Bono

Chapter Thirty-three

INVASION OF A DOOR SLAMMER

A cat does not relish being caught off guard.

Dad used to keep a little bar in the corner of the living room. If I close my eyes, I can almost see the bottles gleaming on a silver tray. I liked the jolly Beefeater on the Gordon’s Gin label, and the mysterious green of the Tanqueray bottle. There was always a specimen or two of Dad’s Single Malt whiskey, and, alongside the corkscrew, a crystal decanter for sherry. People drank a lot of sherry in those days. My favorite was the soda bottle with a fitted lever, which could be squeezed to produce instant bubbles.

Hardly a night went by without a gin or whiskey being poured. There were parties, too. Tucked away upstairs, we kids slept through most of them, but we’d occasionally hear snippets about the time Mum danced on a tabletop or Dad ended up having to go to the hospital because he slashed his hand trying to fix the toilet.

Their behavior seems wild by today’s standards, but going by Mad Men and the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, they were normal by 1960s standards.

Mum and Dad made adulthood look like fun, and I was looking forward to it. By the time I understood a lot of their highs were alcohol fueled, I realized there were probably more constructive forms of enjoyment without the accompanying punishment of a hangover.

I sometimes wonder if Mum and Dad drank so much over their lifetimes, they left me with a mild allergy to the stuff.

The trouble with hardly ever drinking is how susceptible it leaves me to getting drunk. After two brandies, my cheeks were on fire. Patrick’s apartment rotated around me in a movement that was almost imperceptible at first. Not since eating a three-course dinner in a revolving restaurant had I felt so queasy.

Glancing at my watch, I noticed the Skyping hour had arrived.

“You’ll not be going now,” Patrick said, as I made excuses.

I was still wary of telling him I kept an in-house animal. Through all my weeks of residency, I hadn’t seen so much as a Pomeranian’s tail in the building. Though he was entertaining enough, he had a dangerous tongue that thrived on gossip. The last thing Bono and I needed at this late stage was to be evicted by a building full of animal phobics.

“Let me see you out then,” he said, sauntering toward the door.

The chill of the stairwell was a welcome balm. I heard the front door bang shut down at street level, followed by muffled voices. Our building was never silent.

“Feel free to slam the door, won’t you?!” Patrick shouted into the stairwell.

His tone was so vitriolic I felt sorry for whoever was at the receiving end. But Patrick’s mood was short-lived.

“Have yourself a glorious night, Miss Golightly!” he said, sweeping his arm with old-world panache in front of me.

His voice echoed across the stairwell. Leaning over the railing I inhaled gulps of tainted oxygen. That’s when I noticed someone climbing the stairs below. He was wearing a black ski cap and a dark coat. Despite the suitcase he was dragging behind him, the man’s stride was purposeful, almost athletic.

“Look what we have here,” Patrick crowed. “A new arrival in earthly paradise!”

The man stopped and raised his head to look at us.

Most of the time, life spins past in such a blur the bulk of the day is forgotten by bedtime. This particular moment was different. As I looked down at the face, time slowed until it froze like an alpine lake.

Though I didn’t recognize the ski cap, the strong jawline, the broad forehead, and steady blue eyes were instantly familiar. Philip was smiling up at me in that self-contained way of his. I galloped down the stairs and threw my arms around him.

“What are you doing here?” I said, barely able to contain my happiness. “I thought you were on retreat.”

He pulled me close and kissed me on the lips. It was unspeakably good to feel the warmth of his body

“I decided they could manage without me for a while,” he said.

It was unheard of. He never took time off from work. When I asked how he’d got into the building, he said he’d bumped into a nice woman from the first floor at the front door and she’d let him in.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he added, refusing my offer to help him with the suitcase.

“You’ve certainly done that,” I said, trailing after him up the flight of steps to Patrick’s door. I was hoping Patrick would have had the tact and good manners to go back inside. But he was still standing in his doorway.

“You didn’t say your son was paying a visit,” Patrick said, narrowing his gaze through a shroud of smoke.

I corrected him. Philip extended his hand, enveloped Patrick’s paw, and gave it a sturdy shake.

“So, you’re the husband,” Patrick said, after an appraisal. “Come to rescue Miss Golightly, have you? Good luck with that one.”

If there’d been one of Patrick’s whiskey bottles on hand, I’d have cheerfully clocked him with it.