Cohen stared at her. ‘You also have a printer. And a filing cabinet.’
‘Well now, it might look like a printer, but actually, I look on it as a thought distributor. And the filing cabinet? You could call that a thought collector. You need to open your mind a little here, Cohen honey.’
‘Alright,’ he agreed blandly. ‘I suppose your stapler is a thought puncher?’
Marilyn’s smile faded slightly. ‘I think we’re getting caught in semantics here, Cohen,’ she said, with the raise of one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘I feel as though you’re putting up a wall. I feel that you’re using misdirection and aggression to deal with what you find to be a deeply uncomfortable situation.’
Marilyn, as it turned out, had lots of thoughts and feelings.
She felt like Cohen didn’t want to be there.
She felt like Cohen didn’t appreciate her therapy.
She felt like Cohen had little respect for her as a psychologically trained ‘thought processor’.
She felt like Cohen had issues with strong women.
And, of course, she felt like Cohen had issues with his mother.
Ah yes, Esther. It always came down to Esther, didn’t it?
After two sessions of painful and protracted therapy – which just seemed to Cohen like stilted conversation at an over-inflated price – Marilyn got desperate. She tightly suggested that one morning Esther be brought in for a one-on-one mother and son bonding session. An open-door opportunity into each other’s minds. A chance to heal the hurt, to balm the wound. A quiet moment, just the two of them.
But Marilyn would need to be present as a ‘thought doctor’, naturally.
‘Let’s reconnect that umbilical cord, Cohen.’ Marilyn ran some gloss over her lips, moving into the pigeon pose on her Arabian Nights inspired floor. ‘And let’s make it beautiful.’
Even now, he wasn’t sure how it happened.
An hour into his therapy session with Esther and he was side-lined, pushed away while the two women exchanged longing looks and subtle laughs. Marilyn ran a hand through her auburn locks, while Esther reached out to stroke her hand. At some point Cohen left to get coffee, leaving his mother and therapist on the floor in matching child pose while they discussed their mutual disappointment with the men in their lives.
Six months later, Cohen was asked to be ring-bearer at their wedding.
‘But I didn’t even know you were—’
‘—what?’ His mother’s voice was sharp, and Cohen saw in the dark depths of her eyes a whole argument ready about women’s rights, love being love and relationships taking all shapes and forms.
‘—looking for remarriage,’ he finished, somewhat lamely, and he saw her shoulders relax.
‘It’s been a long time since your father died, and even longer since the day he left,’ Esther replied with a shrug. ‘I don’t want to be a lonely old woman. And since there’s no chance of any grandchildren—’
Cohen groaned. ‘Please, don’t start that again.’
But his mother, on that point, was always like a dog with a bone. ‘Since there’s no chance of any grandchildren,’ she said again, emphasising her words. ‘I might as well look for a different sort of love.’
On reflection, even his mother admitted that she and Marilyn could have chosen a better day to get married. But there were issues with the venue, and then the caterers could only make a certain day, and Esther’s work schedule was still crazy – ‘because you know third world countries won’t fix themselves, Cohen’ – and in the end, the wedding happened the same day that Cohen’s divorce from Christine finalised.
So, what was to be the happiest day of his mother’s life became the worst of his, and the champagne he drank to toast the happy couple tasted bitter on his lips.
But drink it he did, and in such quantities that his mother had the gall, the utter gall, to instruct the barman to stop serving him.
‘I’m drinking myself out of a bad mood.’ Cohen leaned against the counter, his head spinning, his tuxedo crumpled and stained.
‘From one bad mood into a worse one,’ Esther remarked, casting a disapproving eye over her son.
Marilyn, smoothly and without hesitation, shook her head sadly. ‘You have so many issues already, Cohen honey. Don’t add alcoholism to the mix.’ She gave a sudden, melancholy sigh. ‘You make me feel so sad inside.’
‘Thank you, Dr Berg,’ Cohen slurred. ‘You are astute, as always.’
‘Actually,’ Marilyn replied. ‘You don’t have to call me ‘Doctor Berg’ any more. In fact, your mother and I thought it might be nice – healthy even – if you gave me a maternal name. I’m your mother now too, of a sort at least, and it would be odd for you to refer to me as ‘Doctor Berg’ all the time. Of course, it would have to be something you’re comfortable with. I don’t want you to feel awkward, Cohen honey. So, how about something you can call me on a daily basis? Maybe Mama Marilyn?’
Mama Marilyn.
A sober, rational Cohen would have found the whole conversation absolutely mortifying. After all, this was the woman he briefly discussed his unsatisfying sexual history with. The woman to whom he’d confessed, in a hushed whisper, that he sometimes dreamt about becoming a rabbi, if only to shut his mother up. But rational Cohen was currently buried under the Cohen who was three sheets to the wind, and as such, he found the whole conversation to be absolutely hilarious.
‘Mama Marilyn?’ He grinned, slipping off his seat. ‘Why not? It does just roll off the tongue, I suppose. Mama Marilyn Ford-Berg,’ he mused. ‘I’m sure your patients will love calling your office – sorry, I meant your safe space. Marilyn Ford-Berg is just so easy to say through broken voices and thought-doctored tears.’
He laughed until salty streams began to run down his face.
But Esther remained stone-faced.
‘Actually,’ his mother told him, her tone razor-sharp. ‘I’m dropping Ford.’
Cohen stopped laughing. Suddenly, there was nothing funny about this whatsoever.
‘What?’ he stuttered. ‘What do you mean, you’re dropping Ford?’
‘I can’t very well ask my new wife to take my dead husband’s surname now, can I?’ Esther huffed. ‘Use your head, Cohen.’
‘So, what? Are you going to use your maiden name? You’ll be the Sedler-Berg family? Or the Berg-Sedlers?’
‘Actually, Cohen honey,’ Marilyn said smoothly, taking Esther’s hand and planting a kiss upon it. ‘We’ve decided to blend our names.’
‘Yes,’ Esther replied, smiling up at her new wife. ‘We’re going to be the Bergdler family.’
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ Cohen muttered. God, why did his mother have to spring this upon him after she’d instructed the barman to close up shop? Because he could really really use a measure of whisky to get through this Bergdler nonsense.
No, forget the measure.
He needed the whole damn bottle.
‘Bergdler?’ He shook his head. ‘That sounds like a Jewish brand of condoms. You cannot be serious, Mother.’
‘As serious as I’ve ever been. And you watch your mouth, Cohen. I didn’t raise you to speak like that.’
No, you didn’t raise me to speak at all. The words, fully formed in Cohen’s mind, didn’t quite leave his lips.
Words he wanted to say were never quite leaving his lips.
Well, what did it matter anyway? All Cohen knew was that yesterday two women shared his surname, while today, all he had was an ex-wife who would share only her bank details – hungry for alimony payments – and his mother, the new Mrs Bergdler.
It was no wonder he took off for Paris, and then London, as soon as work would allow him.
Not that his mother gave him much space, even from a distance of five thousand miles.
He arrived at The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery that following Tuesday, just as his phone chimed in his pocket. Looking down, he groaned when he saw Esther’s name light the screen. Normally, he had no hesitation in dec
lining her calls, in swiping left and boxing his mother’s thoughts into a voicemail which he would never listen to. But today, luck was against him. He pressed upon the ice creamery’s door, only to find it locked, with a pastel-green sign taped to the window with Be back in fifteen! scrawled messily upon it.
So, with another groan, he leaned against the shop window and pressed accept on his mother’s call, full of trepidation.
‘Hello, Mother,’ he said tiredly, closing his eyes and waiting for the onslaught.
‘Cohen? You answered? Well, khidesh, so you do get cell phone service over there.’
‘It’s nice to speak to you too, Mother.’
‘Hmm. So, I hear you’re coming home in four weeks. Just in time for Hanukkah. Lucky me.’ Her voice turned wry. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Yes, well, my work here is pretty much finished and until—’
But Esther had no time for Cohen’s work and with an exasperated sigh, she cut him off.
‘Do you know how it feels,’ she began, in a voice so thick with ice it cut deeper than the London winter, ‘do you know how it feels, to hear about my son’s holiday plans from his secretary?’ Esther was clearly furious. ‘I called Michelle to find out if you’ll be home for Hanukkah this year – and don’t even get me started on the fact that I, Esther Bergdler, had to phone Roberts-Canning LLC of all places, those awful bastards, and not even for the first time – honestly, Cohen, I speak to Michelle more than I speak to you, oh, and by the way, she told me all about her daughter’s birthday cake, the one you baked and iced and—’
‘—Mother,’ Cohen warned.
Not that Esther listened.
‘—and then she drops the bombshell that you’re already booked back in the New York office by New Year, and that ...’
And so, it went on. Esther Bergdler was nothing if not thorough in her dressing down of her son, and Cohen was still clutching his phone ten minutes later, grinding his teeth, with the grim beginnings of a headache settling in across his temples.
‘... and of course,’ his mother was still talking. How could she still be talking? What more could she possibly have to say to him? ‘Marilyn and I went to temple last week and all the other women were there with pictures of their grandchildren, and what do I have? A picture of you in Paris – and you cut off half the Eiffel Tower in the photo, which is the best bit, and honestly Cohen, who does that? – that I had to dig out of your work’s website. Now, I’m not saying I need grandchildren right now, but the distinct possibility that in the future it might happen ...’
Any minute now, Cohen decided, he was going to hang up. He was going to hang up, tie the phone to a heavy rock and sink it into the Thames. Let the fish hear Esther’s complaints about his neglect both to her and in his grandchildren siring duties.
‘... I mean, it’s been three years since Christine walked out. Three years! There are plenty of nice girls out there, Cohen. Plenty. You just need to stop being so insular and notice one of them. Maybe even try listening to one, once in a while. Take a girl out, talk to her. You never know what might happen.’
‘I know what will happen, I’ve dated enough women,’ Cohen muttered. ‘I take them out, they talk, they take all they can get and then they leave. It’s the same story every time.’
For a moment, Esther fell silent. ‘They don’t all leave. Christine—’
‘—she left too, in the end,’ Cohen interjected bitterly. ‘Took her a few years, but eventually, she went with the programme, just like all the others.’
His voice was blunt, but Esther remained unwilling to give up.
‘But with the right girl—’
‘—I’m done with this conversation, Mother.’
‘Well, I’m not, and—’
‘—I’m done,’ Cohen snapped, and he heard his mother inhale deeply over the phoneline.
‘You know,’ Esther said, and Cohen swore he could hear her nails tapping irritably against her tabletop. ‘Marilyn and I don’t even know why you tried therapy when you clearly have no interest in becoming a better person. I’m glad you went, because it brought Marilyn into my life, but honestly, I really don’t know why you bothered at all. You don’t seem at all interested in growing and learning as a person.’
I didn’t want to grow or learn, I just wanted someone to listen to me. Cohen seethed inwardly. Even if I had to pay over the odds for that to happen.
But, as always, he said nothing.
Esther was still ranting when he looked up, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He nearly jumped out of his skin for standing next to him, holding a bag to her chest and looking deeply concerned, was River.
The right girl, his mind immediately supplied, and he felt a flush spread across his cheeks.
‘I have to go,’ he sputtered down the phone, instantly hanging up on his mother, even though he knew such behaviour would earn him at least a month of vitriol on her part. A month of spiteful phone calls and short emails. A month of snippy messages and reminders that she won’t be around forever, you know.
It was worth it though. River was looking at him with those amazing eyes of hers, soft, warm and eager, while a happy smile played upon her lips. She was dressed in green gingham today, while her hair sat over one shoulder, white ribbons woven into her braid. Even in an apron she looked incredible, and it took all of Cohen’s willpower not to gape at her, his mouth hanging open, like some kind of bumbling idiot.
For a moment they stared, drinking the other in. Then River turned back towards the door, unlocking it and walking inside. She didn’t hesitate when she reached out to take his hand, pulling him into the ice creamery through the too-small doorway, indicating that he should duck as he stepped into the room. She switched on the lamp, and as he blinked with the sudden change in lighting, she smiled at him again.
‘I’m Cohen,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘We met last week.’
But now she frowned, biting her lip.
‘I had strawberry ice cream,’ he tried again. ‘I just ... I just really, really wanted to see you again.’
But still, that patient frown.
Desperate, he pointed to the ice cream counter, as if to remind her, but if anything, her frown only deepened. She pointed to the cones on the countertop and stepped behind the counter, reaching for her scoop, because Cohen was such an idiot. He’d made her think he was there for the ice cream, and not for her. Frantically, he pulled on her arm to stop her moving, to stop her thought process.
To stop her from leaving him, if he was entirely honest.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No,’ he said again, pointing to the ice cream. He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Yes.’ This time he nodded his head up and down, making sure she understood the movement. ‘Yes,’ he murmured again, pointing to her.
Her face, so still but a moment before, seemed to blossom before him. She brought a hand to her chest, pointing to herself.
Really? her body seemed to ask.
‘Yes,’ he said again, nodding in the affirmative. God, how much he wished he could add that he was ruined for anyone else. That he had a thousand things he wanted to say to her ... but no way to make her understand.
He must have frowned, because she took his hand, her fingers slender and cool within his own, and, smiling all the way, led him to a table in the ice creamery. She indicated that he should sit, and he did so obediently. She went back to the door, locking it securely, before returning to the table and sitting beside him.
The bag she carried she set before them, and Cohen watched as she opened it up and started pulling items out. An apple, red and crisp. A bottle of water. A sandwich.
Lunch, he suddenly realised.
And then he panicked, because this was clearly River’s lunch break he had intruded upon, and when she started to divide her items in two, cutting the sandwich and apple in half, pouring half her water into a cup for him, he motioned for her to stop, that he couldn’t possibly inconvenience her, that—
&nb
sp; But she laid a calm hand against his flailing one, bringing the other to his face, forcing him to look into her eyes.
It’s okay, he felt her telling him. Stay.
And so he nodded, biting into the half apple she offered him.
‘It’s good,’ he said.
She smiled, clapping her hands together.
But it wasn’t just an expression of joy she was making. Instead, she took her right hand and formed a ‘C’ shape, moving it upwards and forwards from her mouth.
She did it again, pointing to the apple.
Instantly, Cohen understood.
‘Apple,’ he whispered. ‘You’re telling me apple.’
He tried the movement for himself, repeating her action back to her. He struggled at first, timid and frightened of failing, and he was appalled that he was so uncertain of his own fingers. But River encouraged him, moving her hand over his and showing him the word. When he got it right, her smile was almost blinding, and he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt such a rush of satisfaction from the actions of his own body before.
His body, in which he had always felt so awkward, so out of place, suddenly felt like a work of art. And he wanted nothing more now than to keep painting, to let her be the guided hand on his brush, bringing words to life with his fingertips.
She pointed to the sandwich, this time holding her left hand upwards and flat in front of her, bringing her right hand down to meet it. She patted twice, and then indicated for him to do the same.
It was a relatively easy sign but when he did it successfully, River patted him on the back. She didn’t remove her hand though, not even when she reached for her water and took a long, delicate sip. When she pulled the cup away a droplet remained on her mouth, sitting temptingly on the plush red of her lower lip. Cohen stared, his own mouth abruptly watering. By all that was holy, what he wouldn’t do to lick that moisture from her skin. But she saw his eyes and mistook the longing within them for curiosity.
She made a movement with her hands that Cohen realised meant mouth. He made the same movement back, pointing to his own lips. She nodded and then blushed, her eyes darting away, suddenly shy.
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 3
