Every morning brings the same routine: wake up, head downstairs, pick up the paper from the doormat, put the coffee pot on, and read the paper with a mug of coffee clasped in one hand. This morning she's on her second coffee and her eyes still droop wearily. Amy certainly has a lot to answer for after last night.
The paper doesn't hold her interest. Splashed across the front page is a story about a dog who had saved its owner's child after the boy had fallen into a river out on a walk. Must be a slow news day.
She doesn't really pay attention to the rest of the stories. Her head is throbbing and she finds she could care less about a middle-aged man lashing out at a delivery company for leaving a parcel on the bonnet of his car. Clara thinks to herself that some people have far too much time on their hands.
It's when she reaches the advertisements that her fingers still on the corner of the page. Over the years she's managed to pick up a handful of bargains from local sellers and it's become a bit of a ritual to scan through the ads every morning. She glances past the usual lists of useless rubbish – people trying to sell old sofas with the stuffing hanging out, or washing machines that only work at 32⁰C at 6 o'clock on a Monday morning. Most of the adverts are a waste of the paper they're printed on, but in the bottom hand corner of the second page is a brief advertisement that catches her eye:
'Model wanted for experienced artist. No nudity or funny business. Please call 07854326579.'
Her eyes rake over the short description several times as her brow furrows in thought. It's probably dodgy – bound to be dodgy – but something about it peaks her curiosity. She's never had her portrait drawn before, and with her still on leave from work it's become a struggle to find things to fill her days with. Calling the number couldn't hurt, surely? They'd probably have been inundated with calls already and she'd be wasting her time anyway.
One glance at the clock tells her that it's just coming up for 10:30; plenty late enough for a phone call to be considered acceptable. They're probably out at work anyway… like every other person in the universe seems to be except for her. Not that she's bitter or anything…
She punches the numbers into her phone slowly, taking care to match them exactly to the phone number printed on the paper in front of her. When she's double-checked her accuracy, her thumb hovers uncertainly over the dial button for several moments. The number could belong to anyone. She could be a phone call away from winding up the victim of a vicious serial killer. Or she could be behaving entirely ridiculous. Another moment of hesitation later and she bites the bullet and presses the dial button.
The phone rings four times and there's still no answer. It's enough to leave her on the verge of hanging up when the dial tone cuts out and a distinctly Scottish voice sounds on the other end. "Hello?"
She's so stunned to hear a voice at the other end of the phone that for a moment she doesn't respond. In fact, he has to repeat himself before she clears her throat and forces herself to get a grip. "Sorry- distracted." Smooth. "This is probably going to sound a little weird… but I got your number from this morning's newspaper…"
"You mean you saw my advert?" He asks, interrupting her before she can continue with her slightly awkward explanation.
"Yes!" She exclaims a little too enthusiastically in reply. She clears her throat again and makes an effort to come across as at least moderately sane. "Sorry… late night." It's possibly the worst apology she's ever made, but she continues regardless. "Before I… well…. You know- you're not a serial killer or anything, are you? Because I have training in martial arts and I won't be afraid to kick your arse if you try any funny business."
There's laughter on the other end of the phone; it's deep and rumbling and brings a small smile to her face. "What? It's a completely reasonable question!" More laughter. She's about to make another remark in her defence when he finally responds.
"No, I'm not a serial killer." She can hear the smile in his voice as he says it, and somehow the thirty seconds of conversation they've shared gives her enough cause to trust his motives. She thinks to herself that she'd probably be a serial killer's dream come true.
"Good, because the closest thing I have to martial arts training is eleven years of school PE lessons." Clara admits with a smile of her own. If he's lying about his intentions, then she's certainly doomed herself from the start.
"So are you offering to let me draw you? Or do you just phone numbers you come across in the paper and interrogate people on their criminal status?"
Clara can't help but laugh. "As long as you promise I won't have to take my clothes off." She teases gently.
"I'm not interested in anything like that." He replies sharply, and the seriousness of his voice makes her wonder if she's offended him.
"I wasn't implying…" She trails off uselessly and resigns herself to thinking before she speaks in future. "When do you want me to come over? Or did you want to come here?"
There's silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. "It's best if you come here." He answers at last. Then another pause. "When is best for you?"
She mulls the question over in her head. In truth, any time is best for her. Currently her life doesn't consist of much at all, but she doesn't want to come across as someone with nothing better to do with her time. "I'm pretty flexible." She responds non-committedly.
"Would now suit?"
"Now as in right now?"
"Is there any other kind of now?"
Clara pauses, and then decides she doesn't have a reason to say no. "Now is good."
He rattles off his address then, and after a quick goodbye the phone line cuts out at the other end. What she's let herself in for, she has no idea. The man seemed… friendly enough, if a little abrupt. She hopes he's at least be able to uphold a decent conversation.
It takes her just over ten minutes to drive round to the address he's given her. It's a townhouse situated in the centre of a relatively quiet side street. There's a set of stone steps that lead up to the black, shiny front door and towards the top is a large brass knocker. Her hand hesitates as it comes to rest over the metal. She steels herself and knocks firmly on the wood of the door. It swings open so quickly that she almost jumps out of her skin.
From behind the door appears a tall, grey-haired gentleman probably a good couple of decades older than she is. His build is slim and wiry and he's dressed in a pair of tight-fitting black trousers and a navy blue shirt buttoned to the collar. Over the top he wears a dark jacket with a red inner lining that flashes out at her when he moves. He somewhat resembles a magician, but there's something a little more sophisticated about him than that. She reminds herself that artists are known for their bizarre taste in clothing.
"Please, do come in." His voice is soft and coated with a thick Scottish accent. Clara forces her gaze away from him and promptly takes his invitation to step inside. The situation isn't exactly one she's familiar with, and she finds herself stood awkwardly in his narrow corridor.
"Go through into the living room." He tells her as he closes the front door behind them and she doesn't need to be told twice.
There are only two doors coming off of the hallway – the first is the kitchen, and the second she presumes to be the living room. Inside is a worn brown leather sofa, a TV, and a wooden stool placed between the two.
"Take a seat." He murmurs from behind her. Clara eyes the sofa for the briefest of moments before slowly moving to perch on the edge. It's only then that her eyes are drawn to the drawings that cover the walls. Each of them are framed in dark wood, and every one seems to be more beautiful than the last. The figures range from young children to elderly women and everything in between. Clara finds herself staring at the walls in sheer awe.
"Did you draw all of these?" She asks as she draws her attention away from the drawings and back to the man stood in front of her.
"Over the years, yes." His answer is almost dismissive, which surprises Clara. She thinks that if she had half the talent he obviously possessed, she'd be gloating from the rooftops about it.
"They're beautiful." She breathes with a smile. "You're very talented."
There's no reaction from him. He holds her gaze for a moment and then moves to retrieve a pad and a set of pencils from a table beside the door. Clara tries to lighten the mood somewhat. "I guess you don't keep the naked ones on the wall, huh?"
He regards her with a look of slight confusion. "I told you, I don't do that sort of thing." Sense of humour, obviously non-existent.
"No- of course not. It was just a joke." She explains hastily. "Admittedly not a very good one." She adds with what she hopes is a genuine-looking smile. There's another moment of silence in which he simply watches her. "So where do you want me?" She asks when he doesn't say anything.
"Where you are is fine. Just sit back a bit and cross your legs." He talks as though he's reading an instruction manual, and she briefly wonders whether he actually has any human contact on a regular basis. A part of her is certain that the answer is no.
Slowly, she pushes herself back to lean against the back of the sofa and crosses one leg over the other. "Like this?"
He eyes her for a moment, his gaze intense, and she struggles to keep from fidgeting under his stare. Then he steps towards her and reaches out as if to touch her face. "Just…" He doesn't touch her, but rather waves his fingers slightly to the right.
"You can touch me if you want. I'm not going to bite." It's said with a slight laugh, but only earns her a frown in response.
"I don't particularly like physical contact." And now it's her turn to frown. She wonders what on earth could have happened to him to leave him with such an issue, but decides it's best not to press the matter. He seems to accept the position of her head anyway because he steps back and takes a seat on the wooden stool opposite her.
The room quickly falls into silence but for the soft scratching of his pencil over the paper. Clara watches his hand move effortlessly as it guides the tip in smooth, practiced strokes. Her eyes map the intricacies of his fingers and admire the way they seem to grip the pencil in them as though he was born with it attached. There are lines on his skin that have come with age, but that doesn't take away from the elegance that seems to radiate from every inch of his hand. She doesn't think she's ever seen anyone exhibit such effortless control over the motions of their fingers.
When she looks up her gaze is met with the intensity of his own. His steely blue eyes fixate on hers, and she finds herself swallowing reflexively. There's something about the way he watches her that brings a rush of heat to her cheeks and she's almost grateful when he returns his eyes to the pad of paper in front of him. What was that all about?
"Do you draw a lot?" She asks, more as a way of distracting herself than out of any real desire to break the almost pleasant silence that had settled between them.
He's focused on drawing what looks like the outline of her hair and doesn't answer for several beats. "I used to." The response seems to pose more questions than it answers.
"But you don't anymore?"
"No." His pencil has stilled, and he seems to be avoiding looking up at her face again. "This will be my last portrait." She watches as his fingers tap against the pencil for something to do as he continues to avoid looking at her.
"Why?" She doesn't really expect him to answer. They hardly know each other and now she's just being nosey.
When his eyes finally lift to meet hers, an emotion she can't quite place flashes across them. It's somewhere between broken and resigned. "Because very soon I won't be able too anymore." It's not a sentence that begs for sympathy – it's a statement uttered as plainly as this morning's weather. Then he's back to focusing on the movement of his pencil over the paper in front of him.
Clara knows she shouldn't press the matter. She knows she's pushing the boundaries of pleasant conversation with someone she's just met, but despite what she knows her mouth opens to speak anyway. "Why won't you be able to draw?"
The steady motion of his drawing doesn't falter, and if the question phases him he certainly doesn't show it on his face. He gives a quick glance up at her nose and then continues to work in silence. The time that passes before he speaks seems to drag on for hours. It's an uncomfortable moment in which she convinces herself she's over-stepped a line and ruined any chance she had to engage him in friendly conversation.
"I'm going blind." He murmurs in a voice barely above a whisper. Suddenly Clara wishes she hadn't asked the question in the first place.
"Oh god- I'm so sorry." It's the first thing she's able to blurt out, and then she kicks herself for sounding so cliché. Why would he care for her sympathy when he doesn't know her from Adam?
"Don't be." His voice is rough, and somehow his accent seems even heavier. She wonders if he's had to go through all of this alone and feels an even greater pang of sympathy for the stranger in front of her.
Neither of them speak after that. Clara tries her hardest to sit as still as possible as she distracts herself by examining every detail of the man sat opposite with her eyes. She notes the way the muscles in his wrist flex with every stroke, twist or flick of his hand. She watches as his stern brown furrows in concentration when he's focusing particularly hard, and when the corner of his lips quirk upwards into the smallest of smiles when he admires a section he's particularly proud of.
When he pauses and sets his work to one side, Clara's expression turns curious. Then she stares as he climbs to his feet and slowly shrugs out of his jacket. Somehow she finds herself mesmerised by the most casual of actions, and follows the line of the garment as it slips down his arms and over those long, elegant hands. He folds the jacket up neatly and swaps it for the pencil and paper he's set down on the small table beside him. Underneath his shirt is crisp and tight-fitted. The collar sits tightly around his neck and across the chest it clings to the lean muscle underneath. Clara thinks he must have had it tailor made to have it fit him so well.
"Why would you put an advert in the paper as a way of choosing the last person you'll ever draw?" She finally blurts out the question in order to force her thoughts away from his torso.
His shoulders shrug before he replies: "Why not? I don't have a lot of friends or family left to ask, so I thought I'd leave the decision to fate." The extent of his loneliness saddens her.
"Well I hope I haven't been too much of a disappointment." She teases with a smile in his direction. He doesn't notice in his concentration, but straightens up in his seat to look at her a few minutes later.
"On the contrary." Whether it's from his reply or the intensity of his gaze, she finds her cheeks reddening again. If he notices her embarrassment, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he draws her attention to the pad in his lap. "Do you want to see?" He asks with his hands braced to turn the portrait around.
She's surprised by the speed at which he draws, but she supposes that when you've had as long as he has to practice, it must come as naturally as breathing. "I'd love to." There's an excitement to her tone that matches the barely contained grin on her face.
Her bottom jaw hangs down ever so slightly when he turns the portrait around for her examination. Clara knows she doesn't look great that morning – there are bags under her eyes from lack of sleep and her skin has turned that sickly sort of shade that only seems to make an appearance when one is hungover. Yet somehow the portrait that stares back at her is nothing short of beautiful. "You've made me look…"
"If I've made you look awful, you have my sincerest apologies. My eye sight isn't up to much these days." He gets the wrong idea and tries to explain. Clara offers him a reassuring smile in return.
"No- no, there's nothing awful about that… nothing at all." She takes a step closer to get a better look. "It's beautiful."
"I only draw what I see." He dismisses with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Whether it's intended as a compliment or not, Clara feels her cheeks reddening for not the first time that morning. He holds still for her to continue her perusal and adds: "You can have it, if you like."
She finds herself shaking her head immediately "I couldn't possibly take it from you." If this was going to be his last drawing, he'd want something to remember it by – even if he wouldn't be able to see it soon enough.
He eyes her for a moment, before seeming to accept her refusal. The drawing is cast to one side and Clara watches as he runs his fingers through the slightly dishevelled length of his hair. "Thank you." He murmurs quietly as he gets to his feet. "For allowing me to draw you, that is." It's obvious that gratitude isn't something he's accustomed to showing from the way he shuffles his weight between either foot.
"It's been a pleasure." She responds, and thinks to herself that actually it has. Despite their relatively silent encounter, Clara has enjoyed spending time in the company of this sombre, enigmatic man. It almost seems a shame to have to leave so soon.
"Right. Well… I'd better be going. Things to do and whatnot." She lies reluctantly. Her diary for the day is rather empty in truth, but she doesn't want to inflict her presence upon him for any longer than necessary.
"Yes, of course. I'll show you out." There's not exactly joy in his expression as he gestures for her to exit through the living room door. In fact, if she hadn't known any better, she'd have almost believed there to have been a touch of disappointment in his eyes.
Clara heads out into the narrow hallway again and moves towards the front door. One hand reaches out to rest upon the door handle and she pauses. "Draw me again tomorrow." It's a sudden statement that she pulls out of nowhere. She thinks it's the sympathy she feels for his loneliness that has her reaching out to him, but she doesn't stop to analyse her thought processes there and then.
"I'm sorry?" His brow is furrowed in confusion as he seems to try to find some logic in her words.
"I said, draw me again tomorrow." She repeats the order slower this time. "If you're not doing anything else, that is."
"I'm not doing anything." He seems to respond almost automatically.
"Great. I'll see you tomorrow then." She doesn't give him the chance to say no – she doesn't think he'd really object if she did. There's a grin on her lips as she opens the front door and glances over her shoulder to look at him. "My name's Clara, by the way. In case you were wondering."
He smiles the faintest of smiles back and it gives her cause to think she might have wormed her way ever so slightly underneath his hardened outer-skin. "I'm the Doctor." He states. It's a peculiar name if she's ever heard one, and probably not his real one, but somehow it strangely seems to fit. A man like him is far too extraordinary to be given any old name.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Doctor." The title rolls off of her tongue in a way that makes her think she could get used to saying it on a regular basis. Then she steps out of the door and closes it softly in her wake. Until tomorrow.