Me and You

Copyright

AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2013

Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847562746

Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007506101

Version: 2014-11-05

Dedication

To my old* pal, Karen Nolan.

With love and thanks, always.

*though when I say old, she’s actually really young.

*(Ok, so maybe she told me to write that last bit.)

Hands trembling, heart palpitating, she recognised the handwriting instantly.

I’m fine. I’m sorry.

Please take care of him for me.

And maybe one day I’ll get to explain.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One: The Lady Vanishes

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Two: Forget Me Not …

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Three

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Christmas Eve,The Sanctuary Spa, 9.30 a.m.

My birthday. My actual birthday and I’ve just been stood up.

No hang on, keep reading, it gets worse. By my best friend. In the same week I was turfed out of a flat I really loved, (and v. annoyingly, after the landlord had finally got round to getting Sky Atlantic in). In the same month I lost a job I loved even more. In the same year I got dumped by the man I loved most of all. Bastard not even having the good grace to leave me for someone younger or thinner.

Will spare you the details. Whole other story for a whole other day.

9.44 a.m.

Maybe Kitty’s just a tiny bit delayed? Then suddenly I think, maybe it’s me? Maybe I got the day wrong?

Remind myself; it’s my birthday. Got the day right. No question.

Have to accept it; definitely in stood-up territory here.

9.52 a.m.

V., v. weird. Can’t quite get my head around the fact she’d do this to me. Today of all days. Getting a bit wobbly lipped and almost on the verge of tears now.

9.53 a.m.

Wouldn’t mind, but this whole spa day was Kitty’s idea, not mine. She booked it, made appointments, even made brekkie and lunch reservations at the Spa Café, the whole works. Not a chance in hell of my being able to afford it right now, for starters. But Kitty insisted, said it was my birthday treat. Said it was something she really wanted to do, to make it up to me for having had the single shittiest, annus horribilis anyone ever had to suffer. Kitty’s like that, though, ridiculously generous. Would gladly give away her last bean. Can’t even walk down a street without running into the nearest Starbucks to buy a sandwich and a hot drink every time she sees a homeless person. But now … is it really possible that she just hasn’t turned up? Has even forgotten?

Anyone else I know, not a chance. Absolutely none whatsoever. But reluctantly, I have to admit with Kitty? Meh. Very distinct possibility.

9.55 a.m.

This is ridiculous! I’m a complete and utter bitch for not even giving my best friend in the whole world the benefit of the doubt! Because she will get here, I just know it.

9.56 a.m.

She doesn’t, though. Kitty was supposed to meet me for a big birthday brekkie at eight this morning; she’s really, seriously late now. So late, I’m actually starting to palpitate, but then I remind myself Kitty’s done this before. Is, in fact, famous for it. Sometimes it’s not her fault, she’s just held up at the restaurant where she works and can’t get away. Genuine excuse. But I have to admit there’s been other times, and plenty of them, when she just went out on the piss night before, then slept it in. More often than not, in all her clothes and full make-up from the previous night, knowing her.

I’ve nagged her about this carry-on loads of times, but she just laughs at me, tells me to stop acting like such a designated-driver type and to get out there and start enjoying myself a bit more. Can almost hear her catchphrase ringing in my ears: ‘Sure, we’ll be a long time dead!’

So that’s why I’m not overly worried about her. Just a bit disappointed that she’d do this to me today of all days, that’s all.

Wobbly bottom lip starts to get a whole lot wobblier now, even thinking about it.

It’s akin to smashing up unwritten commandment of friendship, then dancing barefoot on it.

9.58 a.m.

Blanket ban on phones in here, there’s a big snotty sign above reception saying so, so I step out the Sanctuary door into the street outside, to try calling her. Practically immune by now to the weird looks I’m getting, in the ridiculously over-sized dressing gown and white fluffy slippers.

Icy cold air’s calming me down a bit and I’m starting to breathe a bit easier. Like a bleeding sauna back there.

10.00 a.m. on the dot

Ring Kitty’s mobile for about the twentieth time; still no answer. Ditto her landline. Ring Byrne & Sacetti’s Restaurant, where she works, and ask if she’s there. Yet again.

Same voice as before answers. Remembers me. Even with a crappy mobile phone reception and with ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ blaring away in the background, I can still hear how hassled this one sounds. Tells me, v. curtly, Kitty definitely, definitely, definitely isn’t there. She’s already checked the roster for the second time.

I’ve a strong urge to gnash my teeth and say, ‘But she just has to be! Can’t you check the roster just one more time? Then remind myself, it’s Christmas Eve. Poor girl’s probably working under conditions last seen in field hospitals, circa World War One. And after all, who in their right minds wants to be working today, when they could be out on the piss with all their mates instead?

10.02 a.m.

Try calling Simon, Kitty’s boyfriend. Maybe he’s seen her, or at least knows a bit more than I do? Impatiently, I bring up his number on my phone and dial.

No shagging answer. Voicemail. Why isn’t anyone answering their bloody phone today? Does nobody realise this could be a serious emergency?

10.03 a.m.

Seeing as I’m on the phone anyway, decide to do ring-around of all our mutual buddies, on the off chance anyone’s seen or heard from Kitty. Call the whole gang – Sarah, Jeff and Mags – but no one picks up. Now I love my friends dearly, but at this point, I’d gladly do time for the whole shower of them. Why won’t anyone answer their phone?!

Bloody last-minute Christmas Eve shoppers, whole lot of them.

10.20 a.m.

Eventually, I have to admit defeat. Arrived well over two and a half hours ago and now I’ve to face up to the cold, hard fact that Kitty’s just a no-show. Shuffling uncomfortably in disposable slippers, I head back to the reception area to explain all.

Manager gives a long, exasperated sigh, then coolly points out that there’s still the matter of a last-minute cancellation fee to be coughed up.

Knees almost buckle under me. Was deeply afraid of this. Mainly because I’ve no money. Not a red cent, nothing, nada. The price of the bus fare home, that’s about it. In a wobbly voice I ask how much for exactly. For the full amount, I’m crisply told. All cancellations are charged at the full price unless they’re made at least twenty-four hours prior to your treatments. They’re very clear about that at the booking stage, apparently.

OK, as of last week, when I was propelled back onto a dole queue, I’ve no credit card. It’s in the bin at home, slashed through with scissors, so I wouldn’t be guilted into buying last-minute Christmas pressies or led astray by the January sales. And if I give her a cheque, it’ll only bounce … So what in the name of God am I supposed to do now?

Somehow, though, kindly manager must sense the blind, sweaty panic I’m now in. Tells me a little bit more politely that it’s OK, they automatically charge the credit card of whoever made the booking. Says she still has all Kitty’s card details in their system.

Oh Kitty, am so, so sorry to do this to you … All that bloody money you worked so hard for …

Then the receptionist leans in towards me and says in a low voice that seeing as this is already paid for, there’s absolutely no reason why I can’t stay to enjoy the facilities. Shame to waste it all, just because your friend is no-show, is her gist.

I just look at her, dumfounded. Out of the question, I tell her, a bit haughtily.

Mother of God, how could I ever hope to relax or enjoy myself? Something is wrong, very wrong, and this one thinks I could possibly spend a pampering day having hot stones rubbed into the small of my back, while freeloading off Kitty’s credit card?

Not a bleeding snowball’s chance.

10.30 a.m.

Mercifully I’m now out of the highly uncomfortable, disposable, G-string/dental floss knickers combo, fully dressed in my depths-of-winter coat and back out on the busy, icy-cold street again. Bloody mayhem here, like something you’d see in Stalinist Russia circa 1939. Whole place is completely thronged as Christmas shoppers with pinched, hassled expressions, laden down with overstuffed shopping bags all shove past, impatiently banging against me.

Carol singers on street corner are joyfully belting out ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’, but I’m so stressed out of my mind, I nearly want to wallop them, just for having the barefaced cheek to show Xmas cheer.

10.45 a.m.

Starts to snow lightly, that lovely stage where you think, ah look, lovely, beautiful snow, how romantic and gorgeous and Christmassy. Though in approximately an hour, when cars start piling up against each other and all the buses stop running, I’ll doubtless be snarling, ‘OK, we’ve all had enough of this mayhem! When will the bloody snow ever give up?’

Yet again, I call Kitty’s mobile and landline. Yet again, nada. Yet again I try ringing all the gang and – holy miracle of Christmas – Mags actually answers. (Mags is the proud mother of three kids, all under the age of six, so it’s almost the seventh wonder of the world whenever she can even find her phone, never mind pick up.)

‘Mags? Hi, it’s me, in a bit of a panic here …’

‘Angie! What are you doing calling? I thought you and Kitty would be lying stretched out on massage tables, getting hot aromatherapy oil rubbed into your unmentionables by now! God, I get so mad jealous every time I think of you pair of complete dossers … And here’s me, trying to defrost a turkey with one hand, while glazing a ham with the other, before eagle-eyed mother-in-law-from-hell lands in on top of me. Just so the aul bitch can do her annual Christmas Eve inspection of my kitchen …’

Jeez, am inclined to forget how hard it can be to get a word in edgeways with Mags. Like she spends so much time round kids, that whenever she gets a chance to talk to adults, she physically won’t let them off phone.

‘I deliberately didn’t call you to say happy birthday till much later on!’ she says, still not letting me talk. ‘I was sure your phone would be on silent for the whole day … God, you single people have the life! Never get married, do you hear me? And NEVER have kids, ever!’

‘Mags, will you just hear me out?’ I’m almost shouting in frustration now, purple behind the eyeballs probably, from the need to talk. ‘Kitty never showed up.’

A short, stunned silence.

‘She what?’

‘And I’ve rung just about everywhere I can think of and there’s no sign of her. So I was just wondering—’

‘That is so terrible!’

‘I know—’

‘On your birthday?’

‘Well, yeah—’

‘You’re joking me!’

‘I wish!’

‘Can’t believe she’d just leave you high and dry like that!’

‘I know, but— ’

‘But nothing!’ she says firmly. ‘Now you just listen to me, love. I know it’s unforgivable carry-on, but I really wouldn’t invest too much time worrying about Kitty, there’s bound to be some perfectly simple explanation for this. Like … maybe she just slept it out, or something? You know what she’s like.’

‘But I must have rung the girl’s landline about a dozen times so far this morning. And her phone is like a bloody foghorn! How could anyone alive possibly sleep through that?’

Remember distinctly Kitty having to get the most blaring bedside phone ever known to man installed; she’d just got the job at Byrne & Sacetti and once got so bollocked out of it once for sleeping through an early shift, that she’d no choice.

‘I know,’ Mags persists, ‘but then, this is Kitty we’re talking about. Look, I know we’re kind of clutching at straws here, but she’s nowhere else to be found, so why don’t you just call round to her house and keep hammering on her front door, in case she’s there? Or … I dunno … maybe pelt her bedroom window with stones till she eventually hauls her lazy arse out of bed? Why not, Ang? I mean, where else could she possibly be?’

11.05 a.m.

I’ve a good twenty-minute wait at a freezing bus stop, before a number ten that miraculously isn’t stuffed pulls over and I squeeze my way in. Traffic’s dire; Christmas Eve – I’m inclined to keep blanking it out. And nearly an hour later, I’m puffing and wheezing my way down Berkeley Street off the South Circular Road, where Kitty’s been renting a gorgeous, cosy, two-up-two-down for about two years now, only about a ten-minute walk from restaurant on Camden Street, where she works. One of those recently renovated Corpo redbricks in a neat row of terraced houses, all just like it. Bit like Coronation Street, minus the Rovers and The Kabin and neighbours having bust-ups in public.

Mags is right, and thank God at least one of us is thinking clearly. I mean, where else could Kitty possibly be if not at home and still crashed out in bed? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I see how easy it would have been for her to go out on the batter, with a gang from the restaurant after work last night, for a few Christmas drinks, which somehow turned into about fifteen Christmas drinks, knowing her. Highly probable. With Kitty more than likely the ringleader, but then she’s a divil for dragging everyone off to the pub, ‘just for the one!’ And where Kitty leads, the party invariably follows. Then five hours later, of course, everyone’s still there.

So the chances are v. high she could well be lying under the duvet now, sleeping it off and totally dead to the world. Aren’t they? Admittedly, I’m still a tiny bit snippy with her for whole birthday standing-up thing, but still … It’s the season of goodwill; I’m prepared to forgive this one, tiny blip.

And, yeeessssss! That’s when I see it! Her car, her pride and joy, an ancient, battered little banger of a run-around Mazda that she insists on calling Doris, neatly parked right outside her house. It’s the miracle of Christmas! She is home and all is well! Wait till you see, I’ll knock her up out of bed now and everything will be fine, the birthday will be salvaged and we’ll still have a lovely Christmas Eve together. Just wait till you see. How could I ever have doubted her? Jubilantly, I hammer on her door.

But there’s no answer. Knock again, wait. Ring the doorbell, wait some more. Knock again, ring again, nothing.

On cue, worry sweat restarts.

‘Kitty?’ I yell through the letterbox. ‘It’s me. You awake? Come on, love, get your lazy arse out of bed and let me in, will you? It’s bloody freezing out here!’

Silence.

OK then, hope you’re decent girlfriend, ’cos I’m coming in …

Kitty’s due to go away with Simon on Stephen’s Day and – thank you, God! – she gave me a spare key to her house when I saw her last, so I could nip in and feed the stray cat who drops in from time to time, while she’s away. I fish her keys out from the bowels of my handbag and just as I’m letting myself in, out of nowhere fresh worry suddenly strikes.

Supposing she was broken into last night? And suppose she was in some way hurt and is now lying unconscious in a heap on the floor inside?

Another wave of panic, as yet more worry sweat starts pumping out of me with a vengeance. Must smell like bin day at a meat factory by now.

Fling the hall door open, calling out her name. But the alarm is on, beep-beeping away at me. So, no break-in then. Which is good news. I mean, ’course it’s good news; obviously no burglars have been here, for one thing. But if the alarm is on, it means Kitty’s not here, simple as. She only ever switches it on when she goes out; know this for a fact.

I punch in the code she gave me to silence shagging thing, then look around, taking v. deep breaths and trying my level best to stay nice and calm. The whole house is worryingly quiet. Don’t think I’ve ever been in this house when it’s so scarily silent before.

‘Kitty? Are you here? It’s me!’ I call out, but I know it’s a useless waste of time. Wherever she is, it’s not here.

Place is so, so silent, a bit like the Marie Celeste. I head down the tiny hallway and into her cosy little galley kitchen-cum-living room, straight ahead. And as you’d expect from Kitty, and probably on account of the mentally long shifts she works, the place is complete, Cath Kidston chaos. Even when she claims to have tidied up a bit, the house still looks identical. Not a hit-by-a-bomb mess, more like general disorganisation, but in way that’s somehow full of charm, if that makes any sense. Books she’s been studying for her evening classes are abandoned on the ironing board and a mountain of dirty washing is dumped beside the machine, that kind of thing.

V., v. weird and a bit spooky. Like Kitty’s presence is somehow everywhere even though she’s not. There’s a pile of dirty dishes still on the kitchen table, but with Kitty you can never tell if it’s breakfast dishes or late-night supper. Often both are the same thing in this house, pizza being a case in point. (Leftover pizza is a big staple of any waitress’s diet, I’m reliably informed. Can’t blame them either, the hours they work to support themselves, let’s face it, they need the carbs.)

Starting to feel bit shifty now for snooping. Remind myself that if you were to go into my flat whenever I’m not expecting anyone, I’m not sure quite how tip-like place would be, but knickers lying strewn around the floor and knackered greying bras shoved down the backs of radiators, would be a v. definite given.

Sorry. Meant to say my ex-flat.

Keep forgetting.

Over in the corner, a Christmas tree is up; a proper real one, none of your fake, tinselly crap for our Kitty. A beautiful, perfectly symmetrical tree that smells like pine toilet freshener, but in a nice way. She told me she and Simon chose it together last weekend; apparently he insisted. Presents are littered round underneath it, some still in the bags and waiting to be wrapped. I’m well impressed; still haven’t even got round to buying half my presents yet, but then being smashed broke and unemployed tends to be something of a major impediment to Christmas shopping.

Next thing, there’s a sharp banging noise from behind me and I let out an involuntary yelp. Jump round to see who or what the hell it is, but it’s OK, it’s not an axe-wielding psycho, only Magic, the adorable tabby cat Kitty found on street outside starving and sick, so she took her in and nursed her back to full health. But then, Kitty’s v. like that: a natural magnet for waifs and strays.

Magic lets herself in through a cat flap at the back door and immediately heads over to me, curling herself round my ankles.

I pick her up and pet her gently.

‘Hey, Magic! Where is she? Where’s your mommy? Have you seen her? Any ideas?’

The cat just licks her lips at me and jumps down, strutting over to the cupboard under the sink where I know Kitty keeps tins of Whiskas, then glares imperiously at me as much as to say, ‘Haven’t the first clue, love. Now would you stop talking to a mute animal like a complete moron and just feed me?’

So I do, and while Magic’s wolfing down a bowlful of cat food, I take a good nose around the house. Just in case there’s something, anything that might give me some idea of where Kitty could be. I head into her tiny study, the only other room downstairs and have a good gander at the noticeboard on the wall, littered with Post-it notes. Maybe some really important appointment she had this morning that she forgot all about till the very last minute, then had to rush off to?

Nothing out of the ordinary, though. Just row upon row of yellow stickers all covered in her scrawly handwriting with hastily scribbled reminders like, ‘Collect dry-cleaning.’ ‘Root out passport and check expiration date.’ ‘Pay phone bill or will get cut off.’ ‘Cancel papers.’ ‘Put out bins!!’ No indication she’d anything urgent on at all today, not a single thing.

So then I check upstairs, but it’s exactly the same thing: absolutely nothing strikes me as odd. Hard to tell if the bed has been slept in or not. It’s unmade, but then Kitty’s not really the bed-making type. There’s a big pile of her clothes carelessly flung across a chair by the wardrobe; a bright red plastic mac, pink flowery leggings and a load of T-shirts. December, I know, sub-zero outside, I know, but this is honestly the kind of thing Kitty would go out in without giving it a second thought. She’s by a mile the nuttiest dresser I’ve ever seen. Like she just falls out of the bed first thing every morning and does a wardrobe lucky dip, grabbing whatever comes to hand without, God forbid, doing anything as conventional as colour co-ordinating. And still, by the way, managing to look stunningly fab in an artless, couldn’t-particularly-be-bothered kind of way, not like a candidate for care in the community, as someone like me surely would.