Mind you, Gracie always says it’s way easier for a gay woman to get lucky in a straight bar, mainly because in gay bars it’s mostly all about sex and one-night flings. There’s a notable one here in Dublin called the Priscilla bar and Gracie never fails to score in there on a Saturday night. But as she’s been saying for a while now, ‘I’m twenty-five. Twenty-five and never having had a girlfriend that stuck around for longer than three months is pathetic in gay-land. I want a proper long-term relationship.’
‘I wish there was a Priscilla bar for straight people,’ I often used to moan at her back in my single days.
‘Oh, get over yourself. Every bar is a Priscilla bar for straight people.’
I’m feeling nicely anaesthetised by now and am half-wondering if I should leave Gracie and Elaine to themselves and slip off home, when next thing I’m aware of a guy standing directly behind me.
‘Well of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,’ says a familiar voice and I turn around in astonishment to see Will. All tall and lean and dark, and clad in one of those bright-red ‘Happy Birthday, Kevin!’ t-shirts, as he queues up to buy a round.
‘I don’t believe this!’ I say, genuinely glad to see him. ‘It’s so weird to see you outside of the courts.’
‘You wouldn’t want to say that too loud,’ he grins, ‘or people might get the wrong idea and think I’m the one in the dock.’
I introduce him to Gracie and her performance artist pal and everyone shakes hands, but then Gracie and Elaine quickly settle back to their cosy one-on-one chat, so it’s just Will and I alone.
‘Are you here for the fortieth?’ I ask.
‘How did you guess?’ he says with a tiny smile.
‘And is the birthday boy enjoying the night?’
‘Oh, Kevin’s having a blast,’ says Will, leaning casually up against the bar and looking in no rush to go anywhere. ‘Mind you, we had planned to do the Stations of the Cross tonight, but I think that’s gone by the wayside.’
‘You planned to do what?’
‘You know, where you pick fourteen bars and have one drink in each of them, then see who’s last man standing. This is only our fifth but I’ve a feeling we’re holed up here for the rest of the night.’
‘Certainly sounds an awful lot more fun than my evening was.’
He looks at me keenly now and suddenly I’m aware of just how much I’ve had to drink. The wooziness I felt earlier has turned to full-on dizziness and the room is actually starting to spin around a bit.
‘So what happened to you?’ he asks, genuinely sounding concerned. ‘Tell me.’
I look at him for a second, wavering then decide, why not? So I tell him everything, describing the whole god-awful, miserable night from start to finish. And he listens too, leaning in to really hear me because it’s so noisy in here.
‘So that’s the reason why you find me propped up at the bar on a Saturday night, just in case you were wondering. My wedding is less than four weeks away, myself and the groom are at each other’s throats, he just insulted my parents so now our two families are at loggerheads—’
‘Montagues and Capulets,’ Will nods. ‘Say no more. I get it.’
‘And on top of all that, I’ve to be in fecking court for at least the next week.’
‘But surely that’s a bright spot in your day,’ he says wryly. ‘You mean you don’t leap out of bed first thing every morning like I do?’
‘You know what I mean, Will. I could just really do without it right now. No matter how interesting the case might be. I need to be home fixing things, trying to make it all right before the big day.’
He pauses for a minute and just looks at me. Like he’s got something on his mind and isn’t quite sure whether to say it or not.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean “what”?’
‘You’re looking at me funny.’
‘Look, here’s the thing,’ he eventually says. ‘Remember I told you I was divorced?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well, my ex and I were perfectly happy before we got married, or at least I thought we were. But somewhere along the way, it all became more about the big day than about two people who couldn’t wait to spend the rest of their lives together.’
Because of ‘She Looks So Perfect’ by 5 Seconds Of Summer belting out in the background, I find I’m leaning forward on the barstool, straining in to listen to him.
‘Then somewhere in the run-up to the wedding I started having doubts,’ he goes on. ‘And what’s more I think my ex did too. She and I weren’t getting along and it had got to the stage where all we talked about was the wedding. You know, guest lists and centrepieces and all sorts of meaningless crap. Very little was said about what would come after.
‘Then, on the morning of the wedding, I woke up in my hotel room after a sleepless night, got up, looked out the window and just saw sheets of rain pelting down, with flashes of thunder, the whole works. Real hurricane weather. So for me, of course, that felt like the Universe screaming at me “don’t do it!”. I did seriously think about knocking on my fiancée’s door – the whole bridal party were all staying in the same hotel – and telling her how I felt, that I was having second thoughts. But of course in the end I couldn’t bring myself to let her down like that. It just seemed so unnecessarily cruel.’
‘I’m so sorry, Will … I don’t know what to say.’
‘So I got married out of cowardice really. That was the only reason why I went through with it. And of course we spent the next eighteen months of our lives bickering and arguing over anything and everything. But you know what, Tess?’
‘What?’
‘Our divorce was so painful and protracted that I remember thinking, if I’d only had the guts to man up that morning, knock on my ex’s door and tell her how I really felt, we’d have been so much better off. Both of us. Yes it would have been mortifying and painful in the short term, but a drop in the ocean compared with what we did end up going through.’
‘You poor thing,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That’s unthinkable.’
‘So the moral of the story is, if you’re having doubts, remember this: you’ll never get another chance to voice them. It’s like they say in the marriage service, speak now or forever hold your peace. Because, Tess, this is for the rest of your life. And the rest of your life is just way too precious for you to compromise.’
KATE
Castletown House, April 14th, 2014
Monday morning after the infamous party and Kate woke up to total silence, apart from the distant hum of a hoover two floors beneath her. She had no memory of going to bed the previous night and yet here she was in her nightie, with her shoes kicked off and abandoned on the floor beside her. She felt groggy too, as if she’d been given an even stronger sedative than the one she’d taken the night of the party to really knock her out.
Drowsily she hauled herself up onto one elbow and fumbled around on the bedside table for her mobile phone. She checked the date and saw that yes indeed, it really was Monday morning. Jesus. Had she really lost most of Sunday? From the deepest fug at the very back of her mind, she grasped around trying to assess just how bad the night of the party had been. How much of a show did she make of herself? On a scale of one to mortified, where did she lie about now?
Suddenly shaky, she slumped back onto the pillows and waited on a wave of nausea to pass. But she must have taken a lot more tablets than she was used to and pretty soon she was out cold as a deep, drugged sleep enveloped her.
Up until her phone ringing, that was. Mo checking up on her to see how she was.
‘Kate? It’s ten thirty, don’t tell me I woke you?’
‘Morning or night?’
‘Oh God, you’re even worse than I thought. Right then, just stay put, I’m coming to get you.’
That woke her up alright.
‘No, there’s really no need …’ she muttered lamely into the phone, but Mo was having none
of it.
‘Get up, have a shower and be ready for me in half an hour. And Kate?’
‘What?’ she said dully.
‘If you don’t do as I say, then I’ll do it for you. And you’d be well advised not to push me on this. I’m the mother of twins. Believe me, I know all about coercion and brute force.’
*
‘So how about you start at the beginning and tell me what in the name of arse is really going on?’ said Mo, stirring the cappuccino in front of her, then sticking the spoon into her mouth to lick the froth off. ‘And remember, whatever’s said at this table, stays at this table.’
Kate shot her a warm look of gratitude, knowing that Mo was one of the few people in her life who really meant it. The very last thing she’d wanted to do this miserable morning was to haul herself out of the house, out into daylight to face the world again. But Mo had insisted, point-blank refusing to take no for an answer. True to her word, she’d even gone as far as hoisting her out of bed and shoving her into the shower.
‘You smell like you haven’t even washed since the party,’ she’d said bossily, and Kate didn’t bother arguing, as she was only telling the truth. ‘Now you know you’ve got to get out there and face the world sometime or other,’ Mo went on, ‘and the sooner the better, if you ask me. Besides, this is going to be the talk of our whole set, whether you like it or not. So if all the bitches are going to gossip, then the least we can do is give them a decent bit of ammunition. I’m dragging you out for brekkie and I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll be right there beside you, just like a wing-woman, and if anyone dares say boo to you, then they’ll have me to answer to.’
So without having any say whatsoever in the matter, Kate found herself being lugged out of the sanctuary of Castletown House by an over-energetic Mo, then plonked down into the passenger seat of her four-wheel-drive Jeep.
During the whole drive to Avoca village, Kate just wanted to bolt for the hills. Even the sight of her pale, bony-looking face in the car mirror, still blotchy from all the crying, made her wish she could just open the car door at the traffic lights and make a run for it. In total contrast to Mo, who sat beside her at the wheel, looking all tanned and healthy and glowing, as somehow she always did.
Twenty minutes later, Kate found herself in the plush, marble-floored conservatory of the Avoca Fern House Café, just a five-mile drive from Castletown. Ghostly white and still shaky from Saturday night, she was perched at a table for two right by the window in full view of the whole room. There was a double strength Americano and a plate of scrambled eggs on the table in front of her that Mo had insisted she order, the very sight of which was making her still-fragile stomach want to heave.
As the waiter fussed over them, Kate looked anxiously over her shoulder to her left and right. Because everyone she knew seemed to gravitate here for coffee on a Monday morning after the school run; neighbours, friends, plus a lot of women in the Kings’ social circle who’d been there on Saturday night. They were sure to be found here around this time, and Kate was anxious to know just how fast word had spread.
Sure enough, there was that awful Sophie Fitzmaurice with two other girlfriends Kate didn’t recognise at a table tucked into the far corner, deep in chat. All three dressed in the standard yummy mummy Monday morning uniform of yoga pants, Converse trainers and tight Lycra tracksuit tops that somehow still managed to highlight the contours of their carefully toned arms.
Sophie had of course been a guest at the house on Saturday night; she’d been there to witness the whole humiliating debacle first hand. She immediately spotted Kate, and gave her a polite wave and a too-bright smile, before settling into a cosy huddle of gossip with her mates at the table. Not too difficult to guess what their topic of conversation was either. Half of Kate almost wished she were brave enough to stride over there and say, ‘you want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, ladies? Well here I am, so come on! Why not take your chance and ask me anything?’
‘Just try to tune them out,’ Mo said, following Kate’s gaze. ‘They’re going to talk anyway, so I suggest you let the bitches get on with it.’
‘I’m just sick at the thought of facing everyone who was there,’ Kate groaned weakly, while Mo looked on, warm and concerned. ‘It’s physically turning my stomach.’
‘Then forget about the whole bloody lot of them,’ said Mo firmly, ‘and talk to me. How were things between you and Damien yesterday?’
At that, Kate slumped back into the cushioned chair she was sitting on and gazed out over the lush County Wicklow gardens in the far distance, badly wishing that it was eleven at night instead of eleven in the morning, so she could reasonably order a G&T and get away with it. It was certainly the only way she’d got through yesterday, with the help of lovely gin and lots of it.
‘He was cold with me,’ she eventually said. ‘So cold, you’ve no idea. But then you know what he’s like; Damien doesn’t do outward shows of emotions, certainly not any more. He came into my room first thing yesterday morning and couldn’t have been any more business-like about the whole thing.’
It was as if Kate had been one of the hired help at the party, she thought to herself. Like she was one of the wait-staff who’d let him down and who could take it as read that she was fired, without the actual words ever needing to be uttered. As far as Damien was concerned, her contract with him had come to its natural end and now it was purely a question of what and when her payoff would be.
‘Did he give any reaction about what – well, you know – about what you’d said that night?’
‘I only wish he had,’ said Kate, leaning forward to take a sip of coffee from the china cup in front of her and sure enough, the instant wave of caffeine did seem to magically perk her up a little. ‘Instead, though, he couldn’t have been more dismissive of me,’ she went on. ‘All he said was that the housekeeper would pack up some things he needed immediately and that he’d move into the Dublin townhouse till more solid arrangements can be made.’
‘Those were his exact words?’
‘He said he’d speak to his PR manager to see what could be done to minimise this in the press … and then that was it. Three minutes, Mo. That’s all it took. Three minutes to wind up the last fifteen years of our lives.’
Kate wasn’t exaggerating either. She’d had Sky News on TV in the background and she’d actually timed him. Then after he’d left, she spent the rest of the day holed up in her room, curled up in a tight little foetal ball over by the huge bay window, waiting on the dull throbbing ache inside her to pass.
She’d gazed out over the Castletown lawns where one of their trainers was leading a thoroughbred stallion that had once been Damien’s pride and joy on a brisk cross-country gallop. Horse breeding was a passion of his not so long ago, as he’d seen it as a passport into the upper echelons he so badly wanted to be a part of. This was the same Damien, by the way, who could barely tell one end of a horse from another. And yet again, that fad came, burned brightly, then faded to nothing the minute he got bored with the whole idea.
So now it’s my turn, Kate thought. Discarded and cast aside because my husband is now bored of me. I might as well be Katherine of fucking Aragon. The way Damien saw it, he’d given her fifteen years of his life – the highlife – and in return she’d given him absolutely nothing. Well, only a childless marriage and whopping monthly credit card bills.
‘Did you ask him about your woman? Harper what’s-her-name?’ Mo asked, taking another sip of her cappuccino.
‘The weird thing is there’s a small part of me that doesn’t even blame her,’ Kate sighed.
‘This is the girl who broke up your marriage and you don’t blame her? Kate, what’s got into you? In your shoes, I think I’d have overturned tables the other night!’
‘She just happened to be in the right place at the right time; like I was myself all those years ago. It’s Damien I’m really angry with. That he brought it right to the door of my own home, for everyone to see
. That’s how little he cares, Mo. He could humiliate me in public like that and still not give a shit.’
‘And you’re absolutely certain that it’s serious between them?’
Kate nodded, ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Because, Kate, this is your whole future here. Don’t for God’s sake jeopardise it just because he’s infatuated with a pretty young thing. There’s so much at stake here. You don’t need me to tell you.’
‘Look, I’m certain, Mo, OK?’
Kate hadn’t meant to snap, not when Mo was being so kind, but somehow that’s the way it came out.
There was a squeal from the table directly behind her and Kate turned her head just in time to see Serena Lynch join a table of other yoga-clad yummy mummies, all full of excited chatter to see each other again, even though they’d probably only met at the school gates not half an hour ago.
Serena Lynch, everyone knew, had been through exactly the same thing not so long ago. Apparently her husband, who Kate knew very slightly, had treated her to a fortieth birthday present of a trip on the Orient Express. Where he told her that not only was their marriage over, but that he was leaving her for a twenty-nine-year-old stand-up comedian by the name of Simon. Apparently his reason for the extravagant trip was so he could ‘break the news to her in style’.
And of course not forgetting the apocryphal tale of Claire Toomey, another of the Globtech wives who herself had once been a high flying Director of Operations at their Middle East division, but who packed it all in as soon as her third child came along a few years back. Claire, who quite openly went around warning anyone who’d listen that she knew instinctively that there was something going on when ‘my husband just started being too nice to me’. Apparently the clincher had been the day he picked up his socks from the back of the radiator, then volunteered to go and collect the kids from football practice. So she managed to hack into his email account – the idiot had used the family dog’s name as a password – and there was the proof of his affair for her to see, in glorious Technicolor.
All She Ever Wished For Page 23
