I hug her goodbye and she smiles her warm, confident smile and tells me not to worry a bit. That Kitty will turn up safe and well and we’ll all look back on this and have a good laugh.
Attempt to give watery grin back at her, but I’m an appallingly unconvincing actress.
1.08 p.m.
Then, just as I’m facing back out into the snowy street outside, my mobile suddenly rings.
Check to see who it is, hoping against hope … Not it’s not Kitty, but it’s the next best thing! Her boyfriend, Simon! He HAS to have news, just has to …
I dip into the doorway of a fairly quiet pub, away from the noisy street and the blaring sound of Christmas Eve traffic before answering.
‘Simon! Can you hear me?’
‘Hey, Angie, how are you?! I’m sorry about the delay in getting back to you, but I’m back at home, plus I’d to take a whole clatter of nieces and nephews to see Santa today and to buy all their Xmas presents. Bloody mayhem in Smyth’s toy store, there were near riots over the last of the Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Dolls. Tell you something, I’ve never needed a stiff drink so badly in my life!’
Such a relief to hear his soft Galway accent. Strong. Reassuring. Bit like a pilot making an announcement on an Aer Lingus flight. For first time today, I feel safe. Calm. Somehow, it’s all going to be OK. I’m far too stressed out to cop why he’s on about Lalaloopsy Dolls, then remind myself: Simon comes from a massive family with approximately fifteen nieces and nephews, or whatever it was at last count.
‘Simon,’ I interrupt, a bit rudely, ‘is Kitty with you?’
‘With me? What are you talking about?’
Stomach instantly shrivels to the size of a sultana.
‘You mean … you don’t know where she is then?’
‘No, isn’t she with you? I thought you pair were having your lovely, relaxing, girlie treat day today? That I’ve been explicitly banned from, and told not to even call till hours later, when you’re both roaring drunk on champagne?’
Fill him in. On everything, on how I’ve been everywhere and phoned just about everyone, looking for her. I even tell him bit about cops, who all but laughed at me and politely told me to bugger off the phone.
Long, long silence. Not a good sign. Starting to get weak-kneed and a bit nauseous now.
‘Last time I saw her,’ he says slowly, ‘was yesterday morning, just as I was leaving the house to get on the road to Galway …’
‘Yesterday morning?’
No, no, no, no, no. This not good news. Not good at all.
‘Yeah. I came down here as early as I could, to try and beat the holiday traffic. Then I called her at about lunchtime to say I’d arrived safely and that both my parents were asking after her and are dying to see her as soon as we get back from holidays.’
No surprise here. For some reason, people don’t just idolise Kitty: they want to carry her shoulder high through villages. Simon always says from very first time he took her to the West to meet his folks, they instantly preferred her to him. She’s just one of those people that absolutely everyone adores, even people she’s only met for five minutes, like barmen, taxi drivers, etc. You even see hard-nosed, intransigent dole officers eating out of her hand, after just a few minutes in her company. V. hard not to. Kitty’s the mad, bad, dangerous-to-know type, totally magnetic and just the best fun you can possibly imagine. Kinda gal you meet for a few drinks, then end up the following morning in Holyhead. (Actual true story. Happened to us the night of her thirtieth birthday.)
‘She was on her way into work,’ Simon goes on, ‘and couldn’t really talk, so I told her I’d call her back later on. But when I did, she didn’t answer her phone. I wasn’t particularly worried, though; there wouldn’t be anything unusual in that if she was working late. So I just left a message and said we’d catch up this evening, after her spa day with you.’
‘So where do you think she’s got to?’ I ask, voice now sounding weak as a kitten’s. The image of a sick perv locking her up in cellar suddenly now very real in my mind’s eye.
‘Well, she can’t just have vanished into thin air,’ says Simon confidently. ‘Leave it with me, will you? Let me make a few phone calls. Maybe she just crashed out in another pal’s house last night after a few Christmas drinks? I mean, you know what she’s like!’
‘OK then,’ I tell him, trying my v., v. best to sound reassured. ‘Well, you know I’m back living with my parents now, so you’ll know where to find me if there’s any news.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll call you the minute I hear from her.’
Am just about to hang up when he says, ‘Oh, and by the way, Angie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Happy birthday!’
My birthday.
It had totally gone out of my head.
Christmas Day, 9.30 a.m.
Hardly slept a wink. Keep waking in the middle of the night to check my phone, in case there might be some message from Kitty. But nothing, still absolutely nada. Tried doing an early morning ring-round of all our mutual buddies yet again, but of course, the morning that’s in it no one’s even thinking about answering their phone. Course they’re not; what was I thinking? My married pal is doing Santa Claus stuff with the kids, my single pals are all still in bed.
On the plus side, I’ve had three texts from Simon so far. One to tell me there’s no news as of yet, but that I’m still to relax and try to enjoy a family Christmas. (Yeah, right. Only someone who hasn’t actually met my family could ever possibly come out with a statement like that.) Second text is to say he’s still with a big gangload of his relations now, and can’t talk, but will call soon as he can. Third says if there’s still no sight or sign of Kitty by tonight, he’s coming straight back to Dublin, as soon as he can reasonably get away.
All three messages stress that I’m to keep nice and calm, that she’ll turn up safe and well. This he promises.
’Course, that doesn’t do anything to stop the sickening worry, but still, v. reassuring to know someone else is taking the whole thing as seriously as I am. Plus, I keep reminding myself Simon works as a trend forecaster. Which is a bit like weather forecasting, according to Kitty, except it’s all about economic projections, ERSI figures, etc. He’s part of the team that waved red flags, wagged fingers and warned us we’d all end up broke, and stay broke, barefoot and living off tins of Heinz beans, till sometime after our great-great-grandchildren all end up emigrating in coffin ships.
(Apparently there’s v. big money in predicting bad news, but then, unlike horoscopes that say you’ll have an utterly magical day, people are far more likely to believe you if you tell them that nothing but horrors and destitution await. Myself included.)
So Simon’s basic job is telling the future.
So if he says Kitty will turn up and all will be well, then somehow, I trust him.
I’ve no choice.
11.35 a.m.
Right then, time to meet the Kardashians. Namely, the annual Xmas Day ordeal chez la famille Blennerhasset. My usual survival plan involves turning up as late as possible without incurring the wrath of Mother Blennerhasset, busying myself in the kitchen under the guise of ‘helping’, then skedaddling the minute the last Quality Street has been gulped down, to get back home in time for a nice juicy Xmas blockbuster movie. (So I’m free to watch it in the comfort and peace of my own flat.)
Except