Хелен Браун - Bono

What was I saying? Lydia hated musicals. Besides, through her years of hard-core Buddhism she’d been forbidden to step inside a theater, which had been no hardship in her case.

“Are you serious?” she asked in a tone that implied I might need professional help.

“It’s won a raft of Tonys,” I said. “It’ll be years before they bring it to Australia. I got the CD off Amazon. Have you heard ‘Spooky Mormon Hell Dream’?”

“No, are you really going to New York?” she asked, fixing me with the psychologist expression that sears into my soul and makes it impossible to lie.

“Well, yes. My publishers think it’s a good idea, with the new book coming out.”

One of the curses of being a writer’s daughter is you’re destined to end up in print. I still wasn’t sure how Lydia felt about me portraying our dramas in Cats & Daughters . Months earlier, watching her solemn expression as she’d read through the manuscript, I’d half expected her to hurl it on the floor and forbid me to send it to the publisher. Instead, she’d been incredibly forgiving and generous.

“How long for?” she asked, her face turned away, her tawny hair gleaming in the dappled light.

Why did everyone keep asking that?

“I haven’t decided.”

I knew what she was thinking. New York, of all places. Center of global capitalism, crass materialism, and everything nonspiritual. A fox terrier galloped through the gates and snapped at the heels of the old Alsatian.

“Why don’t you come along?” I asked to fill the silence.

Lydia turned her face toward me. Her cheeks were pinker than usual. “I’d love to!” she said.

“Really?!”

My eyes filled with moisture. After everything we’d been through Lydia was volunteering to spend time with me in an environment hostile to her entire belief system.

“I couldn’t stay for long . . .” she said.

Yeah, right , I thought. She’s having second thoughts and wriggling out of it.

“But I could be there for maybe ten days at the beginning of your trip,” she added.

She could have knocked me over with an incense stick.

Chapter Three

FOSTERING A KITTEN—NOT

A cat never likes to be cornered.

The only thing better than the idea of spending open-ended time in New York was the thought of having Lydia all to myself there for ten days. Voluntarily at that. If I didn’t invade her space or say too many tactless things, there was a chance we’d come to forgive each other’s differences and like each other again. With her by my side, the city wouldn’t be so overwhelming. Settling into a new life of freedom would be much easier with her there ready to catch me if my knee gave out.

To my delight, she offered to scour the net for an Airbnb apartment.

Michaela told us to avoid Morningside Heights, the Columbia University district and anything above 96th Street. She suggested we find a safe, convenient apartment near hers in Chelsea. We were disappointed when Lydia’s search of that area proved fruitless. Noho and Soho were also no goes, along with the Highline and the Flatiron districts. However, she managed to unearth two possibilities in the West Village. I sent the addresses off to Michaela and waited for her advice.

Next morning, I leapt out of bed and raced Jonah to the computer.

Jonah tap-danced across the keyboard while I tried to decipher the email.

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.