Me and You. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ something happened to her on her way home from work late last night? But what? Image after image floods my worried mind: a hit and run accident? Mugging?

      Right, that’s it, then. Sod this, am done with all this bloody agonising and trying to second-guess what has or hasn’t gone on. I’ll just have to call the police, right now, I’ve got no choice. And yes, they’ll probably have a right laugh at me or threaten to arrest me for wasting police time, but I can’t help it. Just have to know if something, anything’s been reported.

      I call directory enquiries and get connected to the right number. A copper at the local station answers. So I tell him whole works: that my friend’s just disappeared off the face of the earth, isn’t answering her phone and isn’t in work either. And that I’m in her house now, and still no sign.

      Just hope he doesn’t ask about her next of kin. There isn’t time.

      ‘And how long has your friend been gone for?’ he says flatly, in a disinterested monotone.

      ‘Well, we were to meet this morning at eight, but she never showed, so of course I panicked …’

      OK, now I swear can almost hear him trying to suppress a dismissive snort.

      ‘Eight this morning was barely four hours ago. She’ll turn up, trust me. Besides, I’m not authorised to open up a missing persons report until a subject has been gone for a minimum of seventy-two hours. And, of course, assuming they’ve actually gone missing and aren’t just out doing a bit of Christmas shopping.’

      ‘But supposing there’s been some kind of accident?’

      Why isn’t he taking this seriously? I thought he’d at very least put out APBs or whatever it is you call them, like they do on CSI the minute someone vanishes. But no, the subtext is v. clear: get off the phone now, you bloody lunatic time-waster.

      ‘If there had been,’ the copper tells me, talking down to me like I’m a bit soft in head, ‘I can assure you that we’d know all about it. But I can tell you we’ve had no incidents or disturbances reported in the South Circular Road area so far today.’ And with that, doing a mean hand-washing impression of Pontius Pilate, he adds, ‘Well, if that’ll be all then?’

      Useless! Bloody useless! I want to snarl down the phone, ‘Is this what I pay taxes for?’ then remember: I’ve no job. I’m no longer an upstanding taxpayer at all. So I just keep my mouth shut and hang up instead.

      One last, final look at the photos dotted all over the bedside table. Lovely one of Kitty and Simon when they went on a big, splash-out 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. СКАЧАТЬ