‘... and of course,’ his mother was still talking. How could she still be talking? What more could she possibly have to say to him? ‘Marilyn and I went to temple last week and all the other women were there with pictures of their grandchildren, and what do I have? A picture of you in Paris – and you cut off half the Eiffel Tower in the photo, which is the best bit, and honestly Cohen, who does that? – that I had to dig out of your work’s website. Now, I’m not saying I need grandchildren right now, but the distinct possibility that in the future it might happen ...’
Any minute now, Cohen decided, he was going to hang up. He was going to hang up, tie the phone to a heavy rock and sink it into the Thames. Let the fish hear Esther’s complaints about his neglect both to her and in his grandchildren siring duties.
‘... I mean, it’s been three years since Christine walked out. Three years! There are plenty of nice girls out there, Cohen. Plenty. You just need to stop being so insular and notice one of them. Maybe even try listening to one, once in a while. Take a girl out, talk to her. You never know what might happen.’
‘I know what will happen, I’ve dated enough women,’ Cohen muttered. ‘I take them out, they talk, they take all they can get and then they leave. It’s the same story every time.’
For a moment, Esther fell silent. ‘They don’t all leave. Christine—’
‘—she left too, in the end,’ Cohen interjected bitterly. ‘Took her a few years, but eventually, she went with the programme, just like all the others.’
His voice was blunt, but Esther remained unwilling to give up.
‘But with the right girl—’
‘—I’m done with this conversation, Mother.’
‘Well, I’m not, and—’
‘—I’m done,’ Cohen snapped, and he heard his mother inhale deeply over the phoneline.
‘You know,’ Esther said, and Cohen swore he could hear her nails tapping irritably against her tabletop. ‘Marilyn and I don’t even know why you tried therapy when you clearly have no interest in becoming a better person. I’m glad you went, because it brought Marilyn into my life, but honestly, I really don’t know why you bothered at all. You don’t seem at all interested in growing and learning as a person.’
I didn’t want to grow or learn, I just wanted someone to listen to me. Cohen seethed inwardly. Even if I had to pay over the odds for that to happen.
But, as always, he said nothing.
Esther was still ranting when he looked up, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He nearly jumped out of his skin for standing next to him, holding a bag to her chest and looking deeply concerned, was River.
The right girl, his mind immediately supplied, and he felt a flush spread across his cheeks.
‘I have to go,’ he sputtered down the phone, instantly hanging up on his mother, even though he knew such behaviour would earn him at least a month of vitriol on her part. A month of spiteful phone calls and short emails. A month of snippy messages and reminders that she won’t be around forever, you know.
It was worth it though. River was looking at him with those amazing eyes of hers, soft, warm and eager, while a happy smile played upon her lips. She was dressed in green gingham today, while her hair sat over one shoulder, white ribbons woven into her braid. Even in an apron she looked incredible, and it took all of Cohen’s willpower not to gape at her, his mouth hanging open, like some kind of bumbling idiot.
For a moment they stared, drinking the other in. Then River turned back towards the door, unlocking it and walking inside. She didn’t hesitate when she reached out to take his hand, pulling him into the ice creamery through the too-small doorway, indicating that he should duck as he stepped into the room. She switched on the lamp, and as he blinked with the sudden change in lighting, she smiled at him again.
‘I’m Cohen,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘We met last week.’
But now she frowned, biting her lip.
‘I had strawberry ice cream,’ he tried again. ‘I just ... I just really, really wanted to see you again.’
But still, that patient frown.
Desperate, he pointed to the ice cream counter, as if to remind her, but if anything, her frown only deepened. She pointed to the cones on the countertop and stepped behind the counter, reaching for her scoop, because Cohen was such an idiot. He’d made her think he was there for the ice cream, and not for her. Frantically, he pulled on her arm to stop her moving, to stop her thought process.
To stop her from leaving him, if he was entirely honest.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No,’ he said again, pointing to the ice cream. He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Yes.’ This time he nodded his head up and down, making sure she understood the movement. ‘Yes,’ he murmured again, pointing to her.
Her face, so still but a moment before, seemed to blossom before him. She brought a hand to her chest, pointing to herself.
Really? her body seemed to ask.
‘Yes,’ he said again, nodding in the affirmative. God, how much he wished he could add that he was ruined for anyone else. That he had a thousand things he wanted to say to her ... but no way to make her understand.
He must have frowned, because she took his hand, her fingers slender and cool within his own, and, smiling all the way, led him to a table in the ice creamery. She indicated that he should sit, and he did so obediently. She went back to the door, locking it securely, before returning to the table and sitting beside him.
The bag she carried she set before them, and Cohen watched as she opened it up and started pulling items out. An apple, red and crisp. A bottle of water. A sandwich.
Lunch, he suddenly realised.
And then he panicked, because this was clearly River’s lunch break he had intruded upon, and when she started to divide her items in two, cutting the sandwich and apple in half, pouring half her water into a cup for him, he motioned for her to stop, that he couldn’t possibly inconvenience her, that—
But she laid a calm hand against his flailing one, bringing the other to his face, forcing him to look into her eyes.
It’s okay, he felt her telling him. Stay.
And so he nodded, biting into the half apple she offered him.
‘It’s good,’ he said.
She smiled, clapping her hands together.
But it wasn’t just an expression of joy she was making. Instead, she took her right hand and formed a ‘C’ shape, moving it upwards and forwards from her mouth.
She did it again, pointing to the apple.
Instantly, Cohen understood.
‘Apple,’ he whispered. ‘You’re telling me apple.’
He tried the movement for himself, repeating her action back to her. He struggled at first, timid and frightened of failing, and he was appalled that he was so uncertain of his own fingers. But River encouraged him, moving her hand over his and showing him the word. When he got it right, her smile was almost blinding, and he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt such a rush of satisfaction from the actions of his own body before.
His body, in which he had always felt so awkward, so out of place, suddenly felt like a work of art. And he wanted nothing more now than to keep painting, to let her be the guided hand on his brush, bringing words to life with his fingertips.