And with that, Fowler left.
Cohen stared at the space where Fowler stood, internally damning him for being right, before going back to his computer. He was about to log in to the mainframe when his phone rang.
‘Hello?’ he said gruffly, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he typed.
‘Hi Cohen, listen, I’ve heard from Christine ...’
It was his lawyer with good news. Christine was going to return the ring in exchange for a twenty percent increase on her alimony and a ten thousand dollar ‘goodwill’ payment.
‘Fantastic.’ Cohen exhaled with relief. ‘Look, can you organise the trade and—’
But his lawyer interrupted him. ‘No,’ he said, reluctance in his voice. ‘No, Cohen. It has to be you. She’ll only hand the ring over if you yourself go to get it.’
Cohen closed the call, his hand suddenly tense.
Because damn it.
He was going to have to see Christine.
Christine looked good in a polished, emaciated kind of way. Her make-up was immaculate and her body was squeezed into a tiny pencil dress. She’d suggested Bar 54 for their meeting, and it was only when she was walking towards him on her killer heels and sliding into the seat next to his that he recalled this was where they first met.
Instantly, he felt uneasy, almost faintly alarmed.
‘Cohen,’ Christine nearly purred, her voice low and seductive.
‘Hello, Christine,’ Cohen said warily.
‘Let’s get a drink and catch up,’ Christine suggested. She laid a hand against his arm while she called over a nearby waiter, promptly ordering a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine without even pausing to consider the price.
Much like he’d done when he’d married this woman, Cohen reflected bitterly.
‘I’m not drinking,’ Cohen told her.
‘Oh, just have one,’ Christine wheedled, a slight frown suddenly marring her contoured beauty. ‘You know how I hate to drink alone. Besides, it’s nearly Christmas.’
‘I’m Jewish.’
But Christine laughed. ‘No, you’re not. Not really.’
He stared at her, his face hard, and he saw her eyes flash nervously. ‘Well,’ she gave a high, nervous laugh. ‘It’s nearly … what, Yom Kippur?’
‘Hanukkah,’ Cohen muttered.
Christine smiled. ‘So, Hanukkah then. Have a drink to celebrate that. I’ll have one too.’
Cohen acquiesced with a slight nod of the head, allowing the waiter to pour him a glass after he’d filled Christine’s.
‘How are you Cohen?’ Christine then asked, all smoky eyes, plump lips and fluttering lashes.
Cohen felt a dart of disgust, followed by a dash of unease.
‘Good.’
‘And how has Paris been?’
‘London,’ he corrected her.
She laughed again, a high-pitched and utterly false sound that grated on his nerves.
