Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘I’m still staying in the house on Berkeley Street, by the way,’ Simon had told her, icily for him, I distinctly remember thinking.

  And then it was Jean’s turn to look shocked, though she said nothing.

  ‘So if you needed to collect a few of your things, you can,’ he tacked on, by way of explanation. ‘I’ll leave a key with a neighbour, and if you call when I’m in work, that would probably be best.’

  Implication v. clear: so I don’t have to be alone with you at any time.

  I don’t think I’d ever heard Simon speak so coldly to another human being before. V., v. weird. Like he was just one tenant politely asking the previous one to clear out the last of their crap, whenever.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that,’ was all Jean said quietly in reply, leaving me in a puddle of worry and anxiety about what lay ahead. For her, for Simon. And, by implication, for me. And if I’d thought Simon was silent and lost in thought on the drive down, that was a bloody party compared to his thin-lipped silence the whole way back to Dublin.

  So how the hell did this happen anyway, was all I could think angrily, staring out the car window on the interminably long drive home.

  How did I suddenly end up in the middle of a love triangle? And not only that, but, I’ve a horrible feeling, on wrong end of it?

  10.05 a.m.

  Suddenly the bell rings out above The Chocolate Bar front door and I look up, grateful for any kind of interruption. At this point, I’d v. happily have had the red carpet out to welcome a visit from Health and Safety this morning, I need distraction so badly.

  It’s one of our regulars, lovely, a friendly girl called Madge who works in a shoe shop across the street and usually comes in every day at this time for caffeine and a chocolate-hit. V. chatty and I just know by the watery, red-eyed look of her that she needs to talk about her boyfriend.

  ‘Angie, thank Christ it’s quiet in here this morning. I need your advice so, so badly!’

  I instantly switch into work mode, efficiently frothing up her cappuccino just the way Madge likes it and whipping a slice of our chewy double chocolate biscuit liqueur cake from the display case, her usual mid-morning treat. Sarah senses her one-on-one grilling with me is finally over and efficiently click-clacks her way into store room at the back, to get organised for a supplier’s meeting she’s got out at our airport branch this morning.

  ‘So tell me, love, what’s the spineless bastard gone and done on you now?’ I ask poor old Madge sympathetically. Such a big relief to focus on someone else’s disastrous love life; certainly takes my mind off my own.

  I should explain. Madge is in an on-again, off-again relationship with a guy who, if you ask me, continually treats her like shit and openly sees other people, thereby propelling poor old Madge into me, bawling and needing a sympathetic ear, a cappuccino and a slice of our double chocolate biscuit liqueur cake in that order, as she says herself, ‘to get her through’.

  You do realise all you’re getting from that fella is booty calls, I’ve told her till I’m blue in the face, though I strongly suspect it’s a big waste of time. In Madge’s stronger moments, she’ll nod and agree and vow to delete his number from her phone and never talk to him again. Till next time it happens, of course.

  ‘Oh, Angie,’ she says, bleary-eyed, ‘what would I do without you! You’re so amazing, you always seem to know whenever I caved and ended up going round to his flat … at half-eleven last night!’

  Not due to any psychic gift on my part, might add, it’s just that she swears off this git, then weakens and ends up taking a booty call from him at approximate week-long intervals. Could nearly set your watch by it.

  Madge plops herself up on a seat at the counter bar beside me as I slide her an extra frothy cappuccino and a slice of said cake in all of its chocolatey gooeyness.

  ‘Thanks, Angie,’ she says gratefully, sticking a fork down into it, ‘this is exactly what I need after a night with that useless, uninterested, noncommittal … Jeez, I’m pathetic, aren’t I? When will I ever learn? When will I finally start reading the signs?’

  ‘Just eat up, hon,’ I tell her calmly. ‘And remember that a slice of double chocolate biscuit liqueur cake is a known cure for everything. Homesickness, loneliness, heartache, you name it, that cake will soothe it all away. Proven fact.’

  On she chats and, to be perfectly honest, I’m v. grateful for the diversion. I spend the next fifteen minutes doling out wise, sage advice whenever I can get a word in, such as, ‘Trust me, the more you ignore him, the more he’ll come running after you. Remember, you’re a fabulous prize for any guy and it’s his job to try and win you! Just stay strong, honey, that’s all you’ve got to do. And no harm while you’re at it, to start seriously looking for someone who actually wants to be with you.’

  She talks on and I let her, though truth is, my thoughts are wandering now. Funny, I think. How easy it is to dish out pearls of sound relationship wisdom to someone else, and yet how hard it is to get my head round what’s going on in my own love life.

  When Madge reluctantly gets up to leave, I slip into the store room at the back and check my phone, yet again. Haven’t spoken to Simon since he dropped me home, after the long drive back up from Cork, at all hours last night. And of course I knew it was big waste of time asking him into my flat, so I didn’t even bother. Instead just said to call me anytime if he got a bit wobbly.

  ‘You’ve had a huge shock,’ I gently told him, before I hopped out of the car. ‘And so have I. But just remember we got through a worse shock two years ago by sticking together and that’s the only way the two of us can possibly get through it this time.’

  He didn’t answer, though. Just kissed me lightly on the forehead and didn’t even wait to see that I’d got into the building safely.

  Soon as my feet barely touched the pavement, he was gone, speeding off into the night, without so much as a goodbye.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Still in The Chocolate Bar, 8.55 p.m. (And yes, we do stay open till then, as a matter of fact. Late-night shoppers for one thing, always a v. lucrative passing trade for us.)

  Been on my feet here in work all day and I’m so, so relieved that it’s almost closing time. Normally the days here go by in a blur, I’m that busy, but somehow, not this one. Legs are aching. Head’s pounding. I need a) a hot bath, b) a takeaway Thai green curry and, most of all, c) to talk to Simon.

  Just to talk to him, that’s all. I’ve steadily been working myself up into a crescendo of anxiety all day and have to know where he’s at in his head and what he’s doing. Hardly too much to ask, now is it?

  I mean, I am still his official girlfriend, aren’t I?

  9.01 p.m.

  I’ve just let Jamie head home for the night. (A lovely work experience guy we took on, who’s proving to be an excellent barista, and as Sarah’s v. quick to point out, incredibly handsome into the bargain – never any harm.) I pull on my jacket, grab my bag and am just about to start switching off lights and turning on the alarm when, suddenly, the door opens.

  Groaning inwardly, I look up, expecting to see some late-night customer chancing their arm and desperately needing some v. long and complicated order involving low fat/skinny/soya-blend latte, or a complex combination thereof. Or else – hope against hope – maybe it’s him? It’s Simon, who’s maybe popped in to take me home and to see how I’m holding up? Maybe?

  But it turns out to be neither.

  I couldn’t be more shocked to see Detective Sergeant Crown standing in front of me, freckly and sandy-haired, all strapping six feet two of him.

  9.03 p.m.

  ‘Angie,’ he says, apologetically, while I just stare up at him like some kind of a mute gobshite. ‘Do you remember me? Don’t tell me it’s been all that long!’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I remember you.’ Like I could ever forget?

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry for barging in on you this late at night …’

  ‘That’s OK, but as you can see, I’m
just about to lock up. We’re closed, I’m afraid. But we’re open again from seven tomorrow morning …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he smiles, ‘I haven’t come in looking for coffee and cakes. Delicious and all as they look …’

  Then what in hell are you doing here? I ask myself, totally at a loss.

  ‘And congratulations, by the way,’ he says, looking around, nodding slowly and taking the whole place in. ‘On the success of your business, I mean. It’s a real credit to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I manage to say. Immediately thinking to myself, Jeez, is this about that parking ticket I still haven’t got round to paying, the last time I borrowed my mother’s car? Or maybe he’s here to check I’m not bootlegging hard liquor under the table after hours, like Chicago in Prohibition era, circa 1922? So is this what the coppers are doing now, making door-to-door calls on foot to suspected miscreants like me?

  All instantly superseded by an even bigger worry. It could hardly be anything to do with Jean, could it? She only arrived back in the country yesterday morning for the funeral service … No, it couldn’t be.

  ‘Actually, I was out at your airport branch only recently,’ Crown chats on easily, ‘on my way to see Ireland playing Poland in the World Cup qualifier.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I manage to say, still at a complete loss. ‘So … em … what did you think?’

  ‘Oh, it was a disaster. Just painful. What can I say? Grown men sobbed like babies.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he grins, ‘I meant the match. No, The Chocolate Bar was a welcome beacon for a gang of five lads all nursing minging hangovers on our way home, I can tell you. But the game itself was a complete whitewash.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I just nod back at him. Why is this guy here? And what exactly does he want from me?

  ‘Well … em … sorry about the match not going our way, but it’s certainly a big relief to hear that The Chocolate Bar didn’t let you down.’

  ‘The thing is, Angie,’ he says, taking a step closer to where I’m stood over by the counter, handbag clutched to my stomach like I’m an old lady petrified of getting mugged. ‘I needed to speak to you. Have you got a minute, by any chance? Maybe we could chat in here, if that was OK with the lady proprietress?’

  ‘Eh … yeah, sure, have a seat.’

  I’ve already piled chairs on top of tables, all set to be mopped down first thing in the morning, but he deftly takes two down and invites me to sit down opposite him.

  Silently I do as I’m told, intrigued. Start to take him in as he eases into the chair opposite me, really have good gawp at him. He’s changed a bit, I decide. Has gained weight but luckily for him, he’s got the height to take it. I remember when I first met him, I had him pegged as some kind of a remote automaton type, emotionless and cold; the type of guy who worked eighteen-hour days, had no friends and spent his weekends running marathons. Then it comes back to me how great he was as we came closer to solving the mystery of The Lady Vanishes. How he called to the house and offered me support and help and a friendly ear. How strong and how comforting he’d been and how shite I felt for being such a narky bitch to him, way back when we’d first met.

  He’s out of uniform now and dressed casually in jeans and a light sweater and looks exactly like the sort of fella who’d come in here, grab a table and happily while away an afternoon reading the sports pages and stuffing his face with pies. Sort of fella I can relate to, in other words.

  Hard to forget the last night I clocked eyes on the guy. Still imprinted on my brain, in fact, almost like it’s tattooed behind my eyeballs. I can still recall it with frightening clarity, I can even feel the rising nausea at back of my throat when I walked into Kit— Jean’s sitting room and found Simon sitting there looking like death, with Crown standing opposite him. I remember Crown asking me to sit down too, even offered me sweet tea. Being kindly, human and so concerned. Then he stunned me by asking exactly how well I’d known Kitty? I remember being gobsmacked at even being asked, but that turned out to be absolutely nothing compared to what was to follow. And to finding out that Kitty Hope never really existed.

  To this day, I can still recall the shock. This, I can clearly remember thinking, must be what it feels like to live your whole adult life as one person, then to suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, be told that you’re actually adopted. Exact same feeling of being deceived, duped and lied to, for an entire lifetime.

  And it was all down to simple, plodding police work in the end. Not even a particularly big mystery at all. When police ran routine background checks on one Kitty Hope, nothing came up. Which was unusual. So they dug a little deeper and grilled Simon and I that bit more, particularly about Kitty’s elusive younger years. Time and again I told them it just wasn’t something she went into, ever, but then out of nowhere, something completely random struck me. The name of a complete dive bar where she’d worked for a while, when she was far younger. Worst job in history, I suddenly remember her drunkenly laughing on a night out we were having. But still the name of the place of it wouldn’t come to me.

  Smiley, I told Jack Crown, though thinking absolutely nothing of it at the time. Smiley something, Smiley bar maybe? And I clean put it right out of my head again. Because after all, it was just a throwaway, casual remark of Kitty’s from years ago, how could this possibly be of any significance? But as Jack later told me, in cases like these, there’s no such thing as a flippant remark. So of course, the coppers quickly located Smiley’s, discovered it was in Galway and shifted the focus of their search to there. But absolutely no trace of anyone called Kitty Hope. Which really alerted suspicions. Then one of the barmen vaguely remembered a girl who looked an awful lot like the girl in the photo police showed him, but who had a completely different name. Jean, he thought. Old staff records quickly were searched and suddenly we had, as coppers kept telling us, the breakthrough we’d been waiting for.

  Then police got a tip about someone else who’d known Jean back in Galway at the time, another waitress called Becky. Turned out she and Jean had worked together back in Galway years before, but Becky had since moved to Glasgow and was completely unaware of all the coverage of a missing girl called Kitty Hope. But she was eventually traced and when questioned said that she had indeed known Jean Simpson, not long before she’d pulled another disappearing stunt not dissimilar to this one. And there was more. She had strong suspicions that Jean Simpson was in an abusive relationship with one Joe McGuinness, though she stressed that Jean was always at pains to deny it.

  When coppers started to run deep background searches on Jean Simpson, they didn’t take long to discover that she was a regular patient at Galway University where she’d presented over the years with just about every injury you could think of, from a smashed nose, to broken ribs to a fractured pelvis. Joe McGuinness was quickly traced and brought in for questioning, but insisted these were all as a result of sports injuries, although suspicions were raised. Still more questions were asked, though as Crown pointed out to us at the time, without Jean herself physically present to press charges against the guy, there was damn all they were left with, only conjecture and guesswork.

  The police then traced her passport under Jean’s real name and got as far as Holland, then, not long afterwards, to Morocco, of all places. But searches for her went completely cold after a while and as far as the coppers were concerned, that was that. Case closed. They could accurately guess at why Jean had taken off and why she’d reinvented herself, they only question we’d no answer to was where had she gone?

  And I’ve barely had any contact with Crown at all since. He kept in touch for a while afterwards, and would phone every so often with updates on Jean Simpson, but as leads on her grew thinner and thinner, the case just seemed to be shelved. And for my part, I never really felt I should keep in touch with him either. Well, didn’t seem to be any need, did there? We’d finally got to the bottom of the mystery, discovered the extent to which we’d all been had, there was nothi
ng else to do but try to get on with the rest of our lives without Kitty, as best we could. We knew that wherever this new woman called Jean was, at the very least, she was safe.

  I look back to Crown, who’s sitting awkwardly opposite me now and fidgeting a bit, like he’s not quite sure how to begin this conversation.

  ‘Angie, the last thing I’d ever want to do would be to startle you,’ he eventually begins, looking at me with worried blue eyes. ‘And I’m sorry to say at this hour of the evening that it’s a work call.’ Then he adds with a small grin, ‘Much as I’d love nothing more than to sample some of those divine-looking chocolates you’ve got on display.’

  ‘Call in any time, Sergeant,’ I say automatically. ‘Be happy to give you one, on the house.’

  No harm in keeping him sweet. Just in case I’m wrong, and he actually is here about the unpaid parking fine.

  ‘Call me Jack, by the way. Please.’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘The thing is, there’s been a development in your friend’s missing person’s case. Look, Angie, I really hope this isn’t going to be a shock to you, but we’ve just had notification from Border Patrol and Immigration at Cork airport that a woman travelling under the name of Jean Simpson was reported passing through the airport about thirty-six hours ago. I’m sorry about the delay in getting this information to you, but of course, I had to resurrect her file and check everything out thoroughly before I came to you with this.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I interrupt. ‘We already know. Simon and I, that is.’

  I give him a brief, potted version of the events of yesterday, tell him about seeing Jean at the funeral and what she told us afterwards, as we all sat together in that tiny waterfront bar. Without doubt, the single weirdest moment of my whole life to date. Three former best mates, all sitting and looking from one to the other, like complete strangers. Then seeing Simon’s fists clenched inside his pockets, as Jean told us the full, unexpurgated version of exactly what that bloody monster Joe McGuinness had put her through.