Читать книгу All She Ever Wished For - Claudia Carroll - Страница 16

The present

And I’m still here, still sitting in the Pritchard’s musty old dining room, dare I say it? Staring at the grandfather clock, and having a pretty hard time staying awake.

‘No, no, what Immanuel Kant failed to grasp when he wrote about morality,’ says Desmond, holding court at the head of the table, ‘is that it all comes down to the individual. In an evolved society, morality is nothing more than a whim of the elective conscience.’

This, by the way, would constitute a reasonably normal topic of conversation in this house. Not for the Pritchards your common or garden gossipy small talk about the latest Netflix blockbuster or what’s happening in the news, instead they roll out the conversational big guns right from the very first aperitif.

‘I’m afraid I have to totally disagree with you there, Dad,’ says Bernard, wolfing back his food and talking with his mouth full. ‘Otherwise, what could Kant have possibly meant when he wrote “morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness”?’

‘Well now, boys, in my opinion that theory has been the basis of all monotheistic religions for millennia now,’ Beatrice chips in, reaching out for a bowl of roast potatoes and piling them up high onto Bernard’s plate. And I swear to God, even though the groom-to-be practically begged me to help him lose half a stone before the wedding, he works his way through the lot of them in under a minute, shooting a guilty little look at me as if to say, ‘yes I know, complex carbs are strictly off the menu, but as a guest under my mother’s roof it would seem churlish to refuse’.

Beatrice seems to notice how hungrily Bernard is eating and I can see her glancing at him a bit worriedly, same as she always does every time we’re invited here for dinner. But then I seem to walk into this trap every time we cross the Pritchard’s front door – and it’s the one and only tiny little niggle that I have in coming here.

According to Beatrice, you see, her only son was, physically speaking, a fine hunk of a man until I came along, but now, apparently, I won’t be content till I’ve turned him into a skeletal shadow of his former self, living off nothing more than handfuls of nuts and seeds in between ice cold showers and five-mile jogs at the crack of dawn, that is.

Useless for me to protest the cold, hard reality, which is that when Bernard and I first met, he was overweight bordering on obese, with a BMI of 28.9. He pleaded with me to help him get in shape and that’s exactly what I did, so he’s now down to a reasonably healthy fourteen stone and with a cholesterol level that’s not going to land him inside of an A&E department in the next few years.

But instead of acknowledging that Bernard is looking years younger and infinitely healthier, according to Beatrice I’m slowly starving the poor guy into an early grave and I think that accounts for a large part of the reason she insists on us coming over for grub at least once a week. Once when she was a bit under the weather after a few G&Ts too many, I even heard her mutter to Desmond, ‘at least this way I know the poor boy is getting a proper big feed every now and then’. She even slips him doggy bags to take home whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

Anyway, back to the dinner table, and on and on the three of them debate, cajole and shout over each other about their own personal theories on German philosophers, while I sit quietly staring through the gloomy half-light at yet another dusty pile of books scattered all over the floor, wishing to God I could contribute at least something to the conversation. Anything rather than sitting here mute, nodding along like I’ve the first clue what they’re all talking about.

After a while though, kind-hearted Bernard seems to cop on that I haven’t uttered as much as two words since we sat down – to cremated rabbit stew, by the way, with roast spuds soaked in oil and a bit of wilted cabbage on the side; the kind of food they serve in all those old men’s clubs all along St Stephen’s Green. I’m vegetarian but hate to be rude, so instead of actually eating it, I’m really just cutting up food then rearranging it, hoping no one will take any notice. Though to be perfectly honest, after a few stiff drinks I doubt if our host and hostess would pay the slightest bit of attention to me if I burst into a chorus of ‘All the Single Ladies’ and started twerking around the table.

‘I’m afraid my dear Aged Ps,’ Bernard chides gently from across the table, ‘that we’re being rather neglectful of our guest.’

‘Begging your pardon, Tess dear,’ says Desmond, who basically looks like a computer-aged replica of Bernard himself, right down to the dandruff and the fact that clothes always look crumpled and slightly dishevelled on him, in Bernard’s case no matter how many times I bloody well iron them.

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, how rude of us,’ says Beatrice a bit reluctantly. ‘Then of course let’s change the subject, to something that might interest Tess for a change.’

Silence. Then more silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock outside in the hall. Then Desmond pipes up, ‘Oh, I know! Have you seen the Joshua Reynolds exhibition that’s just opened at the Chester Beatty, Tess, dear? I read the most wonderful review, you know, apparently it’s quite unmissable.’

‘Ehh, no, I’m afraid I haven’t as of yet,’ I tell him, flushing scarlet, only too well aware that they’re all looking at me now and that I’m the sole focus of attention.

‘She’s been terribly busy with all the wedding planning,’ says Bernard loyally, bless him. ‘Haven’t you, sausage?’

‘Things are getting pretty full-on alright,’ I smile back, relieved that at least this is something I can talk about with confidence. Then I add uselessly, ‘can’t believe how fast the time is just whizzing by! I just keep making lists the whole time and yet the more I do, the more it seems there is to be done. No one had told me that planning a wedding is never-ending, really. But some lovely news, my pal Stella works in a hotel and only today she rang to say she’s going to organise hiring all the cutlery, table linen, dinner plates and glasses that we need as a wedding gift for us. Isn’t that amazing?’

‘Terribly thoughtful of her,’ Bernard smiles across the table at me.

I look hopefully over at my in-laws-to-be, praying one of them might want to keep up a bit of chat about the fact that we’re getting married in just a few weeks’ time, but no, no takers.

‘And I’ve finalised the menu, you’ll be delighted to hear,’ I chat on. ‘All very simple really; mozzarella salad to start, with spring lamb for our meat eaters and a wild mushroom risotto for our vegetarians, then chocolate mousse to follow and, of course, the wedding cake. I’m trying to keep it as straightforward as possible to keep the cost down. What do you think?’ I ask.

No one answers though. Bernard’s too busy stuffing his face with spuds while Beatrice just tops up her drink and stares into the middle distance, looking bored. Another long, protracted silence and I swear I can practically sense Desmond trying to inch the conversation onto something on a more cultural plane. Something that he and Beatrice are more in tune with, rather than hired dinner plates and menu plans.

A tad hurtful, but I let it pass.

‘Oh I know what I wanted to ask,’ Desmond says eventually. ‘Tess dear, have you seen the Abbey theatre’s new production of The Threepenny Opera? Are you a fan of Brecht and Weill? And the whole concept of the Alienation-Effect?’

I can sense Bernard smiling supportively across the table at me, but as ever on these occasions, I fail to shine.

‘Well, emm, I’m afraid I’ve just been a bit busy with work and with all the wedding planning lately to get to the theatre …’ is all I can say by way of an answer, trailing off lamely.

Yet more silence, but as mortifying as it is to feel them mentally delegating me into the social slow lane, I remind myself that it’s not exactly a barrel of laughs for poor Bernard whenever he has to spend an evening at my family’s house, either.

By contrast, whenever he comes to visit us there’s precious little chat about arts and culture, instead he’s forced to listen to my dad and my younger sister Gracie holding hot debates, which regularly spill over into out and out shouting matches, about whose team is doing best in the Premiership. Dad’s a staunch Man. Utd man, Gracie is a lifelong Arsenal supporter, whereas the nearest thing Bernard’s ever come to a football match is when he has to park his bike close to the training pitches around the back of City College.

To make matters worse, the very first time I brought him back to our house for dinner, I’d forgotten to fully brief the poor, unsuspecting guy. Which of course meant I never got the chance to explain that watching Match of the Day was sacrosanct viewing in our house.

‘Alright if I turn the telly box off?’ Bernard asked politely when we all gathered in our tiny sitting room after dinner, oblivious to the fact that Dad and Gracie were glued to the match and that the whole dinner had been scheduled so they wouldn’t have to miss a single minute of it. ‘Far easier to chat when the dratted thing is switched off, don’t you think?’

The hot glare Dad gave him would have turned a lesser man to stone.

Nor are things any better for Bernard if he’s forced to make polite conversation with my mum, who if she were ever to enter Mastermind could probably take ‘great soap operas of our time’ as her specialist subject. No kidding, the woman not only watches Eastenders, but avidly follows Coronation Street and Red Rock, as well as Home and Away. And even more astonishingly, she’s actually able to keep fully up to speed on each and every one of them. Bernard, on the other hand, doesn’t even own a TV so more often than not he just sits through evenings at our house with a look of painful resignation on his face.

‘Imagine not owning a telly in this day and age,’ Mum muttered after one of these excruciating family dinners. ‘His house must look like it’s just been burgled.’

Anyway, back to the Pritchards, and now Beatrice is looking over at me, like she’s finally hit on some common ground that she and I can chat about.

‘Oh, you know what, Tess? I’ve just thought of something you can most definitely help me with,’ she says triumphantly from the top of the table. I smile hopefully back at her as she knocks back another gulpful of G&T, hoping against hope that this might be something I can contribute at least two words to.

‘Tell me this, dear,’ she goes on. ‘I was in the library the other day and some schoolgirls came in, full of chatter and clatter and whatnot. They kept talking quite loudly about some sort of cultural phenomenon that I’m terribly afraid has completely passed me by. Pop culture, you know, far more your field than mine. But I found myself consumed with curiosity, so I thought, I know, I’ll ask Tess.’

‘Erm … ask me what?’ I ask, silently praying I have something halfway intelligent to say here.

‘What in God’s name is a Kardashian?’

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m genuinely fond of my in-laws to be, I really am. And I know for certain that Beatrice didn’t mean to be patronising.

I’m sure it’s just the way it sounded, that’s all.

*

Hours later and with Bernard three sheets to the wind after a few sherries too many, he and I are bundled into my little car on our way back to his house, where I’m staying tonight. I instantly turn on the heater to try and thaw myself out a bit after the last few hours sitting in sub-zero temperatures. But then no member of the Pritchard family ever seems to feel the cold and I don’t think they’ve switched their heating on since about 1997.

‘Was that deadeningly boring for you, sausage?’ Bernard yawns sleepily from the passenger seat.

‘No! Not at all!’ I say a bit overeagerly. ‘Beatrice and Desmond are absolute dotes.’

‘Good, good, good,’ he yawns back at me and knowing that he’ll probably be sound asleep inside of thirty seconds flat, I switch on the car radio. It’s just midnight and there’s a late-night chat show on, one of those programmes that’s a big, shouty mess, where callers ring in to give out about water charges or else to gripe about whatever story is dominating the news that day. So I start to listen in, thinking if nothing else, at least it’ll keep my mind awake.

‘You know, I never liked that Kate King,’ a woman is sniping over the phone to the show’s host. ‘If you ask me, Damien King is well rid of her. I’ve never come across greed like it! Hanging on to a painting that’s worth nearly a hundred million euros, when I’m sure her husband has her more than well provided for in their separation? Wasting the Guards’ time with that? Some people are shameless and in my opinion, I only hope she gets what’s coming to her.’

I turn up the radio, hoping it doesn’t wake Bernard, but he’s snoozing peacefully away, completely oblivious. There’s just something about Kate King that makes me sit up and pay attention. She’s always in the news, she’s one of those people who’s forever looking out at you from news-stands and on the cover of glossy magazines. In fact it’s impossible to sit in a waiting room anywhere in this country and idly flick through a copy of a social magazine without seeing her beautiful, sculpted and very definitely lifted face gazing haughtily back at you.

The woman’s been a media darling for decades now, ever since she first started out as a model. Even more so since she managed to nab Damien King, one of the wealthiest men not just in this country, but in the world. So for years she wasn’t just beautiful and famous, but the trophy wife of an actual billionaire, and apparently with no intention of not rubbing peoples’ noses in their obscene wealth.

On paper, I think, eyes focused on the road ahead, there’s never been any reason to dislike the woman and yet the weird thing is that everyone does. For years she was just too upfront about her glittering lifestyle, and it stuck in people’s throats. In the worst throes of the recession, it was like the Kings were going out of their way to flaunt their obscene wealth in everyone’s faces; the private planes, the statement homes, his fortieth birthday party that according to the papers cost over two hundred thousand, all while people who lived near the Castletown estate, not two miles from her front door, were having their homes repossessed.

Kate King is almost like a Marie Antoinette character of our age; you mightn’t particularly like her and yet you still feel this irresistible pull to read all about her.

And like most of us, I vividly remember reading about her being in breach of a number of court orders about a year and a half ago now. Something to do with this painting, A Lady of Letters, or whatever it’s called – a priceless Rembrandt, apparently. The one Damien King was prepared to bring charges against his own wife to get back.

Or ex-wife, I think, correcting myself. Because if Your Daily Dish and The Goss and just about every other online journal I scan through these days are to be believed, Kate and Damien have been living separate lives for years now and are just biding their time apart till they can officially divorce.

I’m a bit behind with the news these days, what with all the wedding planning, but I know from my most gossipy pal Monica, who’s obsessed with the Kings, that Damien has apparently shacked up with another woman, someone much younger. And did Monica mention something about this young one being an art historian?

I vividly remember charges being brought against Kate King over this painting she allegedly refuses to give back, and it being a huge story at the time. The press had a field day with it. It was everywhere, even made headlines on the TV news, that’s how dominant the story was. Everyone was talking about it and from the sounds of it, they still are.

‘You know, I heard that Kate King is refusing to leave that big Wicklow mansion they live in,’ another caller chimes in, yet another woman all-too anxious to stick the knife into Kate King. ‘She’s holed up there without a stick of furniture in the place, and she still won’t budge. Damien King will probably have to get another court order just to sandblast her out of there.’

‘She’ll get a right shock when he divorces her and she ends up in emergency accommodation somewhere,’ another quips, a bit cruelly.

‘Damien King bought that painting and he’s saying he’s the rightful owner, so what makes that ridiculous woman think that she can just cling on to it like this?’ says another.

Then a taxi driver calls in and thankfully his is the first reasonable voice I’ve heard on the show so far.

‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ he says as the host invites him to throw in his two cents worth. ‘We all know Kate King has been charged over this, and we all know she’s in breach of court orders and that this isn’t going to end well for her. But what I don’t understand is this: why doesn’t she just give the shagging painting back to Damien King, if he wants it that badly? She’s the ex-wife of a billionaire, so she can’t be short of a few bob. Why is she bringing all this press attention and humiliation on top of herself when she could get out of it in the morning?’

‘Because she wants the money, of course,’ another caller on the line shouts over him. ‘That’s all she’s ever been after, that’s the only reason she even married him in the first place. Everyone knows that. That’s a Rembrandt you know, worth €95 million. So wouldn’t that set her up very nicely for life?’

‘She’s also trying to get back at Damien King too, never forget that,’ says another. ‘He’s got a new girlfriend now and apparently they’re engaged, that’s what I heard. So if you ask me, Kate is clinging on to the painting for no other reason than to get back at him. He’s dumped her, he’s traded her in for a younger model, and that painting is the thing that he loves most in the world. So she’s determined he’ll never have it, because that’s the vindictive type she is. Sure you’d know by the look of her.’

None of these people have ever even met Kate King, I think. And yet they can be this vicious about a complete stranger, without hearing her side of the story first?

I glance over to Bernard wishing he were awake so we could have a proper gossip about it. Because there’s a mystery here alright. Why would the woman invite all this trouble into her life and all of this negative press, when it could so easily be avoided?

It starts to rain now and as I switch on the windscreen wipers, my mind wanders back to another rainy night, oh, it must be about two years ago now. There I was, scurrying across the Ha’penny Bridge in bucketing rain, when I accidentally stumbled upon Kate King herself. But the woman I came across seemed absolutely nothing like the she-devil they’re all so freely having a go at on the radio.

In fact, what I remember is a sad, lonely woman standing all alone on the bridge, soaking wet and with tears pouring down her face.

And so I switch off the radio.

Conflicted.