Chapter Text
‘Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Love
Robin trailed one hand through the fabrics hanging on the rack, trying to make a decision. She'd mentally discarded all of the trousers, shirts, and skirts she'd come across; this was an occasion with a capital O, and such an event required a showstopping dress.
Unfortunately, she feared that the only showstopper she owned was damaged beyond repair. The poison green Cavalli dress that Strike had bought her as a thank you gift had been unceremoniously ripped by her now ex-husband, back when he had thought his position as spouse had entitled him to sex despite Robin's tiredness and their constant arguments. Regardless, the Cavalli would not do: Robin needed something new to better match the aquamarine earrings that were the only part of her outfit she had unequivocally decided on. She smiled to herself as she reflected that a good percentage of her favourite belongings, now, had been given to her by Strike. She looked forward to seeing his face when she greeted him, wearing his earrings and his perfume, and seeing the glowing smile that seemed, lately, to be reserved for her alone.
Robin sighed and told herself to concentrate. She'd never been a keen shopper, and now she felt the pressure; it was as though the significance of the event had started out tiny, not significant at all, but had grown through the weeks until it now felt important, all-consuming, and huge. She wanted Strike to do a double take when he saw her; she almost wanted him to fail to recognise her.
Her parents' fortieth wedding anniversary was hardly the talk of the town. A relatively quiet affair, Robin assumed, given what she knew of her parents and their eschewing of loud venues in favour of the local village pub or their own sitting room, a glass of red wine in hand and a serial drama on the television. Nevertheless, they had hired the function suite of a large country house hotel for 'dinner and dancing', according to the invitation, and Linda had told Robin that she was expecting over a hundred guests. Robin wasn't quite sure whether she should be more pleased or apprehensive that this would lend itself well to anonymity; the sheer size of the event would allow her to sit, unnoticed, in a shadowy corner with Strike, free from scrutiny and interruptions.
Robin decided she needed professional help, and she approached a member of sales staff with a determined air.
Forty-five minutes later, Robin was standing in front of the mirror in the dressing room wearing one of the most beautiful dresses she had ever seen. It was a deep shade of maroon, with a high halter neck that wrapped around her throat. A tiny cutout in the front ensured an elegant drape over her breasts, and the fabric flowed close to her figure all the way down to her ankles. A thigh-high slit in one side allowed a peek of flesh if she positioned herself for it. The sales assistant had pointed out the perfect shoes: four inch stilettos in delicate silver, barely-there straps ensuring that no focus was drawn from the dress.
Robin turned this way and that, feeling the swish of the skirt around her legs and knowing that this was the dress she needed; she felt pretty in it and she knew it would boost her confidence. She returned to the cubicle with some reluctance, her jeans and jumper feeling decidedly unglamorous in comparison. However, as she dressed she allowed herself a few minutes' contemplation of the look in Strike's eyes when he saw her in it; would he be attracted to her? Would he say anything? Robin was so consumed in thoughts of that moment that she had forgotten to agonise over the fact that they would be spending hours in the Land Rover together on the way to Yorkshire, or that they would spend an entire dinner party together, or that they would be spending the night in a hotel, albeit in separate rooms.
Robin gathered her things, put on her coat, and went to pay for the dress. The tube ride home was stuffy and packed, but the paper bag swinging from her hand, and the anticipation its contents engendered, kept Robin's spirits high all the way back to Earl's Court.
*
"My mum's been in touch again."
"Hmmm."
"Is that it?"
Robin chuckled to herself and switched the phone to speaker so that she could continue packing the small suitcase she intended to take to Yorkshire. Her new dress was hanging in a carrier on the front of her wardrobe, and she felt a swoop of nerves each time she looked at it. If she was being honest, Strike's throaty hum through the phone had given her a similar swoop. Robin sighed inwardly as she reflected that these flutters and tingles were just things she had to cope with now; she had found it increasingly difficult to tamp them down ever since she'd finally admitted her feelings to herself, alone in her bedroom after her thirtieth birthday.
"Well, what did she say?" asked Strike.
"More of the same. Wanting us to spend a couple of extra days there. Saying that we can stay in the house."
"You can, if you want to stay with your family."
"I don't," admitted Robin. "Stephen and Jenny will be there with Annabel. And Jonathan's home, so it's just my room that's…" She trailed off, aware that she had been about to explain that they would have to share a room and feeling, on balance, that it probably didn't need spelling out. "The house will be packed. It'll be easier to just go to the hotel as planned. We'll have a good night there."
"Okay."
Robin's stomach dropped as she realised what she'd said. She swore under her breath; she really needed to get it together.
"I meant we'll have a better night's sleep."
"I know you did."
Was it her imagination, or was there amusement in Strike's rich voice? The rasp of it was getting in the way; Robin couldn't tell.
"Anyway, are you ready?" she asked breezily. A second passed before Strike answered, and Robin was suddenly convinced that he knew why she was tripping over her tongue.
"Yeah, I am," he said. Robin didn't reply; her mouth seemed to be entirely dry. "I'll come to your flat in the morning, shall I?"
"That would be easiest," agreed Robin. She cleared her throat, threw her makeup bag into the case and took up the phone again, switching the speaker off. "We'll need to set off early, I think. It starts at seven, and we'll need to get settled into the hotel."
"And I'll need to do my hair," said Strike. "Oh, wait, that's not my line," he joked.
Robin laughed. "Yeah, I'll need hours. So shall we say nine thirty?"
"Robin, you could walk in straight off the street and still turn every head in the place." Robin was stunned into silence. "But yes, I'll be there at nine thirty. Sleep well," he said softly, and he rang off before Robin could muster the wherewithal to speak.
Robin put the phone down on her bedside table and plugged it in to charge. She changed quickly into her pyjamas, shifted the suitcase and assorted piles of discarded clothes from her bed, and slid under the duvet, mind buzzing with the evening's conversation.
There was only one head she wanted to turn, one man's attention she wanted to capture. She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face at the memory of his compliment, delivered so casually in that deep voice. Robin had been so focused on making him sit up and take notice that she hadn't considered that he might already be paying attention.