But Fowler only shook his head. ‘Nothing. It’s just that I’m rarely surprised by anyone or anything.’ He stared at Cohen some more. ‘Well, come on then Ford, sit yourself down. I’ll teach you the phrases you need.’
‘You mean you’re going to help me?’ Cohen asked. ‘Really?’
Fowler nodded. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Oh, well … thank you.’ Cohen swallowed. ‘Fowler, look, I knew you were British but had no idea you knew BSL—’ he began, but Fowler waved his hand. His eyes darkened momentarily.
‘I had a sister,’ Fowler admitted. ‘She had Down’s Syndrome, which affected her hearing. We learnt BSL as a family.’
Cohen stared at him.
‘She died when she was twenty-one,’ Fowler carried on. ‘She went through two rounds of heart surgery and one gastrointestinal surgery, and in the end, a car killed her. Came hurtling down a road she was walking on and she didn’t – couldn’t – hear it coming.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Cohen said.
Fowler nodded easily. ‘Don’t be. It’s my tragedy, not yours. She liked the opera, even though she couldn’t hear the singing,’ he mused. ‘Daphnis and Chloe,Pelléas and Mélisande, Nelson and Lady Hamilton.’ Abruptly, he smiled. ‘She would’ve loved this story too. A hearing man falling in love with a deaf girl. It’s beautiful, Ford.’
Cohen said nothing.
‘Now sit down, pay attention and learn,’ Fowler ordered him, his voice back to its usual snide tone. ‘So that when you go back to London … I take it you’re going back to London?’
Cohen nodded.
‘Good for you. The food here is just awful. Well, watch my hands carefully then,’ Fowler told him. ‘So that when you get back to London, you can ask this deaf British woman who got you to leave Roberts-Canning to marry you.’
Cohen sat.
‘Just out of curiosity, when do you go back to London?’
‘I guess in a month. When my notice period expires.’
Fowler regarded him with a nod. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do about that. If your notice period wasn’t an ... anissue,when would you go back?’
Cohen closed his eyes. He wondered how long it really would take him to walk away from one life and into another. How long he would need to leave the emptiness of his New York existence for River’s arms in London.
He opened his eyes and stared at Fowler.
‘Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I’d go back next Tuesday.’
‘Just in time for Christmas,’ Fowler said.
But Cohen shrugged. ‘Yeah. But also, before the end of Hanukkah.’
Chapter Fourteen
Holiday Special
Fowler, as it turned out, could work miracles. Under his immaculate suit and coiffed hair lay a master manipulator who terrified Cohen to the pit of his soul. Quite frankly, Fowler was wasted in Human Resources.
On the Monday morning, when Cohen’s jet-lag had truly kicked in and he was knocking back the black coffee like there was no tomorrow, Fowler idled into his office and signed hello. Cohen signed back, distracted, ready to kick his laptop from the top of the building for taking twenty minutes to update, yetagain,when Fowler stood next to him.
‘So,’ Fowler began, as he adjusted the lapel of Cohen’s jacket. He stopped to frown at him. ‘Urgh, you look like a hobo. You’re destroying the Brooks Brothers, Ford.’
‘It’s Prada,’ Cohen replied tonelessly.
Fowler wrinkled his nose. ‘Really? Oh. Well, maybe on you it just looks cheap.’
‘Did you want something, Fowler?’ Cohen asked, his jaw clenched.
