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 not this year. My usual escape hatch has now been totally sealed off. The official story to the rest of my extended family is that I’m ‘temporarily crashing out with my parents, as I’m in between leases on two apartments.’ Which I thought made me sound like a reasonably together person, not a twenty-eight-year-old no-hoper, newly unemployed, broke and forced into a humiliating crawl home with my tail between legs, etc. The inner circle, however, (Mum, Dad, older brother and sister,) all know the shameful truth, and in the case of my beloved sister, Madeline, rarely miss the golden chance to score a point.
Decide to time her, to see how long she lasts without managing to get a dig in. Just for the crack.
Midday
Mother Blennerhasset’s annual Xmas midday drinkies for aunties, uncles, cousins, friends of parents, freeloading neighbours, etc. Drawing room’s completely thronged. Everyone v. successfully and politely avoiding questions about my jobless state. But you can always rely on Madeline.
Ah, Madeline. Older than me by just two years, but already following in the family footsteps by working for a top law firm and making more money than I’ve ever seen in my whole life; with a mortgage, a pension and a flash-git style Mercedes fully paid off. Weighs approximately same as her coat and keys put together. (And just as an aside, as you’ll see, the whole family have P. G. Wodehouse names. Which has to be borderline child abuse. Who in their right mind lumbers kids with names like Madeline, Toby and Angela when you’re unfortunate enough to have a surname like Blennerhasset?)
‘So, Angie,’ she coos, wafting up to me with a glass of Prosecco in one hand and mobile clamped to the other. (Claims she’s a very busy and important person who’s still working. On Xmas Day. I know, I know.)
Then in full earshot of Mrs Higgins, Mother Blennerhasset’s most competitive friend, with a v. successful daughter exactly my age already running her own business, fires her opener.
‘Any prospects of gainful employment coming your way in the New Year?’
And, ladies and gents, we have a new record. Not ten minutes into the drinks do and already her inner bitch is out of the traps. And yes, Madeline really does talk like this. Like some Victorian matron
