All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I’m a writer, as it happens.’

  ‘Wow. You mean like a journalist?’

  ‘No, I mean like an author.’

  ‘What sort of books?’

  ‘Crime fiction mostly,’ he shrugs.

  I flush a bit, half-wondering if I could in fact be sitting beside the equivalent of James Patterson or Ian Rankin and I didn’t realise. What was his last name again? I rack my brains wondering, then it strikes me. Kearns, I think that was it. And yet the name Will Kearns still doesn’t ring a bell. So I figure he’s probably a self-published author, one I’ve yet to hear of and can only hope he’ll forgive me for not having read any of his books.

  ‘So are you on a deadline at the moment?’ I ask him, more for something to say than anything else, really.

  ‘I’m always on a deadline. The world of crime fiction moves so fast you wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Must come in handy sitting in on a case like this one. At least you can say you’re here in the name of research.’

  ‘I’d love to be able to claim that, except that we’re not allowed to talk about the case, are we?’

  ‘Oh don’t talk to me,’ I groan, rolling my eyes. ‘That stupid rule is actually driving me nuts.’

  ‘Me too,’ he grins back. ‘It’s like the jurors on this case are probably the only twelve people in the country not talking about it.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t want to cross Mona. God knows what she’d do to you if you were found flaunting rules.’

  ‘Judge Simmonds must not on any account be kept waiting!’ he trills in a high falsetto that’s actually such an accurate impression of her, I laugh.

  Then a pause, and this time the silence sits uneasily. Almost as though we’re both itching to swap theories about the case, but officially can’t. At least not until we get into the jury room when we’ve heard both sides. Deeply frustrating, believe me.

  ‘So what are we allowed to talk about?’ I eventually ask.

  ‘Well, you never told me what you did for a living,’ he says. ‘That seems like a pretty safe subject to me. The jury police can’t possibly object.’

  ‘I’m a personal trainer over at Smash Fitness,’ I smile. ‘And I recently got promoted to Assistant Manager; which basically means I do double the work for the exact same money. I love it though. It’s a terrific club to work in, always busy and … well, I suppose I’m one of those annoying people who can’t wait to get to work in the morning, really.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Never wanted to do anything else, really. Back in school, the only thing I was ever any good at was sports.’

  Then a long silence.

  ‘Erm … have you something against personal trainers?’ I eventually ask, only half in jest. ‘Don’t worry if you do, because I get that a lot.’

  ‘No, quite the opposite,’ he says, the eyes twinkling back at me.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just that I’m a marathon runner myself,’ he says, absent-mindedly playing with a sachet of sugar.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Wooo … impressive,’ I whistle. ‘And I mean that very sincerely, by the way. I’m barely able to get through a 10k run, so I take my hat off to anyone who can manage a full twenty-six miles.’

  He takes a sip of coffee and shakes his head. ‘Well this certainly is a first,’ he says. ‘Usually whenever I talk running with anyone, they just glaze over and write me off as some kind of a fitness nut slash glutton for punishment.’

  ‘Who counts calories to the point of obsession …’

  ‘And who looks on carbs as the work of Satan …’

  ‘Who doesn’t smoke or drink alcohol …’

  ‘And goes to bed at nine in the evening …’

  ‘So you can be up at 5 a.m. to haul yourself into a tracksuit and start pounding the pavement. I can fully sympathise,’ I nod along. ‘I get that myself all the time.’

  ‘Really?’ he says, the eyes glinting.

  ‘Yup. Generally the very minute I tell people what it is that I do, they act like a gym is some kind of religious cult that I’m planning to suck them into. Then they’ll either start talking fad diets and how they’re planning to lose two stone in a month, or else they’ll look at me accusingly like I’m silently judging them. Almost mentally weighing them up to see if they’re carrying a few extra pounds – as if!’

  ‘And I wouldn’t mind, but contrary to rumour, most marathon runners actually eat like horses. Whereas people assume we live off handfuls of nuts and seeds and nothing more. You can’t run a race like that without serious carb-loading beforehand.’

  ‘Me and all! Just because it’s my job to keep clients on the straight and narrow doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a decent bag of chipper chips every now and then.’

  ‘In fact on that note …’ says Will casually eyeing up a breakfast buffet table beside us, laden down with the most divine-looking cronuts and Danish pastries. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Let’s go for it.’

  ‘We may as well.’

  ‘Might even stuff a croissant into my handbag for later on.’

  ‘And when we get to the Ebola Arms, I might just end up nicking it off you.’

  *

  Minutes before the 10 a.m. kick-off, we finish our coffees and head back to the courts together, strolling side-by-side down the quays. Just then my phone rings. Bernard.

  ‘Oops, sorry, I have to take this,’ I say apologetically.

  ‘Work away,’ says Will, keeping pace beside me.

  ‘Hi there,’ I say, answering the call.

  ‘Hello, my sausage,’ Bernard yawns down the phone, but then he’s never been much of a morning person. ‘Just making sure that you hadn’t forgotten about tonight?’

  ‘Emm …’ I say playing for time, all the while thinking, forgotten what? Tonight? What’s happening tonight?

  ‘It’s that lecture I was telling you all about, remember?’

  It’s noisy on the street though with the last of the rush hour traffic still lining the quays, so I have to put him on speakerphone so I can really hear what he’s saying properly.

  ‘Tess? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah, just a bit hard to hear you, but that’s much better now. What were you saying? Something about a lecture?’

  ‘That’s right, on the third Revolutionary War and the Battle of Austerlitz?’ His voice rings out loud and clear across the pavement.

  I catch Will’s eye and sense just the tiniest hint of a grin.

  ‘Oh right. Yes, the Napoleonic Wars,’ I say, my memory well and truly jogged. Then Will politely takes a step ahead of me so as not to eavesdrop.

  ‘With particular reference to the Third Coalition?’ Bernard chats on excitedly. ‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you, sausage? I’ve been looking forward to it for so long.’

  ‘No, no of course not.’

  ‘Now it’s well over three hours long, so we might need to eat beforehand.’

  ‘Wow, three hours,’ I say with about as much enthusiasm as I can muster and even though Will is half a pace ahead of me now, I could swear I see him trying not to crack a grin.

  ‘And you know the best bit of all?’ says Bernard. ‘I’ve just found out that it’s possible to do a walking tour around the site of the battle itself! Can you think of a better way to spend our honeymoon?’

  At that point, I have to cut him short and get off the phone, because we’ve just arrived at the court steps and have to go through the usual waltz of trying to dodge the hardy press hacks who are present and correct, as always. Including that hairy-looking idiot who had the neck to approach me in the coffee shop earlier.

  ‘Bernard, I’m afraid I really have to go—’

  ‘Alright, sausage, see you later, and I hope you’re as excited as I am.’

  I click to end the call as Will turns back to me, grinning cheekily.

  ‘So that’s Bern
ard then?’

  ‘That’s him alright.’

  ‘And you’ve got a three hour long lecture on the Battle of Austerlitz to look forward to? Wow, lucky you,’ he smiles.

  I throw him a filthy look.

  ‘Forgive me, I couldn’t help overhearing,’ he shrugs. ‘And all I can say is, sooner you than me.’

  I pull a face at him, shoving my phone back into my bag and tripping up the steps.

  ‘The things we do for love, eh?’ he says, following hot on my heels.

  ‘Oh don’t you fecking start,’ I groan, as we both keep our heads down and weave our way into court.

  KATE

  Castletown House, April 12th, 2014

  Her birthday party

  All that money for you, Kate thought, staring dully at the painting that now hung in pride of place on her drawing room wall, and I’m not even certain that I like you.

  It was a Rembrandt of course – only the best would do for Damien – but the canvas was just so depressingly dark, which of course would have been typical of the mid-seventeenth-century period when it was painted. There was almost a coldness about A Lady of Letters, as the girl in the painting sat at her desk utterly focused on writing, quill and paper in hand, with just one solitary, thin reed of sun slanting through the diamond paned window behind her. It threw the only scrap of light in the whole painting onto the page in front of her, illuminating the letter she was writing, but not her face.

  Cornelia Stoffels, apparently that was her name, according to Kate’s research. She looked young too, maybe twenty? It was hard to tell, given how shadowy the painting was, not to mention the heavy period costume she wore, pure seventeenth century with its white puffy sleeves and long white skirt billowing out from underneath the desk. Meanwhile A Lady of Letters just sat poised and scribbling away, almost with an urgency to her.

  I’ll say this much for you, Kate thought, locking eyes with the painting’s subject this time. You look fresh, simple and unaffected, free of all the jewellery, white powder and rouge that ladies of your background and class at the time would have plastered themselves in.

  Fresh, simple and unaffected. Just like a certain someone else who would probably turn up at the party tonight, she thought, a sudden feeling of nausea clenching at her stomach.

  Oh God, was she really going to go through with this? If Damien had the cheek to bring that little madam here – to Castletown House – under his wife’s very own roof, did she have the strength to do as she’d been planning? Did Damien really feel that confident that he could get away with something like this? If he really was prepared to humiliate Kate that far, was she equally prepared to shame him right back?

  Correction. Shame both of them.

  Damien had strayed before, of that she was certain, though he’d always been far too discreet and way too good a liar for her to ever really catch him out. But this time it was very different; Kate could sense it. This was more than just some little obsession of his that would blaze bright for a short time, then just fizzle itself out, as had happened in the past. This was serious, this was the real thing. This was happening, and possibly under her own roof too.

  Tonight. In just under two hours’ time, to be exact.

  Her stomach clenched again and Kate felt like a bag of jittery nerves, totally on edge just thinking about what lay ahead. To get some fresh air, she paced over to one of the giant, sixteen-pane sash windows that overlooked Castletown’s elegantly manicured gardens and as she did, her eye fell on the grandfather clock ticking discreetly in the corner of her vast drawing room.

  Almost six o’clock, she thought, glancing up at the time. And her guests were due to arrive at seven-thirty. She still had to shower, get dressed and made up, but … could she chance having a little drink now, just to calm her nerves?

  Her eye fell longingly on the elegant bar table that staff had set up all along the side of the room, as she weighed up the pros and cons; then quickly decided that of course she could. A small one. To steady her. Given what lay ahead tonight, who the hell would blame her?

  From the corner of her eye she spotted a bottle of Hendrick’s gin, which seemed to be almost winking at her. Moving quickly towards where the spirits were stacked at the far end of the bar table, she helped herself to a good-sized G&T, took a gulp, then waited that precious few minutes’ delay till it took blissful effect.

  Better. This definitely made her feel better. This was a good idea. And if any of the staff burst in on top of her, she could always pretend it was only water. She raised her glass in a silent toast to A Lady of Letters and helped herself to another large gulp.

  Apparently you come with a curse, she thought, staring at the gloomy canvas that even in a room this vast, still seemed to dominate it. Ever since Damien had bought the painting – ostensibly as her birthday present, if you could believe that – Kate herself had discreetly been investigating it. And from the little she’d managed to glean so far, she sensed that A Lady of Letters had an awful lot more secrets to give up than Damien could ever possibly have envisaged when he flashed his chequebook and handed over such a ridiculous amount of money for something he knew next to nothing about.

  But then, that was Damien for you. Fifteen long years of marriage had taught Kate that that was the whole essence of the man. For him it was all about acquiring the impossible and no sooner had he done it than he’d grow bored and move on. Time was when Kate herself had once been a prize acquisition for him, and just look how quickly the sheen had worn off her. This painting was another so-called impossible treasure and you could be guaranteed he’d have forgotten all about it in under a month.

  No, Kate thought. The whole reason he hounded down this painting, outbidding five underbidders to get his paws on it, was to impress one person and one person only. And that certainly wasn’t his wife.

  Just the fresh reminder of her rival and the fact that she could seriously have the gall to show her face here tonight set Kate’s nerves on edge again, as she knocked back the last mouthful of G&T; which weirdly seemed to have absolutely no effect on her. None whatsoever.

  Will I just chance having another tiny one, she wondered, fiddling with the now empty stem glass in her hand. She listened out and heard the downstairs doorbell ringing before her housekeeper bustled down the back hallway to answer it. Probably the caterers arriving, and bang on time too.

  She glanced around the drawing room, which had always been her favourite part of Castletown, and in a house boasting over a dozen reception rooms, that was really saying something. She looked up at the Louise Kennedy crystal chandeliers that glittered from the ceiling, the rich tapestries that hung on the walls, the luxurious deep pile cream cashmere carpet and the vintage china collection safely secured in elegant display cases on either side of the fireplace that she’d once taken such pride in sourcing.

  How much longer, she thought, before my time here is up? How long do I have before I’m cast aside and someone else moves in to take my place? Into her beautiful house that she’d put together from scratch, all those years ago? Her home, which had her stamp in every single room.

  And where she’d once been so happy.

  Kate’s mouth went dry at that thought and her eyes started to well up. Now she definitely needed a drink. She listened out in case any of the staff were lingering in the hall outside, but there wasn’t a single sound. She had the whole room to herself for the moment so moving quickly, she helped herself to another small G&T. Well, smallish.

  Bugger it anyway, she thought, whatever it took to get her through the night.

  She could so clearly envisage the whole evening ahead; this very room packed to the gills with Damien’s corporate colleagues, mostly mega-high rollers who she knew he was going all out to impress. Then of course there’d be their mutual ‘friends’, although few enough of them deserved that title now, and somehow Kate predicted fewer still in her future.

  She could just imagine Damien ting ting-ing on a crystal glass for silence, as gues
ts lowered their champagne flutes and stopped nibbling at the foie gras to give him their full attention. But then that was Damien for you. Whenever he spoke, people listened. The man had a voice that could nearly power Sellafield.

  He’d make a short witty little speech, of course. You could always rely on Damien to make a decent speech, and it would all be done so elegantly, so smoothly, that from the outside none of their well-heeled guests would ever suppose the real reason behind all this.

  In fact this bloody party tonight had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it had been Kate’s birthday just a few days ago, and this was allegedly her loving husband throwing a soirée for their ‘closest friends’ to show off the priceless gift he’d just lavished on her. And those inverted commas around ‘closest friends’ were there for a bloody good reason. Damien had long since stopped caring about birthdays and anniversaries. So this – her so-called birthday gift, this ridiculously extravagant acquisition – certainly wasn’t intended for Kate’s benefit.

  And if that little madam did have the brazen neck to turn up here tonight? Then God alone help her.

  Just then the clock in the drawing room struck six. Time for Kate to start getting ready or else her guests would be in on top of her. She took one last glance up at A Lady of Letters and sighed.

  Well, congratulations. You’ve barely been under my roof for twenty-four hours, and already your curse seems to be functioning beautifully.

  TESS

  The present

  Court number seven is in session and almost like he’s doing it deliberately to throw us all, this morning Oliver Daniels completely changes tack. Instead of breaking down Kate King’s character and taking pains to show her as little more than a money obsessed spendthrift who’s out to siphon off everything she can from the dregs of her marriage, today he’s going out of his way to paint a picture of the most likely reason why she acts this way.

  Deeply confusing, believe me.

  Kate herself slides into court and as usual every eye in the room automatically veers towards her, all set for the daily fashion parade. She’s dressed in a cold icy-grey trouser suit this morning, hair immaculately knotted into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck and with make-up so flawlessly applied, you’d swear she’d stopped off to have it done professionally on her way into court. She makes absolutely no eye contact with anyone, not even with her own barrister, just slips into her seat, looking pencil thin and even more strained than usual.