‘Well, even with money, you still have a problem. Unless you suddenly start to crap visas, you have no right to stay in the UK.’
Cohen hadn’t thought of that. ‘I could always marry River—’ he began, but Rushi exhaled sharply, holding up her hand.
‘What? Just like that? You would marry a deaf girl, a girl you hardly know, just like that?’
‘No.’ Cohen shook his head, sitting taller. ‘I wouldn’t marry a deaf girl, or a girl I hardly know, just like that. But Rushi.’ He paused, his face serious. ‘Iwouldmarry River.’
Rushi inhaled now. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you Ford?’
‘Yes.’ And by God, Cohen had never been more serious about anything in his life. Abruptly he stood, brushing the crumbs from his lap. He extended a hand to Rushi. ‘Come on, let me get you home,’ he offered.
Rushi stood, a frown on her face. ‘I may be old, but I can get myself home safely, Ford.’
Cohen looked at her pointedly. ‘River is deaf, and you don’t seem to think she can.’
The look Rushi gave him was almost a glare but mostly begrudgingly impressed. ‘Alright Ford,’ she muttered. ‘Now you’re just showing off. Fine then, you may take me home.’
‘I’d like to see River anyway,’ Cohen told her. ‘One more time, before I fly to New York.’
‘New York?’ Rushi looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you weren’t going home?’
Cohen smiled at her. ‘I’m not going home. River is home. I’m going to New York, just for a while. I have some business to take care of, and also—’ he smiled again, thinking of Christine and his grandmother’s ring ‘—I also have something I need to collect.’
Rushi claimed tiredness on their return, disappearing to her bedroom soon after they arrived. River didn’t claim tiredness but pulled Cohen into her bedroom all the same. She’d dressed for work in a blue gingham apron, but it didn’t last long. Cohen peeled that from her body first before stripping the rest of her clothes, kissing every inch of flesh he could get his mouth on.
Later, while they were lying in a post-coital haze, River showing him signs forumbrella,snowandboots, he reached for her notepad and told her that he had to go to New York.Just for a while,he wrote, kissing her when she frowned at his words.Just for a while. I’m always going to come home to you. Now and forever.
Still, he clung to her when they parted. He walked her down to the ice creamery, kissing her fingers when she disappeared behind the counter. He swallowed hard at the tears that gathered in her eyes and felt his own eyes swell with emotion when she turned and put a pink paper cup into his hands.
Strawberry, she signed. And then she made another sign, which he knew meantYour favourite.
Because River knew him just as he knew her. She knew him, she listened to him and she remembered the things that mattered to him, no matter how small or inconsequential.
Cohen went home, the taste of sweet ice cream and even sweeter kisses on his lips, touching hismezuzahreverently before throwing a few things into a suitcase and getting the express out to Heathrow.
He bought a ticket to JFK.
He got on a plane.
And as the plane taxied down a grey runway and cleared a grey sky, he felt a deep stab of sadness.
Because he wouldn’t be seeing River next Tuesday.
Chapter Twelve
Wine
Cohen’s New York apartment was hip, cool and clinical; all sharp lines and edges, with glass tables and chrome-plated chairs. Even his couch was metal, with a high back that reflected the lights of the city skyline. The whole place looked and felt detached in an over-it, millennial kind of fashion. Or at least, that’s how the interior decorator who designed this monstrosity of a home described it to him in her brief. Cohen wasn’t even sure. He’d bought the place on a whim in a post-Christine haze, and his memories of that period were somewhat blurred. All he really remembered was nodding and agreeing with the quite franklyterrifyingdesigner, hoping that whatever scheme this woman with short pink hair and a clipboard that could double as a razor blade came up with would entice women into sleeping with him.
As he teetered on the edge of his high-backed and shiny sofa, a seat too uncomfortable to even sit in, Cohen made a mental note never to bring River here. In fact, he decided to sell the place entirely. He’d never loved it, the place had never felt like a home and the entire apartment reeked of desperation and despair. Chrome-plated desperation and despair with high ceilings and a view, it’s true, but still ...
Cohen went through to his bedroom, looking with disinterest at his bed, trying to quell a sudden longing for the last bed he lay in, wrapped around River, her hair splayed on the pillows. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. Listlessly, he picked up the biography of Horatio Nelson he’d bought at Heathrow and started reading it. He thumbed through the pages for a time, getting so far as learning that the famed Admiral suffered from seasickness before throwing the book to one side with a deep sigh. What was River doing now? He couldn’t help but wonder. It was 10 p.m. here, which made it what? Three a.m. Greenwich Mean Time?
River would be asleep, Cohen realised. He dug his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the stream of text messages they’d sent each other since he left for Heathrow. The temptation to text her again was overwhelming, and Cohen couldn’t resist.
I’m back in my apartment, looking at blank walls and sitting on awful furniture. All I can think about is you. I miss you already.
He pressed send and jumped into his shower. His housekeeper had been diligent in his absence, even going so far as to keep his shampoo and conditioner replenished and ready for him. He washed his hair, dried off and then searched for something to sleep in, hoping against hope that his bottle of Lagavulin 16 was as full and waiting for him as his bathroom products had been. He checked his phone with even less hope, knowing that River would be asleep, imagining her snug and warm in her bed three and a half thousand miles from here.
