Then they reached Sunflowers.
‘Here is a painting that, of course, needs no introduction. This is the fourth version of Van Gogh’s famous Sunflowers series, painted in 1888 in Arles, France. This painting is on permanent loan from the Tate Gallery, who bought it in 1924 at auction and ...’
Cohen listened, enraptured, a lump in his throat. In that moment, he was not a grown man, living in a foreign country, divorced and on the first date that had meant anything to him since, well, forever. He was not the next CEO of Roberts-Canning LLC, known for his sheer ruthlessness, efficient brutality and somewhat terrifying business practices. He was not the son who sent his mother’s calls to voicemail, just as he was not the son who ignored the pitiful entreaties of a dying father.
In that moment, he was a boy again, alone and confused, abandoned by both of his parents. He was a boy, unheard, unseen and lacking in affection. Once again, he felt awkward in the tall lines of his body, the broad width of his shoulders, in the deep voice of his adulthood.
In that moment he was as lost as he ever was, perhaps would ever be. In that moment, he was so absolutely afraid that it actually hurt.
But just as he went to take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to find his centre, attempting to bring himself back to reality, two warm arms snaked around his stomach. He looked down to find River looking up at him, her chest pressed to his stomach, her eyes full of concern, while her lips parted slightly in a question she could not form with words.
Are you okay?
And no, he wasn’t okay. He was very close to falling apart, and his trigger was simply a vase of yellow sunflowers.
He inhaled again, concentrating on the feeling of River against him, letting that bring him back to the here and now and away from a painful past that kept rearing an ugly head to bite him in the ass. But River suddenly disengaged from him, pulling on the arm of a nearby stranger and signing at him.
The stranger looked from River to Cohen and back to River again, before clearing his throat.
‘She wants to know if you’re okay?’ he asked.
Cohen gave a tight nod. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Tell her that one day I need to let her know all about my father.’
The man smirked but signed as Cohen asked. River signed back, and the man almost laughed.
‘She says that one day she’ll need to tell you all about hers. She also wants to know if you’d like to get out of here.’
And God, yes, Cohen absolutely did. It wasn’t that he didn’t like art. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the absolute mastery of Holbein, Cézanne, Dali and Raphael. It was only that, right at that moment, there could be absolutely nothing more beautiful to him than River. And no matter how fine the stroke of a brush, no matter how intense the depth of a colour, no matter how poignant the meaning behind an image, none of them, none of them at all, could compare with the masterpieces that were the soft curves of River’s body, the pinkish hue of her lips or the stories she could tell with her eyes.
And he didn’t want to waste another second appreciating anything else.
‘Yes, I want to get out of here,’ Cohen practically purred the words, and the stranger took a step back at his intensity.
Still, he signed the words to River, nodding as she signed back.
He shrugged. ‘She says something about the letter? You need to read the next page?’
And Cohen’s eyes must have brightened as he turned back to River, because the stranger tapped him on the shoulder, and when he spoke again, his hands were still.
‘Look mate,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I can tell you’ve got it bad for this girl. Take my advice, learn yourself some BSL. And fast. I know of some centres that can help you. Good ones.’
‘Any in New York?’ Cohen asked him, and the stranger looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s where I live,’ Cohen explained.
The stranger looked at River, with her hopeful eyes, to Cohen, whose affection for her must have been seeping from every pore. The stranger clicked his tongue and gave a deep sigh, before looking Cohen deep in the eyes.
‘Son,’ he said patiently. ‘I don’t mean to tell you your business … but are you sure this is a good idea?’
But Cohen had never been more certain of anything else in his life.
Cohen took River’s arm as they left the gallery. When they stepped out again into the evening air, the cold was like a slap against his skin and he saw River shiver.
And that was not acceptable to Cohen. Not in the slightest.
He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, wrapping it around River’s thin arms, luxuriating in the image of her wearing his clothes. The coat dwarfed her, but damn if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen her wear. She held up her hands as if to protest, but Cohen shook his head, even as goosebumps pimpled over his arms. They were nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with her, but still, she exhaled in concern, before reaching up, pulling her scarf from her neck and wrapping it around his. It was red gingham, and he was fairly certain he now looked like an Italian version of Sherlock Holmes, but still ... it was something of hers on him, and he knew that from this moment on, he would keep this scarf forever.
River’s hands lingered on her scarf around his neck, and she bit on her lip, looking up at him, the lights of London reflected in her eyes. She pulled on the ends of the scarf, dragging his head down towards hers, and suddenly she was kissing him, having caught him in the best kind of net.
He could think of no sweeter bondage as his tongue pressed gently against her lips, claiming entrance to her mouth. And he could think of no better jailer than this woman, as she returned and then deepened his kiss, panting gently, her hands tightening against the fabric in her hands.
There were stars above them, art behind them, while London lay gently at their feet. He tightened his hold on River, pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it gently. The gasp she made was beautiful, and the twinkling lights of Trafalgar Square’s Christmas tree played gently upon her skin as Cohen stroked his finger down her cheek.
All thoughts of sunflowers were banished from his mind, his head wiped blank by a searching tongue, a warm mouth and two hands full of red gingham. If he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t stop this soon, he might have been tempted to take River here and then on the steps of the National Gallery, and damn anyone who got in their way, anyone who might have dared to suggest such an act would defile the artwork. Art was, after all, only another expression of passion, Cohen abruptly realised. Sunflowers, water lilies, forgotten kings or nude gods … they were all versions of love, in their own way.
But River pulled back, releasing her hold on the scarf around his neck, her breathing heavy. She licked her lips, and Cohen had to stop himself from reaching for her again. He watched as she dipped into the pocket of his coat, handing him her letter.
He turned to the second page.
Taste. It began, and his mind instantly wandered to all sorts of interesting thoughts. River’s kiss was sweet, her mouth like sugared almonds, and Cohen’s thoughts immediately travelled south, wondering if she was just as sweet, just as addictive, everywhere else.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
I read somewhere once that if you lose one sense, the others immediately improve. I’m not sure I believe that. Did I appreciate the art tonight more than you because I can’t hear? Were the colours brighter, the lines finer? Did I discern meanings within the paintings that the hearing world cannot find? I hope not. There seems so little joy in such thoughts.