Cohen nodded. ‘I wouldn’t take her away from you,’ he reassured her.
‘Good. Because few enough folk speak BSL here, so I imagine the rates in the US are much lower.’
‘I’ll stay in London,’ Cohen decided suddenly, understanding entirely the implication of those words. Because staying in London meant giving up New York. It meant giving up his apartment, his car and his friends. It would mean changing his whole lifestyle for a city he had always been half-hearted about.
But then he thought of River, of her hazel eyes and gingham skirts and soft hands and clinging body and he knew, he just knew, that he would never be happy anywhere else ever again unless she was by his side. He’d never be half-hearted about her.
Rushi nodded. ‘So, you stay in London, you learn BSL. How will you stay in London? You aren’t British. You aren’t European. You have no right to stay, unless your work will sponsor you ...’
‘Actually.’ Cohen pressed his lips together, the next words awkward to say. ‘Actually, I just quit my job.’
Rushi stared at him. ‘So, you’re unemployed then?’
He nodded.
‘Ah,’ she remarked drily. ‘The perfect son-in-law.’
Cohen flushed. ‘I have money,’ he said tightly. ‘And my own money too, not just the Sedler funds.’
‘Well, even with money, you still have a problem. Unless you suddenly start to crap visas, you have no right to stay in the UK.’
Cohen hadn’t thought of that. ‘I could always marry River—’ he began, but Rushi exhaled sharply, holding up her hand.
‘What? Just like that? You would marry a deaf girl, a girl you hardly know, just like that?’
‘No.’ Cohen shook his head, sitting taller. ‘I wouldn’t marry a deaf girl, or a girl I hardly know, just like that. But Rushi.’ He paused, his face serious. ‘I would marry River.’
Rushi inhaled now. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you Ford?’
‘Yes.’ And by God, Cohen had never been more serious about anything in his life. Abruptly he stood, brushing the crumbs from his lap. He extended a hand to Rushi. ‘Come on, let me get you home,’ he offered.
Rushi stood, a frown on her face. ‘I may be old, but I can get myself home safely, Ford.’
Cohen looked at her pointedly. ‘River is deaf, and you don’t seem to think she can.’
The look Rushi gave him was almost a glare but mostly begrudgingly impressed. ‘Alright Ford,’ she muttered. ‘Now you’re just showing off. Fine then, you may take me home.’
‘I’d like to see River anyway,’ Cohen told her. ‘One more time, before I fly to New York.’
‘New York?’ Rushi looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you weren’t going home?’
Cohen smiled at her. ‘I’m not going home. River is home. I’m going to New York, just for a while. I have some business to take care of, and also—’ he smiled again, thinking of Christine and his grandmother’s ring ‘—I also have something I need to collect.’
Rushi claimed tiredness on their return, disappearing to her bedroom soon after they arrived. River didn’t claim tiredness but pulled Cohen into her bedroom all the same. She’d dressed for work in a blue gingham apron, but it didn’t last long. Cohen peeled that from her body first before stripping the rest of her clothes, kissing every inch of flesh he could get his mouth on.
Later, while they were lying in a post-coital haze, River showing him signs for umbrella, snow and boots, he reached for her notepad and told her that he had to go to New York. Just for a while, he wrote, kissing her when she frowned at his words. Just for a while. I’m always going to come home to you. Now and forever.
Still, he clung to her when they parted. He walked her down to the ice creamery, kissing her fingers when she disappeared behind the counter. He swallowed hard at the tears that gathered in her eyes and felt his own eyes swell with emotion when she turned and put a pink paper cup into his hands.
Strawberry, she signed. And then she made another sign, which he knew meant Your favourite.
Because River knew him just as he knew her. She knew him, she listened to him and she remembered the things that mattered to him, no matter how small or inconsequential.
Cohen went home, the taste of sweet ice cream and even sweeter kisses on his lips, touching his mezuzah reverently before throwing a few things into a suitcase and getting the express out to Heathrow.
He bought a ticket to JFK.
He got on a plane.
And as the plane taxied down a grey runway and cleared a grey sky, he felt a deep stab of sadness.
Because he wouldn’t be seeing River next Tuesday.
Chapter Twelve
Wine
Cohen’s New York apartment was hip, cool and clinical; all sharp lines and edges, with glass tables and chrome-plated chairs. Even his couch was metal, with a high back that reflected the lights of the city skyline. The whole place looked and felt detached in an over-it, millennial kind of fashion. Or at least, that’s how the interior decorator who designed this monstrosity of a home described it to him in her brief. Cohen wasn’t even sure. He’d bought the place on a whim in a post-Christine haze, and his memories of that period were somewhat blurred. All he really remembered was nodding and agreeing with the quite frankly terrifying designer, hoping that whatever scheme this woman with short pink hair and a clipboard that could double as a razor blade came up with would entice women into sleeping with him.
As he teetered on the edge of his high-backed and shiny sofa, a seat too uncomfortable to even sit in, Cohen made a mental note never to bring River here. In fact, he decided to sell the place entirely. He’d never loved it, the place had never felt like a home and the entire apartment reeked of desperation and despair. Chrome-plated desperation and despair with high ceilings and a view, it’s true, but still ...
Cohen went through to his bedroom, looking with disinterest at his bed, trying to quell a sudden longing for the last bed he lay in, wrapped around River, her hair splayed on the pillows. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. Listlessly, he picked up the biography of Horatio Nelson he’d bought at Heathrow and started reading it. He thumbed through the pages for a time, getting so far as learning that the famed Admiral suffered from seasickness before throwing the book to one side with a deep sigh. What was River doing now? He couldn’t help but wonder. It was 10 p.m. here, which made it what? Three a.m. Greenwich Mean Time?
River would be asleep, Cohen realised. He dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the stream of text messages they’d sent each other since he left for Heathrow. The temptation to text her again was overwhelming, and Cohen couldn’t resist.
I’m back in my apartment, looking at blank walls and sitting on awful furniture. All I can think about is you. I miss you already.
He pressed send and jumped into his shower. His housekeeper had been diligent in his absence, even going so far as to keep his shampoo and conditioner replenished and ready for him. He washed his hair, dried off and then searched for something to sleep in, hoping against hope that his bottle of Lagavulin 16 was as full and waiting for him as his bathroom products had been. He checked his phone with even less hope, knowing that River would be asleep, imagining her snug and warm in her bed three and a half thousand miles from here.
Three and a half thousand miles. The distance between them made him feel sick, and he breathed deeply, trying to quell the nausea.
But he got a pleasant surprise. There were seven new text messages waiting for him, the first of which started with: I can’t sleep. All I can think of is you, and all the things I’d like you to do to me.
The next six messages went into great detail as to what those things were, which Cohen read with a dry mouth and wide eyes.
Afterwards, he took another shower, before falling into bed, exhausted.
His first meeting the next day was with his divorce lawyer. He handed over Christine’s latest demands for money, before detailing his need for the retu
rn of his grandmother’s ring.
His lawyer started nodding enthusiastically. ‘Right,’ he told Cohen. ‘We’ll offer her a renegotiation of the alimony terms. We’ll offer her a twenty percent increase on her monthly payments in exchange for the ring, but we’ll also ask for stricter conditions to be adhered to. So—’
‘—no.’
His lawyer looked up, clearly surprised. ‘No? This could save you years of alimony payments, Cohen. Just think about that, and about—’
But Cohen shook his head. ‘No. Give her what she wants. A twenty percent increase in exchange for the ring. No renegotiation otherwise.’
‘Cohen—’
‘—look,’ Cohen said with a sigh. ‘Listen to me. Christine only gets alimony so long as she remains single. She’s stuck in a limbo of sorts, unable or unwilling to move on because of money. Well, money I have. And if it’s so important to her that she’d rather be alone and living off an ex-husband’s income, well, let her have it.’
His lawyer stared at him. ‘Are you sure about this, Cohen?’
‘I’m sure.’ Cohen nodded. ‘Contact her lawyer, lay it out for her. I want that ring ASAP though, so make it very clear that this is a one-time offer. In fact, if she returns the ring by end of business today, I’ll give her an extra ten thousand dollars on top of the twenty percent.’
His lawyer’s mouth fell open. ‘This is ... this is your ex-wife, Cohen. Remember, the one who left you for another man? The same ex-wife who then dumped that man in exchange for extra alimony payments? You used to come in here and demand revenge. You used to want to make her suffer. What happened?’
Cohen sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. His reply, when he made it, was short and succinct.
‘I grew up.’
His next stop was his office at Roberts-Canning LLC. After his two-word reply to Fowler’s email, followed by three days of radio silence, he’d half expected to be escorted from the premises as soon as he set foot in the building.
But his pass worked as normal and people treated him with the usual deference and respect. He went into his office, which was untouched and immaculately clean after his year of absence, and loaded up his computer, noting with surprise that he still had access to the mainframe and all his saved files. He spent two hours tidying them up, beginning the process of closing up his accounts, when Tarquin Fowler stormed in.
‘Fowler.’ Cohen nodded at him from behind his desk, not even flinching when Fowler slammed his hands down upon the mahogany.
‘No thanks?’ Fowler snarled at him. ‘No thanks? Are you kidding me, Ford?’
‘No,’ Cohen replied calmly. ‘No, I wasn’t kidding.’
‘Do you know what a time of it I’ve had explaining your absence for the last three days? Thank your lucky stars that Canning’s already in Panama. I told him that you were off the grid working on a Saudi deal in Europe. He bought it, thank Christ, but still ...’ Fowler stopped to take a breath. ‘What the hell, Ford? Is this about wanting more money? Some kind of power play? Because if it is, don’t be a fool. You’re not Canning yet, you know?’
Cohen nodded slowly. No, he wasn’t Canning. Not yet and not ever, if he had anything to do with it.
‘I want out, Fowler,’ he said simply. ‘This isn’t about money, or power, or anything underhand. I just don’t want the job. I want out.’
Fowler stared at him, much like his lawyer had stared at him earlier.
‘You want out,’ Fowler repeated, his voice tight. ‘Just like that, you want out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. Just like this. I’m done with it all, Fowler.’
For a moment there was quiet as Fowler digested the news.
‘Canning won’t be happy—’ he started, but Cohen stood, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
‘Canning is already in Panama, living the high life with his ill-gotten gains. He’s about to have the best Christmas of his life, a girl on each arm and a champagne in each hand.’ Cohen shook his head. ‘Well, fair play to him. Let him rot his liver with alcohol … it’ll match his rotten heart.’ Cohen stood taller. ‘Look, Fowler, Canning won’t care. He’s done, just as I am. Besides, there must be someone else waiting in the wings. Someone even more bloodthirsty than me.’
‘There’s always someone else,’ Fowler remarked coldly.
Cohen shrugged. ‘Fine. Get them. I’m out. My contract says you’ll need three months notice. But I’m telling you now, I’m not willing to stay that long.’
Fowler straightened, adjusting his tie. ‘There will be financial repercussions if you leave before your contract expires, you do realise this.’
Cohen gave a disinterested nod. ‘Whatever. It’s only money.’
Fowler stared at him. ‘Why?’ he asked, after a palpable silence. ‘Why are you walking?’
‘I have other things I want to do,’ Cohen replied. ‘Do you always want to work here for Canning-Roberts LLC in Human Resources? Was that your dream, Fowler? Because all this—’ Cohen gestured to his impersonal, functional office ‘—this wasn’t my dream. And life is too short to waste on anything less.’
Fowler opened his mouth as though to reply, before clearly thinking better of it and closing it just as quickly.
‘Just speak to the board, start the ball rolling,’ Cohen instructed him. ‘Tell them I’ll stay a month, but no more. I’ll happily pay any financial penalties for breaking contract early. Just get me out.’
Fowler nodded, giving Cohen one final look, long and hard. He wore an expression on his face like he wanted to say something. Beneath his icy exterior, Cohen sensed truth and confession fleeting under the surface. But then Fowler stiffened and any hidden depths were quickly buried further. He went to leave before Cohen held up a hand, stopping him.
‘Wait. There’s one more thing. I’m working on a ... a merger of sorts,’ he spoke easily, trying his best to keep his voice light, casual and business-like. ‘I’d like to wrap it up before I leave.’
Fowler turned back, his expression bored.
‘So?’
Cohen flushed slightly. ‘The person on the other team ... they’re deaf. I need to learn a few phrases in BSL. You know.’ He swallowed. ‘To get them onside. Show them that I’m serious about this merger.’
There it was again, that break in Fowler’s normal exterior. But it was only a break, and he shrugged once more.
‘British Sign Language?’
‘Yes,’ Cohen said firmly. ‘You’re Human Resources ... do you know of anyone, offhand, who knows it round here?’
Fowler rolled his eyes. ‘Well yes, of course here in the New York office of Roberts-Canning LLC we’re simply overrun with the deaf British expat community.’
Cohen wasn’t an idiot. He knew sarcasm when he heard it.
‘Fine,’ he snarled at Fowler. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He quickly made the sign for idiot in BSL, one of the last words River taught him, before turning back to his desk.
Behind him Fowler gave a surprised inhalation and he turned back to his colleague curiously.
Fowler was looking at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted wings.
‘What?’ Cohen snapped.
Fowler shook his head, almost with a scoff. ‘Nothing, it’s nothing.’ He shuffled on his feet. ‘But if you really need a BSL interpreter you could always check the company mainframe. We list all staff who specialise in foreign languages there.’
‘That’s actually a good idea.’ Cohen swallowed down his pride. ‘Thank you.’
Fowler stared at him again, his gaze piercing. ‘Tell me, Cohen,’ he said. ‘Tell me honestly, why are you walking? You’ve been here years. You were always the best at getting results. You were always after just one more deal, just one more dollar. You didn’t care who you hurt on the way. What happened to you?’
It was a remarkably cold assessment that made Cohen shudder. But Fowler was looking at him, waiting. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for
a reason. Waiting for a logical explanation for a decision which, from every angle, seemed illogical.
There was only one thing Cohen could say.
‘I grew up.’
And with that, Fowler left.
Cohen stared at the space where Fowler stood, internally damning him for being right, before going back to his computer. He was about to log in to the mainframe when his phone rang.
‘Hello?’ he said gruffly, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he typed.
‘Hi Cohen, listen, I’ve heard from Christine ...’
It was his lawyer with good news. Christine was going to return the ring in exchange for a twenty percent increase on her alimony and a ten thousand dollar ‘goodwill’ payment.
‘Fantastic.’ Cohen exhaled with relief. ‘Look, can you organise the trade and—’
But his lawyer interrupted him. ‘No,’ he said, reluctance in his voice. ‘No, Cohen. It has to be you. She’ll only hand the ring over if you yourself go to get it.’
Cohen closed the call, his hand suddenly tense.
Because damn it.
He was going to have to see Christine.
Christine looked good in a polished, emaciated kind of way. Her make-up was immaculate and her body was squeezed into a tiny pencil dress. She’d suggested Bar 54 for their meeting, and it was only when she was walking towards him on her killer heels and sliding into the seat next to his that he recalled this was where they first met.
Instantly, he felt uneasy, almost faintly alarmed.
‘Cohen,’ Christine nearly purred, her voice low and seductive.
‘Hello, Christine,’ Cohen said warily.
‘Let’s get a drink and catch up,’ Christine suggested. She laid a hand against his arm while she called over a nearby waiter, promptly ordering a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine without even pausing to consider the price.
Much like he’d done when he’d married this woman, Cohen reflected bitterly.
‘I’m not drinking,’ Cohen told her.
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 14