All She Ever Wished For Page 9

  ‘Yeah … but I was promoted to Assistant Manager only recently,’ I throw in for good measure.

  ‘You’re not a guard, you’re not a pilot, you don’t work in the medical profession and you certainly don’t work for the Director of Public Prosecutions either.’

  ‘Well no, but you see I’ve a whole rota of clients this week who I can’t possibly cancel on, it wouldn’t be fair on them, you see—’

  ‘Therefore you don’t perform an essential civic duty. Take this number, and make your way through the door on the left. And move along, please, there’s a long queue behind you,’ she adds, busying herself stamping a form with a number on it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bridget,’ I insist, panic starting to rise now, ‘but I don’t think you’re really hearing me properly. The thing is I really can’t be here today, or any day for the next few weeks. I have to leave. Now. Look, you’ve got plenty of other people here to choose a jury from, so why can’t I just be excused? I’d be happy to come back in another month or so and give you all the time you need then, I just can’t do this today. Please, Bridget, you have to help me!’

  ‘Your juror assignation number is 487. Kindly proceed through the doors beside you and take a seat in holding area number two. Next!’

  I’m aware of the line behind me inching forward impatiently, so I’ve no choice whatsoever now but to roll out the big guns.

  ‘But you don’t understand!’ is my last-ditch attempt to get her to listen properly. ‘I’m getting married in a few weeks’ time and you’ve no idea how much I still have to do …’

  ‘Honestly, some people seem to think the whole world revolves around them,’ mutters a woman a few down from me in the queue, clearly audible from where I’m standing.

  ‘There’s always one who thinks they’re the exception to the rule, isn’t there?’ says an older man behind her, again, good and loud so the whole line can hear.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but I had to cancel a weeks’ holiday in Lanzarote just because of this,’ says the first woman. ‘And you don’t hear me moaning, do you?’

  ‘It’s our civil duty to turn up for jury service but to hear the way some people go on, you certainly wouldn’t think it.’

  ‘Miss? Can you step aside, please?’ Bridget says impatiently through the hatch. ‘There are people waiting behind you.’

  ‘No offence, but I think you’d better do as she says,’ comes a man’s voice from directly behind me, making me jump, he’s that close. I turn sharply around to see that same tall, dark-haired guy who was right behind me in the security queue earlier. ‘In the interests of jury harmony, that is,’ he adds dryly.

  I turn to glare at this smart arse, but I don’t think he even notices. Instead he just hands his summons over to Bridget and says, ‘here to report for jury service.’ Then catching my eye with a twinkle, he adds, ‘And just to make your day nice and straightforward for you, Bridget, I’m actually eligible to serve.’

  A smart arse and a lick arse, I think crossly, moving away.

  The worst possible combination.

  KATE

  August 2005

  So when did it all start to go wrong? Certainly articles like this one didn’t help, Kate thought, casting a cold eye over the computer screen in front of her, wondering who in hell these so-called ‘sources close to the couple’, actually were:

  The Goss.ie

  KATE’S INNER TURMOIL

  She’s officially known as the woman who has it all but the question on everyone’s lips is, when is she going to start producing little junior Kings to fill that enormous mansion she calls home?

  ‘Damien and Kate have been married for over four years now,’ says a source close to the couple. ‘And although they’re both longing for a child, it seems that nothing is happening.’

  The Goss can now exclusively reveal that Kate has been seeking secret fertility treatments at a top clinic on London’s Harley Street, at a staggering cost of £16K (roughly over €21K) per consultation.

  ‘She and Damien are absolutely desperate for a family,’ our source adds. ‘So desperate that Kate is prepared to put herself through all of this. You’ve no idea the amount of medication she’s been prescribed, just to bring this about, with luck. Most of their elite social circle have several kids by now, and all they want to do is be a part of that.

  ‘After all, what’s the point of living in that fifteen-bedroomed mansion if you can’t fill it with kids?’

  What indeed, we wonder at The Goss.ie

  All we can say is, watch this space.

  *

  Jesus, save me, Kate thought furiously, instantly slamming down her laptop so she didn’t have to look at the offending article for a second longer.

  If I ever get my hands on that ‘source’, then whoever they are, there’ll be a bloody massacre.

  TESS

  The present

  Sweet Mother of Divine. It’s now 10.30 a.m., I’ve been at the courts for almost two hours and so far absolutely nothing has happened. We’re all being kept in a ‘jury holding area’, which is a bit like one of those rooms you’re made to wait in before a Ryanair flight, with uncomfortable bright-blue plastic chairs all latched together and an overhead TV that’s showing breakfast TV on what feels like a continuous loop. To the point that if I have to watch one more ‘spectacular makeover’ or cookery demonstration, I really think I’ll pan-fry my own liver.

  There’s still absolutely no sign of anything happening and so far I’ve had to cancel and reschedule three appointments I’d made for this afternoon, confidently thinking I’d be out of here in plenty of time and still manage to squeeze everything in. One was with the wedding florist, who did my pal Stella’s wedding last year and who Stella swore by; as much for the fact that she’s not a rip-off merchant as for the stunning flower arrangements she managed to weave on a very tight budget (tight little pink bud roses at Stella’s wedding, so I’m going for the exact same flower, except in cream).

  Another was with the marquee company, who I was meant to meet with to chat about where to position the tent in our tiny back garden, and on top of that, I had an appointment with Hannah from across the road, a trainee make-up artist who’d very kindly agreed to do a trial run on me today. All three of them are rightly pissed off with me for postponing at the last minute, but right now, they’re nowhere near as fed up as I am.

  Weirdest of all, though, is that I seem to be about the only person here who’s spent the morning so far busily on the phone, cancelling, apologising and rearranging my schedule. It’s waiting-room-quiet in here and I know everyone can hear me loud and clear on the phone, but no one else seems too remotely bothered by the excruciatingly long wait.

  All around this packed room, people are settling into reading the paper, doing crosswords, drinking lukewarm, watery coffee from the one vending machine here that’s actually working, flicking through iPads or, in the case of one sweet-faced elderly lady just beside me, scanning the sports pages for the racing results, then marking off in biro the horses she’s picked for the 2.30 today at Aintree.

  My phone rings, yet again. And the conversation goes thusly: ‘Hello? Oh, Graham, thanks so much for ringing me back. I was just calling to finalise the music choice for my walk down the aisle … yeah, I know we were meant to be meeting up this afternoon, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to postpone, if that’s OK with you … not my fault … I really am so sorry, but I’m actually in court as we speak … what? No! No I haven’t done anything wrong … honestly! Are you kidding? I’ve never been up on a drink driving charge in my life … yeah … oh, of course, I’ve put loads of thought into picking the right song … and I think I’d really like it to be “Here, There and Everywhere” by The Beatles. Would that work for you? Great, fantastic, thanks. OK, well, I’ll call you when I get out of here, which should be soon, with any luck … fab. And we can rearrange? Great. Well, till then. Yeah, you too. Bye Graham … and thank you for your patience.’

  I click off
the call and just as I’m scrolling down through all the messages I’ve yet to return, I can’t help noticing that the guy who was annoying me in the queue earlier is right opposite me, just two rows over, seemingly listening in to every word.

  ‘Beatles fan, huh?’ he says, looking right at me and whipping off earbuds that he’d had attached to his MacBook Air. It’s only now that I’ve all this bloody time to kill that I get a good look at him. He’s got thick, dark hair and one of those long, lean builds, an ectomorph type; basically the kind of body shape that never needs the services of a personal trainer. One of those people who can eat all the carbs they like, never set foot inside a gym and still stay skinny for life. Basically, the sort who’d put me out of business inside of a month.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ I smile back, as politely as I can, given that I still have another eight phone calls to catch up on, just so I can stay on schedule.

  ‘If you ask me,’ he says, ‘we’re all born with the music to every single Beatles song ingrained into our DNA. With the sole exception of “Here, There and Everywhere” which, as everyone knows, is a song about an obsessive love. Now surely you can do better for your – and apologies, but I couldn’t help overhearing – “big walk down the aisle”?’

  ‘It’s not about obsessive love,’ I say, still focused on my phone, ‘it’s a beautiful, romantic song.’

  ‘Not if you really listen to the lyrics properly, it isn’t,’ he persists, arms folded now, dark eyes scanning me up and down, like he’s been bored out of his head all morning and is now itching for a debate about the merits or otherwise of a Beatles’ song.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say distractedly as yet another text pings through on my phone, ‘but I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, it’s a well-known fact that Paul McCartney wrote that cheesy song for Jane Asher, his then fiancée. And in the lyrics, he clearly says that he wants her to be everywhere that he is, for every minute of every day, to the end of time, or words to that effect.’

  ‘So?’ I say, totally distracted by the sheer number of text messages I’ve yet to reply to.

  ‘Well, you might have got away with it in the sixties, but nowadays you’d be labelled an obsessive control freak for going on like that. If I went and wrote a song like that for a girlfriend, she’d probably take out a barring order against me. Anyway, when it came to love songs, the best one The Beatles ever recorded was “Something” by George Harrison. Far more weddingy, if you ask me. Not that it’s any of my business.’

  I look back at him, thinking, no, actually it isn’t any of your business and how would you know the first thing about my taste anyway?

  My phone rings yet again, so I make a curt ‘sorry, got to take this’ gesture and answer. It’s Mum, bossily telling me to pick up two tins of cider on my way home, so Dad can have them when he’s watching the match later on tonight. Then she makes me hold on while she consults her shopping list, just in case there’s something else she might have forgotten.

  ‘Go ahead,’ this guy smirks, mock exasperatedly, catching my eye. ‘Take your call. It seems there’s no end to the demands on your time when you’re busy bride-ing.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, if you’ll excuse me, I will.’

  ‘But trust me about “Here, There and Everywhere”. Rethink. You can do so much better.’

  So you think my taste in music is a complete load of cheesy crap? I think a bit narkily, stressed out of my mind with everything I’m now so scarily behind on. Then maybe you should stop listening in on other people’s phone calls.

  Just at that moment though, Bridget swishes in authoritatively, stands at the top of the room and addresses us all. So I make my hushed goodbyes to Mum and only pray that this means good news.

  ‘Good morning,’ Bridget says bossily, with absolutely no apology for keeping us hanging around for this length of time. Without even the courtesy of an explanation, in fact. ‘If I can ask you all to take a look up at the TV screens above you, please, we’re just about ready to begin.’

  The TV screens? I think, dumbfounded. What does she want us to do here exactly? Stand up and answer questions on the lemon meringue and poppy seed bake they demonstrated on Good Morning Ireland earlier?

  ‘In a moment, we’ll go over live to the courtroom,’ Bridget carries on, ‘and the jury selection will commence. If your number is called, please make your way through the door behind me, where you’ll be taken up to court, either to be selected or not by the Defence or Prosecution.’

  Well this is something, I think, suddenly hopeful again. Plan A hasn’t worked – Bridget refused point blank to hear a word out of me – so now I’m on to plan B. Basically what my barrister client in the gym advised me to do in the event of all else failing; which involves me actually being selected, then standing in front of a judge, throwing myself on his or her mercy and pleading that I’m getting married in a few weeks’ time. And if that doesn’t work then it’s on to the plan of last resort, which is that maybe the Defence or Prosecution will take one look at me and object to me serving on a jury. And with great good luck, I’ll comfortably get out of here in under an hour tops; which means I could still make some of my appointments. Which means it’s all still to play for.

  Next thing, Bridget clicks on a remote control and all the TV screens behind her suddenly go over to a real, live courtroom, with a judge’s bench, witness box, press gallery; the whole Judge Judy. And looming in front of the screen is a middle-aged woman, round-faced and smiley, her features visibly red and thread-veined, she’s that close to the camera.

  Even better, I think. Because unlike Bridget, this one actually looks approachable. Someone who I can negotiate with. A woman who’ll listen to reason. With any luck, that is.

  ‘Good morning and thank you all for presenting for jury service,’ says Smiley-face. ‘I’m Sandra Shields, the Court Registrar, and I’m speaking to you via a live link-up from court number seven. In a moment, I’ll pull a random selection of numbers out of the box here beside me and if your number is called, please make yourself known to the Jury Selection Officer on duty. You’ll then be led to the witness box here in court, to await selection.’

  ‘I have a question, please!’ I say shooting my hand upwards, only to be shushed back into silence by Bridget, not to mention the filthy glares I get from all around me.

  ‘However, if your number isn’t selected,’ Sandra the Court Registrar goes on, smiling straight into the camera, ‘this doesn’t mean that you’ve automatically been released from jury service. In that case, we ask you to remain in the jury holding area until the next court is ready to randomly select another batch of jurors. Some of you may not be selected at all, in which case, you’re required by law to remain in situ until 4 p.m. today, when you’ll be released by the Jury Selection Officer. You’ll then be required to present each and every day this week, until you’ve formally been released. If you are selected, please bear in mind that a case may run on for longer than a week, and you’ll therefore have a legal obligation to follow through and serve.’

  I do not believe this. So if my number doesn’t get called, I still have to pitch up here day after day for the whole week ahead? And not only that, but if I am selected, I could end up on a case that might run on for over a week?

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  Right then, I think quickly, as fresh panic starts to build up inside me like heartburn. This looks like the only card I’ve got left to play. The sooner I can get up in front of a judge to beg her to listen to me, the sooner I’m hopefully off the hook and hotfooting it out of here.

  Pick my number, I will the smiley-faced one, like someone willing their lottery numbers to miraculously come up on a Saturday night, as she starts spinning round an octagon-shaped tombola.

  For the love of God, please pick my number just so I can get to speak to a judge.

  ‘Number 127,’ she announces as an older man two rows across from me shoots his hand up, waving his numb
er. Bridget ushers him through a set of double doors directly behind her, then immediately after, numbers 358, 421, 706 and 511 are called as another cluster of people from all corners of the waiting area are guided through the hallowed doors out of here.

  Jammy bastards, is all I can think, jealously watching them weave their way to court.

  Come on, come on, come on … I silently beg Smiley-face, as she shoves her hand back into the tombola and pulls out yet another clutch of numbers. Not one of them mine and what’s worse, that eavesdropping guy who was having a pop at me earlier does get picked. He shrugs apologetically at me, but I’m sorry, I’m just too frazzled and stressed right now to even respond.

  They’ve called nine people in total by now, I’ve counted. Which means just three more to go.

  Come on, lucky number 487 …

  ‘Number 792,’ Smiley-face reads out, as the old lady beside me who was intent on picking racehorses earlier says, ‘what number did she say?’

  ‘792,’ comes a grunt beside her, from behind a newspaper.

  ‘Oh that’s me!’ She beams delightedly. ‘My God, I feel like I’m about to win a prize here or something!’

  She just folds over her paper and shuffles out the door and I start praying. To God, to Buddha, to Santa, to just about anyone up there who’ll hear me. Palms sweating, heart pounding, I’m clutching my number to my chest as the last and final number is read out.

  ‘And the last and final number for this round of jurors is …’

  Come on, come on …

  ‘Number 487.’

  ‘Yeeeeesss!’ I yell, jubilantly waving my number in the air. ‘That’s me,’ I yell over the room to Bridget, picking up my bag and making my way to where she’s standing. She doesn’t even acknowledge me though, just waves me out through the magic doors behind her and out of here.

  ‘To those of you whose numbers haven’t yet been called,’ she announces curtly to the room, ‘please remain seated, as the next jury draw will take place in exactly thirty minutes time.’