Bono

Hi Helen, I don’t think you’ve met our marketing director, Vida Engstrand, but she’s also a great cat lover. Just the other day we were talking about the tragic number of animals that were left homeless after Hurricane Sandy— and we’ve come up with what we hope you’ll think is a brilliant idea . . .

Jonah’s tail swished across the screen to block my view. I grabbed him and plonked him on my lap.

How would you feel about fostering a shelter kitten while you’re in New York?

My throat tightened. Had Michaela and Vida been out drinking?

While you’re having fun and frolics with your American bundle of fur, you’d also be helping our community. What do you think?

A kitten?! They couldn’t know one of the reasons I was going to New York was to take a break from sleeping under a feline. Even if they did, I had no idea why they imagined I’d want to mop up puddles when I could be swanning around the Met.

Jonah emitted a regal yowl and blinked up at me as if to say, “They’ve got you now!”

Reading the email for the third time, I watched a glorious new phase of freedom in the world’s greatest city shrink to an endless round of shoveling kitty litter.

“What’s the matter?” Philip called from the kitchen.

My wail of despair must’ve echoed down the hall. He appeared, tea in hand, at my study door.

“Is that a new thing?” he asked when I told him. “Going to some other country and fostering an animal while you’re there?”

Jonah bounced off my lap onto my shoulders and adopted the boa constrictor hold around my neck.

“No, it’s not and I’m not about to start a new craze,” I said, unraveling Jonah. “They’re insane.”

My husband, who has long since given up passing judgment on other people’s mental conditions, slid into his suit jacket, kissed my forehead, and went to work.

There was only one person to turn to. I first met Olivia at a fundraiser for terminally ill children. With the heart of a saint and the mind of a diplomat, she has truckloads of style. When she isn’t helping struggling artists, she’s entertaining European royalty. Olivia’s social skills are legendary. She could smooth out the Himalayas if she had to.

“Fostering a kitten in New York?!” she echoed. “Impossible! Anyway, what do you want to go there for? The only people ruder than Parisians are New Yorkers. You’ll get mugged.”

“But they’re my publishers,” I told her. “They’ll think I’m a fraud if I turn them down.”

I could hear Olivia’s brain whirring at the other end of the line. Jonah flicked his tail across my nostrils while I repressed a sneeze.

“No need to panic,” she said. “It’s hard enough to find anywhere to stay in New York. You’ll never find a place that’s willing to take a kitten.”

Olivia was always three steps ahead.

“Play along with them,” she continued. “Give the impression you’re looking for a pet-friendly accommodation. I promise you walls will grow whiskers before that happens.”

“So, I’ll be able to admit defeat with a clear conscience?”

“Absolutely.”

“They won’t hate me?”

“How could they?” she said. “It’s a win–win.”

Not for the first time, I was amazed by Olivia’s brilliance. Her talents were wasted unraveling the complexities of my life when she could be running the UN. I put the phone down and googled “NYC Pet Friendly Apartments.” As I scanned the results, a smile settled on my lips. There were more motels on Mars than cat-friendly apartments in New York.

After emailing Michaela to say I’d be delighted to foster a kitten, I went out and treated myself to a double strength latte with biscotti dipped in white chocolate icing. It felt good to be in charge of my own life again.

Next morning, the computer screen lit up with another message from Michaela.

Dear Helen, Are you ready for “your” American kitten? I got an enthusiastic response from Bideawee, which is one of our local shelters with an excellent reputation.

Her enthusiasm was terrifying. I showed the email to Lydia, who’d dropped by to borrow a tent from the attic. She and Ramon were off camping for the weekend.

“I’m not doing it,” I said.

Lydia seemed intrigued.

“But kittens are so cuddly,” she said, gathering Jonah off my lap and sinking her nose in his neck.

“I know, but remember what a nightmare this one was when he was little.” Baby Jonah had landed in our household with the subtlety of a hydrogen bomb that week after my mastectomy. But he’d also contributed much-needed laughter and warmth at a gloomy time.

“I’ll help look after it.”

My daughter’s maternal instincts were in overdrive.

“Thanks, but I’ve done some research and it’s a hopeless cause. There aren’t any pet friendly apartments in New York.”

Lydia ran her hand over Jonah’s long, silky spine.

“Would you mind if I take a look on the net?” she asked.

It was a harmless enough request.

After a while, I started to enjoy pretending to be a cat foster mother applicant. No doubt con men revel in similar highs of wickedness mingled with a dread of being caught.