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“I’m sorry, Robin.”
She hasn’t realised that the office is almost in darkness until she looks up from the computer screen. The light on the partner’s desk is on, but beyond the white pool of light, the only illumination comes from slanted amber strips, spilling in from the streetlights outside.
Strike is hollow-eyed at the desk beside her, tension etched into every muscle.
“I’ve already said you don't need to be.”
He grunts, clearly unconvinced by her assertion, and continues fixing notes into the file he has been trying to put in some semblance of order. Robin returns to the email exchange she has been examining.
It’s hard to concentrate though; waves of his frustration continue to buffet her and every so often he lets out a small, angry sigh.
After another ten minutes, she can bear it no longer.
“For God sake Strike, will you knock it off?”
“Knock what off?”
His tone is defensive; he is spoiling for an argument, desperate for relief from the mortification that has been festering since the previous evening.
“Don’t take that bloody tone with me,” his partner snaps, and though her tone is bordering on irritated, her grey-blue eyes are dancing with mischief.
“Sorry-,” he begins but she rolls her eyes, cutting him off with a wave of her hand.
“Don’t bloody apologise again, either. It’s not like you knew the client was going to bring the date forward.”
“I know that,” he says, still feeling testy. He wishes she was pissed off with him; that would be easier to cope with than her good-natured acceptance.
“You should go home,” he tells her, though that is the very last thing he wants her to do.
She looks at him, and he feels like a shit because there are dark circles under her eyes and he knows how hard she has been working, and he still doesn’t want her to go.
“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here.”
He’s tired too, so her smile, already the brightest point in the dim office, catches him off-guard, steals breath from his lungs because he knows it is earnestly meant. He has been bad-tempered all evening; he has smoked in their shared office rather than on the street; he has cocked up whatever Christmas Eve plans she may have had. And still, she means it when she says she wants to stay. He is an undeserving arsehole.
“This can hardly be what you had in mind when you said you were staying in London this year.”
He gestures hopelessly at their surroundings; at the reems of paper and piles of photographs that surround them; at the multiple unwashed mugs and the detritus from the take-aways they have consumed; at the grime and the dust and the utter lack of any kind of festive cheer.
“I can think of worse places to be,” she says kindly.
He gets up to make fresh tea, ensuring that hers is the exact shade of teak that she prefers. He finds some slightly stale Hobnobs and a couple of mince pies in the cupboard and puts these onto a plate.
Robin accepts the tea gratefully and smiles at the plated snacks. He still feels bad then, if he’s plating up biscuits rather than just bringing over the packet.
Her kindness has soothed his rancour a little and they are able to work in a more companionable quiet than before. He is briefly tempted by the idea of whisky, some sort of Pavlovian reaction to being alone with her in the office late at night, but there are miles to go before they can consider themselves finished for the night.
“What would you be doin’ tonight, if you were in Masham?”
Robin looks at him again, considering the question with more care than he feels it merits.
“We’d be walking from the pub up to the church by now, for carols by candlelight. We’d go to the service, and then walk home. We’d have sausage rolls and a glass of brandy and then we’d all go to bed. Same thing we’ve done every year since I was really young.”
She sighs.
“That’s part of the reason why I didn’t go back this year.”
“Oh?”
He is more curious than he cares to admit to being about Robin’s reasons for staying in London for Christmas this year.
She is looking at him, assessing something in his face, and although the world beyond the desk lamp is dark and still, in the pool of light cast by the fluorescent bulb, they can see each other clearly.
“I felt like I didn’t really fit, anymore,” she says eventually. Her cheeks are a little pink, despite the fact that the office is cold. “When I go home, they just want me to be who I was before…”
She tails off, biting her lip, looking like she wishes she hadn’t started down this line of conversation. Strike leans back in his chair, contemplating her; there is so much left to do, but right now, Robin is the most interesting thing in the office.
“Before the job. Before I met you.”
The air thickens between them, just a little.
“It’s hard, I reckon-,” he says slowly. “-for people to understand what changes a person.”
“That’s just it though, isn’t it?” she mused. “People change. So why shouldn’t traditions? Why can’t they evolve and grow, just like everything else? Nothing can stay the same forever- that’s just being stuck. You can fight against it all you like, but you have to let some things go eventually, to make room for new things. For better things.”
“Dunno that I’d qualify this as better, Robin,” he says, indicating the mess around them and she shakes her head. “You could do with setting your bar for better a little higher.”
Her expression slides from thoughtful to fierce now, and she is shaking her head emphatically; willing him to understand.
“This is better though. This is me doing what I want, Cormoran- not what my mum, or Matt or anyone else wants. Me.”
She grins.
“And what I want is to be here, with you, sorting out this sodding file-,” she glances at the clock on the wall; ten past twelve. “-on Christmas Day.”
Sod it, he thinks and stands to retrieve the whisky and two glasses from the shelf in the outer office. He pours them both a small measure, and slides Robin’s along the desk to her.
“Merry Christmas,” she says, tapping her glass to his.
“To new traditions,” he replies. “And better things.”