Bono

It was a good thing Lydia was accustomed to sleeping in confined spaces. If she’d rolled over during the night, she would have landed on the glass coffee table. The vacant eye of a small television stared out at her from a few feet across the room.

A table just big enough for a chair and a laptop sat in the corner near my bed. Though I was aware a crippled Wi-Fi connection was a first world problem, I was relying on Skype to keep our long-distance marriage alive.

Cleared of rubbish and the worst of the smell, our studio took on a raffish charm. The fireplace next to the television hadn’t been used for years from the look of it. Some enterprising soul had freshened it up with white paint and transformed it into what real estate agents call a period feature. Next to it, the daffodils we’d bought ourselves as a housewarming present the previous night glowed from a tall vase.

Even the smallest apartments have eccentricities. Next to the bathroom we discovered a large, airless room. The space was too cavernous to be called a closet, but it had a few wire coat hangers dangling from a pipe down the left-hand side. After we’d wheeled our suitcases in there we christened it the Bunker.

Rolling out of bed, I tugged the curtains and let out a cry of delight.

“What is it?” Lydia asked, bleary with sleep.

“There’s a fire escape straight out of West Side Story!” I said. “Can’t you just see Tony climbing up those steps and singing ‘Tonight’?”

My daughter groaned and turned her face to the wall. The act of forcibly not singing was making my sinuses throb.

Across the concreted building shaft, I made out the silhouettes of workers bent over their desks to start the day.

Though they were in another building, we were at the same level and they were just a few yards away. If one of them had looked up, they would have seen a wild woman in her nightie watching them.

I could see a tall man and a slightly built woman standing close to the window. They were engrossed in conversation and the tension between them was intimate enough to make me wonder if they were having an affair. But at second glance, his concentration was focused on her clipboard, not her cleavage.

Back in Melbourne, Philip would be climbing into his pajamas after a long day’s work. Jonah would be waiting to pounce on our bed. I wondered how our feline was adjusting to having just one set of legs to snuggle into. I tried Skype again. After a series of watery bleeps, the line went dead. I told myself I wasn’t missing them at all, just wondering how they were doing.

As I smoothed the bed covers and plumped the pillows, I hummed “America” (under my breath to avoid getting into trouble with my traveling companion). Our apartment was tiny and scruffy, but it was ours. I was already in love with it.

The only sobering thought was that in a few hours’ time, unless I could think of a watertight excuse, we’d be sharing it with Mavis.

I stumped past Lydia to the bathroom. It had hardly enough room for a human toilet, let alone a litter box. As I rinsed the residue of yesterday’s paint off my arms, I empathized with babies in the later months of pregnancy. My buttocks collided with the wall when I bent to pick up the soap. Our new shower curtain sucked at my thighs while water puddled on the floor. To be a New Yorker is to economize on movement.

After I’d dressed, thrown on some blush to hide residual paint blobs, and wandered into the kitchenette, Lydia asked if the animal shelter might be open yet.

“Hardly,” I said, spooning ancient grains into a bowl.

“It’s after nine.”

“Yes, but we can’t just go and collect a cat like that,” I said, trying not to shatter a tooth.

“Why not?”

She listened like Judge Judy while I explained we’d need to acquire a litter box at least before we could think about letting a cat move in.

“No problem,” she said, pulling on her long pants. “There’s a pet supply shop across the street.”

I urged her to slow down. She needed to shower and have breakfast. Then maybe we could squeeze in a visit to MoMA, and possibly even the Frick.

After she’d gulped down her antiquated grains, I followed her downstairs into a brilliantly crisp day. The handbag sellers were setting up their stall near the corner. Rows of vividly colored wares jostled in the breeze, competing for our attention.

“Wow! Aren’t they adorable? Haven’t you always wanted a bright yellow tote?”

Lydia stood back, tactfully ignoring my question.

“Or one with red polka dots!”

“Would it match any of your clothes?”

True, my wardrobe back home was full of frumpy tunics and sturdy shoes with minimal heels. And every handbag I’d ever owned was black. Anyone would think I belonged to a sect. All that was about to change.

“How about this gorgeous blue one?” I said, reaching to remove it from its hook so I could inspect the lining.

The salesman shot me an icy look. I lowered my hand, grabbed Lydia’s arm and swept her around the corner.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“He thought I was going to steal it!”