Christine smiled. ‘So, Hanukkah then. Have a drink to celebrate that. I’ll have one too.’
Cohen acquiesced with a slight nod of the head, allowing the waiter to pour him a glass after he’d filled Christine’s.
‘How are you Cohen?’ Christine then asked, all smoky eyes, plump lips and fluttering lashes.
Cohen felt a dart of disgust, followed by a dash of unease.
‘Good.’
‘And how has Paris been?’
‘London,’ he corrected her.
She laughed again, a high-pitched and utterly false sound that grated on his nerves.
‘London. Of course, I knew that,’ Christine simpered. ‘So, London. How has it been?’
Cohen couldn’t help the smile that almost crossed his face. A smile of pure contentment, a smile of sheer pleasure. But also a telling smile, when he didn’t want to tell this woman anything. So, he crushed it down, nodding benignly. ‘Good, it’s been good.’
But Christine must have seen his happiness, because her lined eyes narrowed and her lips thinned with displeasure.
‘You want your ring back.’ She almost pouted. ‘I can only assume that there’s somebody else waiting in the wings to replace me?’
Cohen frowned. River would never be ‘waiting in the wings’ for him. For Cohen, River would always be centre stage. The highlight of the tragi-comedy that had previously been his life.
‘It’s not really my ring,’ he told Christine simply. ‘And I’m not here to discuss my personal life with you.’
Christine, Cohen knew, was not the kind of woman who liked coming second place to anything or anyone. She had a jealous, competitive streak which, if it weren’t so easily placated, would be absolutely terrifying.
So, she laid her cards on the table along with a hand on Cohen’s thigh.
‘We were always so good together, you and I,’ she simpered. She lightly kneaded the tense flesh of his upper leg, her hands firm and possessive. ‘We could be good together again, if you wanted us to be.’
Cohen flinched, shifting so that her bony fingers were nowhere near his body.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he told her firmly. He didn’t want her hands anywhere near him. Not now that he’d been touched by River.
‘I mean it, Cohen.’ Christine carried on gamely. ‘We could leave here, go back to your place and make love like we used to. Don’t you remember? Like the early days?’
Cohen remembered. He recalled a cool and unresponsive woman in his bed, mechanical in her actions and attentions. He recalled a woman grateful when the act was done with, rolling away from him and quickly wiping his kisses from her skin. Sex with Christine had never been ‘making love’, he knew that now.
Abruptly, Cohen recalled a fleeting image of River in his bed, warm, soft and so open to his embrace. She’d kissed him and held him and sighed against his skin, her breath a gentle heat, the lingering smell of sugar in the air.
That, Cohen knew, had been making love.
‘No thanks,’ he told Christine, pushing his wine away.
‘But Cohen—’
‘—Christine, I just want my grandmother’s ring back and to get the hell out of here. You left me for someone else, remember? You took me to court for all I was worth too, in case you’ve forgotten?’
Christine leaned back, considering him. Her cheekbones were high, her shoulder blades sharp, and Cohen shuddered, wondering when denial had become sexy. This was a woman who said no to carbs, no to gluten, no to dairy and, tonight being the glaring exception, no to sex. Christine was a reigning queen of self-denial, depriving herself of all that was glorious in life so that she could chase some impossible standard of beauty. Cohen thought of River, of ice cream on her lips and gentle curves on her hips, and wanted to tell Christine to get a grip.
Because Cohen was tired of self-denial, of lives half-lived and of people constantly saying ‘no’.
He wanted to live in a world where people ate and enjoyed ice cream. A world where people tried new things. A world where people said ‘yes’.
‘That was just a rocky patch,’ Christine replied easily. ‘All marriages have rocky patches, Cohen.’
Cohen sat back. ‘Well, you let our “rocky patch” end in a dead-end quarry. You tunnelled us into a wall, and I’m done with you.’
‘So, there is someone else,’ Christine reflected, clearly not having listened to a word he’d said.
‘Like I said, I’m not prepared to discuss my personal life with you. Now, if you’ll hand over the ring, please. I’d like to get going.’
But Christine only stared at him, her eyes cruel. ‘What’s she like?’
Cohen didn’t reply.
‘She must be quite something,’ Christine deliberated. ‘For you to be considering marriage already. A real firebrand in the sack, I suppose. You always were so easily manipulated in that department, Cohen.’
Cohen stood, in an absolute fury. ‘The ring,’ he said, his voice black with rage.
Christine handed it over. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, but Cohen refused to thank her. This was merely a transaction, after all. There was no kindness here on her part.
He went to leave, but Christine put a stilling hand on his arm. It was the touch of a snake, and Cohen recoiled.
‘You know how good I can be,’ she said suggestively. ‘I promise I’ll be the perfect wife this time, Cohen. I’ll be the perfect hostess, the perfect bed-mate and the perfect woman. Everything you ever wanted, Cohen.’
Cohen looked at her with disgust. ‘I don’t want perfect. I never wanted perfect.’
‘What do you want then?’ Christine asked, her face sharp.
‘Just love.’
Now, Christine looked at him with disgust.
‘You never wanted love before,’ she said with a sneer. ‘You only wanted a good body and a pretty decoration to wear on your arm. What happened to you in London?’
Cohen looked at her one more time, knowing it would be the last time he would ever lay eyes on her.
‘I grew up,’ he told her simply.
He turned away, relief singing through him.
And he didn’t leave money for the wine.
Cohen’s last stop was a faded brownstone. He knocked once, then twice, then a third time.
Perhaps she wasn’t home.
Perhaps he should have called first.
Perhaps this was a bad idea.
But the door swung open, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet.
‘Cohen.’
There was no disappointment there, but then neither was there love or affection.
Cohen looked up.
‘Hello, Mother. Happy Hanukkah.’
Chapter Thirteen
Challah
When Esther opened the door to let Cohen into her home, her hands were shaking slightly. Cohen pretended he didn’t notice.
When she handed him a cup of hot chocolate – because apparently, he was thirteen again and Esther was still worried about caffeine stunting his growth – his hands were shaking slightly.
But Esther pretended she didn’t notice.
They sat in the kitchen, Cohen’s six-foot frame dwarfing the tiny chair he’d been ushered into. He dwarfed his mother now too; even though he was sitting and she standing, he was still a head taller than her. Cohen stared at her, at the grey-brown of her hair, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the papery thinness of her hands. He stared at her, and for the first time, he didn’t see the battle-axe mother of his youth, but a woman drifting from middle into old age. He saw a woman with disappointment written into the lines of her face, but it was a disappointment tempered by love. Because, like Billy, his mother had smile lines. Like Billy, there was an echo of happiness permanently written into her features.