There is an apple box in the bathroom. She has to stand on it to see her reflection in the mirror over the sink, as she teases her hair into something more bouffant for the evening. Still too short for a beehive, but rapid backcombing and judicious application of more hairspray makes her vaguely presentable.
"There's supper on the stove, yeah?" she calls.
Tom doesn't respond, either annoyed that she's straight in and out of the flat or lost in a scholarly dream. She can't tell which from in here. A slick of bright red lipstick, hastily blotted, and she's ready.
"Did you hear me?" she says, picking up her handbag from the sofa and hastily riffling through her arsenal. Address book, business cards, cigarette case and matches. The lipstick from her pocket and a tiny bottle of No 5. Umbrella in the stand by the door. Good to go.
"Don't go," he says, finally turning to look at her.
She makes a face. "C'mon, don't be that way. It's my job." She crosses to him, taking ink stained fingers in hand, brushing an errant curl back from his forehead. "I take it you had a bad day?" His desk is strewn with scraps of crumpled paper, scribblings out. The only pristine piece is the one loaded into his typewriter.
"I know I'm close," he says. "Stay with me. Talk to me. We'll crack it together, we always do."
"Oh, Tom." She's sorely tempted; always a sucker for those earnest blue eyes. "I promised Simon. We can talk when I'm back."
He pulls his hand free, colder now. "I'll be asleep."
His sulks pass like summer storms, always have. "I'll wake you up," she returns lightly.
"No, you won't!" he snaps, and she takes a step back in surprise at this outburst. He sighs, ashamed of his reaction but still annoyed. "Clara, how long are you going to keep playing this game?"
"What game?"
"This… girl about town confection."
She bites down her first response, frowning herself now. "It's my job," she repeats. "One of us has to earn some money." He blanches at that piece of cruelty; one she immediately regrets. "Sorry, Tom. I shouldn't have…" But the end of that sentence eludes her, because it's the truth of the matter as she sees it. "Look, I've really got to go."
"Yeah," he replies blankly, picking up his pen again; turning his back to her. "See you later."
"Supper," she reminds. "On the stove." He makes no reply.
She lets the door slam behind her, hoping the crash can be a full stop to their row as she heads out into town. No such luck; words she should have said remain on the tip of her tongue, all the way to the bus stop.
A scowl is still resident on her forehead when the Routemaster pulls up. "Cheer up love," says the conductor as she fumbles for her change. "It might never happen."
She gives him a weak smile in response, because what's the point in arguing? Finds a seat by the window, debating a cigarette. They're a limited resource at the moment with the budget so tight. Better to save it, she tells herself, although being sensible does nothing for her temper.
She dismounts in drizzly Soho, unsheathing the big black umbrella as she splashes through the streets towards the Old Place. A game, she seethes; as if negotiating dingy clubs and leery managers is fun for her, after a day being patronised on the production floor.
"Wotcha Clara. You alright?" Dora's cheerful greeting finally cuts through her brooding. She snaps to attention, bright smile replacing her scowl in an instant.
"Fine, thanks," she replies, motioning to her friend to join her under the umbrella. "You ready for tonight's showcase?"
"Can't be worse than last week's, can it?" An old joke, always funny. Together they have suffered through interminable hours of 'up and coming' musicians; an endless parade of vaguely pretentious pretty boys and Beatles impersonators, interspersed with the occasional star.
"Here's hoping."
Dora gives her an appraising look. "I said I'd meet my Ronnie there. You bin rowing with your fella again?"
"What makes you say that?"
"'Cos most young lads would be queueing up to come to a jazz club with a girl like you, and here you are flying solo."
Clara nods thoughtfully as they reach the door of the club. "And there I was thinking you were psychic."
"I wish."
"Well, what a load of shit that was," says Ron, and she's inclined to agree.
"No one bookable." What a waste of time.
Dora is shrugging on her Afghan, cigarette dangling from her lips. "Mind your language, dear," she says, perfect imitation of a prim and proper housewife, before dissolving into pearls of raucous laughter. "Come on. It's Friday and we ain't got work tomorrow. Let's make a night of it."
Clara bites her lip, thinking of Tom at home and the row awaiting. "I probably shouldn't."
"Yes, you should," Ron says. "You want be a chase producer, this is where you make your contacts. So the stage was shit tonight, so what? You want to make the managers come to you anyway, not hang around in dive bars waiting for a star to hitch wagon to."
"Ooo-er," mocks Dora. "Hark at him. Thinks he knows what he's talking about, doesn't he?" But she pecks her husband on the cheek, proud, before going to fetch their umbrellas.
Clara trails after them through the mizzling rain, to the hotel bar where Simon will be holding court after dinner. It's the usual mess of people; a few faces she recognises from the BBC studios mixing with mod-ish young musicians, models and actors. Ronnie heads to the bar to fetch their drinks as she scans the crowd to find a likely looking group.
She settles on a slightly tweedy looking group of young men, several of whom have scandalously long hair. She suspects they are students, and probably comedians. Squaring her shoulders, she accepts her gin from Ronnie and goes over to make her introduction.
"Hello," she says, taking a nervous sip as they turn and openly stare, "…I'm Clara Oswald."