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 in a bonnet-y, corset-y, Dickensian drama.
‘Gimme a second, I just want to put out some more of these,’ I smile weakly, indicating a near-empty tray of vegetarian vol-au-vents that I’m trying to squeeze my way back to the kitchen, to replenish.
She follows me though; clearly seeing this as green light to have a go at me. Angie-baiting being what she excels at, like an evil cat toying with a defenceless mouse. Bloody expert at it. Started when we were kids, when she’d go out of her way to make me the butt of her gags just for the laugh, but now that we’re older, it’s somehow got nastier. Then my brother Toby wafts in after two of us, wanting nothing more than grub and to make an escape from the arse-numbing tedium of the party, knowing him. Both come after me into the kitchen and slam the door shut.
‘Come on then, answer the question, Angie, don’t obfuscate the issue,’ Madeline persists, instinctively knowing she’s hit on my weak spot. And now that she has, she’ll keep on and on at it till she’s drawn blood. ‘Are there or aren’t there any jobs coming your way, sometime this century?’
‘I just have to get these into the oven …’ I mutter vaguely.
‘Stop changing the subject,’ she says, perching up on the kitchen table now and elegantly picking at a single grape from corner of cheese platter. Probably all she’ll eat for the entire day. ‘Because sooner or later you’ve got to get yourself back out there into the jobs market. Got to up your game a bit. So you’ve had a few knocks – who hasn’t? Pointless hiding out at home, lazing around the house all day, just passively waiting on work to come to you.’
Look appealingly over to Toby, who’s sitting in an armchair by my mother’s Aga, flicking through yesterday’s Times and stuffing his face with a large batch of cheese frittatas. Toby’s generally far more humane than Madeline. Will tease me to tears, then surprise me at the oddest times by actually sticking up for me.
‘Toby, tell her to back the feck off,’ I say pleadingly to him.
‘Aah, don’t be so touchy,’ he says, mouth stuffed, far more interested in the TV listings than in what’s going on over his head. ‘Mads just wants you to get a bit of work for yourself, that’s all.’ Then he thoughtfully adds, ‘But you know, in all fairness, sis, she does have a point. The longer a gap any potential employer sees on your CV, the less attractive you become in their eyes.’
‘Gee, thanks so much, Toby. “Et tu, Brute”, and all that,’ I hiss over at him, with what I hope is withering scorn.
‘All I’m trying to impress on you,’ Madeline drones on in that affected nasal whine that grates on my nerves so much, ‘is that you’ve just got to get
