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Strike smiled as he heard the office door bang and his partner come in humming ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Only last night he had declared, “If I hear one more Christmas song, I’m going to commit a murder” but the usual rules didn’t apply when it came to Robin. She brought so much peace and joy to his life that he wouldn’t complain, even if she had been carolling with the Salvation Army brass band and soliciting donations.
His face fell when he saw she had a large gift-wrapped box in her hands and wondered if he still had time to nip out and buy something. He knew he shouldn’t have taken her at her word.
“I thought we weren’t doing gifts!” he protested.
Robin screwed up her face. “It’s not from me, it’s from Martin,” she said, pulling the lid off the box. “It’s one of our family Christmas traditions, ugly Christmas sweaters. This one is for you.”
Strike pulled the jumper from the box and looked at it. It was bright red and embossed with a black belt with gold buckle, white facings and a large woolly white beard at the neckline.
“You have to be kidding,” he said.
“Nope,” said Robin. “Wait until you see mine.”
She held out an emerald green jumper embossed with snowflakes and real bells.
“The placement of some of the bells is quite unfortunate,” she said, gesturing towards her chest.
Strike perked up. “Let’s see,” he grinned impishly.
Robin sighed. “Only if you also try on yours.”
She smirked, noting how well Strike filled out his Santa suit sweater.
“You’d look good in a Santa hat,” she observed.
In response, Strike reached out both hands so he could jingle the bells positioned just on Robin’s nipples.
Robin rolled her eyes. “We’d better take them off. Remember, we’ve got Flakey Financier’s client party this afternoon.”
Strike grumbled. “Do I have to go?”
In a bid to crack a case, Robin had gone into their client’s office as a temp, searching for evidence of financial wrong-doing. So far, she had found nothing but low-level sexual harassment. She suspected that with the champagne flowing, some of the main perpetrators would up the ante this afternoon.
“I’m needing a plus-one,” she said firmly. “With you there, those idiots might leave me alone long enough to actually find something.”
“Besides,” she added seductively, “I’ve seen the menu. They’ve got real mince pies from that little shop that you like.”
Strike’s stomach rumbled in anticipation.
“I’ll go a long way for those mince pies,” he said.
Robin grinned. “I know,” she said. “Why do you think I ordered them?”
The rest of the morning passed peacefully. Robin popped upstairs to change for the party into her remodelled green dress. Strike’s eyes widened in appreciation as she swirled around to show how the dress had been salvaged. It was now calf-length, with the silken fabric that had previously dusted the floor repurposed as a new back panel. The zip had been replaced with silken ribbons that criss-crossed her back.
“I need help wrapping this,” said Robin, indicating the ribbons. “It needs to go around that second hole and then tied in a bow or else the dress will just slide off.”
Strike’s breath hitched at the mental image she had just given him. “Only if you let me unwrap you later,” he managed huskily.
Robin nodded. “I’ll even let you peek in my Christmas stockings,” she replied, cheekily lifting her skirt to give Strike a glimpse of the green and gold suspenders hidden beneath.
“Jesus Christ Robin!” croaked Strike. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble, you know.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” he added hastily.
The party was being held in a hotel just a few hundred metres from Knightsbridge station. Strike and Robin decided to take the tube, pulling on thick coats and boots and wrapping themselves in woolly scarves, hats and mittens. Robin tucked her dress shoes into an oversized handbag.
“Let’s go!” she said, more cheerfully than she felt.
The short walk to the station was worse than she expected. By the time they reached Knightsbridge, there was a full-blown snowstorm inhibiting their travels.
“In here!” gasped Robin, steering Strike into a café. “We can get a coffee and wait for the storm to blow over.”
The café was in an older building and had a real fireplace. Strike and Robin stood in front of the fire, shivering as they dried off.
An elderly woman dressed in an apron approached them.
“Sit down here dears,” she said, indicating the couch in front of the fireplace. “Now, I’m a bit limited in what I can offer you today. The power has gone out in the kitchen, but I have a pot of hot cocoa on the gas ring and plenty of marshmallows. Or, if you prefer, I can put on some water to boil and you can choose from these teas. Only instant coffee, I’m afraid. But we have plenty of Christmas pudding and gingerbread.”
“Umm… hot cocoa will be fine, thank you,” said Robin glancing at Strike. He nodded. The elderly woman dropped a bunch of candles on the small table in front of them.
“For when the lights go out,” she said conversationally. “You can stick them in the spare bottles over there.”
She then turned to Strike. “You’re a nice tall man. Could I trouble you to put on the star? I can’t reach the top of the tree.”
“Of course,” replied Strike, expertly attaching it to the tree – a lifetime of being the tallest man in the room had led him to develop certain skills.
Robin glanced around the room. It had a delightful homely feel, despite its location in one of the poshest parts of London. Fresh flowers were arranged in jam jars, apples and oranges were heaped in wooden bowls and each table featured a bottle covered in wax drippings, indicating they were used as candle holders.
“What a lovely place you have here,” she said to the elderly woman.
The woman beamed. “Thank you. The young people seem to like it. They are a funny crowd, coming in with typewriters and wearing old fashioned clothes. And the beards on the men! But they are a nice polite group.” She handed Robin and Strike two large mugs filled with steaming cocoa.
“Thank you,” said Robin. “We’re working and really need to get going but the storm was so bad. We’re lucky you were open.”
Just then, there was a bang, followed by a pop. All the lights went out. Unperturbed, the elderly woman used the fire to light a candle and stick it in a bottle.
“There you are. Very romantic, having a hot cocoa by candlelight,” she smiled. “So… do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?”
Robin smiled. “He’d be happy staying home watching a movie,” she said, pointing at Strike. And nowadays, with all the anti-terrorism stuff, it’s easier to just watch the fireworks on tv. But this year we’re going to St Mawes over the New Year to spend a few days with Cormoran’s uncle and aunt. We’re first going to Masham to spend Christmas with my family.
Strike stirred and went to the door. He peered out. The storm had passed.
“Do you know where the fuse box is? I could take a look before we go,” he offered.
“Don’t worry about it,” said the old lady. “Your wife told me you have to get to work. Mustn’t keep the boss waiting!”
Somehow Robin managed to keep a straight face as she paid for their hot cocoa drinks, adding a generous tip and wishing the woman a merry Christmas.
“Mustn’t keep the boss waiting,” she smirked, grabbing Strike’s arm.
***********************************
As they entered the hotel, Strike let out a gasp and even Robin drew a deep breath.
“How many people did you say would be coming?” he hissed into Robin’s ear.
“I didn’t!” she whispered back. “But this is… ridiculous.”
There were literally hundreds of people crowding the foyer. Strike steered Robin to the cloakroom where they could store their coats and bags, and Robin changed her shoes. She plastered a smile on her face, and they stepped out to face the crowd.
“Photo op!” yelled one man, who seemed to be more than tipsy. “You’re under the mistletoe. You have to kiss.”
Strike gave Robin a chaste peck on the lips.
“I’d much prefer to do this at home,” he murmured.
“You and me both,” Robin replied, clinging to his arm. “Let’s make sure we don’t get separated and stuck kissing anyone else!”
Strike gripped Robin even more firmly around the waist and led her on the dance floor.
“What are you doing?” Robin hissed. “You don’t dance.”
“I can rock back and forth in time to music. We can talk and there is no mistletoe.”
Surveying the room, they quickly concluded that there was no benefit to staying at the party any longer. There were simply too many people, and most were already half drunk.
“Let’s go,” hissed Robin. “Come back to my place and have a nightcap.”
***********************************
“Doom Bar, whisky or eggnog?” asked Robin as they entered her flat.
“Beer, please,” said Strike. “Do you want me to undo the ties on your dress?”
Robin raised her eyebrows.
“Just so it doesn’t get dirty. I’m thinking of you and the dry-cleaning bill.”
“Pure, undulated altruism, I’m sure,” said Robin dryly. “Come into my bedroom so I can hang it up right away.”
Strike’s fingers trembled as he undid the ribbon holding Robin’s dress together. As promised, it slid off her body revealing the classiest and sexiest Christmas lingerie he’d ever seen; a matching set of green lace panties, bra and suspender belt. His eyes nearly shot out of his head. She smirked at his reaction as she bent over and picked up the green dress, carefully packing it away in its protective bag.
“What do you mean, you can’t find the right gift for me?” he gasped. “This is perfect. You are perfect. Please, please let me unwrap you now.
“Only if you promise to kiss every part that is currently wrapped,” Robin smiled.
***********************************
The next morning, Robin awoke early and grinned fondly at the man next to her. As usual, their love making had been exquisite. He snored gently, oblivious.
“How did I get to be so lucky?” she thought.
Robin hopped out of bed and put on the kettle. She slipped on an old sweatshirt and pants and began to quickly and efficiently pack the Land Rover, tossing in Christmas crackers, decorations, gifts, packets of food and a pre-packed bag of clothes. They would swing by Strike’s flat to pick up his kit bag on the way.
Robin grinned, noticing a pile of unmelted snow by the fence. She moulded it into a ball.
“If you throw that snowball, you’re declaring war!” Strike had come out, holding a mug of steaming peppermint tea.
Robin jumped, startled and slipping on ice. She automatically put out her arms as she crashed down. There was a sickening crunch.
***********************************
“I didn’t plan on spending my Christmas in hospital, but here we are,” muttered Robin. X-rays had confirmed that she had two broken wrists and she was now waiting for them to be set. There would be no trip to Masham or St Mawes that year and Strike had already had two tense phone calls with Linda Ellacott, texting her photos of the x-rays to confirm the break and Robin’s drugged out face to confirm she was alive and okay.
“Time for my New Year’s resolutions. Let’s agree that we are never going to prank each other ever again.”
Strike peered at his watery, hospital-issued cup of tea. They had already been waiting four hours, as more urgent cases bumped Robin down the triage list.
“Normally I’d say no, but I’m on my fifth drink, so why not?”