Bono

Chapter Eighteen

STARSTRUCK

A cat prefers to be adored.

When I move to New York, I’ll live in walking distance of Broadway and see every show. I love how the theaters are so small and old-fashioned. The smell of dust and disinfectant is a reminder the greatest dreams are built on muck and microbes.

The only thing not to like is the intermission stampede for the restrooms. Something’s out of whack when it’s possible to print 3D versions of the heart, yet there still aren’t enough bathrooms for women in theaters.

Lucky Guy was fantastic. As the actors took their bows at the end, I stood and clapped until my hands were numb.

“What did you think?” Lydia asked, as we joined the throng of people surging into the theater foyer.

“Tom Hanks is amazing,” I said. “Some actors can’t make the transition from television to a theater stage, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”

Lydia hugged her program and smiled.

“Did you like it more than The Book of Mormon?” she asked.

How could I not? In his role as tabloid journalist Mike McAlary, Tom Hanks had practically stepped out of my past.

“Newsrooms were tough for women back in the seventies and eighties,” I said, digging my hands in my pockets. “The guys we worked with would be in jail these days.”

I told her how in my first week as a cadet reporter, aged 18, the chief reporter took me to a bar and announced he was going to have his way with me in the back of his car.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I was young and naive enough to laugh in his face.”

Norah Ephron had clearly endured similar experiences during the same era in New York, and crafted them into art.

“Do you think he’s still here?” Lydia asked.

“Who, Tom? He’s probably backstage taking his makeup off. We might see him if we wait at the stage door.”

“Really?”

“He has to get out of the building somehow. He might even sign your program,” I said, handing her a pen.

We were disappointed to see the stage door clogged with fans, so we crossed the street to observe from a distance. There was a group gasp as an imposing silhouette emerged. Hundreds of smartphones raised in unison. We watched enviously as the star stopped to chat with people and sign their programs.

“He must have been wearing a wig on stage,” Lydia said.

I removed my glasses and wiped them on my coat sleeve. She was right. The actor was as bald as a barracuda.

“That’s not Tom!” I said, squinting my eyes. “It’s that other actor. You know, the old guy.”

We watched him vanish into the crowd to become anonymous as the rest of us.

We waited . . . and waited. Tom would surely have wiped his makeup off by now. The crowd outside the theater was peaceful, but it was growing larger. A restless ripple ran through them. I turned to see a dozen or so mounted police lining up at the end of the street.

These were not cuddly ponies that could be disarmed with the offering of a carrot. The horses were immensely tall. To a Tom Hanks disciple with a dodgy knee they were downright intimidating. White clouds snorted out of their nostrils and hovered on the cold night air. A riot shield reflected the flash of a neon sign.

“Let’s go,” I said.

But Lydia pretended not to hear. I watched in alarm as she crossed the street to join the knot of hardcore fans outside the stage door. I called after her, but she was in a trance. I leaned against a post and tried to enjoy the spectacle. Every time a figure appeared from inside the theater, the crowd inhaled a single breath—only to release a sigh when they realized it wasn’t Tom but another actor eager to sprinkle his charm over them like glitter.

By now, I was pretty sure Tom had taken the back exit and was soaking in the Jacuzzi at his hotel. To my horror, the row of horses started to march down the street toward us, their heads bowed as if they were trying to remember what was on their shopping lists.

People dispersed. I couldn’t decide if I should run across the street to find Lydia, or keep walking back along my side of the sidewalk, in the hope she’d find me later. A gush of maternal instinct took over and, suffragette style, I dashed in front of the glistening hooves. Heart throbbing behind my eyes, I grabbed her elbow and steered her toward a quieter part of town.

“I wanted to bring you somewhere special for your last night,” I said as we stopped outside a discreet-looking building on West 44th Street.

“I don’t like jazz,” she said

I begged her to approach Birdland with an open mind. Named after Charlie Parker, the alto sax magician known as “Bird,” the club has earned its reputation as jazz corner of the world.

The moment we entered the dark crimson interior, I felt christened with cool. We sat at a small table and ordered drinks while a quartet poured notes of molten gold in our ears.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Lydia’s expression changed from not liking jazz to liking it very much indeed. Her attention was focused on the African American pianist who was playing as if he had four sets of hands. After he ripped into an improvised solo, she clapped furiously. My daughter was infatuated.

Love has many facets. Falling hard and fast for a jazz pianist can be just as powerful as other manifestations. After the show, the pianist sat dining alone at the bar.

“Why don’t you go and say hello to him?” I asked.

Lydia seemed mortified at the idea.

“It’s the last thing he wants,” she said.

“He’s an artist. Someone like him thrives on people’s admiration. For him it’s oxygen.”

She refused to budge, but her eyes were glued to him.

“What would I say to him?” she asked.

“Just tell him how much you enjoyed the show. It’ll make his night.”

We gathered our coats. As I was settling the bill, she overcame her reticence and strode toward the musician. He looked up and offered her a seat. Their heads bent toward each other as they exchanged words. The man gazed down at his chest and said something that made Lydia laugh. They were so engaged in the timeless art of flirting, I wondered if I should make excuses and leave.

But a few minutes later, Lydia stood up and joined me at the door. As we walked back to the apartment through the freezing night, she was flushed and elated.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have dared ask such a prying question. If I had, she would have retreated like a shellfish.

“I’m thinking,” she said, gazing up at the glittering towers. “That one day I’m going to have a rescue cat.”

I pictured Lydia and Ramon with a cat draped over their laps. Who knows what that would lead to? A pet, then a baby. If that happened, they could bring it to visit me once or twice a year.

In between times, I could sing Broadway songs to it over Skype.

Because what woman in her right mind would turn down the chance to live in New York?