All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Well, umm … yeah,’ I say weakly, ‘we did, actually.’

  ‘Because once the information came to us,’ she goes on, ‘we – that is I – decided that it was only the truth. And that for better or for worse, it had to come out. Regardless of what anyone said or thought.’

  ‘But,’ says Will, ‘weren’t you at all afraid that once you took the stand and said you intended to donate the painting to the Hugh Lane Gallery instead of keeping it, that it might look like you were deliberately trying to swing the jury in your favour?’

  ‘That’s not hard to answer really,’ says Kate thoughtfully, pulling up one leg onto the stone bench and massaging her calf muscles. Which is why my barrister Hilda and I used to refer to the Hugh Lane link as our ‘in case of emergency, please break glass’ strategy. Only to be used as a last resort, if things really didn’t seem to be going our way.

  ‘It was never conclusively proven, you know,’ she goes on, ‘that whole Lusitania link. Really all it amounted to was rumour and conjecture and that’s not good enough for a court of law. So we held it back, hoping that it wouldn’t be needed and the jury would be swayed in my favour by the pre-nup argument; that all birthday gifts would be left to me.’

  A silence falls and I catch Will’s eye.

  Say nothing, he seems to be silently telegraphing across to me. Just let her do all the talking.

  ‘Besides, I was worried sick,’ Kate says after a pause. ‘After all, if A Lady of Letters had been looted, it wouldn’t look too good for Damien, even though it wasn’t his fault and he did buy the painting in good faith. And that’s the last thing that I’d want, for either of us.’

  ‘Even for your ex?’ I can’t help asking. Sorry, the words just came out of my mouth before I could help it.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t even wish that on Damien,’ Kate says with a tiny smile. ‘In spite of everything that’s been written and no matter what people may think. He and I had a pretty good marriage back in the early days, you know. Everything was wonderful, till it all went pear-shaped. But I’m afraid I hadn’t taken into consideration just how dirty a fight Damien was prepared to put up. All I ever wanted to do was end it quietly and with a little bit of dignity, no matter what people might think of me.’

  ‘You haven’t read any of the weekend papers then?’ asks Will, raising his eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve been deliberately avoiding them for weeks,’ she winces. ‘It’s something I can live without. Particularly as Kate Lee-bashing seems to be something of a national sport these days.’

  ‘Because you might just be in for a pleasant surprise.’

  It’s the truth too. All week long, in fact, there’s been a massive public swing in Kate’s favour. Now every time I open a paper or turn on the radio, there’s someone on complaining about what an absolute bastard Damien King was to ever put his wife through a court case like that in the first place.

  I sense we’ve only got a minute or two left before Kate gets up to go again and I don’t want to push our luck. This feels a bit like we’ve trapped a gazelle that might just bolt at any second. Still though, there’s one last thing I’ve been dying to know.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ I ask her as, sure enough, she stands up and makes to leave.

  ‘I’m staying with my friend Mo for the moment, at least till I figure that one out,’ she says. ‘So who knows? I may possibly even move abroad, to rest up after this whole thing and think about where I want to go from here. After all, Damien has moved on, so maybe it’s time I did too. The Kings, you see,’ she adds, looking down at both of us with a shy smile, ‘were a couple made and minted in the media. So I suppose a fitting way to bring an end to the whole myth was via the media too. Which this court case has neatly seen to. I went in as Kate King and came out as Kate Lee again. And now life goes on.’

  ‘Plus now you’re free to do whatever you want,’ says Will.

  ‘For the first time in a long, long time,’ she nods. ‘Yes. I’m free. There’s just one other thing that I need to take care of first. Something important. But all in good time.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We both stand up with her then, as she clearly is anxious to get off.

  ‘Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time,’ I say.

  ‘But, thank you again,’ says Will. ‘You’ve certainly cleared up a few things that were really bugging me.’

  ‘And it goes without saying that this conversation never happened?’ she says. ‘That we never met?’

  ‘You have my word,’ I tell her stoutly. Then thinking, what the hell, I throw in something else that had been playing on my mind.

  ‘In fact, you’ll hardly remember this,’ I added, ‘but you and I did sort of meet on another occasion, long before the court case. You’ll have forgotten I’m sure, but it’s something that’s always stayed with me.’

  ‘Really?’ says Kate, with fresh interest. ‘When was that?’

  Even Will is looking at me now, with an expression that clearly says, ‘and you’re only telling me this now?’

  ‘It was about two years ago,’ I tell her, ‘on the Ha’penny Bridge. In the lashing rain. I recognised you and was just worried because – well, you seemed so upset.’

  Kate looks at me and goes very quiet for a moment.

  ‘The funny thing is that I do remember,’ she eventually says, ‘not that it was you, just that a young woman stopped and well, was very kind to me. And I’m sorry if I wasn’t exactly polite. I’m afraid I was going through a very tough time back then.’

  ‘Husband trouble?’ Will asks her gently.

  ‘I’d just discovered he was having an affair, yes,’ Kate says, sounding astonishingly calm about it. ‘Or another one, I should say.’

  ‘It’s none of my business of course,’ I tell her, ‘but you deserve so much better.’

  ‘Well,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘now that I’m finally free, who knows what the future holds?’

  We bid her a warm goodbye and she strides off, then stops just a few paces later and turns back to us.

  ‘Oh, just one more thing,’ she says, with an impish little smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Forgive my nosiness, but here you both are, out running together at the crack of dawn. Does this mean that you two are an item now?’

  ‘No!’ I say, probably a bit too loudly.

  ‘We’re … more like friends really,’ says Will, scanning my face as if to say, is it OK to say that?

  ‘Ah,’ says Kate, her beautiful face falling just a little. ‘Such a pity. I often used to look at you both across the courtroom and think, what a sweet couple that pair would make.’

  *

  As I’m car-less this morning, Will very kindly offers to drive me home and as soon as we leave the pier, he steers me towards a very swish-looking sports car in sexy black, with leather seats, bum-heaters, the whole boy-toy works.

  ‘Are you kidding me with this?’ I laugh when I see it. ‘What are you, like Bruce Wayne in your spare time or something? Do you secretly keep this in your Batcave at night? So Alfred the butler can polish it?’

  ‘Very funny,’ he says dryly. ‘Now, do you want a lift home or not?’

  I jump in and we’re just zooming off when he glances over at me.

  ‘You know, I was just thinking …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing worse than an early-morning run on an empty stomach.’

  ‘Gotta hate that.’

  ‘So how would you fancy maybe …’

  ‘If the end of your sentence involves any kind of food, then my answer is and always will be yes.’

  We pull up in Monkstown village, right beside a gorgeous- looking restaurant that’s open for breakfast, called Salt Café. And it’s lovely inside too, all brightly polished wooden tables and floors, with a menu that couldn’t be more mouth-wateringly perfect for this time of day. So we order, scrambled eggs for me and the full fry-up for Wi
ll, with two cappuccinos to get us started.

  Then the place slowly starts to fill up with other diners; some with friends and family, some on their own clutching the Sunday papers. And no prizes for guessing what the main story is most feature editors have run with this week.

  A silence falls between us as our coffees arrive and I take a first delicious mouthful, instantly feeling a whole lot perkier.

  ‘So,’ says Will, sitting back now and really focusing on me.

  ‘It’s been quite a few weeks, hasn’t it?’ I say.

  ‘Certainly has, in every possible way.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow across at him.

  A pause while he plays a bit with the spoon on the side of his cup.

  ‘Mentally. Emotionally. Come on, Tess, you know what I’m getting at here.’

  ‘No,’ I say, genuinely baffled. ‘I don’t.’

  He leans forward and takes my hand, looking, there’s no other word for it, a bit anxious now.

  ‘They told me. And I just wanted to make sure that you were OK. That’s all.’

  ‘They told you what?’ I say automatically, as of course, the answer already hits me before I’ve barely finished my sentence.

  ‘The Granny Brigade as you so endearingly refer to them,’ he says softly. ‘About your wedding. About everything.’

  ‘Oh, right. That,’ I say flatly. Serves me right for asking Edith to keep a secret. She’s a lovely, sweet old lady and everything, but about as discreet as a hang gliding flasher.

  ‘Look, Tess,’ he says, in no rush to let go of my hand. ‘You can tell me to mind my own business here, but I just wanted to make sure you were OK about everything. Can’t have been an easy time for you. And I’m so sorry, I really am.’

  ‘That’s good of you,’ I say, ‘but it’s all been fine. Really. Honestly. And of course no one ever believes a bride when she says that she’s got no problem whatsoever with the fact that her wedding has just been called off, but I can promise you, in my case, it’s the absolute truth. And Bernard feels exactly the same way as I do.’

  ‘You’re not just putting on a brave face?’ he asks, watching me closely. ‘Because you don’t need to. Not with me anyway.’

  I smile back at him.

  ‘I’m positive. I even told Bernard about what happened between you and I, by the way.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘All in the spirit of honesty and transparency,’ I shrug. ‘He and I were having a heart-to-heart the other night and so I came clean. You know, it’s never a good sign when a woman who’s meant to be getting married in a few weeks suddenly starts kissing the face off someone else.’

  ‘Ahh,’ he says. ‘That.’

  Silence now, just as our food arrives, but in spite of the delicious smell of fresh toast, neither of us makes the slightest attempt to eat. Instead we just look across the table at each other.

  ‘Because you know,’ he says, ‘I’ve thought about that night too. And now that you’re officially single again, I just wanted to say that … well …’

  ‘Yes?’ I ask, thinking how cute he is when he’s flustered and out of his comfort zone.

  ‘Well, if you ever wanted to go out … I mean … like … on a proper date, you know? Then … that might be … nice …’

  ‘Nice?’ I grin. ‘That’s your adjective? And you call yourself a novelist?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he says, reddening a bit now. ‘It would be lovely. More than lovely. If you were up for it, of course.’

  I take another sip of coffee and this time, it’s my turn to take his hand.

  ‘Will,’ I tell him after a beat, ‘here’s the thing about me. I went straight from one ill-judged relationship into another one. You said so yourself that night, I was Rebound Girl. And although it’s so sweet of you to ask me out … I just think that right now—’

  He nods and looks like he can guess what’s coming next.

  ‘I need to be on my own again,’ I finish. ‘I’d like to remember what it is to be single. To be independent and, as Kate King – sorry Kate Lee – said earlier … free.’

  ‘I totally understand,’ he says. ‘And for what it’s worth, it sounds like you’re doing the right thing for you. But you know, if you ever …’

  ‘If I ever …?’

  And then he grins as the black eyes start to dance again.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says, sounding a bit more playful now, ‘in the spirit of romantic adventure, why don’t we arrange to meet in exactly … say … six months’ time. You name the date and place and let’s just see what happens. If we both turn up, then maybe it’ll turn into a date date. And If only one of us does …’

  ‘Or neither of us …’

  ‘Then it’s a case of no harm, no foul. Gives you a bit of time-out to clear your head and let’s just see where we both are then. So come on. What do you say?’

  ‘Here,’ I tell him firmly. ‘In six months’ time, here at this very table in the Salt Café.’

  ‘Why not?’ he smiles. ‘Say 8 p.m., for dinner?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I say doubtfully, ‘not dinner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if the other doesn’t turn up, then you’re …’

  ‘OK, yeah, I get it,’ he says, finishing the sentence for me. ‘Then you’re the poor sap that’s sitting all alone for dinner at a table for two. How about breakfast then? So if one of us doesn’t show, it’s still cool to have breakfast on your own with the papers. What do you say?’

  ‘In six months then,’ I say.

  ‘In six months.’

  *

  About an hour later, Will’s flashy car pulls up at our house, just as Gracie is parking in the driveway, still wearing the same clothes she had on last night and looking like a big, dirty stop-out. She comes over to us and I make the introductions.

  ‘Although you’ve both actually met before,’ I say. ‘That night, when you and I were at that awful dinner in the club and you were at a fortieth birthday party, Will, remember?’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ groans Gracie. ‘I’m still having therapy to recover from that bloody night.’

  She waves to Will through the open car window and is just about to say hi, when suddenly her jaw physically drops, cartoon-style.

  ‘Oh. My. Actual. God,’ she says, staring at him, like she can’t believe her eyes. Meanwhile, Will just looks faintly embarrassed, like he’s quite used to generating this sort of a reaction.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, looking at her.

  ‘Tess, you moron! Don’t you realise who this is? You’re W.T. Kearns! The W.T. Kearns! I’ve read every single line you’ve ever written! I’m your number one fan!’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ says Will with a shy little smile.

  ‘Tell me this. Will you ever write a sequel to Murder at Merrion? Please, say yes! Your hero is my favourite fictional character ever!’

  KATE

  Dublin

  Two months later

  The Hugh Lane Gallery was packed out and not only that, but the press was out in force too. The whole place seemed crammed with social diarists, the whole works. It had got to the stage where Kate could almost pick out their faces, even in an exhibition room as crowded as this one. She looked around nervously as Jasper Adams made his way to the podium to introduce her. And sure enough, her eye very quickly picked out Mo in a bright lemon-yellow dress, good old loyal Mo, standing right there at the back to cheer Kate on.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Jasper, addressing the room importantly and, not for the first time, Kate almost wanted to smile at just how much he reminded her of the quintessential Mammy’s Boy, right down to the neat crease down the front of his immaculately pressed suit. He’d insisted on coming here today from the Art History department at City College and had even brought a friend along with him; an overweight, rotund man, a bit like Billy Bunter from the comics. He looked strangely familiar to Kate too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on w
here she’d seen him before.

  ‘Much has been written,’ Jasper went on, ‘particularly of late, about the painting which is about to be unveiled here today. She’s been the subject of a lengthy court battle and it’s so wonderfully satisfying to have her returned here and now to the beautiful Hugh Lane Gallery. So without further ado, allow me to introduce you to our incredibly generous benefactress, Miss Kate Lee!’

  A hearty round of applause went up as Kate made her way to the podium, aware of a whole bank of flash photography going off in her face.

  She paused, took a moment to look around the packed gallery, then steeled herself to make the little speech she’d prepared.

  ‘Thank you all so much for coming today,’ she began. ‘It truly is an honour to see such a great turnout for A Lady of Letters. We’re particularly fortunate to have some representatives from the Art History world here this evening as, unlike me, they’ll certainly be able to answer anything you wish to know about the painting.’

  There were a few titters around the room at that, which gave Kate the courage to go on.

  ‘However,’ she continued, ‘there’s one thing I’m afraid you won’t find in any history book. Did you know that apparently A Lady of Letters comes with a curse? Some people believe in it and others don’t. But up until recent events, I’d certainly have gone along with the whole notion alright.’

  Laughter at that, and even a brief smattering of applause.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Kate, growing in confidence as she warmed to her theme. ‘Whether or not you believe in the whole Lusitania story or not – and for the record, I certainly do – it seems that no private owner of this portrait has ever had a day’s luck from it.

  ‘But today that all changes. Because today, the painting’s previous owner now gets to see his dying wish fulfilled. And so, can I ask you to charge your glasses and raise a toast to Sir Hugh Lane, who one day dreamt that A Lady of Letters would hang here in the gallery that bears his name. And today, I have the very fortunate privilege of being in a position to make that dream come true. Ladies and gentlemen,’ she went on, tugging at a discreet little rope so she could officially unveil the portrait, ‘I give you … A Lady of Letters. And after the longest journey imaginable, now she’s here for good.’