Chapter 11: It All Goes Downhill After We Play
Amy knew how to tell a story. And usually, ninety nine percent of the time, Clara would have been more than happy to engage with whatever her best friend was insistent to relate to her in the irreverent, animated way that only she knew how to do. Her attention however, as Amy continued in her slightly intoxicated state—turns out, Kathy, right, didn't even know about the goddamn video, so—was fixed on the bar. All the boys had disappeared, Rory on a water mission somewhere, probably; Jack and Ianto no doubt having been distracted by someone to flirt with. She didn't care. Because John was at the bar. And a woman had begun a conversation with him.
He had his elbow on the polished bench, resting casually as she continued her attentions. Clearly flirting, her hand brushed against his arm, leaning in closer than what could be considered platonically-appropriate and laughing in that ridiculous, high-pitched falsetto women liked to imagine was appealing.
Who the fuck laughs like that?
John was smiling, conversing with that same practiced ease he seemed to switch on with strangers. Clara felt a wave of irritation and ground her teeth together. Her fingers tightened around her empty glass.
"Hey." Amy cut into her fixation, punching at her arm.
Her eyes snapped back to her friend, blinking and quickly sending her focus back to the conversation.
"You're fucked, aren't you?" Amy asked, nodding in John's direction and then capturing her gaze again. "As in, completely, properly fucked."
Clara felt herself quailing as Amy addressed her directly. "No," she objected. It didn't sound convincing.
"Christ, Clara," Amy sighed, weary. "You certainly know how to make life complicated for yourself."
"Amy—"
"On the one hand, you're setting yourself up for utter disaster," she continued over her protests, not interested in hearing them. "Which—let's be clear—I'm not happy about."
Amy smiled, leaning back in her chair. "But on the other hand… this is the first time I've seen you smile properly in six weeks. And on the other hand..." She frowned, fixing her gaze towards John again.
"You've run out of hands, Amy," Clara cut in.
"Want me to do something about that slag at the bar or what, Oswald?" Amy stood up, stumbled on her chair, and pressed a steadying hand into Clara's shoulder for balance.
"Fuck—Amy—" she protested, stopping them both from tipping to the floor.
"Okay, so I'm going to need assistance," Amy admitted, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You punch her and I'll handle the verbal work. How Scottish should I go? What do you think about something containing 'abhorrent flesh bag'?"
"Sit down," Clara sighed, fighting back a smile. "I'm not spending my birthday with the police."
"Actually, I wouldn't even worry about it," Amy continued, waving a dismissive hand. "He's been all over you all evening, if you hadn't noticed."
Clara swallowed, not quite able to deal with that sort of statement. At the bar, the woman laughed and pressed another lingering hand on John's forearm.
"God, imagine having to deal with that everytime you go out." Amy shook her head and then smirked. "Imagine having to be you dealing with that everytime you go out."
"Why are you working on Friday?" Clara said quickly, wanting the subject to change. "Can we still all meet in the afternoon? Rory and I finish at lunchtime."
"Why do women laugh like that?" Amy continued, not listening. "Do I do that? I better not."
"Amy," she pressed. "Friday?"
"Oh, god, it's some conflict over Christmas schedules. Did I introduce you to Tom when you came to the office last time? He's gone to the US for three months. Remember I was offered that? We're all fighting over who's covering him. I'm pretty sure it'll only be a couple of hours in the morning. Internal politics." She grinned. "Worse than outside.
"Then… nails. We need to get our nails done. You need to get your nails done. Do you think they've got some sort of nutritional value or something?" Amy scanned speculative eyes over her face. "Why haven't you slept together yet? I'm honestly surprised."
Christ, her friend was perceptive. Or, she herself was far too obvious. Probably both. There was no way to answer this question. She just swallowed and blinked, trying helplessly to think of something to say.
Clara felt a hand on her arm and turned to find herself looking into the eyes of a contender for the most famous musician in the country.
"Sorry about the wait," John apologised with a smile, sitting down and pushing a glass towards her.
"Friend of yours, Doctor?" Amy asked, nodding in the direction he'd just come from.
Clara tried to kick her foot but she ignored it.
"At the bar?" he asked, raising his eyebrows before a wry smile curved his mouth. "Oh, you know how it is. It's not a proper evening out until I've been asked home by at least five women."
That bitch.
"That bitch!" Amy exclaimed, making a start to clamber out of her chair again.
"Amy, let's not get kicked out of our favourite bar," came Rory's sensible suggestion as he put his hands on her shoulders.
"Rory Pond, where've you been?" Amy slurred, reaching to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss.
Clara breathed out a sigh of relief. Amy was more drunk than she had realised and Rory's timely return was a welcome distraction. She watched her friend, feeling proper anxiety now. Amy was putting her in a dangerously uncomfortable position. She knew her habits too well. This was reckless behaviour. Subtlety wasn't exactly high on her priority list even at the most sober of times, if it had ever been there in the first place. She breathed out again slowly. This risk, this risk.
John looked towards her and shifted to close the distance between them. He leaned in, capturing her eyes and sliding his arm over the back of her chair. "That's two out of five," he murmured with a smile, "if you include Jack's flirting."
"Do you ever say yes to those women?" she asked, holding his gaze.
His eyes narrowed, cautious. "Why do you want to know?"
She swallowed, feeling her heart shift up a gear. Couldn't he just answer the question?
"I'm interested," she replied. Casual and calm. Well done.
His eyes burned relentlessly into hers. Still grey. Slightly glazed from alcohol. "Sometimes."
"How often?" If Amy was reckless, what the hell was this called?
John ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip, regarding her carefully. "Occasionally. If I want to. If they want to."
"Even though you're still married?"
He lifted his shoulders very fractionally. "I haven't been married in a very long time."
Clara's eyes flickered back to the woman who was now talking with her group of friends. "She's very attractive."
"Yes."
"You're not under any obligation to stay."
He leant forward, closer again, eyes unblinking and completely unreadable. "I don't think it would be very polite of me to leave with a stranger when you've invited me here."
"Well…" she said, lifting her shoulders. "No obligation."
John dropped his free hand between them and placed two fingers on the inside of her knee, drawing a careful circle. "You should probably realise at some point, Clara," he said slowly, "I want to be here."
The rest of his hand pressed into her knee, sliding over the dark cut of her trousers. Her entire concentration zoned into his touch, transfixed like prey under his intense stare.
"And," he added, "just because someone is attractive doesn't mean I want to sleep with them. Do you sleep with every attractive man who propositions you?"
"They don't really ask," she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.
John paused, amused and then unbelieving as he realised she was serious. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I think I scare them off with my temperamental attitude."
He frowned. Clara blinked, feeling her head start to swim in what was definitely not an alcohol induced daze. He was watching her. Not just looking, but watching—tracking her movements, following her slightest actions with an intense and unblinking stare. The extremity of it was incredibly disconcerting; vehement and calculating.
"Doctor!" came an exclamation from Jack who dove back to their table, interrupting them with his sudden appearance. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or not. John leant back into his chair, hand sliding discreetly away and returning to his lap.
"Ianto has got us into a difficult situation."
"It's not my situation!" Ianto protested, smacking his arm. "You started it!"
"You started it." Jack turned back to John. "See that man over there?" Jack pointed into the crowd, an impossible request without direction.
"Which one?" John queried, a smile starting to appear on his lips.
"The gorgeous one. With the guitar."
"Oh, yes. I see." He grinned, glancing over to Clara to meet her apologetic expression, who knew where this was probably heading.
"The thing about Ianto and I," Jack explained, dragging over a chair so he could sit down directly facing him, "is that the conventional boundaries of monogamous relationships aren't really our thing. Very restricting when there's so many people in the world. Understand?"
"Oh, I'm very much getting it," John replied, switching his bemused gaze between the two of them. "How can I help?"
"See?" Jack exclaimed, turning to Ianto. "It's already fine."
Ianto grinned and put his arms around Jack's neck, resting his chin against the top of his head. Clara didn't bother letting her groan stay exclusively inside her head.
"Boys," she warned, "I didn't invite him here so you could exploit him for your sexual escapades."
"What, Clara," Jack growled in mock disgust, "is the point of having famous friends if you don't spend every waking moment taking advantage of their influence and power?"
"Out with it then," John insisted, taking a sip from his drink.
"If you play a song, he'll come home with us."
"That's what he said," Ianto added unhelpfully. "From his mouth."
John was silent, tilting back on his chair to look in the direction of the band. He extended their suspense and then—"What song?"
"Any song! Clara can choose." Jack gave her a sly grin. "If she can even name one."
She grinned. "Can't actually." Her attention directed back to John. "You definitely do not have to play a song."
"I want to play a song," he decided, sending her a pleasant smile.
"Really!" Ianto exclaimed, mouth dropping open.
"Sure," John shrugged. "Why the fuck not?" The glass in his hand met the table with a firm clunk. "Go tell the band."
Ianto whooped and dragged Jack backwards and away into the crowd.
"Any requests?" John asked, giving her a smirk.
"Do you know Something New by Girls Aloud?"
"Right," he announced, standing up and casting his gaze to the bar. "Where's my friend from before? Maybe I will leave after all."
He laughed at her dismayed expression, grabbing her hand to pull her upright and half into his arms. "Silly, silly joke," he murmured, laughing. "Do you think I'm funny?" His dark eyes flashed.
"No," she responded, trying to resist his smile and not concentrate on the hands over her shoulders.
"Yes you do."
"You didn't workshop that with me," she criticized, trying to sound reprimanding but not quite managing it.
"Why?" he grinned slowly. "Got something better? I doubt it. That was pretty good."
"It wasn't funny."
"Oh? And why was that?"
She swallowed, shrugging and dragging her eyes away from him. "Just wasn't."
"Well, I can tell you why," he smiled, voice lowering to a whisper. "Starts with J and rhymes with..." He trailed off suddenly and leant back in consideration. "Shit. You know what? Might be a bit intoxicated for the guitar." He frowned, unimpressed and then seemed to be thinking through a solution. "Know what I should have done? Taught you C and A minor on that instead. Would have been useful."
"You can show me later," she suggested.
"Can I," he replied slowly, brows raising slightly. More of an acceptance than a question. "When later?"
She swallowed. He was still very close. "Whenever you want."
"Good. I will." He shrugged and then took a deep breath. "Fuck it. I've played to twenty thousand people in a worse state than this. I don't remember them noticing."
A frown crossed his features. "I've got a secret to tell you." He leant down again to put his mouth beside her ear. His warm cheek brushed against hers. She could feel the tiny scrape of stubble against her skin. One hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers pressing to adjust the angle of her head.
"I'm a very, very unprofessional musician," he whispered, lips touching the curve of her ear.
She laughed at his light confession, but barely registered what he was saying. His touch was starting to become devastating. She could feel the lingering remnants of heat suffusing through her skin as he took his hand away.
"You," he smiled. "Come with me." He pulled her towards the stage, insistent fingers threading through her own.
There was no doubt by now the entire bar knew the Doctor was amidst their presence. John stepped up and shook the guitarist's hand, taking the acoustic guitar offered and engaging in amiable conversation with him while people began congregating as the ripple of the-Doctor-is-on-the-stage spread through the room. It was a small platform, only a couple feet higher than the floor.
Amy and Rory joined her, Jack and Ianto appearing from nowhere to flank either side, waving at the guitarist who sent them a wide grin in return.
John stepped up to the microphone and the crowd around them cheered. "Evening. I'm really…" He paused, grinning. "... Drunk."
The crowd cheered in a significantly louder decibel than before, raucous and enthusiastic, and he laughed at the reaction. "You'll need to help me out."
He put his fingers around the capo, shifting it further up the frets and then lifted his eyes to address the audience. A slanting smile curved his mouth. "Contrary to popular belief, this song… is about a dog called Winston."
The first bars of the familiar song rang out to the delight of the room. His mouth drew to the microphone and he began the companioned words; his iconic, deep tone, instantly recognisable. The crowd sang along because everyone knew these lyrics, the verses embedded in their shared culture. Played in every space imaginable uncountable times, in living rooms and cars and pubs and bedrooms and supermarkets… In venues all over the world, at festivals and arenas and perhaps, a long time ago, in a council flat in Glasgow.
Love—I'm saving this for yesterday
Trust you've seen enough
I've been here too long to say
I think I'll try that for a day
Clara stared at him, feeling her fading resolve do exactly that. The people around her vanished as his eyes fixed on her and she felt herself submitting in defeat, surrendering to whatever this was going to be, whatever he could offer her. She took a deep breath, feeling hazy in the indistinct surroundings. Everything about him was so irrefutably beautiful it made it difficult to breathe—
"Fuck," he laughed along with the crowd, interrupting himself but continuing seamlessly with the guitar. "That's the wrong verse." He ducked his head with a grin, carefree in his mistake and started again.
He belonged there, under the shifting lights and the attentive gaze and cries of an audience. There was something very sincere about his presence. None of it was a performance or an act, he was just there, accepting the eyes of a crowd and offering his words in such a way that felt selfless, and intimate, and so ardently familiar that she struggled to comprehend why.
The guitar in his hands was like an extension of his limbs. He was careless with the instrument, in part perhaps being the enduring effects of alcohol, but it didn't remove the complete command he displayed, bending it entirely to his will. The final, quiet words rang out alone into the room, chorused only by his makeshift choir.
"All right, calm yourselves down," he grinned in mock chastising of the the rowdy applause. "I'm busy. Girl to impress, that sort of thing. I've been having such a lovely evening. I wish you all the same."
From the corner of her eye as the crowd gave their approval and clapped for the final time, Clara saw Jack and Amy exchange a glance before looking to her. She decided the safest option would be not to focus on the implications of that comment and instead ignore it completely. She turned away from her friends' silent attentions but watched them begin returning to their table while John stood at the front of the stage answering questions for the lingering people wanting his attention. He talked for a minute before they dispersed, leaving the two of them alone.
"What do you think?" John grinned at her, guitar free and bright eyed as he looked down at her from the raised platform. "Worth a couple Grammys and the anthem for every anniversary?"
"It could definitely, ambiguously, be about a dog," Clara confirmed, nodding.
"Yes! Exactly. That's what I keep telling everyone," he grinned, waving a vague hand. "Well, you and whoever all these people are."
"I didn't miss the 'men occasionally stumble over the truth' lyric, by the way," she smiled up at him. "That's half a Churchill quote."
He shrugged, laughing. "I'm so funny!"
"You're unbelievable."
"You're very perceptive."
John jumped down from the stage and put his fingers under her chin. Before she even had time to register what was happening, he pressed his lips into hers. It was brief. A quick kiss. He drew back almost immediately, dropping his hand and blinking in astonishment as if he were startled by what he had just done.
For a moment she was trapped in a strange space, drifting slightly in a frozen moment, the room disappearing briefly, the lights dipping and yet somehow flaring at edges of her vision. It was all so—
Her mind caught up and then she felt like she'd been slammed into a wall. Her breath caught and she took a step backwards, reeling in shock. His fleeting, soft press, a momentary taste of his warm mouth. Her heart either stopped completely or relocated to her head. There was a pounding in her ears, a continual drumming, so maybe, maybe, it was the latter. She couldn't read his eyes. He gave her nothing, just a blank, relentless burn, the colours switching as he blinked intermittently, erratically, like his eyes weren't working correctly.
He shook his head slightly. "Shall we go back to the table?" he suggested slowly, frowning now. The words drifted to her from somewhere very far away.
"Yes," she heard herself reply, heeding the proposal.
Clara took the glass of water from Amy's hand and swallowed a mouthful. It was too cold, burning her throat and then slicing cruelly through her nerves. She slid the glass slowly back to her friend, listening to it scrape along the table.
"That was amazing," Ianto expressed, face lit up with excitement.
"I did fuck it up," John smiled back, returning to his seat beside her, calm and relaxed like nothing had happened. "There's this odd chord change coming out of the bridge and… I mean, I must've played it a thousand times to an audience. But I always mess that part up. I have to concentrate to do it right. It's strange. My head never got used to doing it."
"Doctor," Ianto started, leaning forward. "Would you like to be my new best friend?"
John laughed, giving him a wide grin. "It would be an honour."
On the table, Amy's phone beeped as Jack chuckled. "Can't believe I'm saying this, Doctor, but I'm so glad you're firmly grounded on the boring side of the spectrum—"
The glass of water in Amy hand slammed onto the table in a sudden display of violence.
"Amy?"
Rory's startled address was met with silence. Amy swallowed with an indecipherable look and carefully placed her phone face down in front of her. She looked up to slowly meet John's gaze, a humourless smile fixing her mouth. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Clara stared at Amy, feeling like she was about to watch a car drive at high speed into a wall.
"I've got another question for you, Doctor," her friend announced, lifting the glass again to slowly take a mouthful of the freezing water before setting it firmly back on the table. Her fingerprints indented on the condensation and she let them fall to the base, leaving dripping lines. "How've you managed to get a shit reputation in the media when in reality you're sort of all right?"
"Sort of all right?" John repeated, raising his brows.
"I'm a tough critic."
Clara turned her head to stare at John. He only glanced at her momentarily, averting his careful gaze back to Amy as she continued her humourless smile. If she stood up right now, she could stop this. She could pull him outside, rescue him from whatever was about to happen. But she had to do it right now, and right now, she felt paralyzed and incapacitated. She could taste him on her lips, burning her skin.
"That's actually pretty good by Amy's standards, Doctor," Ianto grinned warily. "I've been stuck on 'okay when not talking' for years."
Rory laughed. "I'm on 'stupid face but tolerable'. Jack, any change from 'arrogant to the point of insufferable'?"
"Not that I've noticed," Jack continued with his own wide grin in Amy's direction. "I've always had it the worst."
Amy kept her eyes on John, voice pleasant. "No. Danny had it the worst. 'Lying fucking bastard'."
The flash of smiles fell away into uneasy silence. Clara felt her heart pounding in her ears.
Too late.
"Amy," Jack warned, cautious.
"What? I want us to acknowledge it. He was our friend too. He would have been here."
"He would not have been here," Ianto cut in sharply, pressing his fist into the edge of the table.
"Not a good time for this conversation, Amy," Rory said quickly.
"Yeah? Well when is a good time?" she insisted, looking around at them all. "That's what I want to know."
The table was silent. Clara sighed in her head, watching the car crash, the trigger on a gun being pulled, the inevitable collapse that had been building for weeks. She knew she'd created a perfect formula for disaster—all of them here, inviting the problem to join them. It had been a risk. And it had been going so well. Watching her friend, it wasn't at all a surprise, but now, did it have to happen now—
"It's been six weeks," Amy continued. "We've never even tried to talk about it between the five of us. Either we're on eggshells or we're pretending it didn't happen. I'm fucking sick of it."
"We're in a bar," Jack growled. He was agitated now, more than uncomfortable. "We've been drinking. Drop it."
"Fuck off, Jack," Amy returned, scornful. "You think screaming at her alone behind an office door was okay, but now when I want to have a conversation with all of us, it's not a good idea?"
"It's not just the five of us here, is it," he growled back. "We have a guest."
"Yes, we do," Amy agreed, setting her gaze back on John and then shifting it to Clara. "Does he know about Danny?"
"Fuck, Amy!" Ianto exclaimed in disbelief. "What are you doing? Rory, mate, you need to take her home—"
Rory was already reaching for her arm, insistent but cautious.
"I'm not going anywhere," she snarled, pushing away his hand. "We're going to talk about this now. While we're all together. Including our guest." Her tone was like ice, slicing into their rapidly dispersing warm atmosphere.
"Am I the only one concerned she won't take voluntary leave from work? Refuses to see a counsellor? Won't talk to us? That she assaulted someone and was arrested? And this"—she waved her hand between Clara and John—"you're all telling me you think this is a good idea?"
Amy's gaze slid between the boys. "Don't tell me you've changed your mind, Jack," she asserted, bitter now. "I know you haven't. Or is the prospect of getting a good interview now more important than the wellbeing of our friend?"
Jack's mouth set in a hard line. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
That was irrational, Amy.
"Because that's what it fucking looks like to me."
"Okay, that's enough," Ianto snapped, pushing his chair out and standing up. "This conversation is over. I'm not doing this with you again, Amy."
"I didn't actually want to spend my evening in a bar pretending to be civil with the two of you." Amy bared her teeth for a second, running fingers over her mouth as she stared at Ianto and Jack. "Because I don't remember resolving anything in the weekend, do you? Jack can give her some sort of half-hearted apology and that means everything's all better? I don't care what he told you, Ianto. He agrees with me and if you're thinking otherwise, you're in fucking denial."
"I'll speak for myself, thank you," Jack hissed at her.
"Well let's hear it then," Amy shrugged, raising her hands with open palms. "If you've changed your mind, I want to know."
"You think I don't care?" Ianto snarled over them, pressing his fist back into the table. "Neither of you have listened to a fucking word I've said all week!"
"I'm not listening to your god-complex bullshit, Ianto," Amy contended, shaking her head. "It's delusional."
"I think I should go," John murmured, moving to stand up.
"Stay where you are," Amy snapped, leaning forward and throwing her attention back in his direction.
John met her gaze without expression, calmly accepting her instruction. This is where she needed to jump in, Clara thought. Now would be good. She could probably still stop this. But the others paused, Ianto remaining standing, caught in sudden unsurety as to what to do and none of the paralysis seemed to want to leave her body.
"What's going on?" Amy asked John, tilting her head in Clara's direction. "I want to know. I want to know if what I'm being exposed to in the press is true. Here's my two sources. You can tell me directly."
"It's not really your business, Amy," he said slowly, careful.
"Actually, it is. Because it's directly affecting me now. So let's clear a few things up. You're married. Want to explain that?"
"You don't know anything about my marriage, Amy. I'm not obligated to tell you."
Amy shook her head, uncaring as Ianto bent forward, forcing himself into her line of sight. His voice rippled with anger. "Amy... this is absolutely not your conversation to have—"
Amy picked up her phone and extended her hand to Ianto, offering the device. He hesitated but took it from her. He spent a moment squinting at the screen and then his face visibly paled.
"I told you this would happen," she directed at him. "I told you. All of you."
Ianto didn't reply, just sat down heavily and continued staring blankly at the screen. Jack snatched the phone, reading quickly before his expression fell in dismay. "Fuck," he breathed out.
Rory next, leaning to grab it from Jack's defeated hand. He exhaled as Jack had done, running fingers over his forehead.
"I'm a journalist, John," Amy continued, voice suddenly tired, losing the accusing tone.
"I know," he replied carefully, eyes flickering over her now wearied expression.
Amy nodded, shrugging slightly. "Means I know a lot of people at the tabloids. They're not all bad. At some point, I suppose, a job is a job. Even if you are working for a Tory propaganda machine.
"Clara," she sighed, turning to address her again. "Sharon has Danny. Tomorrow's print. Most likely will expand out into a wider medium after. It's… going to be bad."
Danny.
"Has she told you about Danny?"
John swallowed and shook his head slightly as Amy stared at him. She pursed her lips and then breathed out through her teeth, anger seeping from her again.
"If this is your revenge affair, then you need to find someone else."
"Amy—" Rory tried, but it was pointless.
"This is your fault. You understand better than anyone what the tabloid media is like. What the consequences would be. My friend is getting this"—Amy put her finger into the phone lying face down on the table—"because of your fucking selfishness."
John was pale. Clara watched the colour drain from his cheeks. He took his hands from the table and pressed them together in his lap. Amy kept a relentless gaze on him.
"I think it's tempting to imagine we're all above believing what we read in tabloid media. Don't take it at face value. Except it doesn't really work like that. In our heads. Anyone with a shred of intelligence can think, 'oh, this is probably a little fabricated'. But when time passes and you forget the details, you don't forget the context. Reputation, labels, they all stick. And the problem with this article, for one, is that it's not fiction. In relation to everything else, it looks terrible. And you know what the worst part of it is? It's that your relationship does look exactly like how it will be printed tomorrow. Of course you're not under any obligation to tell us anything. But if you, and all of you"—Amy turned to Jack, Rory and Ianto—"think I'm going to sit back and let another fucking trainwreck happen to my friend without trying to intervene, then you're all kidding yourselves."
Amy sighed, weary. "I needed your help with this, Jack. We could have done something about it. If you had bothered to listen to me at any point over the last two weeks. And instead we just… what? Fought about our boyfriends' passive advice? We're the ones that work in this industry. We could have been one up on this bitch the entire week. What a waste of fucking time."
Clara could still hear her heart pounding in her ears. It was an odd sensation. She almost wanted to shake her head to clear it, but knew somehow it wouldn't make any difference. It might have been in her mind.
"Fuck," Amy breathed, staring back at John with unconstrained exasperation. "What really, truly fucks me off about this too, is that in some other circumstance, some parallel world, I would be so fine with this.
"You're lovely, you know." Amy smiled at him, a genuine hint of sincerity in her expression. "You're exactly the opposite of your public image. That doesn't surprise me, far be it from me to believe reputation over character, but I've never had any reason to question the former."
Amy laughed slightly, humourless but lined with incredulity. "You're actually perfect for her, too. Seriously. I mean, Jesus, we're not blind. You're exactly the sort of man I'd like to see her be happy with. Bit older, sure, but who the fuck cares. And in this fantasy circumstance, I would probably be fine letting the tabloid cycle run its course on this, because I would have already done my duty as a friend. What do you think, Clara?" Amy turned to gaze to her. "Talked this through over wine at my place? A little bit of chastising on my behalf before I even slightly encouraged some short-lived fling with this country's favourite musician?"
Amy swallowed, putting a hand through the side of her hair. "And when it finished, it would all be a bit tragic for awhile and then we'd be laughing about how ridiculous it was a week later. It's hardly the first time we've been in this situation. Or, alternatively, if this continued instead, at least I'd know what the fuck was going on because I would have had some indication from her about where it might be heading."
Her voice turned bitter. "Unfortunately, John, we're living in the real world. And in the real world—I think you know about Danny. You're not stupid and you're not fucking blind either. Her insistent performance of stoicism isn't fooling anyone. So what are you doing? I'm finding it really hard to believe you'd be so ignorant of how this was going to play out, especially because of what was written the day after your arrest. You had the foresight to know it would happen. And now it has. She's a producer for fucksake. That is a networking position. You didn't think something like this would have an impact on her job? You of all people know how damaging and wide reaching this sort of exposure can be."
"I don't know what—"
"You don't know what happened?" Amy cut in, shaking her head. "Let me enlighten you."
"Amy, it's not for you to tell him this."
"I don't care, Rory. It's either going to be me first, or Sharon. And it's not going to be that bitch." She fixed John with an unblinking gaze and finished. "Danny was her boyfriend. Our friend. He fucked someone else and then had the fucking audacity to get himself killed in front of her. That happened forty three days ago. And tomorrow, the whole country gets to read about it, too. So thank you very much."
Jack left his chair and put a hand into John's shoulder, murmuring something Clara couldn't hear. In another moment he had stood up, taken his coat, and was led by her friend out the front door.