‘Alright,’ he found himself saying. ‘I can respect that.’
And again, Billy must have liked that. Because there was that smile again, with those damn lines.
‘So, look, it’s December and nearly Christmas. People are shopping for gifts and food, but they’re also stopping for ice cream so that the little ones behave. The place is jammed, and there’s no way River’s going to be able to close up shop without Rushi killing her, or, as is much more likely, you.’
Cohen swallowed. He wanted to stay on the right side of Rushi – and by default, his mother – for as long as possible.
‘But River would like you to meet her at Trafalgar Square tonight, 8 p.m.,’ Billy continued. ‘Under Nelson’s Column. You know where that is?’
‘Of course I know where that is.’ Cohen was almost offended.
Billy shrugged. ‘Sometimes the tourists don’t.’
‘I’ve lived here a year, I’m not a tourist.’ Cohen’s words were hot.
Billy crossed his arms. ‘Tell me who Nelson was, and I'll believe you.’
‘Well, he was ... well, he had that ...’ Cohen stumbled. ‘Look, I know he had a boat ...’
Billy gave a wide grin. ‘He had a whole navy, actually. But still, you just gave a better answer than my Lucy ever did.’
Cohen raised an eyebrow. ‘Your wife is American?’
‘A California girl through and through.’
Cohen had been to California. He remembered his father dragging the family there on vacation, the three of them squeezed into his dad’s beat up old camper van. Four, if you counted Tam, who Jim always let ride shotgun because ‘dogs get carsick too, Cohen’.
‘Don’t you ever think about going there?’ Cohen asked Billy, genuinely interested. ‘The sunshine there has got to beat the grey days here.’
‘Yeah, well, the sunshine does, but the healthcare system doesn’t,’ Billy replied. ‘I have a three-year-old son who’s going to need extra care over the years. The American insurance system would cripple us financially. At least here, the NHS provides all of his hearing aids, surgeries, social care, education as well as his speech development assistance. Lucy gets homesick, but she’s happy to stay here in London forever if it means our son gets his healthcare plus a decent quality of life.’
And Cohen nodded without answering, because what could you say to that?
Billy cleared his throat. ‘Look, River asked me to give you this.’ He handed over a thick, padded envelope. ‘She said you might have something for her?’
And yes, Cohen did. He reached into his bag, pulling out the questionnaire River had given to him, praying to all the gods, both heathen and otherwise, that Billy wouldn’t read any of his heartfelt confessions. He was ready to open up to River… but he still felt trepidation about the rest of the world.
‘8 p.m. then, Cohen.’ Billy stood, the conversation clearly finished.
Cohen held out his hand. ‘Billy. It was nice to ...’
Abruptly, he stopped, pulling his hand back and thinking for a moment. Thinking of River and of her wonderful eyes and expressive hands. Finally, Cohen smiled, moving his hands firmly, if a little awkwardly.
It was nice to meet you, he signed.
Billy smiled, moving his own fingers. You too.
But Cohen couldn’t go yet. He couldn’t even think of leaving in that moment. Not without seeing River.
And so, like the best of the British, he joined the queue for ice cream.
The ice creamery was busy and the queue painful. Cohen, with a determination born of love, spent fifteen minutes sandwiched between a girl from Putney, who chatted the entire time on her cell phone, and a harassed young family with a child who sneezed constantly onto his jacket. By the time Cohen reached the counter, his patience was thin and his coat sodden.
But he didn’t care.
Because River’s smile was the perfect reward.
He didn’t order and she didn’t move. She simply stood there, resplendent in purple gingham, staring at him. And he stood there, like the fool for her that he was, staring back.
It was Billy who broke their moment. He tapped River on the shoulder, and then twice more, until she looked away from Cohen and towards him.
‘River,’ he talked as he signed for Cohen’s benefit. ‘You’ll see him tonight. Now, why don’t you give him this week’s special and get this queue moving again, okay honey?’
And River blushed before reaching into the freezer and scooping a greenish ice cream into a cup for him.
Jaded Green Tea, the sign next to the ice cream read.
River pushed the cup towards him, her fingers briefly meeting his. His flesh interlocked with hers against the ice-cold rim of an ice cream dish, but heaven help him, if it wasn’t the hottest moment of Cohen’s previously cool existence.
He was so so glad to be seeing her tonight.
Because there was no way he could wait until next Tuesday.
Chapter Six
Melon
Cohen could have gone back to the office. It was only one DLR ride, and there was still some paperwork that needed finishing up before he returned to the New York office. Fowler had sent it through earlier that month, with a note attached reminding him to get a bloody move on with it. Fowler was nothing if not to the point. I’ve got tickets for the opera at the end of the month and I don’t want to miss it to clean up another one of your administration disasters, Ford, he’d titled the email he’d sent through.
But Cohen decided against it. For one thing, he wasn’t going back to the New York office. In fact, he’d decided against leaving London altogether. Time had stopped being a consideration, work was no longer a factor. He would stay in London, be with River and learn BSL. Hell, he might even take up a hobby. He’d always liked calligraphy, and he was damn good at tennis back in college. Cookery seemed to be in vogue these days, and he did enjoy his brief foray into breadmaking. Abruptly, Cohen wondered if Uncle Israel might send him that fruitcake recipe.
And wasn’t that a thought? That he, Cohen Ford, might have time to bake. Time to spare.
Time to live.
Because it was time for him to start living. Time to finally enjoy life, like a real human being and not some masked automaton.
So, screw it.
Instead of turning towards the station, he buttoned up his coat and turned right towards the park, through the old Greenwich market where he stopped to watch a street artist paint.
He’d never stopped to watch anything like this before. Never taken the time to enjoy little pleasures like a man in a paint-smeared smock putting brush to canvas, filling empty spaces with depth and colour.
On a whim, he approached the artist and asked to buy the picture. It was a simple thing, just the sun setting over the Canary Wharf skyline, but the personal meaning Cohen found in the painting appealed to him. So, he handed the artist over two hundred pounds in crisp twenties to make it his. He imagined looking back on this image and remembering the day he decided to take hold of his life and make it his own; not what Canning wanted it to be, not what Esther wanted it to be, not what Jim wanted it to be and not even what River might want it to be.
No. From this moment on, Cohen was his own person. He controlled his own destiny.