She's got that look like a deer caught in headlights, and then she's gone. Running down the corridors of number ten, like there's a hunter on her tail with a semi-automatic.

Malcolm watches her go, tuning out Steve Fleming as he drones on about Malcolm's failures. He shoos the vultures away from Sam a they cluster they have formed around her desk, rants and raves at a few of the staffers, and eventually storms out in a fit of overt petulance.

He doesn't even bother using one of the fleet cars, and instead jumps in a cab. For the next three hours, he sulks. Shameless, childish, un-Malcolmlike sulking. He drinks two glasses of red wine, eats a bag of crisps, and feels disgusted with himself. He leaves three enraged voicemails on Tom's personal mobile, another cold and calculating one on Steve's, and a comforting and reassuring one on Sam's.

Then, whether it's because of the two glasses of wine in his usually alcohol-free system or not, he leaves and finds himself banging on the door of Nicola Murray half an hour later.

It's the deer caught in the headlights look again. A young boy runs behind her, screaming his head off, and a woman chases after him shouting a name Malcolm doesn't really give a shit about.

"Fucking... shit. What the hell are you doing here?" Nicola pushes the door closed until all he can see is her face and half of her torso. A dog barks, and a girl's voice shouts from a few rooms away.

"Jesus, Nicola... is this a house, or a fucking menagerie of retarded chimpanzees?"

"Well considering all my children are being forced to go to comprehensive schools thanks to you, that theory is rather fitting." She puts a hand on her visible hip, and tilts her head to the side. "Is this a social call, or are you here to forcibly remove my head from my shoulders so you can bathe in the viscera?"

"It keeps me young."

"So I've heard."

There's a beat, and Malcolm tucks his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. "I just need you to know that I didn't ask you... that today... because of what happened in Eastbourne."

Nicola bites her lip and opens the door a little wider. "You should come in."

He hesitates, but steps through the door anyway. Nicola gestures towards a closed door. "Wait in there."

He opens the door, and steps into the small parlour. He doesn't sit down, and listens to the muted chaos of the household for a few moments. It's not long before Nicola returns.

"How's the illustrious Mister Murray?"

Nicola rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. They're facing off across the room, him behind the couch, and her in front of the door. "My marriage is none of your business."

"Oh, really?"

"You fucking... promised,Malcolm. You promised you would never bring this up again."

"Well we all know I'm a deplorable fucking liar who says whatever the hell he wants to meet his own ends."

"And what ends need to be met today that requires bringing up that one time we fucked?" Her voice is a hiss, there's a brief moment where he can only describe her expression as venomous, but then it's gone.

Malcolm leans on the back of the chesterfield, and fixes his gaze on her. She has the look again, like he's about to pounce on her and tear her flesh from her bones. The vulnerability does things to his chest that he doesn't like at all.

"I just want to check we're on the same page."

"You don't have to worry, I won't file a sexual harassment lawsuit against you. I was as much at fault that night as you were."

"I don't regret it, you know."

Nicola moves towards a cabinet near the window, and opens a cupboard. She pulls out a bottle of brandy and a glass, and pours herself a healthy measure. "I would offer you a drink, but you're already clearly trolleyed and I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage." She takes a slug, and drops the glass to the windowsill.

"I am not fucking... trolleyed." He crosses his arms, and frowns.

"Look, Malcolm. If you're here to grovel for some unknown reason – because let's be honest for a moment, I have absolutely no political influence whatsoever that can help you out of your current pickle – then you may as well just head through that door right now and go crawl back under whatever bloody rock you first emerged from in the first place."

He takes a step towards her. "Are you enjoying this?"

"Malcolm, why are you here?" She raises her voice for the first time, and the quiet buzz of the house comes to a sudden standstill. Malcolm tenses. A few moments later, the muffled sounds of four children and a nanny start up again.

"Look I..." Malcolm runs a hand over his face, and lets out a heavy breath. "Nicola, I don't know what it is about you but I just feel like you're... some kind of compulsion."

"Gee, thanks a lot."

"Shut up."

She snaps her mouth shut, and he can see her internal conflict in her eyes. She picks her brandy back up and holds it to her mouth for a moment before finishing the glass and refilling it. "Fuck you."

He takes two steps towards her, until he can feel the heat of her body against his, and takes the glass from her hand. Her eyes don't leave his as she lets go. "Tell me you regret it, and I'll go."

"You know I don't." Her voice is sharp, eyes challenging. He kisses her.

It's not one of those kisses you read about in books, where everything slots together perfectly. His teeth knock against hers. Their noses smash together a little. It's tentative and chaste, until one of Nicola's hands slides up his neck, and the other grabs his jacket. He grabs her waist then, and kisses her like he means it. Until both of them are gasping and a little sloppy, teeth catching on lips, and lips sucking on more lips and oh god her lips.

And then there's a scream and a shout of Mummy from somewhere towards the back of the house. They break apart, Nicola pressing her lips together as if they're numb, and Malcolm running his hands through his hair until he's sure he's left a pile of short grey strands on the rug. She gives him the wide-eyed look one last time, and leaves the room without a word.

Malcolm lets himself out.