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Strike set his mug down on a wooden table at the back of the chippy and dropped heavily onto the bench behind it. He tossed his coat to one side, wrapped his hands around his tea to warm them, and sighed deeply.
What a day. He’d had Ilsa on the phone that morning asking about Christmas. He’d been thinking he probably wasn’t going to make it to the Herberts’ this year, not least because his last few visits had been somewhat baby-dominated. He liked his new goddaughter, in as much as he ever really liked babies (which wasn’t much), and he was delighted for the happiness of his old friends who doted on the baby’s every coo and gurgle and gurning face. However, he knew that the old Christmases of eating and drinking too much and then snoozing the afternoon away on the Herberts’ sofa in front of burbling Christmas television were probably behind them, for a few years at least. He’d probably actually prefer Lucy’s this year.
Then Lucy had rung him, and he could hear the excitement of three hyped-up boys raging in the background, and one small baby suddenly didn’t seem like such a big deal. He was aware that he was annoying both his sister and his friends by trying to keep his options open, but did he really want to avail himself of either invitation?
Pat, who had been trying to tie him down on the best way to step up the pressure on a non-paying client, had finally cornered him after lunch. Barclay had reported in that his latest case wasn’t going well, and wanted to bounce ideas off him. Al had rung yet again, but Strike had let that go to voicemail - he’d had enough subtle pressure about Rokeby in Prudence’s latest texts.
All in all, he had got virtually no work done, and had felt like someone or other had been chewing his ear off all day. Eventually, with barely enough temper left to be civil even to Pat, who demanded it, he had given up and retired to the chippy. A large mug of tea and a plate of fish and chips in peace was all he wanted. Probably followed by a pint in the pub up the road, although the new, supposedly healthier version of Cormoran Strike was drinking a lot less these days. And chips were technically a vegetable, he told himself.
His plate arrived, steaming hot, and Strike picked up his knife and fork, ready to plough in.
“Hi!” Robin had arrived, breezing in from the cold. Strike felt his surly mood lift at the mere sight of her. “Pat said you’d be here.”
“Lunch,” Strike replied, waving at his plate. “Well. Late lunch.”
Robin laughed. “Early dinner, more like. I’m not hungry, I’ll just grab a cuppa.”
The chippy was relatively quiet in the middle of the afternoon; Strike had barely started his food when Robin plonked herself on the bench next to him and set her mug of tea in front of her.
“How’s Banjo?” he asked.
“Uneventful,” Robin replied, reaching across and pinching a chip off his plate. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again - why are the best-paying cases always the most boring ones? He does nothing, I just sit there all day watching the front door, and the Landy is so draughty. Yesterday I got so cold I practically fell over when I got out, couldn’t feel my feet.” She snaffled another chip.
Strike, who had just picked up his mug to take another swig of tea, swung it out of her way. “I thought you weren’t hungry,” he said, amused.
“Chips don’t count,” Robin said airily, reaching for another.
He could have contradicted her, but really, was it any different than deciding that chips could be considered a vegetable? Besides, she was chattering on now about her surveillance, at which nothing had happened, and he loved the sound of her voice. A few chips were a small price to pay for her restful company.
What was it about Robin chatter that was so different from the annoying background noise of Ilsa or Lucy, the insistence of Pat, the normally non-irritating witter of Barclay that had so got under his skin today, he wondered. Why was her prattling on about her day, no less inconsequential than theirs, a balm to his stresses and annoyances rather than adding to it? Why wasn’t her repeated pilfering of his chips getting his hackles up?
Whatever it was, he liked it and didn’t want it to end. He ate slowly, mostly concentrating on his fish and leaving the chips for Robin, telling himself that this was better for his steadily improving waistline anyway. She chatted on, about her Christmas plans in Masham now, and a pleasant fifteen minutes passed during which Strike could feel today’s tension draining from his body, his shoulders relaxing.
“I’ll have to get off,” Robin said eventually, clearly reluctant. “I need to get the notes written up for my last watch before Midge finishes hers and wants to add. Not that I’ve got much to say.”
He didn’t want her to go.
“Clock off early and stay here,” Strike urged.
Robin grinned. “Why? I’ll only steal more of your chips.” She eyed his plate; he could see she wanted more.
“Because…” How to express it? “Because this is really nice. Away from the office, just catching up…” He stumbled to a halt, worried he would say too much.
Robin looked at him almost appraisingly, and he willed his cheeks not to flush. He hadn’t misspoken, had he? Surely not. His statement had been innocuous enough.
“We’ll need more tea,” she said eventually, and Strike’s heart, despite his firm attempts to keep it under control, gave a little lurch of happiness.
“And more chips,” he said, teasing.
“And more chips,” she agreed, reaching for her purse.
“Half of which are mine,” Strike added.
Robin grinned, and gave him a cheeky wink. ”Deal.”
Strike sat back, cradling his mug, while Robin headed for the counter again. A feeling of bonhomie, dangerously close to pure happiness, filled him as she flicked back her hair and smiled at the young lad serving, who blushed bright red. All was right with the world.