pre-Strellacott
Robin had an overwhelming sense of deja vu as she supported Cormoran’s weight across the road to her flat, unspeaking. He limped heavily; he’d twisted his knee again, prosthetic foot slipping in the sludgy snow. Now he breathed heavily, angry with himself, loathe to thank her.
At least he’d called her this time, rather than a taxi, or his most recent girlfriend. She supposed that was only because he was single, and Ilsa was busy with the baby, and he was in parkland where a taxi couldn’t get. But she wished she wasn’t his last resort.
She tried to break the awkward silence once he was deposited mutinously on her sofa. She bustled around her kitchen, singing quietly to herself, unaware that she was getting louder, but determined to ignore him for as long as it took for him to speak.
Eventually, he did.
“Thanks, Robin,” he said gruffly. “I… I know you’re always there. I should let you in more. God knows you’ve let me in often enough.”
“That would be nice,” she said lightly. “You’re not in the army any more, or looking after Lucy and Leda. You’re allowed to ask for help sometimes. That’s what partners are for.”