Bono

“We’ll have to take him back to Bideawee. Jon will think we’re a joke.”

“Give him time.” Lydia was using her psychology skills again.

“Michaela and Vida will think I’m an idiot! Why can’t he come out from under there so I can give him his pill?”

“Don’t worry,” Lydia said. “Let’s have dinner. I’ll get us some takeout food from that Chinese restaurant.”

Alone in the room, I had a feeling I was being watched. Maybe this is all he needs, I thought. If we go about our everyday activities, he’ll get used to the sound of our voices, our routines, and maybe become more interested in getting to know us. For now, though, it was clear he wanted us to ignore him. We had no choice but to oblige.

I fiddled with the Skype connection on my laptop. The prepaid USB stick from the computer shop seemed to be working.

“Hello, stranger!” I said.

It was so good to see Philip’s face again.

He was in bed waking up to early morning Melbourne. Jonah yowled from the pillow beside him. Somewhere in the background, a tram was rattling down High Street a few yards from our house.

“Still wearing the pajamas,” I said.

“I need them. And this,” he said, holding up a mohair blanket. “It’s freezing here without you. What have you been up to?”

“We found out Michaela’s an ice skating goddess and you wouldn’t believe what a mess this place was. Honestly, they must’ve been druggies . . .” Jonah’s ears swiveled at the sound of my voice, while my husband listened the way an adult does to a breathless child.

“Oh and then we went to a Holi festival. See? I’ve still got paint on my arms.”

“How’s the apartment now?” he asked.

I spun my laptop around the room and gave him a running commentary about the layout and the West Side Story fire escape.

“Where’s the cat?” he asked, when I paused to take a breath.

I lowered the computer to the floor beside my bed.

“Under there,” I said. “He’s got beautiful eyes. Can you see him?”

Philip leaned into his computer screen.

“It’s too dark,” he said.

There was something surreal about my husband being on screen in such familiar surroundings while I felt like Alice in Wonderland on speed. I could almost smell the motionless air of our bedroom back home. It was ages since I’d vacuumed behind that bed. The wall behind him hadn’t changed color in at least a decade. In all honesty, the place looked stale.

“Well, I’d better jump in the shower and get off to work,” he said, lifting Jonah gently on to the floor.

There’d be a hollow echo through the house as he closed the front door. If I was still at home, Jonah and I would be left to muddle through twelve hours of housework mingled with writing attempts. I was in no hurry to get back. Not if I could spend the rest of my days sipping champagne on the balcony of a little apartment in Soho. We blew hygienic kisses and said good-bye as Lydia arrived with dinner.

As we sat side by side on the sofa forking steamed cabbage from polystyrene containers, we tried to talk about other things, but our thoughts were focused on the reluctant houseguest under my bed.

“We’ve got to get him back in the Bunker,” I said. “Otherwise, he’ll never adjust to living here.”

“Ssshhh,” Lydia said. “He’s listening.”

It’s hard to know how much human language cats understand, but she was right. There were scuffling noises from under the bed as we quietly devised a plan.

With no time to delay, we took our positions. I crouched on one side of the bed while Lydia slithered, commando-like, toward Bono from the other. The cat was too fast for us, however. He bolted out into the room. Lydia took chase. She nearly caught him, but he slid out of her hands with impressive expertise and skidded straight back under the bed. Chasing Bono in and out of hiding places was an endurance sport. Before long, Lydia collapsed on the sofa, while I fell on the bed, hoping the pressure on the mattress wouldn’t squash the tenant underneath.

“This is no fun!” I gasped. “Why can’t he be friendly?”

Staring up at the purple curtains, I wondered how soon we could take up Jon’s offer to return Bono to Bideawee. The cat was clearly miserable living with us.

Even Lydia didn’t seem so besotted anymore. She quietly made up her sofa with sheets and the blanket. I asked if she’d like to share the bed with me, but she said she was fine. To tell the truth, I wasn’t heartbroken because my bed was so narrow it barely classified as a double.

I took the copy of Time Out off the bedside table that doubled as a chest of drawers and salivated over the shows and plays going on just a few blocks away.

“Hey Liddy,” I said. “Something called Kinky Boots is getting great reviews on Broadway. Shall I see if we can get tickets?”

She was either asleep, or pretending to be. My daughter’s lack of interest in musicals was unfathomable.

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