Bono

The woman held up two tiny vests, identical in size and color.

“Burberry’s classic,” the friend said. “But Gucci has that European style.”

A dark line appeared between the blond woman’s eyebrows. It must have been overlooked in her last botox appointment. Not since the invasion of Iraq had a decision carried so much weight.

“I know!” she said after a lengthy pause. “I’ll take them both.”

With her new outfit and hairdo, Lydia almost blended into the surroundings. But my wild hair and paint-spattered coat made me feel like a mongrel at a dog show. I was nowhere near skinny, tailored, and blow dried enough. However, like all the best-bred people, the sales staff went out of their way to put outsiders at ease.

We followed our noses down an escalator to a cosmetics department in the basement to find the entrance to what seemed a delightful little café. It was lunchtime and the prices on the menu board weren’t outrageous.

“Excuse me, madam.”

The voice belonged to a young man with luminous eyes. I was momentarily mesmerized by his dark suit and stylish hair. Until, to my horror, I saw he was wielding a large makeup brush.

“Would madam like a little touch-up before dining?” he asked.

Back home offering to touch someone up could land you in court.

“Not just now, thanks,” I said, assuming the phrase had a different meaning in the States.

“Do you think we should leave?” I whispered to Lydia.

I tried to drag her away, but she stood her ground. A helpful waiter slid me out of my coat and pointed us to a corner banquette.

I lowered my backside onto the upholstery and pretended to study the menu. The place was unpretentious in an upmarket way. Well-dressed women picked birdishly at their salads.

“Is that mink?” Lydia asked, watching the waiter ferry another customer’s coat to the cloakroom.

While I was uncomfortable amid all the understated privilege, she didn’t seem at all intimidated.

“This is the sort of place a mother and daughter would plan a wedding in the Hamptons, don’t you think?” she said.

I could hardly believe she of the Buddhist robes could adapt seamlessly to such opulent surroundings.

The waiter was reassuringly unsnooty as I tried to upscale my accent.

“Let’s have a glass of wine,” Lydia said.

“With alcohol?”

“You probably don’t know, but in my early student days I got drunk most lunchtimes,” she said.

The waiter smiled and suggested a light chardonnay with a hint of citrus.

“Wasn’t that a chess club you used to go to?”

“That’s what we called it,” she said, flicking her hair. The new blond streaks made her look like a movie star. And was that a shimmer of lip gloss?

Two glasses appeared in front of us.

“Guess I learn something every day,” I said. “Here’s to a safe trip home.”

“And to Bono,” Lydia said, clinking my glass. “Oh, and there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“A wedding in the Hamptons?” I asked.

“No,” she laughed. “I know you’re planning on taking him back to the shelter the minute I’ve gone.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If you were serious about keeping him you’d have started the blog by now.”

The waiter lowered our perfect salads onto the table.

“This is like visiting Buckingham Palace and having the queen make you pancakes,” I whispered.

Lydia fixed me with her psychologist’s gaze.

“Stop changing the subject,” she said.

“Look, I like Bono, but he loathes me. It’ll be like a bad marriage.”

“He’s the most beautiful little cat in the world,” she said.

“I know, but I’ve spent a lifetime looking after helpless creatures. I’ve got caregiver’s fatigue.”

My daughter wasn’t impressed.

“Things don’t always work out, you know,” I said. “What if I can’t find him a home? If he dies because I can’t get a pill inside him? It’ll be heartbreaking.”

Lydia raised a fork and sank it into her salad.

“If you can’t do it for him, do it for me,” she said. “Please, Mum. Promise?”

Music wafted from a speaker somewhere while I stared into my glass and tried to examine my options. There weren’t any.

“Okay,” I said. “I promise.”

We hurried back to the apartment to see how the special treat pouches had gone down. Bono hadn’t touched them. He’d ignored the chicken, too.

Chapter Seventeen

TEARING MY HAIR OUT

Cats are people, too.

Bono still looked like a famine victim. His coat was duller than ever. I worried his health was failing under our haphazard care. I’d been hoping he’d soon be in the arms of his caregivers at Bideawee in the next day or so. Jon and his helpers were far more capable of ministering the medication he needed. But Lydia had put an end to all that. If Bono was to survive with me, I’d need a new, workable regime.

I rang the shelter. A woman answered the phone.

“Is Jon there?”

“I’m sorry, he’s out today. Can I help you?”

Out? How could a cat whisperer take a vacation?

“It’s Bono,” I said. “The little black cat with the . . .”

“We all know Bono,” she said with a smile in her voice.

There was a shuffling sound under my bed. Bono was listening to every word.