'Oh my god! Eau d'Affluence. I only wore it, like, two days ago!'

'GOOD MORNING," the voice goes. "The Plaza, New York. Howmay I direct your call?" She has one of those voices that has me picturing her as Chelsea Staub. I tell her that I'm looking to speak to an Oisinn Wallace. She asks if he's, like, a guest and I tell her, well, that's exactly what I'm wondering. I know it's his favourite hotel in the world. He was always banging on about the Oak Room. I hear her, like, tapping away on the other end of the phone.

It happened exactly a year ago today. I remembered this morning when I ran into his old dear in Superquinn in Blackrock. I actually tried to hide from her, behind this huge board advertising the company’s Switch and Save promotion.

See, I was never much good in situations.

"I thoughtit was you," she went, suddenly stood there in front of me. I was like, "Ah, Mrs Wallace – how the hell are you? I was just, er, trying to decide between the Oilean potatoes and the Roosters? It'd melt your focking head, wouldn't it? Thought I'd, er, take a little time-out behind this basically advertising board . . ."

Without being an actualyummy mummy, she was always one of those old dears – in fairness to her – who you wouldif it was put in front of you?

“Still no word?” I went.

She just, like, shook her head. She was like, “Nothing. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

I was there, “Don’t even think that.”

But she went, “Not a phone call, not a letter – not even an e-mail! What kind of a son does that to his parents?”

One who owes the banks 50 million sheets is the answer, though even Iknew not to say that.

She storted getting suddenly emotional then, going, “You must have heard from him, Ross. You were his best friend!” and all I could do was shrug and tell her no – even his Facebook site’s been inactive since the day before he disappeared.

“Find him!” she storted going, at the top of her voice. “Please, Ross! Find him!” and, because she was drawing a fair bit of heat our way, I promised that I’d at least try.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist eventually goes, “we have no guest staying by that name.”

Of course I end up losing it then. I’m like, “Check again!” the way they always do on TV. I hear her, like, tapping away again.

About, like, an hour after I ran into Oisinn’s old dear, JP rang.

“You know it was, like, a year ago today?” he went. He doesn’t even feel the need to say what it is. I suppose it’s there at the front of, like, all of our minds? “Me and Fionn were talking about maybe going for a few scoops later. You know, tell our favourite Oisinn stories . . .”

“He’s not dead,” I suddenly went. It hung in the air between us for, like, 10 seconds, maybe more.

He was like, “Some reporter rang me. He’s writing something about him – an Icarus of our times, flew too close to the sun, blahdy blahdy blah-blah . . .”

“Well, at least he flew,” I went, not really knowing why – it just kind of felt like the right thing to say? “God damn it, at least he flew.”

“I’m sorry, sir . . .” It’s her back again. “Do you know when he might have checked in?”

I’m there, “No,” storting to seriously lose the rag with this bird. “See, the point is, I don’t even know that he did?”

“You don’t know if he’s even staying at the Plaza?”

“I don’t even know if he’s in New York. He could be literally anywhere in the world. I just thought I’d stort with the places he was always banging on about and then work downwards . . .”

There’s, like, silence on the other end. She’s obviously thinking, whoa, we’ve got a live one here!

“Hey, you might even know him,” I go and she sort of, like, laughs. She’s there, “Sir, we have hundreds of rooms here at the hotel.”

“He’s, like, a big stocky dude?” I go. “Irish, obviously. He invented, like, a scent for women, which is how he originally made his money.”

“The perfume guy?” she suddenly goes. I knew she’d know him. The dude’s like me – Charmin focking Ultra. I hear her turn to the bird beside her and go, “This gentleman’s a friend of Oh Sheen – you remember the perfume guy?”

The bird beside her goes, “Oh! My God!” and she says it in, like, a good way? “Eau d’Affluence. I only wore it, like, two days ago!” The two of them are suddenly having a good old, I don’t know, reminisce, if you can say that.

“He had this medal,” the Chelsea Staub bird goes, “He used to ask us to put in the hotel safe.” I laugh then. “Yeah, that would have been his Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal. He was always worried he was going to get mugged.”

“It was made of, like, tin,” she goes. “It was, like, totally worthless,” and I’m there, “Whoa, you wouldn’t have said that if you were there to see him win it!” and it possibly comes across as a bit too defensive?

“So,” Chelsea goes, “how is he?”

I’m there, “Er, not great, I’d imagine. He owes the old Hilary Swanks a fortune – 50 million, maybe more,” and it’s only as I’m saying it, roysh, that I’m thinking, that possibly explains why he’s not staying at the Plaza?

“So, what, you don’t know where he is?” she goes.

I’m like, “No, he left his cor at Dublin Airport, keys in the ignition, credit cords and everything else in the dash. Park and Hide, they call it.”

“There’s a lot of that happening,” she goes. “Well, sir, if you manage to find him, tell him that the girls at the front desk send their best wishes.”

Then the line goes suddenly dead.

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