All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  TESS

  Saturday, 6 p.m.

  I’m telling Bernard. Now. Tonight. No way out of it. It’s Saturday, the day of this accursed sten night which frankly I must have had a blood clot to my brain to ever have suggested in the first place. And I tried calling Bernard after court yesterday, but he was working late in college and his bloody phone was switched off. But then Bernard rarely answers his phone at the best of times, regarding all mobile phone communication as the death of human interaction, civilization, etc.

  Being perfectly honest though, half of me is relieved, because it gave me most of today to mentally prepare my speech.

  Bernard is a good man who deserves to know the truth. Then he can make an informed decision about what he wants to do and on my own head be it.

  Meanwhile the show must go on and like it or not, I’ve got twenty guests coming for supper this evening who have to be catered for. The very least I owe my pals and Bernard’s family is a decent meal, I figure. So I spend the whole day with my head down in the kitchen: baking, whisking, mixing, prepping.

  Our kitchen is too tiny to serve people any way other than buffet-style, so I’ve put together a banquet of goat’s cheese and walnut salad, tomato bruschetta with capers and a vegetarian cannelloni with cauliflower and pesto sauce. As a nod to the non-veggies, I even forced myself to make a sweet and sour chicken with pilau rice, so there’s something for everyone in the audience.

  I’m just in the middle of making chocolate profiteroles for dessert when Gracie comes into the kitchen, sticking her fingers into bowls so she can sample everything and generally making a complete nuisance of herself.

  ‘Gimme a lend of your car tonight, will you?’ she says without any kind of a preamble. ‘I’ve a date with Elaine and I don’t want her to think I’m a complete tosspot who can’t drive.’

  ‘If you stay for one hour at the party, then you can have the car for the whole rest of the night,’ I say, raising my voice to be heard over the Magimix.

  A pause while she weighs up the lesser of two evils.

  ‘Right. One hour then. But don’t put me sitting near anyone whose last name is Pritchard.’

  I say nothing, just focus on whisking cream and melting chocolate for the profiteroles.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ she says suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes there is. Normally whenever I slag off the Pritchards you’re in like Flynn to defend them.’

  I say nothing, just keep creaming, beating, blending.

  ‘You’ve something on your mind,’ she nods knowingly.

  ‘Piss off, Gracie.’

  ‘On second thoughts,’ she says, sticking her fingers into a bowl of melted chocolate and tasting it, ‘maybe I will hang around for a bit longer tonight.’

  ‘One hour. That’s all I ask. You can do an hour.’

  ‘Right then. Because if there’s one rare and precious gift I have, it’s that I can smell relationship trouble a mile off.’

  ‘Gracie, will you either help me here, or else shut up?’

  ‘… And if there’s going to be a bunfight between you and lover boy, then I want to be there. I want a front row seat.’

  *

  7 p.m. An hour before showtime. I’ve just finished hoovering our living room and am dotting a few vases of lilies around the place when Mum comes in, still in her dressing gown and with a load of heated rollers wobbling dangerously on her head.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Tess,’ she says, looking at me worriedly.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You know you are. And you’ve been like this all day. For the last few days, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, just, you know,’ I shrug, ‘I want tonight to go well. That’s all.’

  ‘Is that it, love? Or is there something you want to tell me?’ she says, perching on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Why would you think there was something I wanted to tell you?’ I say, putting down the lilies I was arranging.

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ she says, looking at me keenly, ‘like you’ve stopped counting down the days and weeks to your wedding, for one thing.’

  ‘Oh … I’m just a bit distracted, that’s all.’

  ‘If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know I’m here for you, don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do, Mum,’ I smile at her gratefully.

  ‘And remember, pet. There’s no problem in this world that you and me can’t fix together.’

  Instinctively I give her a hug. So full of love for her at this moment that I’m almost close to tears.

  *

  ‘Bernard, can I have a word?’

  ‘In a moment, sausage. Just let me fix Mummy up with another drink; that’ll keep her quite contented.’

  ‘Here, let me,’ I say, taking the empty glass from him. ‘But then can you and I go somewhere private to talk?’

  ‘Yes, yes, good idea,’ says Bernard, sounding totally preoccupied, which is most unlike him.

  Although mind you, finding somewhere quiet in this house is a challenge. It’s just past 9 p.m. and the party’s in full swing. God bless my gang of friends, is all I can think, because they all arrived in top form, ready to party and really get into the atmosphere.

  My two best friends, Monica and Stella, are here of course and even came by an hour earlier to help me with all the last-minute stuff, bless them. And pals from work are all present and correct too; Sue, Shauna and Rosie, along with a gang of lads that we’ve all been buddies with since our training days. We’ve got neighbours here, cousins, aunties and uncles, along with a few of Bernard’s pals from college and, of course, Desmond and Beatrice.

  I’ve basically spent the last hour whirring around like a wind-up doll making sure every drink was refreshed and that the buffet kept coming everyone’s way. Have to say it’s a relief to see my nearest and dearest enjoying themselves, not having a clue about the undercurrents of tension bubbling away. And whenever anyone tells me that I’m acting a bit distracted, I just dismiss it with, ‘oh, you know, just hostessy stuff. I’ll be fine when you’ve all had enough to eat!’

  Gracie is being impromptu DJ and ‘All About that Bass’ by Meghan Trainor is blaring out. Meanwhile Edgar, a much older mate of Bernard’s, is physically wincing at the sound of it. I’m doing a round of the living room and snippets of one excruciating conversation after another keep wafting my way.

  Like Beatrice to my pal Stella: ‘I’m reading the most wonderful book at the moment, you know. Have you read the latest on the Mesopotamian Bronze Age? Utterly gripping stuff. Such a page turner.’

  ‘Emm, nope, I’m afraid not,’ says Stella, looking a bit baffled. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?’

  Then there’s Dad and Desmond, stuck over by the telly trying their best to find common ground, while Dad looks wistfully at the blank screen, doubtless thinking of all the Sky Sports he’s missing out on.

  ‘I’m told I’m banned from talking about either politics, water charges or how much this wedding is costing,’ he says morosely.

  ‘Oh, I know, I have a subject we can talk about,’ says Desmond.

  ‘You do?’ says Dad, lighting up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Are you an opera fan? Did you see that La Traviata is coming to the Wexford Festival later this year?’

  You know what? That’s it, I think. Enough. This ends right here and right now.

  I put down the bottle of Prosecco I’d been circulating with and find Bernard in the kitchen, helping himself to a plateful of quinoa salad and looking very unenthusiastic about it. Without any preamble, I grab him by the elbow and steer him out to the back garden, taking care to close the kitchen door tight behind us.

  ‘What’s up, sausage?’ he says, plonking down on a garden bench, immediately taking over two thirds of it as he munches half-heartedly at the salad.

  I squeeze in beside him and brace myself to tell it quickly and cleanly. Just like ripping out painful stiches after surgery, then it’ll all be over.
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  ‘Bernard,’ I begin, taking a deep breath. ‘There’s something you need to know.’

  ‘Yes?’ he says, the big puppy eyes looking over at me.

  You can do it, Tess.

  ‘I kissed someone. Just a few nights ago. And I never meant for it to happen and I swear that it went no further than that, but the guilt has been scorching me inside ever since, and I knew I wouldn’t rest easy until I got it off my chest and told you. And, oh God, I really am so sorry, there’s no excuse for what I did and I’m not trying to make one … I just wanted you to know. That’s all.’

  I’m rambling now, but feeling so much lighter already, just for having said it.

  Then I scan Bernard’s face, looking for a reaction. But so far, nothing. Anger? No. Shock? Don’t think so. Hurt? Definitely not. Instead he just takes another mouthful of salad and looks thoughtfully out over the garden.

  ‘I see,’ he says a bit flatly. ‘Well, thank you for telling me, I suppose.’

  Is that it? I think. Thank you for telling me? Like I just gave him today’s weather report?

  ‘Are you annoyed?’ I ask tentatively.

  He thinks about it for a bit.

  ‘I suppose I ought to be,’ he says after a pause. ‘But the funny thing is that I’m not really. Not at all, in fact.’

  A long silence while we look at each other.

  ‘Bernard,’ I eventually say. ‘This isn’t such a good sign is it? I kissed another guy just a few weeks before we’re supposed to get married … it’s not really how brides are meant to carry on really, is it?’

  ‘And I’m feeling … quite nonplussed about it all,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Which I imagine isn’t quite how grooms-to-be are meant to carry on either, now is it?’

  We look at each other for longer this time and in the end, we both say it together, overlapping each other.

  ‘So … do you think we should just call the whole thing off?’ I say while Bernard beats me to it with, ‘so … is getting married really such a good idea for us, do you think?’

  ‘No!’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he chimes in agreement.

  Then he holds out his big, plump arm for me and I snuggle into it, like friends. Like friends, who’ll always remain that way.

  ‘You’re the kindest, loveliest man I know,’ I say. ‘And you deserve so much better than me. And you’ll find her. She’s out there for you.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he shrugs. ‘Because, you know, sausage, there’s quite a remarkable amount to be said for the bachelor life too.’

  And now that he’s said it, I can see it so clearly for him, it actually makes me smile. Bernard and his pals Edgar and Jasper, sipping very dry sherries and attending all their lectures together, like a little triumvirate of confirmed bachelors. And more than happy to be so.

  ‘So who’s this chap then,’ he asks, but I know he’s cool about it when he adds, ‘this love-rival of mine?’

  ‘Oh, a guy who’s on jury service with me. He’s called Will and … I don’t know … it’s just like we’ve been in such an intense pressure cooker together with the case and everything that I suppose things just spilled over. But we should have a verdict in another day or two and I doubt we’ll ever see each other after that.’

  ‘It was good of you to tell me, sausage. You didn’t have to. Commendably brave. I did think you hadn’t seemed like yourself these past few days.’

  ‘Oh come on, I had to, Bernard. The very least I owe you is the honest truth.’

  ‘And now can I tell you the honest truth?’ he says, looking at me a bit shiftily.

  ‘Of course.’

  He looks sadly down at the quinoa salad.

  ‘Tess, you’re a dear, sweet girl. But there are no words to describe how much I loathe and detest this utter rabbit food you’ve been feeding me. And there really is no form of exercise that I don’t hate and despise. I like ice cream and chocolate and full-fat dairy, and essentially any meal that doesn’t come with the calories written on the side of the carton. I’m so sorry, but in the spirit of openness and honesty, there it is.’

  A moment when we look at each other and smile.

  ‘Do you know,’ he says, suddenly brightening. ‘I saw the most divine plateful of chocolate profiteroles earlier. Now that I’m a single man again, do you think I can go in and help myself? I’m absolutely bloody starving.’

  *

  Not long after, hand in hand, we go in together to face the room, our families, everyone.

  ‘Bernard and I have some big news to share with you all,’ I tell the room, wreathed in happy smiles.

  ‘We’re both so delighted about this,’ Bernard says, standing right beside me with his hand locked tight around mine, ‘and we really hope you all will be too.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ I hear Dad groan under his breath. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘No!’ Bernard and I chime together. ‘We’re not getting married!’

  KATE

  Saturday, 7.30 p.m.

  You and I have had some good times together, Kate thought, as she closed the front door behind her on Castletown House for the very last time. Some fabulous times, in fact. But now it was time for her to move on and that’s exactly what she was doing.

  With Mo’s tireless help, she’d finally packed up the last of her things, bid a fond farewell to the staff who were all staying on, and now her Range Rover was stuffed to the gills with the last of her things as she drove down the gravelled driveway for the very last time.

  As it happened though, she didn’t have too far to drive. Just a few miles really, to Mo’s gorgeously warm country home, so different to the cool elegance of Castletown, where she’d been invited to stay till she found somewhere permanent to live. It couldn’t have been more perfect for her really, because Mo’s was a proper family home, with kids and cats and dogs all squealing at each other; full of warmth, laughter and fun.

  Exactly what she needed right now, in other words. At least till she managed to find a place of her own. Love, comfort and just to be around happy, joyous people.

  She pulled in through the gates and drove on up the driveway, but was utterly unprepared for the sight that was waiting for her.

  It was Josh and Ella, her ten-year-old Godchildren, standing proudly in front of the house with a giant, oversized banner that said, ‘Welcome to our home, Auntie Kate … we love you!’ scrawled across it in their bright-red, bold paintwork.

  The dotes have gone and made a banner for me, Kate thought, almost touched to tears. That’s probably the sweetest thing that’s happened to me in months.

  ‘Auntie Kate! You’re finally here!’ said Ella, hurling herself into her Godmother’s arms the minute she was out of her car.

  ‘’Cept we don’t want you to stay for just a little bit,’ said Josh, sounding so grown up and so like his dad that Kate almost wanted to laugh. ‘We want you here for ever.’

  ‘I want you to sleep in my room, Auntie Kate! So we can tell stories and so I can practise with your make-up and wear all the clothes you don’t want!’

  Kate hugged them both tightly to her, loving the feel of their small hands clamped tight around her waist. Then she looked up and saw Mo standing at the doorway to welcome her, still in her apron and wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Kate thought. Never. Not as long as I live.

  TESS

  Monday, 10.30 a.m.

  ‘Well I’m for Kate.’

  ‘Me too. She’s definitely getting my vote.’

  ‘But the painting rightfully belongs to the King family trust! That’s the legal position and there’s nothing at all that any of you can do about it. We have to respect the law, after all.’

  ‘Have to say though, I really like the idea of the painting being kept here in Ireland.’

  ‘Oh I agree. Definitely. And in the Hugh Lane too, where it looks like it should have been all along.’

  ‘Yeah, but that whole Hugh Lane thing. OK, so we can
prove his connection to the painting, but we’ve no certain way of knowing that it ever travelled with him on the Lusitania in the first place. As Oliver whatshisname said, that’s nothing more than rumour and conjecture.’

  ‘Yeah, but you heard Jasper Adams’s evidence. The odds are overwhelming that it was. I mean, come on. One minute Hugh Lane buys it in New York, which we know for certain. Just days later, he’s on the Lusitania – of course the painting must have been with him. If he’d left it behind in America, surely it would be hanging in the Guggenheim or somewhere like that now, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘You know I once saw a documentary about the Lusitania,’ Beth chips in, ‘and it definitely claimed that not long after the sinking and before the First World War ended, all sorts of illegal looting went on. It’s so close to the shoreline, you see, apparently it wasn’t that difficult to get at.’

  ‘Such a horrible thought,’ sniffs Daphne disapprovingly. ‘Mind you, I felt the exact same when they started bringing up all manner of trinkets from the Titanic. Just like grave robbing, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more,’ says Mai from across the table. ‘Like digging up your grandfather’s coffin just so you can get the gold watch off his wrist. So morbid.’

  ‘Yes, but ladies, the point is we’re here to decide ownership,’ Jane interrupts in her no-nonsense manner. ‘And as the judge told us, what Kate or Damien King decide to do with the painting afterwards is none of our business really, is it?’

  It’s Monday morning in the jury room and here we are, all assembled and with everyone anxious to give their opinion and fighting to get their two cents worth in. Well, everyone except Edith that is, who’s sitting right beside me and won’t give up nudging and hissing right into my ear.

  ‘Do you know there’s something very different about you today, Tess,’ she says, eyeing me up suspiciously. ‘I’ve six granddaughters, you know. I can tell a mile off.’

  ‘Shh, will you? We’re supposed to be reaching a verdict here.’