The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

the Louvre. Helen gasped when she saw the glass pyramid, its triangular panes glinting and flashing in the midday sun.

      ‘It’s incredible!’ she said. ‘It’s like a gigantic diamond.’

      ‘Yes,’ I replied flatly. I fiddled with my engagement ring – a solitaire – which I still wore, on my right hand.

      ‘Let’s find the Mona Lisa,’ said Helen as we made our way inside. We walked up the wide balustraded stairway on to the first floor of the Denon Wing. We paused before paintings by Botticelli, Bellini and Caravaggio, and altarpieces by Giotto and Cimabue. In one gallery was a painting by Veronese, so vast it filled one wall.

      ‘It’s the Wedding at Cana,’ said Helen, looking at the guide. ‘That was Christ’s first miracle, wasn’t it, when the wine ran out?’

      I found myself wishing He could have performed a similar stunt for me when my husband-to-be ran out. We passed through a long, window-lined corridor, which glowed with rich paintings. Mantegna’s martyred St Sebastian, pierced with sharp arrows, couldn’t have been in more pain than I. My shards were psychological, but no less sharp for that.

      We followed the signs and found the Mona Lisa behind bulletproof glass in Room 6. A bank of people stood in front of her, discussing her elusive smile.

      ‘– Oh, she’s so cute!’

      ‘– Che bella ragazza.’

      ‘– Sie ist so schone.’

      ‘– That’s real art, Art.’

      ‘– Elle est si mystérieuse, si triste.’

      ‘– her child had just died, you know.’

      ‘God, how awful,’ said Helen. Then she read from the entry in the guide:

      “‘When Leonardo began this portrait, the young woman was in mourning for her baby daughter; this is why she wears a black veil over her head. To lift her spirits, Leonardo brought musicians and clowns into his studio. Their antics brought a smile to her lips, a smile of indefinable sadness and great gentleness which made the portrait famous.” So she was feeling terrible,’ Helen added. ‘And yet she managed to smile.’

      That’s what I’ll do, I thought. I’ll erect my own bulletproof glass, and shield myself behind that. And I’ll wear a smile, so that no one will detect my pain. I decided to practise. I straightened my shoulders and raised my drooping head. I opened my eyes wider, and turned up the corners of my mouth. And it began to work, because as I looked up I caught the eye of a young man and, to my surprise, he smiled back. It reminded me of the lovely smile that Charlie had given me in church. And I suddenly remembered wishing that it had been Dominic who’d smiled. And now I knew why he hadn’t.

      ‘You’re well out of it,’ said Helen again, as we wandered downstairs. I was too weary to reply. In any case, I didn’t have the energy for anger – I was still anaesthetised by shock.

      ‘I mean, why go that far – that far – and then say “no”?’

      ‘He’s in the risk-business,’ I said bleakly. ‘He was unhappy with the small print so he decided not to close the deal. He exercised the ultimate get-out clause.’

      ‘Yes, but why was he unhappy?’ she asked.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘What a cad,’ said Helen. ‘You should sue him for breach of promise.’

      ‘It doesn’t exist in British law.’

      ‘Well, make him pay for the wedding, then.’

      ‘No – too undignified.’

      ‘If it were me, I’d be instructing solicitors,’ she said. ‘And fancy letting himself down like that in front of all his clients. I hope they all leave him,’ she exclaimed.

      ‘They won’t,’ I said. ‘And even if they did, he’d soon pick up new ones. He’s very persuasive.’ Dominic’s powers of persuasion were indeed legendary. He had once famously sold a Pet Protect policy to a woman who had no animals. Oh yes, Dominic would survive all right. The question was, would I?

      

      The next two days passed in a blur as we wandered slowly around the city. We visited the Musée d’Orsay, the Bois de Boulogne and the cemetery at Père Lachaise. And I’d thought Père Lachaise would be too sad, but it wasn’t, it was a surprisingly happy place, like a friendly little citadel of the celebrated dead. We found Colette’s grave, and Balzac’s and Chopin’s and Oscar Wilde’s. And Jim Morrison’s, of course, which was strewn with red roses, candles and cigarette butts, and empty whisky bottles.

      The next day, our last, we walked to the Eiffel Tower. We queued for an hour at the Pillier Ouest, while hawkers tried to sell us souvenirs. ‘To help you remember your stay in Paris,’ one of them pleaded.

      ‘I could never forget it,’ I said. We bought our tickets then went clanking skywards in the lift. Up and up it went, the vast wheels turning and grinding like the wheels of a Victorian mine-shaft. We passed the first landing stage, then the second, our ears popping as we floated up through the elaborate iron fretwork to the top. We were nearly a thousand feet above ground as we stepped out on to the viewing platform, the wind snatching spitefully at our hair and clothes. Up here, a slightly hysterical atmosphere prevailed. People grinned and gasped as they took in the view. Their eyes popped in disbelief. A young couple laughed and hugged each other as they peered out through the suicide-inhibiting mesh. Below us, to the left, was a football pitch which looked as though it had been cut from green felt. The players scurried across it like ants, and we could hear the whistles and shouts of the fans. In front of us was the Palais de Chaillot, and the broad brown band of the Seine. Along its banks, barges rocked gently on their moorings, and the reflected ripples of the river dappled the windows nearby. Away to our right was Montmartre, and the slender white domes of Sacré-Coeur and, ahead of us, further off, the brutalist towers of La Defense. The whole city lay spread beneath our feet, topped by a pale miasma of carbon monoxide. We could hear nothing but the whistling wind, and the dull roar of a million cars.

      ‘Look how far we can see!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘It must be fifty miles or more!’

      Indeed, the distance to the horizon made me feel strangely elated, intoxicated almost, and a poem by Emily Dickinson sprang into my mind: ‘As if the Sea should part/And show a further Sea/And that – a further …’ And I thought, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go right to the horizon, to the circumference, far, far away from what happened to me in church. I refuse to let Dominic’s desertion become the defining event of my life. I refuse to let one man destroy my dignity and sense of self. I resolved in that instant to be the exact opposite of that sad old relic, Miss Havisham. She entombed herself in her house, and her silk wedding dress became her shroud. But my bridal gown would be a cocoon, from which I would emerge, reborn. I will recover from this, I vowed, as the wind whipped my face and made my eyes sting with tears. I’ll start again. I shall be reborn. Made new. New Mint. I shall turn my catastrophe into a catalyst for change. I shall …I shall …

      All at once I felt dizzy. It might have been the height, or the strange perspective, or maybe it was lack of food. I clutched the rail, and shut my eyes. Then the squeak and shriek of the pulley announced the return of the lift. The doors drew back with a throaty click, and a new batch of tourists was disgorged. Helen and I stepped in and began our long descent to the ground.

      ‘Where now?’ she said, as we walked away, slightly unsteadily, through the milling crowd.

      ‘Latin Quarter?’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘A little stroll in the Jardins du Luxembourg?’

      ‘Fine. How do we get there?’

      ‘Let’s take the Metro,’ I said.

      As we walked