Brave
As investigator Cormoran Strike walked down Robin Ellacott's street, he could not remember a time when he'd been more nervous about seeing a woman. The two detectives, who were partners in the Strike and Ellacott detective agency, hadn't seen each other for a week. Robin had returned from a weekend away with a bad cold and, as the detective agency was not especially busy, she'd taken the week off to recover.
Now it was Friday again, and Robin had invited Strike over for curry so he could catch her up on the goings on at the agency. After he'd accepted, Strike had spent a good half an hour mulling over the significance of her choice of cuisine. Curry had played a starring role in a moment, years previously, of emotional intimacy between himself and Robin. Had Robin chosen curry to hasten the dismantling of barriers between them tonight so that, at last, they could be honest about what each meant to the other? Or had she chosen the meal simply because she knew Strike liked it and she hoped it would soften the blow of other, less welcome news.
The news that Strike feared was that Robin, whose weekend away had been at the invitation of her good-looking policeman boyfriend, Ryan Murphy, had become engaged since Strike had seen her last. If Robin opened her door with a new engagement ring sparkling on her third finger, Strike was not certain he could make himself go inside. Could he bear their relationship to go back to that place where he would need to pretend, for the sake of their business and their friendship, that he was not in love with Robin? And how much harder would it be to do so since he had, the last time they had spoken, confessed as much to Robin herself?
Strike recalled Robin's face as he'd spoken the words '…she knew I was in love with you.' He'd been referring to the suicide note written by his ex-fiance, Charlotte Campbell and he'd presented the contents of her note to his detective partner as evidence confirming a fact. He wanted to believe that he'd seen the significance of it register on Robin's face, her blue eyes had grown wide and comprehending, but the moment had been cut short by Ryan Murphy's arrival and Robin's flustered departure with him.
Strike did not regret his moment of honesty. Despite unwelcome thoughts of what Ryan and Robin might be doing on their weekend away, he'd been enjoying a new sense of peace, having unburdened himself of a truth he'd concealed for so long. He knew there was still time for him to regret the risk he'd taken, but for now it was enough to have taken the leap into the unknown. This did not stop him, however, from worrying over the ways Robin might be interpreting his revelation and doubts assailed him still, as he pressed the buzzer at her building's outer door and heard the click of the lock unlatching. Pushing the door open, he climbed the stairs to her flat. What if Robin had convinced herself that Strike had simply been reporting Charlotte's misguided jealousy of their professional relationship? What if Murphy's interruption had come before Robin had reached full understanding? What if Murphy had proposed to her on their weekend away?
Strike's recent weight loss and the consequent improvement of the condition of his partially amputated right leg, on which he wore a prosthesis, meant he no longer needed to use the handrail to haul himself up the stairs. Even so, as he climbed them he felt his heart rate increase uncomfortably and he knew it was nothing to do with his fitness. Robin's door was slightly ajar and, as he reached the top of the stairs, he heard her call out for him to come in so he entered, closed the door behind him and followed the aroma of spices into the kitchen. Robin, wearing an apron and with her hair in a messy bun, was at the stove, stirring something that smelled delicious.
'Hi,' she said. 'Sorry, I don't want this to burn.' She looked a little pale and her cheeks slightly flushed, which Strike attributed to either the after-effects of the virus or the heat in the kitchen. Busy at the stove, she did not offer him their customary greeting of a kiss on the cheek and her smile seemed to him a little guarded.
'You're cooking,' he observed, holding up the bottle of white wine he'd brought.
'Yeah,' she said, indicating the cupboard where the glasses were kept. 'First time for everything.'
As he took down the glasses, Strike tried not to attach significance to this statement, but he hoped that she meant it was not the last time she'd cook for him. Once Robin was satisfied that the food had been saved from burning, she covered the pot and turned off the stove. She accepted a glass of wine from Strike and he noticed, with a rush of relief, that her left hand remained unadorned.
'Feeling better?' he asked.
'Oh yes, thanks' she said brightly, leaning back against the kitchen counter opposite him. They each sipped their wine.
'But Strike,… I have a confession to make,' Robin said and Strike's heart turned over uncomfortably.
'I haven't actually had a cold,' said Robin.
'Oh?' said Strike, experiencing an unwelcome recollection of the weeks during Robin's marriage to Matthew that he'd been certain she'd been about to announce a pregnancy.
'I… Ryan and I broke up,' she said.
'Oh,' said Strike, 'I'm sorry to hear that.'
Robin's blue eyes considered him carefully and he saw uncertainty in them. Had she really not understood the declaration in the words '…she knew I was in love with you'?
'Are you sorry though?' said Robin and Strike's breath caught at the provocative tone he thought he heard beneath her nervousness.
Once again, Strike felt he was on the precipice of a great height, about to swing out on a trapeze, but he was practised now and this time he did not hesitate.
'No, Robin,' said Strike, his gaze meeting hers. 'I'm delighted to hear it.'
The wry smile that twisted Robin's mouth didn't last long. As it faded, her eyes took on a kind of intensity he'd not seen in them before. She put her glass down on the counter and took her apron off. She was wearing a midnight-blue knitted jersey dress that hugged her in all the right places. She stepped towards him and took his glass from his hands.
'I thought you might be,' she said and Strike felt the blood rush to his heart, which was beating as rapidly as it had on the stairs, so that he felt lightheaded as Robin wrapped her small, smooth hand around two of his fingers and led him from the kitchen into the living room. She steered him to the couch and pushed him gently to sit on it. Strike could not have spoken even if he'd wanted to, but there were no words which could do justice to his anticipation of what he hoped was about to happen.
Robin, still standing and looking down at him, loosened her hair and it allowed it to fall in a cascade of red and gold around her shoulders and Strike was seized by a powerful wave of desire for her. He rubbed his jaw and briefly closed his eyes, trying to settle himself. Robin watched him and the unfamiliar intensity in her eyes seemed to harden.
'Before I left, you said…,' Robin began, '…at least I think you said… that you were in love with me.' The words came with effort and Strike knew from experience what it was to take this risk, to name this thing that had been growing between them for five years, with all its associated complications and repercussions.
'Am,' Strike corrected her. 'Am in love with you.'
Robin looked at him for a long moment and Strike, helpless to do anything but wait, wondered how this was going to end. It would either be the very best night of his life, or he would have a lonely and uncomfortable walk back to the tube station followed by a sleepless night alone in his room above the office to reproach himself for having fouled the most significant relationship of his life.
The silence lengthened and then, with a small nod as if she was answering a question, Robin reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it up and over her head. She tossed the garment onto the couch beside Strike and stood before him, her emerald green underwear vivid against her alabaster skin. Strike's eyes travelled along her spectacular body and up to her face. And there was the bravery he'd always so admired. Her expression was resolute, open and vulnerable, but determined to meet the risk he'd taken with one of her own.
'Oh Jesus, Robin,' said Strike hoarsely, getting to his feet. She smiled, her chin jutting out a little in that defiant way he adored. She extended a hand and he took it, lifted it to his lips and kissed it for a long moment. Then he led her to the bedroom.
Robin's bedroom was tidy, the bed newly made with what looked like fresh sheets. Strike allowed himself the pleasure of imagining her preparing it for him, for them. He pushed her gently onto the bed and kneeled over her, thanking himself for keeping up with his physio exercises so that this was possible. Her cheeks were pinker still and her lips rosier and plumper than he'd ever seen them. She brought a hand to his face and gently turned his head to the side so she could kiss him on the cheek, lips to stubble, the way she had outside Liberty, the perfume store. He could smell the scent of bruised flowers on her warm skin now and he closed his eyes, savouring the memory and the present moment simultaneously.
'Oh Cormoran,' Robin whispered, her breath in his ear sent a shiver through him. Unable to resist any longer, he kissed her properly, his mouth firmly against hers. He felt Robin's body arch in response, her intensity increasing. Strike, exhilarated to see this new side of Robin, inwardly thanked God or whatever non-existent deity might be responsible for his unbelievably good fortune, and kissed her yet more hungrily. Then, without breaking from their kiss, Robin began undoing the buttons of his shirt and, to Strike, all conscious thought was lost.
Afterwards, Robin collapsed onto his chest and Strike felt possessed by a kind of soul-deep satisfaction that he had never imagined possible. He felt filled to the very edges of himself with wellbeing and utter, liberating relief. Neither of them spoke for a few moments as they allowed their heart rates to return to a sustainable level.
'Well…' said Strike at last, 'Thank **** for that.'
He felt Robin smile, her face nestled under his chin, her breath still coming quickly.
'Looks like you're getting a thesaurus for Christmas too,' she said and Strike laughed and then kissed her hair. Robin shifted herself off him and onto the bed. Strike began to roll onto his side to face her, a challenging move for a man with half a leg missing.
Strike had thought he'd stopped being surprised by Robin, but when, without appearing to give it any thought at all, she extended her leg and curled one smooth calf around the back of his right thigh, allowing him enough leverage to complete the turn towards her, he stared at her in frank astonishment. Her eyes were closed, a sleepy smile on her lips. The ease with which she'd anticipated what he needed and provided it without ceremony caused an emotional climax in Strike that rivalled his very recent physical one in intensity. Just as she'd walked into his office five years ago and rearranged things so that they worked more efficiently, so she'd moved into his life and made it, on every measure, better.
He thought about all the times he had told women that he loved them. He'd thought he'd meant it when he'd said it to Charlotte Campbell, mistaking, in his youthful naivety, erotic drama and the heat of emotional warfare for love. In other relationships, he'd said it only when he felt not to do so would cause pain, allowing himself to consider it a class of white lie. He had certainly never been the first to say it to anyone, but as he stared at Robin's lovely, flushed face, he realised that what he was about to say would come from a different place entirely. A place where he, Cormoran Strike, had decided, without influence or manipulation, where his true affections lay.
'Robin Ellacott,' he said, his voice thick with emotion.
'Mmmmm…' said Robin, opening her eyes and looking into his.
The words now forming on his lips had begun writing themselves in his heart the moment she had first taken her coat off in his office five years ago. They'd been traced over by countless hours working side by side and by companionable or disgruntled silence in the Landrover. They'd become more deeply engraved when they'd shared intimacies while she held an icepack to her face after a direct, accidental hit from his elbow. They'd been made indelible through every thoughtful act and kind word she had offered him over the years and by every occasion on which she'd challenged him, defied him, argued with him or told him he was being an arse. And, at last, they had been smoothed and finished by all the times she'd trusted him and her steadfast conviction that he was a good man.
In short, Cormoran Strike knew, as he said them, that they were the truest words he'd ever speak.
'I love you.'
