Helen Brown - After Cleo

For the first time in his life, Jonah had a rival. The solution was obvious. One swift assault and the jellybean would be dethroned. Quivering on his haunches, he prepared for attack. With parental instincts on high alert, Rob and Chantelle tensed, ready to lunge forward to protect their baby.

‘No, Jonah!’ I cried, grabbing him and putting him away in the laundry.

We carried on admiring the new baby, counting her fingers and stroking her head, when the air was split by a terrible sound. Slow and mournful, it was like an air raid siren. Jonah was crying.

‘He’s got to get used to Annie,’ Rob said, unable to bear the sound anymore. ‘Let’s see how he goes.’

Releasing Jonah from prison, I placed him on the platform on top of his scratching post, where he always felt safe and in control. To keep him amused, I passed him a couple of florist ribbons. But he wasn’t interested. Instead, adopting his usual lordly position, he crouched down, eyes superglued on the baby.

Conversation reverted to booties and baby food while Jonah gave himself a full body spa. Paws, pads, wedges between the pads of his paws. Front of the ears, back of the ears, the crevice behind the back of the ears. Not a centimetre was overlooked. Hind leg on high, the cat was giving a good impression of pretending not to care – but his brain was working overtime.

Lydia was passing biscuits around when a shadow flew past her, knocking the plate out of her hand. A bird? A plane. No, it was super-Jonah with orange florist ribbon snared between his teeth and trailing behind him like a banner.

‘Man!’ Lydia cried as the biscuits toppled on to the carpet. That was the closest she got to swearing these days. The rest of us watched open-mouthed as Jonah landed clumsily on top of the biscuits, half a metre or so from the portable cot.

‘That’s it, Jonah!’ I snapped. ‘Back in the laundry for you.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Lydia. ‘I think he’s got a plan.’

Sighing impatiently, I sat back. With the florist ribbon still in his mouth, Jonah crept cautiously toward Annie asleep in her cot. His ears pricked forward as he moved closer and examined her through the mesh. Raising a paw he tenderly patted the mesh near her head. Then, to my amazement, he stepped back and performed an elegant bow. Head lowered, he placed the orange ribbon in a straight line along the carpet beside the cot and backed away.

‘See? It’s a gift,’ whispered Lydia. ‘He’s giving Annie a present.’

Our cat and our daughter. Two beings who always took the other way. And never ceased to surprise me with their complexity and willingness to love.

Even though Jonah did his best to appreciate Annie, his obsession with the portable cot remained fierce. No matter which room I hid it in, he sniffed it out and would cry, begging admission. If the door opened even half a crack he’d push his way in and throw himself at the cot, jumping inside it or (if the roof was zipped up) on top of it. He rubbed himself against the sides of it and patted the stainless steel legs, admiring them as if they were works of art.

Just as Jonah was managing to adjust to the idea of playing undercat to a baby (while she was visiting the house, at least) another unsettling event glistened on the horizon.

One morning Jonah trotted into the Marquis de Sade room to find Philip packing a suitcase. Jonah loathed suitcases. To him they symbolised abandonment. Even the sight of an overnight bag resulted in manic sprinting up and down the hall, refusal to let anyone out of his sight and, of course, persistent meowing that reverberated off the eardrum until it became one discordant note. Jonah’s ears pricked like a pair of dark chocolate Toblerones when he saw the dark green suitcase. It was enormous, the largest we possessed and still cobwebby from its time in the attic. Philip was leaving for a six-week study course at Stanford University in the US.

The world’s tidiest packer, Philip patted layers of neatly folded shirts and underpants into the suitcase. Watching him slide gleaming shoes into actual shoe bags , I marvelled again how we’d ever got together, let alone stayed married. He cried out when Jonah hurled himself into the suitcase on top of his clothes. Coiled like a shell, Jonah dug his claws in and stared up at Philip beseechingly.

‘Sorry, Fur Man,’ he said, lifting him out. ‘You can’t come with me.’

The instant his paws touched the carpet Jonah jumped back into the suitcase again, and again, and again . . . Exasperated, Philip shut Jonah out of the room. A nose and two paws squeezed themselves under the door.

A taxi glided to a halt outside the house. Philip zipped the bag shut and trudged down the hall. Jonah threw himself at the suitcase, trying to glue himself to it. Philip lifted Jonah, kissed his furry forehead and told him not to worry, he’d be home soon. As Philip held Jonah up to his face, the cat stretched a long front leg toward him and pressed his paw in Philip’s chest. It was as if Jonah was leaving an imprint on Philip’s heart.

After we’d managed to wedge ourselves and the suitcase through the front door, Philip and I stood at the roadside and kissed goodbye. We glanced guiltily up at the living room window. No sign of Jonah.

‘He’s not even missing you,’ I said.

‘Yes, he is,’ said Philip, pointing at an upstairs window from which a lonely feline stared down at us.

Jonah suffered the extrovert’s curse. He needed people. When they weren’t around to dazzle with his exuberant personality, he crumbled. He thrived on admiration, fishing rod and ribbon games, languorous hours draped over human laps, and the sport of being chased whenever he went on illegal rampages around the neighbourhood. Separation anxiety, Vivienne called it.

I could relate to some of his insecurity. Earlier in our marriage, I’d have kicked up a fuss if Philip had absented himself for six whole weeks. In the broader canvas of life, however, a month and a half’s a mere speck of paint. It’s not that many airings of The Daily Show (my latest addiction) or six episodes of My Life on the D-List (though Kathy Griffin’s schedule was proving capricious) and, oh I don’t know, a couple of hundred cups of coffee. The weeks would fly while he was away having a wonderful time learning stuff and meeting people (though hopefully not glamorous women with second-wifehood ambitions).

Bonuses abounded for me, too. Without mentioning the obvious brownie points, the girls and I would have early dinners every night. We’d slurp takeaway noodles in front of How I Met Your Mother (until Lydia excused herself to go upstairs and meditate).

I’d also be able to devote more time to my scheme to enthuse Lydia about the shallow vanities of Generation-Y womanhood. Not that it was having much effect. On the rare occasions Katharine and I managed to coax her along to a rom-com at the movies, she’d sigh her way through it. The ‘hot’ male stars left her cold. She wasn’t interested in manicures. If I bought trashy magazines targeted at women in their twenties, they’d quickly appear in the recycle bin.

While Philip was away, I’d sleep without earplugs, stay in my dressing gown all day if I felt like it and do crosswords in bed without having to explain it was for my brain cells.

Besides, it was Katharine’s last year at school. Even though my publishers were keen for me to get started on another book, I’d decided to put everything on hold for a final stint at full-on mothering.

A diligent student, Katharine was determined to excel in the International Baccalaureate. She deserved all the support she could get, especially during the notorious build-up to end-of-year exams. I wanted to be there for her, not just as a full-time servant.