The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

Effect.

      ‘When Charlie heard Dom say those things to you, about not being able to make those promises, it really affected him,’ she explained between teary gasps. ‘He said he knew then that he could never make those promises to me.’

      ‘But you’ve always seemed so happy.’

      ‘Well I thought so too,’ she wept, throwing up her hands in a pietà of grief. ‘I mean, I was happy.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘But Charlie was so shocked by what Dom did to you that the next day he blurted out that we’d have to break up too.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Because he said he knew he could never do such an awful thing to me. So he said it had to come to an end, now, before it went too far, because …because …He says we just don’t have a future.’ Her large green eyes brimmed with tears, then overflowed again.

      ‘Why does he say that?’ I asked, intrigued.

      ‘Because of the children,’ she howled.

      ‘What children?’

      ‘The children I don’t want!’

      Ah. That. The baby issue. It’s the big issue for Amber. Or rather, there isn’t going to be any issue, because Amber has never wanted kids.

      ‘But he knew how you felt about having children, didn’t he?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ she said, pressing a tear-sodden tissue to her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s always known, but he was hoping I’d change my mind. But I’m not going to. And he should respect that, because it’s my choice. But he can’t see that,’ she wailed. ‘Because he’s so selfish! He says he wants to have a family. Bastard!’

      ‘Er, that is quite an important …’ I said tentatively. ‘I mean, I always assumed he knew your views and didn’t mind.’

      ‘Well, he does mind. He’s always minded; and we’ve been together two years. And he said if I still don’t want kids, then we’ve got to break up, because he’d like to find someone who does.’

      ‘Hmmm, I don’t entirely …’

      ‘And so we had a huge row about it,’ she went on. ‘And I pointed out that I’m not a bloody breeding machine and he should want me for myself!’

      ‘I see …’

      ‘But he won’t accept that.’

      ‘Ah …’

      ‘So I told him that in that case he’d have to move out,’ she went on. ‘And he said, “But it’s my flat.”’

      ‘Oh yes. So it is.’

      ‘So I came straight round here, Minty. Because I need somewhere to stay. Is that OK? Just for a bit.’

      ‘Er …of course.’

      ‘Thanks, Mint.’ Her tears subsided. ‘Gosh, it looks clean in here.’

      

      I always thought Amber should have bought her own place. She should have done it years ago. It’s not as though she didn’t have the cash. She did. We both did. Granny was loaded, you see. Her books had made her rich. And when she died, we were each left eighty grand. Robert used his to emigrate to Australia; I put mine towards this flat. But Amber invested hers very cleverly so that she could live off the interest, leaving herself free to give up the day-job and write. She’s a novelist too, like Granny. She bangs one out every year. And although she’s only thirty-three, she’s already written eight. But where Granny wrote good romantic fiction, Amber’s are harder to define. For example, her latest book, A Public Convenience, is a sort of political mystery. It was published six weeks ago, but I don’t think it’s done very well. She’s already halfway through her ninth novel, which will be published next June. Apparently this one’s an ‘unusual’ love story, set in an abattoir. Anyway, Amber had always rented before she moved in with Charlie, and that’s why she needed somewhere now.

      I have the space – my flat’s quite big. And in any case, I’d never have refused. We’re first cousins but we feel more like sisters, probably because our mothers are twins. But to look at us you’d never guess that Amber and I were related. She has a shining helmet of honey-blonde hair and enormous, pale green eyes. She’s absolutely gorgeous, in a foxy sort of way, with high cheekbones that taper to a pointed chin. She’s slim, like me, though taller. Much taller. In fact, she’s six foot one. But she likes her height. She’s proud of it. No slouching or stooping there. She’s rather uninhibited. And she’s very clever. Well, in some ways she is. She’s also extremely well read. You can tell that from the way she talks. It’s Thackeray this, and Dr Johnson that and William Hazlitt the other, and, ‘As Balzac used to say …’ She reviews books too, occasionally. It doesn’t pay much, but it keeps her ‘in’ with the publishing crowd. Or what Dominic liked to call ‘Lit-Biz’.

      Anyway, I gave her the spare room, which isn’t huge, but it’s fine as a temporary measure, and she installed her things in there. And of course she had to bring Pedro – I understood that. They’re inseparable. And although he’s rather annoying, I’m fond of him too, in a way. He reminds me of Granny. And that’s not just because Granny had him for so long, but because he sounds exactly like her.

      ‘Oh, super, darling!’ he likes to say. And ‘No! Really?’ in a scandalised tone of voice. ‘I say!’ he squawks sometimes, like an avian Terry Thomas. Or, ‘What a funny thing!’ – Granny used to say that all the time. He’s got her cackling laugh too. Down to a tee. It’s shattering, and so authentic that I find myself saying, ‘What’s so funny, Granny?’ although she’s been dead for six years. Whenever the phone rings he says, ‘Oh, hello’ – like that. And then, ‘How are you?’ And, ‘Yes …yes …yes …’ in a desultory sort of way. When he’s not having one-sided telephone conversations, he whistles, and screeches and – this is really annoying – he barks. Whenever he hears the doorbell, he emits a volley of soprano yaps because that’s what Granny’s Yorkshire terrier, Audrey, used to do.

      Pedro’s a Festive Amazon, just over a foot long, with peagreen plumage, a blue and red cap, and a vivid, scarlet waistcoat which is only visible when he spreads his wings. Granny bought him in Colombia in 1955, when she was doing the research for An Amazon Affair. She’d stopped at a little town called Leticia, on the border with Brazil and Peru, and in the market was a man selling young parrots which were crammed into crates. Granny was so appalled she bought Pedro, and brought him home on the plane. He spoke very good Spanish in those days – he’d picked it up in the market. He could say, ‘Loros! Hermosos loros! Comprenme a mi!’ – Parrots! Lovely parrots! Get your parrots here! And ‘Page uno, lleve dos!’ – Buy one, get one free! He also used to shout, ‘Cuidado que pica!’ – Watch your fingers! and ‘Cuanto me dijo? Tan caro!’ – How much? You must be fucking joking! He’s forgotten most of his Spanish now, though I think it might come back if we practised it with him. He loves really authoritative female voices – Mrs Thatcher’s, for example. He used to shriek with excitement and bob up and down whenever he heard her speak. These days Esther Rantzen tends to have the same effect. Anyway, he and Granny were inseparable for almost forty years. And when she died, we didn’t know how he’d cope. But in her will she left him to Amber – ‘An Amazon for an Amazon,’ she wrote wryly – and luckily, though parrots are loyal to one person, Pedro adapted well. In fact, they adore each other. He likes to ride around on her shoulder, and nibble her blonde hair, or listen to her reading out bits of her latest book.

      Anyway, Amber and I have always been very close, so the next morning she offered to drive me round London while I disposed of the wedding gifts. She said she didn’t mind, and that she’d welcome any distraction from her distress. She’d looked awful at breakfast, obviously hadn’t slept, and she kept trying to put the sugar in the fridge.

      ‘Are