Fowler stared at him, much like his lawyer had stared at him earlier.
‘You want out,’ Fowler repeated, his voice tight. ‘Just like that, you want out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes. Just like this. I’m done with it all, Fowler.’
For a moment there was quiet as Fowler digested the news.
‘Canning won’t be happy—’ he started, but Cohen stood, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
‘Canning is already in Panama, living the high life with his ill-gotten gains. He’s about to have the best Christmas of his life, a girl on each arm and a champagne in each hand.’ Cohen shook his head. ‘Well, fair play to him. Let him rot his liver with alcohol … it’ll match his rotten heart.’ Cohen stood taller. ‘Look, Fowler, Canning won’t care. He’s done, just as I am. Besides, there must be someone else waiting in the wings. Someone even more bloodthirsty than me.’
‘There’s always someone else,’ Fowler remarked coldly.
Cohen shrugged. ‘Fine. Get them. I’m out. My contract says you’ll need three months notice. But I’m telling you now, I’m not willing to stay that long.’
Fowler straightened, adjusting his tie. ‘There will be financial repercussions if you leave before your contract expires, you do realise this.’
Cohen gave a disinterested nod. ‘Whatever. It’s only money.’
Fowler stared at him. ‘Why?’ he asked, after a palpable silence. ‘Why are you walking?’
‘I have other things I want to do,’ Cohen replied. ‘Do you always want to work here for Canning-Roberts LLC in Human Resources? Was that your dream, Fowler? Because all this—’ Cohen gestured to his impersonal, functional office ‘—this wasn’t my dream. And life is too short to waste on anything less.’
Fowler opened his mouth as though to reply, before clearly thinking better of it and closing it just as quickly.
‘Just speak to the board, start the ball rolling,’ Cohen instructed him. ‘Tell them I’ll stay a month, but no more. I’ll happily pay any financial penalties for breaking contract early. Just get me out.’
Fowler nodded, giving Cohen one final look, long and hard. He wore an expression on his face like he wanted to say something. Beneath his icy exterior, Cohen sensed truth and confession fleeting under the surface. But then Fowler stiffened and any hidden depths were quickly buried further. He went to leave before Cohen held up a hand, stopping him.
‘Wait. There’s one more thing. I’m working on a ... a merger of sorts,’ he spoke easily, trying his best to keep his voice light, casual and business-like. ‘I’d like to wrap it up before I leave.’
Fowler turned back, his expression bored.
‘So?’
Cohen flushed slightly. ‘The person on the other team ... they’re deaf. I need to learn a few phrases in BSL. You know.’ He swallowed. ‘To get them onside. Show them that I’m serious about this merger.’
There it was again, that break in Fowler’s normal exterior. But it was only a break, and he shrugged once more.
‘British Sign Language?’
‘Yes,’ Cohen said firmly. ‘You’re Human Resources ... do you know of anyone, offhand, who knows it round here?’
Fowler rolled his eyes. ‘Well yes, of course here in the New York office of Roberts-Canning LLC we’re simply overrun with the deaf British expat community.’
Cohen wasn’t an idiot. He knew sarcasm when he heard it.
‘Fine,’ he snarled at Fowler. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He quickly made the sign for idiot in BSL, one of the last words River taught him, before turning back to his desk.
Behind him Fowler gave a surprised inhalation and he turned back to his colleague curiously.
Fowler was looking at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted wings.
‘What?’ Cohen snapped.
Fowler shook his head, almost with a scoff. ‘Nothing, it’s nothing.’ He shuffled on his feet. ‘But if you really need a BSL interpreter you could always check the company mainframe. We list all staff who specialise in foreign languages there.’
‘That’s actually a good idea.’ Cohen swallowed down his pride. ‘Thank you.’
Fowler stared at him again, his gaze piercing. ‘Tell me, Cohen,’ he said. ‘Tell me honestly, why are you walking? You’ve been here years. You were always the best at getting results. You were always after just one more deal, just one more dollar. You didn’t care who you hurt on the way. What happened to you?’
It was a remarkably cold assessment that made Cohen shudder. But Fowler was looking at him, waiting. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for a reason. Waiting for a logical explanation for a decision which, from every angle, seemed illogical.
There was only one thing Cohen could say.
‘I grew up.’
And with that, Fowler left.
Cohen stared at the space where Fowler stood, internally damning him for being right, before going back to his computer. He was about to log in to the mainframe when his phone rang.
‘Hello?’ he said gruffly, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he typed.
‘Hi Cohen, listen, I’ve heard from Christine ...’
It was his lawyer with good news. Christine was going to return the ring in exchange for a twenty percent increase on her alimony and a ten thousand dollar ‘goodwill’ payment.
‘Fantastic.’ Cohen exhaled with relief. ‘Look, can you organise the trade and—’
But his lawyer interrupted him. ‘No,’ he said, reluctance in his voice. ‘No, Cohen. It has to be you. She’ll only hand the ring over if you yourself go to get it.’
Cohen closed the call, his hand suddenly tense.
Because damn it.
He was going to have to see Christine.
Christine looked good in a polished, emaciated kind of way. Her make-up was immaculate and her body was squeezed into a tiny pencil dress. She’d suggested Bar 54 for their meeting, and it was only when she was walking towards him on her killer heels and sliding into the seat next to his that he recalled this was where they first met.
Instantly, he felt uneasy, almost faintly alarmed.
‘Cohen,’ Christine nearly purred, her voice low and seductive.
‘Hello, Christine,’ Cohen said warily.
‘Let’s get a drink and catch up,’ Christine suggested. She laid a hand against his arm while she called over a nearby waiter, promptly ordering a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine without even pausing to consider the price.
Much like he’d done when he’d married this woman, Cohen reflected bitterly.
‘I’m not drinking,’ Cohen told her.
‘Oh, just have one,’ Christine wheedled, a slight frown suddenly marring her contoured beauty. ‘You know how I hate to drink alone. Besides, it’s nearly Christmas.’
‘I’m Jewish.’
But Christine laughed. ‘No, you’re not. Not really.’
He stared at her, his face hard, and he saw her eyes flash nervously. ‘Well,’ she gave a high, nervous laugh. ‘It’s nearly … what, Yom Kippur?’
‘Hanukkah,’ Cohen muttered.