Bono

Probably the worst thing that can happen at a book signing is nobody shows up. Still, that was unlikely to happen in New York because of the pet shop setting. At worst, a few goldfish would be in attendance.

At least I was pleased with my new outfit. The electric blue jacket was long enough to cover my backside, and I couldn’t go wrong with black trousers. The only thing that remained to sort out was my hair. Before leaving Australia, I’d promised my Melbourne hairdresser, Brendan, I’d try out a salon whose website he was obsessed with.

I arrived early (as usual) so I crossed Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th Streets and entered the golden bowels of Trump Tower. With its cliffs of gleaming glass, the foyer was the modern equivalent of a pharaoh’s tomb. Strains of a plaintive Elvis wafted through invisible loudspeakers. Intrigued, I rode the escalator to a Starbucks on the mezzanine floor and ordered a cappuccino.

Though I was familiar with the wigged tycoon who fired people on TV, it was clear nobody was ever going to take the man seriously. Not when he owned a fifty-eight-story building with a top floor marked sixty-eight. It was like a teenage boy swearing six inches was really eight.

Over at the hairdresser’s, Marcello the mustachioed colorist draped a black wrap over my shoulders.

“You must have had very light hair when you were a child,” he said, running a comb through my roots.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“It’s just a thing I have,” he said.

“Like . . . an invisible power?”

“You could call it that,” he said. “I can tell people’s nationality from their hair, too.”

“Really? Did you learn that in a course?”

Back home, Brendan was always going on courses.

“Hell no,” said Marcello, flashing his Mediterranean eyes at the mirror. “It’s something I do. I’m never wrong.”

“Wow! That’s amazing,” I said. “Can you tell where I’m from?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding like a magician about to cast a spell.

I waited breathless as Marcello inspected my scalp. I could hardly wait for him to settle the debate that had kept our family arguing for generations: Were we Scottish or French?

“German,” Marcello announced.

“What?” I said, astonished. “Are you sure?”

“Without a doubt,” he said, raising his comb and pointing it at me like a wand. “You’re German.”

A delicately built Canadian girl was in charge of drying my hair.

“Do you have a cat?” she shouted over the buzz of the machine.

I nearly jumped out of the chair. Everyone in the salon seemed to be psychic.

“How on Earth did you know?” I asked.

She laughed and pointed at the strands of Bono’s hair on my sleeve. Though she’d moved from Toronto to make it in the Big Apple, her new life was nowhere near as glamorous as she’d hoped. With the commuting and long hours, she was pushing to survive on less and less sleep. No wonder New Yorkers went neurotic or turned to pills, she said.

I’d never had a book signing in a pet shop before. Thanks to the publishing team’s understanding, Bono was roosting on his pillow back in our apartment. A pair of handsome black understudies and a tortoiseshell had stepped in on his behalf and taken center stage in the store. Like Bono, they were up for rehoming. Though shoppers circled their cage with interest, nobody was willing to walk out the door with a new pet in tow. It was a sobering reminder how naive I’d been to even try to find a full-time mom for a cat with compromised kidneys.

My books were on display toward the back of the store. I sat at the table there and lifted my pen.

“Where’s Bono?” the voice had a sharpness that put me on guard.

“He couldn’t come here today,” I said, glancing up to see an older woman in a gray raincoat.

“I’ve been reading about him in Huffington Post. I’ve seen the photos,” she said.

“Are you interested in adopting him?” I asked.

“No, but what’s the point of having this event without him being here?” her tone was taking on a threatening edge.

“I’m sure you understand he’s not in great health,” I said.

“Not good enough!” she shouted.

I glanced sideways for a potential rescuer, but Michaela was engaged in conversation with a man who wanted to know if the black cats could be separated, or if they had to be adopted together.

“Go and get Bono right now!” the woman shouted.

“I’m sorry, but . . .”

To my relief, Karen ferried me to the safety of a storeroom, while Vida took the woman aside and talked her down.

Bono was stepping into more lives and in different ways than I’d imagined possible.

Chapter Twenty-six

THE FEAR MACHINE

A cat knows when hugs are needed.