hollier to France last year. Kind of thing you only ever do when in the first stages of love. Whereas buying Christmas trees together clearly indicates they’ve reached the tenth stages. Said as much to her and can still remember her laughing, saying yeah, in two years time, they’d probably be screeching at each other, ‘But I went out and got the shagging tree last year! Now it’s your turn!’
Both of them in the photo look like something out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Clear-skinned, lightly tanned, athletic, long-limbed, skinny, totally gorgeous. Kitty, as always in photos, turning her head slightly sideways, the wild, abandoned tangle of Rebekah Brooks curls falling over her face to hide a kink in her nose she hates so much. Really has issues with it; she claims that if she ever won the Lotto, first thing she’d do would be to straighten it out once and for all. Says it gives her the look of a young Barbra Streisand; the Yentl years.
Major source of debate between us; mainly because if I had plastic surgery funds, the first thing I’d do would be to get my lardy arse sorted, once and for all. (As an aside, this is entirely possible; I’ve read about far worse cases than mine on back pages of Marie Claire.) Though I have to say, the only one who even notices Kitty’s bumpy nose at this stage is her; if you ask me, it gives her even more character. Couldn’t imagine her without it. Even blokes say it makes her look sexier and more appealing. (Curse my straight nose, curse it!)
Anyway, she and Simon are like Mr and Mrs Perfect Couple in the picture; they somehow even look a bit alike. Glowing, pictures of health and vitality, like Darwin’s natural selection in progress. Made for each other, everyone says so.
Behind that, I spot a photo of Kitty and me. Bless her, she even went to the bother of framing my skinny photo. Ashamed to say, taken so long ago, I’m wearing jeans I haven’t fitted into in a minimum of three years, in spite of all my best efforts plus a serious amount of yo-yo dieting. Also I’ve a v. unfortunate over-heavy fringe that I got talked into by a hairdresser when I was feeling a bit vulnerable and which turned out to be a BIG mistake that’s taken ever since then to grow out. (Not really my fault; I was going for a Zooey Deschanel look, but ended up more like Kathy Burke (appearing as Waynetta Slob on Harry Enfield, that is).
Check the boxroom beside Kitty’s bedroom, just in case. Nothing out of ordinary, just piles of cardboard boxes and bags of clothes, which I’m guessing must belong to Simon, who’s due to move in with Kitty after the holidays. Guy spends ninety per cent of his time here anyway, so both of them figured it was easier and cheaper just to go whole hog and live together.
So now what? Then, a sudden light bulb moment. The restaurant where she works is only about a ten-minute walk from here. I could maybe call in and try to furrow out some of Kitty’s waiter pals? Maybe they know something I don’t? Better yet, maybe Kitty’s been there all this time and whoever answered phone to me earlier is either a complete dope, or else operating on a severe hangover and got it arseways about Kitty being off duty?
Check Magic is OK, and has enough food, milk, water, etc. Even try to cuddle her before leaving but the cat knows I’m not her mammy, leaps out of my arms like she’s been electrocuted, and struts haughtily out the cat flap again, away on her travels. Kitty’s a terrific cat person; me, not so much.
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
