The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

– there was no sign of this, however, in the drive.

      We went through the toy-strewn hallway to the ‘study’, which resembled the childcare section of my local Waterstones. Books on child psychology, baby care and pregnancy lined the walls from floor to ceiling. This, they seemed to declare, with territorial emphasis, was Citronella’s field of expertise. I glanced at her as I unravelled my microphone lead, and wondered yet again at the gap between her photo-byline and the reality confronting me now. The girlish image in the photo, chin resting beguilingly on steepled hands, bore little resemblance to the pneumatic, late thirty-something woman with grey-blonde hair and beaky nose who sat before me now. I also found myself reflecting on the power of patronage. Citronella had never been a journalist, and had nothing very edifying to say; but her views on women chimed with those of her reactionary editor, Tim Lawton. They had met at a dinner party six months before, and so impressed was he with her poisonous opinions about her own sex, that he had taken out his cheque book and signed her up on the spot. And so Citronella had become Goebbels to his Hitler in the war he was waging against women. Her pieces should have been headlined ‘Fifth Column’, I always thought, as week after week she set out to demoralise successful, single females. She wrote of boats leaving port, and of women left ‘on the shelf’. She wrote of the ‘impossibility of having it all’. Men, she had once notoriously opined, do not want to marry career women in their thirties. In fact, she went on, they do not want to marry women in their thirties at all. For thirty-something women, she explained, are no longer attractive, and so men – and who can blame them? – naturally want women in their twenties. In her piece the following week she had bragged that the twelve sacks of hatemail she had received were simply ‘proof positive’ that she was right.

      When not using her column to persecute single professional women, Citronella likes to boast of her own domestic ‘bliss’. ‘In our large house in Hampstead …’ her pieces often begin. Or, ‘In our corner of Gloucestershire …’ where the Pratts have a country house. Or she will rhapsodise about the joys of motherhood as though no woman had ever given birth before. I adjusted the microphone and pressed ‘record’ with a heavy heart.

      ‘I do think it’s so sad that marriage is going out of fashion,’ she said, sweetly, as she smoothed down her sack-like dress. ‘When I think how happy my own marriage is –’ Here we go, I thought – ‘to my wonderful and, well …’ she smiled coyly, ‘very brilliant husband …’

      ‘Of course,’ I said, as I surreptitiously pressed the ‘pause’ button, and remembered the hen-pecked little man who had carried her bag at our Christmas party.

      ‘ …then I grieve for the women today who will never know such happiness. Now, I have many single women friends,’ she went on. I did my best not to look surprised. ‘And of course they’re very brave about it all. But I know that their cheerfulness masks tremendous unhappiness. It’s so sad. Are you married?’ she asked.

      This took me aback. My heart skipped several beats. ‘No,’ I managed to say. ‘I’m single.’

      ‘But don’t you want to marry?’ she enquired. She had cocked her head to one side.

      ‘Not any more,’ I said casually. ‘I did once.’

      ‘Why? Did something awful happen to you?’ she enquired. Her tone of voice was soft and solicitous. But her eyes were bright with spite. A sudden fear gripped my heart. Did she know what Dominic had done to me? Perhaps she’d somehow heard, on the grapevine. It was sensational, after all. Everyone would know. My skin prickled with embarrassment and I felt sick to think that I would now be the subject of a kind of awe-struck gossip:

      ‘– Did you hear what happened to Minty Malone?’

      ‘– What?’

      ‘– Jilted.’

      ‘– Good Godz!’

      ‘– On her wedding day.’

      ‘– No!’

      ‘– And in the church!!’

      It was all too easy to imagine. I fiddled with the tape-recorder while I struggled to control myself. I mentally counted to three, to let the lump in my throat subside, and then I managed to speak. ‘Nothing happened,’ I said with nonchalant discretion. ‘I just don’t want to marry, that’s all. Lots of women don’t these days. That’s why I’ve been asked to do this piece.’

      Citronella composed her features into a mask of saccharine concern, then smiled, revealing large, square teeth the colour of Cheddar.

      ‘But don’t you think you’re missing out on one of life’s richest treasures?’ she pressed on, softly, as her quivering antennae probed for my tender spots. I darted behind my bullet-proof glass.

      ‘My opinions in this are irrelevant,’ I pointed out with as much cheery bonhomie as I could muster. ‘I’m just the reporter,’ I added, with a smile. ‘I’d like to know what you think.’ I pressed the ‘record’ button again and held the microphone under her double chin.

      ‘Well, I do feel very sad,’ she went on with a regretful sigh – ‘sad’ seemed to be her favourite word – ‘when I look at women of my own generation who have had, yes, admittedly successful careers, but who now know that they will never marry or have children. Whereas my life is just, well, magical.’

      ‘But people marry so much later these days,’ I said.

      ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she said.

      ‘It is true,’ I said, with a toughness which, again, felt unfamiliar. ‘According to my research,’ I continued smoothly, ‘the average age at which men and women marry has gone up by six years since 1992. And the fastest-growing group of new mothers is the over thirty-fives.’ This piece of information seemed to irritate her, but I pressed straight on.

      ‘However, the fact remains that the number of weddings has dropped by 20 per cent. I’d like to ask you why you think there’s this new reluctance’ – I thought of Dominic – ‘to marry.’

      ‘The problem is,’ she began confidently, ‘that there’s such a chronic shortage of single men.’

      ‘I’m afraid that’s not right,’ I corrected her confidently. Though despite my new boldness, my heart was beating like a drum. ‘There are actually more single men than single women.’

      ‘Oh. Oh …Well, let me put it another way,’ she said. ‘There are so few single men worth marrying. That’s the problem. It’s awfully sad. In my own case, well, I was very lucky. I met Andrew, and apparently, he was just bowled over.’

      ‘I can imagine,’ I said. I even smiled. She smiled back.

      ‘And so, just seven years later, we were married, and we’ve been blissfully happy ever since,’ she went on smugly. ‘Terribly happy.’

      This was getting me down. So I stood up.

      ‘Well, thank you very much for your time,’ I said with professional courtesy. ‘I think I’d better be getting back now.’

      ‘But are you sure you’ve got enough material?’ she enquired.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ I replied. ‘Plenty.’

      ‘Did you know that the Fred Behr Carpet Warehouse is having a half-price sale?’

      ‘A half-price sale?’

      ‘Yes – a half-price sale. Isn’t that incredible?!’

      ‘Incredible! Half-price, did you say?’

      ‘Yes that’s what I said – half-price. Imagine! That’s 50 per cent off!!!’

      ‘Did you say 50 per cent? I just can’t BELIEVE it!!!’

      ‘Nor