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“When are you leaving for Masham?” Strike asked as he hung his heavy wool overcoat on the coat rack to dry. It was slightly damp after their snowy stroll back from the new Indian restaurant Robin had picked for their official Office Holiday Lunch. “I’ll take the train late Sunday morning. Vanessa is having a Christmas party tomorrow night so I’ll wait another day before leaving. That way I can use tomorrow afternoon to finish my shopping. I need to get one more present for Martin and pick up the bracelet I ordered for my mom. What are your plans for Christmas, Cormoran?”
“Going to Lucy and Greg’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Ilsa and Nick. We’ll stuff ourselves on ham and pudding, then watch football until late. After that I don’t have plans since I went drinking with Shanker last week. I’ll probably catch up on my sleep and do laundry and paperwork. That nice fat check we got from Curtain Twitcher for checking out her new neighbors will tide us over nicely well into January.”
“Sounds relaxing. I won’t get anything caught up here until I get back. I really need to bring the accounts up to date before the end of the year. And I will have a pile of laundry waiting for me when I get back myself.” Robin started straightening her desk, putting files away, then dumping her mug of cold tea from earlier, not looking at Strike as she worked. She was going to miss him, something she could admit to herself after her two glasses of wine with lunch. It would take more than that to admit feelings to her partner, though. At least it didn’t sound as if he was seeing anyone right now. The parade of gorgeous women he seemed to attract without even trying were hard on a girl’s morale, especially since she herself hadn’t gone out with anyone since her divorce.
Strike sat down heavily on the couch which for once didn’t fart in protest. “Happy Christmas,” he thought to himself. It will be lonely without Robin around, something he’d rather die than tell her. She needed space to find her footing after all the shit that bastard pulled during their divorce. He watched Robin tidying up, enjoying her efficient movements and her neat figure. The silence grew.
Normally silence wasn’t something he rushed to fill, but he was tempted—inspired by three pints at lunch no doubt—to ask Robin if she’d like to stroll around Oxford Street with him to look at the decorations tonight. Surely since she did not seem to have plans that wouldn’t be out of line? “Robin,” he started to say only to be interrupted by the door buzzer.
Strike frowned. “Who could that be? We don’t have any appointments.” “Maybe a new client?” Robin ventured. She buzzed the door open and opened the office door to look down the stairs. A courier was standing inside the outside door, looking up at her. “Cameron Strick?” he asked hopefully. “Up here,”she answered. The young man bounded up the steep stairs, clutching a small white box in one hand while he brushed snow off his shoulders with the other. He handed a Robin the box which she saw was correctly addressed to Strike. She signed for the box, smiled after the courier who was already half way down the stairs, and returned to Strike, still holding down the couch. “The box is from McQueen’s. Who is sending you flowers? Do you have a secret admirer?
He frowned. “Of course not, but we’d better be careful opening it. We do have enemies, Robin. Is there a name or return address on the label?” “It says Tabernacle Street. That’s in Shoreditch, isn’t it?” Robin handed the box to Strike, then moved to her computer. After a few clicks she confirmed the address on the label matched McQueen’s floral shop address.
Strike looked the box over carefully. It looked new, not recycled, and was sealed with gold foil stickers embossed with the shop name. “Hand me your scissors.” Robin passed them over, then leaned on the couch arm to watch him break the seals and ease the lid up. Inside was red tissue paper supporting a round ball of oval green leaves and tiny white berries that had a loop of dusty blue ribbon sticking out of the top with the McQueen name printed on it. Robin reached into the box and pulled out the ball, holding it by the ribbon. “It’s mistletoe.“
“What?”
“It’s mistletoe made into a kissing ball. Someone has sent you a kissing ball for Christmas!” Robin couldn’t help smiling at the scowl on Strike’s face. “Is there a card inside?” she asked hastily, trying to hide her amusement. He pulled the red tissue paper wrapping entirely out of the box and a tiny embossed card fell on the floor. They bent over to pick it up simultaneously so both saw the four little words on the card at the same time.
Kiss her
Secret Santa
Strike froze. Robin froze. They looked at each other. Strike blushed as he met those stormy blue-gray eyes looking back in astonishment at him. Then Robin smiled, held the kissing ball over his head with one hand and tilted his jaw slightly with the other to give him the kiss he had been dreaming of. In a daze he stood, then recovered enough to pull her into his arms in a tight embrace, returning her kiss with a passionate one of his own.
The kissing ball fell unheeded to the floor and rolled under Robin’s desk, forgotten.
Outside on the street a bundled-up figure with a short red beard stood smoking in a doorway out of the falling snow, watching Strike’s office lights while shifting restlessly from foot to foot. His head was covered by a knit cap and the tattoos on his knuckles and neck were hidden by a scarf and scuffed leather gloves, but passing Christmas shoppers avoided him anyway. Dodgy is dodgy, even at Christmas. Eventually Strike’s office lights went out and then after a short wait the lights came on in Strike’s flat. The watcher waited another half hour until it was clear that no one was leaving the building, then smiled to himself, took one last drag on his smoke and headed down the road toward an illegal but profitable transaction, confident his posh present had worked its magic. “About time, Bunsen. Merry Christmas."