How Are You Doing?

by Michelle

Note: This story is set within the novel‘Troubled Blood’. 

The dialogue in the first part of the story and the chronology of events were taken from its TV adaptation by Tom Edge.

※※※※※

"In the face of pain, there are no heroes."
- George Orwell: 1984

“That’s great news about Creed,” Strike praised his partner, her voice being like a drug he desperately needed, especially after the last few days.
”Creed’ll only talk to you,” replied Robin on the other end of the line, slightly less enthusiastic. “I know that’s not something you agreed to…”
”I’ll do it. Of course, I’ll do it.” He didn’t even blink. 

A sudden heavy silence filled the distance between them. It was Robin who found her words first.
”When is the funeral?”
“Not ‘till after Christmas,” her partner answered and changed the topic. “So we are seeing Anna tomorrow.”
”Oh, I… I can’t make the meeting.” his partner countered, her voice making it clear that she was not happy about the fact. “I’m sorry. I tried to move this other thing…”
“Robin…”
”…and I can’t…”
”Robin,” he interrupted her gently. A small smile settled on his sad face. “You’ve done more than enough. It’s fine.”

Suddenly, he desperately wished to see her face and not only hear her voice on the phone, while sitting on the train taking him back to London. However, that voice had been his lifeline in the past few months every time he had to go to Cornwall, to spend whatever remaining time he could with his aunt Joan.  He kept re-reading the texts and listening to the voice messages Robin sent him several times a day. The truth suddenly punched him in the stomach - the next time he’d be travelling to Cornwall would be for Joan’s funeral…

The line was quiet for a moment again; then, Robin asked the inevitable question.
”How are you doing?”

Strike knew it would break him. He heard the care in her voice and didn’t want to lie to her, but at the same time, his pain was too raw to speak about it yet.  Also, he had always kept all his pains and sorrows locked deep inside, hardly sharing them with anyone. He wasn’t sure whether it was his soldier’s attitude or fear of exposing himself too much. Strike had always been a private man, long before he started his investigative agency.

Until Joan’s passing, he hadn’t cried since his mother left him and later died. There were many times when he was desperate, beaten, sad and broken, but not once did he shed a tear, not out of pride, but because his emotional core felt hollow, totally depleted and unable to display grief in its most natural way. When his aunt died, though, the sudden realisation of how important she had been in his life crushed him. Only then, the tears would come, without asking for permission, on a secluded place among the rocks of St Mawes beach.

Holding his phone at his ear, Strike scrunched his face, grief overwhelming him once more, and he covered his eyes with the free hand. At last, he regained some composure before answering Robin’s question with a shaky voice.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Strike ended the call, knowing she would understand; her compassion and empathy had been his safe harbour for years. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on calming down. Once he succeeded, his eyes wandered out of the train window into the darkness, and in his mind’s eye, he brought up the image of the only thing that always brought him consolation - the face of the woman he had just hung up on.

※※※※※

 

Robin was walking to the tube on her way to Denmark Street, having yet again failed to secure a successful ending to her messy divorce with Matthew. The man seemed eager to do everything to make her feel miserable.

She was glad the meeting was short that morning, for regardless of how eager she was to draw a line after her unsuccessful marriage, her mind kept wandering off constantly. After their conversation the night before, Robin couldn’t keep Strike out of her thoughts. Not that she could any other time, but remembering his broken voice on the phone caused her pain as if it was she who had just lost a loved one. She wished he would have talked to her more, but she would never push him and decided to give him time.

After opening the agency door, she greeted Pat, who was feverishly typing the new surveillance rota into her computer. Seeing Robin enter, she lifted her head immediately.
”Morning,” she answered to the younger woman’s greeting and added, “How is he?”

Robin’s smile faded, and after she hung her coat on the rack, she turned to Pat, seeing the worried look on her face. She knew exactly which he was being referred to and couldn’t help but smile. The relationship between Strike and his secretary has changed dramatically since Pat started working in the office; Pat had developed an almost motherly affection for her boss, though she was still maintaining her cool attitude, just as Strike had kept his comments about her to himself. But the moments when Robin caught his small smile whenever Pat quipped something amusing told her that the ice was definitely broken between them. The detective learned to appreciate not only her efficiency and inventiveness but also her humour and genuine care for team members of the agency.

“He’s… as good as it gets,” Robin replied and flashed a smile. “He’ll be here in the afternoon.”
”Hmm,” the secretary replied. “And you?” she added, referring to Robin’s divorce meeting.
”Same old; he won’t budge an inch,” the latter answered bitterly.
“Nothing like hurt pride of a loser who doesn’t deserve you,” Pat replied, and after a brief pause and a pull from her e-cigarette, she adjusted her glasses and dived back into sorting out the surveillance rota on her computer screen.

Robin smiled and walked into the inner office. She glanced at her partner’s empty chair, remembering it had been almost a week since she had seen him last. The simple truth was that she was missing him. In the past few months, he had been away a lot, his frequent visits to Cornwall to see his aunt taking him away from his work - and from her. And no matter how much she focused on her daily tasks and running their agency, she missed Strike’s constant and steady presence.

Taking a deep breath, she stopped brooding, sat down at her side of the desk and opened the file on Dennis Creed. The Bamborough case still needed cracking.

※※※

 

It was after 6 p.m. when Pat called her “Night,” when leaving the office, escorted down by Sam Barclay.

After Strike came to the office in the early afternoon, everyone was going on about their business as usual, though fully aware of his personal loss and saying the obligatory sentence expressing their sympathy. Pat came twice to the inner office, bringing him and Robin tea without any of them asking for it, and Barclay offered to take over the surveillance from his boss, who was on the rota for the next day and fully intended to continue working as planned. Morris was out on surveillance, but neither Strike nor Robin were unhappy about it.

Robin didn’t comment on anything personal, which Strike visibly appreciated, though after updating him on every case they’d been dealing with and discussing his meeting with Anna Phipps, she remained in the office with him for the rest of the day. As luck would have it, she had no surveillance duty that day.

“Fancy a takeaway?” Robin asked when they finally remained alone in the office that evening. Her smile warmed Strike somewhere deep inside, touching his troubled heart more than ever.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, still watching her. “Not really hungry… “ He noticed how her face fell. “But yeah… go for it,” he said eventually with a tired smile.

Robin was relieved. Maybe he’ll open up; maybe he’ll talk...
With a smile, she grabbed her phone and walked away to put the kettle on in the small kitchenette in the outer office and place the food order.
When she returned to the inner office, Strike was standing at the window, looking out into the still-busy street below. 

”I’ve ordered Chinese; it won’t be long,” she said, walking back to their shared desk.
Her partner didn’t react, though, standing still, his mind somewhere else.
”Cormoran?” Robin said softly. She observed him all afternoon, knowing that despite focusing on work, he wore an invisible mask, intentionally hiding his pain from the outside world. She knew it because she’d been there before,

“How’s life, Robin? Things are all right with you?”
“Everything’s fine...”

When Strike asked her those questions well over a year ago, it was evening as well, and they were sitting in the convenient semi-darkness, each with a glass of whisky. Back then, despite seeing his genuine interest, Robin didn’t tell him about just having found out that Matthew had been cheating on her again. She desperately wanted to share everything with him, but the unspoken rule they had about not discussing their private lives stood mercilessly between them like a thick wall of ice. It took them a few more months for it to begin melting, and they started opening up a bit more to each other, as friends do.

“I never knew… “ Strike suddenly spoke into the silence, absently watching the lights out on the street. His voice was breaking. “I never understood… All my life, I was chasing a ghost of a mother, while all that time, she was by my side…”
Robin carefully approached him, gently touching his arm to make him look at her.
”Cormoran…” she whispered.
When he slowly turned so she could see his face, her heart was breaking - his pale face was wet with tears. He shook his head, feeling utterly helpless and defeated by the sorrow that hit him with full force again.

“I sat with her that morning when she died,” Strike continued quietly. “She woke up one last time and… I told her that I loved her… But I didn’t tell her…” He almost choked, unable to finish his thought. “She said what I thought all my life; she said I chose Leda and that it was all right… “
He swallowed more tears, trying to regain composure but knew it was impossible. The wall protecting his emotions from the outside world was crumbling down with alarming speed.
“I never told her that… in her own, selfless, caring, protective and kind way… she was my mother….”

Strike covered his face with his arm, unable to control the grief anymore. Robin immediately pulled him into her arms, caressing his back with soothing strokes of her hand, gently, as she would a child.
”Joan knew it,” she said quietly, her mouth close to his ear. “She knew you loved her, she could feel it.”
Robin paused, holding him tight. “When you love someone… they can feel it.”

Strike’s quiet sobs slowly subsided, and his breathing allowed him to recover. He pulled back a bit to see Robin’s face, the face he missed terribly every time they parted their ways.
”They feel it…” she whispered again, and her glistening eyes projected so much at that moment, that he almost lost his balance.

Suddenly, they were both very aware of the proximity of their bodies. What began as an act of consolation turned into something much more intimate.

Robin couldn’t ignore the intoxicating mix of lavender, Benson & Hedges and the distinctive, musky scent of her partner. Seeing his darkened eyes, which only a moment ago were full of tears, burn into hers, and feeling his strong arms tight around her, she felt the heat rising around them. Her hands stopped stroking his shoulders, but remained in their position, unwilling to break the physical contact.
He’s hurting; you mustn’t take advantage now... He might regret it later...

Her inner voice was whispering its urgent plea and once again, Robin was reminded of how much more difficult it was becoming to control her feelings in his presence. Her eyes couldn’t help it and glanced for a moment at his lips, barely inches away from hers.

Strike felt his throat constrict; the force of the unspoken words he wanted to tell the woman in his arms for so long was mercilessly testing his resilience.
You mustn’t... You’d screw things up, you know it!
The little voice in his head reminded him stubbornly why he had continued keeping his feelings for his partner at bay.
Christ, I can’t... Not when she’s looking at me like that...

He was on the verge of surrendering when Robin decided for him, pulling suddenly away and releasing him from her hold. The coldness he felt returned immediately, hitting him like a hammer.

They were observing each other in all-telling silence for a while when the buzzing sound of the bell at the main entrance door made Robin jerk.
“That’s the delivery,” she said with a weak voice and a small smile and turned on her heel to run downstairs.
Strike’s voice suddenly stopped her in her tracks.
“Robin…” She turned to him again, unsure what to expect. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and for the first time that day, he smiled. It was one of those genuinely heartfelt, gentle smiles that she was so fond of.
“No problem,” she replied, in better control of her voice, smiling as well, and left the inner office.

Strike’s smile slowly faded as he let out a heavy sigh. He ran his hands over his face, shaking off the fragile state he was in a few moments ago. Deciding not to dwell on his thoughts on his loss or his partner, he slumped into his chair and opened the file with the Bamborough case on his side of the double desk. There was work to be done.

Heaven In Hell's Despair - Beauty and the Beast tv series fan art

On the occasion of Winterfest Online 2024. 

Let Me Tell You A Story

by Michelle

The air was chilly that mid-January day, biting her cheeks, as she sat on the cold rock, watching the majestic scenery unfold in front of her. The setting winter sun spread its golden wings over the liquid mass, making it glitter like gold. It wasn’t the first time she had seen this spectacle - sunsets after a bright day were the most beautiful moments in the Chamber of the Falls - and yet it filled her with as much awe and wonder as any other time before.
If only it were as easy as this – flowing effortlessly, creating magical scenes...

She sighed heavily and ran her hand over her tired eyes. The previous night was another of those when she barely got any sleep. So much to say, and yet no words coming to do so…

“The Falls are beautiful tonight,” a deep, gravelly voice softly said behind her.
She didn’t need to turn around to recognise it, but she did anyway, her heart instantly lighter.
“Yes, they are… It’s nice to see you again, Vincent,” she said with a smile when she glanced at him.
“And you, Michele. It has been some time.”

He tilted his head and smiled, correctly sensing her troubled state, but decided to start gently.
“The children have been asking about you.”

His friend’s eyes brightened, and her smile grew bigger. “I’ve missed them too. I promise I will come to storytime with them again soon. Next week, when I bring the grocery delivery from Long. He promised to send you something special on top of the usual supplies.”
“I shall thank him when I see him next time,” Vincent smiled gratefully.

Michele turned back to the Waterfalls, watching the stream rush down, pulled mercilessly by the gravity. Not even her dear friend’s presence could erase the doubt in her mind.

“Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” Vincent remarked calmly after he sat down next to her. His eyes were fixed on the water.

She chuckled. “I’m not sure in this case, but trust me, there’s no one else I’d love talking to more.” A warm smile reaching her eyes made him lower his eyes humbly.

“Then… maybe you should try,” he said knowingly.

A deep sigh tore from her throat; then she shook her head. It wouldn’t hurt to get it off her chest.

“Actually, it’s pretty simple,” she stated. “I’m stuck… There is so much on my mind, but I don’t know how to express it.”

Vincent smiled knowingly. „Even the greatest storytellers of all times had a writing block now and then. You’re not the first one. Tolstoy could tell you a lot about it if he was still here.”

“I know, and it’s not the first time, but it never lasted so long.” Her eyes mirrored doubts. “I’m afraid I will never be able to put another word on paper again…”

She stood up, feeling ashamed that among all the much worse problems the world and people around her were facing, she was troubled by something as insignificant in her eyes as a

writer’s block.

“I know it’s trivial. I’m not dying of an incurable disease, I have a roof over my head, food on my table, friends and family who love me,” she went on.

“But writing is very dear to you,” Vincent added for her. “It is your way of expressing what lies in your mind and heart. There is nothing trivial about that.”

Michele turned to look at him. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw the calm and understanding expression on his face.

“You make everything seem important,” she remarked, amused.

“Because it is.” He shrugged, smiling. “Everything we say, what we do, how and when we act… It all defines us, not only who we are but also what makes us happy, what fulfils us. “

“Yes… I guess that’s right.”

She sat down next to him again, feeling a bit more settled now.

“For some time now, whenever I sit down to write something, I take a pen and then stare at the paper for a long time before writing a line and then deleting it. Or before deciding it’s no use and putting the pen away again,” she explained, frustrated.

Vincent’s eyes travelled to the falls in front of them again before replying.

“There was a time when I was about to write in my journal but no words would come because there were too many in my head.”

“When was that?” she asked with interest.

He sighed and relived in his memory his most traumatic experience. “A few days after I thought that Catherine… that she was taken from me forever.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling guilty. “I didn’t want to awaken painful memories…”

“No need to apologise,” he replied, smiling. “It all turned well in the end.”

She nodded, smiling too, and her eyes wandered to the waterfalls again.

“I was filled with so many emotions, with pain, anger, despair…, “ Vincent continued. “They all prevented my mind from focusing on what I really wanted to say. That’s why I couldn’t write a single word for several days, not until I started processing the reality – which to my greatest fortune turned out not to be a reality at all.

”When something traumatic happens to us, it often affects our mind, the way we think and feel, and prevent us from going on.” He turned to look her in the eyes. “Especially, after we lose someone dear.”

Of course, he knew, and she wasn’t even surprised.

“After my Dad died last year… With all my duties and looking after the family, it took a long time until I finally had some room to come to terms with it,” she said, watching the last sun rays fading above the falls. “They say time heals everything, but to me, it seems that time is only adding to my burden. I don’t feel such pain of loss anymore, but for some reason, I still feel blocked in a way. I live my life, spend time with my loved ones, do the things I find joy in doing… Everything seems to be falling back into place apart from the one thing – my writing.”

She ran her hands over her face, frustration kicking in yet again.

“Maybe you lack inspiration,” Vincent suggested. “Although…”

“Yes, although I see inspiration around me every day. In the faces of the people on the street, in the stories I hear people talk about, in ordinary things I come across daily, in my own life.”

“But you feel you lost the ability to weave a web around that inspiration.”

“Yes!” she sighed and shook her head. “Vincent, what am I to do? I’m full of untold stories which I would love to bring into the world, but I don’t know how…”

Her friend smiled. “I don’t pretend to know everything and I don’t have a guaranteed way how to fight it. I can only tell you what I did.”

Her eyes were willing him to continue.

“I imagined I was talking to Catherine… There were so many things I still wanted to tell her that somehow, in my mind, I created an alternative reality for myself, where I felt safer and could think clearly again… When I wrote into my journal, I imagined I was talking to her, and suddenly the words began flowing again.”

He paused; then his expression turned from melancholy into fondness and the small, gentle smile returned to his face.

“When you feel like writing next time, imagine you are sitting with the children at the story-telling hour. Imagine their faces, eagerly waiting for a new adventure. Imagine them asking you questions, moving the story forward, and absorbing the lesson the story teaches them.” He put his large warm hand over hers in encouragement. “Make it real.” His eyes focused on hers for a moment, letting her sink in his words. Then he pulled his hand back and went quiet.

Michele observed him for a brief while, thinking of how only a handful of people in her more than forty years spent on earth had ever managed to motivate her the way Vincent always did. She still wasn’t sure it would work, but she felt much more confident in trying it out. After all, she couldn’t let the children down…

If Vincent could overcome it, I can too.

“Thank you,” she expressed her genuine gratuity to her dear friend. “You never fail to find the right words.”

He chuckled. “You will find them too. I have no doubts about that.”

He stood up to leave but turned back to his friend.

“Catherine is helping William with dinner tonight,” he remarked. “Her cooking skills are improving with every passing day. I think she would be more than happy to have one more diner.”

Her happy smile was an answer on its own. “Then I shall not want to miss it.”

She joined him with a spring in her step, and for the first time in a long while, the weight of the world on her shoulders seemed much lighter.

※※※※※

13 MONTHS LATER

“If you keep looking at me like that I won’t get far tonight,” Catherine said, quirking her lips, as she was putting mascara on her eyelashes.

Vincent lowered his eyes, smiling. He was leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, his arms folded over his wide chest. They were spending their weekend in the brownstone again. Jacob and little Charles were staying with their Grandfather and aunt Mary - and loving it.

Vincent had been watching his wife putting on make-up, strangely fascinated by the whole, delicate process, carefully watching her every move. Catherine wore very little make-up in the last few years, so that night was a special treat for her as well.

”It’s like watching an artist at work, handling their brush with precision and care, creating a masterpiece, although... you are beautiful even without it,” he said then, genuinely impressed. “I’m sorry, Catherine, I will try to keep my fascination for myself,” he added then, turning more practical.

Catherine smiled and reached for her petal pink lipstick. “I think we rather leave the masterpieces to Mr Da Vinci or van Gogh. They were the true artists,” she said with a smile, nevertheless appreciating his compliment.

Vincent was about to comment but his gaze was suddenly drawn to her full lips as she glided the lipstick along them. He swallowed hard, drawn like a moth to a flame to her reflection in the mirror, suddenly overcome by something more than just spiritual love. However, he managed to compose himself and averted his eyes.

Catherine has obligations tonight; I mustn’t distract her...

He tried to busy himself and reached for the volume of Blake’s poetry on the side table nearby.

Just as he was about to open it, Catherine’s hands snaked around his waist from behind, and she leaned into his back, making his muscles flex.

”You can distract me as much as you wish…,” she said dreamily, well aware of what he was thinking. “After I’m back,” she added cheerfully, pressed a kiss on his back before releasing him and walking away with a wink.

Vincent chuckled and shook his head, slowly following her downstairs.

”I’m so sorry you can’t go with me,” Catherine said then regretfully when she was putting on her coat over her navy blue, long-sleeved dress. “It would mean so much to her, especially since you are the one who’d helped her to get back into writing again.”

”Michele knows I’ll be there in spirit,” Vincent replied with a smile. “This is her day and she should enjoy it. She worked really hard.”

“I’m sure she will, don’t you worry, especially if Jenny has that special surprise for her that she mentioned to me. She wouldn't tell me what it is, but I hope it's no nightclub visit. We’re talking about a children’s book, and I still remember the fiasco last time.” Catherine reached for her handbag by the front door. Seeing Vincent’s eyebrows up and his amused smile, she rolled her eyes, chuckling. “Don't ask. You know Jenny.”

Yes, Vincent knew Jenny, and he was grateful for it. And he was also grateful when Catherine leaned into him, her small hands on his chest, and pressed a lingering kiss on his unusual lips.

”I won’t be long,” she whispered, seeing the dilated pupils of his sapphire-blue eyes.

”Don’t worry… about me, Catherine,” Vincent said with great effort and kissed her back, unable to resist. “I will be fine… waiting for you.”

Catherine chuckled and reluctantly left his arms, which somehow found their way around her frame within those few seconds. They had so little time without their children that every moment they were allowed to spend alone was very intense and extremely enjoyable. After all, poetry, music and arts aren’t the only pleasures worth exploring…

”That’s my cab,” Catherine remarked, hearing the hoot outside.

One last loving gaze between them, and then Catherine walked out into the evening New York, closing the door behind her.

Vincent remained on his spot for a moment, savouring the brief tender moment from not even a minute ago. Then he sighed, thinking how extremely blessed he was to have her in his life.

His eyes found the book lying next to the antique lamp on the small table next to him. Its light-blue cover with an illustration of a little girl in an oversized sweater and a long skirt, wearing glasses and holding a book made him smile. He reached for it and opened it, and without drawing his eyes away from the cover, he walked into the living room and sat down on his large upholstered armchair. An old free-standing lamp with a wide, orange-coloured shade right next to him cast a pleasant amber light. His fingers found the first page of the book in his hands. He smiled at the dedication ("To Vincent"), and for the second time that week, he started reading the same lines.

“Dear children, let me tell you a story...”