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 some 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