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That very first time, Robin had been nine.
In her smart black dress, she offered to find her brothers who had run off somewhere in the vast expanse of the cemetery where they just buried a great aunt. It wasn’t a very sad funeral, unlike the one for her young cousin Aldrich where everyone (including herself) wailed for what felt like days. The cousins were running about, and the adults seemed to be in—if not happy, but wistful—spirits.
Still, it wasn’t very proper to play hide and seek at a cemetery; but she was an excellent seeker, and her brothers are terrible hiders.
She had her back hunched, following footsteps she noticed in the mud, when she ran into a tree.
“Gh,” grunted the tree. “Dammit.”
It wasn’t a tree. It was a large man with curly hair, looking a bit cross at her. At his feet was an unlit cigarette and Robin’s quick mind deduced he must’ve accidentally let go of it when she ran into him.
“Sorry.” she said.
“Hm.” grunted the man, bending down to pick up his cigarette.
From behind him she spotted a gravestone unlike all the other gravestones, it was shaped like a guitar.
“Oh wow!” she said, unable to help herself. She is very young. “Why’d you think she had it made like that?” she asked the grumpy man, inquiring for his opinion. The headstone bore a very curious name that seemed feminine to her. The headstone reminded her of the odd stone crab clinging on the church wall back home, and enjoyed speculating the reason it came to be, especially during particularly boring services.
“She liked music.” said the man, in a tone of voice that Robin thought seemed younger than how he looked.
“I think she loved it, loved everything about it!” she said eagerly, giving her own opinion. “Loved listening to it, playing it, making it.”
“She never made music.” said the man.
“No, I think she did. I think she made brilliant songs she would sing to her children, beautiful lullabies to comfort them when they’re sad.” she declared, twirling as a gust of wind blew past.
The man didn’t reply.
“Did you know her?” Robin asked, curious.
“She was my mum.” said the young man (or was it boy? He kind of sounded like her other cousin Seb, who fancied himself a man when her Uncles assured him 20 is not very old at all).
She patted him on the arm because he was tall, and because she felt sad that there were boys and even young men in the world who no longer had mothers. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” the young man murmured a little thickly. Robin could tell he was very sad. She’d be very sad too if she lost her mother, or father, any of her brothers—even Martin, who was terribly naughty.
“Bobbi! Bobbi!” she heard her Aunt Liz call. She hated that nickname and wished it would die. Catching herself, she felt guilty wishing anything silly would die when this young man was clearly trying not to cry about his mum.
“I think they’re calling for you.” he said.
“That isn’t me. My name isn’t Bobbi.” she said defiantly. She sat on the grass in front of the headstone and the young man sat next to her.
“Can I have a go?” she asked as the young man lit his cigarette. She knew she shouldn’t, but she was very curious.
“Fuck no.” he said, half-laughing, half appalled. She could tell he found her to be very silly.
“You shouldn’t swear.” she told him crossly.
“You shouldn’t ask for cigarettes.” he grumbled, blowing smoke away from her.
“MUM!” she heard her horrid younger brother wail. “BOBBI’S TALKING TO A STRANGER!”
“Fuck!” she swore. The word sounded weird in her mouth. She saw the young man smirk before she hoisted herself up. She ran a few steps before turning back to the young man again. “She must’ve been cool, your mum.”
“She was.”
“Sorry again.” And before he could reply, she had run off and back to her family.
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The second time, Cormoran was twenty-six.
He was in Yorkshire for some reason. He’s been drunk for longer than he had been sober the last 24 hours and if someone asked him how he came to be in this pub in daylight, already half-drunk, he wouldn’t be able to answer.
Why he came to be so drunk was an easier question, and he figured Charlotte Campbell was enough of a harlot (hiccup!) that he could give a random stranger her name and he’d say he has also had the pleasure of being in her cunt (hiccup!).
He had a vague impression he was with friends. Dave Polworth had been the one supplying him pints, and loyally assuring him that women love a fit squaddie. And goddammit, he was fit! (hiccup!) He’s in the best shape of his life! (hiccup!) He could fuck anyone—anyone he wanted! (hiccup!) In fact, the next woman he sees, (hiccup!) he would ask—very politely for he was raised right (hiccup!)—if she would kindly agree for him to fuck her in the loo. (hiccup!)
He swivelled in his barstool and was pleasantly surprised that there was woman sitting right next to him. Long blonde hair. They’re supposed to be fun, aren’t they? Blondes? Charlotte, who had dark hair—incidentally also the color of her soul--had been no fun.
Okay, she had been a lot of fun. Too much fun. A fat lot of fun she had been that he found himself in fuck-knows-where Yorkshire, drunk and alone. (Where had Dave gone? Or was he the one who left?)
“‘Scuse me,” he tapped the Blonde in the shoulder. “C’n I buy you a—a dr’nk?” Cormoran hiccuped.
The Blonde turned abruptly and her hair whipped his face. He heard a giggle. Had anyone giggled? Had he? Who would giggle in a pub?
“Oh, um…”
Cormoran blinked at her face and felt like retching. Or maybe he had actually retched because the Face with the Blonde Hair looked pissed as fuck. “Excuse me?”
“S—s’rry,” he said, swivelling back to his pint. He ought to move to a different barstool, and he can’t be sure if he did. He felt a poking on his shoulder. Had a hummingbird got in the pub somehow? Are there hummingbirds in Yorkshire? In England, even?
“Excuse me!” said the hummingbird.
“Oh!” said Cormoran vaguely. It wasn’t a hummingbird. It was the Blonde with the Face. He had hoped he would see a hummingbird. He’s never seen one in real life. He’s a very impressive drinker, physically impossible for him to get drunk.
“You’re drunk right now!” said the Blonde with the Face who was Not a Hummingbird.
“G-” he hiccupped. “Go back to sch’l.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Oy!” Cormoran called the barkeep. “Kids are not allowed in pubs!”
“I’m sixteen!” said the Blonde Human-Faced Hummingbird.
Cormoran grunted. She’s certainly annoying like a hummingbird. Are hummingbirds annoying? They must be, with wings like that…
“Why do you keep talking about hummingbirds?”
“Wh—why’re ya drinkin’, it’s still light out?” Cormoran asked this poorly behaved blonde child.
“I’m not drinking. You’re drinking. I’m just sitting here.”
“Has—” Cormoran hiccuped. “Your mum not told you strangers don’t talk?”
She laughed. “You mean, ‘don’t talk to strangers’?”
“That’s wha’ I said.”
She laughed again.
“Be—” Cormoran hiccupped again. “Be with boys yer own age. ‘M—” another hiccup. “‘M too old for you.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” she said. He laughed for the swearword didn’t seem to fit her. “You bothered me.”
“Oh.” said Cormoran, accepting that to be plausible. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“M’ex fucked someone else.” He told the not-quite-hummingbird.
“Sorry.” she said.
“P-prince Harr—reckon. No— which is the bald one?”
“I think she’s lying to you.” she said.
“No shit, Sherlock.” he retorted. “Why’d be drunk in fuckin Yorkshire otherwise, eh?”
“I don’t know.” she said. “I don’t know you.”
“Why’re you at a pub?”
She shrugged. “Got a date. Chickened out.”
“You shouldn’t be goin’ out with old people,” Cormoran hiccuped. “G-get them in ter trouble.”
“Matthew’s not old!”
Cormoran must’ve whined, because she asked, “What’s that for?”
“Boring!” he whined. “What kind of name is Matthew? Is he your accountant?”
“He’s in sixth form!”
“Argh!” Cormoran waved his hand, bored now, still amazed at how he wasn’t drunk. He put down money for his drink and hers and hopped out of the barstool.
“See ya, hummingbird.”
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The third time, Robin was barely nineteen.
She was sprawled on the lawn with some of her friends from uni, already a little drunk (a lot?) from the bottle of tequila they’ve been passing around in a brown bag. She was giggly despite a particularly earth-shattering realisation she might no longer love her boyfriend from home.
Her girlfriends suggested to hit the pubs and make out with some of the squaddies on break at their local. They should leave soon in any case, there’d been rumours of a creep in a gorilla mask groping at female students.
But, she was feeling pretty great. She got a new haircut and was trying out the blonde and her birthday was coming up and she was sure she nailed her final.
She was staring at an open lamp post, betting herself how long she could stare into the light without blinking. She isn’t drunk at all! What’s her friend playing at.
Something tall and large had blocked her view. It was awkward, and she pulled herself to sit up immediately. She had a vague impression of her friends snickering, and she grabbed for the paper bag containing their drink and took a swig for lack of what to do.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking out here.” The Something Tall and Large that Blocked Her View had now sat next to her. She blinked at his face. Crew cut, close shave, wonky nose that looked oddly attractive on him. Her eyes roamed over his tight shirt that clung to bulging biceps—-muscly. She’s a bit of a sleuth, Robin Ellacott, and deduced that he was one of those squaddies on break.
“Are you gonna stop me?” she asked the squaddie, hunching protectively over her open bottle.
He only smirked and put a cigarette in his mouth. She watched him light and blow smoke against the darkening sky. He was kind of… hot, she thought. Interesting. Like he had stories that he could tell her. Matthew never had stories. Just lame ones about that bitch Sarah that’s always hanging around him.
He sensed she’d been staring because he offered her his cigarette and shrugging, she took it.
She’s never smoked before.
She coughed as she inhaled and the fit squaddie chuckled as he took his cigarette back.
Her friend said the guy’s name was Auggie or something. A friend of her new soldier boyfriend Gary. Or was it boss? She may be a teeny bit drunk.
“Ro, what’s that short for?” he asked, stretching his legs and leaning on his hands outstretched behind him. He had a deep baritone, Robin thought. A sort of growl in his voice that she found vaguely attractive.
Robin registered they were sitting close to each other. She could feel his toned arms a little behind hers. Her gaze fell to his thighs. Thick in his khakis. In her inebriated state, she was tempted to squeeze.
“Guess.” she teased. Was she flirting? It’s been awhile since she’s flirted, and back then she had been a girl.
From the sounds of her friends sniggering, she must be flirting.
His lips curled to a tiny smile and he scratched his wonky nose with the fingers that had the cigarette wedged on it. His large hand covered the lower part of his face as he put his cigarette to his lips. Robin thought he was very intriguing, older too, she could tell. Not enough for it to be gross, but probably just enough for her parents to disapprove.
The thought made her laugh.
She saw him smile as he watched her. Changed his look completely.
She felt the urge to kiss him. He was certainly close enough, but she was still technically in a relationship and he is still technically very much a stranger.
She could imagine it, though. His large body over her, how his back muscles would ripple under her fingers as he hovered on top of her, his hips between her legs.
Drinking made her horny. Yet (so?) she took another swig. This time, Auggie took it, but only to take a swig himself, and then retch. It made Robin laugh, and sway experimentally against Auggie’s shoulder. He was so very different from Matthew.
Yeah, she’s definitely flirting.
Gary suggested they walk back to the halls, being as it was definitely nighttime.
“There’s a fucker going around, I heard. In a gorilla mask.” said Auggie, as she took his proffered hand and he pulled her up to standing. She liked even his calloused hands. Liked that they were so large, her own normal-sized ones seemed small.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” Robin retorted at him with a face she hoped looked sexy and not hilariously drunk and wobbly (because she felt like both). He grinned.
He doesn’t talk much, Auggie. But his breadth was very… reassuring. Like she had her own personal bodyguard. She wasn’t sure if she was leaning back against him, or he was purposely walking so close that her back was to his chest, but either way she didn’t mind.
She was already wobbly on paved ground, but wasn’t paying attention. He felt his large hand on her waist and the other squeeze her shoulder as he braced her upright. She must have slipped (or swooned?)
They had reached her friend’s halls of residence, and she and Auggie watched awkwardly as their friends started making out under the lamp post. “This you?” he asked her.
“No, but I’m right across on the other side.” said Robin, facing him. She liked that she only went up to his collar. She liked tall men.
“Can I walk you up there?” he offered, staring at her with a look on his face, like his eyes were lidded as if he was staring at her lips. Kiss me. She gulped instead and smiled. “That’s alright. The pathway across is lit. There’s always people walking about here.”
He turned his eyes away from her to look at the path she pointed out. Robin felt the urge to kiss his exposed neck. God, I need to get laid. He also smelled nice. Smokey, but not in a bad way and an undertone of male cologne that wasn’t overpowering.
She felt a grip in her fingers and realised he’d been holding them lightly.
“You here next week?” he asked, looking at her again with that face. She nodded.
She tiptoed, no plan really, but he seemed to angle for a kiss. She wanted to but chickened out, pressing her cheek against his instead, whispering in his ear. “Come find me.”
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The fourth time, Cormoran was miserable.
He would rather spend his 34th birthday in his office drinking himself to oblivion, but Charlotte had some masquerade fundraiser she must attend and being that he loved her, he had been powerless to say no.
But she had glided into the living room in a stunning tulle dress and twirled for him and he thought walking into this ballroom with Charlotte Campbell in his arm was worth the bad night he was bound to have.
And bad night it was.
The beautiful Charlotte Campbell was instantly the belle of the ball, and he was shunted to a quiet corner trying hard to get drunk off the Don Perignon that was the only thing alcoholic they were serving.
Everyone had exited the ballroom to watch the fireworks outside. Save for him and a redhead to his left, a few tables away, looking just as bored and miserable as he was. He supposed she was pretty, even with the homemade lace mask over her eyes. Her skin was clear and her dark red lipstick suited her features. Cormoran thought he looked oddly familiar. Perhaps some rich banker’s young daughter dragged to one of these things.
Or some rich banker’s wife.
The thought of trapping himself in conversation with someone possibly vapid already bored him.
But vapid women tend to thrive at these things. Except for Charlotte, who wasn’t vapid, but thrived everywhere.
So he put on his mask—a similar one from Phantom of the Opera that Charlotte had made moulded to his face—and dragged his feet towards her. If she was indeed miserable, they could be miserable together.
“This seat taken?” he asked, and she gave a perfunctory smile and shook her head. She had dimples, this pretty lady. Charlotte didn’t have dimples—the only thing she didn’t have that Cormoran liked in women.
“Would you like a drink?” Cormoran offered, grabbing two champagne flutes from the waiter who passed by.
“Thanks.” she said, sipping her drink prettily, looking out at the fireworks display from a tall glass window. He could hear the merrymaking of the guests, maybe dancing, talking about art or money or other rich people.
“Not your scene?” Cormoran asked. He knew they’ve crossed paths before. They must have. As though he’d been familiar with a closely resembling relative, or they knew each other in childhood. She didn’t sound Cornish. Where he’s seen her before was on the tip of his tongue, almost.
“Not exactly.” she said, sighing. “Boyfriend’s an employee.”
“Ah.”
“You?” she asked, because it was polite to ask.
“Girlfriend’s…” but what was he supposed to say? That she was the heiress? The owner’s daughter? “Invited.” Cormoran finished lamely. (It occurred to him much later that he had referred to Charlotte as his girlfriend, even though he was actually his fiance.)
“Ah.” said the woman.
There was a swell of the orchestra outside and before he could stop himself or ask himself why, he had asked her to dance. She shrugged and put down her champagne flute on the table, which Cormoran thought was the most appropriate response. They were both supposed to be with other people after all.
But Cormoran didn’t feel too guilty, knowing Charlotte at that party has likely charmed and flirted and made at least a dozen men feel as though they had a chance with her.
She put her hands on his shoulders, and he had placed his on her waist. She giggled and he smiled, probably also thinking how ridiculous they looked with such a distance between them. It was a dumb idea, dancing, but what was there to say to this pretty girl he didn’t know at this party he didn’t want to be at?
“What do you think it is,” he asked about the music. “Bach? Beethoven?”
She looked at his face and he knew she was going to say it. “You look a bit like Beethoven.”
“With a buggered nose.” he replied, a stock response to the many people who have pointed it out. “Broke it twice.”
“But no,” said the woman and he could just hear her accent. Somewhere north. “It’s Savage Garden.”
“What?”
“The song, it’s Savage Garden.”
And Cormoran heard it, the melody of that infernal song, ridiculously beautified it was unrecognisable.
I knew I loved you before I met you
I think I dreamed you into life
He was humming to it before he could stop, and she was laughing as they swayed, deep dimples grooving deep on her cheeks.
There is no rhyme or reason
Only the sense of completion
And in your eyes,
He looked into her blue-gray eyes. Have they met before? But surely he’d remember her eyes. He heard the song near-perfectly though no one was singing.
I see my future in an instant
And there it goes
I think I’ve found my best friend
He squeezed at her waist, just a little, and she took the tiniest of steps towards him. The ballroom was big and bright and empty, and there they were to the side by the tables dancing on their own.
“What’s your name?” he whispered because he couldn’t help it, head bent close enough for their foreheads to nearly touch.
“Rosie!”
She had pulled away, startled. Awoken. And he took a step back, hearing the clatter of cutlery he knocked over as he hit the closest table behind. He bent to upright a spilling champagne flute and when he turned back, she was gone.
Rosie.
And Charlotte was gliding in the middle of the dance floor, a vision in peach tulle, hand outstretched for him to take.
“Bluey! Come meet the Chiswells!”
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The fifth time, Robin just got engaged.