Bono

That said, I was disturbed at the physical effect this thoughtful young man was having on me. My cheeks were burning. I called Lydia over. We decided Ramon was probably large, thanked the man and bought the T-shirt.

“A bit young for you, isn’t he?” Lydia said as we made our way to the sales desk.

“Don’t be silly. He thinks I’m his mother.”

I hadn’t felt so wickedly free since 1969. But then I saw him in the men’s shoe section. Philip was standing in front of a mirror inspecting a brand new pair of cowboy boots. Wild West gear was hardly his usual taste. Maybe he was having an identity crisis, too. Not that I was having a crisis. If I was going through anything, it was more of a post-cancer, two-thirds life reinvention.

In a rush of affection, I hurried toward him and was on the point of wrapping my arms around him, cowboy boots and all. Until I realized he didn’t look the least bit like the man I loved.

We left Macy’s and crossed the street to Victoria’s Secret. Not so long ago, Lydia had turned me on to the ultra-comfortable bras she’d been buying from infomercials. Made of beige polyester with straps thick enough to hoist a shipping container, they were comfortable, but hardly alluring. They suited me fine, particularly as underwires aren’t recommended for women who have had breast cancer. But I was concerned my Gen Y daughter saw the point of them, too.

The only thing more difficult than imagining that your parents are having sex is to conjure up visions of your children doing it. Still, I didn’t want Lydia to miss out on the ecstatic highs—and she had a better chance of achieving them wearing something other than a bra designed for decrepit piano teachers.

A friendly shop assistant directed her to some leopard skin bras trimmed with neon pink lace (it was the year of animal prints). Lydia was quick to try them on and they looked so good, we bought two with matching panties. The turquoise bra I bought for myself wasn’t quite so alluring, but it was less utilitarian than the skin-colored boob hammocks at home. I wondered if Philip would notice the difference.

While my daughter’s attention was diverted to a flouncy nightie Mum would have called “slutty,” I fingered a satin scarlet bra. It was the same size and style as the turquoise one. The likelihood of wearing it in real life was slim, but the encounter in Macy’s menswear had unsettled me. Novels have been written about wives on the run, drunk with freedom. They always end up throwing themselves under trains or overdosing on laudanum. Still, this was twenty-first century New York. If I wanted to become a sexagenarian sex kitten, it was my choice. After a quick check that nobody was looking, I tucked the red bra in my shopping basket under the turquoise one.

As the afternoon melted away, we ran out of hands to carry any more bags. I started feeling guilty about the rubbish island that’s bigger than Texas floating out in the Pacific. Even if we recycled the bags, they’d probably end up choking fish somewhere.

Lydia was running out of energy, too.

“I’m worried about Bono,” she said. Using the Chrysler Building as a point of reference, we made our way back to Second Avenue. Heavy with trepidation, I opened the heart lock to climb the paint-speckled stairs.

Chapter Twelve

CAT BALLET

Happiness is a sock.

The studio was eerily silent. Lydia called through the Bunker door, but there was no reply. I wondered if a cat burglar had snuck in and abducted Bono while we were out.

“Do you think he’s asleep?” I asked.

“Why don’t you take a look?”

As I reached for the handle, the Bunker door exploded open.

“Oh no!” Lydia cried as a black dart sped across the room and disappeared under my bed.

“Come out!” I said, crouching to peer under the bed.

A pair of golden eyes glowered from the shadows and refused to budge.

Lydia lowered herself on to her stomach and wriggled across the floor toward him.

“Hello, Bono boy,” she crooned. “Don’t be scared. We’re going to look after you.”

Her tone made me think of a cop talking a suicide case off a bridge.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” she said.

Lydia’s patience with our fugitive was endless.

Superfluous to the interaction, I went to take a look inside the Bunker. I was relieved to see there was a dark stain in the litter box. Though the smell was slightly sour, it was a sign his kidneys were functioning. When I saw the food bowl was empty, I felt a surge of happiness. Our captive had felt comfortable enough to eat. But when I saw the small white pill sitting in the bottom of the bowl, I let out an involuntary groan.

“What’s the matter?” Lydia called. I scraped the tablet up and took it to show her.

“He hasn’t even licked the thing,” I said.

“That’s no good,” Lydia said, standing up and brushing her trousers off.

“If we don’t get a pill into him soon, he’ll get sick,” I said, tossing the rejected tablet in the bin.

“He’s still settling in,” Lydia said.