The Making of Minty Malone

So I encourage him as much as I can, and I’d never, ever criticise him – even if I wanted to, which I don’t – because a) he’s always promptly dropped girlfriends who did criticise him in any way whatsoever, and b) I’m certainly not perfect myself. Far from it, in fact, as he often likes to point out. Because here I am letting you in on Dominic’s little foibles, when, let’s face it, I’ve got plenty of my own. For instance, Dom thinks I talk too much. He’s always said that – right from the start. I thought that was a bit odd, to be honest, because no one else has ever said that to me, but I guess I must have been doing it without realising. Dom doesn’t like it if I try and have conversations which he thinks are too ‘serious’, because he thinks that’s boring and not the Done Thing. He read somewhere that smart people don’t talk about serious issues. They mostly like to talk about things that are ‘amusing’. Not politics, for a start. Or King Lear. Or Camille Paglia. So I often have to bite my tongue to make sure I don’t say anything interesting and annoy him. Because he does get quite annoyed. Well, very annoyed, actually.

My taste in clothes is not that great either, but luckily Dominic’s really improved it for me. Because he’s always impeccably turned out. Which I like, because, let’s face it, so many men don’t bother much these days. Anyway, no one had ever pointed out to me that I could do with a bit of advice on that front. He said I looked like a ‘superannuated student’. And he was right. I did. I probably picked it up from Mum. She favours the Bloomsbury look – her things are long and floaty and a bit ‘arty’ – all from charity shops, of course. Dom said he’d never let me go round looking like that. Now, he likes clothes that are well cut, expensive-looking and ‘smart’ – Gucci, for example. Which is a bit hard when you’re on a small salary like I am, though at least I don’t have a mortgage. And so when I first started going out with him I found there were lots of things I couldn’t wear. He called them my ‘nightmares’. And that surprised me too, because none of my previous boyfriends felt like that at all. Anyway, Dom told me to throw them all out, but I objected to that, so I put them in boxes under my bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Wilt thou?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes,’ I said weakly, ‘I know.’

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

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

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

‘Yes. Yes, I do know that, actually.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What?’

‘We can’t stay here.’

‘What? Oh …no.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘What a bastard!’ said Amber, again.

‘Please, madam,’ repeated the vicar.

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

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

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

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

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

‘– another woman?’ I heard someone ask.

‘– dunno.’

‘– already married?’

‘– nervous breakdown?’

‘– always a bit flaky.’

‘– totally humiliating.’

‘– what about the presents?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Integrity!’ Amber spat.

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

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

‘Thanks.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And the honeymoon.’

‘Heart of gold, really.’

Mum shot her a poisonous look.

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

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

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