He looked adoringly at her and a part of Kate glowed, still unable to believe that it really was possible for two human beings to really be this much in love, even after almost a year of marriage. Their life was completely perfect in every way and although she worried constantly about something going skew-ways, it never seemed to. Day after unbelievable day, she and Damien had remained as besotted with each other as they’d been since they first met. Everyone commented on it; friends teased them for still acting like newlyweds and even the gossip columns were constantly filled with stories about ‘the loved up Mr and Mrs King’.
But then Kate was still naïve enough to find being in the full headlamps of Damien’s attention endearing and romantic. The way he was so full-on and almost obsessive about her, insisting on being with her every night of the week and when they weren’t together, calling and texting all the time. Wanting to know the tiniest detail about her day, wanting to tell her all about his.
‘Oh that’s so sweet … he’s nuts about you!’ all her girlfriends had said, not a little enviously.
‘Keeping tabs on you, is he?’ was her mother’s only comment, when Damien had taken to calling in to the family home at all hours before they were married, even if he knew Kate was out on a modelling shoot. He’d sit with her mother, charming her, buying expensive gifts for her, encouraging her to tell stories about what Kate had been like as a little girl. Never in her whole life had Kate dated anyone so unabashedly besotted with her and she found it intoxicating. Like standing out in full, glorious sunshine.
‘So where are we meeting the Sandersons tonight?’ she asked him, focused on her dressing table mirror and fiddling with the back of an earring that stubbornly refused to go in.
Damien pulled a face and locked his arms even tighter around Kate’s waist, kissing the nape of her neck and playing with her long, fair hair. He was still in his work suit and smelt slightly sweaty and musky from a long day.
‘Oh, sweetheart, does it matter?’
‘You’re messing up my hair.’
‘So what? I like it messy. It’s sexier.’
‘Well shouldn’t we get a move on before we’re late? If we’ve got to drive into Dublin for this dinner, we need to get going.’
‘Let’s not bother,’ he’d said after a pause, sliding his arms even lower down her thighs and pulling her even closer. ‘Let’s just have a night in, just the two of us. We’ve both had a busy week, so why not have this evening to ourselves?’
‘But won’t that be rude to the Sandersons?’ Kate asked, turning around to face him now. ‘They’ve flown in all this way and you’ve been saying all week how much you’ve got to discuss.’
‘Oh, babe,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m putting them up in the Merrion hotel. They’ll be fine there, with a bit of room service. It was only a business dinner anyway, we can always do it some other time.’
‘But they’ve travelled from Missouri just for this!’
‘So?’
‘But … I was actually looking forward to going out tonight …’
‘Ooh, now, sweetheart, I can think of ways to keep you far more entertained here at home instead,’ he’d said, unzipping her dress, pulling her face to his and kissing her as he gently caressed the small of her back.
Half an hour later, tangled up in bed together in a mess of limbs and discarded clothes and Egyptian cotton sheets, Damien reached out to the bedside table for his phone.
‘Hi, can you put me through to the Sanderson’s room, please? Thanks. Hi, Greg, that you? Damien here. Yeah, good to hear your voice too. Listen, bit of a problem this end, I’m afraid. There we were, so looking forward to seeing you for dinner tonight, only Kate’s been in an awful car accident and I’m afraid she’s a bit shaken.’
Kate sat up and looked across the bed at him, horrified.
‘… OK to take a rain check on tonight?’ he chatted on, improvising easily as he went. ‘No, no, she wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but she’s completely rattled as you can imagine … yeah, the car is a complete write-off … no, not the Jag, the Beamer … brand new as well …’
Kate lay back against the pillows, astonished at how easily the lie just tripped off his tongue. He even embellished it with all sorts of crazy, elaborate details. Apparently she’d been driving along one of the twisty by-roads that led to Castletown when another car came flying round a dangerous bend, crashing into her front right headlight and sending her reeling off the road. A hit and run, apparently. And yes, the Guards had been called, and were confident they’d find the culprits. Teenage joyriders, more than likely. For good measure, he even threw in that he’d taken her to A&E, where she’d been treated for minor shock, then sent home to rest.
What was really chilling was that he was so persuasive, so utterly convincing. If I listen to him much longer, Kate thought, I’ll eventually start to believe this myself.
‘All sorted, babes, we’re off the hook,’ Damien said, hanging up the phone and cuddling her tightly into him. ‘So it looks like it’s just you and me tonight. Bliss.’
She pulled away and hauled herself up on her elbows so she could look him square in the face.
‘You could have just said one of us had a tummy bug,’ she said. ‘There was no need for the three-act opera.’
‘The bigger the fib, the more easily people will believe it,’ he’d shrugged lightly.
Kate said nothing, just looked steadily back at him.
‘What now?’ he said. ‘Did I say the wrong thing?’
‘Nothing. I hadn’t realised, that’s all.’
‘Realised what?’
‘Just what a good liar you are.’
TESS
The present
Come the following Monday morning and it’s D-Day. Otherwise known as the day I’m due to pitch up at the courts for jury service, then see how long it takes for me to wangle my way out of it.
But by God, am I ready for them or what. I’m briefed, prepped and primed to within an inch of my life so I can get out of this and get back to planning the wedding ASAP. I’ve done my research back to front and thanks to a lovely barrister called Jackie, who’s a client of mine at the gym, I’m reasonably confident – and I’m saying this with fingers and toes crossed – that I might just have stumbled on one or two ‘outs’.
‘The thing to remember about jury service,’ Jackie panted at me from a treadmill at Smash Fitness during one of her lunchtime training sessions last week, ‘is that many are called, but few are chosen. For every nine hundred summons the courts send out, roughly only three hundred actually turn out to be eligible.’
‘I’m liking that statistic,’ I told her gratefully, ‘and there’s a whole list of reasons as to why you can plead that you’re not up to serve. I figure my best shot is to go in armed with a letter from my boss to say I’m invaluable at work and can’t possibly be spared the time off.’
‘But is that true, strictly speaking?’ she asked me a bit worriedly.
‘Well … maybe I’ve exaggerated just the tiniest little bit,’ I told her. ‘But come on, I mean how many times in my life am I going to get married? The wedding is just weeks away. Being locked away from the world to sit in on some court case is out of the question. I can’t do it, Jackie, it’s just not a runner.’
‘Then let me give you a bit of free legal advice,’ she panted, slowing the treadmill down to a walking pace, so she could catch her breath. ‘The thing about the courts is that you think it’s all designed to intimidate you, but really nothing could be further from the truth. Admittedly, it can be terrifying actually stepping into court and having to plead your case in front of a judge, but it happens all the time. I see it every day in work.’
‘Really?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Absolutely. So just go right in there and if the Jury Selection Officer won’t release you and you do actually get selected, then you’ll get to go to court and can tell the judge exactly what you’ve just told me. That you’re getting married in a few week
s, and you just can’t possibly give them the commitment that they need. If you’re lucky, he or she may even dismiss you there and then. But if not, remember that you’ve always got a second ace up your sleeve. Because even if you are called to serve, a barrister from either the Defence or the Prosecution has the right to object to you, for some reason that you may not even be aware of.’
‘Yeah but like what?’ I asked her, feeling lighter about all this than I have done ever since that blasted letter arrived. After all my stressing and fretting and driving Bernard mad with it, this might not be as bad as I think it will be.
‘The thing is that appearances can say an awful lot about us without our even knowing it,’ she tells me, in between gulping from a bottle of water. ‘I remember being in court one time and an opposing barrister objecting to a juror because they happened to be wearing the tiniest little Pioneer pin. You barely even noticed it. But it was a drunk and disorderly case, so they felt because this particular juror was teetotal, clearly they might be biased.’
‘So you mean look the part of “woman you’d least like to be deciding the fate of a prisoner in the dock” and I might just be home and dry?’
‘Can’t hurt,’ she shrugged back. ‘Though you certainly didn’t hear it from me.’
*
So it’s 8.45 a.m. on Monday morning outside the Criminal Courts of Justice. And you want to see how I’m dressed, I look like I’m about to either mug you or else ask if you’ve any spare change for a hostel. I’m wearing the scraggiest pair of jeans that I own, with a knackered-looking parka jacket about three sizes too big that Gracie lent me for the day.
Ah, Gracie. Bless her, she came into my room this morning, still a bit shame-faced from our blow-out in The Bridal Room on Saturday and after a whole Sunday of completely blanking me, finally looked like she was ready to make peace.
‘You still annoyed with me?’ she asked, direct and to the point, in that sort of shorthand that sisters seem to have.
‘Mmm … what? What did you say? What time is it?’ I mumbled from under the duvet cover, still in that halfway house between sleep and wakefulness.
‘I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry,’ she said, plonking down on the edge of my bed. ‘You know, for being a total arse at that bridal shop place. So there. I said it. So are we mates again?’
‘Ehh … yeah … course we are,’ I say, to be honest, still groggy from sleep and only half-taking this in.
‘So … I’m really forgiven? You know, for ruining wedding-dress-fitting day, etc.?’
‘Gracie,’ I say, hauling myself up onto one elbow, so I can look her square in the face. ‘You’re my only sister. Of course you’re forgiven.’
She winks and grins at me and just like that she and I are back to being OK again.
‘Good, because I really need a lend of your cream jumper. There’s a new girl in work I’ve my eye on and I want to dress to impress. You know yourself, my clothes look like, well they look like what they are, which is straight out of a second-hand shop. And the thing is, Tess, you always look so … clean.’
She’s looking to borrow clothes. Which means it’s Monday morning. Which can only mean one thing. Court.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
‘Ehh … sure Gracie,’ I tell her. ‘Take whatever you like.’
‘Great, ta,’ she says, heading straight for my wardrobe.
‘But in return,’ I add, just as she’s starting to rip my wardrobe apart, ‘there’s something you can do for me.’
And that was to ‘style’ me in her own unique way, the brief being, ‘make me look like the last person alive you’d ever want serving on a jury’.
So now here I am, dressed a la Gracie; with manky, unwashed hair sticking out sideways, that looks like I stuck two fingers into a plug socket before I left home, jeans with more holes in them than there is denim and a t-shirt that says, See You All At My Intervention. All in all, I’d confidently say that I’m looking like the least likely person you’d ever want deciding whether you’re guilty or not guilty.
About an hour later, walking down Parkgate Street and stepping in out of the chilly April wind, I’m immediately taken aback at just how different the Criminal Courts of Justice are from what I’d expected. I’d thought it would be like something off the set of The Good Wife, or else Law and Order. You know, a huge, Palladian-style building, with imposingly tall columns and ice-cold marble floors, with police leading handcuffed criminals to and from court. The kind of place designed to intimidate you practically from the minute you step through the door, whether you’re guilty or not.
But it’s nothing like that at all in here. Turns out there are twenty-two courts housed together in this brand new building, eleven-storeys high, and as soon as you step inside, completely full of light and air. The foyer is huge, circular in shape with overhanging balconies looking down at us, where each courtroom is clearly marked.
Most surprising of all is that it’s actually warm and welcoming in here, so yet again it seems I’ve been misinformed by watching too many legal dramas on telly. I could even be in the foyer of a five-star hotel, the layout is that luxurious looking. The only giveaway of where I really am is the sight of important-looking barristers swishing around in wigs and gowns, trailing wheelie bags behind them stuffed full of case notes as they clip briskly about their business.
The foyer is packed out even though it’s just before nine in the morning, as if every juror was summoned to appear at the same time and on the same date. Which is actually good news for me; after all, the more people that they have to choose from, the more likely it is that I can skive out of here early. Just like at the airport though, there’s a security check to clear first, where you half-undress, then put shoes, bag, jacket etc. into a bucket while you’re screened.
I set off the alarm, so next thing a beefy-looking security guy who’s all shoulders with hardly any neck pulls me aside to pat me down. There’s no time to waste, so I nab my chance.
‘Hi there,’ I smile brightly, ‘can you tell me who I need to speak to about being excused from jury service?’
‘You want to be excused?’ he says disinterestedly, patting down my back and shoulders.
‘Yes, that’s right. I have a letter from work explaining that I can’t possibly be spared this week, you see. Or any week for the foreseeable future.’
‘Ha! Good luck with that,’ he snorts, making me stand like a starfish, while he pats down the sides of my arms and legs. For God’s sake, what does he imagine I’m trying to smuggle in here anyway? A nail file for some prisoner to file off handcuffs? An illegal sandwich?
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him firmly, ‘but it’s actually really important that I speak to whoever is in charge here. I shouldn’t even be here you see—’
‘OK, you’re clear to go,’ he says, totally ignoring what I just said. ‘Here’s your security pass. You need to wear it around your neck at all times. Take a right turn at reception for the Jury Selection Office, then wait there till you’re assigned a number. Next!’
‘Thanks, but there’s absolutely no need for the security tag,’ I insist, handing it straight back to him. ‘Like I say, I’ll be out of here in no time, so it’s just a waste really.’
‘Madam,’ he says a bit more sternly, ‘you need to wear your pass at all times. Now can you move along, please?’
‘Honestly, I really won’t be needing it,’ I say firmly.
‘Ehh, here’s a tip,’ says a tallish guy about my own age, who’s standing right behind me in the queue to reclaim coats, shoes etc. from the security buckets. ‘It might be a whole lot easier if you just took the badge.’
I don’t even answer him though. Instead I just sum up as much dignity as I possibly can given that I only have one shoe on and am still fumbling for the other one, and stomp off in the direction of the Jury Selection Office.
Where my luck doesn’t improve. There’s a long, snaking queue ahead of me, because apparently it’s not enough to j
ust turn up here, you’ve got to register too. When I eventually weave my way up to the top of it, turns out there’s an older, hassled-looking lady with a pinched face sitting inside a little office with a glass window and a hatch who seems to be in sole charge around here. Her name badge says Bridget, so I call her by name, hoping against hope we get off on the right foot.
‘Good morning, Bridget,’ I beam through the tiny hatch, bending down so she’ll hear me loud and clear. ‘I’m Tess Taylor and I’m afraid I’m ineligible to serve today.’
‘Summons papers, please,’ she says briskly, glasses wobbling on the edge of her nose.
‘I’m afraid I’m indispensable in work and I even have a letter from my boss to say that I can’t possibly help you out. I’m needed back at my job, you see. The next few weeks are crazy for us.’
She does a brief, cursory scan of the letter I thrust at her through the hatch – the one I had to beg my boss for, then stand over him and practically dictate. Anyway, by the time he was finished writing it, you’d swear I was an open-heart surgeon with a list of quadruple cardiac bypasses to perform this week, and not a humble fitness instructor with a rota of spin classes, yogalates and piloxing, plus appointments with despairing clients; distraught because they ate too many takeaways at the weekend.
Bridget scans down through the letter while I hold my breath.
‘Chilly morning, isn’t it?’ I ask lightly, in a wan attempt to win her over.
Silence.
‘That’s a gorgeous suit you’re wearing. Reiss, is it? The colour really suits you.’
More silence.
‘Sorry,’ Bridget says flatly, ‘but I’m afraid your field of employment doesn’t come under the category of important community service.’
‘But it is an important community service!’ I insist, reddening in the face. ‘I’ve a whole list of clients depending on me this week. People who really need me! And I’m sure everyone that turns up here says that to you, but trust me, no one else can do my job—’
‘You work as a fitness instructor in a gym?’ she asks disinterestedly, referring back down to the letter.
All She Ever Wished For Page 8
