Bono

Chapter Twenty-five

GOLDEN TOWERS

A cat is no stranger to jealousy.

Bono had become king of our studio. His tummy had rounded out, and his fur seemed glossier—not that he’d let me brush it thoroughly, let alone trim his nails. Though he still refused to let me pick him up, I’d never seen such a happy, grateful feline.

Every night he slept on the pillow next to mine. I woke each morning to the touch of a paw gently patting my eyelids, as if Bono was checking to confirm I was still breathing. He’d then sit back on his pillow and watch with appalled interest as his giantess housemate yawned and groaned herself awake.

When the laptop bleeped with an incoming Skype call, I scrunched my hair and hoped Philip wouldn’t die of fright at the sight of my early morning dishevelment. He’d been working late and was looking impeccably handsome in his suit.

“Great tie,” I said. “Where did it come from?”

Bono emitted a happy meow from beside my feet.

“You bought it for me, remember?”

Philip’s computer wobbled and a large, angry-looking Jonah face glowered at me.

“What’s the matter, boy?” I asked.

“He heard the other cat,” Philip said, stroking Jonah and trying to ease him into a sitting position on his lap.

“Oh, Jonah!” I said. “You don’t need to worry about Bono. You’re such a beautiful boy!”

Jonah’s ears pricked up. He’d always been a sucker for flattery.

“And look at those eyes,” I added, trying to ignore Bono, who was now winding himself around my ankles. “How did they get so blue?”

When Bono meowed a second time, Jonah pressed his face into the screen and growled like a bear.

“Don’t be silly, Jonah,” I said. “Bono’s your friend.”

As Jonah’s eyes narrowed to a pair of turquoise slits, I could feel option two going down the drain. No way would Jonah welcome a rival cat into his life.

“Have you found him a home yet?” Philip asked.

“I thought I had. A girl said she wanted him,” I said. “But she didn’t show up.”

“That’s a shame,” Philip said, shaking his head. His disappointment seemed genuine.

“I’ve got a crazy neighbor,” I said, to lift the mood. “His name’s Patrick. He’s Irish and such a namedropper. Reckons he knows every writer that ever lived in New York.”

“He’s a writer?”

“I don’t think so. He just drinks with writers, and sleeps with them.”

“He lives downstairs?” Philip asked in a tone sober enough to serve at a vicarage tea party.

In every relationship, there’s a lover and a beloved. With Philip I’d always been the lover—adoring, insecure, and terrified he’d be swept away by a woman who understood the rules of rugby and had gym-honed thighs. Women friends were constantly telling me how lucky I was to be married to him, and I had to agree. He’s a fantastic husband and father whose kindheartedness and patience stretch to infinity.

Since the cancer, however, I’d released a lot of that anxiety. Life’s too short to fret over stuff that might never happen.

Cancer had taught me the only thing worse than dying is forgetting to live every day to the fullest. Paradoxically, because of the illness, I felt more alive than ever. The prospect of being a woman alone, abandoned, or otherwise, was no longer terrifying. Not only was I surviving New York, I was relishing the solitude. I didn’t have to make excuses or explain myself to anyone. Nobody expected me carry aspirin in my pocket in case they got a headache. And with Bono for a housemate, I was hardly lonely.

For the first time, it dawned on me that Philip might have an insecurity or two of his own. Whenever I’d joked he might trade me in for a cover model on an outdoor hiking magazine, he’d retaliate with the suggestion I’d run off with someone . . . literary.

“Oh no!” I said. “It’s not like that. He’s probably gay.”

In truth, Patrick was a flirt and almost certainly straight.

“In fact, I’m sure he’s gay,” I added. “He’s interested in my clothes.”

Jonah yowled again. Philip put his head to one side.

“Not in that way!” I said. “You know how gay men like shopping.”

“You go shopping with him?”

Jonah emitted an uncharacteristic hiss, which had no effect on Bono who was lying on his back toying with a piece of scrap paper.

“NO! I’m having a cup of tea down at his place later to celebrate Margaret Thatcher’s death. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know you care about Margaret Thatcher?”

“I don’t! I didn’t . . . it’s a New York thing,” I lied. “They’re all doing it here at the moment. Except most of them are drinking whiskey.”

There was an awkward silence.

He loosened his tie and talked about getting dinner. In fact, he looked tired.

As we signed off with reciprocal I-love-yous, Jonah shot me a death look.

That afternoon, I went downstairs and tapped on the DO NOT SLAM DOORS! sign. If only Philip could meet Patrick he’d know he had nothing to worry about. I waited a minute or two, but there was no reply. Relieved, I placed a copy of my book on the floor under the sign and tiptoed away.

* * *

I had plenty to do tidying myself up for the pet store book launch. Book signings make me nervous at the best of times. Once, in small town New Zealand, a woman who’d waited twenty minutes in line bent over and whispered in my ear that one day she’d be the author sitting in the chair, and I’d be the one paying homage to her. I told her I’d happily swap places.

One of the things I worry about is that readers will be disappointed when they meet me in the flesh. I’m hardly going to post my ugliest photos on social media. Besides, I’m not always funny or profound, and I can be a bit deaf these days. Then there is the matter of how much time to spend with each individual. If they have traveled on horseback through a war zone to meet me, they deserve more than a brisk smile and a signature scribbled inside the book they have just bought. I worry about spelling names wrong. Or, in the panic of it all, momentarily forgetting the name of a friend who has come along to give support. I’ve tried dealing with it by asking who she’d like me to sign the copy for. It doesn’t help when she puts her arm around my shoulder and says, “Just me.”

Quite often, people want to share their stories of grief, and these encounters are incredibly precious. We exchange hugs and sometimes weep together. In many cases, all they seem to need is reassurance they are not alone. In this world that worships success, death is regarded as the ultimate failure. I can never give these souls enough time. Together we are learning that without pain and loss, life would be a carnival ride with no meaning.

On the other hand, a reader might want to regale me with details of an argument he’s having with a neighbor over barking dogs. If the reader happens to be Polish, Japanese, or German and a translator’s involved, the exchange becomes even more bewildering. That’s when the publisher’s representative, if she’s on the ball, will step in and steer him toward the drinks table.

Probably the worst thing that can happen at a book signing is nobody shows up. Still, that was unlikely to happen in New York because of the pet shop setting. At worst, a few goldfish would be in attendance.

At least I was pleased with my new outfit. The electric blue jacket was long enough to cover my backside, and I couldn’t go wrong with black trousers. The only thing that remained to sort out was my hair. Before leaving Australia, I’d promised my Melbourne hairdresser, Brendan, I’d try out a salon whose website he was obsessed with.

I arrived early (as usual) so I crossed Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th Streets and entered the golden bowels of Trump Tower. With its cliffs of gleaming glass, the foyer was the modern equivalent of a pharaoh’s tomb. Strains of a plaintive Elvis wafted through invisible loudspeakers. Intrigued, I rode the escalator to a Starbucks on the mezzanine floor and ordered a cappuccino.

Though I was familiar with the wigged tycoon who fired people on TV, it was clear nobody was ever going to take the man seriously. Not when he owned a fifty-eight-story building with a top floor marked sixty-eight. It was like a teenage boy swearing six inches was really eight.

Over at the hairdresser’s, Marcello the mustachioed colorist draped a black wrap over my shoulders.

“You must have had very light hair when you were a child,” he said, running a comb through my roots.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“It’s just a thing I have,” he said.

“Like . . . an invisible power?”

“You could call it that,” he said. “I can tell people’s nationality from their hair, too.”

“Really? Did you learn that in a course?”

Back home, Brendan was always going on courses.

“Hell no,” said Marcello, flashing his Mediterranean eyes at the mirror. “It’s something I do. I’m never wrong.”

“Wow! That’s amazing,” I said. “Can you tell where I’m from?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding like a magician about to cast a spell.

I waited breathless as Marcello inspected my scalp. I could hardly wait for him to settle the debate that had kept our family arguing for generations: Were we Scottish or French?

“German,” Marcello announced.

“What?” I said, astonished. “Are you sure?”

“Without a doubt,” he said, raising his comb and pointing it at me like a wand. “You’re German.”

A delicately built Canadian girl was in charge of drying my hair.

“Do you have a cat?” she shouted over the buzz of the machine.

I nearly jumped out of the chair. Everyone in the salon seemed to be psychic.

“How on Earth did you know?” I asked.

She laughed and pointed at the strands of Bono’s hair on my sleeve. Though she’d moved from Toronto to make it in the Big Apple, her new life was nowhere near as glamorous as she’d hoped. With the commuting and long hours, she was pushing to survive on less and less sleep. No wonder New Yorkers went neurotic or turned to pills, she said.

I’d never had a book signing in a pet shop before. Thanks to the publishing team’s understanding, Bono was roosting on his pillow back in our apartment. A pair of handsome black understudies and a tortoiseshell had stepped in on his behalf and taken center stage in the store. Like Bono, they were up for rehoming. Though shoppers circled their cage with interest, nobody was willing to walk out the door with a new pet in tow. It was a sobering reminder how naive I’d been to even try to find a full-time mom for a cat with compromised kidneys.

My books were on display toward the back of the store. I sat at the table there and lifted my pen.

“Where’s Bono?” the voice had a sharpness that put me on guard.

“He couldn’t come here today,” I said, glancing up to see an older woman in a gray raincoat.

“I’ve been reading about him in Huffington Post. I’ve seen the photos,” she said.

“Are you interested in adopting him?” I asked.

“No, but what’s the point of having this event without him being here?” her tone was taking on a threatening edge.

“I’m sure you understand he’s not in great health,” I said.

“Not good enough!” she shouted.

I glanced sideways for a potential rescuer, but Michaela was engaged in conversation with a man who wanted to know if the black cats could be separated, or if they had to be adopted together.

“Go and get Bono right now!” the woman shouted.

“I’m sorry, but . . .”

To my relief, Karen ferried me to the safety of a storeroom, while Vida took the woman aside and talked her down.

Bono was stepping into more lives and in different ways than I’d imagined possible.