Читать книгу All She Ever Wished For - Claudia Carroll - Страница 22

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.’