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Robin listened to the ringing, trying to convince her fingers to stop trembling on her mobile. It would be fine; he could always say no, and she could ask Vanessa instead. But a tiny, nagging part of her knew that she wanted it to be him. She owed it to herself to at least ask.
A faint click of connection, and Strike's baritone voice came down the line and into her ear.
"What are you doing still awake?" he said without preamble.
"Well, I'm calling you, obviously," replied Robin, her grin easy on her face. For some reason, his good humour was an instant balm to whatever she was feeling; he had a way of calming her without even trying.
"What can I do for you? Did Ralph go ok?"
"Yeah, it was fine. Got some useful pictures," said Robin breezily. She steeled herself. "I just wanted to ask you a favour, actually."
Robin heard Strike's intrigue as he said, "okay," and she realised that she had never before asked him for anything.
"You know I'm doing CBT," she began carefully.
"Yeah, of course."
"Well, one of the exercises is… I have to evaluate myself, my character. It's supposed to be helpful for self-esteem."
"Okay. That's good," Strike replied, but he sounded unsure. Robin took a deep breath.
"Then I'm supposed to compare it with what other people think of me, to see if they match."
"Ah. Johari window?" asked Strike quietly, and Robin felt a surge of warmth that he'd remembered.
"Something like that," she laughed.
"So you want me to… evaluate you?"
"It's nothing onerous, I swear," she said in a rush. "You'd just have a list of positive traits and you'd tick the ones you think I have. And then -"
"Yeah?"
"Then we're supposed to talk about it, but we don't have to do that bit if you don't want. It's mainly about comparing the traits anyway."
Robin cringed at her own gabbling: stop talking! But Strike didn't seem perturbed, even over the phone; there was no hesitation in his reply.
"Course we can talk about it," he said casually, and Robin released a breath she hadn't known she was holding.
"So you'll do it?"
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
Robin could picture his speculative stare; if he were here, he'd be eying her shrewdly, knowing more about her than she thought she'd ever revealed. He was one of the most perceptive people she'd ever met, and his opinion meant more to her than almost anyone's. It had to be him.
"No," she said breathlessly, "I just know it's awkward."
"Well, we've been through plenty of awkward situations before. We're still all right, aren't we?" Strike said bracingly.
"Thank you, Cormoran."
"No problem."
The words hung in the air for a second or two, and Robin knew that no matter what he said about her, she'd be grateful that he'd even agreed to this.
"So, do you want to email me the list?" Strike asked.
"Yeah, of - of course. I'll do it now."
"Okay. And when do you want to meet to talk about it?"
"Well, just let me know when you're done. There's no rush."
"All right. Well, night, then," he murmured.
Robin couldn't think of any pretext on which she could keep him on the phone, so she reluctantly bade him goodnight. She took a glass of water into her bedroom and got into bed before attaching the list of personality traits to an email and sending it to him with the subject line: "I really appreciate this!"
Robin turned over and soon drifted off to sleep, wondering which traits Strike would say that she had, and how she might evaluate him if ever he asked her to.
*
Robin settled herself in her high-backed chair and sipped her pinot grigio, waiting none too patiently for Strike to turn up. She was early; as soon as Strike had suggested meeting in the pub tonight to discuss the exercise, she'd found it impossible to focus her mind on anything else. She'd completed her own section days before, and it was folded neatly in her handbag, ready to be scrutinised. Whether Robin was ready was another question.
A tiny movement in the corner of her eye made Robin look up; as she watched, the crowd parted and Strike made his way over to her, one large hand grasping a pint of Birra Moretti. He smiled as he approached, and Robin felt that inordinate sense of calm steal over her. He sat down in another large chair at an angle from her own, so that they were sitting at adjacent sides of the square table, rather than straight across.
"How's it going?" he asked, his dark eyes on hers.
"Fine," Robin replied. "Has Marley done anything yet?"
"Nope. Squeaky clean so far. We'll get him, though," he said confidently, and he took a deep pull on his pint.
Robin didn't know what to say, and so she sipped her wine and looked over Strike's head towards the bar. Several couples were chatting to each other in the early evening light, dressed up for a Friday on the town, having a drink before heading towards their dinner reservations. If they were to look over, they'd probably think she and Strike were doing the same thing.
"Come on, then," said Strike, pulling a sheet of paper from the pocket of his overcoat. "Let's get this over with, and then you can chill out."
"I'm fine," Robin protested, but Strike's skeptical eyebrow disagreed with her. She laughed. "All right, I'm tense. But you would be, too."
"Probably. Anyway," he said, smoothing the paper out in front of him. "Do you want to read them out, or do you want me to do it?"
Robin hadn't expected Strike to take charge in this way, but now that she thought about it, it wasn't altogether surprising. He looked completely at ease as he contemplated her, and Robin wondered whether he actually found this so natural, or he was just a better actor than her.
"I'll do it," she said, and Strike nodded.
Robin took another deep breath, and then read out the first word on the list: "Kind."
Strike nodded. "Obviously."
"I've ticked it too," said Robin shyly. "People tell me I'm kind."
"Of course you are. You do kind things all the time."
"Okay. Intelligent."
"Do you have it ticked?" asked Strike.
"Er, yes. I think so. Do you?"
"Of course I bloody do."
"I don't have a degree or anything to show that I am, but…"
"I thought this was about what you feel about yourself?"
"It is," said Robin, drinking her wine.
"Well then, who cares about a degree? That doesn't prove or disprove anything."
"Okay. Next one… creative." Robin pulled a face.
"What?"
"I don't think I'm creative."
"Why not? You do all kinds of creative things for work. Names, accents, disguises, back stories. You come up with strategies for interviews on the fly. You're a lateral thinker."
"Oh. I was thinking of… like, art and stuff."
"Well, you can draw, too," said Strike, amused.
"Ok."
"Are you not going to tick it?" asked Strike.
"No. It'll stay on yours, though."
"Fine. Next?"
"Strong," said Robin quietly. She looked over at the bar again.
"Yes."
"I don't think so," said Robin, smiling lightly.
"Yes. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I'm not taking no for an answer on this one."
Robin laughed self-consciously and glanced over at Strike, but he wasn't looking at her; he rummaged in his pocket and brought out his own pen, clicking out the nib. He leaned across and drew a tick next to 'strong' on her paper. He leaned back and finally looked at her, as though daring her to disagree.
Robin tried not to acknowledge the soft butterflies in her stomach, or the fact that she seemed to be becoming more nervous rather than less. Strike seemed personally invested, and while she was still abundantly grateful to him, she wondered whether she might have opened up a can of worms. Could he ever see her in the same way after this?
"All right. Funny."
Strike looked over at Robin's paper, and his face crumpled in a frown.
"You don't have it ticked?"
"No. I was trying to think… but I don't tell jokes or anything. I don't know whether people laugh around me."
"You make me laugh," said Strike quietly.
"That's just my accent."
Strike grinned. "See? Funny. And no. You take the piss out of me all the time. You've got banter and wit. You don't have to tell knock-knock jokes to be funny."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"I do believe you," said Robin immediately. Strike continued to look at her, unconvinced.
"What's the next one?"
"Open-minded."
"Well, of course you are."
"But I… I don't know," said Robin, and Strike rolled his eyes playfully. "I stayed with Matt for nine years. I was going to be the traditional wife, working a clerical job but then cooking for my husband when he came home from his high-flying career…"
She looked wistfully into the distance for a moment. When she looked back around, Strike was smiling at her.
"That was your past. What about now? Is your mind open now?"
He was gazing earnestly into her eyes, and Robin couldn't help the swoop of daring that grabbed her.
"It's definitely opening," she whispered, and she didn't look away.
A few seconds later, Strike cleared his throat. He looked down at the list and a rueful, grudging smile appeared on his face.
"Next?" he asked, and Robin knew he already knew. She looked down at her own sheet.
"Attractive."
Strike said nothing, but Robin felt heat rise in her cheeks. She looked up, and he was frowning at her again.
"I don't even have to look to know you didn't tick it," he mused.
"No, I didn't."
"Got to be joking," he muttered, looking away, out of the window.
"Did you?"
"Do you need me to say it?" Strike asked, and a cheeky smile tugged at his lips. Robin thought she knew what he was about to say, and yet she still desperately needed to hear it.
"Yes, please," she said boldly, looking up at him.
"Yes, I ticked it. You're very attractive, Robin," he said plaintively, gazing right back into her eyes. "Trust me."
"Okay," she murmured, focusing on her wine as she took an embarrassed sip.
"I don't know why you can't see it. Everybody else can. You're gorgeous. You're tall, and curvy, and you've got this beautiful smile -"
Robin hadn't expected him to elaborate, and she looked up, surprised. He had a look of mischief on his face, as though he were enjoying her embarrassment.
"I can keep going all night," he teased, and Robin felt a sudden jolt as her body's reaction put a different spin on his innocent words.
"Please don't," she laughed. He relented and leaned back a little, rolling the pen between his fingers. As he shifted, Robin suddenly got a look at the sheet of paper in front of him.
"Strike," she said accusingly. "You've ticked all of them!"
For the first time, he looked a little embarrassed himself.
"So?"
"It's supposed to be an honest reflection, not just… flattery, or, I don't know -"
"I'm not flattering you," said Strike sharply. "I'm not lying to you either. I think you are all these things."
Robin drained her wine, and neither said anything for a full minute. Strike took sips of his pint, waiting for her to break the silence.
"The therapist said that most people tick about half."
"Well, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"What?" Robin spluttered.
"He's biased the exercise before you've even started. He's made you think that you can't tick things because then you'll have too many, and then you'll worry that he'll think you're big-headed."
Robin fiddled with the stem of her wine glass; the thought had indeed crossed her mind. Strike continued, gesturing with his hands as he gained momentum.
"There'll always be people above or below the norm. That's how distributions work. Ignoring outliers is fine in theory, but people are all different. I meant it when I said you're exceptional. You don't fit into some bloody average."
Robin sat back, shocked at his vehemence, and she tried to absorb what he was telling her.
"You can be all these things - you are all these things - and you can have bad traits as well, and you can show some of them more on certain days and not so much on others. That's life. People who love you will still love you for all the things you are, the good and the bad."
Robin turned in her seat, her lips slightly parted, and faced Strike dead on. His cheeks were red but his eyes were piercing, and he looked at her as though he were trying to implant his thoughts into her head.
"Some psychiatrist telling you that you're only allowed to have fifty percent of the positive traits in the world is clearly not looking at you through the eyes of someone who loves you," he told her, and Robin heard him take a breath, "or he'd see what I see."
Robin froze.
"You - what?" she said haltingly. A hot tear ran down her face and she wiped it away, still trying to come up with words that might help her make sense of what she'd just heard.
"You love me?" she asked, stunned.
"Yeah," said Strike roughly. "So?"
Robin laughed, a light, exhilarated laugh that seemed to come from her very soul. Strike was looking into the middle distance, one hand still gripping his pint glass. Robin put a hand on his jaw and gently turned his face towards her own.
"I feel exactly the same," she whispered, and she watched as his entire face softened. "Unless you mean it in a platonic, friendly way."
"I told you you're funny," murmured Strike.
As he leaned in, Robin saw an image of herself and Strike on an ornate staircase, leaning towards each other in earnest, desperately wanting what they couldn't have. This time, she was free to press her lips against his and sink into his arms, melting under his kiss, delighting in the unmatched ecstasy of hearing that he loved her for everything she was.