All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  And still no reply from Damien.

  *

  Vicky Dresden, that was her name. Twenty-six years old and a horse trainer, based at Cheltenham. But Damien had hired her to train his, by now impressive, stable of horses and so he’d relocated her to the nearby town of Avoca in the last few weeks. Very handy for them both, Kate had thought bitterly. It wasn’t that Damien talked about her a lot, it was the fact he barely mentioned her at all, despite the fact he spent every bit of free time he had down at the stable yard with her.

  Meanwhile Kate was meant to be at home resting and taking her medications, but found she couldn’t sit still. Night after night Damien didn’t come home and eventually, she cracked. Out of her mind with worry, she even drove to Avoca and parked discreetly outside the little cottage that she knew Vicky was renting.

  But there was nothing. No sign of Damien’s car, no closed curtains with the sound of music and giggles and romance wafting back out at her. Instead the house was in pitch darkness.

  Jesus Christ, would you look at me, Kate thought, her heart hammering off her chest. Look at what I’m turning into. What was I going to do here anyway, hammer the front door down and accuse a total stranger of having an affair?

  It was the drugs, she knew. The old Kate would never in a million years have behaved like such a paranoid, out of control nut-job. But still. When Damien eventually did saunter through the front door a full three days later, she was more than ready for him. On top of all her daily anti-anxiety meds, she’d even taken half a Valium, just to help keep her nice and calm.

  ‘Good trip?’ she asked lightly as Damien brushed the side of her cheek, before loosening his collar and tie and crashing out in front of the TV.

  ‘Oh you know, work. I love Paris, but you know how these trips are. Completely exhausting, I never get a minute to myself.’

  He put his feet up on the coffee table, then picked up the remote control, flicking channels until he came across a Golf Classic tournament being screened live.

  ‘I thought you would have called me,’ she said evenly, coming around to face him. ‘You used to call me all the time when you were away. Day and night. And if you couldn’t get through, you’d leave long, romantic messages for me. But these days? Nothing.’

  ‘Yeah, you know I tried, but the Wi-Fi signal was crap. Besides, there really wasn’t time. And honey, do you mind moving? You’re blocking the TV.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ she snapped. ‘That’s all I get after three days away? “You’re blocking the TV”.’

  That caught his attention and he turned to really look at her then.

  ‘What’s got into you? What’s with the attitude?’

  ‘I tell you what’s with the attitude, Damien! You disappear for days, I barely get a lousy text message from you and then … then …’

  She broke off though. Days of pent-up frustration and worry and anger choking her to tears.

  ‘Hey, hey, what’s this?’ he said, getting up and putting his arms around her to calm her down. ‘What’s really going on here?’

  ‘It’s … you,’ she gulped. ‘It’s us … it’s everything …’

  ‘What? Tell me?’ His tone was gentle, he sounded concerned.

  ‘It’s that … I’m here on my own in this ridiculously big house all day every day and you’re never around and I’m bored and lonely and I just … I can’t get the thought out of my head that there’s something going on between you and … Vicky.’

  There. She’d said it. There was almost a relief in voicing her greatest worry out loud. She looked up at Damien, but his face remained blank. Unreadable.

  ‘Just tell me I’m being nuts,’ she pleaded. ‘Tell me this is all nonsense and that there’s nothing going on between you, because I’ve been going out of my mind here … this sudden passion for horse racing, the fact that you spend far more time with her than you do with me …’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, rubbing her back to soothe her. ‘I want you to listen to me very carefully because I’ll only say it once. There is nothing going on between me, Vicky or any other woman I’ve been in contact with. And yes, right now, you’re acting like a crazy lady.’

  ‘But I’ve just been so worried! You’ve no idea what it’s like here for me, all alone in this house, feeling like crap all the time, and you’re not even answering my phone calls!’

  ‘It’s those bloody drugs,’ he sighed. ‘They’re making you do things you never normally would. So drop it, babes. You’re my perfect girl, don’t you know that by now? So why would I want to be with anyone else?’

  He looked her in the eye as he said it and for a blessed minute, Kate actually felt a wave of relief. He was so utterly convincing, it was impossible not to believe him.

  Damien went back to watching the golf and that, as far as he was concerned, was that. But later that night, as Kate lay alone in bed, she remembered what an award-winning liar Damien could be. How he was at his smoothest and most reassuring when he was spinning complete fiction.

  She’d seen it before. She had first-hand experience of it. And suddenly she shivered.

  TESS

  The present

  The richest irony of all is that we’re not supposed to chat about the case outside of court. And yet everywhere I go, everyone else is doing exactly that – without exception. This really has captured the public imagination like nothing else, mainly because it’s got all the key ingredients going for it: bottomless wealth, power, sex, celebrity and greed. Basically, the kind of story that ends up being turned into a made-for-TV movie.

  The court reporters have done their job well and, by the time we’re all leaving the building, news of the day’s events in court already seems to be everywhere, for all the world to see, and to cast judgment on.

  On the way home on the bus, I keep overhearing other passengers buzzing about it.

  ‘If you ask me there’s no shame in Kate King,’ mutters a girl opposite me to her pal, while I tune in, all ears. ‘Money. That’s the only reason she even married Damien in the first place. Sure everyone knows that. Love match, my arse.

  ‘And the brazen cheek of her to sit there in court and claim that one hundred and fifty grand a year isn’t enough for her? I hope they send her down for theft and throw away the key.’

  Nor do I get any respite from it when I get home. No sooner is my key in the front door than Mum bustles out from the TV room to meet me.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ she says. ‘It’s been all over the news. Do you know, I never liked that Kate King one bit and now I’m delighted that the whole world gets to see what a self-centred, greedy woman she is. No wonder Damien King wants rid of her.’

  Mum, it has to be said, has never forgiven Kate King for doing a five-page magazine spread on her husband Damien’s fortieth birthday party, which apparently cost two hundred grand. It was the timing more than anything that annoyed her; the story appeared in the papers the very same day my dad was made redundant from his job, which was installing house alarms for a local company.

  ‘Mum, you know I’m not really supposed to talk about the case—’ but I’m wasting my breath. She keeps it up all the way through dinner and even Gracie chimes in.

  ‘Never liked her …’

  ‘I never understood what he could possibly have seen in her. I mean not only is Damien King loaded, but he’s gorgeous-looking too. He could have had anyone he wanted. Hollywood movie stars, anyone. And she’s such a cold fish,’ Mum went on. ‘Even when she was modelling, there were other far prettier girls than her knocking around. She’s too thin, for starters, and that bony, snooty face of hers … how would anyone ever find that attractive? It says online that she just sat there totally unemotional in court. Is that true, Tess?’

  ‘Mum, I told you, I’m not supposed to—’

  ‘Ahh shut up then, you’re worse than useless. I’d say Damien won’t know himself once he’s free of her. I’d say she must have drained him dry over the years.’

  ‘Three hundred
pairs of shoes?’ says Gracie, in disbelief. ‘And her own personal nail bar in her bedroom? Eighteen months in the Mountjoy women’s prison, that’s what that woman needs. That’ll sort her out quickly enough—’

  ‘It’s like the Heather Mills and Paul McCartney case all over again, if you ask me—’

  Mum, Gracie and I are having a TV dinner of microwaved cannelloni and veg, the kind Mum only ever bothers with when she’s been glued to the telly all evening. And it’s just the three of us around the table: Dad’s out helping a mate of his to paint a house this evening. He’s been doing a lot of handy, part-time bits and pieces like that lately and thankfully it’s keeping him going, cash-wise.

  But while the other two horse into their grub, I just play with mine, then shove it away, uneaten. And all the time there’s just one thought going round and round my head, like it’s on a loop: Damien King is a billionaire. He could probably afford ten Rembrandts if he wanted them. So what kind of a man would put his ex-wife through this, no matter how acrimonious things were between them? And if Kate King knew this court case would come about and that she’d be vilified from right, left and centre – why didn’t she just hand the painting back to him in the first place and have done with it?

  Dinner is interrupted by a phone call on my mobile. It’s the wedding florist, looking for final budget approval; her third time ringing today.

  And to my shame I’d completely forgotten all about her.

  *

  I arrive at court so early the next morning that there’s even time to wander over to a coffee shop across the road for a take-out. It’s one of those cluttery, packed places that offer bacon butties along with free Wi-Fi at this time of day, so it’s obviously a popular spot around here. And sure enough, there’s a few hacks in here from the press box that I recognise.

  Two youngish guys to be exact, clustered together at a table by the window, looking for all the world like a pair of hipsters (hairy beards, low-slung jeans, the whole Williamsburg vibe). I can practically feel their eyes boring into me and all I can think is … shit. They’ve copped on to exactly who I am. I’m just inching my way forward in the queue and sure enough, next thing there’s a discreet tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Hi there,’ says the hairier one of them, looking at me earnestly. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind my approaching you like this, but the thing is, I write for The Chronicle—’

  ‘You really shouldn’t be speaking to me,’ I hiss at him, hoping no one else in the queue overhears.

  ‘Hey, I just wanted a minute of your time,’ he says insistently, making no attempt to move. ‘Obviously you can’t talk to me just now, but if you’d like to make a few quid for yourself when the case is all over, we’d be more than happy to buy your story.’

  ‘Can you just leave me alone?’ I tell him firmly, inching down the queue to get away from him.

  ‘We’d pay really well for something as big as this, you know,’ Beardy persists, clearly not taking no for an answer. ‘And I hear you’re getting married soon. Few extra quid might just come in handy.’

  ‘Please! I really don’t want to speak to you, now or anytime.’

  ‘Actually we were just leaving,’ comes a familiar voice from just behind me. I turn around and in an instant flush of relief see that it’s Will. ‘Weren’t we, Tess?’

  ‘Erm … yes! Yes, we were,’ I say.

  ‘Tell you what then,’ says this journo guy scratching his beard, completely undeterred. ‘Here’s my business card. If you ever fancied chatting to me when all this is over – off the record, of course – we’d never quote your name, but we’d really love to hear from you.’

  ‘You do realise we could report you for this?’ says Will, clamping a protective arm onto my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah sure, man. But this would all be totally hush hush, you know—’

  ‘Come on then, Tess,’ Will interrupts, ‘I reckon we can find somewhere else to have coffee. In peace this time.’

  ‘Hey, take it easy!’ says Beardy. ‘I was only trying to—’

  ‘I think I know exactly what you were trying to do,’ says Will, steering me towards the door and out of there.

  We step outside into the warm spring sunshine, my head still reeling from the barefaced neck of that guy.

  ‘You OK?’ Will asks, looking at me concerned.

  ‘Yeah, absolutely,’ I say. ‘It’s just hard to remember how visible we all are up there in that jury box. And scary to think the press know exactly who we are and that we can be got to so easily. Jesus, Will, they even knew about my wedding!’

  ‘Shower of vultures. Whatever you do, don’t speak to them and if you’re approached again, report it to Moany Mona.’

  ‘That what we’re calling her now? Moany Mona?’

  ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s got a ring to it,’ he says, with a tiny half-smile.

  ‘Thanks, Will. That’s sound advice.’

  ‘Come on then,’ he says, the dark eyes scanning up and down the quays to see where else is open. ‘We’ve still got half an hour before kick-off and I reckon the very least I owe you is a coffee.’

  He leads the way to a hotel further down the road, where they’re serving tea, coffee and croissants in the lounge area. It’s lovely in here too, all plush sofas in that nude mink colour you see everywhere, with a gorgeous smell of freshly brewed coffee to greet us as we come through the door.

  ‘Fancy in here, isn’t it?’ I say approvingly as we both order Americanos and grab a table. Will plonking down on the seat opposite, so he’s facing me.

  ‘A vast improvement on the Ebola Arms anyway.’

  ‘Ahh, don’t be so quick to knock the Ebola Arms,’ I tell him playfully. ‘I’m still thinking of changing my wedding reception to have it there, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘So who’s the lucky guy then?’ Will asks.

  ‘He’s called Bernard. He’s an Art History Lecturer at City College.’

  ‘Fancy job,’ he nods, sitting back. ‘So go on then, flesh out the picture. What’s this Bernard like?’

  ‘He’s a dote,’ I say firmly. ‘And I’m a lucky girl. Even if—’

  ‘Even if … what?’ he asks, instantly picking up on it.

  ‘Well, let’s just say even if not everyone thinks so,’ I trail off lamely.

  ‘Ahh,’ says Will. ‘Now I’m beginning to understand that whole “stressed bride” thing you’ve got going on. Let me guess: your in-laws-to-be are giving you a hard time?’

  ‘That I could handle,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘But this is even worse.’

  ‘Go on,’ he says, his eyes busily scanning my face.

  ‘Well most of the trouble is coming from within my own family.’

  ‘So now it gets interesting,’ he says, leaning forward and tossing the breakfast menu aside. ‘Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener. Or so I’ve been told.’

  I sit back against the cushy, plush seat and exhale, taking a moment to formulate my thoughts.

  ‘Oh God, where to start?’

  ‘Wherever you like.’

  ‘Well the thing is,’ I begin tentatively, ‘Bernard and I have always been a bit of an odd couple, which really doesn’t bother either of us, even if, on the surface, we do come across as a mismatch.’

  ‘Opposites attract and all that, I suppose.’

  ‘Absolutely. But that’s not really the issue as far as my family are concerned.’

  ‘So what is?’ he says, listening attentively.

  But I clam up here, almost hoping a waiter will come along to interrupt us with our coffees. No such luck though. Will is still waiting on an answer, completely focused on me. There’s a pause as I take a moment to really look back at him. He seems like a nice guy, the sort that I possibly could even open up to, albeit that I barely even know him. But I can’t go there. It’s still too soon, too raw, too much. Not now, not yet, maybe not ever. For God’s sake, I hardly even talk to Bernard about this and when I do, he’ll give me a
hug and come out with something like ‘we all have a history, dearest’.

  ‘Let’s just say my family think I’m getting married totally on the rebound. That the only reason I’m doing this is because Bernard is the complete antithesis of … well. Of another – situation – a very complicated situation that I’d just come out of.’

  Sorry Will, I think, but that’s all you’re going to get. And to be honest, I’m amazed you even managed to get that much out of me.

  ‘Ahh,’ he says after a long pause, taking it all in. ‘Now I think I understand. So the real question is, what was it that you’d just come out of?’

  Our coffees arrive, so thankfully we’re off that acutely painful subject and instead start tussling over who gets to pay the bill. Will beats me to it though, shoving a fiver into the waitress’s hand as I grab the opportunity to veer the conversation another way.

  ‘Anyway, that’s more than enough about me,’ I say, taking a sip of coffee. ‘How about you?’

  ‘You’re trying to change the subject,’ he says lightly.

  ‘Will,’ I say, looking right at him, ‘trust me, you’d be doing me the greatest kindness right now if we could just chat about something – about anything – else.’

  He reads my face quickly, then nods.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘So what would you like to talk about?’

  ‘Well … what is it that you do for work?’

  And now that I come to think of it, it’s actually very difficult to second-guess what it is that he does for a living. He doesn’t strike me as someone who works in an office, that’s for certain. The casual gear, the trainers, the manbag – not working at all and on the dole is my best guess. I’m cursing myself for asking the question in the first place and hoping I didn’t mortify him if he is ‘between jobs’. Then I catch him smiling back at me.

  ‘Go on, give up, Tess, you’ll never guess,’ he says, sitting back in the chair and stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘No one ever does.’