Chapter Text
Despite her already busy schedule becoming even busier with the arrival of her son, once the new year had commenced, Robin’s good friend Ilsa Herbert had insisted on returning to their regular arrangement of catching up monthly for drinks. They had not met socially for some time, due to Robin’s long stint undercover on a case the year prior, followed by the associated court hearings, and the predictable chaos of the holiday season.
It was the second Saturday in February when Robin disembarked the tube train at Piccadilly Circus Station, and strolled along Upper James Street toward their regular haunt, Bob Bob Ricard. She was pondering just how much to tell her friend about her recent breakup with her boyfriend Ryan Murphy. The news had been discussed, briefly, on the phone, and in hushed tones whenever the two had stolen a moment of privacy during the legal proceedings against The Universal Humanitarian Church, in which Ilsa had been involved, representing the son of their client.
One thing was for sure, Robin thought – as Ilsa’s favourite restaurant came into view, with its Art Deco signage and smart navy awnings monogrammed with gold lettering – she’d resolved not to tell her friend about her business partner’s confusing and complicated confession of love made several months previously.
Stepping into the restaurant, Robin was greeted by a smiling hostess and the familiar, extravagant decor; all chrome and rich colours, reminiscent of a first class dining room on a Cunard ocean liner. She announced that she was there to meet her friend, who had made the booking, and was shown to a booth where Ilsa sat waiting. They hugged and exchanged pleasantries, before slipping along the cobalt blue leather banquette seats to peruse the menus.
‘We should start with some champagne,’ said Ilsa, ‘of course. Then you can tell me what you’ve been up to these past months.’
‘Nothing too exciting,’ said Robin, regarding the drinks list. She’d let Ilsa choose. Her friend was a connoisseur of vintage champagne. ‘What about you?’
‘Nothing exciting at all,’ said Ilsa, smiling, ‘but that’s the way I like it. Just consumed with work and Benjy.’
A waiter in an ostentatious pink waistcoat approached their table, greeting them warmly. Ilsa ordered a bottle of Bollinger. They made small talk until he’d returned, uncorked the bottle with demonstrative flair, filled their glasses, and retreated.
‘Now,’ said Ilsa in her kindest voice, shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘How are you really doing?’
The experience of being subsumed within a dangerous cult for four months had prompted a resurgence of Robin’s trauma symptoms. It had necessitated a period of stocktaking and self-reflection, along with a return to therapy. It was, she’d decided, not the best time to be in a relationship, or to start a new one.
‘Better,’ she said honestly, studying the fine bead rising from the bottom of her glass. The Cuvée was a delicious golden colour, and when she lifted it to her lips, she was met with a complex, fruity aroma.
‘Good,’ said Ilsa contentedly, sampling her champagne. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
Robin nodded in agreement. She had been rather happy with her own progress. Tasting her drink, she appreciated its vivacious apple and peach notes. It had a pleasantly dry, biscuity finish.
‘How’s Cormoran?’ asked Ilsa, her voice artificially high in the pretence of a casual enquiry.
Robin was not sure how to answer this. She knew Ilsa’s husband Nick was in regular contact with Strike. This question, therefore, was an obvious probe. She wondered if her partner had confided in his friend about his shocking declaration.
Though it had left her in a state of befuddlement, the stunning comment had been enough to snap Robin out of her state of prolonged denial. It had provided her with evidence that Strike reciprocated her affections; feelings that she had spent years trying to quash. But most of all, it had clarified something she had long since suspected was a problem. She was thoroughly confused about her love life; about what she really wanted, and whether or not Strike would be capable of giving it.
‘He’s good,’ Robin said simply. ‘Reached his target weight. Now looking at giving up the vaping.’
‘He’s done so well,’ Ilsa said wistfully, looking into the middle distance with her eyes unfocused, as if imagining the perfect fairytale ending for her two good friends.
Ilsa had a transparent desire to see them together, sooner rather than later, and her matchmaking attempts had become increasingly problematic as time wore on. This had culminated in their mutual friend interfering in Strike’s love life the year prior, and inadvertently causing conflict between the partners. As much as she loved her friend, and valued her support and insights into the man she’d known for thirty-five years, Robin feared Ilsa’s actions could eventually do more harm than good.
As for how things had been between her and Strike, after Murphy’s increasingly passive-aggressive behaviour and guilt tripping, her partner had been refreshingly respectful and understanding. They’d had a simple conversation about her fears and concerns, and she had asked for time to heal and recentre. As a consequence, they had not spoken further about his confession, and she had not had the chance to ask him to clarify his words.
Both partners had a habit of compartmentalising, and this skill had enabled them to carry on with their job. However, there had been a distinct increase in flirtatiousness between them; playful comments, heated looks and suggestive innuendo. Robin was not sure how much longer she could keep up the facade of being “just friends.”
‘He has,’ Robin agreed.
‘Dare I ask how things finally ended with Ryan?’ said Ilsa, an enquiring brow raised as she sipped from her flute.
Robin sighed. ‘Predictably difficult.’
‘Look,’ said Ilsa, with a quick flick of her wrists, as if shooing Murphy’s ghost away. ‘Forget I asked. Put it behind you.’
The clearest resolution Robin had reached in the previous year, was her realisation that she and Murphy were grossly incompatible, and that she was not, as she had unfortunately said, in love with him. He had not taken it well, and the bitter ending of their relationship only further reinforced her need for space to reground herself.
‘Well, suffice to say, he was seething when he came to my place to pick up the last of his stuff. It was only a toothbrush, a spare charger, and a few shirts. I would have just left it all, if I were him. It took him three weeks to get around to collecting it. I was about to post it to him, or bin it.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Oh yeah. I think that’s why he pretended he was so keen to get his stuff. It gave him one last chance to sink the boot in. Basically, he implied I’d wasted a year of his life, that I’d deliberately deceived and hurt him. Blah blah blah. Just a rehash of everything he’d said the first time.’
‘Yuck,’ commented Ilsa.
‘Yep. Anyway,’ Robin said, taking such a large gulp of her sparkling wine that it made her nose tingle. ‘I’ve not heard from him since, so, that’s that.’
‘Cheers then,’ said Ilsa, raising her glass.
Robin frowned. It seemed a strange moment to raise a toast. ‘To what, exactly?’
Ilsa’s eyes brightened. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘OK.’ Robin smiled, clinking her glass against Ilsa’s. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
They each downed the last of their first drink and Ilsa reached for the bottle, refilling their glasses.
‘So,’ Ilsa said, relaxing back against her seat, her tone artificially nonchalant again. ‘I don’t suppose you’re thinking about dating again, anytime soon?’
Robin traced the rim of her flute, contemplating this. ‘Actually, I think I’d like to this year. Maybe not just yet though.’
‘Well,’ said Ilsa, leaning forward, reaching for Robin’s hand across the table. ‘Here’s some advice–’
Robin flashed a hesitant look at her friend, which stopped her talking mid-sentence.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ilsa said hurriedly, ‘I’m not going to suggest you sow your oats, like I did last time.’
‘No?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Ilsa, going pink in the face. ‘What a bloody mess that was,’ she added, staring sternly at their table’s lamp light, as if it was to blame.
‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, meeting Robin’s eye, holding her hand up in a placatory gesture. ‘No, I didn’t mean your life was a mess. I meant my interference caused a mess. I’m the one who encouraged you to accept the date with Ryan, but I didn’t expect you to be with him for over a year. And then look what happened.’
‘What?’ asked Robin, watching out of the corner of her eye as the pink-waistcoated waiter circled from afar. He’d been doing so for a while, and was obviously intent on taking their order, but did not want to interrupt such an apparently intense conversation.
‘Cormoran and Bijou bloody Watkins,’ barked Ilsa. ‘It forced him into her arms–'
'–I don't think he was forced–'
'–but thank God nothing came of that. He got out by the skin of his teeth.’
‘Ilsa,’ said Robin evenly. She was a little nettled by her friend’s presumption that she had such an influence over their lives. ‘You can’t blame yourself for our failed love lives. After all, Cormoran and I are adults and we chose to–’
‘Oh no,’ said Ilsa, shaking her head, ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to go down that road. It’s not what you think. I’m not going to encourage you to jump into bed with Cormoran.’
Robin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re not?’
‘No,’ said Ilsa earnestly. ‘Look, why don’t you just take this time to focus on yourself?’
Robin blinked at her friend, confused. ‘I am. I’ve been single for four and a half months and–’
‘Yes,’ interjected Ilsa, ‘but have you been looking after yourself?’
‘You mean, like therapy? I told you I’ve started seeing that therapist Prudence–’
‘No,’ Ilsa interrupted, ‘I mean like, self care. Enjoying yourself.’
Robin looked at the strip-lit coffered ceiling, still not following her friend’s meaning. ‘Like a holiday?’
Ilsa shrugged. ‘If you want. But it doesn’t have to be a big deal. You don’t have to spend a lot of money or take too much time off. I was thinking more like…going on a weekend retreat. Or starting yoga. Or having regular massages. Nice treats, like, buy yourself some racy lingerie or sex toys.’
Robin gave a small, uneasy laugh, looking over her shoulder. She hoped their fellow diners had not overheard. ‘Ilsa.’
‘I’m serious, Robin,’ Ilsa said. ‘Do you even own a vibrator?’
‘No,’ Robin said quietly, face flushing. She sipped more champagne so that she did not have to look her friend in the eye.
‘Well, I bought myself the Soraya Rabbit and it’s amazing. Highly recommended.'
‘Ilsa,’ Robin repeated, though she made a mental note of this name.
‘Alright,’ Ilsa conceded. ‘Just start with some sexy lingerie then. I’m not talking about something a man would like. Something pretty, frivolous and expensive that’s just for you. Wear it under your work clothes, and even if no one else knows, there’s something really thrilling about it,’ she added, shivering a little in her seat, so that it was clear she was talking from experience. ‘You’ll be surprised how it makes you feel.’
Robin pondered this, enjoying the buoyant sensation of expensive French champagne working its way into her bloodstream. ‘I have always wanted some nice underwear. All my stuff is practical, durable, washable cotton.’
‘There you go,’ said Ilsa, spreading her hands out, palms up, smooth as a saleswoman. ‘Why don’t you have a nice shopping trip tomorrow?’
Robin scoffed. ‘I wouldn't even know where to start.’
‘Well, I’d love to come with you, but Nick’s working, and lingerie shopping is no fun with a baby in tow.’
Robin nodded. ‘Well, give me some pointers. Where would you shop?’
‘You can always just go to Harrods or Selfridges. But if you want a really indulgent experience, there’s Boux Avenue in Oxford Street, Agent Provocateur in Broadwick Street, and Victoria's Secret in New Bond Street.’
Extracting her phone from her handbag, Robin began to make notes. ‘What’s your favourite brand?’ she asked.
‘Agent Provocateur,’ Ilsa answered, wiggling her eyebrows wickedly. ‘Such fabulous frippery. It’s pricey. But I guarantee you won't regret it.’
Robin returned her naughty grin.
‘Are you ready to order?’ Ilsa added, eyes dropping down to her menu. ‘I’m going to start with the Siberian sturgeon caviar and blinis.’
'I'll have the same,' said Robin, in her newfound attitude of self-indulgence.