘before we begin the meeting, can we talk about digital training?’
‘Oh, some other time,’ he replied, irritably. He picked up a piece of yellow leader tape and began twisting and stretching it in his hands. He was as coiled and tense as a watch-spring. And it was only ten o’clock.
‘We’ve really got to crack on with it,’ Sophie announced, as she consulted her clipboard.
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Jack testily.
‘But some people round here don’t want to know. Wesley, for example,’ she added indignantly. ‘He’s refusing to go on the training course. Aren’t you?’
‘It does sound awfully
difficult
,’ Wesley whined. ‘And you
know
I don’t like computers.’
‘But we’ve
got
to get to grips with the new technology!’ Sophie exclaimed. ‘We’re like the toffs on the
Titanic
, gaily kicking up our heels while the digital iceberg looms.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll get round to it sometime,’ said Jack, with forced casualness. He seemed, as usual, to have other things on his mind.
‘No, we must get down to it now,’ she repeated. ‘We’re a laughing stock at
Broadcast
– they can’t believe we still use tape.’
‘Sophie,’ said Jack carefully, ‘as you’re blessed with such a remarkable intellect, perhaps you could explain where we’re going to get the money to pay for all this new equipment?’
‘I’ll ask Uncle Percy,’ said Melinda. ‘He’s got thwee million in his cuwwent account.’ Then she burped, loudly. ‘Oops! Sowwy!’ she giggled. ‘Wind,’ she confided, as she patted her mountainous bump.
‘I think the changeover to digital technology should be a priority,’ Sophie persisted. ‘We’re at the dawning of a new century. A new
age.
’ Her eyes shone with evangelical fervour.
‘I said I’ll sort it out,’ said Jack with scarcely concealed annoyance. ‘But first we’ve got to get the ratings up. Why? Because we have to deliver the …?’
‘Listeners,’ we all said, wearily.
‘Who attract the …?’
‘Advertisers.’
‘Who provide our …?’
‘
Rev-en-ue
!’
‘Right. So, let’s hear your ideas.’
‘Look, I really don’t think it can wait,’ Sophie went on with an exasperated air. ‘We’re dinosaurs,’ she added desperately. ‘And we all know what happened to
them
!’
‘Sophie!’ Jack replied with frosty hauteur. I could hear the scraping of rank being pulled. ‘May I remind you that you’re not in charge here.’
‘No, but –’
‘And I am. So I’ll decide.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘So please don’t push your luck.’
‘OK, but –’
‘And I, for one, won’t be dictated to by you.’
‘Yes, but we’ve got to move ahead, adapt …’
‘Bugger off!’ said Jack.
‘What?’
‘Go on. Just bugger off! Bugger. Right. Off.’
There was a short, shocked silence. Sophie reddened, then fled in tears. We shifted uncomfortably in our seats, and exchanged subtle glances.
‘Gosh, that’s a bit
wude
,’ I heard Melinda whisper to Wesley. And it was. It was incredibly rude. Jack was very short-tempered these days. Sophie may have been a bit pushy – but then she was very young. More to the point, she was right.
‘OK, let’s get on with the meeting,’ said Jack. And though his tone of voice was calm, his face had gone a deep shade of red. ‘Let’s just …get on with this,’ he repeated with a sigh. ‘And your ideas had better be good.’
‘
Diarrhoea
?’ enquired a soothing voice, over sound effects of a flushing lavatory. I stared at my bowl of Mulligatawny.
‘
Keep on running to the loo
?’ I pushed the soup away, and picked at my plate of congealing macaroni.
‘
Put diarrhoea on the skids with Bung
!’
‘Can I join you, Minty?’ It was Jack. I nodded. He sat down with his sandwich and a cup of coffee. He looked tired and strained, as usual.
‘Sophie all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Think so.’
‘I shouldn’t have lost it like that,’ he said guiltily, ‘but she really was being incredibly annoying.’
‘Well …’
‘Coming on the Head Girl with me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I sometimes think she’s a bit too strait-laced for London FM, you know.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘I think she may have hidden depths.’
‘Was I too hard on her?’ he asked suddenly. He gave me a piercing, almost imploring look.
‘Oh, well, no, not really …’ And then I remembered what I’d learnt on the course. ‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘You were.’
‘I can’t help it,’ he sighed. ‘I just don’t have the same reserves of patience any more.’ This was true. Despite his sardonic exterior, Jack used to be easy-going, concealing his sharp managerial skills under a soft blanket of laissez faire. Now he was sharp, and cold. Worse, he seemed not to care. He bit into his ham and cheese sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. Then he rested his head on his hand.
‘Are you all right, Jack?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m not.’
‘Anything I can do?’ I pushed my plate away. He smiled, and held my gaze. Then he shook his head, and looked away.
‘It’s too late,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve just got to face up to it. I’ve got to face up to the fact that I’ve made a terrible mistake.’
‘Oh, I’m sure if you speak to Sophie and explain, she’ll understand,’ I said. ‘She is a bit bossy, but she’s very young and probably doesn’t realise that –’
‘Oh, it’s not
Sophie
,’ he cut in. ‘It’s
Jane.
’
Jane? His wife of eight months. He heaved another huge sigh. And I was just going to ask him whether or not he wanted to talk about it, because Jack and I have always got on so well, when he went on, quite unprompted:
‘It’s my step-daughters. Topaz and Iolanthe. They make my existence hell.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve just had one of the worst weekends of my life.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘They hate me,’ he whispered.
‘How could
anyone
hate you?’ I replied. He smiled a rueful
smile, then rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers.
‘Well, they do,’ he said with a sigh. ‘In fact, they loathe me. They always have. I’m the enemy. The object of their detestation. All I get is abuse.’
‘Doesn’t Jane stick up for you?’
‘That’s the last thing she’d do,’ he replied with a bitter laugh. ‘They’re Mummy’s little darlings – but they’re thirteen and fifteen now. That’s why I lost it with Sophie,’ he went on, quietly. ‘She reminded me of them. Trying to push me around. Trying to undermine my authority. I couldn’t take it. It’s bad enough getting that at home.’
‘I see.’ Poor Jack. ‘But …you put your foot down with Sophie,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘In fact, you
really
put your foot down there.’
‘Yes,’ he conceded, again.
‘So why can’t you do it with your step-daughters?’ There was a pregnant pause.
‘Because …I just …
can’t
,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not their father, as they constantly remind me. And they’d go bleating to Jane if I did. Things are bad enough between us as it is,’ he added ruefully. ‘That’s why I went for Sophie.’
‘It’s called “Kicking the Cat”,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘That’s what you’re doing,’ I explained. ‘You’re kicking the cat. I learnt that on a course I did recently. If you get a load of grief at work, you take it out on people at home. With you, it’s the other way round, and so you’re taking it out on Sophie. You’re kicking the cat. Do you see?’
‘I suppose so. To be honest, I just can’t think straight at the moment. In fact, Minty, I’m at the end of my tether.’
‘
O SOLE MIO …
’
I’m at the end of my tether too.
‘ …
STA ‘NFRONTE A TE
!’
I’ve been listening to this all day.
‘
QUANNO FA NOTTE …’
And it’s really loud.
‘
0 SOLE MIO
!’
And every time I try and turn it down a touch, Amber turns it back up. I just can’t think.
‘Couldn’t we have it a little softer?’ I said. ‘Just a bit.’
‘No. It doesn’t work unless it’s at full volume.’
It’s therapy, you see. For Pedro. At this time of year he tends to get a bit down in the beak. Amber says it’s Seasonal Affected Disorder. It’s certainly SAD. He won’t leave his cage, his little head droops, and he refuses to utter a word. Worse, he plucks at the feathers on his chest – a sure sign of psittacine distress. And the only thing that can snap him out of it is Neapolitan love songs. Though he’s
very
picky about the artistes. Mario Lanza rather than Tito Gobbi, for example. Caruso rather than Carreras. He also appreciates the more subtle Neapolitan intonation of Toni Marchi. Just like Granny did. But he has absolutely no time for Pavarotti. Believe me, it’s been tried.
‘
CHE BELLA COSA, ‘NA IURNATA ‘E SOLE, N’ARIA SERENA DOPPA ‘NA TEMPESTA
!’
‘He’s a very sentimental bird,’ said Amber, as she picked up my mahogany occasional table and moved it to the other side of the sitting room. ‘He likes music that comes from the
heart.
I ought to knit him a stripy fisherman’s jumper,’ she added with a laugh. She placed her long, elegant hands on her slim hips, and scrutinised the sitting room. Then she said, ‘Give me a hand, Mint.’
‘What?’ She had grabbed the arm of the small sofa.
‘Let’s move it into the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’ll look better there. That’s why.’
‘But I don’t really …
want
it to go there,’ I said cautiously.
Amber looked at me incredulously. I braced myself. My heart was pounding. My palms were damp. I felt the familiar panic and tried to remember what they’d said on the Nice Factor. What was it? Oh yes: ‘Does a fear of rejection make you say “yes” when you really mean “no”?’
‘You don’t want it to go there?’
‘N-no,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Minty!’ she replied with a burst of snorty laughter.
‘But I like it as it
is
,’ I tried again. She was so maddening. So bossy. She must have driven Charlie round the bend. And despite everything she’d heard on the Nice Factor she was
still
doing it to me! I could feel my blood pressure rise. I experienced an overwhelming urge to clean. Then I remembered something else I’d learnt on the course: excessive niceness can be dangerous. Too much self-restraint builds up a munitions dump of resentment which can explode at some totally inappropriate moment, often with completely the wrong person. And I didn’t want to blow up at anyone. I just wanted to be able to state my rights and say ‘no’.
‘Look, Amber,’ I said, ‘I really don’t –’
‘Oh, come on, Minty!’ she said again. Half an hour later, the sitting room had been completely rearranged. My two sofas had swapped sides, my standard lamp was next to the fire; my rosewood desk had vacated its nook, and the Persian rug had been moved. I hated it.
‘Now,’ she said, as I involuntarily put on my apron, ‘those curtains – awful!’
‘I
say
!’ screeched Pedro.
‘Oh good, he’s cheering up!’ exclaimed Amber.
While she crooned over Pedro, I surreptitiously turned down the hi-fi. And as Mario Lanza subsided, other sounds filtered in – the crack of an occasional firework, and shrieks of childish laughter. The big display was taking place tonight, on Primrose Hill. I had no plans to go, though I thought I might watch it from the garden. Amber was trying to get Pedro to eat a piece of apple. He took it in his scaly, outstretched claw, then held it up to his beak and nibbled it. Oh God, I wish she’d find her own place, I found myself thinking as I reached for the Jif. It’s not even as though she pays me any rent.
‘I need more space,’ she announced. Hurrah! At last! Telepathy.
‘My bedroom’s very small,’ she went on. This was true.
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘It’s very cramped.’ Not least because it’s full of her own books. She keeps buying them in a futile attempt to get into the bestseller lists. She must have two hundred at least.
‘I just don’t have enough room,’ she went on.
‘Well, there is a solution to that.’
‘Yes, but it would be quite tough.’
‘I think I’ll get used to it,’ I said.
‘I do hope so.’
‘Don’t worry. All good things come to an end.’
‘So you don’t mind if I have your bedroom then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You see, you’re out at work all day, so you only need a bedroom to sleep in. But I have to work in mine. Think in mine.
Create
in mine. So I thought we might swap.’
‘
What
?’
‘Because I’ve got to deliver my manuscript by January …’
‘Yes, but …’
‘ …and, frankly, the lack of space here is a bar to my creativity.’
‘Now look …’
‘And, let’s face it, yours is twice the size.’
‘Amber!’ I said. ‘I …’ This was it. I’d had enough. I was about to go off like Mount Etna. But all at once Amber had rushed up to me and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Oh, Minty, thank you! Thank you!
Thank
you! Darling Minty, I
knew
you’d say yes – you’re so NICE!’
By now Pedro’s recovery was complete. Moreover, he was bored, and had started shouting.