been seeing each other for just over a year. And it was a very full-on relationship too, even her mother had remarked on it.
Ever since that whole debacle in Paris, Kate’s modelling career had skyrocketed. So now she was travelling the world, regularly flying cross-continent for photoshoots in one fabulous location after another. She was effectively living out of a suitcase, and whenever she was back home in Dublin, it was far easier for her just to stay with her parents, at the old family home, at least until she had the time to buy her own place.
So in many ways, she almost used to think, Damien’s courtship of her had been markedly old-fashioned and Victorian, almost like something out of The Rules book.
Back then, they really were a couple to take notice of. The papers couldn’t get enough of them and in next to no time it seemed like it was the Damien and Kate show. They were everywhere: opening nights at the theatre, movie premieres, days spent in corporate boxes at the races, even the high-society parties. You could hardly open a glossy magazine or Sunday supplement without seeing their good-looking, shining faces beaming back at you. Gossip columnists should almost have paid them royalties, Kate used to think, for the amount of column inches they generated out of the pair of them.
They’d barely been together three months when the press took it on themselves to start dropping ‘gentle hints’, and pretty soon gossipy little articles started appearing that Kate would blush to read:
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‘High-flying Globtech founder Damien and the glamorous lady on his arm, Kate Lee, were photographed at the opening night of La traviata at the Wexford Opera House last night. When questioned if he had any plans to make the lovely Kate the new Mrs King, Damien’s enigmatic answer was, “just write that when you asked me that, I smiled.”
‘Meanwhile, Kate, one of our top models and the current face of Chanel, is rumoured to be on the verge of taking a small cameo role in the new James Bond movie, to be shot in and around the Caribbean next spring. But when asked whether she’d care to confirm or deny reports about a burgeoning film career, her only reply was a polite “no comment”. When probed about whether she and Damien King were planning to tie the knot, her response was, “you know, I really think we’d better wind this up, it looks like the opera is about to start”.
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And so in a frighteningly short amount of time, a media couple was born. Because Kate and Damien were dazzling together, one of those rare couples who somehow seemed greater than the sum of their parts.
On the eve of her twenty-fifth birthday, unbeknownst to her, Damien had decided to surprise her with a holiday abroad, to stay at the Hotel Cipriani in Venice, if you don’t mind. All pre-approved by Kate’s beaming mother, who was only too delighted to accommodate this handsome, successful guy who came from such a moneyed background and who seemed supremely confident that he’d go on to make millions more under his own steam. Basically the stuff of any mother’s dreams come true.
But then that was the thing about Damien, he had an almost lethal charisma about him. So much so that just about anyone who crossed his path would end up utterly bowled over by him. Kate had spotted it from very early on; how charming he was to absolutely everyone he met, without exception. From senior executives at his father’s corporation, from whom he’d just borrowed heavily to set up Globtech, to the humblest busboy who came to clear the tables at the Michelin-starred restaurants he’d whisk Kate off to, almost bursting with pride to have this beauty on his arm. He’d smile directly at people, look everyone right in the eye and always, always remembered names. It was one of the things Kate really loved about him, his ability to walk with princes and paupers and to treat them both exactly the same.
When, out of the blue, that birthday trip to Venice came along, Kate was ecstatic. She knew the city, she’d once modelled here for a Victoria’s Secret shoot, but as always on those work trips, her schedule barely left her time to get to and from the airport, never mind do a bit of sightseeing. Months beforehand, she’d mentioned to Damien casually in conversation that she longed to see Piazza San Marco, to explore St Mark’s Square, to sail along the Grand Canal and really spend time at the Doge’s Palace.
And he’d remembered.
The whole trip had been magical from start to finish. From the moment they’d touched down at Marco Polo airport to step onto a speed boat that whizzed them directly to the Hotel Cipriani, Kate had almost felt like she was speeding through an oil painting.
But it was their last night that had been the most memorable of all. It was Kate’s birthday and Damien had insisted on hiring a private chef to cook for them at the villa suite they’d been sharing. They’d eaten out so often and were both exhausted after doing the whole touristy thing, so Kate was delighted, welcoming the fact that it was a rare night in for both of them. Plus, it had just started to lash rain, the kind of Mediterranean rain that comes down in horizontal sheets, so a boat trip anywhere would have been a nightmare.
Dinner was served on their own private balcony overlooking a rain-soaked lagoon, but for some reason that evening Damien didn’t quite seem like his usual affable, charming self. He was acting all jittery and edgy, and conversation between them didn’t seem to flow as easily as it normally did. Every time Kate tried to chat about a fresco or sculpture they’d just seen, he’d just clam up, or else give her a curt, monosyllabic reply. So unlike the Damien she knew, who normally you couldn’t shut up.
At one point, after yet another excruciatingly long drawn-out silence, she’d started to think he was about to dump her. Was that the reason for this private dinner? So she wouldn’t burst into tears and make a show of him out in public?
Dinner came and went though, with ne’er a dumping in sight. Which immediately made Kate think – did he just want her to enjoy the last day of their holiday before ending it at the airport on the way home? Or would she just get the long, slow freeze-out that guys often did, where they just stopped calling, stopped phoning, where there was no contact at all and you were supposed to magically deduce that it was all over?
They both had a twitchy, restless night, but the following morning when Damien got up about 7 a.m. and abruptly walked out of the room without saying a word, Kate figured that it was all over. By ten in the morning, he still hadn’t come back and she was wondering if he’d just abandoned her and was now already halfway on a flight to Rio just to get away from her, when suddenly her phone rang.
Damien. Telling her to go out onto the balcony and to stay on the phone. Puzzled, she did as she was told.
‘I’m right down here in the garden,’ he told her as she stepped outside, snuggled into her giant, oversized hotel dressing gown. She looked down, scanning the horizon – and sure enough she spotted him. Standing in a sea – no, an actual ocean – of white magnolias that had been carefully laid out all over the grass, three floors down beneath her. So stunning, they left her speechless.
‘Read the flowers!’ he yelled up at her.
In total shock, she did as she was told. They would have spelled out WILL YOU MARRY ME? Only the first M had blown away in the breeze, so what it actually said was WILL YOU ARRY ME? Apparently Damien’s plan had been to spell it out for her in candles the previous night, only the thunderous weather put paid to that.
Rain or shine, day or night, it hardly mattered though. Kate’s answer still would have been exactly the same.
Only one thing struck her as being slightly odd though. While she was excitedly phoning her parents and family to pass on the great news, Damien’s first call had been to the press.
The Chronicle
April 2001