Me and You. Claudia Carroll

hang on, keep reading, it gets worse. By my best friend. In the same week I was turfed out of a flat I really loved, (and v. annoyingly, after the landlord had finally got round to getting Sky Atlantic in). In the same month I lost a job I loved even more. In the same year I got dumped by the man I loved most of all. Bastard not even having the good grace to leave me for someone younger or thinner.

      Will spare you the details. Whole other story for a whole other day.

      9.44 a.m.

      Maybe Kitty’s just a tiny bit delayed? Then suddenly I think, maybe it’s me? Maybe I got the day wrong?

      Remind myself; it’s my birthday. Got the day right. No question.

      Have to accept it; definitely in stood-up territory here.

      9.52 a.m.

      V., v. weird. Can’t quite get my head around the fact she’d do this to me. Today of all days. Getting a bit wobbly lipped and almost on the verge of tears now.

      9.53 a.m.

      Wouldn’t mind, but this whole spa day was Kitty’s idea, not mine. She booked it, made appointments, even made brekkie and lunch reservations at the Spa Café, the whole works. Not a chance in hell of my being able to afford it right now, for starters. But Kitty insisted, said it was my birthday treat. Said it was something she really wanted to do, to make it up to me for having had the single shittiest, annus horribilis anyone ever had to suffer. Kitty’s like that, though, ridiculously generous. Would gladly give away her last bean. Can’t even walk down a street without running into the nearest Starbucks to buy a sandwich and a hot drink every time she sees a homeless person. But now … is it really possible that she just hasn’t turned up? Has even forgotten?

      Anyone else I know, not a chance. Absolutely none whatsoever. But reluctantly, I have to admit with Kitty? Meh. Very distinct possibility.

      9.55 a.m.

      This is ridiculous! I’m a complete and utter bitch for not even giving my best friend in the whole world the benefit of the doubt! Because she will get here, I just know it.

      9.56 a.m.

      She doesn’t, though. Kitty was supposed to meet me for a big birthday brekkie at eight this morning; she’s really, seriously late now. So late, I’m actually starting to palpitate, but then I remind myself Kitty’s done this before. Is, in fact, famous for it. Sometimes it’s not her fault, she’s just held up at the restaurant where she works and can’t get away. Genuine excuse. But I have to admit there’s been other times, and plenty of them, when she just went out on the piss night before, then slept it in. More often than not, in all her clothes and full make-up from the previous night, knowing her.

      I’ve nagged her about this carry-on loads of times, but she just laughs at me, tells me to stop acting like such a designated-driver type and to get out there and start enjoying myself a bit more. Can almost hear her catchphrase ringing in my ears: ‘Sure, we’ll be a long time dead!’

      So that’s why I’m not overly worried about her. Just a bit disappointed that she’d do this to me today of all days, that’s all.

      Wobbly bottom lip starts to get a whole lot wobblier now, even thinking about it.

      It’s akin to smashing up unwritten commandment of friendship, then dancing barefoot on it.

      9.58 a.m.

      Blanket ban on phones in here, there’s a big snotty sign above reception saying so, so I step out the Sanctuary door into the street outside, to try calling her. Practically immune by now to the weird looks I’m getting, in the ridiculously over-sized dressing gown and white fluffy slippers.

      Icy cold air’s calming me down a bit and I’m starting to breathe a bit easier. Like a bleeding sauna back there.

      10.00 a.m. on the dot

      Ring Kitty’s mobile for about the twentieth time; still no answer. Ditto her landline. Ring Byrne & Sacetti’s Restaurant, where she works, and ask if she’s there. Yet again.

      Same voice as before answers. Remembers me. Even with a crappy mobile phone reception and with ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ blaring away in the background, I can still hear how hassled this one sounds. Tells me, v. curtly, Kitty definitely, definitely, definitely isn’t there. She’s already checked the roster for the second time.

      I’ve a strong urge to gnash my teeth and say, ‘But she just has to be! Can’t you check the roster just one more time? Then remind myself, it’s Christmas Eve. Poor girl’s probably working under conditions last seen in field hospitals, circa World War One. And after all, who in their right minds wants to be working today, when they could be out on the piss with all their mates instead?

      10.02 a.m.

      Try calling Simon, Kitty’s boyfriend. Maybe he’s seen her, or at least knows a bit more than I do? Impatiently, I bring up his number on my phone and dial.

      No shagging answer. Voicemail. Why isn’t anyone answering their bloody phone today? Does nobody realise this could be a serious emergency?

      10.03 a.m.

      Seeing as I’m on the phone anyway, decide to do ring-around of all our mutual buddies, on the off chance anyone’s seen or heard from Kitty. Call the whole gang – Sarah, Jeff and Mags – but no one picks up. Now I love my friends dearly, but at this point, I’d gladly do time for the whole shower of them. Why won’t anyone answer their phone?!

      Bloody last-minute Christmas Eve shoppers, whole lot of them.

      10.20 a.m.

      Eventually, I have to admit defeat. Arrived well over two and a half hours ago and now I’ve to face up to the cold, hard fact that Kitty’s just a no-show. Shuffling uncomfortably in disposable slippers, I head back to the reception area to explain all.

      Manager gives a long, exasperated sigh, then coolly points out that there’s still the matter of a last-minute cancellation fee to be coughed up.

      Knees almost buckle under me. Was deeply afraid of this. Mainly because I’ve no money. Not a red cent, nothing, nada. The price of the bus fare home, that’s about it. In a wobbly voice I ask how much for exactly. For the full amount, I’m crisply told. All cancellations are charged at the full price unless they’re made at least twenty-four hours prior to your treatments. They’re very clear about that at the booking stage, apparently.

      OK, as of last week, when I was propelled back onto a dole queue, I’ve no credit card. It’s in the bin at home, slashed through with scissors, so I wouldn’t be guilted into buying last-minute Christmas pressies or led astray by the January sales. And if I give her a cheque, it’ll only bounce … So what in the name of God am I supposed to do now?

      Somehow, though, kindly manager must sense the blind, sweaty panic I’m now in. Tells me a little bit more politely that it’s OK, they automatically charge the credit card of whoever made the booking. Says she still has all Kitty’s card details in their system.

       Oh Kitty, am so, so sorry to do this to you … All that bloody money you worked so hard for …

      Then the receptionist leans in towards me and says in a low voice that seeing as this is already paid for, there’s absolutely no reason why I can’t stay to enjoy the facilities. Shame to waste it all, just because your friend is no-show, is her gist.

      I just look at her, dumfounded. Out of the question, I tell her, a bit haughtily.

      Mother of God, how could I ever hope to relax or enjoy myself? Something is wrong, very wrong, and this one thinks I could possibly spend a pampering day having hot stones rubbed into the small of my back, while freeloading off Kitty’s credit card?

      Not a bleeding snowball’s chance.

      10.30 a.m.

      Mercifully I’m now out of the highly uncomfortable, disposable, G-string/dental floss knickers combo, fully dressed