Page 400 of The Hallmarked Man
Strike didn’t say anything.
‘You don’t propose like that, shouting at a woman on the stairs, because her boyfriend’s about to ask,’ said Pat.
‘I didn’t mean – it just came out.’
‘Well, don’t go tellingherthat,’ said Pat sharply. ‘Bad enough, without backtracking.’
Strike emitted a low groan and put his head in his hands. If he’d been looking at her, Strike might have seen a slight softening of Pat’s simian face.
‘You can’t expect her to say it back tonight, can you?’
‘Why not?’
‘For a clever man, you can’t half be thick,’ said Pat, exasperated. ‘What’s she supposed to do, when her boyfriend’s waiting for her round the corner with a ring in his pocket? Anyway, you’ve messed her around, haven’t you?’
‘How’ve I—?’
‘You waited till another man wants to marry her before saying anything. ’Course she thinks you’re saying it to stop her going off.’
‘I didn’t plan it this way.’
‘Need a new plan, then, don’t you?’ said Pat bracingly. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got people coming over for bridge.’
She turned and departed, closing the door behind her. Strike was left looking at the glass panel, on which was etchedStrike and Ellacott Detective Agency.
This wasn’t like waking up in hospital minus half his leg, nor was it like finding out that Charlotte had killed herself. This time, he was no mere victim of fate: he himself had voluntarily brought about the seismic and possibly catastrophic change. Staring at the door, it occurred to him that while he’d always considered himself master of his own destiny, he’d really been good at rolling with punches he’d been forced to take. Three times, in his entire life, he’d made a conscious, unforced, life-changing decision he could blame on nobody and nothing else.
The first time, he’d crossed a crowded room as a student at Oxford, drunk and expecting a rebuff, to talk to the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The second, he’d started this detective agency, braving humiliation and financial ruin to do it. Tonight was the third. He’d finally, and perhaps too late, found something he wanted more than solitude and safety, and he supposed all he could do now was wait to find out whether Robin Ellacott decided whether she wanted it, too.
The phone on the desk in front of him began to ring. Strike let the answering service get it. As he dragged his vape pen from his pocket, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The black fish called Cormoran was again flailing helplessly at the top of the tank.
‘Stupid arsehole,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve done it to your fucking self.’
The phone stopped ringing. Strike sat in the silence for anotherminute, vaping, then pushed himself into a standing position, ear and knee both throbbing. In the absence of anything else he could do to improve his present situation, he set off for the attic to fetch the empty margarine tub, and some peas.
