So, he went out. Bought new furniture. New clothes. He had a few meaningless affairs, brief and unsatisfactory. He binned the bread maker.
Now, standing in a shop that essentially sold nothing but frozen carbohydrates in sugar form, he felt, for the first time since Christine left, real attraction to another human being.
If this was irony, he decided he liked it.
But the woman didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned away from the cupboard and back to him, holding out a first aid kit and a bandage. He took the proffered items, and she pointed to a table, telling him to sit.
He sat. At this point, she could tell him to strip to his underwear and sing the greatest hits of The Beach Boys, and he would have obeyed her every word. Although this was London, so it would probably be The Beatles. Did he know any Beatles’ songs? Cohen thought fast but came up with nothing. His father, he knew, would have been so ashamed of him.
That’s if he’d still been alive.
Swallowing hard, Cohen watched the woman, trying to banish away all uncomfortable thoughts of his father. She came to sit next to him, taking his hands and peeling the cloth from his head. She inspected his wound before cleaning it with a sterile wipe. His heart pounded frantically in his chest and his breath came short and fast while she tended to him, and he tried to hide a sudden tremble to his fingers, unwilling to show his nervousness at her close proximity. He hadn’t been this affected by the presence of a woman in years – hadn’t been this taken by a woman in years – and the knowledge that he, Cohen Ford, been reduced to a shaking mess from mere attraction sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.
But his stiffness made the girl frown, and he saw concern drift across her face. Cohen knew she was worried that he was in pain, and he tried to smile, to reassure her. He was intrigued enough now that he didn’t want to frighten her away, and so with effort, he attempted to relax, and concentrate on the present. He focused on the feeling of her hands and the pleasant warmth emanating from her skin. He let himself glance up into her hazel eyes, losing himself briefly in their depths, and felt a flush of pleasure when she met his gaze. He inhaled sharply, letting this perfect moment wash over him. A perfect moment, but, like all of life’s pleasures, fleeting and over all too soon. For the woman nodded as she applied a bandage to his head with a flourish, pressing down gently and then patting him on the back, as though in thanks for being brave.
If he wasn’t already done for, if her eyes and smile and kindness and that incredible smell of sweetness that lingered near her hadn’t already caught him, what she did next sealed the deal for Cohen’s heart. Catching his eye, she bit down on one lip, as though lost in thought, as though considering him. Whatever she was asking him, whatever she wanted, Cohen decided his answer was always and forevermore going to beyes.But her contemplation was only momentary, because abruptly she grinned widely, before leaning forward and kissing him on the head, right over the bandage.
Cohen knew then that he wascompletelydone for.Abruptly, he wanted to shower this woman in focaccia bread and cupcakes. Because for Cohen, post-divorce, a rise of emotion walked hand in hand with a sudden urge to bake. Forget perfume and flowers, Cohen knew now that the best gifts were homemade, warm and grown with yeast.
She stood up, disappearing back behind the counter to wash her hands, because this was clearly a hygienic ice creamery and who wanted blood in their Rum and Raisin waffle cone or Raspberry Ripple sundae? She then scribbled an entry into the first aid logbook, because a bumped head on a low-slung doorway counted as an ‘incident’ these days.
Forget incident. Cohen knew better. This was serendipity. This was kismet. This was fate.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked again, louder now.
But she didn’t turn, and nor did she answer him.
‘Forget it, Ford. She’s not for you,’ a voice called out to him. Turning in his chair, away from the woman in her yellow gingham, away from the dancing ribbons in her hair, he saw a wizened figure watching him from the doorway, her hand clutching a wooden cane.
Rushi de Luca. Cohen would have known her anywhere. Small and delicate, with pale skin and grey hair, she was as petite as he remembered, but also just as fierce. She was eyeing him with outright and very frank dislike, her eyes dark and suspicious, watching him watch the woman with distrust written all over her wrinkled face.
‘Hello Rushi,’ Cohen replied calmly. He reminded himself that he was no longer a child. That he was no longer the boy who, when his ice cream fell into the gutter, cried until Rushi replaced it with a new one. That he was no longer poor Cohen, whose wife left him for somebody else. ‘I’ve come to deliver your birthday present. My mother asked me to bring it while I was over here.’
‘It was my birthday three months ago.’ Rushi’s reply, dry and cutting, was instant. Her eyes narrowed further. ‘And you’ve been in London for nearly a year now.’
‘I’m sorry, I should’ve called earlier.’ He couldn’t help his eyes from flickering towards yellow gingham as the woman cleaned counters, her eyes occasionally looking up to meet his own.
‘Yes, I’ll bet you’re sorry,’ Rushi snapped. ‘But you won’t be sorry for long.’ She indicated to the woman with a wave of her hand. ‘Like I said: she’s not for you.’
‘Who says I’m even interested?’ Cohen, guilty and defensive all at once, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not. I wasn’t even—’
‘—fèi-huà!’ Rushi slapped her hand against the door, her use of Chinese sudden and sharp. ‘I didn’t believe your father when he looked at your mother like that, and I don’t believe you. But she’s not for you, Ford. So, you keep your eyes and your hands to yourself.’
Ah. So, the old topic of his faithless father was once again rearing its ugly head.
Cohen sighed. ‘Rushi …’ he began, but she threw her hands up with a loud noise of exasperation.
‘Where’s this gift then, hmm?’
Cohen indicated to his bag. Rushi nodded, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking at the woman, as though checking on her. But any concern in her eyes disappeared the moment she turned back to Cohen, who she looked at once more with waspish distaste.
‘Well,’ she snapped at him. ‘Stay for ten minutes. Youcanspare me ten minutes, hmm boy?’
Cohen smarted at her words. ‘No, not really,’ he said coolly. ‘In fact, I should be going, I have a meeting in—’
But Rushi didn’t pay him any heed. ‘What do you want then?’ She carried on, regardless, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. ‘Strawberry was always your flavour, wasn’t it, young Ford?’
At the word ‘strawberry’, Cohen’s stomach dropped. Ice ran down his spine, and he felt, once again, that stab of pain and guilt. He could almost hear his father’s voice, that familiar sneer of disdain, echoing across the ice creamery.
