Three
.
She's already having a disaster of a day dealing with the Australian delegation and the state dinner that evening when Patrick appears at her door.
It all goes from bad to worse in two minutes flat.
"What do you want, Patrick?"
"Pamuk's in town."
This catches her attention and her head snaps up, "What?"
"Kemal Pamuk is back in London and he's fishing around for a favour."
"And so my father sent you to make sure I sort it out?" Her words are less than impressed.
"You know Pamuk likes you. And it's... tidier this way."
"You mean Papa doesn't have to get his hands dirty."
He answers with the type of smile she'd like to see wiped right off his face, "I knew you would understand."
"I wish so very much that I didn't."
"But you'll sort it out?"
A little frustration slips into her voice, "Yes Patrick, I'll sort it out."
It wears on her the rest of the day. She has only ever known Kemal Pamuk to be a harbinger of utter disaster; the son of the Turkish Ambassador but more importantly, an enterprising young thing whose business dealings with her father has always been suspect to say the least, he'd taken a liking to her years before and it was an association she'd never quite been able to shake.
It had been a fair while since she'd had anything to do with him, but the whole idea is still enough to make her skin crawl.
It doesn't help that her day has already been a trying one – as she goes about attempting to keep the leaders of two countries on track, the idea of dealing with Pamuk wears at her and an uncomfortable tension begins to twist in her gut.
She's preparing herself to leave, finally escaping the madness for a bit of breathing space and in order to get ready for the evening's dinner when Richard Carlisle takes to rubbing salt in her wounds.
"What did the young Mr Gordon want when he came by? It doesn't have anything to do with all this talk about Kemal Pamuk I keep hearing, would it?"
He associates Patrick with her father.
He associates her father with Pamuk and with his own sick little power trip, so of course he would see that Patrick had been by and of course he would have to prod her uncomfortably about the whole mess.
But as uncomfortable as it may be, she doesn't let it show. Instead she squares off her shoulders, stands tall and confidently closes the gap between them.
Her response drips with an insincere reassurance, "It's nothing you ought to be worried about Richard. While I know you're a champion of accountability here in Number Ten, I can assure you this is just a case of the family catching up with an old friend."
"An old friend?" He's amused and delighted at the suggestion in his own perverse way.
"Oh, I'd say he's a long time friend of the family." It makes her feel a little sick to have to paint it all in such a rosy fashion but she'd rather take that than give Carlisle anything to work with.
"I suppose you, he and your father always did get along so well."
Mary knows better than respond to this and goes to leave. As she turns, Carlisle's arm shoots out to hold her in place.
All of the amusement is lost from his tone, "I don't think you should be getting all high and mighty with me on this one, Mary."
It's pointless to lie, but she can't help but play innocent if only to get at him more. "Perhaps you've misunderstood me."
"No, I think I understand you just fine." His hold on her tightens, "And you need to remember Mary, it's not just you that you're speaking for. I know your father would be most concerned to hear you were causing trouble here."
She wrestles with his grip, pulling her arm back fiercely. Still, he doesn't let go. "I would say you're the one trying to start something here." Mary struggles for a moment longer before issuing the low rebuke, almost at a growl, "As much as it may make you feel like a man Richard, you ought to be careful about getting physical whenever you don't get your way; especially with a woman."
"Oh my dear Mary. As if I could forget about your particular feminine charms." He pulls her closer still, forcefully, until his body grinds into hers. His free hand glides down her bare arm, an eerily light caress when compared to his still unwavering grasp and a thrill of alarm runs through her, mixing with a dark sickening feeling that has risen in her throat.
Carlisle has always liked her, payed her special attention and just as he has today, he's always taken particular enjoyment in using his power over her father as a way to get to her.
Standing here like this she can feel him – pressed up against her entirely too closely, nothing but the fabric of his overly expensive tailored suit between them, she can feel the disgusting contours of body pressing into her.
He holds her for a moment longer, taking some perverse enjoyment from her powerless position and stunned silence before letting her go as though none of it had happened.
"I'm glad we cleared the air about that," he says smoothly and with a suave confidence, "We could work so well together if you just got past your silly little issues with me Mary."
She watches him go, and for the first time all day, there's no trace of the anxiety that's been burning at her insides. She just feels numb.
.
By the time she's had the chance to put on a fancy dress, plaster on some make up and do... something with her hair (a half up-do thing. Really, it was never going to end all that well) all her anxiety has returned along with a new sort of fury.
How did her life get to be so... complicated?
Her little run in with Carlisle had been a pertinent reminder about exactly how careful she needs to be with Pamuk – his involvement in the whole affair means that he too is a man with far more power over she and her family than she cares to think about and his good favour is only guaranteed so long as she does as her father asks, making sure he's... accommodated.
As she's driven to the dinner she starts to think about exactly the sorts of things Pamuk might want and just how ethically vague it's all going to end up.
The trouble, Mary finds, with being a woman determined to be ready for the next challenge and always prepared for all eventualities is that she spends a lot of time in her own head ironing out the bleakest scenarios.
It's not always a pleasant place.
When she arrives at the dinner, she does a fairly decent job of pretending that there's nothing wearing on her mind and goes about charming all the appropriate people in the room. She can tell almost as soon as Matthew arrives – there's a prick of awareness that comes with someone's eyes watching her carefully and each time she catches him looking from across the room, she can't help but meet his gaze and smile.
He looks at her like she's a good person. Each time it happens she finds herself reassured, if only momentarily.
The whole thing is kind of exhausting; keeping up her smile, trying to bite down on thoughts of Pamuk, her father and Carlisle (hovering by the head table and also keeping a wary eye on her), all the while reassuring every person that asks that yes, her grandmother is doing very well and yes, she'll pass on her regards to her and to her father and her mother and oh yes, Edith happens to be doing very well too.
(Yes, she has four children now. She's very happy.
No, that sort of thing is not something Mary is at all worried about just yet. Children can wait.
Yes, really.)
She does well, she thinks, to make is as long as she has but eventually Mary has to admit defeat – if for a short while – and retires to a quiet corner. As a waiter passes by with a tray, she grabs a flute of champagne (the proper stuff, thank god) and downs the drink in a couple of gulps. Sitting the glass on a ledge, she feels that same awareness beginning to burn and looks up to find Matthew's eyes searching for her and when he finds her, she knows it's time she got a little air.
He crosses the floor quickly and smoothly but she doesn't even give him time to stop as he pulls up next to her. "Come on."
She boldly takes his arm and leads him through the halls.
She just needs to get out.
"Where are we going?"
"We're escaping."
He seems impressed that she knows where she's going – it's an old trick of hers and she lets him know as much. They talk about getting some air and she realises she hasn't really thought about how the enormity of the night might be getting get to him too but he pulls a little at the bowtie around his neck and she has to remind herself that it's his first time at one of these and that he's doing very well all things considered.
Especially seeing as she's been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to offer any kind of moral support.
"I'm sorry I haven't paid you more attention tonight – with these dinners I always feel like I'm getting pulled in so many directions; so many people wanting so many things."
It's a half-hearted sort of excuse but it's the best way she can find to explain it.
Matthew, as always, is gracious and understanding. "I think I'll survive. As much as I enjoy your attentions, I think I can be man enough to understand that you're in demand."
"Urgh."
He doesn't understand, though she doesn't expect him to understand, that being in demand the way he's seen tonight is exactly what is weighing her down in this moment.
She tries to explain, "I'm in demand because all these people want something from me; they just want to talk to me because I'm a Crawley and because I work for Carson. It's my job, I know, but it can be very tiring."
"You carry it well."
She wonders if that's true – wonders what it is he and everyone else might have seen as she moved around the room tonight. "Do I? I'm not sure."
It's an honest moment, coming off of a tiring and trying day and the sort of exposed feeling she gets huddled up next to him from the cold that sees her explain, "They all think me some kind of Ice Queen – Mary Crawley who doesn't have a heart; the reporters, the staff around the Parliament, even the party types – they all say it."
"Well then they're idiots. Idiots who are probably just jealous and who don't know you at all."
It ought to make her feel better and she knows he's really trying to help – she attempts at least to hold on to that feeling.
She can't escape, however, that she's relied on Matthew rather a lot lately – unlike anyone else, she gets this feeling she can be honest with him and this isn't the first time she's unloaded some of her troubles onto him. A big part of her knows it's more than he deserves.
Her hand balls into a fist when she thinks better of reaching out to him and she feels compelled to apologise, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with it as well. I'm usually much better at dealing with it all."
"I really don't mind."
But it's not as easy as that, Mary knows; they're a little closer now, enough for her to toy with his sleeve in lieu of any real affection, but she has to make him see, "You get stuck with all my problems. I've told you about my father and about working for Carson, and yet, I haven't seemed to be able to return the favour."
"You've certainly helped me to find my feet in all this. I couldn't have done it without you."
If only that were enough to make them even.
"That's different." He's looking at her in this way... She can't deny that she enjoys the feeling it all gives her. She just wants to make it right, just wants to be equal somehow, or good enough... "Don't you have any demons, Matthew?"
She can't take her eyes off him as he begins, "I... I suppose. I was in the army before I worked for Bates, spent some time in Afghanistan. When you deal with everything that happens over there, you do come home with some demons."
His quiet admission sends fire through her. The significance of the moment is not lost on Mary and her fingers lace through his, "Oh, Matthew..."
"It's okay. Really." She finds herself leaning into his touch as his hand comes up to touch her cheek; she wants this, just to get lost in the moment and forget about everything else. "I'm a lot better off than some of the people who came back, I count myself lucky."
"You're so strong, so... good. You're too good for me."
It's the unavoidable truth. Amidst her current drama – which feels so small in comparison to all he's told her now – there's no escaping that he's a much bigger person than she.
"No. No, if anything it's the other way around."
And then, for a moment, she slips. Because she really does care for him no matter how unworthy she may feel, because he's closing that space and her arms are reaching out and because so much of her wants nothing more than to kiss him until she forgets everything that brought her out here with him in the first place.
They meet somewhere in the middle and they are a clash of lips and tongue and careful touches, as her arm settles around his neck, pulling him closer still.
It's so nice, so easy to get lost in the moment they're caught in the middle of and the effortless way they seem to fit together.
She lets it all go on much longer than she should but when he breaks away briefly, breathing heavily and looking a little dazzled, she places her hands on to her chest and takes a measured step backward.
As right at this may feel, it's just... wrong.
She can't do this to him.
"We really shouldn't do this."
It still aches at her to make the suggestion.
A strange mix of horror and surprise is plain on his face, "What? Why?"
"I'm no good for you, Matthew. We can't."
With her heart still pounding in her chest and hands still trembling with the enormity of it all, she doesn't have a more eloquent explanation to give him.
At least, not one that she's willing to burden him with.
Because he doesn't deserve to get stuck with her when she's weighed down by scandal. Because she won't put him in the position of having to carry this weight, having to choose or to lie or worse, to break the law...
Because he'll hate her if she should ever tell him the truth.
He tries to brush off her suggestion and reassures her again that it's not how he sees her, but with thoughts of her own disgrace planted firmly in her mind, this time she's not to be swayed.
"I'm sorry Matthew. Really."
Unable to bear it all any longer, she slips back through the door and leaves him in the courtyard, alone.
.
State dinner hailed a success
The Prime Minister of Australia wrapped up an official visit last night with a state dinner hosted by the Queen at Buckingham Palace.
Her British counterpart Charles Carson hailed the evening and the entire visit a great success, remarking that Australia's Prime Minister had been an excellent guest and an outstanding advocate for her country. In his speech to those in attendance at the lavish dinner he remarked upon the two countries' 'close and special relationship' and said that the British Government had much to learn from their Australian relatives.
A great deal has been discussed during the Prime Minister's visit and at last night's dinner, including trade, defence and Australia's upcoming bid for a seat on the UN Security Council but it is understood that Carson was particularly interested in Australia's well established 'Community Cabinet' program that sees the core ministry hit the road to meet with the general public in a serious of open community forums...
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.05 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Last Night
Where did you disappear to last night? You didn't say goodbye.
.
From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.08 AM
To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Last Night
Was exhausted so I left a little early. If I'd come back in to say goodbye I would have gotten stuck talking to someone else so desperately wanting something from me, so I snuck away while I got the chance.
Sorry about that.
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.10 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Last Night
So it had nothing to do with Matthew's conspicuous absence then? Bates was looking for him later on.
.
From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.13 AM
To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Last Night
I spoke to him briefly outside but that's all. I'm afraid I can't tell you where he ended up.
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.17 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Last Night
That's funny, because he's already called the Communications Office here twice looking for you. Apparently he can't get a hold of you at your office. Or on your mobile.
.
From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.23 AM
To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Last Night
Chock a block with meetings – just running to one with Mrs Hughes now. Will return the call when I get a moment.
Really do have to go, I'll call you later on.
.
She hadn't really expected it to be anything other than a trying day.
A very long, very trying day.
Having worked within the Prime Minister's office as long as she has, Mary so often finds herself in the sights of Elsie Hughes. As the Cabinet Secretary and the most powerful public servant in the land, Mrs Hughes is a stern sort of lady and an undoubted stalwart of Downing Street.
She has also never entirely warmed to Mary.
The morning after a grand state dinner, there are more than a few faces around the office looking worse for wear but Mary isn't troubled by a headache or a queasy stomach – instead she's feeling a little out of sorts for other reasons and trying to keep her head down while Mrs Hughes briefs her on the day ahead.
"I understand that someone from Communications will brief the press later to build on the success of yesterday evening?"
The idea of success itches at her a little.
"That's correct. Gwen Dawson has worked out most of the details."
"And is the Prime Minister ready to talk about Syria if it comes up?"
"Unfortunately," Mary nods, adding bleakly, "Things are only getting worse."
With her words perhaps a measure more forlorn than usual, Mrs Hughes gives her a look, "But everything is quite alright? Carson will be prepared?"
"It's fine," she nods and tries to explain away her gloom, "It's just such a troubling situation –everyone is pressing us to do the right thing, yet no one seems to know exactly what 'the right thing' happens to be."
Perhaps it's not just Syria she's worried about.
Mrs Hughes looks at her with her sensible eyes and carefully reassures her, "You know well Miss Crawley that Mr Carson is a good man; he has principles enough to stay loyal to those things that made him Prime Minister to make the right decisions for everyone involved."
The words are good advice in any weather.
"I suppose you're right."
The pair talk for some time longer about various upcoming policy concerns – defence mostly – but it's this suggestion that nags at the back of her mind even after their meeting is over.
When she travels with Carson out to one of his late morning events, eager for the distraction, she crosses paths again with Richard Carlisle. Though she tries to keep well out of his way, he insists on giving her this leering sort of look from across the media pack.
Apparently the day before is still fresh on his mind as well.
Carlisle's smirking look brings right back to her all of the concerns that had been wearing at her at the dinner about he and Pamuk and about all those things that she ought to keep Matthew well away from. To drag him into it would be selfish – he doesn't need to know what it is to be drawn into this scandal and to end up the subject of Carlisle's more... special attentions.
Mary cares for him far too much for that.
With all of it back on her mind, she bites the bullet and calls Mr Pamuk's people on her way back to London, arranging a time to meet the following evening. She's strategic with her choice of venue; a well known and more upmarket than usual Chinese restaurant popular with all the usual Westminster types – fancy enough to seem like she's made an effort but casual and public enough that she can avoid any notions of romance or expectation.
It's time to get the whole matter sorted once and for all so she can get on with the things that actually matter.
Just to top off her day, the afternoon brings a meeting at her father's domain – Conservative Campaign HQ – and she finds herself dodging both he and Patrick on the way to her meeting about the upcoming local government elections. Stuck in a two hour utterly miserable talk-fest on what can only be described as impending doom at the polls, she finds herself looking at her phone with increasing regularity and is a little surprised by the disappointment that strikes her when Matthew doesn't call again.
She can't help but worry what he must think.
She's leaving the meeting – if at all possible, feeling even more grim than when she arrived – when she encounters one of the short list of people she's been trying to avoid.
It's just one of those days.
"Mary!"
She turns back to him with a sigh, "What is it, Patrick?"
"Nice to see you too."
She tries to be diplomatic even if her desire to avoid their conversation is plain, "If I'd wanted to exchange pleasantries, I would have come upstairs to your office. I don't mean to be rude but I'm in a bit of a rush."
"Here for the local government crisis meeting then?"
"Unfortunately. It was two hours of being told how much of a disaster we're in for; they're looking at a loss of nearly a thousand seats."
"I saw the internal polls. Makes our little number problem in the Commons look measly in comparison – what's three or four seats when you're haemorrhaging thousands down the food chain?"
"Exactly. It's not going to look good for Carson."
She doesn't like the idea that he'll suffer yet again.
Patrick seems to understand as much and is surprisingly kind when he reassures her, "This isn't on you, Mary, Carson knows how much you do for him."
"And yet here we are – another disaster."
"You'll survive it."
"Will I?" Some of her guilt begins to leak into her words, "I feel like I'm constantly running from one debacle to another these days."
He seems to pick up that something isn't quite right, "Are you sure everything's okay?"
She shakes it off, "Of course. And I do really have to go."
All of it is a timely reminder just how important it is to her to do the right thing by Carson in light of all the things that have been going wrong.
Without looking back to Patrick in any kind of farewell, she marches back to her car.
She knows now what it is she needs to say.
.
"I hoped I'd find you here."
Her heart lurches at the familiar voice from just inside her doorway. Costings for military policy from the Defence Secretary are quickly forgotten.
If she has to be honest, she'll admit that she's been waiting for him to come.
"Matthew."
"You're avoiding my calls."
"And yet still, you show up in my office."
His response is careful but firm, "We need to talk, Mary."
This much she agrees with. Matthew deserves more than she'd left him with the night before.
She's ready now.
"I know." She rises from her office chair and comes around to perch on the front of her desk in an attempt to avoid the dividing feeling of having it placed between them. "I'm sorry about last night."
He seems guarded, "Sorry because you kissed me, or sorry because you ran out on me and then disappeared into the night?"
She doesn't lie, "I'm sorry that I left you there." The rest of his question she avoids. "I didn't explain myself well and you're entitled to much more than that."
Matthew hovers a little closer, "Is that all I'm entitled to?"
"Matthew..."
"Because as much as there may be something else going on here, I wasn't the only one there last night and I wasn't the only one that let things get as far as they did."
There's a determination about him now – she can tell he's thought about this, possibly as much as she has – and he closes the space between them with quiet confidence.
It makes it all that much harder to maintain her resolve.
"If I remember, and I think I do quite well, you kissed me back."
It's a reluctant confession of sorts, "I did."
"So you... wanted to kiss me."
She has to try, "It's not as easy as that."
"Why not?"
Needing just a little more room to think, Mary goes to take a step to one side but Matthew easily anticipates the move and gently holds her in her place.
"You can't avoid this," he tells her on a breath.
And she can't.
She can't avoid the way she responds to him, pulled in close, his hands sliding down her arms.
She can't avoid just how much she wants to be right here, with him looking at her the way he is.
"...We shouldn't."
A shy smile, "We should."
His hand skirts up to her cheek and she doesn't (she can't) resist as his mouth closes in on hers.
It's just as easy as she remembers. Kissing Matthew. Matthew kissing her.
She whimpers softly as lips and tongue do exquisite things, probing, softly exploring, dancing...
She lets it go on for a long moment – it's gentle and sweet and with such a big part of her that is reluctant to make the same mistake she did the night before, running off and leaving him without answers, she doesn't resist as he pulls her closer still.
He lets her step away once they break apart and desperate to get enough space between them she moves back around behind her desk.
She can't.
She still can't.
She makes a concerted effort to temper her breathing – she hates herself for letting this happen again, and worse, for toying with his feelings.
But nothing has changed and her reasons are still reasons. The time that has passed has only given her the chance to work out the best way of setting things right.
"This isn't just about us, Matthew."
"What do you mean?"
Unlike the previous night, she's had the time to think about the whole situation more clearly and she knows what it is she needs to say.
It's the only thing she thinks might be able to keep him away.
She just needs to stop falling into this – the magnetism, this power between them that has so far seen her make some rather dangerous mistakes.
"We just negotiated an incredibly significant agreement between two of the most powerful people in the country. That was me and you – we made that happen – how do you think it looks if we're like... this." Her arms motions back and forth between them both.
"It doesn't..."
"It does! It matters! Sometimes in the crush of the hundreds of little things you do every day, all those things you stop thinking about too seriously, you forget that you're running the country. You and whoever you work for are making decisions every day that affect an entire nation."
It's the sort of thing she should have said in that courtyard, the very first time she had the chance.
It's the sort of thing she should have even thought of in that moment – it's her job and her life and given the chance now, she has to do the right thing. It's not the whole truth and not her biggest reason – her family's history and all the trouble she can bring upon him still weighing heavy on her mind – but it is the best one she can give him right now.
She can see Matthew falter as her point hits home.
Again she apologises, "I'm sorry I let this get as far as it did... I'm not sure I understood quite where I was allowing it all to lead."
There's a pause as he takes this all in.
And though it's exactly what she'd hoped for when she'd decided to feed him this explanation, it doesn't hurt any less when she sees it taking hold.
"So that's it? We work together like this and we don't have any alternative?"
"I have to think about Carson," she explains flatly.
A blank and mostly unreadable expression is fixed to his features as he replies, "You've always done the right thing by him."
Her lines are well-rehearsed, "It needs to be like this. A great number of people have given a great number of things to be where we are now."
The latest thing, the newest sacrifice that they will both have to make hangs there between them like a lead weight.
"Will it ever be different?"
She wishes she had a better answer for him, "I don't know. It's this parliament – the political environment right now is toxic; the Opposition would give anything right now for this kind of slip."
"I remember... the first time I met you, you told me a hung parliament isn't a kind thing."
"I'm not often wrong."
She leaves this suggestion for him to take however chooses.
"I do care for you Matthew, I hope you know that. I think you know that."
"You're just... doing the right thing?" He's dejected now, quiet and guarded.
"For everyone." With this, she is firm.
Mary can only hope that eventually he'll understand just what it is she means.
After a long moment, both of them reaching and failing to find something to say, he looks to her with a sad smile, "I suppose I should go."
"That would be best."
She stays in her office late that night. She works until the words blur on the screen and her head spins with a dizzy tiredness.
She's made the right decision.
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Friday, 13 April 9.37 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Everything okay?
You looked like death warmed up this morning at the senior staff meeting – is everything alright?
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.29 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Alive?
You know, when you don't reply to my emails I am left to assume that you have keeled over from some mysterious affliction and are sprawled on the floor of your office in need of help. It makes me want to leave my very important meeting to come round there and check you're still alive.
.
From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.30 AM
To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Alive?
I'm fine. And by no means sprawled on the floor of my office.
Do not leave your meeting.
.
From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.34 AM
To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Alive?
That was fast.
It doesn't reassure me that you're all okay though – are you sure you don't want to have dinner tonight to talk about it?
.
From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)
Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.46 AM
To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)
Subject: Re: Alive?
I'm afraid I can't – I already have dinner plans.
But trust me; I'd rather be spending the time with you.
.
Mary forgets sometimes, amidst what is too often resentment about her situation, that Kemal Pamuk is an entirely charming sort of man and, she has to begrudgingly admit sitting across from him at dinner, not entirely a bad person to spend time with.
He's smart. He keeps up and occasionally, he even challenges her. He is interested in business, up to date with politics and quick to share an eloquent point of view.
Had she been younger or more naive, Mary might have found these things somehow appealing and mistaken an appreciation for his intellect (and, she if she has to make some further concessions, his obvious fortune when it comes to his more physical attributes) for genuine attraction.
It hadn't been a consideration when they'd first met; at the time she'd still been caught up with a different kind of familial drama, struggling with the loss of her sister and too far gone to notice any of Pamuk's particular charms. He'd liked her of course, found something of a challenge in the iron wall of wit she'd used as her defence, and her father had ultimately played this to his advantage.
By the time she knew what was happening, she was bitter enough that his advances had no hope of finding purchase.
Now she is a hardened political operative and in the four years that have passed since her first run in with the Turk she's seen it all. With the wisdom that comes from dealing with the people and the problems she has in this time, she know much better than to see anything more in her dealings with Pamuk.
She also knows a little more about the nature of a real connection.
(But she's not going to think about that now.)
Across the table from her and picking at duck pancakes Pamuk cuts a suave figure, smiling warmly as she reassures him, "I'm sorry that you've had so much trouble. It won't be a problem for me to have a word in Thomas Barrow's ear."
"Ah yes, Mr Barrow, I hear good things."
Shrewd, witty and openly gay, the Mayor of London Thomas Barrow makes for an interesting public figure. Mary has been mostly relieved to learn that Pamuk's little problem had been a planning issue with some new development he was championing in London – not least because it was a little less... shady than her worst case imaginings from the days before but also because she know just the man who'll help her out.
Given the significant role she'd played getting Barrow elected to his position four years before (and the special help she has made sure to give him with his ongoing re-election campaign) he is always willing to go that little bit further whenever Mary Crawley calls.
"He takes a little getting used to but for me, he's always accommodating. I make it a point to keep all the right people on side."
Pamuk's reply is a charming lilt of a compliment, "I certainly got that impression."
Mary stirs her drink with a straw and feels a little underhanded when she says, "Well, I hope then I can count you among my many allies."
He is pleased at the prospect, "Of course!"
It might make her decidedly uncomfortable, but at least her father will be happy.
"If that's sorted then, shall we just enjoy our meal?"
And they do; mostly. Pamuk seems more than a little interested in pursuing her beyond a single business dinner but Mary dances a careful dance – graciously accepting compliments, making a point of being friendly but also keeping a resolved distance.
Warm, polite but inescapably off limits.
They are laughing about Ian Laming when a flutter of action at the front of the restaurant and a familiar form in her periphery grabs her attention.
Someone grabbing their take away and all but storming out the door.
She could be sure she just saw...
Matthew.
Without thinking, she rises in her place and rushes for the exit.
This can't look good.
It's all she can think of, the way it must appear for Matthew to find her locked in some exchange with another man over dinner. It doesn't occur to her that she has no place trying to explain herself for such things after the night before and it doesn't occur to her that running out of the restaurant on a fleeting glance and leaving Pamuk without any kind of explanation is far from a proper course of action.
The chill of the night hits her as soon as she steps onto the pavement outside and she searches desperately for any sign of him. Without any luck, she takes off in the direction she thinks most likely but fails to find him on the busy street.
Whoever it was is gone.
She trudges back to the restaurant, a cold knot of anxiety twisting once again in her stomach.
.
Of course.
Of course.
Of course he should have expected this.
She'd said all the right things in her office, made it sound like their only option amidst an impossible situation but he can't help but feel bitter that despite everything she'd told him about propriety and avoiding political scandal, she's still quite happy to be publically wined and dined by the son of the Turkish Ambassador.
The well off, well bred son of the Turkish Ambassador.
They were laughing. Cosied up together. Flirting.
He knows he's being irrational.
He can't really help it.
Frustration and anger rise up and a buzz of annoyance simmers just under the surface.
Matthew knows who Kemal Pamuk is only through convenient coincidence. With Bates now responsible for local government, he'd been briefed during the week on a contentious planning issue with diplomatic implications making its way through London's municipal scene and the face had apparently stuck with him long enough for him to make the connection to the man sitting across from Mary at dinner.
He's sure that there are more than a few people who would raise eyebrows at that match up.
He has to wonder why she would take Pamuk to the restaurant she did, in full view of all of Westminster, given its status as a favourite in political circles. He remembers Mary telling him about its legendary status when she'd taken him several weeks before – she'd told stories of eating nothing but takeout from Ellen's for long weeks trying to push controversial legislation through the Parliament, shared stories of Tuesday night staff dinners that had gotten wildly out of hand over the best Chinese in the city and had generally touted it as some centre of all political activity after 6pm whenever the parliamentary circus was in town.
Yes, Mary knew well enough that she'd be seen taking her Turkish friend there.
And though there's that nagging part of him that aware he's overreacting, it almost feels like she's flaunting it all, waving it in his face and the face of everyone else in Westminster who dares to think she's within their reach.
Mary Crawley – descendent of bona fide aristocracy, daughter of a great political dynasty, keeper of the keys to Westminster – is from a different world. The kind of world he and her other lowly admirers should never dream of being part of.
The kind of world that people like Kemal Pamuk fit into quite nicely.
Yes, Matthew knows better now.
.