‘Nope.’
‘And this twenty-six-year old is not only British but deaf?’
Cohen nodded again.
Esther breathed out. ‘I didn’t know you knew sign language.’
‘I don’t. But I’m learning.’
‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Esther’s voice was unnervingly tight. ‘Have you gone crazy, Cohen? Oy vey, but you can’t do this. You can’t marry a woman who isn’t American; a woman you can’t even talk to. A woman who isn’t even Jewish.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Cohen replied patiently.
‘You don’t even know sign language, Cohen,’ Esther carried on firmly. ‘This is a bad idea. Everything about this is a bad idea.’
‘This is the best idea I’ve ever had. And I told you, I’m learning BSL.’
As if to prove his point, he gestured to his cup. Coffee, he signed.
Esther, to her credit, didn’t roll her eyes. ‘You know I can’t approve of this ... this marriage, Cohen. The whole concept is ridiculous.’
Cohen shrugged. ‘I don’t need your approval, mother. What I would like is your blessing, though.’
‘My blessing? She’s not even Jewish,’ Esther nearly whined.
‘No, she’s not. But honestly, just spend five minutes in her presence. Then you’ll understand. I promise you that, mother.’
Esther snorted. ‘I don’t speak sign language, Cohen. That will be a long five minutes.’
‘Come to London with me, Mother. Bring Marilyn. I’m only asking for five minutes.’
Esther sat back and considered his words. He could almost see the cogs moving in her brain as she thought.
‘Alright,’ she finally agreed. ‘I’ll come to London and meet this ... this woman of yours.’
‘River,’ Cohen corrected her. ‘Not woman ... River.’
‘River, fine. But five minutes is all I’m giving her. And if after five minutes I still don’t understand, I want you to promise that you’ll sit down with me and talk this through before you rush into any drastic decisions.’
Cohen nodded. It was an easy promise to make, after all. No one who spent five minutes in a room with River could fail to be charmed by her.
It only took him around thirty seconds to fall in love with her, after all.
‘You know, my old friend Rushi de Luca’s adopted daughter is deaf,’ Esther mused suddenly. ‘You remember her? The one who owns the ice cream place in London? Maybe I’ll give her a call. She could probably teach me a few signs in BSL – because I am going to try with this, Cohen. I promise to try.’
Cohen stared at his mother, who clearly hadn’t figured everything out just yet.
‘Mother …’
‘Mmm.’ Esther reached for her diary and a pen, thumbing through the book absently. ‘Yes, here’s Rushi’s number.’ Her eyes scanned over the entry. ‘Her daughter’s name is River and —’ Suddenly, Esther looked up. ‘Oy gevalt,’ she whispered, and Cohen grinned.
‘Yes.’ He nodded, answering her unspoken question.
Both the pen and diary fell from Esther’s hand with a clatter.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Yes, Mother. I’m going to ask Rushi de Luca’s daughter to marry me.’
Cohen went into the office early the next morning. He was tired, still suffering slightly from jet-lag, as well as the fact that his mother and Marilyn kept him up late the previous evening, asking him to recount – again and again – his romance with River before lighting the hanukiah candle. The more Esther heard the softer her face had become, and when he’d finally gone home for the night – because he refused to sleep in his mother’s guest room like an errant teenage boy – she’d kissed him very tenderly.
He loaded up his computer and logged into the mainframe. He went into the company access files, looking for a BSL interpreter.
Five minutes later, he stormed into Tarquin Fowler’s office.
‘You speak BSL,’ he said, making it sound almost like an accusation.
‘Yes,’ drawled Fowler with absolute disinterest.
‘You could’ve said so yesterday,’ Cohen said, wavering still with disbelief.
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Fowler replied, his eyes still glued to his screen. ‘There’s no fun in it if you don’t sweat a little bit, is there now?’
‘This,’ Cohen hissed. ‘This is an important merger to me.’
‘You’re leaving Roberts-Canning.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘I don’t have to make things easy for you now.’
‘Like you’ve ever made things easy for me—’ Cohen started, before inhaling deeply. ‘Look, this is an important merger. I need to learn just a few sentences in BSL. I would appreciate it if you would teach me them.’
Fowler rolled his eyes, finally looking up to face Cohen.
‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh. ‘What do you need to know for this merger?’
With shaking hands, Cohen handed over a list.
Fowler read it, his eyes flickering over it with interest, before he looked up to raise one sardonic eyebrow at Cohen.
Fowler cleared his throat. ‘I love you,’ he read out loud. ‘I want to be with you forever. Will you marry me?’ He eyed Cohen sceptically. ‘This must be some damn merger, Ford.’
Cohen flushed a deep red.
Fowler gave a Cheshire Cat grin. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Just a woman,’ Cohen replied, his voice small. ‘A deaf woman who works in an ice creamery in London.’
‘A BSL user, so obviously British,’ Fowler added.
Cohen stood taller. ‘Yes.’
‘And you love her?’
‘Yes. With all my heart.’
‘And I take it this British deaf woman is the reason for your sudden exit from Roberts-Canning?’
Cohen refused to say another word. Because this was Fowler, head of Human Resources for Roberts-Canning LLC, and he knew better than to reveal too much.
But Fowler clasped both of his hands under his chin, staring up at Cohen with utter delight. ‘This is all very romantic, Ford. Like Daphnis and Chloe,’ he said with a grin.
‘I don’t even know what that is.’
‘Of course you don’t. A simple man like you wouldn’t. You should try going to the opera every so often. Culture doesn’t hurt, you know.’
Cohen gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t need to go to the opera. I just need to learn a few phrases in BSL and …’
But Fowler was still talking. ‘You and your new lady friend could be like the new Pelléas and Mélisande, perhaps …’
Cohen stared. Fowler was undoubtedly mocking him, and he didn’t have to stand here and take this, so he turned, ready to leave and—
‘—or like Nelson and his Lady Hamilton …’
At the word ‘Nelson’, Cohen turned back. ‘I know who that is,’ he interrupted, and Fowler rolled his eyes.
‘Sure you do,’ he drawled, his voice ripe with disbelief.
But Cohen stood firm. ‘I do know,’ he insisted. ‘I went to visit his column in London.’
‘Ah, the motherland.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘So, you saw his column. Nearly all the tourists do and—’