‘You’re leaving Roberts-Canning.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘I don’t have to make things easy for you now.’
‘Like you’ve ever made things easy for me—’ Cohen started, before inhaling deeply. ‘Look, this is an important merger. I need to learn just a few sentences in BSL. I would appreciate it if you would teach me them.’
Fowler rolled his eyes, finally looking up to face Cohen.
‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh. ‘What do you need to know for this merger?’
With shaking hands, Cohen handed over a list.
Fowler read it, his eyes flickering over it with interest, before he looked up to raise one sardonic eyebrow at Cohen.
Fowler cleared his throat. ‘I love you,’ he read out loud. ‘I want to be with you forever. Will you marry me?’ He eyed Cohen sceptically. ‘This must be some damn merger, Ford.’
Cohen flushed a deep red.
Fowler gave a Cheshire Cat grin. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Just a woman,’ Cohen replied, his voice small. ‘A deaf woman who works in an ice creamery in London.’
‘A BSL user, so obviously British,’ Fowler added.
Cohen stood taller. ‘Yes.’
‘And you love her?’
‘Yes. With all my heart.’
‘And I take it this British deaf woman is the reason for your sudden exit from Roberts-Canning?’
Cohen refused to say another word. Because this was Fowler, head of Human Resources for Roberts-Canning LLC, and he knew better than to reveal too much.
But Fowler clasped both of his hands under his chin, staring up at Cohen with utter delight. ‘This is all very romantic, Ford. LikeDaphnis and Chloe,’ he said with a grin.
‘I don’t even know what that is.’
‘Of course you don’t. A simple man like you wouldn’t. You should try going to the opera every so often. Culture doesn’t hurt, you know.’
Cohen gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t need to go to the opera. I just need to learn a few phrases in BSL and …’
But Fowler was still talking. ‘You and your new lady friend could be like the newPelléas and Mélisande, perhaps …’
Cohen stared. Fowler was undoubtedly mocking him, and he didn’t have to stand here and take this, so he turned, ready to leave and—
‘—or like Nelson and his Lady Hamilton …’
At the word ‘Nelson’, Cohen turned back. ‘I know who that is,’ he interrupted, and Fowler rolled his eyes.
‘Sure you do,’ he drawled, his voice ripe with disbelief.
But Cohen stood firm. ‘I do know,’ he insisted. ‘I went to visit his column in London.’
‘Ah, the motherland.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘So, you saw his column. Nearly all the tourists do and—’
‘—he joined the Royal navy aged twelve,’ Cohen continued. ‘He was made Captain by twenty and then an Admiral before he was forty.’ He paused, thinking once more of his Uncle Israel. ‘He lost his right hand in battle. They took it off without anaesthetic.’
Now Fowler stared at Cohen.
Cohen flushed red. ‘What?’
