Bono

Yet I was feeling the achy pull of my old life. The leaves on the tree in our back garden would be turning yellow and starting to drop. Jonah would be curled in front of the fire, and with any luck had stopped licking his leg. I needed to tell Philip how I missed the warmth of his body and holding hands on our Sunday morning walks. Back at the apartment, when I set up the laptop for Skype, I was shocked at how ancient I looked on screen. I pulled the curtain to soften the light and positioned the computer at an angle that disguised my scraggy neck. I meant to start on a romantic note. Instead, my voice had a querulous edge.

“Where is he?” I asked, when Philip appeared.

Though he smiled and seemed pleased to see me, I could tell his attention was elsewhere.

“Who, Jonah? Asleep upstairs, I think.”

“How’s that patch on his leg?”

“Oh, the same, maybe a bit worse.”

“Worse?! How worse?”

“He’s okay.”

I recognized that offhand lack of engagement in my husband.

“You’re watching rugby, aren’t you?”

His eyes drifted sideways. Some meaty-thighed player must have kicked a goal.

“I’d better not keep you,” I said.

He accepted my offer almost too readily. With his rugby and his glass of beer, he seemed to be enjoying life rather too much without me.

“I suppose it’s only natural after twenty-two years a man would rather watch rugby,” I said, closing the laptop.

This wasn’t good. I was talking to myself. Then I remembered what Jon had said about reading to kittens. Just the sound of a human voice can make a difference. So, I addressed the invisible lodger lurking under the bed.

“Gosh, Bono, my knee hurts. Is that why you do those arabesques with your back leg? Have you got arthritis or something? Do you think you could ever like me? I don’t eat cats, you know. Besides, neither of us is in our prime. Which reminds me, it would be very good if you could have a go at doing number two sometime. What do you think, Bono?”

My questions were answered with silence. I closed my eyes and tried to tune into my furry housemate on a psychic wavelength. The words that bounced into my head were loud and clear—“You’re crazy!”

As the light faded, I walked to a neighborhood bar where an amiable group of people was engrossed in a basketball game on the television above the bartender’s head. They erupted into cheers every now and then. Though I’ve tried to understand rugby for the sake of our marriage, the allure of sport remains a mystery. I can appreciate the athletes’ fine young bodies and the discipline it takes to acquire them, but whatever game they’re playing it’s nothing beyond stylized warfare. I glanced at the intense faces smiling over their beers—and felt profoundly alone.

Later, back at the apartment, I slid all the locks across the inside of our front door. Reassured I was safely shut away from the world, I checked the windows. To my dismay, the window lock above my bed was completely broken. Through all the time Lydia and I had been living there, someone could have climbed the fire escape and let himself in.

There was no point phoning Ted or whoever was manning the rental agency. I’d only get an answering machine at this hour. Philip would be fast asleep with Jonah between his knees. What could he do from this distance, anyway? Calling the cops would be melodramatic under the circumstances. There was no one to turn to. Chilled with fear, I closed the curtains, turned the light off, and climbed into bed. Thanks to city lights filtering through the purple curtains, the darkest our apartment ever got was a dusky mauve. I pulled Lydia’s blanket over my face, clutched my pillow, and longed to be back home in front of the fire.

While I was willing sleep to transport me to a friendlier, safer place, something jumped on the bed. Rigid with fright, I fought the urge to scream.

Seconds later, to my great relief, I watched the silhouette of a tiny black lion bounce over the covers to nestle beside my feet.

Chapter Twenty-one

ALONE, NOT LONELY

A feline sees beauty in every day.

I woke the next morning with a pompom in my face. As my eyes cleared, it became clear it was not a pompom, but the fluffy tip of Bono’s tail. He was curled up on the pillow next to mine. His owlish eyes fixed me with an unblinking stare.

Repressing the urge to cry out and throw grateful arms around him, I closed my eyes again and pretended to sleep. After what seemed several lifetimes, I felt something flicking leisurely across my nostrils. Bono was using his tail as my wake-up call.

Much as I longed to reach out and run my hands through his scruffy mane, the cat had made it clear what the dynamics of our relationship were. He was the rock star, and I was the humble fan.

“Good morning sir,” I said. “How long have you been sitting there?”