All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘So what did your fella do to you anyway?’ she asks, point blank ignoring Will and refusing to drop this. ‘Is he having cold feet about the wedding?’

  By now I’m aware that all eyes on the bus have swivelled around to me and I’m starting to feel a hot flush creeping up my cheeks.

  ‘Well, it was just …’ I begin, half wanting to get it off my chest and half not wanting to have to share my private life with a coach load of pensioners who look like they’re out on a day trip, and the rest of the jury, who I barely even know.

  ‘Yes, pet?’ says Daphne expectantly.

  ‘You can tell us.’

  ‘You can trust us … sure we won’t say a word!’

  ‘OK then,’ I sigh, knowing that there’s not a chance the biddies will drop this till they get what they want. And also, given that it’s now Monday lunchtime and I still haven’t had a peep out of Bernard – the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking – truth be told, I could actually do with some impartial advice here.

  ‘Well, in a nutshell, Bernard wasn’t very nice to my family the other night,’ I tell them, as their beady eyes continue to give me their full attention. Even Will seems to be listening closely too, I notice.

  ‘That’s his name then? Bernard?’ Minnie sniffs. ‘Never liked that name. Reminds me too much of Dunnes Stores.’

  ‘Yes, that’s his name,’ I say. ‘And he was unbelievably rude to my mother too. He said things that really upset her and the worst part is he doesn’t even seem to realise how hurtful he was being.’

  Shocked silence from the Greek chorus around me, while they all digest what I’ve said.

  ‘Well now, I have to say, I’m not liking the sound of this one bit,’ Jess says darkly after a very long pause. ‘If a man doesn’t get on with your mum, it’s a recipe for disaster. You just mark my words. The day I knew my husband was the one for me was the day he changed the spark plugs in my mother’s car without her even having to ask. She told me he was the nicest fella I’d ever brought home. And that’s when I knew.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ Daphne chips in, ‘my youngest daughter married a fella that I never had any time for. I tried to warn her before the wedding, but you know how it is with young girls in love. You might as well be talking to a toilet seat. And lo and behold they separated last year and now he’s giving her a desperate time over access rights to the kids.’

  ‘Shocking carry on,’ says Barney, shaking his head sympathetically.

  ‘I tried to tell her before the wedding, you know. I said, “no good will come of this. You marry a fella who’s still living in a student bedsit at the age of thirty-five and you’re only asking for trouble”. But would she listen? No.’

  ‘If he doesn’t get on with your family now,’ says Edith sagely, ‘can you imagine what it’s going to be like after you’re married? Mother always knows best.’

  ‘You’re right, Edith love,’ Daphne adds, ‘if they left picking a husband up to all the mammies in the world, there’d be no need for divorce, now would there?’

  ‘Bring back arranged marriages, that’s what I say,’ says Jess. ‘I think I’ll insist on it myself when my kids are all old enough to get married.’

  I throw a panicky look to Will which he correctly interprets as time for a change of subject now that they’re all on a roll.

  ‘So you said you’d brought a few bits of fruit and yogurt for everyone, Minnie?’ says Will cheerfully. ‘Fantastic idea. How about I bring in a picnic lunch for us all tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d completely forgotten about that,’ says Daphne delightedly. ‘Very kind of you, Minnie. I don’t suppose you brought along any Fig Rolls for us? Nothing like a nice Fig Roll. Lovely and soft on my teeth.’

  *

  The afternoon court session starts bang on time and now it’s over to Oliver to question Professor Proudfoot on the ins and outs of the King family trust, which the Prosecution insist are the rightful owners of the painting. For two hours. That’s two full hours, non-stop, and to be perfectly honest I’m still none the wiser after. Oliver’s questions are meandering and full of legal technicalities, and the professor’s answers might as well be in Greek, for all the sense they make to a layperson.

  I glance behind me and just catch Will’s eye. He gives a tiny shoulder shrug as much as to say, no, me neither. And as the afternoon air in court is stale and stuffy, it’s a right job keeping Edith beside me from dropping off. I’m having to check on her every few minutes just to make sure her eyes are still open. In fact, I half feel like dosing her lunchtime cuppa with Berocca from now on, just to keep her wide-awake and fully alert.

  As soon as Oliver is finished waffling on, Hilda Cassidy is straight up on her feet to call another witness.

  ‘The Defence now calls Mrs Mo Kennedy,’ she announces, as we all look to see who’s coming in.

  This time a forty-something woman steps into the witness box, looking tanned and relaxed, and dressed in a vivid turquoise suit that only someone with her dark eyes and exotic colouring could possibly get away with, I find myself thinking. There’s a vibrancy about this woman and a fresh energy zings through the whole court as she says the oath and takes the stand.

  ‘Mrs Kennedy,’ says Hilda, already up on her feet and addressing her directly. ‘How long have you known my client, Mrs King?’

  ‘Ooh, Mrs King and I go back about eleven years or so,’ Mo says, sounding strong and confident. Sure of herself, in stark contrast to a lot of other witnesses we’ve collectively yawned our way through.

  ‘My husband works with Damien,’ Mo adds, ‘so Kate and I first became friendly not long before she was married.’

  ‘Would you describe your relationship as close?’

  ‘Very close. Kate’s even Godmother to my sons. I would go so far as to describe her as my best friend.’

  I just about detect Kate opposite giving Mo the tiniest little half-smile, but like the rest of us I’m still at a total loss to know why her pal has been called in to testify.

  ‘And you were present in Castletown House on the night in April 2014 that Damien King hosted a party to unveil A Lady of Letters?’

  ‘Yes, I was there with my husband. It would be normal for us to attend all of Damien and Kate’s parties.’

  ‘Can you describe to us in detail the reason why this particular party was thrown in the first place?’

  ‘I can think of three reasons actually,’ says Mo, making direct eye contact with each of us in the jury box and looking utterly unfazed by her surroundings. A likeable woman, I find myself thinking. She’s grounded and seems loyal. The sort of person that if you were Kate King and you moved in those terrifyingly exalted circles, you’d probably want in your corner.

  ‘In your opinion, Mrs Kennedy,’ Hilda calmly goes on, ‘what exactly were these reasons? Will you elaborate for the court?’

  ‘Well given that Damien had just shelled out an absolute fortune for A Lady of Letters, naturally he wanted to show it off to all and sundry,’ says Mo, to a few suppressed mutters from the public benches at the back. ‘I don’t think Damien has much of an eye for art, but he certainly enjoys flashing the cash under everyone’s noses. He went through a similar obsession with racehorses not so long ago and was forever hosting parties in corporate boxes at just about every major race meeting going. Not that any of us know much about thoroughbreds,’ she adds, ‘but we certainly enjoyed the free day out.’

  A few more titters at that, including Minnie and Edith beside me in the jury box. Once again Judge Simmonds has to call the court to order.

  ‘Any other reasons for this party that you’d care to tell us about?’ says Hilda lightly.

  ‘Well, yes actually,’ says Mo, standing up tall and proud.

  ‘Go on, please, Mrs Kennedy.’

  Instinctively my eye swivels over to Kate King where she’s sitting composed and serene right opposite us. And it’s just a flicker, but I could swear that there’s a complicit glance exchanged be
tween the two women.

  ‘Well you see by then, Damien had embarked on an affair with a visiting art historian who was over from the US,’ says Mo, loudly and clearly, to an instant flurry of murmurs around the court. ‘Of course it’s out there in the public domain now, but at the time, this was news to all of us. Her name is Harper Jones and apparently she wanted to curate an exhibition that would reside in the States. Up until then, there had only been rumours, nothing more. But as it transpired,’ Mo goes on, getting more and more indignant by the second, ‘Damien had actually invited her to Castletown that night. Under Kate’s – I mean, under his wife’s own roof, can you believe that?’

  Oliver huffs and puffs at this and immediately rises to his feet to object and make a fuss. He’s overruled though and Hilda asks her to continue.

  ‘So in my opinion,’ Mo goes on calmly, ‘a secondary reason why Damien forked out so much for that ugly looking painting was purely with a view to impressing her. And it worked beautifully, didn’t it? They’ve been together ever since, haven’t they? And proud parents to a beautiful baby boy to boot. Little Damien Junior.’

  A ripple of whispers around the court as Oliver rises to his feet, puffing and red-faced. ‘I must strenuously object to that last comment, Your Honour, and request that it be struck from the record. After all, may I remind you that we’re not here to preside over divorce proceedings. The state of my client’s marriage hardly seems relevant.’

  ‘I would argue that it’s supremely relevant, Your Honour,’ says Hilda firmly, squaring up to him, immediately putting me in mind of two bears in a pit battling it out.

  ‘I’ll allow it,’ says Judge Simmonds after deliberating for a moment, ‘but you’d better pick your questions more carefully,’ she warns Hilda, who nods her thanks and gets back to the witness box.

  ‘And what of the primary reason for Mr King’s throwing this party?’ Hilda asks Mo. ‘Can you tell us about that?’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ says Mo, with a defiant glance across the floor at Damien King. ‘Because it had been Kate’s birthday just a few days beforehand, and Damien – I mean Mr King – had just gifted the Rembrandt to Kate, so this party was both to ostensibly celebrate that and to unveil the painting. This was a birthday party and the painting was her birthday present. At least, that’s what Damien told everyone.’

  ‘You’re quite certain that this was a birthday gift?’

  ‘I’m a first-hand witness to it. As is my husband. Damien came up to us on the night and told us so.’

  ‘Can you remember his exact words?’

  ‘Clearly,’ she says, without a trace of hesitation. ‘And I’m under oath, so I’m here to tell the whole truth. He showed us the painting and pointedly asked, “so what do you think of my little birthday gift to Kate?”’

  ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

  My eye swivels towards Damien who’s poker-faced now and giving not a hint of emotion away. And Kate, right opposite us, looks over at her friend and actually smiles. The first smile on record for her ever since this case started.

  *

  Maybe it’s the suffocating heat of the courtroom and maybe it’s just because it’s been such a long day, but we’re all exhausted by the time Mona comes to release us from the jury room for the day. It’s a relief to finally get out of court and back into the fresh spring breeze. The press are all gathered on the steps outside as always, this time waiting on Mo Kennedy to appear, which she does, to a volley of cameras going off in her face. She nods, smiles, says absolutely nothing and hops into a waiting car to zoom her off.

  Meanwhile the pensioner posse from the jury box are all scattering to the four winds, variously claiming that they want to be home in time to feed the cat/watch Coronation Street, or in Barney’s case to take his grandkids off to see the new Lego movie. So it’s just Will and I left at the top of the court steps.

  ‘Well then, till tomorrow, I guess,’ he says, clutching his manbag and making to leave. ‘I’ll stop off early to buy a picnic hamper for the old biddy brigade,’ he adds. ‘Yogurt, Fig Rolls, hard boiled eggs. I know the drill by now. Nothing that’s hard on their teeth.’

  ‘They should be paying you and I carers’ allowance you know,’ I smile back.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind my saying,’ says Will, focusing over my shoulder now, ‘but there’s a guy over there who’s staring at you.’

  I turn around and sure enough, there he is, standing right behind the bank of photographers at the bottom of the steps and holding a big bunch of carnations. Bernard. Looking uncomfortable and red-faced, like he cycled all the way here so he could meet me in time.

  ‘My fiancé,’ I say to Will, instinctively making to leave. ‘I better go.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

  ‘No! Come and meet him,’ I say, grabbing his arm and nudging him down the court steps.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says, stepping back. ‘You two probably need some privacy.’

  ‘Oh. OK then. You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well, have a lovely evening, then.’

  ‘And I’ll see you bright and early. Oh and Tess?’

  ‘Yes?’ I say, turning back to him.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It seems lovers’ quarrels are swift to heal,’ he says with a quick shrug, before pulling up his jacket collar and ambling off in the opposite direction.

  KATE

  The present

  The ladies’ loos at the Criminal Courts of Justice certainly weren’t up to much, but for the moment, Kate thought, they served their purpose. By now she’d fallen into a habit of slipping in here immediately after the case had wound up each evening, partly to collect her thoughts in peace and quiet, but mainly to let the crowds outside disperse a bit before she made her way out of there. She knew by sight some of the press hacks who hung around the steps of the court and their comments to her were becoming more and more offensively personal with each passing day.

  ‘Kate! How does it feel to have to face the man in court who threw you over for a younger woman?’ was one particular beaut that was shouted at her yesterday.

  Jesus! Did these people think that she wasn’t human? Didn’t they know how much all their barbed little stabs got to her?

  ‘Over here, Kate!’ another one had yelled at her. ‘Can you comment on the fact that should you lose this case, your costs could be well in excess of one million euros?’

  And then there was the one that turned her blood cold and kept her up for half the night last night.

  ‘Kate! Comments have been made in the press that your reputation is in shreds since this court case started, do you have anything to say in your own defence? And can you tell us, how do you plan to rebuild your life when it’s all over?’

  How indeed? Kate stood in front of the ladies’ room mirror, splashed a bit of cold water on her temples and for the first time in weeks, really had a good look at herself. At the dark circles under her eyes, at just how thin and pasty she looked. How much more of this torture could she take on a day-to-day basis anyway? And what about when it was all over? She’d either be vindicated or ruined, and right now her whole future was on a knife-edge.

  Then Kate thought of the jurors, those same twelve faces that she knew by heart by now, from seeing them day in day out. And that young girl who she’d met out running yesterday. She was a pretty young thing, who was looking more and more stressed and confused by the day. There were a few other younger faces on the jury too, including a younger guy, dark-haired and broody-looking who seemed to be following every twist and turn of the case intently, but apart from that the average age of the rest of them seemed to be sixty-five plus.

  Was that a good thing or a bad thing, she wondered? What conclusions were they all drawing so far? The thought almost made her weak at the knees. So to distract herself and to kill time till the press pack outside had peeled off for the evening, she
fished her phone out of her bag and switched it back on again.

  Five missed calls. All from the same person too. And a whole series of texts asking her to call back urgently, just as soon as she was out of court.

  As soon as she saw who it was, a split second later she was redialling the number with shaky hands, as her whole body involuntarily began to tremble.

  ‘Well?’ was all she could ask in a weak little voice. ‘Do you have news for me?’

  *

  About half an hour later, Kate figured the coast was clear and that she could leave in peace. Her tactic had worked too. As she stepped outside the court to a waiting taxi, there was just one lone photographer loitering at the bottom of the steps. He immediately trained his lens on her, scarcely able to believe his luck. Sure enough, he fired off a volley of shots right into her face as she ducked and dived to get away from him and into the safety of the waiting taxi.

  ‘Just one question, Kate,’ he asked as she clambered into the car. ‘By any normal person’s standards, you hardly need money this badly, now do you?’

  Shocked at the directness of the question, she turned to face him.

  ‘So why did you let this go to court, Kate? Why not just give back the painting? That’s what no one can understand. What’s it really all about anyway?’

  *

  ‘And you’ve actually spoken to him?

  ‘Yes, just before I called you. He’s been trying to reach you too, but your phone was switched off while you were in court.’

  ‘Is he certain?’

  ‘It seems he’s as certain as it’s possible to be.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, Kate, but is he prepared to go into court and tell judge and jury what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘Obviously you’ll need to speak to him first,’ Kate said. ‘But yes, is the answer. Yes, I think he just might.’

  Hilda sighed and waved towards the leather chair opposite her desk for Kate to sit down. They were holed up in her office on King Street, close to the courts, probably the one place where the two women could talk with any degree of privacy these days. And this was a conversation that needed to be held in private.