There were only two unoccupied seats left when Robin and Strike reached the table.  Strike dropped his hand from where it had rested on the small of Robin’s back and stepped ahead of her; in an uncharacteristically chivalrous gesture, he pulled out one of the empty chairs and stood beside it, waiting for Robin to take her seat. She thought that she could see a spark of mischief in his eyes, and the twitching corner of his mouth indicated that he was trying to hide a smile; what was he planning? As she murmured her thanks and moved to sit down, Strike caught her hand in his. In one smooth gesture, he raised the back of her hand to his lips and brushed it with a brief, chaste kiss.

A frisson of shock shot through Robin at the touch of Cormoran’s lips on her skin; she fell the rest of the way into her chair, trying desperately to keep her features arranged in a neutral expression as Cormoran took his own seat and turned to introduce himself to the middle-aged woman sitting on his other side. What on earth was Strike playing at? He had kissed her hand before, of course, just the once; but they had been alone, and she had written the old-fashioned gesture off as a bit of eccentricity, an expression of his jubilation at solving the Quine case. To repeat the gesture here, in front of a table full of people including her ex-husband; it made it seem as though – oh. Oh.

In an instant, the shape of Strike’s plan had become clear, and Robin felt a thrill of excitement and admiration. She knew that nothing, nothingwould infuriate Matthew more than believing that Strike and Robin had become a couple; somehow, whether by accident or intuition, Strike had struck upon the perfect means of provoking the accountant. Robin had to stifle a sudden giggle at the sight of Matthew across the table, his expression stony as he stared fixedly at the drink he was holding. Strike had said to follow his lead… well, surely she could do better than just following.

The woman sitting next to Strike, who had introduced herself at Peggy, had launched into a lengthy explanation of her connection to the bride; as far as Strike could gather, they were co-workers, along with several others at the table – but Peggy seemed to feel that the intricacies of their office’s politics needed a full explanation. Strike was trying to feign polite interest in the story of Livvy’s promotion – accompanied by several interjections and corrections from Alice, another middle-aged woman sitting on the other side of Peggy – when he felt a soft touch on his right hand, where it rested casually on top of the table. He glanced over at Robin; she had placed her hand on top of his, interlacing their fingers. She smiled sweetly at him, her bright eyes telling him plainly, and to his relief, that she understood the game.

Turning his attention back to Peggy, he realized that she had continued her introductions, reaching the couple sitting directly opposite Strike and Robin.

“And this is Sarah, and – I’m sorry, I don’t remember…” Peggy trailed off, but Strike helpfully filled in the blank for her.

“Matthew,” he said pleasantly, nodding in acknowledgement.

Matthew returned the nod stiffly, but said nothing.

“Oh, do you know each other?” This was one of the other young women at the table, whose name Strike hadn’t caught.

“We’re old friends,” Strike answered pleasantly, looking levelly at Matthew, who met his gaze for a moment before looking away. His face flushed with anger, but he didn’t contradict Strike, perhaps realizing that he couldn’t do so without coming off as rude. Sarah, on the other hand, leaned forward eagerly and offered her hand to the detective.

 “So, I finally get to meet the famous Cormoran Strike,” she said, as Strike shook her hand. She lowered her voice and continued, conspiratorially, “Robin could never stop talking about you.” She winked.

Robin had to bite back an angry retort at this; she had forgotten just how irritating she found Sarah’s cloying charm and tendency towards shit-stirring. Strike, as though he could sense her fury, gave her fingers – still entangled with his – a gentle squeeze. He had answered Sarah politely enough, but Robin could detect the very slight edge of irony in his voice that told her he wasn’t at all impressed by the woman. It was this, more than anything else, which helped Robin tamp down her anger and hike a smile back onto her face.

Sarah’s gaze, which had been sweeping up and down in a thorough assessment of Strike’s massive frame, lingered for a moment on their intertwined hands.

“So, you two are together now?” she asked, with a sly, sidelong glance at Matthew, who had remained stubbornly silent throughout.

“That’s right,” Strike said. “For – what was it – two months?” he glanced over at Robin, as though seeking confirmation.

“Three,” she said firmly.

At that, the father of the bride stood up to give a welcoming speech, cutting off the conversation at their table. In a few moments more, a waiter appeared at Robin’s elbow, appetizer in hand. She felt a disconcerting pang of regret at letting go of Strike’s hand; his grip had been warm, and somehow comforting.

Though Robin was used to Strike’s taciturn nature, she was also well aware that he could be charming when he chose. As their table tucked into dinner, however, she began to realize that she had never before seen him go at full steam, as it were. Alice and Peggy, upon realizing that he was that Cormoran Strike, had begun to pelt him with questions. Instead of brushing them off, though, as Robin had seen him do dozens of times before, he seemed to be encouraging them, volunteering information about their work that had the ladies gasping.

By the time the main course had arrived, Strike had begun telling stories to the entire table in vivid style, stories which elicited, alternately, roaring laughter or exclamations of delicious horror. Matthew was the only one who did not seem to find Strike entertaining. Robin, who had attended numerous dinners with the accountant over the years that they had been together, knew that he was accustomed to dominating group conversations; now, he was eating in almost sullen silence, stabbing at his food with unnecessary vigour.

At the same time as he was enthralling the table, however, Strike was apparently taking great pains to – and she could think of no other term for it – show Robin off. He would turn to her for confirmation of certain details that he claimed not to remember, or would insist that she take over a story because she told it better than he did; between courses, he would rest his arm along the back of her seat, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, only inches from hers. At one point, while waiting for the waiters to clear their dishes, Strike had begun to absentmindedly trace patterns on her bare upper arm with his thumb. This had made Robin shiver, goosebumps rising along her arms, and he had seemed to come to himself; with a cough, he had shifted in his seat and dropped his hand back to his beer.

It was embarrassing to admit, but Robin could feel herself blossoming – just thinking the word made her cringe inwardly – under the force of his attention. She wondered if this was how he always behaved around his girlfriends; it would certainly explain what she had always perceived as his bizarre ability to pull the most beautiful women. She had an inkling, though, that this wasn’t the case, that it was entirely for Matthew’s benefit; she caught his eyes occasionally flickering past the accountant, as though gauging the effect that his performance was having.

It felt to Robin as though they were undercover, sharing a secret, united against the rest of the world. It became a game, as the partners tried to one-up each other in ostentatious displays of affection. Strike poured Robin a glass of wine, which he presented to her with a flourish; Robin insisted on feeding Strike a piece of chicken from her fork – he had, of course, chosen the steak for himself. Strike tucked an errant wave of hair behind Robin’s ear; she fetched him another bottle of beer from the bar and gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek when she delivered it. Robin, who appeared to have made fast friends with the young gay couple on her right side, told them at length about the romantic – and entirely fictional – vacation that they had taken to Rome; Strike briefly considered staging a dramatic proposal of marriage, but decided on balance that it would probably be in poor taste.

 “You two are just so sweet,” Alice – or Peggy, Robin was a little unclear as to which was which – said earnestly, leaning forward over her pudding. “You remind me of Will and Kate.”

Seeing Strike’s dubious expression, Alice-or-Peggy clarified,

“You know, there are just some couples that you can tell are going to go the distance,” she explained. “I’m a little bit psychic, you know. I can always tell.”

For the first time that evening, Strike appeared to be at a loss for words. Robin came to his rescue.

“That is so sweet of you to say.”

“Yes, Will and Kate are one,” she continued, “and you two are definitely another. It’s so wonderful that you get to work together. I wish we could all be so lucky.” She sighed dramatically; Robin guessed that the woman had been less than lucky in love.

Robin chose her next words carefully, aware of Matthew listening intently across the table.

“You know, it was really the work that brought us together,” she said, reaching over to clasp Strike’s hand again, smiling fondly over at him. “All the late nights, the surveillance… I guess it was just inevitable.” At this, both of the older women pressed their hands to their chests, making identical high-pitched murmurs of appreciation and envy at the romance of it all; Matthew’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood up, announcing that he would go fetch a round for the table.

As she turned back to her own pudding, Robin realized that there was a slightly uncomfortable truth in what she had just said, even though she had crafted her words solely to annoy Matthew. It had been during a stakeout – now that she thought about it, it actually was about three months ago – that she first realized that her feelings towards Strike had grown beyond the bounds of partnership, beyond even those of friendship. They had been parked in the Land Rover a few doors down from the building they were watching; Strike had said something, she couldn’t remember what, that had made her laugh – harder than she’d laughed in months, made her laugh until tears came to her eyes. When she had managed to bring herself under control, she had looked over at him, and he was smiling at her, his face soft with genuine affection. Quite suddenly, her stomach had fluttered in a way she hadn’t felt in years, not since she was a teenager.

The Land Rover had seemed to grow physically smaller; she had become, in an instant, acutely aware of his massive body so close to hers, and at the same moment realized that she wanted to kiss him, wanted to close the small distance between them and discover how it would feel to press herself against him, to be wrapped in his strong arms. She hadn’t done anything of the sort, of course. She had wrestled down the surprisingly strong urge and continued the stakeout, a consummate professional.

Strike had appeared oblivious to the sudden tension she felt. She’d watched him closely in the days that followed, and he’d acted in much the same way as he always had, treating her as a friend, a partner, but in that blokey way that showed he was barely even aware that she was a woman, let alone a romantic prospect. Robin, though, aware now of her attraction to him, had begun to explore her own feelings – and had been slightly horrified to discover that they ran much deeper than she had realized.

 Looking at Strike now, explaining some aspect of detective work to Peggy-and-Alice around a mouthful of cheesecake, she finally admitted to herself the fact that she had been avoiding; she had fallen in love with her partner, with her best friend, and she didn’t know what the hell she was going to do about it. Bugger.

The pudding finished, and speeches underway, Strike decided that it was an auspicious time to excuse himself for a cigarette. He stepped out on to the patio, nodding to the small group of similarly exiled smokers as he lit up. He leaned against the balustrade as he smoked, enjoying the feel of the cool air against his forehead; he had begun to feel almost feverish, his skin burning where Robin’s touches, brief though they had been, had seared themselves into his flesh. You’re a fucking idiot, he told himself. He was in way over his head. He never should have suggested this game, nor should he have allowed it to get so far; but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He had known that Robin was a skilled actress, had seen her become numerous different characters to winkle information out of reluctant witnesses, but her performance tonight was on another level entirely. He had found it entirely too easy to sink into the fantasy that they had constructed; to imagine himself free to touch Robin whenever he wanted, to believe that he would take her home with him at the end of the evening rather than seeing her safely to a cab and sleeping alone in his empty flat.

He looked in through the open door, taking a deep drag of his smoke, and saw Matthew and Sarah by the bar; they appeared to be in the middle of a heated argument. From his position, he could see Robin as well, chatting animatedly to someone out of his sight, cheeks red and eyes sparkling, possibly due to the fact that she’d just finished her second glass of champagne. It’s worth it, Strike thought. Even if this stupid game only lasted one night, and even if it made it more difficult for him to repress his growing feelings, gave him a taste of what he desired and then yanked it away, it was worth it to see Robin as she was now, smiling and beautiful, and – for one night – to be able to pretend to himself and the world that she was his.

He dropped his cigarette on the stone floor of the patio and ground it out with his heel. As he headed back inside, moving carefully through the crowded room, he pondered what the next absurd escalation of their fake relationship can consist of. He laughed to himself; sickening pet names would do the trick, he decided.

He made it back to the table just as the last of the speeches mercifully concluded and the lights dimmed, bride and groom stepping out for their first dance to a slow, soulful melody. As he sat down, he reached out to twine a strand of Robin’s golden hair between his fingers; something deep inside him shuddered as she looked around at him and smiled, leaning slightly into his touch.

“I’m back, Kiwi,” he said, smirking at her in what he thought was probably quite a nauseating fashion. He could see her struggling to keep a straight face. She leaned in further so that she could murmur in his ear.

“Kiwi?”

“It’s a bird,” he whispered back. “Like a robin. It’s from Australia.”

“It’s from New Zealand,” she corrected him. “And it’s absolutely ridiculous.”

He considered this, then shook his head.

“Nah. Ridiculous would have been calling you my little blue-footed booby.”

She snorted with laughter at this.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he breathed.

Sarah, who had been watching this exchange, leaned forward a little unsteadily, clutching what Strike thought might be her fourth glass of wine.

 “So, has it really only been three months since you two got together?” Her voice was louder than was truly necessary to be heard over the music, which had moved to another crooning love song as the dance floor opened up to the crowd.

“What do you mean?” Robin said sharply, jerking back in her seat – she hadn’t realized just how close she had been to Strike.

“Well, come on,” Sarah coaxed, “you’d been working together for so long, it seems a little unbelievable that this only happened so recently.”

“Well, it did.” The smile had dropped entirely from Robin’s face; she looked furious, now, at the insinuation that she had been the unfaithful one in her marriage.

“I mean, Matthew was so broken up when you two split,” Sarah continued, a little recklessly; Matthew himself did not look too pleased at the direction that the conversation was taking. “He was really committed to making it work, you know.”

Turning to look at Strike, as though confiding in him, Sarah drove her point home.

“You know, Cormoran, if someone cheats once they’ll always do it again.”

The sheer hypocrisy of this statement struck Robin silent, but only for a moment; Strike could feel it as she gathered herself in fury, and guessed that this had been one straw too many. He had only a moment in which to act, to avert what was about to officially become A Scene; he stood up abruptly and reached down to take Robin’s hand.

“C’mon. Let’s dance.” He tugged at Robin’s hand and she looked up at him, her surprise momentarily overwhelming her outrage.

“You don’t want to dance!”

“I asked, didn’t I?” He tugged again and Robin gave in, placing the napkin from her lap on the table as she stood, allowing Strike to lead her around the table.

“Can you dance?” Matthew muttered nastily as they passed, looking pointedly down at Strike’s right leg. Strike heard Robin, standing beside him, gasp; he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder in an apparent gesture of friendliness and leaned down.

“I think I can just about manage to sway back and forth without looking like a complete tit, thanks.” He clapped the man’s shoulder once and then pulled Robin, furious once more, away from the table and on to the dance floor.

He was already holding one of her hands in his; he used his free hand to grasp her at the waist and pulled her closer. He could feel her trembling in anger, could see that she was still glaring back at the table. With somewhat ill grace, she rested a hand on Strike’s shoulder, falling into sync as they swayed together to the music. Strike marvelled once more, for only a moment, at how perfectly she fit into his arms, only a few inches shorter than him in her lofty heels.

“I’m going to kill both of them,” she stated flatly. “I mean it.”

“If you’re going to commit murder,” he replied, trying not to smile at her agitation, “then you should probably wait until there aren’t quite so many witnesses.”

Robin couldn’t help her begrudging smile at this.

“If anyone could get away with murder, I think it would probably be us.”

“Every murderer thinks that, Robin.” She could practically feel him rolling his eyes at her; but the teasing banter had allowed some of her tension to drain away. They danced in silence, Robin gradually relaxing into Strike’s hold.

“I should feel bad for this,” she murmured eventually. “For deliberately antagonizing Matthew. It’s not exactly taking the high road, is it?”

“But you don’t? Feel bad, that is?” Strike looked down at her, searching her eyes for signs of regret.

 “I’ve been having too much fun to feel guilty,” she confessed. Strike snorted in laughter and, impulsively, Robin leaned forward to rest her head against his chest, cheek pressing against the lapel of his Italian suit. He stopped laughing abruptly, and she felt the hand at her waist flex; but he said nothing, and they continued to turn slowly on the spot, swaying in tempo to the music.

For Strike, time seemed to stretch and dilate. He felt almost dizzy, with Robin’s soft curves pressing up against him, her copper and gold head tucked under his chin; he could smell her delicate perfume, feel the vibration as she began to hum along with the music. He cleared his throat.

“Y’know, if we pretend to be madly in love for another two hours, Matthew might just have an aneurysm.” He knew it was a weak joke; he was not surprised when Robin did not immediately respond. After a beat, though, she pulled back to look him in the eye, her chin set in that familiar stubborn line, her eyes blazing as they did when she was about to do something truly reckless, something that she knew he would disapprove of. She was captivating; he couldn’t have looked away from her, even if he’d wanted to.

 “I don’t have to pretend.” Her voice was quiet, but clear; she held his gaze, and Strike felt all the air leave his lungs at once, as though he had been punched in the gut.

He could brush it off as a joke, he knew, and she would play along, and never speak of it again. They would return to being friends, and partners, and he could stand on solid ground. He wondered, suddenly, startled, if their partnership could truly survive such a rejection; it might create a distance between them that couldn’t be overcome, and he would be left with nothing.

She hadn’t looked away, but he could see the hesitation grow in her eyes, the embarrassed flush start to creep up her neck.

“Fuck it,” he breathed, and let go; and fell. He leaned down and kissed her. He swallowed her soft gasp of surprise; her lips tasted sweet, the flavours of champagne and chocolate mingling on her breath. She pressed herself insistently against him, humming softly in pleasure as she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, her tongue seeking his; and Strike felt the last shred of his self-control rip away.

He buried one hand in the hair at the nape of her neck; he pressed the other hand against her back, first crushing her against him, then moving to sweep up and down and across her bare skin. She moaned, her mouth hot against his, and he remembered suddenly that they were in public, in the middle of a crowded dance floor.

It took all his strength to wrench his lips from hers; but he managed it, and pulled back far enough to meet her eyes.

Robin was, for a moment, dazed; she could feel her chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. Strike’s hands were still on her back, still tangled in her hair. She was suddenly grateful for his arms supporting her, as she was not entirely sure that she could stand on her own. They had stopped moving, she realized; they were standing in the middle of the dance floor, staring at each other. When Strike finally spoke, his voice was husky.

“I’m not pretending either.”

Strike felt almost giddy with desire. He lifted his hands to smooth Robin’s hair away from her face. He was going to kiss her again, he realized, and very soon. Worse, he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop; it was going to be damn hard to run surveillance, he thought vaguely, with a partner that he could not stop kissing.

Robin, he realized, was speaking

“Would you like to head out? Go someplace quiet so we can,” she hesitated briefly. “-talk?”

“Quiet,” Strike repeated, his mind suddenly blank. Robin blushed and looked down.

“Back to the office, maybe, or-” she glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “your flat.”

Strike, mouth suddenly dry, nodded mutely. He followed her off the dance floor, trying desperately to gather his scattered wits. As he watched her collect her things and bid a general good night to the table, an unwelcome thought occurred to him.

He waited until they had walked out of earshot towards the exit to speak.

“If we leave, won’t Matthew think he’s ‘won’?” he asked, his tone carefully casual. Robin laughed softly, and reached down to lace her fingers through his.

“Turns out I don’t really give a damn about what Matthew thinks,” she said, and bumped his shoulder playfully with hers, as they stepped out together into the cool evening air.