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