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They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley square.
Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett. Good Omens.
“So where—?” asked Robin.
“I’m taking you to the Ritz for champagne,” said Strike.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. It’s why I’m wearing a suit.”
Robert Galbraith. Troubled Blood.
*
When Robin had imagined her first date with Strike, it had never occurred to her it would be like this. Everything in their lifestyles, their tastes, their wallets, was light years away from the setting she could currently see around her.
Was it a date, though? She couldn’t help wondering if everything that had happened up to that moment counted as something best mates did. To any uninvolved observer, however, their day would seem the dictionary definition of ‘date’: dressing up, buying a new perfume, and, finally, going to the Ritz - to the Ritz , of all places - for champagne. The perfume alone didn’t have to have any sexual or romantic subtext, as did not, for that matter, the green designer dress. This was what made their relationship special and, in some way, unique. They did almost everything couples usually do, even though they were not actually together like that..
And now, here they sat, opposite each other, their free hands lying symmetrically on the table, just a couple of inches away from touching. It would take a mere breath to move her hand a bit forward, to make it collide with his large hairy hand, contrasting so starkly with the immaculate tablecloth and his suit.
However, this tension did not show as they talked. Robin found herself talking for a few minutes, telling Strike about her past birthdays and rating them from “mostly tolerable” to “total nightmare”. Her 29th, for example, was close to being a total nightmare.
“But this tops everything,” Robin announced. “Honestly, I think I'll stop celebrating birthdays from now on. Nothing can beat that .”
Strike's laughter turned a few heads in their direction.
“I'm glad you're happy,” he said simply. It was the first thing he said since she started her monologue. He didn't interrupt her, but he also didn't feign polite interest in her words while waiting for an opportunity to take over the stage and start talking about himself . Actually, he never did. He listened to her, paying attention to every detail. He looked at her with something he kept in his eyes for her alone, and Robin couldn't manage to give it a name. An uninvolved observer, probably, would call it deepest affection or even love. Robin cautiously called it “a look one best mate gives the other”.
Speaking of uninvolved observers, Robin indeed felt as if all eyes of the world were on her. It flattered her, but also gave her an odd, insecure feeling of being watched. Bollocks. It's just too much champagne , she chastised herself, although she hadn't finished her first flute yet.
“Look at all those people around,” said Strike, echoing her thoughts. “Bet they’re all our future clients.”
“Why?”
“First, we can expect an outburst of the cream of society clientele after the Bamborough case. These people would go to the best in town, that is, to us.”
“But why would they need us?”
“Okay, it’s your day off, you don’t have to be a detective today,” Strike lowered his voice and leaned in, so that she could hear him better. “Have you noticed there are only couples here?”
Robin cast an eye over the dining room. Strike was right: all tables were occupied by couples, most of them middle-age. “A tenner says one of them comes to us to spy on their treacherous spouse!” Strike proclaimed. “Say, within the next year.”
“Deal,” Robin giggled and raised her glass. “To prosperity!”
“And a reasonable workload!” Strike added, clinking his champagne flute against hers.
***
Aziraphale was delighted with his sumptuous sandwiches, his delicacy requiring a little self control to finish them neatly before moving to the epicurean delights of the fresh cream cakes that also formed part of Afternoon tea at The Ritz. The Palm Court, with the decor ornate, mirrored and in large part the colour of the kind of custard that was properly made with egg yolks and vanilla, was a venue he loved, and his ebullience was only natural.
Crowley didn’t seem to be appreciating it quite as much; his long, lithe form reclined slightly awkwardly in the dining chair, one arm draped down towards the floor while the other clutched his second glass of champagne.
“I don’t know why you have to feign an air of louche indifference,” Aziraphale said primly, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a pristine napkin after finishing the chicken and tarragon sandwich. He was eyeing up a particularly plump strawberry confection as his next treat.
“I’m not feigning anything,” Crowley scowled. “What’s the point in saving the world if I can’t be a little louche if I feel like it.”
“Well, I’m delighted. This is delightful. I’m so happy, Crowley. This is what life is for !”
Crowley turned up his top lip in a derisory sneer, and threw back the champagne, but he didn’t disagree.
“Look around you! Everything is wonderful. All these people, with their busy, interesting little lives, all the little nuances and joys,” Aziraphale was warming to his theme.
“And their sorrows,” Crowley added, reaching for the champagne bottle and topping up his glass. “Can’t forget those!”
“Well, no, but surely we know as well as anyone that you can’t have one without the other,” the angel conceded.
Crowley looked at him for a long moment, and Aziraphale looked down, a slight blush colouring the sides of his face.
“I mean, what about those two,” he blustered, nodding over to a couple who sat a few tables away. “They’re clearly in love and blissfully happy, but I am certain they have had their fair share of sadness along the way.”
Crowley deigned to twist round and observe their fellow diners. The man looked about as comfortable as Crowley was in the dainty Queen Anne style dining chairs, his large frame barely fitting, giving the impression of an adult in a wendy house.
"He doesn't look very blissful to me. Looks more like he's on his way to a severe cramp," Crowley said.
"Oh, pish!" Aziraphale was not put off. "Look at the way he's listening to her when she speaks. He's paying attention the whole time, he's not zoning out, or letching at the waitresses…"
Crowley snorted.
"You have a very low bar for 'blissfully happy' if it's based on 'not letching at the waitresses,'" the demon said dryly.
“I make no apologies for optimism. Especially not today.”
***
“Not those two, however,” Robin whispered. “To your right, two blokes looking a bit—er—eccentric. I don’t believe they’ll ever hire us.”
Strike cast a quick look to the direction she indicated. ‘Eccentric’ wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the blindingly white-haired man, dressed in a somewhat old-fashioned beige three-piece suit, with a bow tie and— was it a pocket watch with a chain ?—and his companion, red-haired, dressed completely in black, round black glasses shielding his eyes. They looked as if they’d stepped into the Ritz from another epoch—or from no epoch at all.
“What’s wrong with them?” Strike asked quietly. “We’ve had plenty of gay clients in the past.”
“Are they a couple, though?”
He stole a longer look at the two men, who seemed totally engrossed in their conversation. No rings were visible on their hands, but there was something about them that screamed that they are not just best mates enjoying their friendly afternoon. There was some indescribable, ineffable air of intimacy. And the radiant fire that lit Three-Piece’s eyes every time he looked at Black Glasses.
Not just best mates. Strike blinked a few times and returned his gaze to Robin.
“You can’t be sure, of course,” he muttered. “But have you noticed how they look at each other? Especially that one with a bow tie, he shines like a teenager on a first date.”
“I don’t think they’re a couple,” Robin repeated. “At least, not yet. They can be madly in love, though. Maybe even mutually. But there is something—there’s too much tension between them. As if they’re too afraid to make the wrong step.”
Now doesn’t that bloody remind you anything, birthday girl?
“Wow, you decided to try yourself as a clairvoyant and told me nothing? I feel betrayed,” he said instead.
“Sod off, Strike,” she laughed. He loved when she said that. He loved when she called him just ‘Strike’. He loved—
He felt strange tension in his eyes. It was almost as something dragged them to the side, and he found himself unable to resist. His gaze was torn from Robin’s shining face and drawn, as if by a magnet, to a waitress. She went right past him and bent over at the next table, pouring wine to a customer. Although she was wearing not the most flattering trouser suit, Strike couldn’t help paying attention to the curve of her behind and the mighty swell of her breasts.
In a millisecond, he was looking at Robin again, not quite understanding what the hell that was.
“More champagne?” he offered, reaching for the bottle in the ice bucket.
***
“Well, I make no apologies for temptation,” Crowley drawled, and just then, a buxom waitress sauntered past him, towards the big, wiry-haired man, whose eyes involuntarily slid across at the motion of her hips, before snapping back to his companion’s face. Crowley quirked up one corner of his mouth.
“Oh stop it!” Aziraphale scolded. “They’re only human.”
Crowley turned back to the angel in teasing, combative mood. “You said he was paying attention. He’s clearly not only got eyes for her.”
There was a challenge in the statement, and Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed.
“I will wager you a bottle of 1945 Chateau Margaux that he is head over heels in love with her, whatever alluring bottoms you can wiggle past him,” he said, affecting lightness, but with the definite steely air of taking the gauntlet.
“And how are you going to prove that?” Crowley laughed.
“Well,” Aziraphale pondered, tapping one finger against his lips as he did so, “being in love will mean being protective, doing things to shield the loved one. How about this?”
The tall, opulent room suddenly became distinctly chilly, and the woman sitting opposite the big man shuddered her shoulders up, and ran her hands up her arms, now pimpled with goosebumps. Her companion frowned slightly and spoke. She shook her head a little, and held up a hand to dismiss his concern lightly, but he was already shrugging off his ( quite natty, actually, thought Aziraphale) suit jacket, and pushing his chair back to stand. Despite her initial protestations, the woman, a pretty thing with hair the colour of wheat in the light of a glowing sunset, relented and accepted his gift, and allowed him to drape it round her shoulders. Aziraphale noted, with no small sense of satisfaction, the glancing touch of the big hairy hand flat on her back for a moment as she scooped her hair free from the collar, and the lingering second of smiling eye contact between them.
Crowley turned back to him, and the angel gave his best beatific smile as he neatened the cutlery.
“A point to me, I think,” he announced.
“Oh, that’s hardly proving they’re head over heels. Maybe,” Crowley was determined to resist an easy defeat, and scrambled to find a convincing dismissal, “maybe she’s got a condition and he’s her carer and if she gets cold she could have a fit!”
Aziraphale looked Crowley square in the face and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. It wasn’t quite disdain, it was perhaps too affectionate for that.
“Even if she were afflicted with an implausible chilly fitting condition, caring for someone is hardly evidence there is no love!”
“Yes, but love isn’t being head over heels, is it?” Crowley retorted, tracing air quotes around the word ‘love’. “Head over heels is passion and desire. A jacket round cold shoulders could just as easily be brother and sister.”
Aziraphale pouted slightly, looking down and suddenly being dissatisfied with his cutlery neatening, which he now resumed.
“Look, I’m feeling magnanimous, so I’ll help you out and make this quick. If I remind him of passion and desire, I’m sure it’ll be obvious his heart’s not in it,” Crowley said, and he did indeed sound magnanimous as he adjusted himself and sniffed, looking over at another table; this one beside a pillar and an improbable gilt statue with cherubs blowing conches. The waitress just passing that table coincidentally had an unfortunate moment with a plate of plump, golden scones, which drew the attention of most of the guests, including the two who the celestial pair were interested in.
Aziraphale looked at them curiously, noting the double take from the man, and the ensuing look of mild panic on his face, which he did well to suppress. The angel looked at the table Crowley had drawn attention to, at which sat a woman with dark hair and an elegant profile, who seemed oblivious to being observed.
“It’s not actually the woman with whom he shared passion and desire with, but she’s enough like her to encourage our fellow to be scorched with a few memories. Shall we see how he does?” Crowley explained, turning back to their quarry.
***
The sudden chill disappeared as immediately as it appeared, but Robin was in no rush to return Strike’s jacket to its owner. Strike, to her delight, didn’t even hint he would like to retrieve it either, so she reveled in the jacket’s pleasant weight on her shoulders and in the subtle smell it emitted. It smelled like Strike, a bit of cigarette smoke, a touch of lavender. It was like being embraced by him. She was on the verge of daydreaming about what his real embrace would feel like, when her reverie was interrupted by the unpleasant sound of broken china. She quickly turned her head: a waitress, it appeared, had just broken a plate of scones, making all the eyes in the room focus on the disaster.
“My mum says it’s lucky,” Robin chuckled quietly. As she turned her eyes back to Strike, she noticed his expression become unexpectedly anxious. “What is it, Cormoran?”
He was looking somewhere behind her back, and she was about to turn around again, but he stopped her.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don’t look that way.” He leaned in so close that mere inches remained between their faces. “I’m not sure it’s her, and I didn’t notice her arriving, but—”
“But what? Who is it?” Robin thought she knew the answer, and felt her heart sink down, down to her knees.
“Charlotte.”
“Oh.” Robin looked at the table, at their glasses, at their nearly touching hands; everywhere except his eyes that were too close to bear. “Er, Cormoran—”
She didn’t know what exactly she was going to say. To ask what was on between them? To change the topic cautiously, not to reveal that this question had haunted her for many, many months, probably years? She felt lost, and the magic of this day seemed to wane, drop by drop.
“Robin, I need to tell you something.”
Hit me with your best shot . She braced herself.
“Yeah?” Her voice sounded weaker than she wanted it to.
“I’m done with her. Forever.” Robin gasped and raised her eyes to meet his warm gaze.
“For how long?” she heard herself whisper.
“Since this morning. I closed this book, and I’m throwing it away. And, by the way, tomorrow I’ll go and change my number, so that she won’t be able to reach me.”
As if to prove it, he took out his phone and opened the messages. Scrolling up a little, so that Robin wouldn’t be able to see Charlotte’s last message (about envying Robin), he showed her his promise to change his number. Robin felt as if a balloon full of light exploded inside her.
“But what is she doing here?” she wondered. “How could she know you were going to be here tonight?”
He leant even closer. “Robin, I don’t care if she watches, but if she does, I want her to see us happy.”
Robin raised one eyebrow. It sounded as if he wanted to put on a show to annoy his ex-fiancée. Strike realised it, too.
“I mean, I don’t want her to mess up this evening, because it’s too special for us.” He took a deep breath and raised his glass again. “It’s the first day of the rest of our lives, isn’t it?”
***
As they watched, the broad shouldered man’s anxious look faded and he seemed to have made a quick calculation. Crowley was actually quite impressed with the evident composure and ability to focus.
“Look, he’s leaning in!” Aziraphale squeaked.
“You’re actually rooting for them, aren’t you?” Crowley asked, but his tone was affectionate. It would take another apocalypse for him to say it, but he was rather fond of Aziraphale’s soft-hearted romantic soul.
“And they look like they are having a real heart to heart! I’d say that’s quite a positive response to being reminded of passion and desire, wouldn’t you?” The angel said, but he wasn’t crowing, he was luxuriating in the pleasure of seeing two people seem to step emotionally towards each other after holding back.
“Hmmm,” Crowley hummed, irked at being bested again. The man was now showing his eager companion his phone. “Maybe he’s confessing infidelity,” Crowley suggested, without much conviction.
“You didn’t think they were in love, so what would it matter?” Aziraphale retorted. “Besides, look at her. She wouldn’t be delighted like that by bad news.”
He had tilted his head to one side as he took in their handiwork. Their handiwork. As much as he had been the instigator of this little exercise, and Crowley had been happy to sit in the contrary position, Aziraphale realized that their combined efforts had brought the couple to this moment of intimacy.
“What do you think it is?” Crowley turned back to Aziraphale as he asked and leaned forward, his question betraying an eager investment in their game now, his earlier insouciance forgotten.
Aziraphale leaned in conspiratorially.
“I don’t know! But I have an idea to put a cherry on top!” He said, nodding his head back towards the couple. Crowley glanced back.
***
A waitress approached, carrying an enormous birthday cake with thirty candles on it.
“What’s this?” Robin asked, shocked. “Did you—?”
Strike shook his head. He didn’t even tell any of the staff it was Robin’s birthday. The cake, however, seemed to be made especially for her: the colour of the icing resembled the strawberry blond of her hair, and there were real strawberries next to each candle.
“Strike, this is fantastic!” Robin exclaimed, not noticing his confusion. “Can I take a picture of it?”
The beaming waitress patiently waited until Robin finished photographing the cake. It seemed to be a source of light in itself, and the candles made it almost blinding to look at. Robin closed her eyes and blew the candles; the waitress cut the cake and left them equally perplexed and amused.
At least it’s food, even if I don’t know where the fuck it came from , thought Strike. It did occur to him that the cake might be poisoned, but he rejected the thought. It was the Ritz, in the end. They would’ve checked, wouldn’t they?
“That’s my favourite part of the evening!” he pronounced, and Robin laughed. “I hope you made it a good one.”
“What?”
“The wish.”
“Oh, that,” she smiled a little shyly. “It wasn’t anything special, anyway.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence. When her plate was empty, Robin took out her phone again.
“Just checking if the pictures came out alright,” she explained. “It’s not as photogenic as it’s tasty, this ca—What the hell?!”
She turned her phone to him. There, in the phone’s gallery, were pictures of the two of them, taken as if from some distance. Strike noticed the look in his eyes— do I really look like a lovesick teenager? —and in Robin’s. He was so absorbed by her whole presence that he didn’t register how much affection was there in her gaze. She also looks like a lovesick teenager.
“I didn’t take them,” Robin said slowly. “How did they get here? Has my phone been hijacked?”
“Bluetooth?” Technology had never been Strike’s strongest suit, so he just tried to remember any means of transferring the files. He wasn’t sure if it was possible to connect just to anybody’s phone via Bluetooth.
“Turned off. And they would need my permission.”
What else is there?
“Er—Dropair?”
“AirDrop? I have an Android, it wouldn’t work.”
“May I?” He gestured for her phone, and she handed it to him.
The angle of the photos suggested that the photographer should have sat a few feet to Strike’s right. He raised his eyes. The table where Three-Piece and Black Glasses had previously sat was now mysteriously vacant.
And he suddenly realised that he didn’t care in the slightest how the pictures got to Robin’s phone. What was on the pictures was much more important: it was clear evidence that his feelings were mutual.
***
A waitress approached from behind the man, and the woman’s eyes widened and her mouth flew open. The waitress cradled a spectacular birthday cake adorned with candles and strawberries.
“Those are strawberries, not cherries,” Crowley quipped, “And he looks as surprised as she does, and at least as delighted with food as with her. If you want to seal this, I have to see it in their faces. In fact, I think they have to see it in their faces.”
Crowley no longer cared that he was working against his own interests. He and Aziraphale had long since jettisoned any notion of really being on opposite sides. They were on their own side, together. He pulled his chair round to sit beside the angel.
“Better view,” he said, as Aziraphale looked at him, bemused but not unhappily so. Crowley nodded his head back to the couple. The woman was now scrolling through her phone. She stopped in some shock, and began showing her companion something on the device.
“What have you done?” Aziraphale asked, not suspicious; more delightedly curious.
“I’ve given them a glimpse of what you and I can see,” Crowley said, simply.
Aziraphale looked at the demon sat beside him, who still held a champagne flute with that engaging air of casual impishness.
“You and I? Are you conceding?” The angel asked.
“I’m just acknowledging that it’s possible to feel something for someone and not notice it yourselves, even though it’s obvious to everyone else,” Crowley said, still looking at the couple. The woman had now handed the phone to her partner, who was looking at it with studious and intelligent eyes. Aziraphale suddenly felt a tad exposed, and suspected the big man across from them was cannier than he appeared.
“Why’ve you made us invisible?” Crowley asked.
“Because I don’t want them to be distracted by us, I want to see what seeing themselves from another perspective does,” Aziraphale explained, but in truth, he was rather enjoying the little bubble of closeness he had created with his dearest friend.
They were rewarded in their endeavours by the sight of the man scooping her slender hand in both of his, and bringing it to his lips.
“Game, set and match,” Aziraphale said, but he wasn’t gloating.
“You couldn’t have done it without me, though,” Crowley pointed out, “so which of us won?”
“I suppose we both did. Which is rather in keeping with our current trajectory, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but we are bound to face another setback eventually,” Crowley said, without pleasure.
“And when we do, we’ll face it together, as always,” Aziraphale replied, affectionately. Crowley looked at him for a moment and then snorted softly.
“Your optimism astounds me, as ever. We are just as likely to mess up together,” the demon replied, and put his arm around the angel’s shoulders.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Aziraphale responded, swelling visibly with enjoyment at the gesture.
They both looked over at the couple, who were obviously blissfully happy, and Aziraphale made Crowley and himself visible again. The big man looked over, and with that canny instinct Aziraphale had suspected, made eye contact with both of them. He winked at them. Aziraphale was delighted with the evening, both with the successful matchmaking and the pleasant weight of his best friend’s arm. He felt the gentle squeeze of Crowley’s hand on his shoulder as the woman turned to follow the target of the wink that she had noticed too, and with perfect timing, he and Crowley returned the wink.
***
Robin tried to decipher Strike’s look, as he slowly returned her the phone and, unexpectedly, took hold of her hand with both of his.
“Robin, what I said earlier—” He broke off. “I meant more. I didn’t just want anybody to see us happy. I want us to be happy. You and me. For as long as we can. Ideally… together.”
She felt as if her whole body consisted of champagne: light, fizzing, sparkling. How could he know exactly how she felt? How could he put into words what filled her as a blurred, ineffable emotion?
She managed to steal a look at the mysterious photos; she noticed that her feelings were written all across her face. She also noticed that Strike’s eyes emitted the same inexplicable warmth. She had suspected he had felt the same, but now she knew it. She was sure.
“Strike,” she said, raising her eyes up to meet his. “I want the same.”
The tension between them, thick and opaque, seemed to shatter into many specks. Strike laughed happily, not letting her hand go, but, instead, bringing it to his lips. Robin laughed, too, marvelling how easy it was, after all this time, to find the right words and to say them at the right moment.
There was, however, just one question that seemed to haunt them both.
“What if we mess up?” they asked simultaneously, and burst into laughter again. Strike mouthed, “snap!” , and kissed her knuckles one more time.
“I’m serious,” said Robin. “What if—?”
“First, we won’t. And even if we do, it’s not the end of the world.” Strike sounded so sure of it that Robin couldn’t help believing it, too. “Oh look, they’re back!”
“Who?”
But Strike didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to his right and winked at somebody. Following his gaze, Robin saw the two eccentric males, sitting now at the same side of the table, the red-haired’s hand around the white-haired’s shoulders. Both were beaming and, with an amazing synchronicity, winked at Strike and Robin.