Cohen watched silently in the shadows for a time, taking in how a lamp flashed whenever someone entered the ice creamery to let River know there was a customer. He took in the little details he had missed on previous visits, when he was so wrapped up in River and gingham aprons and hazel eyes and ribbons that he hardly noticed his surroundings at all: the gingham tablecloths in a rainbow of colours, spread neatly across wooden tables; the Christmas tree in the corner, the lights bright and cheerful; the printed menu in Cohen’s hand which clearly stated that the manager was deaf and offered instructions on how to order, while a few basic signs were printed on the back.
Hello. Goodbye. Please. Thank you.
With a stab of pride and appreciation, Cohen realised that Rushi had a system in place so that River never felt uncomfortable or out of her depth in a hearing world.
But mostly, he watched River. His eyes lingered on her arms as she stretched into the freezer to scoop ice cream, lean and graceful even in this. He smiled as she topped a sundae with lashings of whipped cream, holding her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration, swirling the white concoction into a perfect spiral. And his heart leapt to life when he saw her lick a long, silver spoon, closing her eyes in a perfect appreciation of flavour and sweetness.
He was lost in thoughts of vanilla kisses and sugared lips when River spotted him from across the ice creamery. How her smile didn’t melt the ice cream in her hands, the ice on the windowpanes or even the snow that lay thickly across all of London, Cohen didn’t know. She waved happily before indicating to the crowds of people. She raised her hands in a stay there gesture, before turning to her assistant, conversing quickly with her hands and pointing to Cohen.
The man looked up at Cohen, his brow furrowing, his smile falling, and Cohen felt instantly ill at ease. Cohen had deep experience of mistrust and dislike and recognised both emotions easily in the faces of others. And this man, this good-looking man who could actually talk to River, did not like Cohen.
And in that moment, jealous and resentful, Cohen didn’t much like him either.
Cohen watched as the man took off his apron – and honestly, he even looked good in ruffled gingham, and how many men could pull that look off? – washed his hands and came out from behind the counter towards Cohen. Without ceremony he slid into the seat next to him, tapping his fingers on the table and giving him a look that could freeze, well, ice cream.
‘Hey,’ Cohen said, lifting a hand.
The man nodded. ‘You’re Cohen.’
‘Um ... yes.’
‘Cohen, her strawberry?’
And now Cohen was quiet, because … what?
But the man only shrugged. ‘Names don’t translate well into BSL,’ he explained. ‘And finger spelling your name out, every time ... well, it can be time-consuming. Not ideal. So, most BSL users choose a sign for a name. River’s an easy one, obviously. She’s just River. But Cohen? There’s no sign for that. So, River’s been calling you Cohen, her strawberry.’
‘Oh.’ Cohen flushed, trying hard to keep down the smile that was threatening to break out across his face. River had remembered the first flavour of ice cream he’d had in the ice creamery. For a moment, he forgot his father, and all the painful connotations that ‘strawberry’ had for him. River was replacing them with something new.
Something better.
He smiled again. ‘Strawberry. I like that.’
The man stared at him for another few moments, his eyes as hard as the lines of his face. Cohen shifted awkwardly.
‘I’m Billy. I help out here from time to time.’
‘Okay. It’s nice to meet you, Billy.’
But Billy stopped him short. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not like that. Like this.’
And then, slowly and deliberately, he made a quick movement with his hands. It was more signing than Cohen had ever had to take in before, but he watched patiently, before trying to copy the movement: a finger across his face, before bringing two fingers together.
‘The first movement is “nice”,’ Billy explained. ‘The second is “meet you”, like two people coming together. Like you and River.’
Cohen wanted to smile, but the look on Billy’s face persuaded him otherwise.
‘Where did you learn to do this?’ Cohen asked. ‘With your hands? I mean, you aren’t deaf.’
‘For one thing, it’s not “this”,’ Billy replied clearly. ‘It’s BSL. And when you love someone who can’t hear, you’ll do anything – anything – to communicate with them.’
Cohen thought he understood. But then, was Billy saying ...? Were he and River ...? Were they involved?
‘You mean River?’
Billy almost smiled, shaking his head as though in disbelief.
‘No. Not River. I’m very much a taken man. In fact, my wife and I have a son. He’s three.’ Billy paused, regarding Cohen thoughtfully. ‘He was born deaf.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Cohen said.
But Billy sat taller. ‘I’m not,’ His voice was firm, unwavering. ‘He’s perfect the way he is. And mate, if you want to get with River, you need to drop any pity you feel about her deafness. The deaf community is a proud one, and River ... she does a lot for it. My wife and I met River through Action on Hearing Loss, a support centre. In exchange for babysitting, Lucy and I help out in the ice creamery on occasion.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Cohen said quietly.
‘I know.’ Billy nodded. ‘Look, the deaf don’t want pity. Understanding, yes. Compassion, yes. But pity? Never.’
‘I don’t pity her.’ Cohen was defensive, his hackles raised. ‘I admire her.’
Billy must have liked that because the stiffness in his body seemed to melt, and he gave Cohen an approving grin. And damn, but momentarily Cohen felt sick with envy. Because Billy had smile lines, actual indentations in his skin that showed the world how happy he was. And once again, Cohen was given a tantalising glimpse into the lives of others. People who lived and loved and slept and woke and ate and drank without the screaming agony of never being enough. People who were so happy with their lot in life that they smiled enough to permanently mark their skin.
‘Good,’ Billy said firmly. ‘You admire her. That’s good. Maybe you’re different to the others.’
‘What others?’ Cohen asked tightly, another hot flash of jealousy searing his soul.
But now Billy’s face dropped, the lines around his eyes dipping back into the crevices of his skin.
‘What others?’ Cohen asked again.
‘Look, mate ... they aren’t my stories to tell,’ Billy replied sadly. ‘They’re hers.’
Cohen went to open his mouth, ready to demand an explanation. Suddenly, he recalled River’s questionnaire. The line that had made his heart thump painfully: I’ve been wrong about this feeling before. Now, he saw that sentence in a whole new light.
What others? his mind asked, but he made himself pause and considered the situation. Of course, he wanted to learn everything he could about River, but he also knew he needed to be patient. He needed to allow River the space to open up to him in her own time. He needed to let her tell her own stories in her own way. So, he bit his tongue, nodding slowly.