‘London. Of course, I knew that,’ Christine simpered. ‘So, London. How has it been?’
Cohen couldn’t help the smile that almost crossed his face. A smile of pure contentment, a smile of sheer pleasure. But also a telling smile, when he didn’t want to tell this woman anything.So, he crushed it down, nodding benignly. ‘Good, it’s been good.’
But Christine must have seen his happiness, because her lined eyes narrowed and her lips thinned with displeasure.
‘You want your ring back.’ She almost pouted. ‘I can only assume that there’s somebody else waiting in the wings to replace me?’
Cohen frowned. River would never be ‘waiting in the wings’ for him. For Cohen, River would always be centre stage. The highlight of the tragi-comedy that had previously been his life.
‘It’s not really my ring,’ he told Christine simply. ‘And I’m not here to discuss my personal life with you.’
Christine, Cohen knew, was not the kind of woman who liked coming second place to anything or anyone. She had a jealous, competitive streak which, if it weren’t so easily placated, would be absolutely terrifying.
So, she laid her cards on the table along with a hand on Cohen’s thigh.
‘We were always so good together, you and I,’ she simpered. She lightly kneaded the tense flesh of his upper leg, her hands firm and possessive. ‘We could be good together again, if you wanted us to be.’
Cohen flinched, shifting so that her bony fingers were nowhere near his body.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he told her firmly. He didn’t wantherhands anywhere near him. Not now that he’d been touched by River.
‘I mean it, Cohen.’ Christine carried on gamely. ‘We could leave here, go back to your place and make love like we used to. Don’t you remember? Like the early days?’
Cohen remembered. He recalled a cool and unresponsive woman in his bed, mechanical in her actions and attentions. He recalled a woman grateful when the act was done with, rolling away from him and quickly wiping his kisses from her skin. Sex with Christine had never been ‘making love’, he knew that now.
Abruptly, Cohen recalled a fleeting image of River in his bed, warm, soft and so open to his embrace. She’d kissed him and held him and sighed against his skin, her breath a gentle heat, the lingering smell of sugar in the air.
That, Cohen knew, had been making love.
‘No thanks,’ he told Christine, pushing his wine away.
‘But Cohen—’
‘—Christine, I just want my grandmother’s ring back and to get the hell out of here. You left me for someone else, remember? You took me to court for allI was worth too, in case you’ve forgotten?’
Christine leaned back, considering him. Her cheekbones were high, her shoulder blades sharp, and Cohen shuddered, wondering when denial had become sexy. This was a woman who said no to carbs, no to gluten, no to dairy and, tonight being the glaring exception, no to sex. Christine was a reigning queen of self-denial, depriving herself of all that was glorious in life so that she could chase some impossible standard of beauty. Cohen thought of River, of ice cream on her lips and gentle curves on her hips, and wanted to tell Christine to get a grip.
Because Cohen was tired of self-denial, of lives half-lived and of people constantly saying ‘no’.
He wanted to live in a world where people ate and enjoyed ice cream. A world where people tried new things. A world where people said ‘yes’.
‘That was just a rocky patch,’ Christine replied easily. ‘All marriages have rocky patches, Cohen.’
Cohen sat back. ‘Well, you let our “rocky patch” end in a dead-end quarry. You tunnelled us into a wall, and I’m done with you.’
‘So, there is someone else,’ Christine reflected, clearly not having listened to a word he’d said.
‘Like I said, I’m not prepared to discuss my personal life with you. Now, if you’ll hand over the ring, please. I’d like to get going.’
But Christine only stared at him, her eyes cruel. ‘What’s she like?’
Cohen didn’t reply.
‘She must be quite something,’ Christine deliberated. ‘For you to be considering marriage already. A real firebrand in the sack, I suppose. You always were so easily manipulated in that department, Cohen.’
Cohen stood, in an absolute fury. ‘The ring,’ he said, his voice black with rage.
Christine handed it over. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, but Cohen refused to thank her. This was merely a transaction, after all. There was no kindness here on her part.
