The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

Joe,’ he said, as he pulled me to my feet. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Minty. That’s Minty Malone, by the way,’ I added. ‘Not Lane.’ And, again, my sardonic tone took me aback. I think it took Joe aback, too, because he gave me a slightly puzzled look. Helen was already at the table, partnering the French boy, whose name was Pierre.

      ‘Do you want to be forward?’ Joe enquired.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Centre forward?’

      ‘Oh. No, I prefer to defend.’

      ‘Right. No spinning, OK?’ I looked blank. ‘No spinning the rods,’ he cautioned. ‘It’s cheating.’ I nodded. ‘And no bananas.’

      ‘I don’t even know what they are.’

      ‘It means putting the new ball in with a spin so that it goes towards your own side. Not done.’ I looked at the figurines. Twenty-two plastic men dressed in red or yellow jumpers stared vacantly on their metal rods. They looked as empty and lifeless as I felt.

      We grasped the rods. Pierre put the money in, and the ball appeared. He placed it between the two centre forwards, whistled, and the game began. The ball reeled and ricocheted around the pitch as Pierre and Joe competed for possession, then it came to my half-back. I stopped it dead, then kicked it forward to Joe. The tension was unbearable as he hooked the player’s feet round the back of the ball, lifted the rod, and then – bang! He’d shot it straight into the goal. ‘Great team work, Minty,’ he said. ‘Fantastic!’ I smiled and blushed with pride, and despite myself I could feel my spirits begin to lift. Two minutes later, Pierre equalised. It was my fault. It was perfectly saveable, but I didn’t move my goalie fast enough. I felt like David Seaman when England lost the penalty shoot-out to Argentina in the World Cup.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ I groaned.

      ‘Forget it,’ he said with a laugh. ‘We’ll still win.’ Now my heart was pounding as Joe and Pierre wrestled for the ball again. The excitement was high as it skidded around the pitch, and it was hard to concentrate, because Joe talked all the time.

      ‘What do you do, Minty?’

      ‘Oh, er …I’m a radio journalist,’ I said, amazed that he could simultaneously concentrate on the game and converse. ‘What about you?’ I enquired, though I was only being polite.

      ‘I’m a writer,’ he replied. ‘And where do you work?’

      ‘London FM. On a magazine programme called Capitalise.’ ‘Oh, I know it. Current affairs and features.’ Suddenly, Helen’s half-back kicked the ball so hard that it bounced right off the pitch. Play stopped for a few seconds as she went chasing after it.

      ‘I like Capitalise,’ said Joe. ‘I listen to it quite a bit.’

      ‘Do you live in London, then?’ I asked him.

      ‘On and off,’ he replied. ‘I’m teaching a creative writing course here for the summer, but I’ll be back in London in mid October. Where are you staying?’

      Why all the questions? I wondered. And then Helen reappeared with the ball.

      ‘OK – le throw-in!’ said Pierre.

      ‘So where are you staying?’ Joe asked again, as the ball bounced on to the pitch.

      ‘Umm, the George V, actually.’ I didn’t want to explain why. He gave a long, low whistle, then he passed the ball back to me.

      ‘Le George V. Wow!’

      ‘Only for four days,’ I said, as I moved my goalie across to counter the threat from Pierre’s centre half.

      ‘Good save, Minty!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘And when do you go back?’

      ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’

      Why was he so inquisitive? I didn’t even know the man. He fired at the goal. And in it went.

      ‘Thank you! That’s two-one,’ he yelled. ‘Can I give you a ring?’ he said suddenly, as Helen put a new ball down.

      ‘What?’ I said, as play resumed.

      ‘Can I call you?’ he repeated. ‘Can I call you when I’m back in London?’

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

      ‘We could play table football,’ he said. ‘We could play at Café Kick.’

      ‘Oh.’ How forward. And how very depressing, I thought. He was trying to pick me up. He obviously did this all the time. With women he hardly knew. I didn’t need this, I thought crossly. I’d just been jilted, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t want a man ringing me ever again. Humiliating me ever again. Hurting me ever again.

      ‘Penalty!’ shouted Pierre.

      ‘Would it be all right if I took your number, Minty?’ Joe asked me again, as he passed the ball back.

      ‘No.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ I repeated tersely. I struck the ball, hard, and a shout went up.

      ‘Own goal, Minty!’ everyone cried.

       August

      ‘’Ad a nice time, luv?’ enquired the driver of the cab I flagged down outside Waterloo. Helen had gone to Holland Park to see her parents.

      ‘Sort of. Well, not really.’

      ‘What was it, ‘oliday?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Honeymoon.’

      ‘Where’s your ‘usband then?’

      ‘I haven’t got one.’

      ‘You ain’t got one?’

      ‘No. He ran away.’

      ‘ ‘E did a runner?’ said the driver incredulously. He turned round to face me and almost crashed the cab.

      ‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘During the service. So I went with my bridesmaid instead.’

      ‘’E did a runner!’

      He was chortling and shaking his head.

      ‘Bleedin’ ‘ell. I ‘ope you never catch him.’

      ‘I shan’t even try,’ I said.

      My spirits drooped like dead flowers as we drove through the dusty streets. My brief holiday was over; reality was rolling in. I could have wept as we passed the Waldorf. And the sight of a church made me feel sick. I thought, sinkingly, of work and dreaded having to return. How would I face my colleagues, and what on earth would they say? I would be an object of pity and derision, I decided as we bounced north. I would be suffocated by their sympathy, choked by their concern.

      We drew up outside my flat and I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign. It would have to come down, I realised; I wouldn’t be going anywhere now. And for the first time I felt a flutter of something like relief, because Clapham Common isn’t really my scene. And I knew that the one thing I wouldn’t miss about seeing Dom was that twice-weekly fifteen-stop trip down the Northern Line. Then I realised, with a stab of dismay, that I’d have to retrieve my stuff from his flat. There wasn’t much; very little, in fact, considering that we’d been engaged. Just my toothbrush, an old jacket and some books. Dom said he didn’t want me to leave too much there in case Madge thought we were ‘living in sin’. And I was just wondering how I’d get my things back, and thinking how agonising this would be, when I noticed two bulging Safeway bags leaning against the front door. Stapled to one was an envelope marked ‘Minty’ in a familiar backward-sloping hand. I turned