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.
‘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 so
me 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.
Me and You Page 2