‘—he joined the Royal navy aged twelve,’ Cohen continued. ‘He was made Captain by twenty and then an Admiral before he was forty.’ He paused, thinking once more of his Uncle Israel. ‘He lost his right hand in battle. They took it off without anaesthetic.’
Now Fowler stared at Cohen.
Cohen flushed red. ‘What?’
But Fowler only shook his head. ‘Nothing. It’s just that I’m rarely surprised by anyone or anything.’ He stared at Cohen some more. ‘Well, come on then Ford, sit yourself down. I’ll teach you the phrases you need.’
‘You mean you’re going to help me?’ Cohen asked. ‘Really?’
Fowler nodded. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Oh, well … thank you.’ Cohen swallowed. ‘Fowler, look, I knew you were British but had no idea you knew BSL—’ he began, but Fowler waved his hand. His eyes darkened momentarily.
‘I had a sister,’ Fowler admitted. ‘She had Down’s Syndrome, which affected her hearing. We learnt BSL as a family.’
Cohen stared at him.
‘She died when she was twenty-one,’ Fowler carried on. ‘She went through two rounds of heart surgery and one gastrointestinal surgery, and in the end, a car killed her. Came hurtling down a road she was walking on and she didn’t – couldn’t – hear it coming.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Cohen said.
Fowler nodded easily. ‘Don’t be. It’s my tragedy, not yours. She liked the opera, even though she couldn’t hear the singing,’ he mused. ‘Daphnis and Chloe, Pelléas and Mélisande, Nelson and Lady Hamilton.’ Abruptly, he smiled. ‘She would’ve loved this story too. A hearing man falling in love with a deaf girl. It’s beautiful, Ford.’
Cohen said nothing.
‘Now sit down, pay attention and learn,’ Fowler ordered him, his voice back to its usual snide tone. ‘So that when you go back to London … I take it you’re going back to London?’
Cohen nodded.
‘Good for you. The food here is just awful. Well, watch my hands carefully then,’ Fowler told him. ‘So that when you get back to London, you can ask this deaf British woman who got you to leave Roberts-Canning to marry you.’
Cohen sat.
‘Just out of curiosity, when do you go back to London?’
‘I guess in a month. When my notice period expires.’
Fowler regarded him with a nod. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do about that. If your notice period wasn’t an ... an issue, when would you go back?’
Cohen closed his eyes. He wondered how long it really would take him to walk away from one life and into another. How long he would need to leave the emptiness of his New York existence for River’s arms in London.
He opened his eyes and stared at Fowler.
‘Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I’d go back next Tuesday.’
‘Just in time for Christmas,’ Fowler said.
But Cohen shrugged. ‘Yeah. But also, before the end of Hanukkah.’
Chapter Fourteen
Holiday Special
Fowler, as it turned out, could work miracles. Under his immaculate suit and coiffed hair lay a master manipulator who terrified Cohen to the pit of his soul. Quite frankly, Fowler was wasted in Human Resources.
On the Monday morning, when Cohen’s jet-lag had truly kicked in and he was knocking back the black coffee like there was no tomorrow, Fowler idled into his office and signed hello. Cohen signed back, distracted, ready to kick his laptop from the top of the building for taking twenty minutes to update, yet again, when Fowler stood next to him.
‘So,’ Fowler began, as he adjusted the lapel of Cohen’s jacket. He stopped to frown at him. ‘Urgh, you look like a hobo. You’re destroying the Brooks Brothers, Ford.’
‘It’s Prada,’ Cohen replied tonelessly.
Fowler wrinkled his nose. ‘Really? Oh. Well, maybe on you it just looks cheap.’
‘Did you want something, Fowler?’ Cohen asked, his jaw clenched.
‘Well, you’re going to get an email in about twenty minutes from Canning firing you, so I thought you might like a heads up.’
Cohen’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’
‘We’re firing you,’ Fowler replied blithely. ‘We’re letting you go. Cutting the rope. And it’s not us, it’s you.’
Cohen stared at him. ‘But I already quit.’
‘Ah yes.’ Fowler smiled. ‘I didn’t actually get around emailing that notice to ... well, to anyone. But I did email a reporter from the Post some salacious information about Roberts-Canning LLC and Canning, which I did from your IP address.’
‘Fowler,’ Cohen exhaled, a knife of fear cutting through him. ‘What the hell?’
Fowler smiled again. ‘If you quit, Ford, you’ll need to stay for a month and pay us a portion of your salary in order to walk away from your contract early. But if we fire you ...’ Fowler shrugged. ‘If we fire you, you get to leave immediately – and actually, security are already on their way, so you might want to pack up pronto – and we have to pay you a reparation sum. Do you understand me?’
Cohen was still staring at Fowler, completely dazed.
‘I said, do you understand me, Ford? We’re firing you. Of course, we can’t prove you sent that email to the Post, but the evidence weighs fairly heavily against you. So, we’re letting you go. Like, right now. With a very healthy reparation amount though, so that should soften what must be—' Fowler smirked ‘—well, what must be a terrible blow to you.’
Cohen suddenly got it. He stood taller, looking Fowler in the eye.
‘Why would you do this for me?’ he nearly whispered.
Fowler shrugged. ‘Maybe I like a good love story.’ He waved his hand. ‘Or maybe I’m just tired of you crapping all over my office juice cleanse diets and team building days.’
‘Thank you.’ Cohen nodded as he spoke, for once feeling truly humbled.
But Fowler frowned at him again. ‘If you want to thank me, you’ll get on a plane to London, marry this lady of yours and never darken the halls of Roberts-Canning again. Oh, and get rid of that suit. You can’t carry Prada. What were you thinking? Stick to the classics, Cohen. With your sort of shoulders, you can’t get away with tapering.’ Fowler turned away, walking towards the door. ‘I actually can’t even look at you any more, you’re killing that suit so badly.’
Cohen called out to his departing figure. ‘Merry Christmas, Fowler.’
Fowler turned, and Cohen saw, for the first time ever, a genuine hint of a smile cross his face.
‘Happy Hanukkah, Ford.’
And then he was gone, disappearing into the bowels of the Roberts-Canning LLC building, snapping at a lowly intern for bad posture on the way.
Cohen was left with an overwhelming feeling of freedom and joy, as well as a new appreciation and respect for juice cleanses.
True to Fowler’s word, an email arrived from Andrew Canning not long after. It was long-winded and laborious to read, but Cohen got to the crux of it quickly. His traitorous behaviour had, apparently, cut Canning in two. His contract was therefore terminated, and Canning was leaving the finer points of his departure to Fowler, and …