Bono

“I thought I had. A girl said she wanted him,” I said. “But she didn’t show up.”

“That’s a shame,” Philip said, shaking his head. His disappointment seemed genuine.

“I’ve got a crazy neighbor,” I said, to lift the mood. “His name’s Patrick. He’s Irish and such a namedropper. Reckons he knows every writer that ever lived in New York.”

“He’s a writer?”

“I don’t think so. He just drinks with writers, and sleeps with them.”

“He lives downstairs?” Philip asked in a tone sober enough to serve at a vicarage tea party.

In every relationship, there’s a lover and a beloved. With Philip I’d always been the lover—adoring, insecure, and terrified he’d be swept away by a woman who understood the rules of rugby and had gym-honed thighs. Women friends were constantly telling me how lucky I was to be married to him, and I had to agree. He’s a fantastic husband and father whose kindheartedness and patience stretch to infinity.

Since the cancer, however, I’d released a lot of that anxiety. Life’s too short to fret over stuff that might never happen.

Cancer had taught me the only thing worse than dying is forgetting to live every day to the fullest. Paradoxically, because of the illness, I felt more alive than ever. The prospect of being a woman alone, abandoned, or otherwise, was no longer terrifying. Not only was I surviving New York, I was relishing the solitude. I didn’t have to make excuses or explain myself to anyone. Nobody expected me carry aspirin in my pocket in case they got a headache. And with Bono for a housemate, I was hardly lonely.

For the first time, it dawned on me that Philip might have an insecurity or two of his own. Whenever I’d joked he might trade me in for a cover model on an outdoor hiking magazine, he’d retaliate with the suggestion I’d run off with someone . . . literary.

“Oh no!” I said. “It’s not like that. He’s probably gay.”

In truth, Patrick was a flirt and almost certainly straight.

“In fact, I’m sure he’s gay,” I added. “He’s interested in my clothes.”

Jonah yowled again. Philip put his head to one side.

“Not in that way!” I said. “You know how gay men like shopping.”

“You go shopping with him?”

Jonah emitted an uncharacteristic hiss, which had no effect on Bono who was lying on his back toying with a piece of scrap paper.

“NO! I’m having a cup of tea down at his place later to celebrate Margaret Thatcher’s death. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know you care about Margaret Thatcher?”

“I don’t! I didn’t . . . it’s a New York thing,” I lied. “They’re all doing it here at the moment. Except most of them are drinking whiskey.”

There was an awkward silence.

He loosened his tie and talked about getting dinner. In fact, he looked tired.

As we signed off with reciprocal I-love-yous, Jonah shot me a death look.

That afternoon, I went downstairs and tapped on the DO NOT SLAM DOORS! sign. If only Philip could meet Patrick he’d know he had nothing to worry about. I waited a minute or two, but there was no reply. Relieved, I placed a copy of my book on the floor under the sign and tiptoed away.

* * *

I had plenty to do tidying myself up for the pet store book launch. Book signings make me nervous at the best of times. Once, in small town New Zealand, a woman who’d waited twenty minutes in line bent over and whispered in my ear that one day she’d be the author sitting in the chair, and I’d be the one paying homage to her. I told her I’d happily swap places.

One of the things I worry about is that readers will be disappointed when they meet me in the flesh. I’m hardly going to post my ugliest photos on social media. Besides, I’m not always funny or profound, and I can be a bit deaf these days. Then there is the matter of how much time to spend with each individual. If they have traveled on horseback through a war zone to meet me, they deserve more than a brisk smile and a signature scribbled inside the book they have just bought. I worry about spelling names wrong. Or, in the panic of it all, momentarily forgetting the name of a friend who has come along to give support. I’ve tried dealing with it by asking who she’d like me to sign the copy for. It doesn’t help when she puts her arm around my shoulder and says, “Just me.”

Quite often, people want to share their stories of grief, and these encounters are incredibly precious. We exchange hugs and sometimes weep together. In many cases, all they seem to need is reassurance they are not alone. In this world that worships success, death is regarded as the ultimate failure. I can never give these souls enough time. Together we are learning that without pain and loss, life would be a carnival ride with no meaning.

On the other hand, a reader might want to regale me with details of an argument he’s having with a neighbor over barking dogs. If the reader happens to be Polish, Japanese, or German and a translator’s involved, the exchange becomes even more bewildering. That’s when the publisher’s representative, if she’s on the ball, will step in and steer him toward the drinks table.