1st January, 2015
We’ve received confirmed reports from a spokeswoman for Mr Damien King that his fiancée, Ms Harper Jones, has been safely delivered of a baby boy, at 9.07 a.m. today. Ms Jones gave birth at the exclusive Mount Sinai Hospital in the Guggenheim Pavilion, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Mr King was reportedly at his fiancée’s side throughout the birth.
When contacted directly by The Chronicle, Mr King said he was ‘the happiest man on earth today. It’s like a long-held dream finally coming true for me’. Both mother and son are said to be in perfect health.
The baby is to be named Damien Henry Charles King and known as Damien King the Second. And even though he’s just a few hours old, his name has already been placed on a waiting list to attend Eton College, his father’s alma mater.
The Chronicle made several attempts to contact Kate King, estranged wife of the proud father, for a comment, however all efforts to date have been unsuccessful.
TESS
The present
‘Tess Taylor, where in the name of God ARE you?’ Mum screeches into my voicemail. ‘You’re about as much use to me as a chocolate teapot, so you are. It’s now after 5 p.m. and if you don’t walk through this front door inside the next half hour, then I won’t be held responsible. Do you realise what still has to be done before Saturday night? This house needs to be dusted and hoovered from top to bottom, and all that’s before you get started on the menu. Because let me tell you, you’re on your own there, missy. You’re the one who insisted that we host this shindig and if you think your sister and I are going to make slaves of ourselves, while you swan around the criminal courts with the likes of Kate King, then you’ve another thing coming …’
Ahh, my mother. The only woman in the northern hemisphere who can make a one-act radio play out of a humble voicemail message. I’m just heading out of the jury room having been discharged for the day and immediately click onto the next message, but sadly it’s not all that much better.
‘Tess?’ comes Gracie’s voice this time. ‘You still sitting in court wondering whether or not you’ll send Kate King to a maximum-security prison? Because the Mothership is having a total meltdown over this bloody party on Saturday night. A word to the wise; you’d want to get back here as soon as you can, for a bit of crisis aversion. You have been warned.’
*
Oh Christ, I think, my stomach instantly shrivelling to the size of a walnut. Saturday night. You see, instead of doing the whole Hen Night/Stag thing, Bernard and I decided that wouldn’t it be better if we just had everyone around to our house for a joint party? A ‘sten night’, they’re apparently called, or so I read in a bridal magazine. Back when I used to read bridal magazines.
But with everything else that’s been going on lately, I’d completely put it to the back of my mind. I continue to scroll through all my texts and missed calls, groaning inwardly, the way you do when there’s just so much still to do, and so little time.
As we’re leaving, Moany Mona gives us a stern warning that the press pack outside court is bigger than ever today, so while everyone else has to run the gauntlet out through the main doors, this time the jurors are guided out through a discreet emergency exit handily situated just at the side of the building, where no one can spot us. There’s the usual chatting and waving goodbye, and in Minnie’s case, trying to cadge a lift off Barney who I’m secretly thinking she might just have her eye on.
‘See you, Tess, love,’ says Edith warmly, tottering down the stone steps on her way to the bus stop.
‘Makes a nice change to be finished early for once, doesn’t it?’ says Daphne, following after her, ‘means I can be home in time for Agatha Christie’s Marple.’
I smile and wave goodbye, then get back to the rest of my messages. And dear God, but there must be dozens of them, from the wedding singer who sounds like he’s having a complete hissy-fit, to the caterer who left some garbled gobbledygook of a voicemail, the gist of which seems to involve some cousin on Bernard’s side who’s now decided at the last minute that she’s lacto-vegetarian.
Jesus, give me strength, I think, actually breaking out into a cold, panicky sweat. Tightness in my chest, shortness of breath, the whole works. I’m not certain that I can deal with all this right now, so instead I switch off the phone, shove it back into the depths of my bag and take a minute to stand on the court steps and just breathe.
One thing is certain. I can’t go home. Not yet and certainly not now. I just can’t bring myself to face this, not when my mind is in overdrive and there’s just so much pressure coming at me from every single imaginable direction. And yet I know it’s just not fair to leave Mum and Gracie sweating over the mess I’ve single-handedly created over Saturday night and all the attached brouhaha. So, although it’s the last thing I want to do, this girl better haul herself back to the house, and fast. Even if the thought of what’s waiting for me back there is making my knees start to feel wobbly.
I look around and see Will behind me, doing exactly the same thing as I was; checking his phone, catching up on the day’s messages. Then he pulls on a very cool-looking leather jacket and ambles over to say goodbye.
‘The curse of modern technology,’ he says dryly. ‘Sometimes I hate it so much that I’m accessible twenty-four seven, it’s almost a relief to be in court with the phone switched off.’
‘You read my mind,’ I say, pulling a face at him.
‘You look … strange,’ he says.
‘Strange?’
‘Pressured. Like all this is getting to you.’
‘Oh Christ, Will, you have no idea.’
‘You off home? Wedding stuff to get back to?’
‘Please. For the love of God, I’m actually begging you. Can we just … not use that word?’
Then suddenly I’m feeling dizzy as a strange, unfamiliar whooshing noise gushes through my ears.
‘Jesus, Tess, you’ve gone white as a sheet,’ he says, quickly gripping my arm by the elbow.
‘It’s nothing, I’m fine,’ I say, trying to laugh it off, but it’s no use. Suddenly my stomach is sick to the gills and heaving and I know that I’ve got to get to a bathroom inside of about thirty seconds flat or else I’m in big trouble.
‘You look terrible, are you OK?’ I can hear Will’s voice coming in and out of focus as I frantically look around for somewhere that might be open where I could make a dash for the loo. A pub, a coffee shop, anything.
My stomach does another sickening heave and I try to gulp it back. Then another wave of violent nausea and this time it’s too late. There’s no stopping me. There’s a public bin on the street right outside SPAR stuffed to the brim with empty cans and McDonald’s cartons. I bend over it and a second later, I’m throwing up, too sick to my stomach to even care how it looks.
‘There you go, that’s it, just get it all up,’ Will says gently, holding back my hair, though how he’s enduring the stench is beyond me.
I stop for a minute, trying to gauge whether or not I need to be sick for a second time, as my eyes start to get fuzzy and a load of spots shower their way down my eyelids.
‘All gone?’ he asks.
I can’t talk though, so I just nod.
‘OK, let’s get you a cab and I’ll take you home. Where do you live?’
‘No! Please. Not home if you don’t mind,’ I say, a fresh wave of queasiness hitting me just at the very thought of home. ‘I can’t … at least, not yet.’
He looks at me quizzically, the dark eyes trying to read my face.
‘Very long story,’ is all I can offer by way of explanation.
‘In that case, let’s get you to a bathroom,’ he says, casting his eye up and down the street to see what’s on offer. ‘Come on, I’ll come with you. And then maybe a glass of water.’
He glances around to see that the coffee shop across the road has closed up for the day by now.
‘Limited choices, it would seem,’ he says.
‘Oh God, Will, I
think I need to sit down. Now.’
‘In that case, I’ll tell you what,’ he says, ‘I just live ten minutes away. Why don’t you come over there? Just till you feel better.’
‘Oh … well …’
‘Tess, you just puked into a bin on the street. What other choice do you have?’
*
Turns out Will lives right in the heart of Charlotte Quay Dock, a.k.a. probably the coolest, priciest part of the whole city. He thoughtfully rolls the taxi windows down as we drive through the traffic and the fresh air soon starts to make me feel a bit more myself again.
‘How do you feel now?’ he asks worriedly.
‘Bit better, I think. At least, it’s passing. Look, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I’m mortified—’
‘Hey, none of that now! I’ve done worse myself,’ he says with a tiny smile. ‘And you know what they say. Better out than in.’
By the time we get to where he lives, the worst of the nausea has passed. I’m still a bit jittery, but at least I don’t think I’ll be sick again. Hopefully. Will insists on paying the driver as I clamber out of the cab, taking in the whole place.
And oh dear God, it’s so achingly cool here, you wouldn’t believe it. The apartment block where Will lives perfectly overlooks the Grand Canal basin, right beside the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre, where I often go to see musicals with my mates and where we’re always saying we’d love to live, EuroMillions lottery numbers willing, etc.
Will unlocks the communal hall door and a minute later I’m following him into a marble-floored lift. It’s deliciously cool in here and just being in off the street is making me perk up a bit. I’m a bit surprised when he uses a special key to get the lift going, and seconds later we’re up at the very top floor.
‘Fancy,’ I say, but he says nothing, just nods at me to follow him, which I do, all the way down a very private- looking corridor to an apartment with a single word plaque on the door: ‘Penthouse’.
‘Ah, Will, the penthouse? Are you secretly a billionaire tech entrepreneur by day, or something?’
‘A humble place, but my own,’ he says, unlocking the front door as I follow him inside. And I have to stop myself from involuntarily gasping out loud. Because this isn’t just your common or garden bachelor pad, this place is actually breathtaking.
We step into a huge open plan living room, where there’s a sunken area in the centre of the floor with comfy-looking leather sofas dotted around, all pointing to the flat screen telly on the wall. The whole apartment is kitted out in blonde wood floors and furniture that’s predominantly brown leather, the exact colour of espresso, with interesting-looking paintings covering most of the wall space. It’s tasteful, so exquisitely classy that you’d swear an interior designer only signed off the place twenty minutes ago.
But that’s not what’s taking my breath away. Because dominating the whole space is an actual wraparound balcony with the most stunning view right over Grand Canal Square. I can’t help myself; I just gravitate right over to the glass sliding door as Will, correctly reading my thoughts, steps up behind me to open it. Stepping outside it’s even more impressive, particularly on a warm evening like this, with the sun dancing across the water’s edge just beneath.
‘Will, this place is astonishing!’ I blurt as he looks on bemused, leaning back against the glass doors, hands stuffed into his pockets.
‘But how are you able to afford it? It must have cost …’ I break off here, but all I can think is, a million plus. Easy. Has to be.
‘Did a wealthy distant cousin die and leave you a fortune?’
‘Now, now,’ he says, playfully wagging his finger, ‘that’s just morbid of you. Although I’m glad to see you’re making a joke. Means you’re definitely on the mend.’
‘Then you’re some kind of a hedge fund manager by day.’
‘Clearly you never saw my maths exam results back in school.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re a drug dealer in your spare time?’
‘Do I look like a drug dealer?’
‘They never do.’
‘You and your overactive imagination,’ he smiles. ‘Tell you something though; I never tire of showing guests the balcony. Rain or shine, it’s always a hit. There were thunderstorms the other night and it was a light show out here. I only wished I’d—’
‘Wished you’d what?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, abruptly breaking off. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and maybe I can get you something to settle your stomach?’
‘Cup of tea would be gorgeous, thanks.’
‘Could you try to eat something?’
‘Oh,’ I say doubtfully, ‘not sure that my tummy is up to food just yet.’
‘Not a problem. I’ll rustle up something anyway and if you fancy picking at it, it’s all yours. Nothing like a few carbs to sort out a sick stomach.’
He shows me the way to the guest bathroom, which as you’d expect in an apartment like this, is state-of-the-art luxurious with marble floors, mahogany cabinets, the whole works.
‘There’s a brand new toothbrush in the press behind the mirror,’ he shouts at me through the door. ‘Help yourself.’
I gratefully accept, but as I’m brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face, all I can think is … spare toothbrush. Right. For lady-callers, who might just be staying the night, no doubt.
Feeling a whole lot cleaner, I finish up in the bathroom and find Will in the galley kitchen where I swear to God the guy has more gadgets and gismos than Nigella.
‘You’re certainly looking a whole lot better,’ he says, taking me in from head to foot.
‘Probably a good sign, now that the sickness has passed, that I’m starting to feel mortified for vomiting on the street. Fair play to you for sticking around, Will. Most blokes would have run a mile.’
‘Just sit back, relax and let me get you a cup of tea and something to eat,’ he says, efficiently zipping around, whipping onions, garlic, tomatoes and cream from his supersized American-style fridge and sticking them all into a pan. ‘Is the smell driving you mad? Making your stomach feel dodgy again? Just tell me if it is and remember, there’s a loo just feet away from you.’
‘No!’ I smile, ‘if anything that gorgeous smell is actually making me hungry.’
‘Good sign,’ he says, chopping onions.
‘Here, at least let me do that much for you,’ I say, grabbing the knife off him and taking over.
‘You don’t have to. When you’re a guest in my house, your only job is to sit and relax. And if I’m ever a guest in yours, I’ll do the same.’
‘Ha, some chance of you ever wanting to be a guest in my house,’ I smile, chopping away. ‘I’m back living with my parents just now and the way things are in that house at the moment, there’s a good chance my mother would hand you a bottle of Windolene and a J-cloth, then tell you to get going on the upstairs windows.’
‘Why are you back living at home?’ he asks, looking up from the pan to where I’m working away on the onions.
‘It’s a long story. A very long one.’
‘That’s two long stories that you’ve got to tell me. That and the reason why you didn’t want to go straight home this evening when you weren’t feeling well. It struck me as a bit odd.’
‘You sure you’re ready for it? Be warned, neither is pretty.’
‘I’m a good listener, or so my ex used to always say.’
Ah, I think, thoughts flipping. The ex-wife. I look over at Will where he now has his back to me, weaving all sorts of magic with everything he just threw into the frying pan. His tall, lean frame is bent over while he concentrates so I take the chance to really take him in.
An attractive guy, I think, in a rangy, long-limbed sort of way. And obviously not short of a few quid. Generous, thoughtful, attentive, and good company too. So what sort of a nut-job would ever leave a fella like this?
‘Jesus, Tess, even from here,’ he says, �
��I can almost hear the sound of your devious feminine mind whirring.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, blinking back at him innocently.
‘When you were in the bathroom, I’ll bet you checked out whether or not there were any signs of a woman living here. Bits of make-up, tampons, all the usual. Am I right?’
‘Will, I wouldn’t dream of being so nosy!’ I lie, mainly because that’s exactly what I was doing as it happens. The spare toothbrush being a dead giveaway. ‘Why would you even suggest that?’ I add, for good measure.
‘Because I write crime fiction for a living. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s how a woman’s mind works,’ he grins over his shoulder at me.
‘Just like Mel Gibson in What Women Want,’ I smile back. ‘Must come in handy for you.’
‘Certainly does. Not least when I look over at Kate King every day and try to imagine what’s going through that woman’s mind. Oh and just to save your feminine wiles a considerable amount of bother, the answer is no.’
‘No what?’
‘No, I currently live alone.’
BERNARD
The present
A character in an Oscar Wilde play once said of another that “they never talk scandal, but they do remark on it to everyone they meet”, and at that moment, Bernard couldn’t possibly have thought the quote any more apt. You see it was Jasper who’d got him into this fine mess, because with a staggering self-importance, he’d taken himself off to the courts to give testimony on whatever case it was that he’d been asked to serve on.
And although Jasper point-blank refused to divulge any details of the case, however large or small, it was virtually impossible for Bernard and the rest of the faculty not to guess. After all, how many cases that would require an art historian to give testimony were going on at the moment anyway? As Jasper bustled importantly out of college to go to court, Bernard had almost felt like calling after him, ‘when you see Tess in the jury box, give her my love, won’t you?’
Because that was the other thing. Jasper had developed an intensely annoying habit of letting everyone in the faculty know exactly what he was doing and the full reason for his non-attendance at college lectures for the next few days at least.
All She Ever Wished For Page 30
