The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff
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,’