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Robin entered the pub at speed, glanced around, and found Strike sitting in his usual spot: to the left of the cupula, back against the wall, leaning on the leather backrest. His pint was half empty. Robin marched over to him and slammed her handbag down on the table; drops of beer sloshed over the top of his glass as Strike looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“Have you been speaking to a man named Adam, by any chance?”
“What –”
“Have you?”
Strike stared at her; how could she possibly –?
“Robin, do you want to sit –”
Robin’s cheeks flushed with colour.
“Don’t tell me to sit down! Did you tell him I’m not interested?”
Strike felt shame burn its way down his throat. He looked down at the pint glass on the table, reached out for it, and then changed his mind. Robin was vibrating with fury in front of him, and he knew he deserved all of it and more. He pressed both hands to his face, wondering what on earth had took hold of him the previous week, and how he was ever going to explain this.
“Please. Sit down, and I’ll explain,” he said wearily. Robin didn’t smile, didn’t make any gesture of softening, but she yanked the chair pointedly from under the table and sat down. Arms folded, mouth closed, she waited. Her eyes were cold, and Strike couldn’t bear it.
“I spoke to him last Thursday. He phoned the office and asked for you –”
“And you didn’t tell me this because?”
“I was going to, I called you –”
“But you didn’t tell me!”
Robin couldn’t stop herself from interrupting; she was seething, and Strike’s contrite expression was only fuelling her anger. Strike stood abruptly and headed for the bar, leaving Robin perplexed and even angrier; clearly, beer was more important than this.
But he returned with a glass of white wine and nothing else; he placed it down in front of her, seeing a flash of temper in her eyes and realising that she might have interpreted this as him trying to buy her forgiveness. But he only wanted her to relax enough to let him explain, and having something to do with her hands might serve as a distraction. Having said that, he thought ruefully to himself, handing her a weapon might not have been the smartest move.
“I’m sorry. I should have passed on the message. But the message was –” Strike faltered. He drank some beer, considering his words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin pick up her wine and take a sip.
“He wanted to ask you out, and I –”
“You – what, Cormoran?”
Strike ran his finger around the rim of his glass. He didn’t know what to say; possible sentences barrelled through his mind, each less convincing than the last. The truth was that he’d panicked: a young, suave-sounding man had called the office and asked where ‘that Robin’ was. Strike had absently asked whether the man was calling to discuss a case, and he had replied, “nah mate, I’m calling to shoot my shot, know what I mean?”
Despite his deliberate eschewing of what he would call teenage vernacular, Strike had certainly known what the man meant. The man had gabbled on for five minutes, introducing himself as Adam, explaining that he knew Robin from the gym, and expressing his intention to take her to the theatre because ‘honeys are into that’. Strike had stopped himself from snorting with a Herculean effort, and had told the man that, unfortunately, Robin was unavailable, in both senses of the word. He’d chosen to refrain from adding, “know what I mean?”
He knew he shouldn’t have done it. And he had known that he was unlikely to get away with it; Robin and Adam had clearly spoken to each other, and would probably do so again. Strike had spent quite a long time pondering the question of whether Robin had given Adam the office number, or he’d found it through directory enquiries.
“He was a dick. You can do better,” said Strike bluntly. Robin narrowed her eyes.
“Was he offensive about me?”
“No, but –”
“Was he rude to you?”
“No –”
“Then what right do you have to tell him no on my behalf?”
Robin’s voice had attained such a high pitch that several people turned to stare. Strike glared back; one by one, they averted their eyes and went back to their drinks. Strike addressed Robin in somewhat hushed tones.
“Don’t make a scene,” he muttered, and Robin looked, if possible, even more livid.
“I deserve an explanation. If I have to make a scene to get one, so help me –”
“Robin,” interrupted Strike. She broke off, and the air thickened with a different kind of tension. Robin suddenly feared she might cry.
“I shouldn’t have done what I did. I won’t do it again. You can call him and tell him that I’m some crazy receptionist who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m sure he’ll go out with you anyway.” Strike swallowed, tasting the sour truth of his last words.
“That’s not the point!”
“What else can I say?” returned Strike reasonably, steadfastly avoiding her gaze. But as she sat there, with him refusing to look at her, the rage and resentment gathered pace within her gut until finally, she exploded.
“You know what I think is funny? I’ve spent years – years, Strike – taking your messages, from Charlotte and Elin and fucking Ciara Porter –”
“What’s that got to do with –”
“I’ve passed on phone messages and emails, I’ve been sent photographs, I’ve had Lorelei in the fucking office, telling me that you were staying with her.” She sucked in a breath, taking savage pleasure in Strike’s stunned expression. “D’you think any of that was easy? But I passed on the messages, I fielded the phone calls; I even had Lorelei in my bloody house! I did it all, even though I’d rather –”
“You’d rather what?” interjected Strike tentatively. But Robin seemed disinclined to continue her sentence, and she shook her head, breathing hard.
“Why did you do it?” she asked, her eyes suddenly burning into Strike’s. He thought he could see unshed tears there, and he cursed himself again for whatever madness had taken hold of him on the phone.
“Because –” He faltered. Should he just say it? Fuck it. Fuck it all. “Because I didn’t want to see you with him.”
Robin forgot to breathe; she sat, her drink forgotten on the table, incredulous at the about-turn in her feelings. She was still angry, but she was suddenly desperate to hear more. Wasn’t this what she’d always dreamed might materialise between them? Strike took a pull on his pint, and Robin remembered her wine, and copied him.
“You’re right, it’s not easy,” Strike murmured. “But that doesn’t excuse me. I am sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Robin in a tight voice. She inhaled slowly, and then they both spoke at once.
“When you –”
“Do you –”
They both laughed softly, and then Strike said, “you go.”
“When you said that you didn’t want to see him with me,” she said nervously. Strike nodded. “Because…?”
“For the reason you’re probably thinking,” admitted Strike.
Robin said nothing. Strike’s irises were so dark they were almost black. She watched him absent-mindedly fidget with his hands, and then he took a deep breath and raised his head.
“When you said that it wasn’t easy taking messages from – well, from those women –”
“Yes,” murmured Robin. “For the reason you’re thinking.”
The tears finally spilled over. Robin felt them make tracks down her face; she was embarrassed, but not enough to wipe them away. Strike was looking at her as though he’d never seen her in colour before.
“And I never wanted to go out with Adam,” she admitted, with a slight giggle. “He was a weirdo who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You did me a favour.”
Strike was speechless for a full thirty seconds, and then he burst into laughter. “You –” he exclaimed.
“But you still can’t make my decisions for me, Strike,” said Robin sternly.
“I know,” he replied, still grinning, and Robin gave him a watery smile in return.