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 return 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.’