8
" And now, full of whisky, he remembered holding her on the stairs at her wedding. This was the closest they'd come to that moment in nearly two years, and the air seemed thick with unspoken things, and again, he felt as though he stood on a small platform, ready to swing out into the unknown. Leave it there, said the surly self that coveted a solitary attic space, and freedom, and peace. Now, breathed the flickering demon the whisky had unleashed, and like Robin a few minutes previously, Strike was conscious that they were sitting mere feet from a double bed. "
― , Troubled Blood (Cormoran Strike, #5)
11
" . . . you know who Polworth is?"
"Your best mate," said Robin.
"He's my oldest mate," Strike corrected her. "My best mate . . . "
For a split second he wondered whether he was going to say it, but the whisky had lifted the guard he usually kept upon himself: why not say it, why not let go?
" . . . is you."
Robin was so amazed, she couldn't speak. Never, in four years, had Strike come close to telling her what she was to him. Fondness had had to be deduced from offhand comments, small kindnesses, awkward silences or gestures forced from him under stress. She'd only once before felt as she did now, and the unexpected gift that had engendered the feeling had been a sapphire and diamond ring, which she'd left behind when she walked out on the man who'd given it to her.
She wanted to make some kind of return, but for a moment or two, her throat felt too constricted.
"I . . . well, the feeling's mutual," she said, trying not to sound too happy. "
― , Troubled Blood (Cormoran Strike, #5)
14
" 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 you a suit."
For a moment Robin simply looked at him, then she reached up and hugged him tightly. Surrounded by banked flowers, both remembered the hug they'd shared at the top of the stairs on her wedding day, but this time, Robin turned her face and kissed Strike deliberately on the cheek, lips to stubble.
"Thanks, Strike. This really means a lot."
And that, thought her partner, as the two of them headed away toward the Ritz in the golden glow of the early evening, really was well worth sixty quid and a bit of an effort . . .
Out of his subconscious rose the names Mazankov and Krupov, and it was a second or two before he remembered where he'd heard them, why they sounded Cornish, and why he thought of them now. The corners of his mouth twitched, but as Robin didn't see him smiling, he felt no compulsion to explain. "
― , Troubled Blood (Cormoran Strike, #5)
