Me and You

‘Kitty, where the hell are you?’ I say aloud, then slump down onto the bed, so I can have a good think. Nowhere that she’s supposed to be, and yet her car is here. So if Kitty did stay here last night, then got up as normal this morning … why didn’t she just drive to the Sanctuary to meet me? She always drives everywhere around Dublin, except to work, because she reckons it would physically choke her to have to pay for the shagging parking.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Unless something happened to her on her way home from work late last night? But what? Image after image floods my worried mind: a hit and run accident? Mugging?

Right, that’s it, then. Sod this, am done with all this bloody agonising and trying to second-guess what has or hasn’t gone on. I’ll just have to call the police, right now, I’ve got no choice. And yes, they’ll probably have a right laugh at me or threaten to arrest me for wasting police time, but I can’t help it. Just have to know if something, anything’s been reported.

I call directory enquiries and get connected to the right number. A copper at the local station answers. So I tell him whole works: that my friend’s just disappeared off the face of the earth, isn’t answering her phone and isn’t in work either. And that I’m in her house now, and still no sign.

Just hope he doesn’t ask about her next of kin. There isn’t time.

‘And how long has your friend been gone for?’ he says flatly, in a disinterested monotone.

‘Well, we were to meet this morning at eight, but she never showed, so of course I panicked …’

OK, now I swear can almost hear him trying to suppress a dismissive snort.

‘Eight this morning was barely four hours ago. She’ll turn up, trust me. Besides, I’m not authorised to open up a missing persons report until a subject has been gone for a minimum of seventy-two hours. And, of course, assuming they’ve actually gone missing and aren’t just out doing a bit of Christmas shopping.’

‘But supposing there’s been some kind of accident?’

Why isn’t he taking this seriously? I thought he’d at very least put out APBs or whatever it is you call them, like they do on CSI the minute someone vanishes. But no, the subtext is v. clear: get off the phone now, you bloody lunatic time-waster.

‘If there had been,’ the copper tells me, talking down to me like I’m a bit soft in head, ‘I can assure you that we’d know all about it. But I can tell you we’ve had no incidents or disturbances reported in the South Circular Road area so far today.’ And with that, doing a mean hand-washing impression of Pontius Pilate, he adds, ‘Well, if that’ll be all then?’

Useless! Bloody useless! I want to snarl down the phone, ‘Is this what I pay taxes for?’ then remember: I’ve no job. I’m no longer an upstanding taxpayer at all. So I just keep my mouth shut and hang up instead.

One last, final look at the photos dotted all over the bedside table. Lovely one of Kitty and Simon when they went on a big, splash-out hollier to France last year. Kind of thing you only ever do when in the first stages of love. Whereas buying Christmas trees together clearly indicates they’ve reached the tenth stages. Said as much to her and can still remember her laughing, saying yeah, in two years time, they’d probably be screeching at each other, ‘But I went out and got the shagging tree last year! Now it’s your turn!’

Both of them in the photo look like something out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Clear-skinned, lightly tanned, athletic, long-limbed, skinny, totally gorgeous. Kitty, as always in photos, turning her head slightly sideways, the wild, abandoned tangle of Rebekah Brooks curls falling over her face to hide a kink in her nose she hates so much. Really has issues with it; she claims that if she ever won the Lotto, first thing she’d do would be to straighten it out once and for all. Says it gives her the look of a young Barbra Streisand; the Yentl years.

Major source of debate between us; mainly because if I had plastic surgery funds, the first thing I’d do would be to get my lardy arse sorted, once and for all. (As an aside, this is entirely possible; I’ve read about far worse cases than mine on back pages of Marie Claire.) Though I have to say, the only one who even notices Kitty’s bumpy nose at this stage is her; if you ask me, it gives her even more character. Couldn’t imagine her without it. Even blokes say it makes her look sexier and more appealing. (Curse my straight nose, curse it!)

Anyway, she and Simon are like Mr and Mrs Perfect Couple in the picture; they somehow even look a bit alike. Glowing, pictures of health and vitality, like Darwin’s natural selection in progress. Made for each other, everyone says so.

Behind that, I spot a photo of Kitty and me. Bless her, she even went to the bother of framing my skinny photo. Ashamed to say, taken so long ago, I’m wearing jeans I haven’t fitted into in a minimum of three years, in spite of all my best efforts plus a serious amount of yo-yo dieting. Also I’ve a v. unfortunate over-heavy fringe that I got talked into by a hairdresser when I was feeling a bit vulnerable and which turned out to be a BIG mistake that’s taken ever since then to grow out. (Not really my fault; I was going for a Zooey Deschanel look, but ended up more like Kathy Burke (appearing as Waynetta Slob on Harry Enfield, that is).

Check the boxroom beside Kitty’s bedroom, just in case. Nothing out of ordinary, just piles of cardboard boxes and bags of clothes, which I’m guessing must belong to Simon, who’s due to move in with Kitty after the holidays. Guy spends ninety per cent of his time here anyway, so both of them figured it was easier and cheaper just to go whole hog and live together.

So now what? Then, a sudden light bulb moment. The restaurant where she works is only about a ten-minute walk from here. I could maybe call in and try to furrow out some of Kitty’s waiter pals? Maybe they know something I don’t? Better yet, maybe Kitty’s been there all this time and whoever answered phone to me earlier is either a complete dope, or else operating on a severe hangover and got it arseways about Kitty being off duty?

Check Magic is OK, and has enough food, milk, water, etc. Even try to cuddle her before leaving but the cat knows I’m not her mammy, leaps out of my arms like she’s been electrocuted, and struts haughtily out the cat flap again, away on her travels. Kitty’s a terrific cat person; me, not so much.

Snow’s getting far heavier outside now; it’s bloody freezing and slippy, with old ladies skidding and sliding all around me. Seriously starting to regret wearing totally inappropriate shoes – they’re as good as destroyed after approx five minutes out in this.

My feet are now soaked and even my heavy-duty winter coat is getting a right battering.

Least of my worries.

12.05 p.m.

Eventually I batter my way through the elements to Byrne & Sacetti’s Italian Bar and Restaurant to give it its proper title, right slap in the middle of busy, packed Camden Street.

It’s a massive, sprawling place, set over four storeys, a bit like a family-run mini-empire. The entire ground floor is a food hall-cum-coffee-shop; first floor is the main restaurant, second floor is for private functions, weddings, fiftieth birthday piss-ups, etc., while the basement level is a wine bar, much favoured by single women, on account of its deserved reputation for being a high-end place to bump into eligible guys.

Many, many romances, according to Kitty, have started over chat-up lines such as, ‘Excuse me, by any chance do you know where the charcuterie counter is? I hear there’s thirty per cent off Parma ham and slabs of parmesan this week! And by the way, if you could possibly recommend a decent white wine to go with them, I’d be so grateful. Hope you don’t mind my asking! Oh and … by any chance is that seat taken?’

Byrne & Sacetti is one of those Italian eateries that never seem to close, ever. They start with brekkie at dawn, lunch from twelve, afternoon teas, coffees, cakes, etc. in the food hall throughout the rest of the day, the evening restaurant proper opens at six, while wine is available downstairs in cellar bar till closing time. Gold mine, in other words. Even in the depths of recession, this place is still pulling ’em in.

Kitty’s been working here for close to two years now, but still, in all the many, many times I’ve met her here after her shift before she’d drag me off for a night out, I’ve never seen it quite this jammed. Like the bleeding last days of Rome in here. Christmas revellers, already half-cut from too much daytime boozing, are staggering and clattering downstairs from the restaurant, while in the food hall section, last-minute shoppers panicking about tomorrow’s dinner are nearly arm-wrestling each other over the last of the Panettones.

Gonna get ugly before too long, I can just feel it in the air.

12.22 p.m.

Still wandering round Byrne & Sacetti, one level at a time. I’m snooping round the basement wine bar now, weaving round stuffed-to-the-gills tables of Xmas boozers, trying not to trip over their abandoned shopping bags. There’s a big gang of the ladies-who-lunch brigade in, all dressed in fashionable nude colours with nude, Kate Middleton heels to match and all looking like human Elastoplasts, if you ask me. All of them unanimously shoot irritated looks at me, as I almost stumble over expensive-looking handbags, abandoned carelessly at well-heeled feet.

Apologise, but don’t really mean it. I’m only here on the off-chance I get lucky and chance on some waiter pal of Kitty’s who might know something; anything. I would have met a good selection of her buddies from work, including a lot of the Sacetti family, from a few nights on the razz that Kitty’s dragged me along to over the past few years. With karaoke nights featuring v. large; the Irish-Italians are very fond of their karaoke, it seems.

No joy, though. Can only see Xmas revellers starting the celebrations early, laying into their celebratory glasses of Prosecco and antipasti platters.

Mine is the only stressed-looking face; everyone else is having a rare old time, like the whole world has clocked off for the holidays.

Even Kitty.

12.45 p.m.

Finally … success!

I’m just nosing around the packed function room on the very top floor now, weaving in and out of groups of invitees clutching champagne flutes and trying not to look like I’m out to gatecrash a private Christmas party, when suddenly I hear my own name being yelled out loud and clear.

‘Angie? Angie Blennerhasset? That you?’

Delighted, I turn round to see Joyce Byrne, part-owner here and a good pal of Kitty’s. Married to Stephano Sacetti, other half of the Business Empire. Hardest working couple I think I’ve ever met in my entire life. Lovely, perpetually smiley, happy Joyce, still radiating Xmasy good cheer in spite of the fact she’s probably been slaving away and on her feet since sometime before I went to bed last night.

I give her a big hug and fill her in.

‘You mean Kitty just never turned up at the Sanctuary this morning?’ says Joyce, horrified, and, I swear, the shock in her voice is almost reassuring. See? Proves I’m not mad, for one thing. I’m on the right track. Something awful must have happened.

‘You’re kidding me! She was so looking forward to it! She was full of chat about the whole thing; you should have seen the girl! She was all excited …’

‘You mean … Kitty’s definitely not here now, then? Hasn’t been moved to work in the kitchen or anything?’

‘No, definitely not. If she were, I’d know. Been here since the crack of dawn. Besides, I was only just thinking how quiet the staff room was without her.’

‘And the last time you saw her was …?’

Starting to feel v. Hercule Poirot-ish now.

‘God, let me think. It was definitely last night, seriously late, I think it must have been well after one in the morning. She was just finishing up after a party in the restaurant and I was doing the till. She gave me a lovely bottle of wine for Christmas, said she’d see me soon, then bounced out of here, all excited about seeing you. And, of course, going off on holidays with gorgeous fella of hers.’

Hard to put into words the feeling of total deflation. I was so hopeful Kitty might have been here all along and just through some complete fluke, I hadn’t spotted her yet.

‘So where do you think she might be?’ Joyce asks me, worriedly.

‘Well, let’s work it out. You last saw her at around one o’clock this morning. And she’s definitely not at home now, but her car is there …’

‘Yeah …’

‘So wherever she is, chances are she hasn’t gone too far …’

Oh God. Sudden shock goes through me like I’ve just been electrocuted. Suppose Kitty was on her way home from work, and then got abducted by some sick, pervy sociopath who now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere?

Joyce really must be a mind-reader. She immediately grips my arm, quickly grabs a glass of still water from a passing waiter and makes me gulp down a few mouthfuls.

‘Angie, the worst thing you can do is let your imagination run away with you. Trust me, there’s some perfectly innocent explanation for all this. Have you spoken to her boyfriend?’

‘No, he’s not answering his mobile either. I can’t get a hold of him at all …’

‘Oh, that’s right, of course. Kitty told me he’s gone home to his folks down the country for Christmas and that she wouldn’t be seeing him till Stephen’s Day.’

‘Unless …’

‘Unless what?’

And there it is, the simple bloody answer to all this! Been staring me in the face all this time. Why didn’t I think of it before now?

‘Maybe there was some emergency with … well, with her foster mother? Something so urgent that Kitty just had to drop everything and run?’

The sudden relief at saying it aloud is almost overwhelming. Of course that’s what must have happened. Explains away everything, doesn’t it? I was an utter gobshite not to have guessed earlier!

It’s a v., v. long and complex story, but the brief potted summary is that Kitty has no family to speak of, never even knew her dad, and her birth mother passed away when she was just a baby. She grew up in one foster home after another but says none of them ever really worked out and she just drifted around from Billy to Jack, rootless. Then when she was about fifteen, she was placed with an older, widowed lady called Mrs Kennedy and the pair of them just idolised and adored each other right from the word go. To this day, Kitty considers Mrs K., as she affectionately calls her, to be the only real family she ever had, even though she was only homed with her for over a year.

But when Kitty was only about sixteen, the poor woman started to become seriously ill with Alzheimer’s, followed by a series of strokes. Awful for her and just as bad for Kitty too, though she never let on. Instead, she just did what Kitty always does: tried to keep the show on the road single-handedly for as long as she could.

Anyway, it got to stage when authorities decided Mrs K. couldn’t care for herself any more, never mind a sixteen-year-old, so on what Kitty calls the most Dickensian day of her life, they broke them up and packed Mrs K. off to the best-equipped care home going, for someone with her condition. Meanwhile, Kitty was sent off to yet another foster family, and from that point on, she just completely clams up whenever I gently probe her for more about her back-story.

Mrs K. is being well looked after, though, and to this day, Kitty still visits her at the care home every chance she gets. Only trouble is, it’s just outside Limerick, a bloody two-and-a-half-hour journey from here. Kitty’s amazing though; drives down to see her every day off that she can. I’ve even gone with her a few times, but find it all just sad beyond belief. There are days when Mrs K. doesn’t even recognise Kitty; confuses her with one of staff nurses in care home and for some reason keeps calling her Jean.

Also, I’m just not a born natural round ill people, like Kitty is. Kitty will laugh and joke and even bounce round other wards to visit all Mrs K.’s pals; you can always tell what room she’s in by the loud sound of guffaws that follow her about everywhere. Like a one-woman Broadway show. Whereas I never know what to say or do, just sit tongue-tied in corner, then end up coming out with weak, useless crap along the lines of, ‘Well, she’s certainly looking a whole lot better, isn’t she?’

Even worse, the days when Mrs K. doesn’t know us are lately becoming the good days; sometimes she won’t talk to us at all, just sits rocking away to self and singing theme tunes from TV shows, bird-happy, away in own little world. Keeps confusing me with one of the tea ladies called Maureen, and every now and then will screech at me, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Maureen? I hate bloody egg and onion sandwiches!’

Heartbreaking. My own family may not exactly be the Waltons, but Kitty’s story at least makes me appreciate what I have that bit more.

So maybe I’m finally on the money here. Because if something did happen to Mrs K., I just know in my waters Kitty wouldn’t think twice about hotfooting it all way to Limerick, would she? And she couldn’t phone me to explain on account of … well, maybe there being no mobile signal down there?

Has to have been what happened. And the only reason it didn’t occur to me before now is that for past few years, although Mrs K.’s mental state is deteriorating fast, she’s been so physically strong that not even Kitty was worried about her for the longest time.

‘Joyce, I think I should call the care home. Now.’

‘Of course,’ she says firmly. ‘You can use the phone from my office; you’ll have a bit more privacy. It’s just off the kitchens. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Obediently I follow her and the pair of us weave our way through the Christmas boozers, worry now vom-making in my throat. Don’t know what Kitty will do if anything’s happened to Mrs K. Especially not now, at Christmas. She’s the only person in the whole world that Kitty considers family; it would just be too bloody unfair by far.

Joyce efficiently brings up number of Foxborough House care home on her computer and even dials for me. Hands trembling nervously now as the number starts to ring.

‘Foxborough House, how may I help you?’ comes a polite, breezy, unstressed voice.

‘Hi, there, I was wondering if I could enquire after Mrs Kathleen Kennedy? She’s in room three eleven on the ground floor.’

‘May I ask if you’re a family member?’

Gulp to myself, stomach clenched, somehow sensing bad news. The worst.

‘Family friend.’

‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that Mrs Kennedy is absolutely fine, just ate a hearty dinner, in fact.’

‘Sorry, you mean … She’s OK then? There’s no emergency with her?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘And, well … I was just wondering if Kitty Hope had been to see her at all today? She’s my best friend and—’

Receptionist’s voice instantly brightens tenfold at the very mention of Kitty’s name.

‘Oh, yes, I know Kitty well! Such a fantastic, lively girl, isn’t she? We all love it so much when she comes to visit, she really cheers up everyone’s day round here. But you know, the last time I saw her was about a week ago. I remember distinctly, because she mentioned that she’d be away for Christmas, but that she’d be in to see her mum as soon as she got back. At New Year, I think she told us.’

Joyce looks hopefully at me and I shake my head. So, no emergency, then.

Kitty’s still gone AWOL.

1.05 p.m.

Right then. I’ve been in Byrne & Sacetti for ages now, can’t loiter round any longer. Also, it’s not fair to delay poor old Joyce any more, not when it’s like Armageddon in here. So I hug her goodbye and she smiles her warm, confident smile and tells me not to worry a bit. That Kitty will turn up safe and well and we’ll all look back on this and have a good laugh.

Attempt to give watery grin back at her, but I’m an appallingly unconvincing actress.

1.08 p.m.

Then, just as I’m facing back out into the snowy street outside, my mobile suddenly rings.

Check to see who it is, hoping against hope … Not it’s not Kitty, but it’s the next best thing! Her boyfriend, Simon! He HAS to have news, just has to …

I dip into the doorway of a fairly quiet pub, away from the noisy street and the blaring sound of Christmas Eve traffic before answering.

‘Simon! Can you hear me?’

‘Hey, Angie, how are you?! I’m sorry about the delay in getting back to you, but I’m back at home, plus I’d to take a whole clatter of nieces and nephews to see Santa today and to buy all their Xmas presents. Bloody mayhem in Smyth’s toy store, there were near riots over the last of the Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Dolls. Tell you something, I’ve never needed a stiff drink so badly in my life!’

Such a relief to hear his soft Galway accent. Strong. Reassuring. Bit like a pilot making an announcement on an Aer Lingus flight. For first time today, I feel safe. Calm. Somehow, it’s all going to be OK. I’m far too stressed out to cop why he’s on about Lalaloopsy Dolls, then remind myself: Simon comes from a massive family with approximately fifteen nieces and nephews, or whatever it was at last count.

‘Simon,’ I interrupt, a bit rudely, ‘is Kitty with you?’

‘With me? What are you talking about?’

Stomach instantly shrivels to the size of a sultana.

‘You mean … you don’t know where she is then?’

‘No, isn’t she with you? I thought you pair were having your lovely, relaxing, girlie treat day today? That I’ve been explicitly banned from, and told not to even call till hours later, when you’re both roaring drunk on champagne?’

Fill him in. On everything, on how I’ve been everywhere and phoned just about everyone, looking for her. I even tell him bit about cops, who all but laughed at me and politely told me to bugger off the phone.

Long, long silence. Not a good sign. Starting to get weak-kneed and a bit nauseous now.

‘Last time I saw her,’ he says slowly, ‘was yesterday morning, just as I was leaving the house to get on the road to Galway …’

‘Yesterday morning?’

No, no, no, no, no. This not good news. Not good at all.

‘Yeah. I came down here as early as I could, to try and beat the holiday traffic. Then I called her at about lunchtime to say I’d arrived safely and that both my parents were asking after her and are dying to see her as soon as we get back from holidays.’

No surprise here. For some reason, people don’t just idolise Kitty: they want to carry her shoulder high through villages. Simon always says from very first time he took her to the West to meet his folks, they instantly preferred her to him. She’s just one of those people that absolutely everyone adores, even people she’s only met for five minutes, like barmen, taxi drivers, etc. You even see hard-nosed, intransigent dole officers eating out of her hand, after just a few minutes in her company. V. hard not to. Kitty’s the mad, bad, dangerous-to-know type, totally magnetic and just the best fun you can possibly imagine. Kinda gal you meet for a few drinks, then end up the following morning in Holyhead. (Actual true story. Happened to us the night of her thirtieth birthday.)

‘She was on her way into work,’ Simon goes on, ‘and couldn’t really talk, so I told her I’d call her back later on. But when I did, she didn’t answer her phone. I wasn’t particularly worried, though; there wouldn’t be anything unusual in that if she was working late. So I just left a message and said we’d catch up this evening, after her spa day with you.’

‘So where do you think she’s got to?’ I ask, voice now sounding weak as a kitten’s. The image of a sick perv locking her up in cellar suddenly now very real in my mind’s eye.

‘Well, she can’t just have vanished into thin air,’ says Simon confidently. ‘Leave it with me, will you? Let me make a few phone calls. Maybe she just crashed out in another pal’s house last night after a few Christmas drinks? I mean, you know what she’s like!’