Bono

While Cleo the cat seemed to be an angel from another world through the darkest days of my grief, when I sent her story to literary agents and publishers most had run for the hills. Eventually it was picked up and before long it had been translated into countless languages.

Just when I was thinking it was time to sign up for gardening classes, I was spinning around the world in a whirl of happy disbelief—magical parties in Frankfurt and Vienna, where writers are revered as artists. In Warsaw, Poland, I found people love to read so much they fill a soccer stadium for their book fair. A tour of the tsunami region of Japan affected me profoundly. It was an honor beyond words when people who had lost so much wanted to share their grief with me.

At an elegant lunch on a whirlwind trip to New York, I steadied a glass of chardonnay and hoped my antipodean earthiness and oversized feet weren’t too laughable.

Across the table, a woman beamed worldly warmth from under a froth of blond hair. The bright scarf around her neck was pinned together with a vivid enamel brooch the shape of a cat. Feline fanatic to the core, she confessed to keeping three cats in her two bedroomed apartment. When she smiled, the restaurant took on a peachy hue. Her name was Michaela Hamilton, executive editor at Kensington Publishing, and Cleo’s US editor.

Now, with a new book soon to be released in the United States, I had a watertight excuse to return to New York. Except this time, I’d stay longer, immerse myself in the city, and put my dreary suburban life on hold. If I met enough fabulous people, some of their glamour might rub off on me. I’d drink champagne with the literati and (if my knee held out) dance down Fifth Avenue at dawn. They might even like me enough to ask me to stay on indefinitely. Only a fool would say no to that. All I had to do was contact Michaela and introduce my other half to the brilliance of the idea.

Philip’s side of the bed was empty. I knew the rule. I was supposed to stay put until he brought in the tea and toast. Our sleepy cat protested as I rolled him off my body and leapt out of bed into my dressing gown. Jonah yowled and tried to cut me off so he could wrangle me back to bed for his regular cuddle. I sidestepped the flicking tail and dashed into my study.

According to my calculations, it would be late afternoon in New York.

I was in luck. Michaela was still at her desk.

Her enthusiasm bubbled back across cyberspace. If I visited in a couple of months’ time, toward the end of March, to coincide with the release of Cats & Daughters, we could have fun together and maybe sell a few books. She agreed that instead of staying in a hotel I should rent an apartment. That way it would be easier to extend my stay and discuss new projects with her.

I pictured myself trotting across Times Square to her office building every morning to discuss my outline for the next Game of Thrones before heading around the corner to binge on a Broadway matinee. As dusk settled over the Empire State Building I’d make a cameo appearance on The Daily Show, before heading across town for cocktails with Stephen Colbert. It was like offering an ice addict her own meth lab.

After Michaela and I signed off, I floated into the kitchen, where Philip was applying broad strokes of jam to a slab of toast.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure how to share the news. Jonah snaked around my ankles and wailed like Plácido Domingo.

“Has he had his pill?” I asked. Without his daily antipsychotic medication, our cat screams nonstop, shreds the house to pieces, and (if all else fails) goes on a spraying jag.

Philip is the resident expert at pill dispensing. Jonah lies like a baby in his arms while he drops the capsule deftly in the back of the feline’s throat. Whenever Philip’s away and I’m forced to man the pill, the patient wriggles, spits the thing out, and snubs me for hours.

“I gave it to him just now,” he said. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, I’m quite hot, actually. Well, I used to be. I was thinking. . .”

“Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring this in to you.”

“I’m thinking . . . I’ve got to go to New York.”

The words came out with the elegance of a cat coughing up a hair ball.

“What for?”

“They want me there to promote the new book,” I said.

My husband took a yellow dishcloth from the bench top and wiped the red tear dribbling down the side of the jam jar.

“The ants are back,” he said after a long silence.

I was so over the ants. They swarmed Jonah’s food bowls every night. He’s terrified of ants, which is undignified for a cat who relished the idea of taking on a rat, or even a small dog. We’d tried every type of trap and poison, but our ants just ignored them and went on with their plans to take over the world.