Me and You

At first light, I check the phone for about the thousandth time, but it’s a total waste of time, the screen’s completely blank. Automatically I hit the re-dial button and call Kitty’s number, almost through force of habit at this stage. I know it’s like eating a whole tube of Pringles and that it’s ultimately v. bad for me and will end up driving me mental, but I just can’t stop myself. And, of course, her phone clicks straight to voicemail.

‘Hi there, it’s Kitty! Sorry I can’t take your call, but leave a message and I’ll ring you back. Providing of course that you’re a) good-looking, and b) that I don’t owe you any money!’

Completely weird hearing her disconnected voice like this. It’s almost a shock how bright and bouncy and full of energy she sounds, while we’re here, agonised out of our minds about her. I check the number of times I’ve called her since the whole Christmas Eve/aborted birthday fiasco. Fifty-two. And not one single message returned. Even find myself turning to prayer, something I only ever indulge in when I’m really sick with worry.

Listen God, I know you don’t exactly hear from me all that often, and I appreciate you’ve probably got miles more important things to get on with, such as sorting out famine in Africa, etc., etc. But if you could just see your way to keeping Kitty safe wherever she is and maybe if you could get her to turn up anytime now, we’d all be so, so grateful. Come on, God, you can do it! It is, after all, officially the Season of Goodwill, isn’t it? Any chance this could be my miracle of Christmas?

P.S., hope Baby Jesus had a really lovely birthday yesterday.

The only straw of hope we’ve got is this: at end of day, it is Kitty we’re dealing with here. I have to constantly repeat it over and over, like a mantra. Therefore, the rules that bind ordinary mortals like you and me just don’t apply.

True, she’s my best friend, but still … I remind myself of the sheer number of times in the past when she’s flaked off like this before. Honest to God, you’d marvel at how entirely possible it is to love another human being dearly, and yet want to strangle them with your bare hands at same time. No question about it: Kitty’s the type who could have taken off anywhere, or who absolutely anything could have happened to. Easily.

Might possibly even have ended up drunkenly crawling on a flight to Rio, with a gang of people she accidentally got swept up with, and now can’t get in touch with us …

Highly unlikely, but you’d never know … I keep saying it over and over, like it’s playing on a loop in my mind.

With Kitty, you just never know.

7.02 a.m.

Snap out of it immediately. Course she’s not on a flight to Rio. As if! I’m suddenly aware my excuses for her now becoming increasingly more far-fetched. Jeez, I’ll be imagining alien abductions next. I tell myself Simon is right: there has to be some perfectly simple explanation. Perfectly simple. We’ll look back and laugh when she turns up. After I physically reef the curly mop off her head first, for putting us through all this crap.

And if it does actually turn out that she flitted off to South America to do conga lines in the sun, then I’ll personally wring her neck with the knicker string off her own bikini.

Not an idle threat, by the way.

9.14 a.m.

A text from Simon. I nearly drop the phone, my hands are shaking so much as I try to read it.

HAVE JUST LEFT NURSING HOME. STILL NO NEWS. KITTY HASN’T BEEN HERE SINCE LAST WEEK. I SAW MRS K., WHO’S UNAWARE OF WHAT’S GOING ON, BUT IN GOOD SPIRITS. ON WAY BACK TO DUBLIN NOW, NO SIGNAL HERE, WILL CALL YOU SOON AS I GET THERE.

9.30 a.m.

My brain’s completely scrambled. I’m finding it so hard to function normally, to colour in between the lines. Between panic attacks, I keep thinking, oh, OK, now I get it, I’m in hell. And once I accept that, surprise myself by getting through whole minutes at a time.

9.35 a.m.

OK, two choices here. Either I can continue staring worriedly out the window like a stray character from Chekhov, or I can actually make myself useful and get back to doing a ring-around of just about every mutual friend Kitty and I have. Which, given that it’s Stephen’s Day and normal people are all out visiting relatives or else hitting the January sales, is a lot easier said than done.

Call my buddy Jeff, but it’s only his voicemail. Probably up climbing a mountain today or something equally shamingly healthy. (Jeff’s one of those outdoorsy, Patagonia-clad fitness nutters.) Then Sarah, who at least answers, but then she’s been queuing up to get into the Harvey Nichols sale probably since sometime before midnight last night. Sarah’s the type who’d v. happily drive through a warzone if she thought there was even an outside chance of a discount store, where she’d save a fiver off leggings.

She tells me she hasn’t seen Kitty in well over a week, but promises to call back as soon as she bags a Marc Jacobs trench coat she’s had her eye on for months and been saving up for, as a Christmas self-gift.

‘Reduced by SEVENTY-FIVE PER CENT, can you believe it?’

‘Yeah, but the fact is that Kitty’s still missing and I’m starting to get seriously worried now …’

‘Oh, come on, I wouldn’t worry about Kitty. Sure, you know what that one’s like! She’ll turn up safe and well with some mental far-fetched tale to tell, you wait and see!’

Her v. last words to me before hanging up.

And Mags’ phone goes straight to message minder, but then I know she’s got a houseful of visiting in-laws and will only get back to me at what she calls ‘wine o’clock’. In other words, when her kids are in bed and she can actually hold an adult conversation, without banana being rubbed into the good furniture.

So in a nutshell, no one seems to have seen or heard from Kitty. Course they haven’t. By now, they all know the distress flares are up. So if they had, wouldn’t they have just called me?

12.05 p.m.

Simon phones again. Says he’s nearly on the outskirts of Dublin now and asks if we can meet, to decide where we go from here. Am delighted; two heads are most definitely better than one. We arrange to hook up at Kitty’s house in an hour. Don’t know why, but it just seems like the most logical place. Also to be v. honest, am bloody thrilled to be getting out of here. My family are all starting to treat me like I’m bit soft in the head for investing so much time and worry on Kitty. Mum and Madeline clearly of the ‘no doubt about it, that one hopped on a plane to Rio on a whim and true to form, didn’t bother telling anyone. Would be typical of her’ school of thought.

Which is not only mean but v. unfair. Don’t care what they say, flitting off to Rio definitely isn’t something she’d do.

And the more I keep saying it, the more I actually manage to convince myself.

1.20 p.m.

Bit late, bloody skeleton holiday bus service, not helped by icy roads, meaning the driver can only do approximately two miles an hour. Then, skidding and sliding from the bus stop down to Kitty’s little terraced street, I nearly sob pure, salt tears when I turn the corner and see Simon’s black Audi parked neatly outside, right beside Kitty’s banger. Like the two of them are home; like old times; like absolutely nothing’s wrong. Like I’m swinging by for nothing more than a lovely glass of wine and big, comforting plate of pasta, while dissecting some of the more rubbishy pitches on The Apprentice.

But at least Simon’s here, I have to remind myself with an inward sigh of relief. It’s a big step forward. And who knows, maybe he’ll have good news or else he’ll have figured out some way to find her?

Everything’s going to be OK now he’s here, I think. Am certain.

1.22 p.m.

Simon lets me in, looking like he only just got here ahead of me, still in a heavy winter coat and deep in chat on the phone. By the sounds of it, am guessing to someone v., v. High Up at Byrne & Sacetti, possibly even Stephano Sacetti, the man himself. Co-owner, with a bit of a Silvio Berlusconi complex, according to Kitty.

Simon smiles quickly at me, leads me into the tiny living room and motions for me to grab a seat, miming me a gesture that he’s trying to wrap up the call. He keeps making lots of ‘ah huh’ noises and saying, ‘OK, OK, yes, I see,’ a lot.

Rip off my heavy winter coat and plonk down, fidgeting with my gloves and pretending not to earwig.

God, am inclined to forget just how authoritative and impressive Simon can be, even on the phone. If handsome, lovely Simon can’t find Kitty, then no one can! Would be v. surprised if he’s not getting a big pile of information out of Sacetti right now, including really personal stuff, like bank account numbers, star sign, current relationship status, etc. He’s just one of those guys people naturally trust and open up to. Bit like a senior consultant. Or a hairdresser.

Doing me the power of good, though, just to see him. Can’t begin to describe the huge relief at just being around another human being who’s actually being proactive and prepared to take this seriously and not just write me off as a near-mental case for worrying myself into early grave.

Look at him distractedly in all his gorgeousness while he talks on. Simon’s v. tall, by the way, even taller than Kitty, but with the same lean, leggy build as her, which short-arses like me are so envious of. Classically dark and good-looking, in a Pierce Brosnan circa-when-he-was-doing-the-Bond-movies type way, right down to the deep sea-green eyes, always v. focused and intense. But I must stress in an attractive way, not a Christopher Walken-weirdo way.

I drift off a bit while he keeps talking down the phone. Funny just how different he and Kitty are personality-wise, and yet how well suited at the same time. Like a textbook case of the opposites attract theory in practice. Whereas she’s wild and abandoned and reckless, and by a mile the funniest girl on the planet, Simon’s a more conservative, stable, strong, silent type. Oddly enough, the combination works though and works beautifully. She’s able to knock a bit of craic out of him and lighten him up, whereas he’s had a v. steadying, calming influence on her. Everyone says so. He’s tamed her down a bit too; right up till she met him, the very second she sensed a guy was getting overly serious on her, she’d bolt screaming for the hills. Was famous for it.

But she’s been with Simon for over eighteen months now, her longest relationship ever, and I should know, I was there on fateful night it first happened. It was like something out of a movie; he just took one look at her and that was that. I might as well have turned into background flock wallpaper. Just like everyone who meets Kitty instantly falls under this inexplicably strange, charismatic spell she’s able to weave. It’s extraordinary; even gay men seem to get crushes on her. I’ve invested many, many hours trying to study exactly what it is that she has, so I can somehow impersonate it, in much the same manner as politicians running for President are said to study JFK and ask, ‘What was it that made him so special, and how do I in some small way, channel it?’

But no chance. Kitty’s a unique one-off.

Eighteen months on, and the pair of them are more loved-up than ever; the Christmas tree in the corner that they went out and bought together is a big reminder. Not to mention the fact that Simon’s officially about to move in here. And they’re completely fab, one of those couples you point to and think, you see, YOU SEE? True love isn’t just excuse for weak rom-com vehicles tailored around Jennifer Aniston! It actually exists and is out there. And Kitty and Simon are living, walking proof! So there!

He mimes a ‘sorry about this’ gesture at me and throws his eyes to heaven, like he’s been trying to get off this call for ages now and just can’t. Have to say, though, whoever he’s on to, he’s certainly doing a terrific job.

‘No,’ he’s saying calmly down phone, ‘as I’ve already explained, the last time I saw Kitty was early on the morning of the twenty-third, when she was leaving the house for work … Yes, yes, of course, we already tried that, that was the first thing we did, but no joy … Besides, you’re right, I think you’ve got to be missing for a minimum of three days before they’ll finally take you seriously … Though if it comes down to it by this evening, then rest assured, the police will certainly be my next port of call …’

The police? Hang on a minute. Did he just say the police? Suddenly I’m panicky. I thought Simon of all people could fix this, could find Kitty and make it all go away! So if he’s now talking about going to the worse-than-useless cops, then my whole confidence base just spectacularly imploded. I throw him a sharp, horrified look, but he just makes a ‘calm down, it’s fine, relax’ hand gesture back at me.

‘No, she’s most definitely not with her foster mum in Limerick either, I’m afraid,’ he’s saying now. ‘I’ve just driven up from there, in fact. She hasn’t been down to see her in over a week …’

Another eye-roll at me, though if he’s beginning to lose patience at the daftness of the questions he’s being asked, you’d never know by him. Simon’s always unfailingly polite.

‘Yes, yes, of course, we’ve been trying to get in touch with all our mutual friends for two full days now, but you know how hard it is getting anyone to answer their phone on Christmas Day. Or even today, for that matter. No, no, I’m quite sure you’re right and that there’s absolutely nothing for us to worry about, but as I say, if I could possibly get my hands on a list of anyone she was working alongside at the restaurant on the night of the twenty-third, that would be really useful to us at this point … Brilliant. Huge thanks for this … And yes, of course I’ll be sure to call you the minute we do find her … Right, well, see you shortly, then. And once again, I really do appreciate everything you’re doing to help.’

A big thumbs up sign to me, then finally he wraps it up.

‘Well? Any news?’ I ask, on edge of seat, bowels knotted and palms sweating, too antsy even to say hi properly.

‘I’m so sorry about that, Angie,’ he says, not answering my question and instead coming over to give me a big, warm hug. I hug him back and for a moment, we hold each other v. tight. And it’s comforting. He smells lovely too, but then Simon always smells delicious. Citrussy.

Then he slumps down in the armchair beside me and rubs his eyes like he’s ready to flake out with exhaustion. Unsurprising really, given that the poor guy must have left Galway at some ridiculous sparrow fart of an hour this morning, to drive all the way to the nursing home in Limerick, not to mention coming straight on to Dublin.

‘Simon, you mentioned the police?’

‘It’s not going to come to that, trust me. She’ll have materialised by then,’ he says. ‘But if we’ve no more news today, then I think maybe it’s our best option.’

Then he clocks the stressed-out-of-mind look on me and softens. Even sits forward and takes both my hands in his. Feels warm and reassuring.

‘Oh, now, come on, Ange, you’ve got to keep calm. Chances are she’s safe and well, and, for whatever reason, just can’t get a message through to us. Maybe she’s been staying with someone she works with who lives down the country, where there’s no phone signal, for instance.’

‘You honestly think she could just crash out with friends and not even go to see Mrs K.? On Christmas Day? You really think she’d be capable of doing that? Because I, for one, just aren’t buying it!’

‘I know, I know,’ he sighs, letting go of my hands and staring straight ahead of him now, the gorgeous green eyes focused, v. on-the-case. ‘Believe me I know that none of this adds up. But all you and I can do for the moment at least, is take this one step at a time. Worse thing is jumping to conclusions. And the second worse thing we can do is panic.’

I nod, a bit numbly.

‘By the way, I guessed you talking to Sacetti just now? Any news?’

‘Yeah, that was Sacetti all right. Ever met him through Kitty?’

I shake my head. Though I’ve often heard her talking about him. Apparently, although happily married with five grown-up kids who all work for him, he has a terrible eye for the laydeez, and Kitty claims he’s an outrageous flirt, particularly with the younger waitresses. Even tried it on with her once, but was swiftly met with a sharp knee to the groin and a stern lecture about how he should try being a bit nicer to his gorgeous and v. hard-working wife.

‘Well, like just about everyone else, he hasn’t seen her in a few days …’

‘Oh for God’s sake! When will someone turn up with news that can actually help us?’

‘No, hang on, there’s more,’ Simon gently cuts across me. ‘I asked him for a full list of all the staff who were working alongside Kitty on her last night there.

‘OK. Well … good thinking.’

‘And Sacetti immediately agreed, said he was glad to be of help. They’re actually open today and he’s in work, so we can call in, if you’ve time. Then maybe the two of us could come back here and do a ring-around of all her co-workers to see if anyone knows anything.’

I nod eagerly.

‘Because,’ he continues, sounding supremely confident, ‘someone just has to. She could easily have gone to another work colleague’s house after she clocked off her last shift, maybe for a few Christmas drinks and somehow ended up staying there. Maybe she figured Mrs K. was fine, so she just decided to hang out wherever she was for Christmas. She and I aren’t due to go away on holidays till tomorrow, so for now at least, let’s just assume the best. We might even hear from her later on today; you of all people know how scatty Kitty can sometimes be. She’s well capable of just bouncing through the front door this evening like absolutely nothing’s wrong and start flinging stuff into a suitcase for the trip. You know what she’s like. So until then, the best thing you and I can do is stay focused and keep our heads. Just remember, there’s dozens of perfectly reasonable explanations for this.’

Simon sounds calm, self-assured, completely confident. And, amazingly, given the state I’m in, some of it manages to rub off on me. Even though I know deep down in my bowels this is a big load of horse manure. My best pal in the world would NOT stand me up on my own birthday. It’s unthinkable. Just not possible.

‘So, are you free to come to the restaurant with me right now, by any chance?’ he asks, hauling himself up and rooting around for his car keys. ‘Sooner we get that list from Sacetti, the sooner we can start ringing around. Be a helluva lot quicker if we work together.’

‘’Course I’m coming with you,’ I tell him firmly. ‘You think I’m going anywhere till all this is sorted?’

He looks gratefully down at me and smiles.

‘You’re a good friend, Angie. Kitty always says you’re the best and it’s only the truth.’

‘She’d do exactly the same for me. I know she would.’

‘So apart from all this,’ he says, helping me on with my heavy, winter coat like the perfect gentleman he is, ‘how are you doing? Holding up?’

‘Been better,’ I shrug up at him. ‘People keep telling me to relax, that she’ll turn up, but I can’t listen to them. I just know in my bones that there’s something seriously wrong. And I don’t care what anyone else says, nothing about this feels right, not even for Kitty.’

Then I can’t help myself.

‘Simon, if I ask you a straight question, will you give me a straight answer?’

‘’Course I will. You know that.’

‘And I want the truth from you now, and none of your spin.’

‘Truth and nothing but,’ he says, the eyes boring into me.

‘You seem so calm and reassured and that’s brilliant, but, well … just how worried are you at this point in time? Because you must be, just a bit. I mean, deep down.’

Desperately need him to say, ‘Worried? Me? Not a bit of it! In fact, I’m so supremely confident she’ll walk through the door this evening, that I’m fully intending to start packing ski gear and snow boots for our holliers tomorrow, the very minute I get back from the restaurant.’

But instead, he goes quiet. Worryingly quiet.

Which is wrong, all wrong! I’m the one having a wobbly here; he’s meant to be rock of sense that talks me in off the ledge!

‘At this point in time?’ he eventually says, ‘I’d give it a four out of ten. If I ever make it all the way up to ten, then I’ll really start panicking.’

Have to bite my tongue clambering into his car. It was a trick question! He was supposed to say zero out of ten!

Cosmic shift in that moment. And I’ve now officially gone from absorbing his calm aura, into hand-me-a-Xanax territory.

2.25 p.m.

Stephano Sacetti turns out to be short, round and welcoming. Kisses us both on both cheeks, Mediterranean style, and waves us into his private office on the top floor. He’s actually a v. charming man, twinkly-eyed and sallow skinned, with an expensive-looking silk suit and the faint whiff of cigar smoke off him.

Says all the right things, all the stuff I needed to hear: that we’re not to worry, that Kitty is a v. responsible person. (Eyes went slightly goggly at that. Kitty’s many wonderful things but responsible is most definitely not one of them. But then given that this is her boss-man, I figure she must have put on one hell of an act in front of the guy.)

Anyway, soon as we arrived, he immediately printed us off a long, long list of all the staff, waiters, bar staff, delivery men, kitchen staff, right down to Polish guys that scrub down the loos, who were all around during that same last shift as Kitty. Way more than I’d ever have thought, but then you must need a small army of staff to run an ever-growing empire like this. Plus, as he tells us, it was the night before Christmas Eve, the place was packed out; it was a case of all hands on deck.

Jeez, scanning through it, the list runs to almost two full pages, literally dozens of names and their contact numbers. He’s even thrown in the contact details of diners who’d booked in that night and who’d left their phone numbers when making reservations. Everything we need and absolutely no stone unturned, in other words.

On the way out, we do a quick scan on each level of the restaurant, just in case there’s someone working that either of us might recognise. Place is surprisingly busy; there’s a whole clatter of young girls in Ugg boots with gel nails and too much false tan, all chattering excitedly over coffee and buns in the Food Hall Café about their Christmas sales bargains. Meanwhile the entire restaurant level is bustling with families having a post-Christmas lunch/hangover cure, or else diners who just couldn’t have been arsed cooking another big meal two days running. Simon just strides through every level confidently, me racing after him to keep up.

Only see one person we can ask though, a young part-timer who works down in the Food Hall. Francesca Sacetti is a cousin of Stephano, but then approx. fifty per cent of the staff in here all seem to be cousins of Stephano. (If you ask me, the Sacetti family are a bit like the Corleones, only legit.) We head over to where she’s busy restacking tins of olives on the shelves and ask if she’s seen Kitty at all.

No, she blinks innocently back at us. Says she’s been in Palermo for past two weeks. First day back at work today.

Should have guessed by her shagging suntan. Then she asks, wide-eyed, ‘Why, what’s the matter? Is something up with her? Is Kitty OK?’

Not off to a v. good start.

4.05 p.m.

Back at Kitty’s, stuck on our phones, the pair of us. Bit like a telesales conference in here. Lists covered in biro marks surround us, scattered all over the floor. My ears physically sore and raw red from being on the phone for the past few hours. At this stage, we’ve a system of sorts going. We’ve both crossed out the names of people we actually got to speak to but who were no help to us, then made dirty big red marks beside the names of anyone who didn’t actually answer their phone, but who we’ve left messages for, practically begging them to call us back urgently.