July 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 hand-clapping 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 twenty-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 in her bra and pants, 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 280 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 needed.
'YES!' I said.
'Minty!' It was Amber. My cousin. 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, 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.
'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. And that's all there is to it. Right. I looked at the kitchen clock. Forty minutes to go. I tried to keep panic at bay by consulting my marriage handbook, Nearly Wed, but that wasn't much use. I glanced into the garden, where Dad was having what he calls a 'nutritious cigarette'. At least he was ready. That was 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 candy floss. 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. 'Leo,' wrote Sheryl von Strumpfhosen, 'Your love life takes an upward turn this weekend, when romantic Venus enters Libra.' 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 Dad 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 with a weary smile. '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 Barking 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. 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. For example, the reception's at the Waldorf. A sit-down lunch for 280 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. I'd do anything for Dom. I love him 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 simply 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 (vegetarian option available), 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 thousand, and Helen's bridesmaid's dress was a thousand, and what with the engagement announcements, wedding stationery, car hire, the church, the organist's fee, the going-away outfits, the ring, the honeymoon and the photographer (stills and video), the grand total comes to twenty-eight thousand six hundred pounds and seventy-two pence including VAT. 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 for the Hedgehog Sanctuary during the reception, but I told her I didn't think it was 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 and 'overstated'. 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, I'm not much good at go-getting. Unlike Dominic. He's quite sharp. 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 the Ivy one evening. 'It helps to oil the wheels.'
'I'm not so sure,' I said, fiddling with my fork. '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 that I should be more pushy. And although I don't really agree with him - and to be honest, I'm perfectly happy as I am - I do like the fact that he's so interested in my career. You see, I don't 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 philanthropic commitments, 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. Very safe. 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'm perfectly happy to go along with whatever he wants to do, and to be frank it makes life easy. He has a very nice lifestyle, and so we eat out quite a bit. Dom likes to go to expensive places, like Le Caprice or the Bluebird Café. Which is lovely, and well, why not? He's got the cash. 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 really 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. And 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 him - he's very practical. For example, he suggested we take out wedding insurance, just in case anything goes wrong. So he sold Dad a policy with Commercial Disunion 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 several 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. He's a very successful man. 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 he obviously didn't 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 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 very 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 there he stood, 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 afterwards that he hadn't liked it at all! And suddenly he got out his lap-top 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. 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 fact that 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 Irish Widows Pension Fund, as well as purchasing a Critical Illness policy with Cambridge Union. 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. The spark was there, from the start. And that's incredibly important, isn't it? As I say, I find him terribly attractive. You see, I've always had this secret thing about blond men. Lots of 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. 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. And I'd travelled an awful lot, and 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; and 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'. 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 Dorset. 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 really want to please Dominic because I'm mad about him.
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 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. But of course, I'd never say that to Dom. Dominic'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 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 semi 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. 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. There's nothing wrong with that, and I don't know why it bothers him. 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 particularly 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 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. I just wish he could have a little more self-confidence. Maybe that's something that marriage will give him. I hope so.
So I encourage him as much as I can, and tell him how marvellous and talented he is. 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, but, 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 a very smart man. 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. When we first met, he told me that 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. I suppose she does look a bit eccentric. And 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 so 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 don't mind any more. I've got used to it. 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, well, 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! Ten fifteen. 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 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 rising heat of a late July mid-morning. July 28th 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 - 'Floribunda'. It's in Covent Garden, where she lives, and it's so tiny - Lilliputian, in fact - that you hardly dare turn round for fear of sending 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. And 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's Dane 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!
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-drier and - oh God, Melinda! London FM's star presenter. 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 pregnant and everything, so I don't want to be unfair, but it really was awful. Chintz. Pink. Very Sanderson. She looked like she'd been upholstered. And she'd got this kind of scud missile balanced on top of 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, adrenaline-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; and there was Amber looking wonderfully elegant in lime green. There 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 were lots of people I didn't recognise who must have been Dom's clients. At the front was my mother in her flowing Bohemian dress, and her extraordinary, flower-smothered hat. And they were all 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-el,' 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. 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 vaguely aware 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. There's nothing wrong with me.'
'Then what's the matter?' I croaked. My mouth felt dry as dust and I was aware of whispered 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 one simply 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. And now 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. 'And 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 perspiration-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 90 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.
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 there was 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 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 dabbed his brow with a hankie as he faced all the guests. 'Now, I don't want to speculate as to why Dominic seems to have got cold feet -'
'Cold?' interjected Amber. '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 there next to my bridesmaid and the best man, and my father, 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, acidly. 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.
'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 badgers 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 four-fifty 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, though 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. '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 have 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 twenty-four pounds for it and had been assured by the woman in Selfridges that it was completely waterproof. I looked at my little gold 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 Eatwell, he's the sponsor.'
'Go with Helen, Minty,' said Dad. 'You might even have a bit of fun. And 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 that he wouldn't - because I knew that Madge was right.
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