THREE MONTHS AND THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE WEDDING
"Hi," Martha said sheepishly, sitting down at a little table across from her sister.
"Hello," Tish replied.
Martha was surprised to hear that she wasn't displaying much anger in her voice. "You sound like you're in a pretty good mood."
"I am," Tish said. She held up a fruity cocktail. "This doesn't hurt." She took a sip.
Martha decided to forego commenting that perhaps her sister shouldn't be drinking at noon, and instead, just sighed. "I'm sorry about last week at Debenham's."
"I know you are. And it's okay."
"It is?"
"Yeah, I get it."
"You do?"
"Of course." Tish gave her a sympathetic smile.
Martha's stomach did a flip. She didn't know if it was nervousness or anger, or perhaps Baby's First Somersault. "Oh," she said, smiling bitterly. "You think it's hormones."
"Isn't it?"
"Partly," Martha agreed. "I'm usually not prone to flying off the handle quite so quickly."
"Right."
"But the other stuff, the stuff I said we needed to talk about…"
"The dress shop rubbish? Oh, Martha," Tish sighed. "Can't we just let this go?"
"No," Martha insisted. "We can't. You agreed to come here to talk about this, so now you're going to listen."
Tish crossed her arms across her chest. She stared into space for a moment, then focused on her sister's face. "Fine. You said there are things I don't understand." As she said the last three words, she used sceptical air-quotes. Martha decided to ignore them.
"Yes, there are things you don't understand."
"What, like organised crime?"
"No, a lot weirder than that. Just hear me out."
Tish motioned for Martha to speak, though scepticism showed all over her face.
"Two women have gone missing, Tish," Martha began. "Two, in the past month, that we know of. Both of them right before their weddings, and the only link we can find is Audacious Attire. And we don't know if they're dead or alive, being held prisoner somewhere, or whether they just ran off, but the circumstances surrounding the disppearances… it's very, very strange. It's like a… disturbance."
"Disturbance?"
"Yes. In the air."
"Like ions or something?"
"Something like that. We're… looking into it."
"We, meaning you and the Doctor."
Martha blinked. "Yes, of course."
Tish rolled her eyes. "Okay. Continue, please."
"Why are you rolling your eyes?"
"Because, do you know how daft this all sounds?"
"I know, but… Tish, the Doctor and I… we're…" Martha sighed, knowing she'd backed herself into a bit of a corner. "He's not exactly what you'd call an M.D. I mean, not exclusively anyway."
"I worked that out, thanks," Tish said, her face registering tedium.
"You did?" Martha asked. Then she let out a breath and relaxed. "Of course you did."
"Yep. He's got to be some kind of underground operative, at least," Tish guessed. "How many nephrologists would know how to deal with Lazarus and his machine? And all that rubbish that the government keeps whispering in mum's ear…"
"Still?"
"Well, not so much now. She's basically quit listening and developed her own neuroses."
Martha reckoned this was a good way for Tish to think of it for now. The Doctor is an underground operative. It was a vague version of what he actually was, much as Leo thought of him as an investigator.
"Okay," Martha nodded. "You're basically right. Basically."
"What I don't get is how you fit into the equation. I mean, other than the shagging."
Martha's nervous angry stomach did another flip. "It's hard to explain."
"I'll bet." Sarcasm betrayed itself in Tish's voice.
"Tish, do you have something to say?" Martha asked. She tried not to sound defensive, but she was more than a little hurt, and she didn't mind if Tish knew it. She had always believed that Tish was on her side, where her relationship with the Doctor was concerned. She'd defended Martha to their mother, she'd tagged along with her and the Doctor when Lazarus ran amok. She'd sent Martha e-mails trying to reassure her that everything would be okay with Francine and the baby. And ultimately, Martha knew, Tish would wind up raising her and the Doctor's child, at least for a time. "I thought you were okay with all this. What's the problem?"
"The problem is," Tish whispered with a hiss, leaning forward. "Martha, I've been more than fair. I've gone to bat for you. I've supported you. I've done everything I can for you, and still, there's this secrecy. Clearly, your Doctor is not who or what he appears to be. He's not just handsome and worldly, he's something else entirely… like, in the way James Bond is something else. Maybe even weirder than that. And you won't say. You keep me in the dark. You treat me like a child when the subject comes up, and I just can't imagine what the two of you could be hiding. At first I thought you didn't know either, but know I know better!"
"Tish…"
"I don't understand how you fit into his life, or him into yours, and I don't understand why you feel you can't trust me with the truth. Martha, it's me! I'm your sister! I've told you everything since we were old enough to talk, and until recently, I think, vice versa. And I'm sorry, I don't want to sound like mum, but I have to admit, the secrecy makes me just a little nervous."
"Tish, listen…"
"Martha, don't get me wrong. I like the Doctor. I do. He's a laugh, he really is. And I think he honestly loves you – I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. And I believe you know what you're doing. Just… what is it that you're doing?"
Now it was Martha's turn to sit back and cross her arms. She exhaled through pursed lips.
Tish's lips curled. "You're going to tell me again that you can't tell me."
Tears came to Martha's eyes. "I'm afraid that if I tell you the truth, you'll… I don't know."
"What? Hate you? Have you arrested? Tell mum on you?"
"Have me committed," Martha said, a single tear spilling over. "Or worse: think I'm lying and trust me even less than you do now."
"I see. So the truth is so strange, I won't believe it, or even be able to wrap my mind round it long enough just to give you the benefit of the doubt."
Martha stared at her sister through her tears, as a few more fell. "Maybe," she confessed, knowing that Tish would feel insulted.
And she did. Tish felt exasperated to the extreme. She threw up her hands. "How about… just start with one thing. Just one oh-so-outlandish little detail. Just try me. Give me a little credit. Just… show some measure of trust, Martha, so that at least someone in the family has a sense of the score."
Martha took a deep breath. She thought about the Doctor. She thought about the unbelievable and fantastical aspects of their daily lives. She thought about how big the outlandish details really were, and wondered if there was anything she could say right now that wouldn't completely turn her relationship with her sister inside-out, one way or another.
And as she had many times over the past year, she thought "What would the Doctor do?" If he was sitting here now, what would he say to Tish? What detail, if any, would he give? And what would he say later on when Martha told him about this conversation, and whatever tidbit she'd decided to disclose?
He'd likely not approve of any of it.
But they were part of each others' lives now. They shared a life, a love, a bed, and now flesh and blood. When two people get involved and become intertwined, certain privacies had to be relinquished if they wanted to be truly, truly together. The Doctor would just have to get used to that. Martha felt she was ready to bear a cold shoulder from him, if that's what it took. She knew he'd come round eventually, and deep down, he would understand. Besides, Tish was going to care for their son, who would share much of the uniqueness that made the Doctor such an infuriating and enigmatic being.
And Martha made a decision.
"I'll tell you the truth," she said almost robotically. "I will tell you anything you want to know, and I will not lie to you. I promise."
"Good, thank you."
"But you have to make me a promise as well."
"Okay."
"Promise me that you will honour my promise, by believing in me."
Tish was surprised. "Okay," she said, frowning.
"Promise that you will believe that I am completely sane, and that I have not been manipulated by anyone."
Tish's frown deepened. "Okay."
"Because after we have this talk, I don't want to have to spend the next six months chasing you about, trying to convince you."
"Er… okay."
Martha took yet another deep breath. "Okay. Do you believe in life outside of this planet?"
"You mean, aliens?"
"Yes."
Tish gave a slow, deep shrug. "Well, I think the idea that we are alone in this entire huge, vast universe is unlikely."
"So, yes?"
"Yes," Tish replied, still deeply frowning. "I think there must be life out there."
"Good. Do you believe that non-humans might walk among us?"
Tish opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out for a few seconds. Her eyes grew wide, and she said, "I'd never thought about it, but I couldn't swear that they don't walk among us."
"Could you believe that some of them wear suits, speak with English accents, fall in love with humans, and may even appear to be handsome and worldly?"
Again, Tish opened her mouth, and nothing came out. This time, she never found the wherewithal to speak. Her eyes were impossible to read, and Martha's stomach did twenty flips all at once.
Across town, Audacious Attire was closed for inventory. Fiona Hart was expecting a delivery at any moment. For now, she was going through her receipts for the past month, and reconciling them with bank statements on her computer. When she was done with this, if the delivery still hadn't arrived, she continue scanning her hard copies of bills of sale into digital files.
When the bell rang, she looked at her watch. The delivery was supposed to come at noon, and it was now a quarter past. Still, the delivery men from the shoe wholesalers were not known for their punctuality, and Fiona was used to waiting until two or three o'clock. This was a welcome little surprise for her. She made her way through the back room to the front of the store.
"Hello," she said, opening the door to the delivery man. "I'll open up the door in back, and you can swing round."
"Er," the delivery man said. "D'you mind if I just bring it through the front? They've got me drivin' a different lorry today, and it won't fit in the alley back there. I checked."
"Oh," Fiona said, eyebrows raised. "All right. Just be careful of the dress stock."
"Sure thing, miss. Would you sign here, please?"
Fiona took the clipboard from him and gave her signature.
"Brilliant," the man said. "Mind holdin' the door for me?"
She stood to the side and held the door open while she watched the man load individual shoe boxes onto the dolly. He was a delivery man she had never seen before, and the way he was acting, he appeared to be somewhat new. Most of the drivers could manoeuver any of the delivery vehicles into the back alley, and none of them ever loaded shoe boxes one-by-one. Usually, they were twined together with string or packed into larger boxes for expedience's sake. But Fiona Hart reckoned she was not the kind of person to make a fuss about this sort of thing, and that the delivery man would learn his trade, all in good time.
After a long, tedious wait, the man finally came down the little ramp with his wares piled on the dolly and made his way into the store. Most delivery men went backwards, dragging the dolly in front – easier to steer this way.
Not this man.
"Bloody hell!" he cried out.
"What?" Fiona said, her voice ringing out like a fire bell.
"Oh no, no, no," exclaimed the delivery man. "I've got black grease from the dolly on one of your dresses! Blimey, I'm so sorry, miss!"
"What?" she repeated, rushing over to where he was. She knelt, examining the damage.
A vintage 1945 wedding gown, made custom in Paris for the wealthy bride of a soldier returning from the war, in ecru and ivory, had got its train wrapped up in the wheels of the delivery dolly. A big, ugly black swirl now marred its perfect satin surface. Fiona gathered the train up in her hands, and involuntarily let out a cry.
"Oh my God," said the delivery man. "I'm so, so sorry!"
"I know, I know," she insisted. "Just… get those shoes back to the store room, would you?"
"Wait, I've got some cleaning agents in the lorry…"
"No, no, just go in the back and start stacking. I have some specialised anti-stain rubs behind the counter."
"You sure?"
She clenched her teeth. "Yes, I'm sure! You think you can just put Scotchgard on sixty-year-old satin? Just go."
"Okay, okay," the man panted. His hands were awkard, and he gestured as though he'd like to help.
"You see? This is why we don't bring stock through the front!" she muttered.
"I know, miss, I'm sorry!"
The delivery man pushed his wares into the back room, as he had been told.
Leo Jones let go of the dolly as soon as he was through the curtain.
"How long have we got?" asked the Doctor, who was already engaged in pulling computer wires out of the wall and wrapping them around his hands.
"I dunno," Leo shrugged. "Never cleaned black grease out of a wedding gown before. Could be an hour, could be five minutes."
"Well, go check!" the Doctor commanded. "Stack up the shoes, and then go back out there and be all… you know, rubbish and ham-handed, and then she'll want to spend more time watching you."
Leo gave a little salute and began stacking the shoe boxes onto the shelves. He didn't bother with the sizes or model numbers, like the real delivery man had told him to do when they'd bribed him to give up this one drop-off. Leo just stacked as fast as he could.
"Okay boss, I'm goin' back in," Leo called out. "Page me when you're done."
"Okay. Whistle if she's headed back here."
"What will you do?" asked Leo.
"No idea," said the Doctor, disconnecting the scanner.
