Chapter One

Amy Pond was at a work Christmas party, and very, very uncomfortable.

Yes, she loved her job as a photojournalist for Gallifrey. Yes, she'd gone at the insistence of her cousin River, who thought she didn't get out enough. Yes, she'd thought it might be fun.

But she didn't know anyone there.

Amy had never realized that she was so devoted to her work that she'd never made friends at work. Well, she was paying the price for that now, she thought wryly, looking around the room at all the vaguely-familiar faces.

So there she stood, feeling more uncertain than she'd been on her first day here – and that was saying something – and wondering if it had really been worth it to come. She was on the verge of calling her boyfriend Rory to come get her when she remembered that they weren't really on speaking terms.

oOoOo

Amy's mobile was ringing.

She had ignored it the past two times it had gone off – she was, after all, working on editing some very important photographs – but the third time was when she caved. She reached across her desk and snatched it up, flipping it open and holding it up to her ear without bothering to check who it was. "Hello?"

"Amy, where are you?" came Rory's voice. He sounded very, very concerned. "This is the third time I've called!"

"I'm workin' at home," she said irritably, running a hand through her long ginger hair. "Where else would I be?"

It was several seconds before Rory replied. "…At DelGiano's. Where I made reservations. For our date. At seven o'clock." His voice was short – not blatantly angry, that wasn't Rory's style – but terse. "It's ten, Amy. I've been waiting for three hours."

Amy jumped. "Oh my God! I'm so sorry, Rory! I just…" She fumbled for words. "I…"

"You forgot. Again. Yeah, I know," he said.

She bit her lip. "Rory, I'm sorry."

"Of course you are," he muttered, and Amy barely caught the words through the phone.

"I really am!" she insisted. "I just have a lot of work to catch up on, and…" She trailed off. She knew she'd used that excuse before.

"I have work too, you know, Amy," he said, and she could hear his frustration. "I had to trade shifts with Brodsky to make this date possible. Now I have a night shift to – you know what, forget it. It's not like you care."

She gritted her teeth, leaning back in her chair. "Why would you think I don't care?"

He gave a little chuckle of disbelief. "Because apparently a bunch of pictures and a paycheck are more important."

She tensed. She was this close to losing her temper, and she – "I'm really sorry, Rory. I'll make it up to you, yeah? We'll go out again." She knew how strained her voice sounded, but she hoped he wouldn't notice.

"Yeah? Just like we'll go to Paris sometime, too. Just like you'll come to meet my family sometime. I know how you prioritize things, Amy. I'm always at the bottom of the list."

Amy held the phone away from her and took a deep breath through clenched teeth. She felt like screaming, but she would stay controlled. She would.

With another deep breath, she brought her mobile back to her ear. "Rory? I'm gonna hang up now, okay?" She was trying to keep her voice very, very calm.

It wasn't working.

"I'll talk to you later," she added.

"Yeah, fine," Rory replied numbly. Before he hung up, even though he was angry and slighted, he ended the call in his customary way. "Love you. Bye."

Then came the click as he hung up.

oOoOo

"Where is your camera?" a woman's voice asked suddenly.

Amy blinked, and suddenly she was back at her work. The Christmas party. Right. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked you where your camera is," the woman said.

Amy looked up at her. "S'in my car," she replied. "Wait, aren't you –"

The woman held up a badge. "Harriet Jones, Editor-in-Chief," she stated firmly, then put it away. "You are one of our photojournalists, are you not?"

"I – I am," she stammered. "I didn't know I needed to bring my camera in…"

"You always have your camera on you. Understand? You eat with your camera. You sleep with your camera. Your camera is your life."

Amy blinked again, swallowing. "Uh… y-yes, ma'am," she said awkwardly.

Harriet Jones suddenly smiled. "That said, there's someone I'd like to introduce you to."

Amy perked up. "Okay, lead the way." Maybe this was her chance to make her first friend at work.

Harriet Jones led her over to a high table where a man sat – or lounged, rather. "Mr. David Smith, this is the young photojournalist I was telling you about. Amelia Pond, this is Mr. Smith, the head photojournalist."

Amy resisted the urge to bite her lip as she looked at Mr. Smith. He was lanky and seemed tall, probably three or four inches taller than herself. He had a shock of brown hair that looked like it usually stuck out everywhere, but was at the moment mostly slicked down. He was wearing a creamy white suit, a white Oxford, a pink-and-blue swirly tie, and thick black glasses, which he removed as he glanced up at her. His dark brown eyes narrowed.

"You didn't tell me she was a woman," he commented to Harriet Jones, as if Amy wasn't standing right there. His voice was low, faintly tinged with a Scottish brogue, and a little rough, like he'd been shouting lately.

Amy stiffened. "You didn't say I was a woman?" she said incredulously, turning to Harriet Jones.

"A minor omission," she brushed it off. "It doesn't matter on a business level, not in this day and age. Why, a woman could become Prime Minister if she wanted to!"

Mr. Smith did not look impressed. "Uh-huh."

Harriet Jones glared at him. "I am still your boss, Mr. Smith, as you'd do well to remember." She was about to continue, but someone called for her, and with an "excuse me" she hurried off.

Amy stood there for a second, fidgeting. Get it together, Pond, she thought. You're not a teenager anymore. Just because he's hot… and anyway, you've got Rory. She wasn't sure about this last part, but it helped a bit – enough to get her to speak, anyway.

"Hello."

Mr. Smith barely glanced at her. "Don't bother. Harriet always has big plans for people who can't achieve them." He swirled his drink in the bottom of his glass.

Amy's face flushed. "Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure I can't?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

He raised his glass up, but looked at her before drinking. "'Cause you're just like the rest: small town girl with big city dreams. You'll never make it." He downed a mouthful. "An' besides," he added, setting down his glass, "you're Scottish."

"What does being Scottish have to do with it?!"

He snapped his fingers, pointing at her. "Exactly."

Amy was disliking this man more and more as they talked.

She scowled. "I'll tell you, Mr. Smith, that I am perfectly confident in my abilities as a photojournalist. And you shouldn't go putting me down just 'cause I'm Scottish. An' anyway, have you even seen any of my work?"

He smiled slowly, then chuckled. "Then again, maybe you do have some potential."

She laughed, sardonic. "Yeah, maybe."

Mr. Smith tilted his head from side to side, considering. "That's a very big maybe, though."

"Well, you'll just have to give me a chance, then." She sat down beside him.

He looked at her, eyes narrow, as if he was trying to work out something in his head. She stared back, not at all intimidated by his intense gaze.

Okay, maybe she was a little intimidated.

But she wasn't one to let things like that show.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Maybe," he said, mostly to himself.