Clarity - Chapter 7

He was going to kill Jamie. Surely his bairns could survive without him. Sarah was a great woman, after all. And it was always the dads who fucked things up, his was a prime example. The little twat had of course elected not to tell him that the interview he was giving to Clara Oswald was happening today, when he himself had to spend the better part of the afternoon at Kings Place. Something Jamie had definitely been aware of, since he had planned the whole meet-and-greet-the-new-fucking-team at the Guardian himself. And now he'd royally fucked things up with the young advisor, again. And this time there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he'd never see her again. Sure, he might bump into her or catch a glimpse of her at some godawful Westminster thing, but she'd stay the fuck away from him. There would no longer be any charged staring contests, or whatever the hell those were.

Sitting in the back of the car that was taking him back to Number 10, Malcolm acknowledged that it was probably for the best anyway. She was distracting him. Preventing him from doing his job properly. For fuck's sake, even Jamie had noticed. What next? He was going to buy her flowers to apologise? That would be a sight for sore eyes: him delivering roses to Clara Oswald at the Sanctuary Buildings. Would she even like roses? he wondered. He wasn't sure she was the type. Or maybe red roses. Definitely not pink ones, though. Fuck, this needed to stop, this was getting ridiculous. He wanted to blame Jamie for that, too. He was the one who'd had planted all those 'romantic' ideas inside his head. He would never have come up with such gag-inducing bullshit on his own.

So yeah, okay, he'd behaved like a prick with her. So fucking what? This wasn't a recent development in his behaviour with other people. Did she have to parade her social life inside the car like that? How the fuck was he supposed to know people went absolutely bonkers with their choices of pet names? God did he feel like shouting. And not at an inanimate object. He'd have to find a living, breathing human being on the way to his office to bollock. Too bad if that turned out to be Jamie. He was actually on the verge of starting an argument with his perfectly nice and obliging driver when the car stopped. He mumbled a word that was a cross between "thanks" and "fuck", fumbled with his seatbelt for a good ten seconds in which he had time to plan ten different executions, and got out.

Maybe he exuded a special kind of smell or aura when he got into one of those ferocious moods. Maybe there was a fire alarm of sorts signalling his presence at Number 10 that everybody could hear but him. In any case, he didn't come across one tosser as he made his way to his office. He'd wisely decided years ago that it was probably best if he refrained from insulting the police guards posted at the different entrances to Number 10. Especially the ones armed with machine guns. Even Sam was nowhere to be seen. Although he didn't think he would have shouted at her. He rarely ever did, after all. But he did find a nice pile of messages waiting for him on his desk written in her neat handwriting.

Dealing with the messages proved sufficiently therapeutic for now. Though the poor press advisors he got on the line would probably need to get their hearing checked by an ENT specialist at one point in the near future. He had a couple of junior ministers due for a visit next, and Sam presented him with a sandwich and a fresh cup of tea shortly before their arrival. He had indeed missed lunch, and he could see on his PA's silent but reproachful face that she attributed his mood to lack of food. She was probably partly right, but still clever enough not to open her mouth in his presence at a time like this. She'd known him for a while, after all, and was particularly gifted at reading him. For the hundredth time that month, Malcolm made a mental note that he needed to get her a raise.

Once the tea, sandwich and junior ministers had been disposed of - unsurprisingly, the ministers had been the most nutritious - he felt calm enough to call Jamie without eviscerating him on the spot. He did have a valid, work-related reason to summon him to his office, but he was conscious of the fact that they wouldn't be talking about that. He wanted the whole Clara thing to be the furthest thing from his mind, but it just wouldn't budge from its forefront. He hoped Jamie would prove so fucking annoying with his Clara-this and his Clara-that, that his fed up brain would give up on the subject altogether and free some much needed space. He knew there wasn't any room in his over-taxed mind - or life - for a short bossy brunette, but it was another thing to have said mind understand this predicament and agree to let go.

Jamie arrived as he usually did, with a spring in his step, and visibly carrying the required files Malcolm had asked him to bring.

"So, what did I tell you? Just got Alex Young on the phone, he said Clara was... What the fuck happened to you?" the younger Scot asked, noticing quickly that his boss was still in quite a dark mood.

"Your fucking plan is what happened to me. Why didn't you tell me her interview was today? You meant for me to bump into her there, didn't you?"

Jamie remained silent, for once. Malcolm could see that he was trying to understand the situation without having to actually ask him about it. Safer this way, after all.

"And you can drop the fucking files on the desk."

"Did she say anything to you?" Jamie finally asked.

"About what?"

"About what I might have told her this morning."

"What the fuck are you on about? No, I messed things up as usual, but it's your fault. Stop trying to set me up with her or whatever the hell it is you're trying to do, it's not worth it."

"Of course it is, you old cock. You've been miserable ever since that Kelly Grogan thing."

"Jesus Christ, that was almost a year ago, would you drop this? I can take care of myself and my own miserable life, fuck you very much."

Malcolm stood up, suddenly feeling like walking. He took his time circling the office, spending a few seconds touching random pieces of furniture. Jamie observed him in silence, apparently used to such behaviour. Malcolm couldn't decide if he wanted to keep on shouting at his colleague or send him out. He'd hoped Jamie would be his usual loud, exuberant self and hadn't anticipated he would stay quiet. He'd never really known how to deal with a mute Jamie. To be completely honest, it made him nervous. He desperately wanted to fill the silence with a joke or an insult, but he couldn't settle on a suitable one.

"What did you do?" Jamie asked in a calm tone that was also alien to Malcolm. Once again, he was reminded how different a person the young man was outside the office. He had a wife and two kids. And if Malcolm wasn't so fucked up, he would probably call him a friend. He'd never felt more jealous of the man as he did now. That realisation, coming out of nowhere, scared him. But it also propelled him to answer Jamie truthfully.

"What do you think?" he told him, and Malcolm could see that Jamie was floored by his brutal honesty.

"It's just... It's no use, mate. I'm too old for this shit, and too old for her anyway. I guess it's nice in some fucked up way to imagine oneself being a different person every once in a while. Imagine that we can change, or be someone else entirely. But that's not me, it never was. And I've always been fine with that."

"You're not making any sense, man. I never said you had to marry her on the spot and pledge your ever-dying love to her, I just said it might do you good to... flirt, or whatever. "

"Yeah, well, guess I'm too old for that too."

"Bollocks. You're a coward, that's what you are."

Malcolm was on the verge of signalling in a very loud manner that Jamie was taking things too far, but the smaller man deliberately didn't give him the time to open his mouth.

"You know you are. Stop over-complicating things. If you like her, tell her. And if you've been a prick to her, apologise. You said so yourself, you're too old for this shit, so what have you go to lose anyway? She's just one lass for fuck's sake."

"This very morning, you told me she was more than just one lass. And don't pretend you weren't going to praise how fucking clever and how fucking wonderful she'd been at the Guardian when you came in just now."

"I didn't know at the time you had it so bad for her already. Do something, it's fucking ridiculous. Or don't, and stay miserable. But stop blaming me. Now, can we drop this girly subject, my balls are about to drop off."

Malcolm sat back behind his desk, mentally drained. It was close to seven already, and he wanted to get home before midnight. He could see that Jamie felt that way, too. So he pretended that nothing was amiss, and quickly dismissed him from his office after checking the files he'd brought down were the right ones. But just before he closed the door, he called Jamie back on a whim:

"Was Sam still there when you got in?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Tell her to come in, please."

Malcolm knew he'd never have the guts to formerly apologise to Clara. He'd probably mess this up as well anyway, since apologising was a foreign concept to him. But he also knew that he wouldn't be able to do any valuable work tonight if he did nothing. So enlisting his trusted PA was the strategy he came up with. She'd looked at him strangely when he asked her to go and buy a couple of Guinness cans and Kettle crisps, but seemed non-plussed when he told her who to bike it to. He wondered if Jamie had opened his big fucking mouth regarding the Clara thing, and wished he could muster some anger, but quickly realised that those two were the last people in the whole of Whitehall who would ever gossip about it to anyone else.

Afterwards, he sent Sam home and was glad to find himself efficient and clear-minded for a couple more hours at his desk. His guilty-conscience was assuaged for now, and he didn't focus too much on the way Clara would interpret his olive branch. Or whatever the hell it was supposed to be. He wasn't sure himself. Apparently, he wasn't sure of a lot of things, these days. But the things he was undoubtedly sure of - such as the incompetence of more than half of the people currently in power, or the shitstorm the looming reshuffle would bring - those things he held dear. Those things he felt safe with.

Driving home that night, BBC Radio 4 blissfully off for once, he pondered this growing realisation some more. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, and perhaps his sense of dread regarding the young, pretty and utterly competent Education advisor derived from that acknowledgment. She might be a terrific asset to the government one day. He could see her reaching the very top if she wanted to. But perhaps she didn't care about any of that. He actually wished she didn't yearn for such a career. He knew how bitter and disillusioned hard-working, smart people quickly became, the more time they spent in government. Some might even say he had been one of those people at one point. Malcolm knew he wouldn't up and leave his Party and his job anytime soon, but he also knew that the revolutionary ideas he'd had in his youth - hell, when he was Clara's age, let's be honest - were long gone and buried somewhere with all the other bright ideas people had had over the years to make the country a better place.

Perhaps it was only a sexual thing then, but somehow he doubted that. Sure, she was gorgeous and her impish smile was deadly. And yes, the way she'd had looked at him on Friday night had done more for his ego than the Prime Minister repeatedly professing his utter admiration had ever done to him. Who knew? Maybe he'd get the chance to find out, one day. He knew the main reason for his 'gift' tonight resided there: he didn't want to burn all his bridges with her. He wanted more time. More time to make up his fucked up mind. More time to see if she was as bloody perfect as Jamie implied she would be for him.