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Robin concentrated very hard on her screen and told herself she wasn’t listening for Strike’s tread on the stairs. He had been out all afternoon, but he always came back at the end of a Friday afternoon to tie up loose ends and set up next week. She had no plans this evening, and was hoping he’d suggest a drink at the Tottenham. She was tired of waiting for something to happen between them, and was almost sure now that it was going to at some point. Maybe tonight she would have another glass of wine, throw caution to the wind, lean in, see if he might kiss her...
The downstairs door slammed and, far away as it was, Robin jumped, her heart starting to race. Here goes. Friday night.
It seemed to take him a long time to arrive, and Robin wondered if her impatience to see him was making it feel longer than it was. But finally he reached the little landing.
The door crashed back on its hinges and Robin jumped again as Strike almost fell into the office. “Oops,” he muttered, and stood swaying, staring at her.
“Robin!” he said. “What’re you doinhere?”
Robin blinked at him. He was spectacularly drunk. “I work here, remember?” she said, her mouth quirking in amusement. “What’s happened to you?”
Strike waved an arm. “Lunch with Shanker,” he said.
Robin looked at her watch. “Lunch? It’s six o’clock!”
Strike raised an arm and fumbled with his sleeve. It took him several goes, but he managed to push his sleeve up so he could see his watch. He squinted at it, then shrugged. “We h’d a lot to discuss.”
“Clearly,” Robin said drily.
“Anyway, I meant. I meant. What’re you still doing here?”
“Um, just finishing some notes,” Robin improvised quickly. Had he been sober, she might have admitted that she had been waiting for him, to see where that took them. Her unformed plans had been rather ruined now.
Strike nodded wisely. “Y’re a very hard worker,” he said solemnly. “An’ a v’ry nice p’rson.”
Oh, god, we’re in “v’ry nice p’rson” territory, Robin thought. She wondered if Strike had a bucket up in his flat.
“I think we’d better get you to bed,” she told him. “Coffee first?”
“‘S Friday,” Strike said. “Tottenham.”
Robin rolled her eyes. “Cormoran Strike, the last thing you need right now is more beer,” she said firmly. “I’m making you a coffee.”
Strike pouted at her. “That’s not bein’ a v’ry nice p’rson,” he muttered.
“I think you’ll find it is,” Robin told him. “You’ll thank me in the morning.” If you remember any of this, she thought. She went to fill the kettle.
Strike grunted, still pouting, and moved across to the sofa. He dropped onto it awkwardly, and it farted loudly for him. Sulk instantly forgotten, he chortled.
“F’got to tell you,” he said. “Thought of a Ikea name for th’sofa.”
Robin raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. “When was this? Is this how you fill your work hours?”
“I was thinking,” he said with great dignity. “Got to allow th’brain to wander. ‘S how insp’ration happens.”
“Anyway,” he went on. “Anyway. What d’you think.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Fartfol.” He giggled at his own joke.
Against her will, Robin laughed. “That must have taken you hours to come up with.” She spooned extra coffee and two sugars into his mug.
Strike was still giggling. “Cos, you see, ’s got fart in it, and it’s—”
“Yes, Cormoran, I get it,” Robin said fondly, pouring the hot water. She stirred the mug vigorously, wondering where the paracetamol were. He’ll need water, too.
She turned to take him his coffee, and laughed. He was still giggling.
“Is it really that funny?” she asked.
“Yeah, c’s it’s like full of farts,” Strike spluttered.
Robin shook her head. It was hard to believe this was the same thoughtful, focused man who solved complex crimes and quoted Latin, now sat giggling helplessly his own fart joke. She vaguely wondered if they were going to manage to get him up off the sofa.
She passed him his coffee, and then squeaked as he took a gulp. “Cormoran, that’s hot!”
“Yeah,” he said, gazing down at his mug, frowning. “Ow.”
“Just give it a minute, yeah?” Robin said. “Let it cool a bit, drink it and we’ll get you to bed.”
He nodded solemnly again. “Y’re a v’ry nice p’rson,” he repeated. He patted the sofa next to him. “C’mere.”
Robin eyed the six inches of space that his sprawled frame wasn’t taking up. “There’s no room.”
Strike scooted along, or presumably thought he did. There was probably quite a bit more floundering and coffee spilling than he had intended. Robin sighed gently and sat next to him.
“Y’re a v’ry nice p’rson, and y’re a f’ntastic detective,” he told her earnestly. “Y’re dedicated an’ wonderful an’... an’...” He cast around vaguely. “An’ you make great tea. Jus’ how I like it. ‘M a lucky p’rson.”
Robin nodded along patiently, but a little blush stole over her cheeks. “Drink your coffee,” she said gently. “What’s left of it.”
Strike nodded obediently and drank his coffee. Robin stood and went to shut down her computer. Time to call it a day. She bent to flick the switch off at the wall.
Behind her, Strike sighed. “An’ you have a great arse,” he said wistfully.
Robin straightened up, blushing properly now. “Excuse me?”
Strike waved an arm. “In a good way,” he said firmly. “‘M not being pervy. I jus’ noticed, tha’s all. I notice stuff.”
“Noticing my arse isn’t pervy?” she teased. I so hope he doesn’t remember any of this tomorrow.
Strike shook his head. “‘S art appreciation,” he declared. “Callipygian.”
“It’s what?”
“Look ‘er up.” Strike was struggling to his feet now. Robin moved quickly to help him. “Venus Callipyge. Statue with a nice arse.” His train of thought wandered. “‘S in Italy somewhere. Florence? Naples?”
“Let’s get you upstairs,” Robin said. Strike moved to the door, still mumbling the names of Italian cities. As they left the office, he stopped abruptly.
“‘M fine,” he said. “You go on home.”
Robin looked at him doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved an arm and Robin ducked a little. “Done it before.” He began to climb the stairs to his flat. “H’ve a g’d weekend.”
“You too,” Robin said. She stepped back into the office for her coat and bag that were hung on the peg, came back out and locked up. Strike had disappeared round the corner, but she could hear him fumbling in his pocket for his keys.
He dropped them, murmured “bugger” and picked them up again. Robin giggled fondly. She waited, wanting to hear him get safely into his flat.
“Rome? Naples. Sure it’s Naples,” he was saying to himself as he opened the door. Then she could hear him giggling again. “Fartfol,” he muttered. The door slammed.
Laughing, Robin set off down the stairs.