God damn, Fowler.
Now Cohen knew better. He knew to jump off the train at Embankment and make the ten-minute walk up to Trafalgar Square. There was no point in trying to get to Charing Cross or Covent Garden or anywhere vaguely near the Square, it would only add time to his trip.
He sat at the foot of a lion under the column with fifteen minutes left to kill before River arrived. A tour guide nearby, her voice both clipped and bored, directed her group of embarrassingly attired tourists to the column.
‘You’ll see that Nelson leans upon his sword with his left hand, while his right is held close to his chest. Actually, from up close you can see that Nelson’s right hand is missing, his jacket sleeve empty. This is because Nelson actually lost his right hand, and part of the arm, in battle in 1806.’
Cohen started to pay more attention. Something about this was speaking to him. His grandfather lost his right hand in World War Two, while his Uncle Israel lost his in Korea. There seemed to be a grotesque family tradition in losing that limb, so much so that whenever Israel saw Cohen, he would take his right hand, stroke it gently and look into Cohen’s eyes while murmuring ‘It’s only a matter of time’.
It creeped Cohen out to no end.
But right here, sitting under Nelson’s Column, Cohen felt an element of serendipity about River’s choice of meeting place.
And that surprised him, because Cohen had never been one for signs or superstitions. He didn’t close books he found lying open, never knocked on wood for luck, and as a child, had always knocked Esther’s hands away when she tried to pull on his ears after he sneezed. Once, when his mother visited him after Christine left, she found him kneading rye dough and with a sigh, left him to it. When he found her later, she was inspecting the corners of his apartment.
‘Mishegas!’ she’d chided. ‘Not a drop of salt in any of them.’
He’d stared at her. ‘For the intelligent head of a multi-national corporation, you do spout a crazy amount of superstitious nonsense, you know that, right? And yet you call me the meshugener.’
But Esther shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s nonsense. But so far as I can see, your wife left you and now you’re arm deep in rye dough and misery. If that isn’t the work of demons, I don’t know what is.’
No, Cohen had never been one for signs or superstitions. He’d always believed life was a series of chance and coincidences, some happy, though most – in his experience, at least – were not.
But Nelson felt like a sign, and Cohen sprang to his feet, excited. Quickly, he brought out his phone and made a quick Google search. When River arrived, he wanted to be ready.
And then, there she was. Walking towards him, a shy smile on her face, wrapped in a woollen coat and leather boots. Half of her hair was pulled away from her face, but the other half hung free, and God, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
He brought his hands to her cheeks, while she brought hers up to the stray strands of his hair, the ones that fluttered in the icy December wind.
For a moment they looked at each other. Trafalgar Square was thronged with people, musicians played in the distance, while living statues loitered in the background, but it was all just a landscape in which Cohen and River saw only each other. In that second, under Nelson’s Column, they were entirely alone.
After brushing a thumb along her bottom lip, the lip he was so desperate to kiss again, Cohen stepped back.
River, he signed, spelling out her name, his large hands both slow and stiff. We’re going to make this work.
He stumbled over the words, even though the signs were still fresh in his memory. The YouTube tutorials he’d watched had been clear and concise. But even though his hands were awkward and his movements clunky, River nodded as he signed, her eyes shining brightly in the evening light.
Cohen, she signed back. Thank you, Cohen.
But he wasn’t finished. He moved his hands again, the movements clear in the strength of his conviction.
I’m never going to hurt you, River, he signed.
She smiled, reaching up to cup his cheeks and pulling his head down, so that his brow rested against her own. For a time they stood like this, almost lost to the world around them, yet finding peace and comfort in their moment of self-imposed seclusion.
When they parted, she handed him a folded note of paper.
Cohen, it said. Open the next envelope and come see my London with me.
And so he did, pulling the envelope from his bag, one hand linking with hers so that they could slide her letter out together.
Cohen squeezed her hand as he stopped to take it all in. The feel of her hand in his, warm and tender, the smell of roasting chestnuts in the air, the promise of colder nights but warm embraces.
And he knew that he would always remember this year.
That he would always remember this month. This day. This moment, right down to the last second.
This perfect, perfect Tuesday.
Chapter Seven
Sunflower Seed
When he was fourteen, or maybe fifteen, Cohen’s mother took a four-month secondment to Guatemala. Cohen remembered sitting in the airport lounge, drinking orange soda, while his mother and Uncle Israel drank tea. A few cookies sat on the Formica table before them, untouched and forlorn. Occasionally Esther would nudge them towards Cohen, but he simply crossed his arms, obstinately refusing to allow Esther to sweeten their parting.
His father had already left him. Now his mother was going too. Cohen’s anger was palpable; the sullen rage of a young man, but also the sad resentment of a scared boy.
‘You should eat something. There are children around the world who would kill for those cookies. Starving children, Cohen,’ his mother chided him sharply.
‘Fine. Why don’t you take them to Guatemala with you then?’ Cohen replied, utterly scathing. ‘Go on. Do it. Save the children of the world, one dry and tasteless baked good at a time.’
Esther pressed her lips together, and Cohen knew he had stung her. But she didn’t say another word, refusing to rise to his bait, and Cohen felt, in the piercing agony of her stare, every ounce of her hurt. Chastised, he started to reach out to her, because somewhere deep inside him still resided the small boy desperate to please his mother, a child simply desperate for her love. But the growing man within him growled, stamping the child down. She brought this on herself, the man told the boy. She’s leaving us.
Cohen’s hand dropped as he withdrew further into himself, and Esther gave a sad nod before turning to her brother, exhaling loudly.
‘I’m sorry about this again,’ she said with a sigh. ‘You know how I hate to inconvenience you.’
But Israel only shrugged. ‘Esther, he’s my nephew. It’s not a problem.’
‘It is a problem. Jim should’ve ...’
‘Jim let you down, and not for the first time,’ Israel said in a matter-of-fact voice that infuriated Cohen. ‘Jim’s just being Jim. Let it go.’
But Esther’s grip on her tea tightened, so much so that the cup bent under her fingers, her nails digging crescent marks into the polystyrene.
‘He promised me,’ she hissed. ‘He promised he would be here for Cohen.’
Israel put down his own drink so he could lay a hand against his sister’s. ‘You knew what he was when you married him. You knew marriage and fatherhood would never change him.’