‘I never found him remotely sexy,’ said Robin, but then the spirit of truthfulness unleashed by the champagne forced her to add, ‘Not for ages.’
‘No,’ said Ilsa. ‘I think he was ahead of you there. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, Robin, I saw the way he was looking at you at your birthday dinner. Why d’you think he didn’t tell you he was seeing this Madeline person?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I do,’ said Ilsa. ‘It’s because he doesn’t want you to feel free to go and shag CID officers. He wants to get his end away while you stay available and he decides whether he can afford the consequences of another lunge.
‘I’ve known Corm since we were both five and bloody Dave Polworth was pulling my hair in the playground. You never met his Aunt Joan. I loved her, everyone did, but she was the polar opposite of his mother. Joan ran a tight ship, it was all about the manners and buttoned-up behaviour and not shaming the family. Then Leda used to turn up and snatch him back and let him do whatever the hell he liked while she got stoned in London. He spent his life bouncing between two extremes: man of the house and too much responsibility whenever he was with Leda, but little boy who had to mind his Ps and Qs when he was with Joan. It’s no wonder he’s got very odd ideas about relationships.
‘But you,’ said Ilsa, staring shrewdly at Robin through her glasses, ‘you’re something entirely novel for Corm. You don’t need fixing. You fixed yourself. You also like him just the way he is.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Robin. ‘Not this evening.’
‘D’you want him to give up the job? D’you think he ought to settle down and have a couple of kids and start driving a Range Rover and join the PTA?’
‘No,’ said Robin, ‘because the agency wouldn’t be what it is without him.’
‘The agency,’ repeated Ilsa, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Honestly, you’re just like him.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The job comes first. Listen to yourself. “The agency wouldn’t be what it is.” My God, he’s lucky to have you. I don’t think he’s ever met any other woman who has wanted him to be free to do what he does best.’
‘What about all these women who find out how sexy he is after an hour in his company?’
‘Once they get past an hour, or a week, he starts pissing them off,’ said Ilsa. ‘He’d piss me off. The weird thing is, I don’t think he’d piss you off, if you two ever get there… what else d’you know about this woman he’s dating?’
‘Only that her name’s Madeline Courson-Miles and she’s a jewellery designer. She must be successful. Charlotte’s done some modelling for her new collection.’
Ilsa pulled her phone out of her bag and searched for the name. Robin, who wasn’t sure she wanted to see the results, drained her second glass.
‘Found her,’ said Ilsa, peering down at her phone. ‘Oh, for God’s sake – look at her!’
She passed the phone across the table. Robin looked down at beautiful, beaming, tousle-haired Madeline, who was standing between two supermodels, all three of them holding glasses of champagne.
‘Can’t you see it?’ asked Ilsa impatiently.
‘See what?’
‘Robin, she looks just like you!’
Robin started to laugh.
‘Ilsa—’
‘She does!’ said Ilsa, pulling her phone out of Robin’s hand to examine the picture of Madeline again. ‘Same hair colour, same—’
‘When have you ever seen me wear leather trousers and a silver lamé shirt open to my navel?’
‘Well, admittedly you couldn’t get away with the shirt,’ said Ilsa. ‘Your boobs are too big. So that’s Ellacott two, Courson-Miles nil, for a start.’
Robin laughed harder.
‘Ilsa, will you please drink your champagne? I don’t want to be the only one pressing the button.’
Ilsa hesitated, then said quietly,
‘I can’t. I’m pregnant.’
‘What?’
Robin knew that Ilsa and Nick had been trying for years to have a baby and that their final round of IVF had failed.
‘Ilsa, that’s wonderful! I thought you said you weren’t going to do another—?’
‘It happened naturally,’ said Ilsa, now looking tense. ‘But it won’t last. It never lasts. Three rounds of IVF, three miscarriages. It’ll go wrong, it always does.’
‘How far on are you?’
‘Nearly twelve weeks.’
‘What does Nick—?’
‘He doesn’t know,’ said Ilsa. ‘You’re the only one I’ve told.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t stand going through it all again,’ said Ilsa. ‘The hope and then it ending… there’s no need for Nick to suffer.’
‘But if you’re nearly at twelve—’
‘Don’t,’ said Ilsa firmly. ‘I can’t – Robin, I’m forty. Even if it sticks around, there might be something wrong with it.’
‘So you haven’t been for a scan or anything?’
‘I’m not staring at some tiny little wriggling blob that’ll never make it, what’s the point? I’ve done that before and it half killed me… Not again.’
‘How far along were you when you lost the others?’
‘Eight weeks, the first one, and ten the other two. Don’t look at me like that. Just because this one’s clung on an extra fortnight…’
‘And if you’re still pregnant in another two weeks? A month?’
‘Well, then… then I suppose I’ll have to tell Nick,’ said Ilsa. Then, looking suddenly panicked, she said, ‘Don’t tell—’
‘Of course I won’t tell Strike, what d’you take me for?’
‘You drink it,’ said Ilsa, pushing the full glass across the table.
Their starters arrived. As Robin took her first bite of pâté, Ilsa said,
‘What’s this CID guy like, who just asked you out?’
‘He was tall and I think he was quite nice-looking, but we were talking about murder, so, you know… that was uppermost in my mind.’
‘Ring him back. Say you’d like the drink.’
‘No,’ said Robin firmly. ‘He probably thinks I’m special needs after the conversation we just had.’
‘How are you going to get past the “I’ve only ever been with one man” thing unless you actually date some other people? It’s only a drink. You aren’t risking much with a drink. You never know what might come of it.’
Robin looked at her friend, eyes narrowed.
‘And I’m sure making Strike jealous is the last thing on your mind.’
‘Well,’ said Ilsa with a wink, ‘I wouldn’t say it’s the last.’
29
I have been a witch’s prey,
Art mine enemy now by day,
Thou fell Fear? There comes an end
To the day; thou canst not wend
After me where I shall fare…
By ten o’clock Strike, who’d just eaten the stir-fry that was his go-to when he couldn’t think of anything else to cook, was lying on his bed in his attic room, still fully dressed, belt loosened and trouser button undone, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, a triple measure of his favourite single malt sitting on the small table beside him and Robin’s printed-out notes on the Pen of Justice blog next to him on the bed.