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He hadn’t expected to see her.
They were working, him and Robin, trying to infiltrate the office where the client had told them they might find the evidence they needed. It was imperative that they did so before the sale took place and the piece couldn’t be recovered, but it was late. They were running out of time.
The Christmas party was a no expenses spared occasion, but what Charlotte was doing there was anyone’s guess. Modern art had never been her thing.
Could she have known? Could she have planned this ‘coincidence’ as she had their encounter at Henry Drummond’s gallery and the subsequent wild goose chase of a trip to Franco’s.
His eyes wandered across the room to Robin, taking in the flame coloured hair pouring down her back, the plum coloured velvet clinging to every curve. Her eyes met his and he could read her expression from thirty feet away and began moving towards her. It was time.
“Bluey.”
A hand on his arm. Long, pale fingers, perfectly manicured burgundy nails, the scent of Shalimar.
“Charlotte. I’m working.”
“I know.”
He glanced over again towards Robin. She’d been cornered by their client, the gallery owner.
“I came to say goodbye, Bluey.”
His stomach lurched. With anyone else the assumption would be that she was finally moving on, maybe to the Ross family’s palatial estate in Scotland, maybe to the States where Jago had numerous investments. With Charlotte, ‘goodbye’ could mean anything. The last time he’d heard the phrase coming from her lips, he’d spent the following three hours coaxing her down from a freezing rooftop.
“That got your attention,” she said, bitterly.
So, she was still able to read his mind. His breath was coming heavier, but he didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Jago and I are divorcing. Mummy and I have made our peace after all this time. Fuck knows I never saw that coming…the babies and I are moving to the south of France with her.”
Strike nodded, one eye still on Robin. She was handling the gallery owner with her usual apparently effortless skill and charm, and a shot of pride ran through him.
“It’s just too painful for me to stay here,” Charlotte continued.
Strike looked at her, astonished.
“It wasn’t for effect then, marrying Ross. You really did love him?”
“No. It was only ever you Bluey.”
His lips twisted and his jaw clenched.
Here we fucking go…
“You know, it hurt when I realized you’re not in love with me anymore. But nothing can compare to the pain I felt when I saw you falling in love with her.”
Charlotte’s gaze was halfway across the room, locked on the figure of Robin as she sipped champagne and laughed at their client’s appalling jokes, her demeanour totally at odds with her irritation at the small, bespectacled man who kept finding excuses to touch her.
“But…I’m not…”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Bluey. It’s written all over you, even if you can’t admit it to yourself.”
She replaced her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and looked back at him.
“Nearly twenty years I’ve know you. The one thing I never had you down for was a coward.”
She looked again at Robin, back at Strike, turned on her heel and left.
Strike caught Robin’s eye again across the room. She’d shaken off the gallery owner and was striding purposefully towards him.
He thought of Charlotte’s words. She’d always known him better than he’d known himself.
Yes, he thought, it was definitely time.