Chapter 9: The Revenge Affair


"Clara, when I said you two were fucking, I didn't actually mean you were fucking."

Jack slapped a newspaper down in front of her, already open, folded to the relevant page. A large picture of John and herself decorated the clear bit of space on her desk, aptly combined with another captioned photo of her entering his studio. For starters, she was impressed, overly so, at the turn-around print speed. The photo of the two of them leaving the supermarket had been taken rather late in the evening yesterday. And if the circumstances had been different, she would have taken a bit more time to consider that it was actually a pretty good photo of her, both times.

Nice trouser/boot combination, Oswald. Amy was right about that colour.

The headline and the subsequent, inevitable picture of his wife ruined the effect.

PARTNERS IN CRIME: The Doctor Engages In Shameless Revenge Affair

A lengthy article spread beneath the photos. "Thought you stopped reading tabloids," Clara muttered, pushing it away.

"Yeah, except it's hard to avoid when all the goddamn staff and literally everyone I know are talking about it. Which is the entirety of this city. Hadn't you noticed?"

Jack was angry. Properly, furiously, I'm-about-to-start-yelling angry, bursting into her office without warning. He jabbed a finger into the image. The paper beneath creased. "Are you sleeping with him?" His tone was incredulous.

"It's none of your business, Jack," she snapped back, very much not interested in having this interaction.

"Of course it is!" He drew back from the desk, anger rippling over his expression. "I'm not going to let…" His sentence trailed away as he grit his teeth, speaking through them."It's only been five weeks."

Thirty nine days, actually.

"Clara, if you think starting some rebound affair is going to help you get over this—you're fucking crazy."

She stood up from her chair, shaking her head and attempted to fold the paper closed, not interested in doing this with him.

"No—listen to me." Jack snatched it from her hands and thrust it back open against desk. "I don't know anything about the state of his marriage and I don't give a fuck. This is about you.

"You haven't even seen a counsellor, for fucksake! If you're not going to talk to me or Amy—then what? You're talking to him about Danny?"

Oh, Danny.

That was uncalled for. A muscle in her jaw twitched as her own anger began sparking to life. A small fragment that had somehow opened in her veins since Thursday's time spent in a cell.

Jack must have known he was crossing a line but continued anyway, too enraged to consider what he was doing. "Clara, this is what you're going to get." His finger hit the paper again. "You understand how it looks, right? They're going to be all over this, all over you. Dragging you through the mud. Think Sharon Lowles is going to suddenly discover she's got respectable morals? Let me answer that for you—no, she fucking well isn't. You're not going to be able to ignore it, and it's not what you need."

"You have no idea what I need, Jack." She tried to keep her tone reasonable, but it felt bitter, mirroring the growing aggravation coursing through her veins.

"Yeah—because you won't tell me!" he suddenly yelled at her. "All I can do is guess. I'm spending half my life worrying about you and I'm sick of it! Ianto's just as fucking bad and I don't want to do this with you as well!"

She felt cold suddenly, Jack's abrupt honesty freezing the heat in her blood. "I've never asked you to do that," she said quietly, voice full of ice.

"Oh, don't be like that," he exclaimed in frustration. "Jesus. Of course you haven't fucking asked. You don't need to. I'm your friend. I want to help. But if you're going to purposely put yourself in a compromising situation then what the hell am I supposed to do here?"

"Can you fuck off, Jack," she snapped quickly. "I don't want your fucking opinion or your fucking sympathy. Get out."

"No, Clara, you don't get a choice in this, actually, because you're not the only one affected by this situation! Think this looks good for me? Having my producer—who is currently running the biggest show in the country—fucking a married man for the entire world to see?"

"Oh, right. Great. This is new, Jack. You've never once cared about how your portrayal in the press might have affected me. You just do whatever the hell you want and leave me and Rory to clean up the mess."

"Yeah, what you signed up for, Clara," he spat, bitter. "And at least what I do is grounded within some decent fucking morals. You've already almost fucked up our show with that really shameless bit of blackmail, so thanks for adding this to your track record."

"Are you kidding me? Are you forgetting what Sharon said about you and Ianto?"

"I don't need you to be our champion, Clara. Jesus Christ. We're more than capable of doing that ourselves."

"What are you talking about? What the fuck do you want from me then? We wouldn't have a show to broadcast if it wasn't for me! Do you not understand how much time I have to spend doing damage control because you can't control yourself?"

"Once again, that's what you signed up for. And you might be in charge, but I'm the face of it! I'm the one who's going to have to sit beside you, defending your actions because you can't control yourself. I'm directly involved with you, Clara!" Jack indicated to the first paragraph of the text. She refused to look. "If anyone was unclear about it, here's my fucking name being printed right beside yours. I don't appreciate having my bosses at the LTC calling me to ask what I'm going to do about the toxic mess you're turning into from this!"

"Jack!" she snarled back, incredulous. "It's a newspaper headline!"

"Yeah, and I'm your collateral damage for it! Don't be so naive about where this is heading! This bitch"—He picked up the paper—"is going to run you into the fucking ground! You've given her exactly what she needs to do it and hurt me in the process."

Clara shook her head in disbelief at his reasoning. "If you don't want to work with me, Jack, then quit. I'll terminate your fucking contract. Or, go upstairs right now and tell Michelle you think I'm not of reputable enough character for you to be around anymore and she can get you someone else. Probably the more likely outcome. I'll quit instead. Wouldn't want the nation to lose God's gift to mankind over here."

Jack was rippling now with rage. "What's going to happen when Sharon gets Danny then, huh? Have you thought about that?"

No.

"That's going to be a really fun fucking day when that happens, isn't it? Why aren't you at least trying to think this through? Do you not understand how selfish this is?"

"How exactly am I being selfish? I've just told you what you can do if don't like it. And I'm not asking you for anything. I don't want anything from you. You and Amy have been following me around like you're my fucking parents and I'm more than happy for you to stop treating me like I'm some sort of fragile glass that's going to break at any moment."

"Oh, okay, great—we're sorry for caring then. How stupid of us. I've got an idea—how about we leave you to your own devices. Yeah?" He threw the newspaper down. "Because you're obviously capable of making really smart decisions at the moment."

The door burst open and Rory entered, face stoney, angry even. A rare sight. "Jack," he snapped. "We can hear you down the hall. You need to stop. Leave, I think. Go outside and calm down."

"I'm having a conversation."

"No, you're not," Rory shot back. "In no fucking world is this a conversation. Leave before you make it worse."

The boys didn't fight. Rory is swearing. How strange.

"Have you seen this yet?" Jack asked him, thrusting the paper into his hands.

"Yeah, I've seen it."

"So—what? Fine with you, too?"

"No, of course not. But this isn't the right way to deal with it."

"Oh, because you'd rather not deal with it at all? We should just sit back and let this happen? Fuck off, Rory. Stop trying to mediate. Choose a fucking side."

Rory bristled with anger. "Jack—"

"This is fucked up, Clara." Jack shook his head in disgust, pointing back to the paper in Rory's hands. "And don't delude yourself into thinking this is going to end well. Because it's not."

"Get out," Rory snapped at him again, moving forward and reaching for his arm.

Jack shrugged him off and turned around, slamming the door behind him. The frosted glass panel rattled. Clara took a deep breath, releasing it slowly and trying to keep it steady.

Jack didn't quite understand what was happening to her. It had surprised her at first because they were so in sync with everything else. She couldn't quite place it as a personality difference, and instead she had headed towards perhaps it being some sort of cultural difference between them. His open, honest dialogue was crumbling beneath the weight of her refusal to speak to him. Territory he thought he knew how to deal with, and yet didn't know what to do when he hit a wall he couldn't climb.

"Clara," Rory said gently, stepping towards her. "Can I… do anything?"

"No," she replied. "Thanks." She swallowed, clenching trembling hands into fists under the desk in attempt to still them. "Just… Give me ten minutes? I have the updated schedules for next Friday's set up. We need to go through them before we hand them to Rachel."

"Clara—"

"Don't," she cut in, shaking her head. "I'm all right. Just come back in ten minutes."

Rory hesitated but did what she asked. When the door closed she put her head in her hands.


A text message from John interrupted the seventh consecutive email she was drafting a few hours later to… Alison-From-The-Council. The woman was apparently having a lot of difficulty understanding the concept that if that road wasn't officially closed off next Saturday, hundreds of people were going to unofficially close it off anyway.

Have you seen the Mail?

Yes.

There's libel legal options you can pursue, if you want.
My lawyer is happy to speak to you about them.

No thanks. I want nothing to do with it.
Isn't your lawyer in France?

Early return… I'm a needy client at the moment.

She must really like you.

It's either that, or the big chunk of my bank account I'm offering.
If you do want to speak to Sarah at some point, I hope it's obvious I would cover costs for everything.

Clara bit her lip and put her fingers into her temples, wondering what she was supposed to say to that. She changed the topic instead; asking the most generic question she could think of.

What are you doing in the weekend?

Glasgow. According to my sister, I have to tell my niece that leading a life of crime isn't an appropriate career choice.

Are you taking the private jet or the helicopter?

Haha. So funny. I'm driving.

All the way?

All the way. All the way, today.
Songwriting 101 right there. I'll give you royalties.

I want the entire copyrights. Have you already left?

Yes. Texting and driving. Like the criminal I am.

Are you really? Otherwise I'm going to stop messaging you.

Wouldn't I just lie and say I wasn't?

I could just stop completely to be safe.

You'll have to trust me then, Oswald. I'm in Lancaster.
Reading the Mail and drinking sugar.

Did you… buy the Mail?

Fuck no. Wouldn't that be slightly… masochistic?
Unfortunately, I'm adding to their online traffic instead.

Well, it wouldn't be masochism unless you're getting gratification from looking at it.

I'm a tabloid masochist then. Because it's a nice picture of us, don't you think?

Clara laughed out loud into the office, the grin remaining on her face as she leant over her mobile on the desk and typed her reply with one hand.

I actually did think that. They timed the wind gust to my hair perfectly.

Would it be weird if I saved the picture?

Weird because you're saving an unsolicited picture, or weird because it's a picture of us.

Both.

She frowned, not quite sure how to answer the second half of that question.

Yes to the former… unsure to the latter.

Everybody sounds like you here.

He'd changed the subject. Probably a smart move.

Funny that. Did you know in Glasgow, people have Glaswegian accents?

Haven't noticed.

Do you get more Scottish when you're at home?

Yes. I can barely understand myself.

Where does your sister live?

Glasgow.

Have you thought about using the stage for comedy instead of music...?

I ask myself that same question everyday.
Missy & Chloe live in Giffnock. Outer south suburb. It's nice.

Have you got a house in Glasgow?

No. London's home, by the way. Not Glasgow.
Moved when I was 21.
I've probably got a Wikipedia page. You could read all about my life.

Information I haven't earned. Feels like an intrusive way to get to know someone.
I'd rather annoy you with questions.

Can I ask you a question?

Sure.

You won't like it. It will sound very intrusive.

I'll read your wiki page if I feel like retaliating.

Have you had breakfast and lunch today?

She blinked at the message, recollection coursing through her. The end of their conversation at the dinner table filtered through her mind before their axe-wielding-cat interruption. She hadn't really thought about what he'd said. His searching, perceptive grey eyes running over her. She was aware of what it implied, but she'd pushed it aside, not wanting to linger with that idea because she absolutely did not want questions like this. It made her vulnerable, the stoic barriers becoming shaky, threatening to slip.

On the desk, her phone beeped.

Ignoring me?

Clara sighed, glancing at the time. Just after two.

No. I haven't had lunch yet.

Okay. You need to eat.
I'll buy you lunch. What do you feel like?

From Lancaster?

What do you feel like?

I like sushi.

Great. Someone will hand deliver sushi to your office in 20 minutes.

Clara frowned, unable to help the rush of bewilderment. This entire conversation was beginning to feel a little surreal. Lunch was now being ordered for her by the Doctor, two hundred fifty miles away.

Will it be… avocado sushi?

Shit. That was lucky. Almost ordered you the wrong sushi.
Disaster averted.

How are you arranging this...?

I'm a man who doesn't know how to go to the supermarket.
I know how to order food.

Thank you, I guess. That was a very intrusive question.

Think I got away with though, don't you think?
Or are you angry at me.

I'm not angry. Probably should be.

I'm all charm. I'm going to drive now. There's lots of animals to look at up here.
Enjoy your lunch, Criminal One.

Sushi did indeed arrive in twenty minutes. And, it wasn't just any sushi. Michelin Star level sushi. She called Rory and got him to help her eat it, seeing as he'd brought her enough for about four people. One of the good things about Rory was that he knew when she didn't want to talk. They ate in silence, her friend balancing a ringbinder on his knees and writing over pages in red pen while she frowned, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet on the desk to stare out into the clouded, shifting sky.

"Rory?"

"Mmm?" He looked up to her, pausing his work.

"He's really nice. John. Could you tell Jack that?"

Rory smiled at her softly. "Sure I can."


A sinuous conversation lasted sporadically between them for most of the weekend. It was difficult without him in front of her to completely forget he was just John and not the Doctor—in discourse with an overtly prominent celebrity.

Clara scrolled through their text, grinning at the ridiculous interaction. If someone had handed these messages to her to read as a third party, she would have immediately labelled it as less than platonic, subtle flirting.

She knew what was happening. Pretending to maintain ignorance wasn't going to last long, but she pressed it down while she could, hiding from it even. If she could just sleep, perhaps she would be able to process her emotions with a clearer head. But that luxury had long been removed. Instead, her grin was mirrored with confusion and a sinking sense of consternation. Amy should be beside her, peering over her shoulder, offering a second opinion and another perspective. Like always. But the thought of confiding in her best friend barely even crossed her mind, just a fleeting remembrance to an option that now felt unobtainable.

It was worth pointing out to herself too, that he was still married. Another part of her reasoned it wasn't actually the sixteenth century. She had no idea how she felt about that fact. His wife may have been cheating on him and he was in the process of divorce, but she couldn't decide where she drew the line on generally acceptable behaviour in regards to honorable and righteous morality. Unable to settle on an answer, she pressed that aside as well, confused and undecided.

Jack's final, cutting words trailed around in her mind, never quite leaving but not enough to deter her from considering future consequences.

Don't delude yourself into thinking this is going to end well. Because it's not.

It was just so… peaceful at the moment. Just two people having a silly conversation, making stupid jokes, enjoying a brief instance of simple connection. And then… her back was against the door, and he was pressing into her, and she was pulling off his clothes, desperately reaching for something lost that he might be able to give her back. His grey eyes pierced into her mind. The guilt she didn't want and the numbing weight returned, crushing rational thought and compressing the distant anger ever circling her veins. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

On Sunday afternoon Jack showed up her house, pouncing on her as she opened the door and transferring half of London's wet weather onto her clothing. His apologies were relentless and continuous, a flow of unfiltered words and emotion. Yet they were genuine, and she accepted them instantly. After he had left her office, she'd felt no enduring anger. When she thought about it, he'd reacted probably in the exact way she would have if the circumstances had been reversed. She didn't tell him that, instead just made him tea and told him any more than ten apologies was a futile and mostly counterproductive task.

Stop it, Jack. Drink your tea.

There was one notable problem however, that was overly apparent by the way he avoided the issue completely. He was apologising for his anger and reaction, but not his reasonings. Clara didn't expect him to, but she didn't feel good about it. This was going to be a problem. A big problem. She could feel it beginning to spread, her actions easing from herself and touching onto her friends, to the people she loved.

"Is everyone… okay?"

Jack looked conflicted for a moment, unsure about how to answer. "Not really," he sighed, honest. "But let's just deal with one thing at a time, huh?"

She nodded slowly, circling the rim of her cup with careful fingers.

"Hey," he murmured. "You've probably forgotten. Tuesday is your birthday. Red Lion after work, yeah? Just like always."

Birthday?

So it was. Late November already.

"The five of us haven't been all together in awhile," Jack continued quietly. "It'll be good."

A situation for a fix. Or a disaster. Could swing either way. A risk was what it really was, she labelled as she cycled the idea through in her head and picked up her phone.

It's my birthday on Tuesday.
Just with Jack, Ianto, Amy, Rory. Want to come?