All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  Another pause, one that seemed to throb between them, before Kate could bring herself to answer.

  Do you even want to know, she asked herself before opening her mouth. Do you really want to say what you’re about to? Because this was a potential game-changer, she was on the brink of saying something that would alter everything. Her whole life, her home, everything she’d known for the past fifteen years was now about to evaporate right in front of her eyes.

  Fuck it anyway, she thought. I choose honesty.

  ‘I know all about you and Harper Jones,’ she eventually said in a voice that barely sounded like her own. ‘I know that’s the whole reason for this evening. And I know that’s why you bought that painting, for her and certainly not me. It’s damn all to do with the fact that it was my birthday or anything like it. I know what you’re up to, Damien, and I know what you’re planning. So don’t even bother to deny it.’

  She was just trying to figure out what percentage of her really did want him to deny it, when he spoke.

  ‘Now I want you to listen to me very carefully, Katherine, because I’ll only say this once.’

  ‘Alright then.’

  Deny it. Go on, I almost dare you.

  ‘You’re in absolutely no condition to be seen, let alone to act the hostess this evening,’ he said, while she just looked blankly back at him, her brain not quite able to catch up with what he was saying.

  ‘Just take a look at yourself,’ he went on, roughly yanking her head towards the bathroom mirror. ‘You’re pathetic, do you know that? Stay up here, go to bed and on no account show your face downstairs again. You’re in no fit state to attract any more attention to yourself than is absolutely necessary. Got it? Good.’

  And he was gone, closing the bathroom door behind him.

  Kate couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except recognise that she was in raw, numb shock. But just then from the bedroom outside, she suddenly heard Mo’s worried voice.

  ‘Oh, hi, Damien,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for Kate … is she in here?’

  ‘Ah Mo, there you are,’ said Damien, instantly back to being all charming again now that they were no longer alone. ‘Yes, my lovely wife is just in the bathroom. But unfortunately she’s not feeling too well, so I think she may have to sit out the rest of the evening. Such a shame, but you know how it is whenever she gets one of her migraines—’

  ‘Migraines?’ Kate could clearly hear Mo saying indignantly from the other side of the bathroom door. ‘Are you kidding me? Kate’s never had a migraine in her life.’

  God bless you for that, Mo. Good on you.

  Mo waited till Damien had gone, then tapped softly on the bathroom door.

  ‘OK if I come in?’

  Kate said nothing and next thing Mo’s vibrant, suntanned face was peeking through the door, where Kate was perched on the edge of the bath, ghostly pale as she concentrated on breathing deeply and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Kate,’ was all Mo said, taking her in from head to foot. ‘I’d heard rumours that things were bad. But I never imagined it had come to this.’

  *

  Mo tried her best to dissuade her, but Kate had insisted on coming back downstairs, claiming she felt a bit better now and only hoping Mo would buy into the lie. The drawing room was like a furnace by then so she asked one of the wait-staff to open as many windows as possible. Not that it seemed to make the slightest bit of difference, the air was still stifling.

  ‘You alright, Kate? You look so flushed.’

  ‘Kate! There you are, sweetie, where have you been? You’re missing out on all the fun!’ she was dimly aware of Samantha Sullivan saying to her, before even more tinny, disjointed voices started coming at her from just about every direction.

  ‘Damien looks like he’s gearing up to make one of his speeches, better batten down the hatches … and charge your glass, as they say!’

  ‘Not a bad idea, this could go on for quite some time.’

  Good humoured, joshing remarks flew at Kate as she weaved her way through the crowd to nab a spot right at the very back of the room, where she could be sure Damien wouldn’t notice her. Just in the nick of time to hear him ping a knife off one of her good crystal glasses, while an obedient and almost seraphic hush fell on the throng.

  ‘Good evening, friends, Romans, countrymen,’ he began to a polite titter from the room, looking relaxed and calm, seemingly the only person here not to feel the intense heat. ‘You’re all so welcome here tonight and I hope you’ll indulge me when I extend a particularly warm welcome to the US ambassador, His Excellency Dr Patrick Roberts. And of course to his fragrant wife, Flora, who we’re especially delighted to have here tonight.’

  More applause for the ambassador, resplendent in white tie and tails with the fragrant Flora standing beside him. She looked more or less like a bargain-basement Camilla Parker-Bowles, Kate thought woozily, with her flicked back, over-bleached blonde hair, double strand pearls and an Asprey handbag. All she was short of was scissors to cut the ceremonial ribbon on whatever hospital wing she was just about to open.

  All eyes automatically veered towards them both … well, all eyes except Kate’s. Instead she just stood inside the door busily scanning around the room before her eyes lit on what she’d been looking for. And sure enough there she was, Harper Jones; standing not two feet from Damien with her eyes sparkling, gazing adoringly up at him as he warbled on welcoming this dignitary and that in descending order of importance, almost like he’d rehearsed it. Which knowing Damien, he probably had.

  Kate’s blood ran cold just at the sight of her and Damien so close together, so open about what was going on. Then a rush of blood to her head almost startled her in its ferocity and in that moment, she knew she couldn’t contain herself any longer.

  ‘Now, I know you’re all anxious to get back to the bar – not looking at anyone in particular, Eamonn Norris!’ Damien was saying as sycophantic laughter trickled around the room. ‘So with no further ado, let me introduce you to the newest addition to the King collection … A Lady of Letters!’

  More applause and even a few cheers, which Damien shushed with a faux-modest wave of his hand.

  ‘I’m sure by now you’ve all had quite enough of me warbling on, so instead, I’ve got a little surprise for you all. And if you’ll be good enough, please allow me to introduce you to someone infinitely more qualified to tell you a little more about the painting than I ever possibly could. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a very warm welcome to the Emeritus Scholar and Visiting Lecturer in Art History at City College, Dublin … the very lovely Miss Harper Jones.’

  He turned to Harper just then and without even knowing it, he seemed to beam. His whole face just lit up, like he couldn’t hide how he felt and didn’t even bother trying. Just like he used to whenever he looked at Kate, once upon a time.

  Kate felt sick. And just at that moment, from out of nowhere she heard a small, unsteady voice she scarcely recognised as her own.

  ‘Actually, it’s my turn to say a few words.’

  Confused silence from around the room and Kate was aware of all eyes on her.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Damien, completely wrong-footed, which was something that rarely happened to him and was almost comical to watch on the rare occasions when it did.

  ‘If no one has any objection, that is,’ she said, aware that she might have garbled that sentence just the tiniest bit, but hoping no one noticed. ‘After all, this is supposedly my birthday party. Or had you forgotten, Damien?’

  ‘Sweetie, is this really wise?’ came a voice from Kate’s right as a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Kate turned to see Mo looking worriedly back at her, but she just brushed her away and worked her way through the room all the way up to where Damien was standing right in front of the portrait. His smile was practiced and warm, but the eyes were flinty and Kate knew only too well what must be going through his mind. As far as he was c
oncerned, she was a loose cannon tonight, liable to say or do anything.

  Kate turned to face the room, flushed in the face now that she was the sole focus of attention.

  ‘You know, darling,’ Damien said. ‘I think our guests would far rather hear from an expert like Harper, don’t you? How about we just let her speak instead?’ His tone was all lightness and concern but his grip on Kate’s slender arm was hard as a rock, almost bruising her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, shrugging him off, ‘but I’ve bloody well kept silent for long enough and tonight all that changes.’

  She cleared her throat, trying to ignore that her knees were actually shaking, cartoon-style. A lightning-quick glance around the room made her feel even worse. Because apart from Mo there wasn’t one single friendly face here that she could count on. It was like standing slap bang in the middle of a whole petri dish full of tension.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, with just the slightest wobble at the back of her throat. ‘You came here tonight to …’ but she broke off here, aware that Harper Jones had angled herself to the forefront of the room and was now standing just a few feet away from her, eyes almost out on stilts to hear what she came out with next. She looked so fresh and youthful and just the very sight of her filled Kate with a hot, bubbling rage that almost made her feel like throwing up.

  ‘You all came here to hear about …’ she began again, trying her best to concentrate, but the trouble was that the whole room seemed to be getting blurry and even guests in the front row were zooming in and out of focus, now that the Lexotan pills had finally started to take effect. Mo had somehow worked her way up to the front and looked like she might come and steer her away at any second. Anything to save Kate from herself.

  ‘You came here to see A Lady of Letters,’ Kate managed to get out, the dizziness getting almost unbearable now. ‘Well, for a start, it’s cursed, did you all know that?’

  An excited ripple went around the room, which only spurred her on.

  ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Because I’ve started doing a bit of research into it and I can tell you, there’s an awful lot more to this painting than my loving husband ever thought. Wherever she goes, all manner of misery follows. And guess what, everyone? It seems that curse isn’t just fiction. Because whether you believe it or not, there’s an even more unbelievable drama unfolding right under your noses here this evening—’

  ‘You know, I think maybe our guests have had enough speechifying for now,’ Damien interrupted, moving towards her to steer her away, but Kate backed away from him, stumbling over on her heels and tripping on the hem of her floor-length dress as she did. She managed to grip the fireplace behind to steady herself as a worried murmur swept through the room, but she’d come this far. She was damned if she was about to shut up now.

  ‘No! I’m afraid I still have more to say,’ she told the room defiantly, to pin-drop silence. ‘You see, Damien here wants you all to think A Lady of Letters was bought for me, but in actual fact nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, the only reason why he went to so much trouble, not to mention such considerable expense, to acquire this god-awful and frankly depressing painting was so that he could—’

  ‘Thank you so much for that, Katherine, but you know, I really think that’s enough for now,’ Damien said sternly, this time locking both his arms around her shoulders and physically hauling her away. Almost manhandling her, at least that’s how it must have looked to everyone.

  ‘I wasn’t finished!’ Kate yelled as he half-pulled her as far as the door, ‘and if it’s entertainment you all came here for, then let me tell you about my husband and a certain lady who had the brass neck to turn up here tonight … that’s her right there, in the white dress, Harper fucking Jones herself. So much for the wife always being the last to know!’

  It was too late though. All Kate could focus on now was the room spinning around her, as what seemed like a thousand sets of eyes followed her as Damien lifted – or rather yanked – her out of the room.

  ‘She’s just a little tired, that’s all, nothing to worry about,’ she could hear him reassuring everyone as her eyelids started to close over in spite of herself, almost like she’d just been given a strong anaesthetic.

  ‘Are you quite alright, Mrs King?’ said a voice from right beside her. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Kate’s eyelids flicked as she recognised the guy who’d spoken to her earlier, the one who worked at City College and who’d reminded her of Billy Bunter. Bernard something, she vaguely remembered.

  ‘That’s kind of you, Bernard, but there’s really no need, thanks,’ said Damien. ‘It’s been a long day for my wife and she just needs a little lie down, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘I do not need a fucking lie down, I’m trying my best to tell everyone what’s going on here, under my roof!’ she tried to yell. ‘Why won’t you let me finish, you bastard?’

  Now she was aware of cameras going off in her face as the press hacks there lapped up the sideshow, but by now Damien had manoeuvred her out into the hallway and practically dumped her on Elena, the housekeeper.

  ‘See to it that Mrs King gets safely to her room for the rest of the night. And make bloody sure that she stays there.’

  TESS

  The present

  Saturday night and it’s a joint dinner for both my family and the Pritchards. Not my idea, I hasten to add; it was Bernard who felt it would be a good idea to get everyone together before the wedding, ‘just to break the ice a little before kick-off’.

  Of course I’ve been a guest many times before in Beatrice and Desmond Pritchard’s house and Bernard – in fairness to him – regularly endures dinner with Mum, Dad, Gracie and I, as often as he can stick it out. But given that the two families have never all sat around a table together, I reluctantly agreed that this was probably for the best.

  ‘Although, to be honest,’ I make the mistake of saying to Gracie as she helps zip me into an LBD when we’re getting ready for the big night, ‘I doubt very much we’ll all end up one big happy family, like something out of a Dolmio ad.’

  ‘Just promise me Bernard isn’t going to spend the whole night droning on about the Dutch Masters,’ she says, and I just about catch her eyes roll in the mirror in front of us.

  ‘No, because Bernard doesn’t drone,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Bernard is lovely. And what’s more, he’s going to be your brother-in-law, so you’d better get used to him.’

  ‘Doing my best here,’ she shrugs. ‘But you’re the one who always comes back from dinner at the Pritchards’ complaining that you were bored out of your skull.’

  ‘Now that is just not true—’

  ‘You and your selective memory, yes it bloody is. Only last week you said Ma Pritchard spent half the night rabbiting on about ancient Greek and Roman civilization, and the other half having a go at you because you never went to college.’

  Shit. I knew it was a mistake retelling that to Gracie in minute detail. However, in the interests of diplomacy, I keep my mouth shut so as not to add flames to the fire.

  First row of the night kicks off before we’ve even left our house.

  ‘Ah, here,’ groans Dad, looking red-faced and practically beaten into the one suit we managed to find that still vaguely fits him. ‘Not only am I missing Juventus versus Real Madrid tonight, but now I have to wear a bleeding tie as well? Are you joking me with this, Tess?’

  ‘Now you just keep your mouth zipped tight during dinner,’ Mum cautions him, dusting down a jacket that he hasn’t worn since my granny’s funeral, all of ten years ago. ‘And whatever you do, don’t whip out your phone while we’re all eating so you can check the score.’

  ‘At least we’d better get a decent feed out of this,’ mutters Dad.

  I don’t open my mouth, but to be perfectly honest he’ll be lucky. Thing is, at Bernard’s insistence we’re all ‘dining at my club’, as he puts it, this evening. Which admittedly does sound posh and special-occas
iony; until you see the state of the club, that is.

  It’s called the Royal Celtic and it’s situated right bang at the top of St Stephen’s Green, in the heart of the city centre, which is all fine and dandy until you actually get inside the place and you see the sad state of disrepair it’s fallen into. It’s one of those old men’s clubs in an enormous Georgian townhouse, with the most ridiculous admission policy whereby you can only join if you’re nominated by three other members. And that’s before you have to give them a blood sample just to get through the front door.

  Bernard, like his dad, Desmond, before him, is a fully paid up member of the club and inordinately proud of it. He’s taken me here a few times before and at one point even suggested we have our wedding reception here, but I held firm. One look at the mouldy old dining room with the peeling walls and the overwhelming stink of damp would be enough to send most of our guests running. And don’t get me started on the food, because it’s like the menu here decided it liked the look of the 1980s so much, it may as well stay rooted there.

  The Pritchards and Taylors all arrange to meet in the dining room and things don’t get off to the most auspicious start. I make the introductions with a knot in my stomach and am trying my best to steer the subject on to something safe, like the weather, when next thing, my dad’s off.

  ‘So … ehh … what team do you follow?’ he asks Desmond, who just looks back at him blankly.

  ‘Team?’ asks Desmond, all at sea.

  ‘In the Premiership?’ Dad prods, ignoring the warning look from me.

  ‘More of a cricket man myself, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Cricket? Sure that’s the only game where you can hear the score and still not know who’s won.’

  ‘Must say, I’m a big fan,’ says Desmond.

  ‘Well, right you are so,’ says Dad disinterestedly, going back to looking uncomfortable in the suit and staring wistfully out the window.

  God Almighty, I think, the tight knot of tension inside my stomach starting to solidify now. Would it even be possible for our two families to look any more different from each other? There’s Mum sitting bolt upright in her ‘good’ suit from M&S, looking desperately stiff with her pin-neat perm, while beside her sits Beatrice, with matted, waist length grey hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a comb in ten years. In sharp contrast to Mum, Beatrice is dressed as she always is, in a long flowing black kaftan that makes her look a bit like a fortune teller.