All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘You alright, Kate?’ George asked, sensing his hostess was distracted. ‘You seem jittery tonight. Not like you at all. Everything tickety-boo?’

  ‘Yes absolutely, but erm … if you’ll excuse me, just some more guests I haven’t said hello to yet,’ said Kate, gladly making her escape, not least from the kind of man who’d freely use a phrase like ‘tickety-boo’.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a waitress laden down with a heavy tray of champagne flutes over at the far end of the room, but to weave her way over to her, Kate would have to walk right past Serena McFadden who’d brought her sister Fay along with her. The Wisteria sisters, as the pair of them were rightly nicknamed; on account of how skilled they were in the dark art of social climbing. To be avoided, avoided, avoided even at the best of times, and just as an aside Kate thought, how were the pair of them even invited in the first place?

  Jesus, what did she have to do to get a drink around here? She kept her head down, not the easiest thing to do when you’re six feet tall, and somehow wove her way through the packed room all the way to the bar table, smiling while guests nabbed her, then lying through her teeth claiming she’d be ‘back in a sec, just have to see to something urgent in the kitchen’.

  Not a single bloody waiter free to serve her, so with shaky hands, she reached across the table and just helped herself to another G&T. A very large one this time; God knows she certainly could do with it. She gulped back a lovely, long sip before someone else came to accost her and again, took another minute to survey the room.

  Did some of them already know, she wondered, fresh anxiety clutching at her chest. Did they already suspect that things weren’t as they should be in the King household? Did Sylvia know? George and Grace? Even Rebecca and Sam? Long-time friends. People Kate and Damien had shared holidays with. Friends who’d been invited here to the Kings’ palatial home of Castletown House for every major celebration going; Christmases, birthday parties, Easter weekends, Halloween fancy dress parties, you name it. Well, every possible celebration that didn’t involve children, obviously, which was a whole other story.

  Hard to imagine, Kate thought, nervously gulping back her drink before someone else approached her, that parties like this had once been her whole raison d’être. But then Damien lived to entertain and for ‘entertain’, you might just as well read, ‘show off on a titanic scale’. He and she had once been seen as a golden couple, centre of the glitterati; a myth that the press and public still – unbelievably – continued to swallow. All of course drip-fed by Damien’s expert PR team and even on occasion, by Damien himself. And there was even a time when Kate had been more than willing to go along with that fantasy.

  With a pang of sadness, she thought of their tight-knit social circle. There were people in this room who she’d been fool enough to trust, who she’d actually come to think of as real friends. And yet from here on in, it was only a matter of time before the whole house of cards imploded dramatically.

  Once the news broke – and God knows how much longer it could be contained for – then it would all be over bar the shouting. Her little circle would be split right down the middle and like it or not, people would choose sides – his side, more than likely. They always did in cases like this, didn’t they? Life would go on pretty much as normal for the wealthier, more successful partner, whereas for Kate, it would be the long, slow freeze-out. No one needed to even tell her how it worked, she thought dully. She already knew.

  Friends she’d counted on and been loyal to over the years would just gradually stop returning her phone calls until it became almost embarrassing. She knew the drill well enough. Then she’d bump into them somewhere like David Marshall’s trendy hairdressers in Dublin and they’d be full of excuses as to why they never phoned: ‘Ooh, I’m so sorry, but the thing is we’ve been renovating the house, haven’t been in touch with anyone.’ Or ‘You must be fit to kill me for not returning your calls, but the thing is, we’ve been away in Dubai for weeks now, we’re literally just back!’

  Kate had heard it all. Had come out with it all before, in many cases. But of course, when the social guillotine fell, she’d know only too well what was really going on behind the oh-so-polite subtext. She’d been forced into the same corner herself many times over the past few years when couples they knew had drifted apart. Damien, of course, would always keep in with whichever partner was the most valuable to him in business, but then that was Damien for you.

  Just about the only thing going for her was that she moved in a discreet and rarefied world where everyone was perfectly charming and friendly to your face; it was behind your back when the knives really sank in. God, Kate thought, if even just one person here were to take her aside tonight and confide in her what everyone else was probably gossiping about, then far from bursting into tears, she’d probably hug them. Because in one fell stroke they’d just have proved what they really were: a true blue friend.

  Then a more sickening thought. Had any of them already seen Damien out in public with … but Kate consciously broke her destructive thought pattern here. Mainly because she still couldn’t bring herself to articulate the name. And yet she’d be expected to this evening, wouldn’t she? She’d be expected to smile as she greeted her rival, offer her a drink and make sure the canapés kept coming in her guest’s direction. Like so many wives here had done before her. It was how you behaved in their civilised little world, it was expected, this was the norm.

  Well sod that for a lark, she thought, slowly starting to become coldly furious with the help of another sizable gulp of gin. So Damien just assumed that she’d put up and shut up tonight? That she’d act the part of the perfect hostess, for no other reason than that was the done thing?

  Over her dead body, she thought, fresh energy fuelling her resolve. After all, Damien was the one who had the barefaced cheek to bring this under her own roof – in front of all their mutual friends, for Christ’s sake. He’s the one who wanted this to be a night to remember. Well, Kate certainly planned on making it one.

  ‘Wonderful party and may I thank you so much for your lavish hospitality,’ said a voice behind Kate, making her jump. She turned around to see a forty-something, grossly overweight man with a bloated face and about three chins who instantly reminded her of Billy Bunter from her childhood comics.

  ‘Oh, thank you, that’s very kind,’ she said automatically, not having the first clue who this could be.

  ‘I’m Bernard Pritchard, by the way,’ he said, going to shake her hand. ‘I’m an Art History Lecturer at City College and your husband very kindly asked me along—’

  ‘Would you excuse me, please?’ said Kate, abruptly cutting across him. ‘Something I need to see to downstairs.’

  The stranger nodded politely as she glided away from him. All she needed to do were hear the words ‘City College’ and, could listen to no more. She’d almost made it as far as the door, when she walked right into Mo Kennedy, wife of Damien’s CFO at Globtech, and the closest thing that Kate had to a best friend out of their entire circle.

  ‘Mo, thank Christ you’re here,’ Kate said, hugging her warmly.

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ said Mo, her suntanned face smiling broadly, like she always did. But then Mo was one of the few in their circle who was so genuinely happy and content with her own marriage and family, you’d almost have sworn Prozac was involved.

  ‘It’s good to see a friendly face,’ Kate replied. Oh God, did she just slur that last sentence a bit? And if she did, had Mo noticed?

  ‘Are you OK?’ Mo asked, looking at her a bit worriedly.

  Shit. She did notice, but then Mo was the type not to miss a trick.

  ‘Absolutely fine,’ Kate lied.

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit, you’re as white as a ghost,’ Mo told her straight. ‘Something up? Is it because you’ve got about three hundred of the great and the good here tonight and you’re expected to entertain them all? Can’t say I blame you. All these
people! Bloody hell, even the Wisteria sisters, who let them in?’

  You’re one of the good ones, Kate thought, looking at her fondly. And when it comes to a split, I only pray to God you’ll take my side.

  ‘So come on then,’ said Mo, ‘what do you think of the painting? It was a birthday gift for you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think it’s … overwhelming really,’ Kate answered automatically. ‘What about you, do you like it?’

  ‘Honestly?’ said Mo.

  ‘The truth and nothing but.’

  Why not? It would certainly be a rarity these days for someone in her life to be straight with her.

  ‘Well of course I know it’s beyond price and everything and that it’s probably heresy of me to say so, but quite truthfully? It’s just all a bit too dark and gloomy for me. There’s almost something spooky about the woman in the portrait, isn’t there? And what’s all this you said about A Lady of Letters coming with a curse? Is that really true?’

  Is it true? You don’t know the half of it.

  ‘Course I’m no art expert,’ Mo chatted away as Kate’s eyes went back to anxiously wandering over the room, scanning, scanning, scanning. Was she here yet? Had she somehow arrived without Kate seeing her?

  ‘But I don’t think I’d want to have something like this in my house,’ Mo went on. ‘It just gives me a really weird feeling, like something awful is about to happen. I hope you don’t mind my saying that, do you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Kate said, before adding, ‘and as it happens, I think you’re absolutely right.’

  She broke off from saying any more though, because that’s when she first spotted her. She must have been here for a good while too, only the room was so crowded that Kate never noticed. But she bloody well noticed now. This girl stood out, your eye couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

  And that’s what she looked like really, a girl and no more. All of twenty-fucking-seven. Approximately half the average age of pretty much everyone else in the room. Instinctively Kate scanned her rival up and down, taking in everything.

  She looked fresh-faced and glowing as usual, dressed down in a simple white shift dress and flat ballet pumps with a huge mane of unruly red curls falling loose about her shoulders. Next to no make-up on and not even a scrap of jewellery, in stark contrast to every other woman here, who’d gone all out to impress and who between the lot of them were probably wearing the combined Harry Winston spring/summer collection.

  She was standing over by the huge bay window, deep in conversation with Damien and a group of colleagues from Globtech. Damien looked as tall and handsome as ever in black tie, his dark hair gleaming, his black eyes shining proudly every time he looked at her.

  You used to look at me that way once, Kate thought, taking in the whole scene with a stab to her chest that physically pained her. A long, long time ago now. She could see him introducing her to everyone, hand proprietorially positioned right on the small of her back. He looked like he was mid-story, doubtless about how he’d managed to acquire the portrait in the first place. But to see him now, gesturing proudly towards it, you’d almost swear he’d painted the bloody thing himself.

  ‘Please don’t tell me that’s her?’ said Mo, following her gaze.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Kate, this is me you’re talking to. You don’t have to put on an act with me, like you do with most of the piranha bowl you’ve assembled here tonight. Believe it or not, I’m actually on your side. I’m talking about the girl you can’t stop staring at who’s over there beside Damien. Please don’t tell me he had the brass neck to bring her here tonight?’

  Tell her what you’re planning. You can do it. Besides, Mo is on your side. You might as well have someone who’s in your corner out there telling the story, instead of the alternative.

  ‘Yes. That’s her. That’s Harper Jones,’ Kate managed to get out, though the strain of it meant that she immediately knocked back the rest of her drink, barely caring how it looked.

  Harper fucking Jones, she thought, immediately turning back to the bar to refresh her drink, waving her now empty glass in the barman’s direction and madly trying to catch his eye.

  A visiting Art History lecturer over from the States, and a global expert on Rembrandt, to really add insult to injury. Working in the Art History department at City College. The official story of how they’d met was that Damien had been interested in donating some of the Kings’ art collection to the National Gallery, and he got in touch with her to ask her advice.

  And he just forked out over €95 million for the privilege, she thought bitterly. To put that into context, Henry VIII didn’t pay that much to nail Anne Boleyn. And that’s €95 million over at Christie’s, by the way. There was naturally huge media interest in the sale, although Damien was a silent bidder and specifically asked to remain anonymous. ‘So this can be a surprise for my lovely wife.’

  Such a lie. Such an elegant load of bollocks. Camouflage for what was really going on, and nothing more.

  ‘Harper Jones, what a ridiculous name,’ said Mo and Kate almost wanted to hug her for that alone. ‘And I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it,’ she added indignantly, ‘how could one woman possibly do that to another? To walk into your home, when God knows what’s going on behind your back? And how can Damien do that to you, after everything you’ve been through? On your birthday? Kate, love, how are you taking this so calmly? If it were me, I think I’d be spewing fire! Are you really going to take this lying down?’

  ‘Just give me time,’ said Kate, wondering why the hell the barman was taking so long. Impatiently, she reached across the bar and just helped herself to another G&T, barely even bothering with the tonic this time.

  Then Mo’s hand fell on hers.

  ‘Maybe it would be an idea to go easy on the sauce? You need your wits about you to navigate your way through tonight. God knows, I certainly would.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Kate, pointedly not putting the glass down and clinking glasses with her. A moment later, one of the wait-staff sidled up beside her and whispered, ‘I just heard Mr King say he’ll be making his speech very shortly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate politely, ‘in that case, will you tell him I’m just slipping upstairs to powder my nose first.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ said Mo worriedly. ‘We could stay up there for the evening, if you wanted. We could even get the hell out of here, so you don’t have to put up with this.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but no. There’s just … something up there that I need. Back in a moment. And Mo?’ she added, over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. If Damien and madam over there think that I’m going to take this lying down tonight, they’ve got another thing coming.’

  ‘Then to quote Bette Davis,’ said Mo under her breath, ‘fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.’

  TESS

  The present

  You can hear a pin drop up here in court number seven. Everyone is on the edge of their seats, the press box included. It seems the only person not completely riveted by what Damien King is about to come out with is his ex-wife. She’s sitting not six feet away from him but unlike the rest of us, is looking absolutely anywhere except at him.

  ‘Mr King,’ Oliver begins, clearing his throat. ‘May I take you back to events between July and October of 2014. Would you care to tell the court in your own words exactly what happened?’

  ‘Certainly,’ says Damien, looking about as unruffled by his surroundings as it’s possible to be. He sounds relaxed and in total control, like this is barely knocking a feather out of him. And it’s worth noting that his voice is deep and husky. Quite sexy, now I come to think about it.

  ‘As you know, my company had acquired the painting in question, A Lady of Letters,’ he goes on to explain, ‘and at the time you refer to, it was temporarily being displayed at my home at Castletown House.’

  A few pleased nods from around the court at that, as Ol
iver picks up the reins.

  ‘And then?’ he prompts.

  ‘Well, during the period you refer to, my ex-wife and I had regrettably recently separated and I had moved out of the marital home, Castletown House. Katherine remained there, however, and is still there. For the present.’

  ‘Go on,’ Oliver prompts him.

  ‘Well during the months you mention, I had reason to return to the house, in order to collect some of my own property. Naturally, given how valuable A Lady of Letters is, I was anxious to remove it and place it in the safekeeping of the King family trust.’

  ‘But when you arrived to take away the painting in question, what did you discover?’

  ‘I arrived at Castletown along with some removals men, only to discover that A Lady of Letters had completely disappeared. And given that the family trust had just paid a vast sum of money for the Rembrandt, you can imagine my distress.’

  ‘So you naturally assumed that a burglary had taken place?’

  ‘Of course. And yet none of the security alarms had been activated, which instantly roused my suspicions. I called the police, then dug about a little further and quickly realised myself that the painting had in fact been taken by my estranged wife.’

  ‘How did you discover this?’

  ‘By Katherine’s own defiant admission,’ says Damien, almost sounding reluctant to answer. ‘Of course, far be it from me to sound ungentlemanly, but it was at this point she decided the painting in question was her rightful property and wouldn’t return it. She calmly insisted that it was in a perfectly safe place, but absolutely refused to reveal where this was.’

  ‘She refused to reveal its location?’

  ‘Regrettably, yes,’ Damien says, sounding genuinely sorrowful about this. ‘And on a number of occasions, too. The last thing I ever wanted to do was to involve the police and to start issuing court orders, but unfortunately, after negotiations with Katherine broke down, that was the only route left open to me.’