Shit. I just know by the overly hopeful note in his voice he was praying this might be Kitty. But Simon’s always the perfect gentleman and at least has the good grace not to sound a bit deflated, when it turns out it’s only me. My heart goes out to the guy. Am actually afraid at one point he sounds dangerously close to tears.
Please, for the love of God, don’t cry, I find myself silently praying. Don’t think I could handle it if I had to be strong one in all this, while Simon fell apart. Thank Christ he doesn’t, but the underlying tremble in his voice is nearly worse.
He says he and Kitty were meant to be leaving for their big skiing hollier in just under three hours’ time. His Xmas gift to her. He tells me that just a few short days ago, before the whole world somehow fell apart, he thought he’d be arm in arm with her right at this very moment, skipping through Duty Free with bottle of champagne tucked under his oxter and with nothing but a fab, romantic week in Austria arsing around the slopes to look forward to. Says never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d spend this morning ringing up a gangload of total strangers, in the slim hope someone, somewhere might have had even a fleeting conversation with her on that final shift and that maybe, maybe they might be able to shed a bit of light on this.
It’s a flair of mine to say the wrong thing at times like this, and true to form, Angie strikes again.
‘Simon … this is just a thought,’ I say tentatively, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s any point in turning up at the airport, just in case?’ Then in a classic Freudian slip, I manage to mumble out the single most annoying comment, the same one I was gritting my teeth down the phone over, every time I heard it yesterday.
‘I mean, you know what Kitty’s like,’ I blurt out, barely pausing to think. ‘So just say she did end up buried deep in some stranger’s house over Christmas, someone who we’ve not made contact with yet, then … well, maybe she’ll just turn up at Departures later on this morning, with a credit card in her back pocket and nothing else?’
I regret the words the very second they’re out of my mouth. Am a stupid, bloody, moronic, tactless idiot. I shouldn’t do this to the guy, when he’s going through so much! It’s downright cruel. False hope can be a v., v. dangerous thing.
Still, though. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be unprecedented carry-on for our Kitty. Can’t help thinking back to that one particular, now-famous occasion—
But Simon interrupts my train of thought, sighing exhaustedly.
‘You know, I’d sort of been hoping for that too,’ he says. ‘In fact, I was thinking almost exactly along the same lines as you. But at about four o’clock this morning, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and started rummaging through her desk, in case there was some clue there as to what’s going on. An address of where she might be staying, a phone number, a name, maybe. Something we’ve overlooked that just might explain all this.’
‘And?’
‘Well, put it this way: she’s most definitely not going to casually turn up at the airport this morning and that’s for certain.’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’
Not meaning to contradict him so baldly, but she actually has done it before. With me, as it happened. Years ago. I thought she’d stood me up for a last-minute trip to London, and next thing she bounded into airport, no bags, no luggage, nothing, and full of the most outlandish story involving a hit-and-run driver, a sick cocker spaniel with a mashed front paw, a wailing child and a last-minute dash to the nearest vets. One of those completely mental, nutty excuses, so utterly off-the-wall that you just knew it could only be the truth. Vintage Kitty, in other words.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty certain,’ Simon is saying, ‘because when I was rummaging through her desk at stupid o’clock this morning, I came across a couple of things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a list of restaurants in the resort that we were meant to go to. A German phrase book I’d bought her for the trip, as a joke. And right beside all of that, I found her passport.’
9.25 a.m.
Jeff picks me up and v. kindly says he’ll drive me to Kitty’s house, then help to give Simon and me a dig-out for the rest of the entire day. Says he’ll do whatever he can to help, bless him. Claims he’s prepared do anything to find our gal, even if it’s only running around distributing milky mugs of sugary tea, patting shoulders and saying, ‘There, there, dear,’ at regular intervals. A true friend, in other words.
Anyway, he collects me in his little runaround Skoda, typical Jeff, dressed like he’s on his way to a gym. Bit too tight Lycra gym leggings with trainers and a v. clingy sweatshirt, with suspicious overtones of a recent spray tan, just a shade too mahogany for it to be natural. In December. When it’s freezing.
To his great annoyance, Jeff’s often mistaken for gay, reinforced by the fact he works as a freelance make-up artist, hence the addiction to spray tans. But he’s not; he’s straight as they come and actively seeking a GF. And he really is a total sweetheart, inordinately generous, the kind of bloke who’d gladly do anything for you. If he was in a movie, he’d most likely be cast as the reliable-best-buddy-of-leading-man. You know, the sort of roles Paul Rudd makes a v. healthy living out of. Such a lovely guy, Kitty often says, that it’s almost a racing certainty he’ll ultimately end up with a complete bitch. Always the way; the sweeter and more genuine they are, the more horrendous the girlfriend. Sad fact.
‘I just can’t believe Kitty would pull a disappearing trick like this!’ he tells me after a quick peck on the cheek, as I clamber into the car beside him. ‘It just doesn’t seem possible, not even for her!’
I nod mutely back at him in agreement.
‘So that’s not only Christmas that she’s missed,’ he goes on, ‘on top of your birthday, but now the chance to head off on a holiday with Simon, too? Jeez … Dunno about you, honey, but I’m now working on the definite possibility that something serious must have happened to her on her way home from work. I’m thinking … maybe some axe-wielding psycho now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere in the bowels of the South Circular Road?’
He has the tact to shut up instantly when he catches me doing an involuntary shudder and offers me a bottle of ayurvedic water. (Still water, by the way. Jeff’s theory is that carbonated bubbles are an indirect cause of male cellulite. Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy dearly, but he can be tiny bit image-conscious like that.)
‘Congratulations,’ I tell him, gratefully snapping open water bottle and taking a big slug. ‘You’ve now arrived at stage one. Disbelief combined with a willing acceptance that whatever happened to her must be gruesome beyond belief. I’d a full day of that yesterday, thanks very much, while you were hauling your skinny arse up the side of a mountain.’
‘So, dare I ask what stage you’re now at, hon?’
‘Since early this morning? I’m officially at stage two.’
‘Which is?’
‘Bizarrely, it’s ridiculous belief that everything’s going to be OK, in the face of almost overwhelming odds. Which is why I’m about to suggest you and I take a quick detour on the way to Kitty’s.’
10.01 a.m.
Vincent’s Hospital, the biggest one over my end of town. Jeff pulls into the car park and we stomp our way through the icy grounds towards the A&E department.
‘Simon thinks this is a total waste of time,’ I explain briskly on the way, ‘but I’m saying, let’s just rule out all possibilities, that’s all.’
‘Quite right.’ Jeff pats my arm a bit patronisingly, like I’m some hysterical old dear who needs agreeing with at all times, else she’s likely to get a fit of the vapours. Truth is, though, I’m not particularly bothered whether Jeff understands or not. Just need to be doing something. Need to keep being proactive.
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