‘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.
Several times a week, I’d get urgent texts from Katharine asking if I could bring forgotten books or her lunch to school. After school, she’d be welcomed home with hot chocolate and Jonah wrapping himself around her neck and telling her (in cat language) she was doing just fine.
Things started to go wrong early on the morning after Philip’s departure when he began his usual thumping at our bedroom door. I climbed out of bed to open it. Fishing rod jingling between his teeth, Jonah leapt joyfully on to the bed – but there was no Philip. Not even a warm pillow symbolising Philip’s temporary absence while he made tea and toast in the kitchen. Staring at the cold, unwrinkled pillow, Jonah was confused. Crestfallen, he dropped the fishing rod on to the covers and stared mournfully toward the window.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ I said. ‘I’ll play with you.’
Jonah’s eyes narrowed in disdain. In fishing rod sport, I was lowest of the low. I didn’t swing the stick violently or high enough. My reactions were too slow and I made catches too easy. He sprang off the bed, disappeared out the door and returned with a length of pink florist’s ribbon, which he laid over my hand. So I was in the pink ribbon league, I thought, flicking the ribbon to try and make the game exciting for him. But clearly my lack of technique frustrated him. I just didn’t play like a man. He was soon bored, and skulked away moaning. Not since Maria abandoned the Von Trapp children to return to the nunnery had there been such a theatrical demonstration of dejection.
A couple of days later, while wielding an unreasonably hefty pair of weights in the Marquis de Sade room with Peter the personal trainer, a nasty, acidic odour seared the back of my nostrils. Peter said he couldn’t smell anything.
After he left I checked the wardrobes and central heating vent in case something had died. The smell, pungent and sharp, seemed to be emanating from somewhere near the windows, but I couldn’t see any obvious cause. Maybe Peter was right and it was my imagination. I suspected he was too polite to be reliable.