Cleo

To my astonishment, hidden in the deepest recess of the window was a small navy blue box. Inside the box was a diamond ring. In front of Rob, Lydia and Cleo, he slid it on my finger.

“How did you get the right size?” I asked, appalled at my lack of romance but genuinely impressed.

“Stole a ring from your jewelry box. Hoped you wouldn’t notice. Did you?”

I shook my head. It was impossible to answer. I was too busy choking back happy tears.

We agreed a long engagement would suit us all under the circumstances. No date was set, but we thought a year or so would give the family time to become fully integrated. I was only 36 and there was plenty of time if (heaven forbid) Philip felt the need to have a child from his own biological blueprint. Even though I felt sheepish telling crusty journalistic friends I was embarking on an engagement long enough to satisfy Jane Austen, it seemed the best way to go about things. This was no normal marriage. It was a union between one man, three people and a cat. All parties needed to feel comfortable.

I was just getting used to the idea of wearing an engagement ring when an important-looking envelope arrived in the post.

“Cambridge must be crazy!” I said, passing Philip the letter. “They’ve accepted me.”

He laughed, folded me in his ridiculously sinewy arms and said he always knew they would. The timing was perfect in many ways. He’d just been accepted into the Swiss business school IMD to study for an MBA (sometimes I wondered if he might be planning to drown in a sea of initials). Once I’d finished the Cambridge fellowship, the kids and I could join him in Lausanne for the rest of the year…

Cambridge. Switzerland. It couldn’t possibly work. I’d have to leave Rob and Lydia in New Zealand for three months—and Cleo for an entire year! It was impossible. I’d write back to the university, thank them for their generosity and decline.

But Philip urged me not to turn them down. When would another opportunity like this turn up? Steve and Mum agreed with him. Mum offered to look after the children for the first month I was away, and Steve would have them for the remaining two. Cleo gazed at me steadily. Was she daring me to go or stay?

After Cambridge, Lydia would join us in Switzerland and learn French (people said it would be a breeze). Rob said he’d rather stay in his New Zealand high school and visit us during holidays. It was a wild, unrealistic plan with more hidden potential for disaster than an Angolan minefield. We decided to do it.

Cleo helped us interview people willing to rent the house while we were away. First on the doorstep was Jeff, a clean-cut accountant in a blue and white checked shirt. He seemed charming, but Cleo hissed at him and hid under a chair. An hour later Virginia, an aromatherapist, arrived in a haze of silk scarves and patchouli oil. Cleo eyeballed Virginia from a vantage point on top of the bookshelves. When Cleo insisted on claiming higher ground over someone like that it was never a good sign. Lines would be drawn in the litter box. Threats would be exchanged. A battle of wills was bound to follow. I’d already explained to her over the phone that the cat was part of the deal, in fact probably the more important part.

Virginia glowered back at Cleo and said, “One of the reasons I was attracted to aromatherapy was that cats make me sneeze. However, I’ve discovered that if a cat is given weekly baths in lavender oil my sneezing problem practically vanishes. Th en I just have to deal with watering eyes, but homeopathy could be…” I let Virginia drone on as she drained her cup of peppermint tea, then thanked her for her interest.

Personally I warmed to Audrey, a flamboyantly dressed woman in search of a setting to begin her new life since her husband had run off with a massage therapist of undetermined gender. She turned pink with pleasure when I admired the magnificent necklace draped in layers over her breasts. It was a cross between one of those ribbons police stretch around crime scenes and something I’d seen hanging in my cousin’s cowshed. An Italian designer piece, she said, created by a one-armed artist whose work was gaining value by the day.

Our house, she said, was perfect because there was plenty of room for her to dabble in her weekend hobby, sculpturing massive genitalia out of polystyrene, assuming we didn’t mind her transforming Rob’s bedroom into a studio. Fortunately, Rob wasn’t home to have an opinion. As Audrey stood in Rob’s doorway mentally erasing his model airplane collection and replacing it with monoliths of passion, a shadow flicked between her ankles. Audrey’s reflexes were fast enough for her to snare Cleo and press her to her bosom.

“Oh, a pussy!” she boomed. “A house isn’t a home without a furry friend like you!”

Cleo didn’t share Audrey’s enthusiasm for a bonding session. In fact, she was more interested in Audrey’s necklace than Audrey. She raised a paw and patted a silver bauble inquisitively.