Well, the spit's gonna hit the fan a little bit with Martha and Francine, but worry not. All their issues do not get resolved here, because what fun would that be? But at least we get a good dose of the hard and soft sides of Martha's mum! Oh, and a bit more mystery!
FIVE MONTHS BEFORE THE WEDDING, THURSDAY EVENING
"This is a nice place," Martha commented, settling into a white cushy chair.
"I hear it's the best tailor shop in town," Francine said, settling into the chair next to her.
Suddenly remembering the semi-unpleasant experience of buying the dress, Martha asked, "Did Fiona Hart recommend this place?"
"Yeah," said her mum. "Even made the appointment for Tish."
"Hm."
"What?"
"Nothing. I just… didn't like her much."
"Why?"
"Not sure."
They both burst out with giggles and praise when Tish emerged once again from the dressing room in her wedding gown, still slightly too large. Then the lovely bride-to-be stepped up on a platform, and the elderly expert seamstress began her good work.
"So," Francine sighed. "What have you been up to? Are you taking care of yourself?"
Here we go, Martha thought. She braced herself for an interrogation or a lecture, or some other manner of abuse.
"Not much," she answered. "And yes. Been tired."
The latter part was true, but the not much bit was a lie. In the past six days since she and the Doctor had inspected Amanda Finneran's bedroom, they had been to the Phlotigo Galaxy twice. It was, as it turned out, exceedingly difficult to go undercover there, since the beings seemed to float and were, as the Doctor had put it, more ectoplasm than flesh.
The fact was, though, that the galaxy's energy signature was wide, and it contained at least one hundred and six known planets. They'd only had time to observe four of them, before being spotted and chased, adrenalines pumping, into the TARDIS and out of town. The fun part was that, a good adrenaline rush with the Doctor meant another good adrenaline rush later, one that didn't involve running for their lives, but did involve plenty of endorphins and panting. The bad part was that at this rate, she'd be in her late eighties by the time they scoured each planet in the Phlotigo. They would continue to plug away, but would definitely need more evidence before they would get anywhere.
"Yes, well," Francine counselled. "That's the way it is. For a while anyway. Any morning sickness?"
"Yeah, it's been pretty wicked."
"How does he handle it?"
"The Doctor? He hovers."
Francine smiled a little. "That's good, I think."
"I don't want someone listening to me tossing up my guts!"
"Oh, I read that ginger helps morning sickness, just so you know. I suppose you both did already know that. But I didn't mean just that. How's he handling the whole thing? Having a baby, I mean."
"Great, why?"
"Just wondering. Sometimes men, when you mention children… especially his type."
"His type?"
"Oh, Martha, don't get all defensive. I just mean… you know…"
Tish chimed in. "She means handsome and worldly."
Francine sighed and gestured in concession. "All right. If you like."
"Mum, even handsome and worldly types like children. Besides, he's had…" she almost let it slip that the Doctor had had children before, but then she'd have to come up with some elaborate story for why they were never around. Either that, or tell the truth, and that wasn't going to happen. At least not here, not now.
"He's had what?"
"Just… he's worked with children a lot."
"Oh, Martha," her mother groaned. She leaned forward and took her daughter's hand.
"What, mum?"
"It's just don't get it…"
"Mum," Tish warned. "You promised to be nice."
"No, no," Martha sighed. "Let's just get it all out in the open, and get it over with. Say what you have to say, mum."
"It can wait until later," Francine said. "Mrs. Petruska doesn't need to hear our family woes."
"Mrs. Petruska doesn't understand English," Martha pointed out.
The elderly seamstress looked up at them at the mention of her name. "Yes?"
"Nothing dear," Tish said, patting her shoulder. "You're doing a nice job."
"It's just… Martha, how did this happen?" Francine asked.
Martha raised her eyebrows and blinked at her mother, letting go of her hand. "What do you mean, how did this happen? How does it usually happen?"
"Well, don't you know that there are precautions you can take?"
Martha smiled. "Oddly, yes, I do."
Francine clicked her tongue, annoyed at the seeming finality of Martha's answer. "Honey, did you do this on purpose?"
"Not exactly," said Martha, being intentionally vague. Evasion was a tactic she knew would drive her mother barmy, but she didn't seem able to stop herself.
"So, what? It was a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing?" Francine asked, her voice starting to take on that scathing tone Martha dreaded hearing. "Left your diaphragm at home? Couldn't find one of those coin-operated machines in the loo? Your Doctor doesn't like to leave the party before the end, is that it?"
"Oh my God! Mum!" Tish cried out, standing helplessly still. "Stop it!"
Martha groaned and buried her head in her hands.
Francine's heart sank a little. She hadn't begun the conversation in order to upset Martha. She hadn't wanted to bludgeon her daughter into defensive, or retreat, mode. So she took a long, deep breath.
"I'm sorry, Martha. I'm really sorry. I crossed the line there. Actually, I crossed it and then overshot it by ten miles. I'm just trying to understand," Francine insisted, reasonably. Martha sat up straight and looked at her, marvelling at how complicated this whole thing had become, and how profoundly her mother just didn't understand. No-one did, except her and the man in the blue box.
Francine took another deep breath and, "My incredibly headstrong and ambitious daughter, who is six months away from finishing medical school with honours, suddenly takes up with this man, whom I know nothing about. And before I know it, she's with child, and it all comes to a screeching halt! I don't know how or when or why this relationship started, and I don't understand why you'd get pregnant, if you didn't have to!"
Well, now, that was just it. Martha hadn't wanted to get pregnant, necessarily, but she knew she had to. It was in the cards. More than that, it was interwoven with the history, and future, of the universe, time and space itself. An immutable fact of existence: Martha Jones and the Doctor would have a son, and he would help them save countless civilisations, in his time. Without this, those countless would perish, putting the balance of the universe in jeopardy. How could she ever hope to explain that to Francine? Hell, before she'd been gifted with the consciousness of a Time Lord, she hadn't really understood it herself.
She acknowledged within herself how this must look to her mother: a young woman's ambitions utterly derailed by a dashing older man and his desires. A girl with a future now pinned down, pregnant and dependant. It probably would wind up looking this way to everyone she knew. Without the proper information, Martha could not begrudge her mother that wonder, that anger at what in God's name had made the strong girl she had raised, go the way of so many weak ones.
As Francine had just a minute before, Martha took a deep breath and pulled her emotions under control. "Mum, I don't know what to tell you. I know how this must seem to you. I understand why you're upset. But you are going to have to trust me."
Francine closed her eyes for a few moments. Then she opened them and said, "All right. I'll trust you. Tell me what I need to know."
"This is a good thing – all of it. Me and the Doctor, the baby, Tish's wedding… it's all coming together the way it should. We are in love. Do you hear me? Yeah, it's a lot of craziness and passion and heat-of-the-moment, but we love each other, and believe me, we have earned it. I know you think that this thing with the Doctor just cropped up overnight, but… it didn't. It was hard, really hard, and we struggled to get there, both of us in our own way. We have what we need to make a good, solid, loving home for our child. And we will do it, and do it well."
"Yeah?" Francine was near tears now.
"Yeah. Promise."
"Okay," her mother whispered. They linked hands again. "Just one more question, and please don't hate me."
"Ask away."
"Is he going to marry you?"
"No, we are not going to marry each other," Martha answered.
Francine gulped and nodded. "All right. I suppose it's the twenty-first century now…"
"He offered to," Martha told her. "I mean, we talked about it. Didn't seem practical. Or necessary."
"Well, maybe in the future."
"Would you relax? You're going to be a gran again, aren't you excited?" Martha asked, squeezing her mother's hands.
Francine smiled in spite of herself, and even let out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, I am. I bought the baby a ducky the other day."
"Finally!" Martha sighed, throwing up her hands. "And it's okay. You can be an excited grandmother and still have your quiet little qualms, you're entitled."
"Thank you. Because I'm sort of qualmy by nature, you know."
"I'd noticed."
"Some of that's just me. Most of it's from being a mum. Better get used to it."
"Okay, ladies, attention back to me now," Tish chirped. "What do you think?" She turned three-hundred-sixty degrees, showing off her gown, pinned in place, fitting like a glove.
"Is good, yes?" asked Mrs. Petruska, beaming.
"Very, very good," Martha said, standing up. "And now you can see the shoes!"
Francine stood as well, and wistfully ran her hands over the tulle skirt. She had been emotional talking to Martha, and the tears now started to flow.
"Mum, for God's sake," Tish said, good-naturedly. "Martha, would you fish my phone out of my handbag? I want a picture of me in this dress."
Martha found Tish's brand-new iPhone in her purse. It was switched off, so Martha turned it on. As soon as she did, the e-mail notification sounded. But it went ignored for the time being while Martha snapped a quick digital photo.
Tish hopped down from the pedestal and thanked Mrs. Petruska. Francine followed the old seamstress to the front counter to pay for her services.
"Are you disappointed that you have to change back into your own clothes now?" asked Martha, handing the phone back to Tish.
Tish chuckled while she checked her e-mail. "Yeah, I wish I could wear it out of here and show everyone."
"I'm pretty sure that's against wedding etiquette. So, where would you like to go for dinner?" Martha asked. "I can't really have sushi, but we could try for Chinese."
"What the hell?" Tish asked, scrunching her nose at her iPhone. "Thirty-eight e-mails just from the dress shop alone!"
"Audacious Attire, where you bought your gown?" Immediately, Martha felt uneasy. She hadn't liked that place one bit, and even less had she liked the owner.
"Yes! Look at this," Tish exclaimed, shoving the little glowing screen at Martha. "They're spamming the hell out of me!"
"Classy joint," Martha commented. "Remind me to call them for my next special occasion."
"I mean, at least it's all wedding stuff," Tish said, scrolling through. "Notifying me about bridal conventions I can go to, the trendiest floral arrangements, different discount offers from stationery companies, cake makers, five different bridesmaid dress houses… yikes! Although, this McArdle's Floral does have some cool stuff… and look, D'Adamio's is having a special on wedding cakes, if you order at least four months in advance. Maybe we should go for a tasting…"
"Er, what happened to being indignant about the thirty-eight spams?"
"Well… it's kind of a pain, but if I don't like them, I guess I can delete them, right? It might be nice to be kept abreast of all that," Tish rationalised. "I haven't chosen a florist or a caterer yet, or decided where the bridesmaid dresses will come from. Maybe I'll be able to choose a band this way."
Martha shook her head, and asked again, "So, where do you want to go for dinner?"
"Sardi's?"
"Great. Give me your phone. I'll call the boys, you go get changed."
"Okay," Tish said, handing the gadget back to Martha.
With her mother up front and Tish in the dressing room, Martha guiltily scrolled through the e-mails, and found one that was an advert for Audacious Attire itself. Something about it gave her the chills, even though there was nothing untoward in the graphics or text. Something was off about it, and it was something she should be noticing, something important staring her in the face. She suspected it was her new "Spidey Senses" tingling, letting her know something was amiss, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She resolved to show it to the Doctor later, to see if his more highly-developed Spidey Senses could work it out.
She then phoned Tish's fiancé, Robert Oliver, and the Doctor, to let them know where and when to meet up for dinner. Both were reluctant to do the family thing; Robert Oliver was, Martha knew, terrified of Francine. But they had all agreed on dinner together after the fitting, so it was to be Sardi's in an hour.
Then, with a terrible feeling in her gut, she dialled another number.
"Audacious Attire, this is Fiona, how may I help you?"
"Miss Hart?"
"Yes."
"This is Tish Jones," Martha lied. "I bought a vintage 1950's gown from you a couple weeks ago."
"Yes, I remember you. How did your alterations go?"
"Just fine. Listen, I know I gave you my e-mail address and whatnot, but all the stuff you're sending me is really clogging up my in-box. Could I ask you just to take me off your list?"
"Absolutely," Miss Hart said. "No problem. I apologise for the inconvenience."
"Thank you," Martha said.
"Otherwise, are you satisfied with your dress?"
"Well, let's hope so."
