Bono

From what I could work out, Patrick’s life had been a patchwork. Aside from the jobs in hospitality (which was an oxymoron, he said, considering how naturally inhospitable he was), he’d done a bit of teaching. He’d had a go at writing, too. With all that, it was hard to imagine how he’d found the time to rub shoulders with so much greatness. Maybe it happened as a matter of course when a person lived long enough in New York.

When he asked if I’d be tempted by a whiskey, I shook my head.

“You’ll be having a brandy then,” he said in a voice so airy it couldn’t be argued with.

It was a long time since I’d drunk brandy. The warmth surfed through my veins, unraveling knots of tension and arranging my whole body in a smile. Leaning back on a cushion of dubious pedigree, I wondered why I’d given up brandy. It was probably to fit in with Philip, who didn’t enjoy the effects of alcohol.

Reading my mind, Patrick asked my opinion of the husband in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I thought it a sympathetic portrayal by the actor who went on to become Jed Clampett in The Beverly Hillbillies.

“But he was mad trying to drag her back to Texas,” Patrick said, topping off my glass. “As if she was going to leave New York.”

My eye wandered to a black-and-white photo on the dust-laden mantelpiece. The two dark-haired men stood arm in arm, laughing into the lens. One was clearly a younger version of Patrick. The other had a softer, almost whimsical smile.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, just me and Frank.”

“The Angela’s Ashes guy?”

“Yes, that’s right. Did I not tell you about him? Let me pour you another . . .”

Chapter Thirty-three

INVASION OF A DOOR SLAMMER

A cat does not relish being caught off guard.

Dad used to keep a little bar in the corner of the living room. If I close my eyes, I can almost see the bottles gleaming on a silver tray. I liked the jolly Beefeater on the Gordon’s Gin label, and the mysterious green of the Tanqueray bottle. There was always a specimen or two of Dad’s Single Malt whiskey, and, alongside the corkscrew, a crystal decanter for sherry. People drank a lot of sherry in those days. My favorite was the soda bottle with a fitted lever, which could be squeezed to produce instant bubbles.

Hardly a night went by without a gin or whiskey being poured. There were parties, too. Tucked away upstairs, we kids slept through most of them, but we’d occasionally hear snippets about the time Mum danced on a tabletop or Dad ended up having to go to the hospital because he slashed his hand trying to fix the toilet.

Their behavior seems wild by today’s standards, but going by Mad Men and the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, they were normal by 1960s standards.

Mum and Dad made adulthood look like fun, and I was looking forward to it. By the time I understood a lot of their highs were alcohol fueled, I realized there were probably more constructive forms of enjoyment without the accompanying punishment of a hangover.

I sometimes wonder if Mum and Dad drank so much over their lifetimes, they left me with a mild allergy to the stuff.

The trouble with hardly ever drinking is how susceptible it leaves me to getting drunk. After two brandies, my cheeks were on fire. Patrick’s apartment rotated around me in a movement that was almost imperceptible at first. Not since eating a three-course dinner in a revolving restaurant had I felt so queasy.

Glancing at my watch, I noticed the Skyping hour had arrived.

“You’ll not be going now,” Patrick said, as I made excuses.

I was still wary of telling him I kept an in-house animal. Through all my weeks of residency, I hadn’t seen so much as a Pomeranian’s tail in the building. Though he was entertaining enough, he had a dangerous tongue that thrived on gossip. The last thing Bono and I needed at this late stage was to be evicted by a building full of animal phobics.

“Let me see you out then,” he said, sauntering toward the door.

The chill of the stairwell was a welcome balm. I heard the front door bang shut down at street level, followed by muffled voices. Our building was never silent.

“Feel free to slam the door, won’t you?!” Patrick shouted into the stairwell.

His tone was so vitriolic I felt sorry for whoever was at the receiving end. But Patrick’s mood was short-lived.

“Have yourself a glorious night, Miss Golightly!” he said, sweeping his arm with old-world panache in front of me.

His voice echoed across the stairwell. Leaning over the railing I inhaled gulps of tainted oxygen. That’s when I noticed someone climbing the stairs below. He was wearing a black ski cap and a dark coat. Despite the suitcase he was dragging behind him, the man’s stride was purposeful, almost athletic.

“Look what we have here,” Patrick crowed. “A new arrival in earthly paradise!”

The man stopped and raised his head to look at us.