Keeping Up With Clara Oswald

Chapter 1

John rested his head against the polished wood table in his drunken state. A hand still holding his whiskey, he closed his eyes for a second. He shouldn't be at the pub, not this late, anyway. But today, he just wasn't feeling it. He had gotten rejected again, and he was far becoming an alcoholic as every time he did he was obligated to go for a drink to drown in his frequent sorrows. And it had been happening a lot recently. Anyone could tell from his old plaid shirt and tweed jacket he had become scruffier by the day. Even light stubble (which rarely ever happened) appeared on his chin. He slowly banged his head in frustration, making a mental and important note to get his life back on track, stop waiting for something to happen and go get an actual job. He knew in the darker part of his brain he would go nowhere, and yet he still felt a sickening hope that was the fourteen year old in him telling himself he could do it. He snorted aloud, his forehead becoming increasingly colder as it still balanced on top of the shiny mahogany. No one was interested. He was purely amateur. Nothing else. Suddenly, a noise alerted him and he raised his head to watch an attractive woman slide into the seat opposite him. His eyes were red from too much drinking and blurred his vision slightly, yet he could clearly make out her face. A pretty brunette with smoky, long eyelashes and makeup, perfect lips. Her legs didn't brush his under the rather intimate table in which he guessed she was fairly short in height. She had a charm about her from first sight, but as he observed closer there was a hint of 'bad girl' in there that he thought was surprising. Most of the girls he met were average, normal working classed people with extreme feminist hobbies.

'Sorry, I'm just getting away from a date. Didn't go too well, but I planned that out anyway. Told him to fuck off.'

'That's okay. Where is he now?' His voice sounded deeper than usual. It was probably the alcohol.

'Kicked him out. Literally. Bit of a creep, tryna touch me up and everything. Thought a date might be fun, but definitely not for me. I can't believe Rose got me to do this. I'm going straight back to the club.'

She was very talkative, and very confident. All the makings of a fearless 'bad girl' as he had first perceived.

'Well, you're not. You're sitting here.' He smiled.

'Hm. Thought you looked lonely. Why waste a good date, be it awful or boring? Nice to meet someone that's...a little more normal now and again. Are you drinking that?' She asked, suddenly diverting the subject and pointing at his untouched tumbler.

'Uh, no.' He pushed it toward her respectively, and she downed it with the familiarity of a heavy drinker. This would be interesting, he thought. His night might actually get a little better.

'I'm Clara, by the way. Clara Oswald.'

She held out her hand, but instead of shaking it like a normal person, she clapped it. His eyebrows raised a fraction, but replied politely.

'Uhm, I'm John Smith. Everyone calls me the Doctor though, bit of an alias.'

'Good to know you, Doctor. You're not actually one, are you?' She asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

'No, I'm not. Why that reaction?'

'What reaction?'

'You seemed alarmed, suspicious. Why would a doctor make you nervous?'

'They don't make me nervous. I just don't like them. And why the advanced analysis?'

'I'm a writer, it's kind of in the job. Describing a situation.'

'Oh. Well, I'm an artist. Of sorts.'

He quirked an eyebrow. 'Of sorts?'

'You wouldn't call my art, art. It's actually quite grim and horrific. Too dark and emotionally powerful to be considered anything professional. I'm very extreme with my artwork. You wouldn't like it.'

'How do you know?'

'Because ordinary people don't.'

'Ordinary? I'm not ordinary at all, Clara, I assure you.'

'Well, whatever you call uninteresting and non-experimental humans, then.'

'You know nothing about me.'

'But you're not the type. You don't look it, don't act it. You're wearing tweed! And you're a writer-'

'What's wrong with writing?' He cut across softly, 'it's as creative and difficult as artistry. Don't judge the book by its synopsis.'

She smiled. 'And now you're using metaphors. I get the impression you showcase you're intelligence. And I thought it was 'don't judge a book by its cover'?'

'I have no one to showcase it to. My life is basically a pile of rejections and chances that never happen. And a cover is just a cover. You can't tell much from a cover of a book. It's mostly misleading. A synopsis is the small summary at the back with which you decide whether to open the book or not. It is more powerful than it seems to be.'

She raised her eyebrows in turn, her lips curling up into a lazy smile.

'You do like showing off, don't you?'

'I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. After all, it's a bit cliche.'

She leaned relaxedly against the leather seat, more comfortable and less concerned about leaving.

'How is it cliche?' She smirked. She was challenging him, and he gave a small chuckle in return.

'Well, meeting in a pub, me a writer, you an artist. Having a conversation that increasingly grows to personal details. Leaving together like dazed love-at-first-sight losers. The portrayal's in films are shocking.'

'Who said we would be leaving together?'

'I never implied it. But if you really want to carry on the cliche, I can get you a drink.'

A cool smile, and her frame leaned back over the table, elbows balanced against it, hand cupping her cheek.

'Rum and coke. Four parts.'

'Jesus. You like your stuff strong.'

'You could say I have a reputation for it.' She replied. He called over a server, giving their order.

'So, you said you came on a date for fun. Hadn't you been on a date before?'

'Well, I wouldn't call the typical rendezvous I usually share be considered 'dates'.'

John cocked his head to the side, gathering enough information to guess she was fairly young. Exactly the kind of age to be the outrageous, parting type.

'How old are you?'

'Crossing the boundaries now, aren't we?'

'Not particularly. I already know your name and occupation.'

'Well, if you really wanna know...29.'

'Huh.'

'What?'

'Older than I expected.'

'I don't view age as anything special. If anything, it gets you down each year you grow older. I measure someone's age by their personality. It's better to keep track of.'

'Oh? And how old am I then?'

'Well, so far you're ranking around a 55. But that's probably me being generous. After all, I don't know what you're capable of.'

He leaned back casually, raising his eyebrows again, a gesture he was doing more often as she talked.

'Capable of?'

At that point their drinks came, and he never got an answer. She swigged her staggering rum (if anything) and weak coke and trained her brown eyes to his, which he noticed only now sparkled in the dim, overhead lights.

'How old are you then? Tell me.'

He deliberated for a while, adding effect. For him, a conversation was not necessarily about the subject or the talking; sometimes it was just the silent actions and pauses in between. He slowly and rhythmically began drumming his hand against the table.

'30.' He said, his eyes meeting hers as he said it.

'Not too old then.'

'No, but I often feel like it.'

He raked his hand messily through his hair, sighing.

'Why? You don't get out much, do you?'

'Not really, I guess. More of a recluse. But I do enjoy being around people, entertaining them, making them laugh.'

'Are you writing a book at the moment, then?' She asked abruptly. Her change of topic reminded him why he was there in the first place.

'Yep. Well, I've finished it. But...'

'But?'

'Not getting anywhere with it. I'll have to look for a proper job.'

'I have friends who could do with more people. Although...' She fleetingly looked him up and down, 'you're still definitely not the type.' She laughed.

'Why not?' He asked interestingly.

'Because in all my life I've never met someone over the age of 25 who is so innocent and has such a baby face.'

'Well, that's going a bit far. I don't have a baby face at all.'

'You do a bit. Your eyebrows are practically nonexistent. Every time you raise them it's a case of 'is he raising them, or is he just confused'?'

'You're being very friendly tonight.' He said sarcastically.

'You should see me on others.' She joked.

'Should I?'

A pause, in which she took another sip from her glass. He too cursed himself quietly at the stupid move he'd made by pouring the scotch down his throat, burning it. Their conversation had been growing to an increasing rate with retorts and retaliations like wildfire. But now, as she watched him and set the glass down, she answered slowly.

'If you wanted to. You'd be intimidated, though. I don't think you'd want to see me at all.'

'When someone hints at a subject, but puts it off, it only makes the listener more interested. You keep going on about me being 'ordinary' and non-experimental. I'd gather you were one of those outrageous people that party every night. If that's the case, then I'm not intimidated.'

'Look, John-'

'Doctor.'

'Sorry, Doctor. Why do you call yourself that?'

'Because I don't like my name. Go on with what you were saying.'

'Now look whose hiding information.'

'I'm not hiding anything. We have only just met after all.'

Her eyes twinkled triumphantly. 'Exactly.'

He smiled widely, impressed. She was very intelligent, very chatty. Open about most things, secretive about others.

'Are you really not one of those boring, scared people that can't have fun?'

'I promise that I'm not a boring, scared person who can't have fun.' He recited.

'Hm...you're a bit of a laugh, I guess. You've made me smile. Alright then, let's go, Doctor. If you want to.'

'Go where?'

'My place.'

At this his eyebrows must have fallen off.

'Don't look so alarmed! I don't actually mean my place. Plus, you're not my type.'

'It seems I'm not anybody's type going by your analogy of me tonight.'

She chuckled, sliding out of her seat elegantly.

'Come on, then. What are you waiting for?'

His brain whirred inside his head. He knew exactly where he was headed. Everything he had gathered about Clara over the hour they'd been sitting there all pointed to the same conclusion. He was secretly, a little intimidated, but of course he wouldn't admit that to her. All his life he'd been an 'example kid', one that never got into trouble and spent his adolescent years writing short stories and playing the piano, unlike everyone else. He knew what people did in their spare time but had never stepped one foot into the opportunity, up until now. Clara really was right, he was extremely 'innocent'. But something about her interested him so much he let her manage the path in which he would cross tonight. Oh, he was in for a wild ride.