The Making of Minty Malone by Isabel Wolff Read Free Book Online Page A

back,’ she said, trying to comfort me, yet again.
    Helen’s like that. She’s very kind-hearted. She’s very optimistic too, like her name, Spero – ‘I hope.’ In fact, her family motto is Dum Spiro, Spero – ‘While I breathe, I hope.’ Yes, I thought, Helen’s always hopeful. But today she was quite, quite wrong.
    ‘He won’t come back,’ I said. ‘He never, ever changes his mind about anything. It’s over, Helen. Over and out.’
    She shook her head, and murmured, for the umpteenth time, ‘Incredible.’ And then, determined to cheer me up, she began to regale me with other nuptial nightmares she’d read about in women’s magazines. The groom who discovered he’d married a transsexual; the best man who didn’t show; the bride who ran off with a woman she’d met at her hen night; the collapsing or flying marquees. Helen was an expert. Helen knew them all.
    ‘Did you hear the one about the coronation chicken?’ she asked, as she sipped her Bordeaux.
    ‘No.’
    ‘It claimed five lives at a reception in Reigate.’
    ‘How dreadful.’
    ‘Then there was this awful punch-up at a marriage in Maidstone.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘The bride spent her wedding night in jail.’
    ‘Oh dear.’
    ‘And there was a woman in Kent who was married and widowed on the same day!’
    ‘No!’
    ‘The groom said, “I do,” then dropped stone-dead. Heart attack, apparently, brought on by all the stress.’
    ‘Oh God.’
    ‘And I know someone else whose granny croaked at the reception.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘She went face down in the trifle during the speeches.’
    ‘Terrible,’ I murmured. And though Helen meant well, this litany of wedding-day disasters was beginning to get me down. I was glad when we pulled into Paris.
    ‘Well, perhaps it’s for the best,’ she said, as we got off the train. ‘And I’m sure you’ll meet someone else – I mean, if Dominic doesn’t come back,’ she added quickly.
    And I thought, yes, maybe I’ll meet someone else. Maybe,like Nancy Mitford’s heroine, Linda, in The Pursuit of Love , I’ll encounter some charming French aristocrat right here at the Gare du Nord. That would be wonderfully convenient. But there were no aristocrats in sight, just an interminable queue for the cabs.
    ‘ Le George V, s’il vous plaît ,’ Helen said to the driver, and soon we were speeding through the streets, the windows wide open, inhaling the pungent Parisian aroma of petrol fumes, tobacco and pissoirs. At the bottom of Rue La Fayette stood the Opera House, as ornate and fanciful as a wedding cake, I reflected bitterly. Then we crossed the Place de la Concorde and entered the bustling Champs Elysées.
    ‘Elysian Fields,’ I said acidly. The sight of a shop window full of bridal gowns dealt me a knife-blow. A wedding car festooned with white ribbons pulled past and I thought I was going to be sick. Ahead of us was the Arc de Triomphe, massive and emphatic. It seemed to mock me after my decidedly unheroic disaster in St Bride’s. I was glad when the driver turned left into Avenue George V, and we couldn’t see it any more.
    ‘Congratulations, Madame Lane!’ The concierge beamed at me. ‘The Four Seasons George V Hotel would like to extend to you and your ‘usband, our warmest félicitations ! Er, is Monsieur Lane just coming, madame?’
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘he isn’t. And it’s still “mademoiselle”, by the way.’ The concierge reddened as he called a bellboy to take care of our bags.
    ‘Ah. I see,’ he said, as he slid the registration form across the counter for me to sign. ‘ Alors , never mind, as you English like to say.’
    ‘I do mind,’ I pointed out. ‘I mind very much, actually. But I was persuaded not to waste the trip, so I’ve come with my bridesmaid, instead.’ Helen gave the concierge an awkward smile.
    ‘ Eh bien , why not?’ he said. ‘The Honeymoon Suite is on the eighth floor, mademoiselles. The lifts are just there on your right. I ‘ope you