Shall We Dance?
by Michelle
Note: Set within the novel Troubled Blood.
- Khalil Gibran
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“Shall we dance?” he asked.
When she just slightly nodded, suddenly surprised by his suggestion and without losing eye contact, his hand instinctively but not forcibly reached for her waist.
I know we’re undercover and that it’s technically not real, but this is what I’ve been dreaming of ever since I saw you in that green dress, standing in front of the mirror that day in Vashti...
Robin succumbed to the feel of the moment, and her own longing almost made her stop pretending that at that moment, she was Strike’s “wife”, Mrs Greenwood, whose “husband” was interested in closing a deal with the party organiser - attempting to make him conjure up an apparently vintage (meaning, very probably fake) Monet painting that hadn’t been seen in almost a century. Her left arm snaked around her partner’s neck, her right hand safely enveloped by his hand. Their cheeks were almost touching as he bent his head slightly down, and Robin couldn’t help it – she closed her eyes.
If she could see the detective’s face at that very moment, she would have seen him mimicking her gesture. His ever-growing need for his partner and that thing he didn’t dare to call by its real name weighed heavily on his heart.
The party was getting louder with the late night hour, but the two best private investigators in London suddenly couldn’t hear anything apart from their own heartbeat. All other sounds were drowned out by the emotions taking hold of them.
Robin inadvertently laid her cheek on Strike’s shoulder, her face turned toward his stubbly chin. How easy would it have been just to move her head a bit up and do something spontaneous? Too easy, she knew that, just as she knew that if he hadn’t done anything after a year of her being separated from her soon ex-husband, he was unlikely to do so now.
However, the way he was holding her felt different, much more intimate not to make her head spin. Fighting her own need, she suddenly sighed and pulled back from him.
“I can’t do this anymore…,” she said and walked away.
The sudden turn of events shocked Strike to a standstill for a moment, but then he moved to catch up with her. A fast walk was an effort, considering his leg, and running was the last option he would usually choose unless it was really urgent. Judging by his almost stumbling when his legs started running, this was urgent.
“Robin!” he cried when he spotted her in the corridor at the bottom of the long and wide marble staircase, joining the main door with the event hall.
She ignored him as she took her coat from the usher, who curiously looked up, intrigued by the brewing situation.
“Robin, where are you going?” Strike asked when he caught up with his partner, watching her put on the coat.
“Home,” she answered listlessly, without looking at him.
“Why?” Strike was uncomprehending, his thick eyebrow knitted in question.
“Because I’m tired. I’m tired of it all.”
Still avoiding his eyes, she turned away from him and walked out of the building.
Strike hastily grabbed his own, bulky coat and rushed after her into the surprisingly chilly September night.
It seemed that Robin wasn’t aiming for a cab for some reason, for her quick walk in the direction of the nearest tube forced him to dig deep to not lose her.
“Robin, stop, please!” he shouted after a few moments.
Finally, she turned around and saw him bent over, panting. For a brief moment, she felt guilty for causing him physical distress.
“What happened?” Strike asked when he slowly approached her, his eyes worried.
Robin shook her head when she pierced his eyes. “Nothing happened, and that’s exactly the problem.”
He knitted his brows, trying to understand the real meaning of her words, but deep inside, he had a notion of it - they were both masters of talking between the lines.
”I’m tired of this dance, Cormoran,” his partner said quietly, and her eyes suddenly reflected resignation. “I can’t work like this with you. I need to get away. I can’t keep pretending that were are just partners and best friends, that nothing is going on between us. I can’t keep pretending that I don’t…” She abruptly halted her stream of consciousness and bit into her lip. … that I don’t love you.
Without batting an eyelid, Strike suddenly reached a decision.
“I can’t do it anymore either…”
Robin looked at him with anxiety. Was he saying goodbye? Her heart was racing more than ever.
“So… what are you going to do about it?” she asked eventually. When he didn’t answer, her head went down again, and she sighed with frustration. If she didn’t feel like crying, she would have burst into laughter at how bizarre the situation was.
Suddenly, she felt Strike’s hand reaching under her chin to lift it to him again.
”Stop pretending,” he said softly, ignoring the people passing them by in a rush to get away from the drizzling rain. The only thing he was focusing on was her glistening eyes and inviting mouth.
As Robin gave up her resistance and slowly moved closer to his face, he closed his eyes, blissfully expecting what he had been dreaming about for years. He could feel her warm breath on his face when the time stood still…
＊＊
The alarm on his phone went off, the time showing 7 am.
Why the hell did I set the alarm for so early on a Saturday?? Strike questioned his sanity when he dismissed the annoying sound with a lazy touch of his index finger.
He rolled himself on his back, covering his eyes with his hand. There was no way he could fall asleep again; his senses were woken up too brutally. Then he remembered the dream, and something resembling an electric shock went down his spine…
Rolling on his side again, Strike gripped the pillow and buried his head in it. His hands clutched the cotton fabric desperately as if trying to cling to a memory so sweet and yet causing him such torture that he didn’t want to let go of it. Finally, needing air, he threw the pillow away in frustration.
“I’m screwed like never before,” he pronounced into the silence of his small bedroom, staring at the ceiling again.
For a few moments, he remained still, unable to think clearly. Whether he closed his eyes or opened them, all he could see was the face of the woman who stole into his dream (and not the first one either).
Stop pretending…
His own words suddenly resurfaced in his memory, stirring all sorts of emotions in him. His past experience and present conviction of separating work from private life still lingered in the back of his mind, regardless of how hard he was trying to fight it. But those two words wouldn’t let him be.
All at once, Strike sat up on his bed quickly, as if he forgot that he was missing a part of his leg. Automatically reaching for his mobile phone (which he carelessly dropped on the floor the night before), he brought up a number and clicked the call button. After four rings, someone picked up on the other side of the line.
“Hello?” A sleepy voice resounded in the speaker.
”Morning, Ilsa, it’s me,” the detective said with mild embarrassment, suddenly remembering the early weekend hour.
”Cormoran? What the hell are you doing up so early? What’s wrong?” his friend asked, and he could hear the slight panic in her voice.
“Everything’s fine. Sorry, I couldn’t sleep and wasn’t thinking about the time when I dialled your number. I just need some advice.” His embarrassment was growing by the minute.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.
”Okay, let me guess… Does it have anything to do with a certain young, pretty, clever and finally single girl you call your work partner?” Ilsa’s amusement was apparent in her voice.
Strike sighed and ran his hand through his thick hair, eventually unable to suppress a small smile.
”On second thought, I probably should have called Lucy; she is more at home in these things,” he mused, winding his friend up.
”Okay, okay! No need to get defensive…” Ilsa said hastily, trying to keep him on the line. “What do you need advice on?”
After a moment of hesitation, a cheeky grin appeared on the detective's lips.
”Where can I get a balloon shaped like a pony?”
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