Note: Consider this an early Christmas present to those who celebrate. :) If you're enjoying the story, please review!
Five days later – five days of fitful sleep, terrifying dreams, and general anxiety and nausea, to the point that he starts to wonder if he's the one who's pregnant – she rings him for the first time. He's lying in his bed in his boxers, going over a speech draft with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, and when his mobile starts vibrating away on the nightstand, he sits up with a start. His palms go sweaty when he sees her name on the screen, and he scoops up the phone and presses it to his ear as fast as humanly possible.
"Are you okay?" he blurts. Once again, failure on the greeting. He taps his forehead with the heel of his hand.
"Uh," she replies. "Yes, I'm okay. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine, no problem." He leans back against the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut. "So, what's – how are you?"
"Still okay," she repeats, and he can almost hear a faint smile across the wireless connection. "I just wanted to know if you'd like to have lunch with me tomorrow."
He scans through his mental schedule. "I think I'm free. I have meetings in the morning, but lunch would work."
"A late lunch, then?" She pauses. "I know your office isn't anywhere near mine."
"Where are the UNICEF offices, anyway?" he asks, rolling over and glancing out the window at the streetlights. "I thought they'd be closer to Westminster."
"They're in Clerkenwell, actually."
"Jesus. That's a commute."
"It's not really that bad. My flat's in Shoreditch."
His eyebrows raise. "Never would have guessed that."
"I know, I know. See, this is why I don't tell people who I am. They assume that I've got a la-di-da house in Belgravia or something."
"No, just a la-di-da flat in Shoreditch, I'm guessing." He rolls to his back. "Where should we meet? I can come to you if you like."
"That's chivalric of you." His heart leaps a little when he hears the note of teasing in her voice. Oh, Tom, don't get started, he admonishes himself. "We could meet somewhere. There's a pub I like not far from Holborn Station." She gives him the name, and he scribbles it in the margin of the draft.
"What time?"
"Will you be done by one?"
"Can be."
"Okay, then, one o'clock sounds perfect." There's hesitation in her voice. "Is this awkward? I didn't know if I was supposed to just ring you like this."
"I don't think it's awkward. I mean, everything is sort of awkward, isn't it? So this isn't any more awkward than any other part of it."
"Um, okay," she replies.
He doesn't want to end the call yet. "Er – are you feeling okay? Have you been unwell or anything?"
There's a pause. "I've been a bit sick. Nothing out of the ordinary, apparently."
"That's good." He winces. "I mean, not that you've been sick, but that it's normal."
"Right."
"Anyway." Now it was getting awkward. "One o'clock, Holborn, lunch."
"Yes."
"I'll see you there, then, I suppose."
"Yes, I suppose you will." The line crackles a bit with her exhale. "Have a good night."
"You, too."
"Okay. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," he echoes, punching at the "END" button and flinging the phone across the bed. Small steps.
"I just don't think it conveys the message we want to convey," Corin says wearily, flinging a marked-up copy of the latest speech on the table.
Tom sighs and leans back in his chair. "Many more personal anecdotes, and this turns into utter crap," he argues. "The worst kind of stupid political schmaltz."
John – cranky veteran speechwriter to Tom's brash young speechwriter, trumpeted the Guardian in a profile of MacLeod's staff last year – sighs back from across the room. "The Mail is already saying that Corin sounds too mechanical, too much like a wonk."
"And now we're giving a shit what the Mail says?" Tom retorts. "I must have missed that memo."
"Okay, okay." Corin holds up a hand. "One human interest story to illustrate the argument about rising unemployment. Military family from the Midlands. Spread things out a bit."
Tom shook his head. "John, that one's on you."
"I'm five steps ahead of you, as per usual," John snipes, packing up his notes and grumbling as he leaves the conference room.
"He's out of touch, Corin," Tom says. "You're going to sound like an American if you keep going on with these stories from the people."
"For God's sake, Branson, aren't we supposed to be the party of the people, after all?" Corin replies with a smirk.
"There's a difference between representing the interests of the people and pandering with stupid pathos arguments," he says. "I've had enough experience with the human interest angle in my own life to know."
Corin hums a little under his breath. "I'd wager you have."
"There's something disgusting about using people's problems for political gain, no matter how good the intentions are." He taps his pencil on the draft in front of him. "It just cheapens the whole thing."
"Regardless, there's strategy and then there's strategy." Corin rises and straightens his tie. "I have to go meet with Freddy Colfax about the Russian summit. Do me a favour and write up another draft yourself. God knows what John's going to come up with."
He grunts his assent. "I have a lunch meeting. I'll have something for you later this afternoon."
"Fine, fine," Corin replies. "Toe the line. Touching, but not touching. I trust your judgment." He strolls out of the room, leaving Tom alone to wonder precisely how trustworthy Corin was going to find him over the next few weeks.
She's waiting at a table in the back when he arrives, shaking rain off his coat, at the pub the next afternoon. For a moment, he has the chance to look at her before she registers his presence. She's beautiful – a little drawn, a little tired, but she makes his heart stop. Oh, he's going to be steamrolled by her in the end, he can feel it already. He's already so vulnerable and so unguarded. He never had a chance.
When she looks up and sees him, her eyes widen with recognition, and she beckons him over. He fumbles his way toward her, holding his bag and his umbrella at odd angles to keep them from decapitating their fellow diners. Her smile is genuine, but unlike him, she is guarded. She's always guarded, he thinks.
"You look busy," she remarks, gesturing toward the chair across from her.
He dumps his things on the floor and shrugs off his jacket. "Had a packed morning. Sorry I'm late. I'm going to blame TfL for that. Some sort of delay on the Central Line fouling everything up."
"You're not too late," she replies, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. "They've only been by once so far."
He nods. "What's good here?"
"Um." She opens the menu and flips through. "I like the fish and chips sometimes." She swallows hard. "There's a salad with feta cheese that's not bad."
"Are you okay?" He tilts his head. "You're looking a bit green, to be honest."
"Thanks," she replies tartly.
"No, I just mean—"
"Sorry, no, it's okay. I've been queasy all day, I'm just a little tetchy." She closes her menu and sits back in her chair with a small sigh.
He frowns. "We could go somewhere else if you want, I don't want you to feel ill…"
"But you're hungry, aren't you?"
"The situation's not that dire." As if on cue, his stomach rumbles to life, and she smiles wanly.
"Go on, order some food. I'll just have bread and water and maybe things will calm down a bit."
"Okay," he agrees warily. When the waiter comes by, he asks for the haddock for himself and bread for her, and she just nods along with him.
"Anyway," she says as the waiter collects their menus and disappears, "I wanted to tell you that I told my parents."
He knows that his eyes must be like saucers. "You did?"
"Yes." She sips a little at her water. "You were right. I need to face this if I'm going to go through with it. I was only going to be able to hide things for so long anyway."
He realises he has no idea how many weeks or months along she is. "How soon – when do they say you're due?"
"I went to the doctor with my mother after I told them. He says May. I don't really understand how they calculate it – cycles and things like that."
"May." He'll be a father by summer. He swallows hard. "So right now you're…?"
"Nine weeks, apparently. Even though we only – it was only eight weeks ago. It doesn't make sense."
"Yeah, that is strange."
She sighs. "It really is yours though, Tom. I hadn't been with anyone in months and months before you and I…"
"I believe you. I hadn't either. Not that it matters, I guess. But I hadn't."
"Okay." She's a little flushed, and she sips from her glass again. "Listen, there's something – Papa and Mama were so upset when I told them – I couldn't admit how it happened. I was too scared. So I told them I had a boyfriend." She shakes her head. "It was stupid, and I shouldn't have done it."
"No, I can imagine," he replies. "I don't know – do you want me to…"
"They want you to come to dinner next week," she says quickly, the words tripping over each other in her haste. "Well, they want my mysterious, heretofore unmentioned boyfriend to come to dinner, anyway." She winces. "I'm so sorry. You don't have to if you're not up for it. You haven't even said whether you really want to be involved yet or not."
He shrugs. "I don't think I'd be here if I didn't."
"Oh," she says. "Yes, I guess that's true."
"Did you tell them my name?"
"I told them your name was Tom. I didn't tell them the rest."
"Okay." He lets out a breath that he wasn't even aware he was holding. "My brain is just all over the place, Sybil."
"I know. Mine is, too." She leans an elbow on the table. "I realised this morning that I'll have to cancel the trip to Africa I had planned for the winter. Can't really help do manual labour while I'm six months gone."
"No, probably not."
"I just thought I had everything finally mapped out. Plans to go back to get my master's degree, to work for certain charities. Finally a way to carve out a life outside of the political circus, you know?"
"And then there's me, a part of the political circus, imposing myself on the plan."
"I didn't mean it that way," she replies with a strange look. "I just meant that I wasn't prepared for surprises at this point, and this is just about the biggest surprise I could ever imagine."
"I know." Dazed, he blinks a bit. "Were your parents – I know you said they were upset, but were they hard on you?"
"They were shocked. Mama started crying, but Papa was just totally silent. They told me how disappointed they were in me. Disappointed. I mean, is there anything worse that a parent can say to you?"
She looks like tears are threatening, so he reaches out across the table and grasps for her hand. "It's okay. You don't have to give me a full recap. I shouldn't have asked."
"No, it's – they didn't threaten to disown me or toss me out of the family. They were worried for me. And they know that the papers are going to be merciless when things become … evident," she explains. "They asked if I wanted to go stay with my aunt in New York for the year to get away from the press."
He feels panic start to rise – how could she tell him all about the baby and then disappear to another country without him? "Do you think you would go?"
"No, no, I'm not going to do that. Not after I've brought you into this. I'm going to face up to it here." She squeezes his hand. "But it's not like they were threatening to exile the shameful daughter, either, so don't think that of them."
How could he not? Sybil's pregnancy might not have disastrous effects on her father's political career, but it was certainly going to be a distraction. For the first time, he starts to really worry about how this is all going to play out. He's probably going to lose his job, and her family may marginalize him to the point that he barely gets to see his child. It's too much. He can't find the words to respond, so he just plays a bit with her fingers until the waiter comes over with his lunch.
He tries to eat quickly, mindful of the way the food must be affecting her; she chews slowly on a piece of crusty bread and scrolls through messages on her mobile. "I just hope it helps," he begins, swallowing, "that I'm a part of this. Or are they going to make things even more difficult when they find out about my job?"
"I think the idea that I'm some common slut who fell pregnant after a one-night stand would be worse than that," she replies quietly.
He frowns. "You're not a slut," he murmurs, "don't say that. So we decided to go home together that night, so what? You weren't with anyone, and neither was I. We both knew what we were getting into. We didn't do anything wrong." He pauses. "Well, I did, the second time. But it wasn't wrong that we slept together."
She stands abruptly, and he follows, setting his napkin on the table. "I think I need to get back."
"Hang on," he says, fumbling with his wallet and putting down a couple of notes. "Hang on, let me take you back." She starts to shake her head, but he puts a hand on her elbow. "Please, let me."
Eventually she relents, and she even takes his hand as they make their way outside. He hails a taxi over her protests that they can just take the bus, and as they slide inside, he thinks back to that August night when they clutched each other nervously in the back of a cab on the way to his flat.
Don't fall in love with her, the little voice inside his head hisses. That's only going to make everything even more difficult.
He leans his head back and coughs a little bit. "So, next week."
"Monday night. I'm so sorry."
"No. I mean, I'm going to have to meet them eventually, right? No matter what our situation is."
She nods slowly. "I suppose so."
"I'll go," he offers, "on one condition." Her forehead wrinkles as she turns to regard him. "You come to my flat for dinner on Friday and give me a crash course in talking to the aristocracy."
She snorts, "Like we're a different species or something."
"Hey, now, to a working-class boy from Belfast, you pretty much are," he joshes. She smiles a little. "So that's a yes?"
"Yes, I guess that would be a good idea. We can get our stories straight, and I'll help prepare you for the minefields that lay ahead."
"That's reassuring." He nudges her shoulder with his. "Hey. This is going to be fine."
She reaches for his hand and squeezes it once as they pull up outside her work. "Text me to tell me when to show up on Friday," she says. "I'll bring takeaway." She starts to get out of the car, but then she stops herself, leaning back in and pressing her lips firmly but fleetingly to his cheek. She opens her mouth to say something – but she just smiles faintly and hurries out of the cab.
Don't fall in love with her, Tom.
"Palace of Westminster," he orders the driver gruffly, sinking back into the seat and letting his eyes slip shut.