The Art Of Loving
Chapter 1
Clara Oswald stuffed her pencils and her newly bought sketchbook into her bag and headed out of her apartment door when suddenly her phone started to ring. As she walked she searched her bag for it and eventually recovered it from the depths of her purse.
"Hey, Danny, what's up?" she asked, turning into the direction of the bus station.
"I was just wondering if you'll come to the pub tonight. It's karaoke night and I thought that was fun the last time," he asked.
"I'm sorry, I can't," she apologized, "My art class starts today. I'm already on my way."
"Where is it? Maybe you could join us at the pub afterwards."
"Yeah, maybe," Clara muttered, slightly distracted because just as she was walking around the corner she saw that her bus had arrived, "I'm sorry, Danny. Gotta go. Bye!"
Clara hung up, dashed towards the bus and jumped through the doors at the last second. Completely out of breath she fell into the first empty seat as the bus began to drive off into the direction of the Royal College of Art where her class would be taking place. She had been looking forward to it for weeks, having enrolled completely on a whim because, if Clara was quite honest, she was utterly bored with her own life.
It was a recent development but one that bothered her greatly. She used to be different. She used to be balanced and happy but lately her job as a teacher and her teacher friends were starting to weary her. Lately she had been feeling slightly on edge, moody even and Clara was starting to hate herself for that. Just the thought of hanging out with Danny and the other teachers at the pub like every Friday annoyed her. It was always the same. They talked about their work and their students, occasionally their private life and a couple of weeks ago, after a few drinks, Clara had confessed to a colleague about how she was feeling at the moment and her colleague had suggested that maybe she should find a new hobby.
The next day, after tending to her hangover, Clara had thought about it a little further and come to the conclusion that maybe it wasn't a stupid idea after all. As a teenager she had dabbled in drawing and painting and she had liked it even though her attempts had never really led anywhere. Yet she thought that maybe with some guidance she could become better at it and that was how Clara had found herself in front of her laptop, researching classes for drawing and painting. One class, taught by a man named John Smith at the Royal College of Art had caught her attention and a lucky coincidence of someone else dropping out had opened up a spot for Clara to fill.
She was excited about it, really excited and above all she was confident that channelling some of her energy into something creative would help her restless spirit calm down and relax. After all, Clara had too much spare time on her hands anyway ever since she and Danny had broken up.
She realized that this phase she was in had probably begun before the breakup because her discontent with a normal, boring relationship had been one of the reasons. She simply had always been one for adventure and excitement. Her first love, Nina, had been exciting because it had happened in secret. Clara had loved the mystery and the hiding and to this day her family didn't know that her best friend Nina had actually been her girlfriend Nina. However that relationship had ended when Nina had decided she wanted to go public. Clara hadn't been afraid or ashamed but she simply hadn't wanted that sort of relationship. Clara had realized that her love for Nina had lasted only as far as their secrecy. Her second love, a crazy Swedish boy with a name she couldn't even pronounce had been exciting as well. Together they had backpacked across Europe during their semester break until he had dumped her on Christmas Eve – but not before showing up naked to her parents' Christmas dinner. Clara had been heartbroken but the wounds had healed eventually. After him came Danny. Sweet, ordinary Danny, her colleague and friend. There had been no excitement there and six months later Clara had decided to end it because she had always thought she was better off alone than in a relationship that she knew was leading nowhere. Luckily Danny had taken it well and they still remained friends, even though Clara still caught him looking at her sometimes as if he was thinking about her in more than just a friendly manner.
Maybe, just maybe Clara would meet someone. It certainly wasn't the reason why she had enrolled in this art class and it had only crossed her mind later but dating an artist didn't seem like a such a bad thing. At least he or she would have a hobby and not be fixated on her the entire time like Danny had been.
Clara got off the bus at the Kensington Royal Albert Hall stop and turned around to corner to where the entrance of the college building was. Checking her phone again to make sure she remembered the right room number she soon found it. It was exactly like she had imagine it to be, a room filled with easels and stools and all the equipment one could possible need for drawing and painting, from canvases to sketchbooks to pencils and brushes in all shapes and sizes. There wasn't a spot on the wall that wasn't covered with a painting or drawing and Clara figured that these had all been done by students yet one painting stood out immediately and she found herself drawn to it. It showed a portrait of a sleeping woman with flaming red hair and the first thing Clara noticed was that every stroke was done masterfully. If a student had done this he or she must have had real talent.
When finally she was ready to look away Clara turned around and took a place in the back next to another young woman who seemed utterly nervous, jiggling her legs and apparently unable to sit still.
"I'm so excited," she said to her once Clara had sat down, "I'm such a fan of the Doctor and I was so lucky to finally get into his class. I've been on the waiting list for a year."
"The Doctor?" Clara raised an eyebrow, looking at the nervous woman.
She seemed dumbfounded now. "The Doctor? John Smith? The artist who is teaching this class? Oh, he's a genius!"
"Uhm," Clara spluttered, "Well, I know he's called John Smith."
"In the art world he calls himself The Doctor, that's how he signs all of his paintings and he is the best, trust me," with a sign she turned to the painting Clara had admired mere moments ago, "Ah, to be like her."
"Like who?" Clara asked but she never got an answer. The entire class turned their attention to the door and Clara turned around and saw him.
She felt as if some sort of electric shock had shot right through her stomach and Clara was sure that she was now blushing mercilessly. John Smith, the Doctor, was hot. No, he was more than that. He was handsome in the absolutely best of ways and Clara's heart immediately began to hammer against her chest.
"Good afternoon," he greeted them all with a smile, "My name is John Smith but if you like – and I would prefer it that way – you can call me the Doctor."
The Doctor wasn't just good looking, he was also very, very Scottish Clara soon realized and his deep, gravelly voice made her shiver.
The Doctor scanned the room with his gaze and stopped when he spotted her. He blinked, looking at his feet for a second before he turned back towards her and granted her an almost mischievous smile. Oh God, Clara must really be blushing and he must have noticed it.
As he went on to explain that he was actually an artist and teaching college students at this very facility but loved to give extra classes Clara found her attention soon drift off. His head was a tousled mess of grey curls, the kind that probably felt as soft as it looked, his face framed by an elegant pair of dark rimmed glasses and his chin showed the early stages of a beard. His clothes were dark and fitted, showing off his scrawny but strong looking figure and his hands. . . Clara thought that they must surely be the ones of an artist with long, elegant fingers (and no ring, as she noticed) and the thought of those fingers handling a brush made her mind wander to other places immediately. It took her less than five minutes to determine that she was utterly and undeniably attracted to him.
"Okay, and now to the subject that you all came here for," he announced, tearing Clara out of her daydream, "Art. Today I suggest we start with something easy and possibly slightly overdone. I don't want to bore you with theories of colours and shadow and light today. We can do that next week. So let's start with a pencil sketch instead."
The Doctor turned around and retrieved a basket filled with plastic fruit from one of the shelves, placing it in the centre of the room.
"You can use your own pencils or pick any of those lying around the room," the Doctor told them.
Clara rummaged around in her bag until she found her pencils and opened her sketchbook, yet after the first few strokes she heard a voice right next to hear.
"Uhm, Doctor," the woman next to her raised her hand, "I have a question."
Oh God, don't call him here. Don't call him here, Clara thought and straightened her back. She had been so glad to finally be able to concentrate on something other than the man in front of her.
"Could you have a look at this, please?" the woman asked and Clara bowed over her own sketchbook again so she wouldn't even be tempted to look at the Doctor from up close. She had come here to find a new hobby. Finding a man had been optional. And developing a crush on her art teacher had certainly not been the plan.
Among the sound of scribbling pencils Clara could hear the Doctor slowly step closer and when he came to a halt next to her she was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne. She inhaled deeply, but then decided to concentrate on her drawing instead.
"What's your name?" the Doctor asked in a low voice that seemed to resonate along her spine and made her stomach tingle. He was close. Too close. And all of a sudden it dawned on Clara that he was talking to her. She shot around.
"I, erm," she spluttered, "Clara. Clara Oswald."
She looked right at him, determined to keep a straight face despite the fact that the proximity made her nervous. He simply smiled at her.
"You have beautiful eyes, Clara Oswald."
The Doctor walked away, leaving her utterly perplexed and confused. What was that supposed to mean? Clara kept thinking about it throughout the entire class even though she had vowed to pay attention to her drawing and her apple ended up having more of a pear shape. She was about to rip out the page, crumple it and throw it away when the Doctor announced that for this day the class would be over and he would be seeing all of them in a week.
Of course the woman who had sat next to Clara packed her things in a hurry and rushed to the other side of the room to speak to the Doctor, making Clara take a mental note about not sitting next to her ever again while she packed her own pencils back into her bag, probably more slowly than she should have because the room was emptying quickly. When Clara turned to leave the Doctor was standing right behind her, hands in his pockets and smiling at her again.
"Oh my God, you scared me," Clara almost jumped up when she spotted him.
"I'm sorry," he replied with a smirk, "I didn't mean to do that, Clara Oswald."
She nodded and was about to make her way past him when the Doctor spoke again.
"Do you have plans for tonight, Clara?" he asked her.
"Uhm," the question caught her off guard, "No, not really. Why?"
The Doctor laughed, a little sheepishly. "I love your eyes. They're like amber when they catch the light. I would like to paint you. If you don't mind, of course."
Clara raised her eyebrows at him.
"Why don't you come to my place, uhm, let's say at 8? I live at Kensington Court, the little house squeezed into the corner. You really can't miss it."
"You want me to come to your house?" she asked in disbelief and suddenly it didn't sound like he just wanted to paint her at all. And if Clara was right about that the Doctor was moving pretty fast.
"Only if you don't mind," he laughed nervously, "But that is where I have my studio."
Clara considered it for a moment. She was definitely attracted to him. He seemed single. He appeared to be nice.
"Alright," Clara agreed before her brain had even processed her decision, "Kensington Court, house in the corner, I'll be there at 8."