The Making of Minty Malone. Isabel Wolff

Lots of them are like that, presented as conversations between two increasingly amazed people. We used to have witty ads, ingeniously written mini-dramas brilliantly performed by famous actors. But now all our adverts are crap. The upmarket companies won’t advertise with us any more because they know our audience share is falling. Worse, we’re not even managing to sell all our advertising space, so our revenue’s way down. When the figures are good, we all know about it because the sales team go round with deep tans from their incentive holidays in the Virgin Islands or the Seychelles. But at the moment their faces are as etiolated as chalk or Cheshire cheese. Not that we see much of them. We don’t. They’re on the phone all day, pitching desperately. Occasionally they come into the Capitalise office and give us grief if we’ve put an ad on air in an awkward place. We hate it when they do that, though I thought they were quite justified in blowing up Wesley for broadcasting an ad for the Providential Insurance Company – strapline: ‘Because Life’s So Uncertain’ – during coverage of Princess Diana’s funeral. He didn’t mean to; as usual his timings were out and he was suddenly twenty-five seconds short. So he grabbed that ad because he knew it would fill the gap exactly. And it did. But the station got a lot of flak and Providential withdrew their account.

      Wesley’d had lots of disasters like that, I reflected as I dubbed my interviews from cassette on to quarter-inch tape. The only reason he’d survived was because he’d been here so long he’s unsackable. It would cost them far too much to get rid of him. They just don’t have the cash. In fact, they don’t have the cash for anything here, least of all the new digital editing equipment; at London FM we still use tape.

      ‘Embarrassing nasal hair? Try the Norton Nostril Trimmer! – Removes hairy excrescences from ears, and eyebrows too! Has removable head for easy cleaning by brushing or blowing! Just £5.95, or £9.95 for the deluxe model. All major credit cards accepted, please allow twenty-eight days for delivery!’

      I glanced at the clock, it was five to seven.

      ‘And now a quick look at the weather,’ said Barry, the continuity announcer, with his usual drunken slur, ‘brought to you by Happy Bot, the disposable nappy that baby’s botty loves best.’

      I turned down the speakers in the office. I couldn’t work with that racket going on. I knew I’d be there all evening, editing, but for once I didn’t mind. In fact, I was glad, because it gave me no time to think about Dominic. I was oblivious to everything as I sat there at my tape machine with my headphones on, my white editing pencil tucked behind one ear. My razor blade glinted in the strip lights as I slashed away, lengths of discarded tape falling like shiny brown streamers to the carpet-tiled floor. I love the physicality of chopping tape. It’s so satisfying. Clicking a computer mouse on a little pair of digital scissors just isn’t the same. But that’s what we’ll soon be doing.

      As I wielded the blade, a tangled mess of cast-offs and cutouts fell on the floor at my feet. Citronella Pratt sounded like Minnie Mouse as I spooled through her at double speed: ‘Very-happy – soawfulbeingsingle – terriblysad,pooryou – ohyesI’msohappilymarried – veryveryhappilymarried – Very.’ And I thought it odd that she needed to keep saying that, because I’ve always thought that happiness, like charm and like sensitivity, tends to proclaim itself. I salvaged one twenty-second soundbite from her fifteen minutes of boastful bile, then took my knife to the other interviews. Soon they were neatly banded up on a seven-inch spool, with spacers of yellow leader tape between, ready to be played out in the programme the following day. All I had to do now was to write my script. I looked at the clock. It was ten thirty. With luck I’d be home by one.

      The office was deserted, everyone had gone home hours before. It had the melancholy atmosphere of an English seaside town in winter. I sat at the computer, and began to type. And I was just thinking how calm and peaceful it was and how the script wouldn’t take that long to do, and I was congratulating myself too on not crying or cracking up on my first day back, despite the emotional stress I was under, when I heard the sound of a newspaper being rustled. It was coming from Jack’s office. How odd. Who on earth was in there at this time? I opened the door. Sitting at his desk, at ten forty-five, quietly reading the Guardian, was Jack.

      ‘Oh, hi, Minty,’ he said.

      ‘Er, hi. You’re here late.’

      ‘Am I? Oh well, I had some, er …stuff to do,’ he said. Oh. That was odd. ‘I hope your first day back wasn’t too bad,’ he added gently. ‘Thanks for coming in. We need you.’ And he gave me such a nice smile. So I smiled back. And there was a little pause. Just a beat. Then Jack lowered his paper and said, ‘Are you all right, Minty?’ And you know, how when you’re really low, and someone you like and respect looks at you, and asks you if you’re all right? Well, it’s fatal. Before I knew what had happened my eyes had filled.

      ‘It’s OK,’ I heard Jack say, as I struggled to compose myself. ‘You can cry in front of me.’ I sniffed, and nodded, and then a small sob escaped me, and suddenly my cheeks were wet.

      ‘Come and sit down, Minty. It’s all right.’ I sat in the chair by his desk, and he opened his drawer and handed me a tissue.

      ‘I guess you’ll be doing this quite a bit.’ I nodded. It was true. ‘Can I give you a little advice?’ he said softly. I nodded again. ‘It’s simply to try and remember that old expression: “And this too shall pass.”’

      No, I thought bitterly. This will never pass. A part of my life has been ruined. I’d been publicly deserted. I’d been ditched. I’d been dumped. I’d been discarded, dropped, dismissed. And it hit me that in the lexicon of rejection, all the words seem to start with ‘D’. Dominic had disowned me. He had disavowed me. He had divested himself of me. He had disappeared. Through a door. Now he was distant. And I thought I’d die.

      ‘Nothing stays the same, Minty,’ I heard Jack say. ‘And, for you, this won’t stay the same.’

      ‘It will. It will,’ I sobbed. ‘I’ll never get over it. Never.’

      ‘You will,’ said Jack. ‘And at least, here, you’re among friends.’ At that, he placed his hand, just for a moment, on mine. ‘Now, how was the awful Mrs Happy Bot?’ he asked, changing the subject.

      ‘Well, she was …awful!’ I said, dabbing at my eyes, and trying to smile. ‘You know, the usual conceited guff. She’s such a pain.’

      ‘She certainly is,’ he exclaimed. ‘In fact,’ he added, ‘she’s an absolute fucking pain in the arse!’ And with that we both started laughing. And I suddenly wanted to throw my arms round Jack and thank him for being so nice. He has this cool, sarcastic exterior, but he’s so, so kind. And he’s so attractive, I found myself thinking, not for the first time. I’d had this secret little ‘thing’ about Jack when I first started at London FM. But nothing had ever happened because, well, he was my boss. And then he’d started seeing Jane and, not long after that, I’d met Dom. Still, Jack was lovely. A lovely man. But why on earth was he in the office so late?

      ‘Aren’t you worried about the time, Jack?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s eleven,’ I said, glancing at the large clock on his wall.

      ‘Is it?’ he said, wonderingly. ‘Oh yes, so it is.’

      ‘Won’t Jane be worried?’ They’d only been married six months.

      Jack didn’t reply. In fact, he seemed to avoid my eyes as he reached for his jacket and put it on.

      ‘You’re right, Minty,’ he said quietly. ‘Guess I’d better be getting along.’ Then he picked up his paper, and I saw that he’d almost finished the crossword.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, and he emitted a long, weary sigh. ‘I guess it’s time to go Home, Sweet Home.’

       September