At least the mirrors in the ladies' room are low enough that she can reapply her lipstick without the aid of scaffolding.
"Beautiful!" proclaims Dora, fussing with her own peroxide locks and now very drunk. "A regular Hepburn."
"Haha, shut up."
"Whadda y'reckon Clara?" she says, pouting. "I think I'm more of a Barbara Windsor."
Clara snorts, although the comparison well made. "Well, we're neither of us Shrimpton, that's for sure."
Ronnie and the rest of the studio team have commandeered a large table across the bar. Their route back takes them past the eponymous star of their program, Simon Tees. He is absorbed in expansive conversation with a lizard-eyed young man in a kipper tie. She dawdles slightly in shepherding Dora, wanting to eavesdrop.
"No, I'm happy enough with things as they are at the moment, can't complain," says Simon.
"ITV aren't sniffing around?"
"Well, they're always sniffing aren't they? But they haven't made any offers I'd be willing to accept. And there are other perks."
"Yes, I met the blonde bombshell earlier. Nice to look at, but a mouth on her like a bloody fishmonger."
Clara stiffens, heart sinking, and tries to drag Dora away. "No love," she says, cold with anger and seeming suddenly soberer. "Let's hear till the end shall we?"
"Who's the little dark haired one? Dressed like a beatnik."
"Clara? She's tricky. Acts like she's some sort of blue stocking but very easy on the eye. Drives the writers crazy, you know what those University types are like. All hoping they can be the one to unbutton the buttoned-up little madam."
"You weren't tempted?"
Simon makes a so-so gesture. "Maybe. But she's too short for a mini-skirt and those Lancastrian vowels would need working out."
Dora's hand is vice-like on her arm. "They're drunk," she hisses, through the sudden ringing in Clara's ears, "and they're stupid pigs. Just forget it."
"Yeah," Clara manages as they find their way back to the studio team. "I know." She gives Dora a weak grin, trying to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. Fuck it.
She pours herself a glass of cheap red wine, drains it, and makes an immediate start on a second.
The door to the balcony is pushed open, light and noise from the party spilling out into the damp dark.
She pauses, about to light a previously forbidden cigarette. "Hello?"
"Oh. I didn't realise there was somebody else out here," says the intruder. "Sorry."
"It's not a private party," she returns. "I just fancied a moment of peace and quiet."
"Ah." He hovers in the penumbra of the door, and curiosity gets the better of her.
"Do you have a light?" The stranger steps closer, reaching into the breast pocket of an immaculate blue suit to produce a lighter. A flicker of flame in the dark, and she gratefully inhales the nicotine rush. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
He is older, bearded, and she might have pegged him as an intellectual if it wasn't for the camera slung around his neck. "I'm Clara, by the way," she says, extending her free hand. "Clara Oswald."
He stares at it for a moment, as if wondering what to do. "John," he says eventually, shaking the proffered digits. "John Smith."
"So, you're not from around here either, Mr Smith?"
"Ah, no. What gave me away?" he asks wryly.
"The nose," she jokes, although from the way he fingers the bridge of his aquiline example he might think she's actually serious. "You're a photographer?"
"Yes," he answers, "although maybe not the kind you're familiar with."
"What kind would that be?"
"Fashion?" he hazards.
"What makes you say that?"
"I assumed you were a model," he says stiffly, and startles at her laughter.
"Am I not a bit short?"
He blinks, the conversation appearing to have run away from him. "Sorry," he says again, making one last valiant stab at communication. "If you're not a model, why are you here?"
"Good question." She laughs again, more bitterly this time. "I work for the BBC. I'm a production assistant with delusions of grandeur."
"Ah. Well, I'm a photo-journalist with the same. May I?" He raises the camera.
"Why not?" she says, spreading her arms in sardonic mockery.
He clicks away. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
They appear to have reached the limit of his conversational repertoire. "Well. It was nice to meet you, Miss Oswald," he says, although his tone suggests his words are more formality than feeling.
"And you, Mr Smith," she returns in mockery, as he beats a retreat inside.
The rain has stopped when she dismounts the last bus, a fitful wind blowing late night detritus down the streets of Shoreditch. She has a curious love of times like this, when the world is abed and the empty streets could belong to anyone; all made eldritch by streetlight.
She turns the corner and almost jumps out of her skin. There is a monstrous figure haloed in the lamps of her building, blocking the way home. She shrinks back, trying to swallow her sudden terror, think sensibly. There's a Police Box on the High Street. Maybe she should run back and call for assistance.
She turns on her heel and almost walks straight into John Smith, who looks about as perplexed to see her again as she is him. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
"Are you following me?" she demands, redoubling her grip on her umbrella. It has a sharp metal point that could do serious damage if wielded in anger.
He puts his hands up, placatory; clearly fearing a jab from an offensively wielded brolly if he isn't careful. "I live here," he says carefully.
"Where?"
He's looking at her like she's completely insane, perhaps for good reason. She forces herself to take a step back, lowering the umbrella slightly. "In the block of flats just round the corner."
"How long for?"
"What's today's date?"
"Seventh of February."
"What year?"
It is her turn to give him a suspicious look. "Nineteen sixty-five. Are you alright—?"
"Then for about eighteen hours," he continues. "I moved in this morning." His beard twitches, the suggestion of a smile underneath.
"Oh. Ok. Sorry," she says, although she's not sure she really means it.
"No, it's fine. Late at night, strange bloke innocently minding his own business walking down his own street—"
"I said I'm sorry," she says, smiling at his sarcasm in spite of herself. "There's something blocking the door. That's why I surprised you."
"What?"
She inclines her head, inviting him to peer around the corner and see the strange tableau for himself.
"Well, that's fairly bizarre."
Emboldened by his presence she risks another glance. "Oh! Wait a second. I know what that is."
"Do tell," he says drily.
"It's a Roboman."
He looks doubtful; not entirely sure she's not making fun of him. "A robo… man?"
"Yeah, they're from that new kid's TV show; they film it in the studios next door to ours."
"So what's it doing out on the streets at one o'clock in the morning?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," she admits. "Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke?"
"Bloody strange sense of humour," he mutters into his beard. "Come on then."
"Come on where?"
"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd quite like to go home."
She looks doubtfully at the monster again. Of course he's right; it's a piece of equipment, not something that can actually hurt her. The menace the creature seems to exude is merely tribute to the excellent work of her prop-master colleagues. She knows all of this, but somehow it is very little comfort when facing the damn thing in the dark. Still, pride is at stake here. "Ok," she says.
They advance cautiously, the Roboman remaining still as a statue. Of course it does, you idiot, she chides herself. It's a made up villain, not a real threat—
The fingers of the cyborg suddenly flex and she swallows a shriek.
"Is there someone inside it?" whispers Mr Smith, considerably less cool and comfortable now.
"There must be," she hisses back. "Someone playing silly buggers."
Five feet away, four, and the creature starts to hiss ominously. It turns its head towards them, opening a mouth filled with orange light and jagged metal teeth. This is beyond any special effect Clara has ever seen; she finds she is frozen in the beam of light, horror-struck as the monster advances. Gloved hands reach out for her, as if the creature means to throttle her—
Clang! Mr. Smith has grabbed the umbrella from her unresisting fingers and taken a swing at the monster.
This doesn't make sense; she wants to say. The men in the costume are flesh and blood, there's no way it should ring like an empty gong when struck. And yet it does, again, as Mr. Smith parries a blow from its arm, returns. The metal tip of the umbrella strikes home, striking sparks from the metal breast plate, but still the thing advances.
"Run!" he shouts, breaking the spell it holds over her. She sprints for home, fumbling for her key, struggling to unlock the heavy door.
The lock yields and she is inside. "Come on!" she yells. He breaks off his combat, sprinting pell-mell towards her. She slams the door shut as he crosses the threshold, inches to spare.
"What the hell?" he breathes as she pulls across the deadbolts. There is a dull thump from outside. She flinches, but the door appears a sturdy defence. Another scraping thump, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.
"I have no idea," she gasps. "Maybe someone put something in the drinks at the party." She pats him on the arm in a reassuring way. "Find somewhere calm and safe to lie down. You'll be alright."
He rubs his arm awkwardly, as if her touch has burned. "Right," he says, "Okay. Good night."
"Good night."
She takes the stairs two at a time, determined to put some distance between them, to leave the precise location of her flat a mystery. Possibly she should make a call to the police, but what would she say? 'I was attacked by a cyborg from science fiction television?' They'll just think she's mad, on drugs or worse.
Tom is, as promised, asleep. The hotpot she left has boiled dry on the stove. Greasy newspaper wrappings indicate a fish and chip supper they can ill afford was consumed in preference, which just about puts the tin lid on things. She sits down heavily on their sofa, head in hands, and finally allows herself to cry.
