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Strike has never been in this particular predicament before.
Robin grins across at him over her glass of wine and his heart lurches a little. She’s so gorgeous sat there, her eyes twinkling impishly and daring him to laugh at the slightly inappropriate moniker she’s just suggested for their newest client, both of them knowing that they’ll have to think of something more suitable to call him in front of their colleagues, but also that this is how he will henceforth be known when it’s just the two of them.
Her hair is scraped back into a messy ponytail - she’s come straight from surveillance and is in casual trousers and soft-soled shoes, an outfit clearly chosen for hours of walking rather than for the quiet Indian restaurant he’s brought her to. Strike himself is wearing a smarter-than-usual navy shirt and has actually ironed his trousers for once. He’d dithered a long time over his clothing choices, until he’d become impatient and annoyed with himself. He’d suspected from Robin’s casual “sure” in her text reply that she hadn’t quite grasped the nuance he thought he’d conveyed in his invitation; indeed, she’d rocked up breezily, dumped her day bag on the next chair and ordered a pint of lager and some starters, stuffing a samosa into her mouth as soon as they arrived, declaring herself starving after hours on her feet that afternoon. She isn’t wearing a scrap of makeup.
She’s so beautiful. And so on the wrong page.
Strike has been on plenty of dates in his life. First dates, second dates, casual dates, serious dates. Fun dates, excruciating dates, relaxed dates, formal dates.
But this is definitely the first date he’s been on where his partner is, it’s becoming increasingly clear, utterly oblivious to the fact that she’s on a date.
It’s his own fault. The one journey Strike has never navigated is the move from friends to more-than-friends. The women in his life thus far have been clearly divided into the platonic - Lucy, Ilsa, mates’ wives and girlfriends - and the…not platonic. Robin has, until now, remained very firmly in the former category, held there first by dint of being his employee and by an engagement ring, then by a wedding ring, subsequently by their work relationship and latterly by the mutual respect and understanding that comes with being business partners and, eventually, best friends.
How could he have got this so wrong? Cormoran Strike has never doubted himself on a date like this before. He’s not exactly suave, but he knows a mutual attraction when he feels it and he’s not shy to make his interest known. Women usually respond in the positive, and if not, no harm done and everyone can go about their day without drama.
So how come he’s now sat here, in a small, carefully-chosen, out-of-the-way little Indian restaurant in a too-smart shirt, watching entranced while Robin eagerly wolfs down her curry and switches from the refreshing lager to a white wine “so I’ll have more room for food”? He’d been vaguely imagining a quiet chat, soft smiles, a moment to perhaps gently take her hand in his and let her know without words that he wants to move their relationship to—
“D’you see Sam earlier?” Robin asks around a mouthful of jalfrezi chicken. There’s a small smear of juice on her lower lip that he mustn’t stare at. Strike forces his mind back to the prosaic.
“Sam?” He blinks, trying to catch up.
“Yeah. He said he might swap Friday’s surveillance with me. Got a quiet weekend, I thought I might sneak off to Masham for a couple of nights. But I think he’s avoiding Pat.” Robin chortles and takes a swig of her wine. “God, this is good curry.”
“Mm,” Strike agrees. He takes another mouthful of his own and contemplates his evening. Is there anything salvageable from this, or is he safer to just go with the flow, with the evening he finds himself on, and perhaps try again another time?
“You okay?” Robin pauses, frowning, and appears to look at him properly for the first time. “You’re very quiet.”
Strike forces a grin, ignoring a small stab of panic that she might join the dots. He tries to deflect. “Not much of a chatterer, me.”
“Yeah, sorry, I am rabbiting on,” she replies, shoving an errant strand of hair behind her ear, hair that in another circumstance he might have reached across to tuck gently—
Stop it, Strike.
She’s watching at him now, alert. She’s too astute. Panicked, Strike says hurriedly,
“So, Masham this weekend?”
She hesitates slightly too long, her eyes a little narrowed, then picks up her wine glass. “Yeah. Mum's looking after Annabel on Saturday afternoon so Stephen and Jenny can go to a wedding reception for a few hours without her. I said I might go and help, bond with my niece for a bit.”
“That’ll be nice.” Why does every word out of his mouth now sound forced? Get a grip, man.
“Yeah, I think Mum will appreciate the help. She isn’t as young as she used to be, and Annabel is walking now and into everything. Two pairs of eyes might make it easier.” Robin laughs and takes another sip of wine before setting her glass back down. “Apparently Dad has gone a bit mad baby-proofing the house in anticipation. Mum says she can’t open any of the kitchen cupboards any more.” And Robin plunges her fork back into her rice and scoops a big pile of fragrant grains into her mouth, making a soft sound of appreciation.
“This place is really good,” she murmurs around her mouthful.
“Er, yeah.” Another spike of panic hits him. He’d been going to pay - it’s not cheap here - but they always split the bill when they meet for food. What should he do now? Insist on paying, and reveal the circumstance of the date after the fact, or let her pay for food she probably can’t afford on the money she takes from the agency?
Not that he really can either - what’s left for him at the end of the month sometimes matches the salary he pays Robin, sometimes doesn’t, and is in any case mostly ploughed back into the business. Weakly he wonders if they can just discuss work stuff like they always do, and charge the meal to expenses. He’ll have no more luck getting that kind of thing past Pat than Barclay does, though.
No, he’ll just plough on and make the best of things. They’re nearly done eating. He might suggest the bar round the corner afterwards, or he might not. He’d chosen it because he knows they do a particularly nice Chilean Sauvignon blanc that he’d been going to buy her, vaguely imagining sliding his hand around hers as they walked there…
Robin sits back finally with a sigh. “I’m stuffed,” she declares, and grins. “Hooray for elasticated waist trousers.”
Strike laughs, and suddenly it’s all okay. This is just Robin, just him and Robin having dinner together like they often do, discussing work and family and stuffing their faces and enjoying a beer. It’s fine. It’s how it always is, and she’s his best mate. What was he thinking, trying to change things, making it awkward?
Robin’s pulling the band from her hair now, letting it fall around her shoulders and pushing her fingers through the glossy strands. “My hair hurts.”
Strike gives her a teasing look. “Your hair hurts? You know it’s just keratin cells, right? It can’t feel anything.”
Robin pulls a face at him. “Nevertheless, it hurts,” she retorts. “Ask any girl with longer hair who has it tied up for too many hours. It hurts.”
“You mean your scalp hurts.”
“No,” she muses. “I know what I mean. My hair hurts.”
Strike chuckles. “I shall have to take your word for it.”
Robin shakes her head a little and makes a little satisfied sound. “I needed that, thanks for suggesting it,” she says, smiling. “I’ve not been here before. Good curry.”
“Er, yeah.” Strike glances at his watch. Is it too obvious to suggest going to the bar? It is a much fancier bar than they normally go to. And she’ll be suspicious if he shows an inclination for anything other than the nearest real ale pub.
Robin clocks his not-so-subtle action and sits up suddenly. “That’s why you’re wearing a smart shirt!”
His heart lurches as he raises his gaze back to hers. “Um, what?”
She grins, twinkling at him. “You’ve got a date. That’s your date shirt. One of them.” She waves a hand at him. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Cheeks flushing, Strike mumbles, “’S not a date shirt. It’s just a shirt.”
“It’s not a work shirt, either,” she retorts. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
He can’t quite believe they’re having this conversation. “No one.”
Robin laughs, sitting forward, tantalisingly close. “Get away with you,” she scoffs. “You’ve shaved.” She leans in, sniffing. “You’re wearing aftershave, I didn’t spot it over the curry smells before. And that is definitely a date shirt.”
Strike sits back, suddenly uncomfortable with her proximity, with this whole situation, with his own skin. “There’s no date.”
“I don’t mind, honestly,” she replies cheerfully, beginning to gather up her things. “I’m knackered, quite happy to head off for a long soak in the bath and a cup of tea. You get going, honestly. Let’s get the bill.” She looks around for a waiter.
“Robin.” His slightly exasperated tone stops her in her tracks and she turns back to him. “I promise you, I have no prospect of a date this evening.” A fact that is becoming truer by the minute.
She sits back a little, still smiling. “Am I supposed to believe all this effort was for me?” Her voice is gently teasing. “Well, I appreciate it.”
Strike shrugs, unable to meet her gaze again. “Let’s get the bill.” And get this disaster over with as fast as possible. He’s not going to suggest the bar now. Maybe he should have let her think he had a date. He could have let her go, repaired to the Tottenham for a solitary pint to lick his wounds and remind himself not to be such an idiot in future.
The bill arrives, and they split it; it’s the path of least resistance. Strike just wants to get out of here now and get to a nice pub and get them back on their usual footing of banter and work chat. It’s his own damn fault he feels so awkward now. Robin is still chatting away, something about Michelle now and her insights into a case she’s taken on. Their new hire is proving to have been a very good choice.
The supposedly date part of the evening is almost over, and he’s nearly safe. Fancy bar abandoned - Robin’s not really dressed for such an establishment anyway - they can go to the pub round the corner and he can tell her about the photos he took today for the ongoing Lazy Nanny case. He stands, and pulls on his big coat, already pulling his cigarettes from the pocket. If there’s one thing he needs right now, it’s a relaxing smoke and a stroll and to put a considerable bit of distance between himself and the terrible idea that this evening has been.
Robin follows him out of the restaurant, waits in silence while he lights his cigarette, falls into step beside him. They walk, not saying anything, down the road towards the Royal Crown on the corner. It’s busy, they do Doom Bar, he’ll be back on safer ground.
Robin isn’t saying anything. They stop when they reach the pub so that Strike can finish his cigarette, and she’s thinking. He can practically hear the cogs turning. He knows when Robin is making a breakthrough, joining the dots, experiencing a mental leap, and normally he loves it. Tonight it’s terrifying.
“So, white wine?” he teases, trying to distract.
“Your shoes,” she says suddenly.
Strike looks down. “What about them?”
“They’re not your boots.”
“Um, no?”
Robin looks up at him, and the expression on her face, the shining of her eyes, is hard to read in the evening, the lights from the pub casting her face half in shadow. “For most people, just grabbing a pair of shoes is just grabbing a pair of shoes. But—”
She stops, and he nods. She gets it. He’d known, as he wrestled his boot off his prosthetic foot and fitted a smart shoe to it, that he was making more effort than was needed. But he’d been carried away by the idea of her, by a date with Robin, by…
“You are dressed for a date,” she murmurs now. “And that was a very nice restaurant.” She hesitates, fear on her face, but she’s brave, his Robin, and she takes the leap. “Cormoran…was this a date?”
He can’t say yes, because it wasn’t. Is it a date if fifty percent of the people on it don’t realise it’s a date? But he can’t honestly say no either, because the intention was there. And now he’s already hesitated too long, and her cheeks are flushing and her eyes are bright and he can’t tell if she’s confused, delighted or mortified, and he feels some terrible combination of all three, stood here on the street staring back at her like an idiot.
“And I’m wearing this,” she murmurs, looking down at herself, and now would be the moment to tell her she’d look beautiful if she was wearing a sack, but saying that sort of thing has always got him yelled at in the past and anyway it seems a bit superfluous to the moment as Robin rambles on.
“Not a bit of make-up…haven’t showered since last night…”
“Robin.” Strike’s voice sticks. He clears his throat and tries again. “It wasn’t—”
“Was this really meant to be a date?” She’s looking up at him now, blue-grey eyes wide, looking for the truth, and that’s all he has left to give her on this monumentally disastrous night.
“Um…yeah.”
“But you didn’t say!”
“I…” Strike opens and closes his mouth. “I thought I hinted.”
Robin snorts, and suddenly there’s a hint of humour in the air again. “We’ve been friends for years and you’ve never once even looked at me in a way that would suggest—” She breaks off, hectic colour on her cheeks. “Hinting was not the way to go here.”
“No, right.” He desperately wants to light another cigarette. He also wants to kiss her, but isn’t entirely sure of his reception. This is not, in any way, how he had ever imagined a declaration of his feelings going.
There’s a pause, awkward, while Robin stares unseeing at the pub windows and Strike fiddles with his lighter in his pocket.
“Well,” Robin says suddenly. “I am stuffed full of curry, and unshowered, and unkempt of hair and practically in trainers. I’m not really in date mode.”
His heart plummets. Despite all of it, the awkwardness, the utter screw-up he’s made of this evening, he had thought that deep down they were on the same page, that the feeling between them was mutual. Has he got it so horribly wrong?
When has Robin Ellacott ever not wrong-footed him?
“So I’m going for that bath, and to bed,” she continues, decidedly. “Good night.” She reaches up, and his heart jumps again, but her lips on his cheek are cool and chaste. She smells faintly of Narciso, and for a moment he’s remembering another not-date, the one that had planted the seed of tonight in his mind.
“Nice restaurant,” she murmurs. “You should take someone there on a date.” And so at least they’re laughing, if a little forcedly, as she turns and marches on in the direction of the Tube station. It’s not far home for her from here; it’s one of the reasons he picked the area.
She rounds the corner and Strike snatches his cigarettes from his pocket and lights one with hands that are trembling more than he would ever admit. You fucking idiot, Strike. You prize fuckwit. You first-class twat.
How will they work together now? He’s clumsily attempted to declare his hand, and she had not noticed for two hours, and then walked away.
Well. The next few days are crazy busy anyway. Pat has put him on the evening-nights watching Scarface, and Robin is taking over Lazy Nanny which is a day job. With a bit of luck he won’t see her again this week, and will have the chance to bang his dented pride back into shape a bit. His heart is another matter, but it’s used to being ignored. Work will be his solace, as it always had been.
He shoulders his way into the pub, and finds a space at the bar. He orders a double whisky which he downs in one swallow while they’re pulling his pint, and retreats to a quiet corner. He’s aware of a tall blonde in a cocktail dress eyeing him as he passes her, and in a previous life that would have been his chosen solace too, but he’s got no interest tonight. He avoids eye contact and settles himself at a small table.
Christ, what an idiot.
Maybe not too much harm has been done. They’re good mates, after all. In a few months, they can laugh about this.
He winces at the very thought.
He’s halfway down the pint when his phone pings, and his heart rate spikes again. It’s Robin.
I’m home. And I texted Sam. He’s going to cover my Friday night.
They’re going to ignore it, then. Good. That suits Strike just fine. He texts back,
Great. Have a good weekend in Masham.
He sips his pint and watches the three dots as she types, like a lovesick teenager. He should put his phone down and head back to the Tottenham. Or preferably to bed.
He carries on watching.
His phone pings.
I’m not going to Masham, change of plan.
Strike frowns.
Oh?
The three dots dance for what seem like an age.
Yeah, something came up. I’ve got a date.
Strike blinks at his phone, staring at her words, his heart a sinking, hollow thing in his chest. Then,
Cormoran Strike, will you go out with me? I know this great little Indian place…
His shout of laughter attracts attention from nearby tables; Strike doesn’t even notice, typing out his reply.
I’ll check my diary.
Her response is swift.
I’ve checked it. You’re free.
He’s grinning now, wishing his fingers were faster on the screen.
In that case… I do love a curry.
He drains his pint while she types, his heart soaring, happiness fizzing along with the alcohol in his veins.
It’s a date, then. See? No ambiguity. No chance for anyone to spend an entire evening not realising they’re on a date like some numpty. Sorry.
Strike smiles softly.
It’s fine. I’m the numpty. See you on Friday x
Her reply is simply a red heart emoji.
Grinning, Strike tucks his phone back into his pocket and goes to the bar to order another pint.