Chapter 11: Problems And Sub-Problems
"Didn't Raw-leigh invent the potato or something?"
Clara looked across to John, smiling helplessly at the teasing, irreverent grin he sent in her direction. If there was any subject she could claim to have more expertise in, it was this. She was consistently one up on him in the English history department.
"Another posterity error our nation has been afflicted by," she explained, pointing her fork at his potato-filled plate. "Raleigh had nothing to do with the introduction over here. We just gave him all the credit because apparently there was one moment in our little conquest when we really didn't like the Spanish."
Skeptical, John frowned. "What exactly was the point of all my former schooling if everything I know about him is wrong?"
"I suppose we prefer a fabricated story for self-importance over cold hard fact."
"Ah, the English," he sighed dramatically, resuming the slow decimation of his meal. "Liars, thieves, fools. All of them. Can't trust a word out of your mouth."
"I'm pretty sure your lot has invented some substantial lies. You told everyone there's a huge monster in a loch. At least ours are plausible."
"Watch it," he warned, leaning forward into their table and then glancing suspiciously at the other patrons scattered around the pub. "You're still outnumbered."
"No one can tell I'm English," she shrugged. "I've picked up the local dialect."
"Have you?"
"Aye."
His returning grin replicated in his warm eyes. "Aye yourself," he replied, chewing slowly on his mouthful and considering her with curious amusement.
For whatever strange reason he had seemed to deem fit, instead of ordering an ordinary roast meal as she had—the original purpose for their evening out—John had opted adamantly for an entire plate of only one vegetable.
Clara skewered a potato from her own more diverse plate. "These were once catalogued as bastard potatoes to distinguish them from sweet potatoes, which England had first."
He stared dubiously at her fork. "Why do you know so much about potatoes?"
"Why do you know so much about the development of Michigan Interstate Highways?" she returned, raising her eyebrows.
"I get around," he smiled, returning to his plate.
"Well I read Shakespeare," she answered, lifting her shoulders. "And you don't read the line 'let the sky rain potatoes' and not want to find out what the hell he was insinuating by that."
His brow creased, curious, and so Clara continued with a smirk. "Henry VIII used to eat them thinking they were the sixteenth century version of Viagra which would get him a son."
John choked slightly on his current forkful and put a hand over his mouth. Managing to swallow without making a mess, he cleared his throat and stared down at his plate, clearly regarding his selected vegetable in a slightly different manner.
"Only sweet potatoes," she smiled in reassurance. "Your bastard potatoes there are completely aphrodisiac free."
"Right. Good. Good to know."
The glass of water beside his hand was lifted quickly to his mouth for a more than generous sip. Clara grinned into her plate, enjoying his momentary bewilderment.
"Liars, thieves, and venereal fools," he muttered under his breath in disgust.
The gradual slide into early afternoon had slowly dispersed the lingering headache afflicting Clara's wellbeing. With no immediate intentions to move from the horizontal embrace on the couch, John had eventually swapped pages for screens and finally introduced—subjected—her to the esteemed tree documentary, which she was partly surprised to find she rather enjoyed, mostly because her couch associate was under the impression he was more well-versed than the narrator and spoke through the entire two hours, giving her an excessive and unnecessary amount of added information. The expectant stare he sent in her direction once the film had finished had almost broke her stoic barriers for comedic retainment, but she appeased his ego, telling him with as much seriousness as she could muster he was correct in his insistence that it was the best documentary ever made. The returning frown and suspicious gaze told her he wasn't quite convinced, so she turned against him and hid her traitorous grin in his chest, ignoring all of his scrutinising questions and pretending to be asleep.
Murmuring inconsequential fragments of conversation while his fingers drew absent lines on the back of her neck, Clara gradually fell into genuine sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest and low voice lulling her into warm and necessary unconsciousness.
Later, awaking alone in weak sunshine, the first glance through the wide windows revealed John to be in a deck chair with his guitar, staring out over the high cliff and into the white-capped ocean while he played. Eventually she went to check on him, wondering how it was possible he could just sit in the cold for such an extended period of time, let alone move his fingers across the frets. He was pensive and quiet, a little unresponsive as she asked him meaningless questions, and suffering in the temperature, passed him a blanket and the mildly-regulated-sugar-tea before retreating back inside.
She traded manta rays for something with a more land-based plotline and read until the light began to fade on the distant horizon, the unreachable clouds saturating with the burnt hue of orange before dying like embers in an abandoned fire. Her tall and frozen friend withdrew from the outside world, red cheeked and shivering with glistening, blurred eyes. He set his guitar silently on the couch beside her and stood close enough to the fireplace to perhaps be deemed a safety hazard. Clara pressed her fingertips into the wooden body of the instrument, feeling the embedded cold and considered how his skin must feel.
He turned gradually to face her, expression set with an odd curiosity, paired with something that she wasn't quite sure of. Perhaps a ruling, or decision had been reached somewhere in the ending moments of day.
Dinner. Let's get somebody else to make us dinner.
Portree—the biggest small town on the island was dark when they arrived, yellow lights glittering over relatively still waters in the harbour, the small waves distorting any other reflection. Freezing of course, the default setting allowing their breath to expand in front of them as John led her down the quiet roads. Promising this would be the best Sunday roast she'd ever have in the best pub she'd ever go to, he then began reassuring perhaps more himself than her, that the chances of this outing being an opportunity for somebody to use for financial advantage via tabloid media were very low. He went on to mutter something under his breath about the credibility of a country containing people who were sensible and controlled about pointless, meaningless fame.
The claim to minimal attention was accurate—the locals here were either used to an occasional visit from this particular figure of music royalty, or didn't really care. Both, was probably a fair conclusion. Clara had forgotten the effects of fame slightly, constant time spent alone in John's company removing the transparent veil, but it returned to her perceptions as they entered into a public setting. She looked at him differently for a moment, seeing the media portrait, the face of celebrity and renown. A few people had nodded greetings in his direction as the two of them entered the pub, and one man engaged in a quick, monosyllable handshake, but then they were left alone, undisturbed at their secluded corner table in the warm atmosphere.
"This is a date, okay?"
"Pardon?"
"This. Right now." John waved his knife to indicate their surroundings. "Dinner. We're on a date."
"Ah… Are we?"
"Yes," he said firmly, turning his immediate attention back to his plate.
Clara stared at him, waiting for some indication he was going to continue with an explanation for the unexpected and revelatory information. A suspended moment passed between them while he seemed suddenly much more interested in cutting potatoes into smaller than necessary pieces.
"John," she said slowly, cautious. "Want to elaborate on that?"
"We're not going to be friends anymore. We're going to be two people on a date. This is our first date." He sent her a grin and stabbed a potato with his fork. "Welcome to our first date."
None of that was particularly helpful. Clara blinked at him, trying to conjure up something to say. "Um… right. Okay. I would have worn something a little more… not this, if I'd known."
"Clara," he frowned, expression bordering on an annoyance that indicated she was missing a very obvious point, "you look fine. You're probably the most beautiful person I've ever met."
Staring in astonishment, she was then powerless to stop herself blushing, caught very much off guard. "That's… quite the compliment."
He shook his head. "It wasn't a compliment. It's just a fact."
Embarrassed and bewildered, she ducked her head and cleared her throat, sipping water while cursing internally at how hot her face felt. The odds of him not noticing the new colour of her skin were undoubtedly quite low.
"Nice date outfit," she remarked quickly, needing to deflect the attention from his relentless eyes.
"Did you know Liam Gallagher wears a parka and shades literally to fucking bed?"
"You're obsessed."
"A little," he grinned. "Competition, mate."
She smiled at his completing slide into a northern accent and glittering, humoured eyes, wanting to laugh but distracted by the way he was starting to look at her. Predaceous was her best guess, but that felt too aggressive. He was just engaging her with a fixed and unabated intensity.
John had, however, apparently already moved on from the revelatory announcement to the sort of evening this was going to be. "This," he was saying, gesturing to his clothing. "All of this is iconic. What would happen if I stopped wearing it? Someone might think there was something wrong with me." A very wry and personally amused grin was sent in the direction of his plate.
"Ah… John?"
"Yes?"
"Why… Why is this a date?"
"I don't want to be friends with you anymore," he explained simply, lifting his shoulders.
"Right."
"I've given it a really good go," he continued without encouragement. "Four—five—days? Most of my friendships last less than thirty seconds, so I did quite well, considering."
"What are we going to be if we're not friends?"
"Two people on a date."
John dropped his intensive gaze and gave his avid scrutiny back to his meal, eating quietly and offering nothing else. Unsure what to do, Clara just stared at him while her own dinner was left forgotten in front of her, waiting for him to say something else. A minute passed in silence and eventually he had no choice but to return his focus to her.
"Fantasyland," he shrugged, swallowing, fingers skating over his throat before lowering to tap lightly on the edge of the table. "Dangerous place to live. To live there with ignorance? Fine. Knock yourself out. But in denial? Well. Trainwreck. I don't want that. Would you like some more water?"
Her glass had barely been touched but he picked up the small jug to quickly refill it to a precarious level, and then did the same to his empty one. He wasn't exactly nervous, but he also wasn't exactly devoid of a sudden apprehension either.
"Do you like dates? I am excellent on dates. I haven't been on a first date in a long time. Fifteen years. Maybe more."
"Usually I know I'm going on a date before I'm halfway through the date," she pointed out with a small smile.
"It's sort of a surprise date. Surprise. Have you been on a date with a five-time Grammy winner before?"
"I briefly dated the Gallagher brothers," she deadpanned. "Does that count?"
"Both?" A tiny edge of a smile pressed on his mouth.
"Mmm. At the same time. There's a reason Oasis broke up."
He put a quick hand over his mouth to hide proper amusement. "Who was better?"
"Noel," she replied blankly. "Definitely Noel."
"Knew it. Well, they only have Grammy nominations anyway." John's shy smile was fast transforming into a very familiar smirk. "I'm the winner."
Clara considered the man she was apparently participating in this evening's unexpected turn of events with. Technically, in a rather surreal sense, she was on a date with the five-time Grammy winner self-titled Doctor, nation-proclaimed genius and cultural icon. However, on the other hand, she had just spent a good chunk of the morning wondering how it was possible her life decisions had lead her to be on a couch in a cottage in Scotland, listening to John Smith avidly explain why the author of Manta Rays: Ocean Giants, was wrong on all three chapters about migration patterns. The contrast between the two modes was a little difficult to comprehend.
"Clara," John started suddenly, looking across to her. "I think, in our situation, there's a lot of preconceived notions about what's supposed to happen next. And if we don't follow them, then we're supposed to feel guilty about doing something wrong. Our newspaper headlines summed them all up rather well. You're a widower—"
"Wasn't actually married," she cut in to correct.
"—I'm divorced—"
"And I would be a widow, not a widower."
"You're all"—He waved his fork around in an unintelligible motion—"fucked. And I'm… weird."
"Weird?"
"My socks don't match and I've ordered a plate of potatoes for dinner." He frowned and pointed slowly towards her meal. "Why didn't I just get what you're having?"
"That's a rather self aware statement."
"Am I weird?"
"Well…" She paused, hesitating. "You're not, not weird."
"So I am weird."
"It's not a bad thing."
"I'm very selfish, too," he said, further furrowing his brows. "You're supposed to tell the other person things about you on a date, right? That's something about me. I'm selfish."
"I don't think you're selfish," she replied, pausing the rise of her fork and staring quizzically at him.
"I make everything become about me and I have a track record of putting myself before others. I would assume that fits that definition of selfish."
"The socks are more of an issue in my opinion," she murmured, lowering her gaze.
He didn't seem to be interested in jokes. Neither was she, for that matter.
"Friends with a full stop," John continued, swerving back onto what was hopefully the point, "that's just the easy way out, don't you think? To try and make a complicated situation simple. When really, what we should be doing, is whatever we want."
He raised his eyebrows, imploring and prompting her to give some sort of response.
"What—what do you want?"
"You know what I want, Clara. I told you last night, and I told you on the radio. I was very honest with myself, and with you, two weeks ago. I don't want to go backwards. I don't want to spend the next five days pretending. So, I can't be your friend. And if I'm making you worse, then all of this absolutely needs to stop right now."
"Are you giving me an ultimatum?"
"I think so, yes." He tipped his head slightly. "This is either a date, or our last dinner."
"Seems a little… extreme."
"Is it? I wouldn't have thought so." A weary and onerous sigh escaped from his mouth. "I'm bad at fixing things. But the good news is, I think I know how to at least address the solution.
"So," he demanded. "Out with it. What do you think the problem is?"
Surprised at the blunt and forthright manner he was insisting on, she pulled back. "Why do I have to say the problems?"
"Problems in the plural," he grinned, inhaling a deep breath. "Excellent. On you go."
Clara swallowed, feeling her mouth go a little dry, but then persisted at his instruction. "You don't think I've forgiven you. And, ah, you think I don't trust you. It's… stemming into sub-problems. Like, not wanting to wake up with me in the morning, and asking me… weird questions."
"Problems and sub-problems," he sighed, tipping his head back.
"And," she continued while she had the opportunity, "you just, ah… confuse me. I can't tell what you're thinking. That might not be a problem. It's just a… thing. Maybe we could—"
Clara cut herself off, frowning at him. He was staring vacantly at the wall to her left, nodding on repeat like a broken toy.
"Are you all right?"
John grinned, blinking and then refocusing his gaze back on her. "Yeah," he assured, shifting. "Fine. Just a bit bored."
Confused, Clara raised her eyebrows at another unanticipated reaction.
"This stuff is pretty boring to talk about."
"It was your idea," she pointed out, amused at his flippant attitude.
"Mmm," he agreed, and then groaned out in restive frustration, putting both hands through his hair. "So many boring problems. Who in their right mind wants to spend their Sunday evening doing this?"
"What would you rather be doing?" she grinned, lifting her glass as he shrugged.
"Talking you into bed."
The sip of water she was taking didn't pair well with the response. Clara spluttered and put a hand over mouth, coughing as she tried not to choke.
"Can't get much more honest than that, can I?" He smiled, eyes darting over her startled expression.
"No," she croaked, clearing her throat.
"It's not that I don't want to talk," he went on, now engaged in continuing to cut each potato into pointlessly smaller pieces, "I'd just rather spend the evening taking off your clothes."
Forcing herself under control, Clara adjusted in her chair and tried to compose herself. She picked up her knife and fork and slowly resumed eating in what she hoped was a decidedly poised and collected manner before making her response.
"I'm not actually in the habit of sleeping with someone after only one date. So maybe we should just rule that out right now."
John gave her a set and shameless smirk, chewing slowly on his mouthful. "Have you?" he asked after a moment.
"Have I what?"
"Slept with someone after only one date."
Feeling wary but doing her best not to be so affected by his candid line of questioning, she replied quickly. "Yes. Have you?"
"Yes. But I wasn't exactly on a date with them."
"Is that how we're going to fix this?" she swallowed, moving on. "Sleeping together?"
"No. Course not."
"Right. So… we're going to talk about your problems then?"
A tiny smile flashed on his mouth. He looked at his plate before taking a deep breath and regarded her with an unreadable expression. "I don't think I'm the problem."
"No?"
"No. You're the problem."
Clara sent back her own frown, feeling intuitively unsure. "What have I done?"
"Stuff."
"What stuff?"
He paused and took another mouthful, eating with a transfixed grin. "Stuff."
"Yeah—what stuff?"
"Stuff things."
"Can we please diversify our conversations? I thought we could talk about… you."
Smiling, John rested his fork on his bottom lip. "Let's talk about you instead."
"What about me?"
"Stuff."
"John," she sighed, tipping her head to indicate disapproval.
She had no idea what he was doing. If this was his way of entering into a helpful dialogue to lead them through constructive territory, it wasn't apparent to her. He suddenly seemed completely calm, devoid of any trepidation or the touch of apprehension he had previously displayed.
"Should we… talk about sex, then?" she said slowly, figuring it was an area of discussion that he would at least be interested in.
"Do you want to talk about sex?"
She wiped her palms on her trousers, feeling like the room had become a little too warm all of a sudden. "Um… I don't know. What, what about it?"
He shrugged, casually twirling his fork between dextrous fingers. "Anything. Last night?"
"Last night shouldn't have happened."
"I know. I shouldn't have. On the other hand, you are extremely good at… receiving. You almost made me…" John stopped the sentence, eyes glued to her. "Well. Maybe we don't need details at the dinner table. But that was new. I was surprised at myself."
If she was embarrassed before, it was nothing compared to what she was experiencing now. This topic was a terrible starting point. Regretting her encouragement, she fixed her eyes on her plate, feeling blood rush back into her face and skin burn hot.
"You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You really are." He smiled, eyes glittering as she risked a quick glance at him.
"I'm really not.
"How adorable."
"Ador—adorable?" she stressed, utterly confused at his uncharacteristic descriptor. "What's wrong with you?"
"You're rather adorable when you blush."
None of this was helping her situation. She picked up her glass, distracting herself with cold water. She felt entirely on edge now, uneasy and not quite on solid ground. There was nothing false about his manner, but this was certainly a long way away from anything that might be considered flirting. He was purposely leading her into uncomfortable territory. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, pulling herself together as he continued.
"We could. If we wanted to. I brought… precautionary materials."
"You're allowed to use their real names," she commented, giving him a dry smile and trying to divert the attention from herself.
"Not at the dinner table," he scolded, clearly trying not to return her expression. "Have some common decency."
Clara narrowed her eyes at him, realising suddenly that this—obviously—was what Amy must have been insinuating as her easy and foolproof way to expose his motives. She almost wanted to laugh, refraining only because it felt inappropriate.
"I didn't bring them with intent. I just did. Sorry."
She expected him to be at least slightly bashful about the undeniable insinuation that went against all agreement for admirable intentions, yet he didn't seem to be at all bothered by his action, and didn't seem to be particularly sorry.
"We don't need them."
"That's a shame."
"No, John," she continued, "I'm just saying that if we… did, we don't need your precautionary methods."
"I don't actually want five baby science nerds, Clara." He frowned, tapping his knife against his plate.
"Neither do I, you idiot," she sighed, wanting to roll her eyes. "But it's also the twenty first century. I'm really good at orally reminding myself everyday to inhibit that possibility."
"Oh." He blinked, understanding. "Right. Got it. Okay."
"Unless there's any…" Clara stabbed into a parsnip with her fork, feeling herself gain back a little bit of control. "... interesting diseases you would like to share with me. Verbally. Not… physically."
He stared at her, suddenly fighting off a grin. "No. I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"
"Fine, thank you," she said, giving him a pleasant smile. "It's a bit late for you to be asking."
"Mmm. This is an excellent dinner conversation."
"One of the best conversations I've ever had. Proper first date material."
Retrieving his knife, John resumed his absent cutting, a tiny but obvious smile apparent on his lips.
"Happy about something?" Clara asked casually, smirking.
"No," he shrugged, biting into his lip and shaking his head. "This is just a general, normal smile." He pointed a finger at his mouth.
"Better, isn't it."
"No."
Clara raised her eyebrows, watching him try again to compress the traitorous curve from his rapid response.
"Well, yes," he amended slowly. "Yes. Doesn't matter though. I'm fine either way. Saves a… job."
"Sometimes, rarely," she smiled, "you're very transparent."
John shrugged. Unlike her, if this conversation was in anyway affecting his levels of shy embarrassment, he was either hiding it completely or wasn't afflicted at all. Another vagary she didn't understand. He seemed to be able to consciously pick and choose what topics he had indifferent confidence in. Clara centered on his face, observing his light amusement transform and fall into something different. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He stopped eating, instead pushing food absently around his plate. She watched his fingers make their familiar crawl to press into his chest like he was trying to touch a tangible sensation.
"I've only ever had one mode when it comes to sex." His hand stilled and his index finger pressed hard into his sternum. "Me."
The handle of his knife tapped quietly but repetively against the table. "Everything has to be about me. I have to be in charge. Even when it's about you—" An intensive and unblinking gaze focused on her. "It's really about me. Last night you made me feel like I wasn't in charge. It caught me off guard."
"I didn't… mean to make you feel like that."
John tilted his head while his eyes saturated with a soft awareness. "Course you didn't," he replied delicately. "But I have issues with sex. I'm sure you've already reached that conclusion."
He leant forward slightly, resting his forearm on the table. "When I asked you how many men you've slept with, I did that because—" A small pause. "It was a very intrusive question. I'm sorry."
There was no sincerity in his apology, but his eyes remained soft and cautious. "I wanted to know because I think you've experimented. I think you know yourself very well, and you know men very well."
"So?" she responded carefully, fractionally lifting her shoulders. "Again… it's the twenty first century."
John shook his head, dragging fingers over his jaw. "No, no, you misunderstand. I just wanted to confirm a theory I have."
It felt overdramatic, the way he was carefully picking through his words and withholding and extending his explanations. She could feel herself being fast directed into a position of irritation while he was intent to remain so obscure about what he was doing.
"What theory?"
"That you've never slept with someone like me before."
"John, if this is turning into some weird way of letting me know you've got a sex dungeon in London and you're into… whipping and… leather stuff, you can just tell me outright."
His warm laugh was instantaneous and sincere, washing between with a light rush of something she felt more familiar with.
"No," he grinned, shaking his head and then brushing a slow hand through the front of his hair. "No, that's not what I like."
"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have been surprised."
Keeping silent as he clearly tried not to continue laughter, John looked over the hand covering the grin on his mouth. Pulling himself together, he slowly lowered his arm. "That's not what you like, either."
There was nothing of lust or intent in his tone. All Clara was receiving out of the interaction was the disconcerting sensation that he was slowly crawling his way into her head. Slivers of concern began finding their grip around her veins. Not because of the topic, but still because of how he was looking at her. Dark and engrossed, unaware of their immediate surroundings.
She shifted on her chair, keeping her expression neutral. "How do you know what I like? I could have a secret sex dungeon."
"Well," he smiled, "I would be surprised if you did."
"I'll have to give you a proper tour of my house then."
"I suppose I could see the benefit in tying you down." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'd have my hands free."
"I wouldn't let you tie me down," she responded, frowning and wanting to move on. "What's your point?"
"That." He shrugged like it was obvious, tipping his fork to point at her. "That right there."
"What? Stop being so elusive."
"Stop with the fucking denial then."
"What denial?"
"You know the real reason I slept with all those women," he asserted, voice low and concentrated. "You understand it better than you want to admit to yourself. I wasn't about to spell it out in detail on the radio."
"I don't understand."
"Yes," he growled, "you do."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing is wrong with me," he snapped back, pulling his chair in closer to the table. "Sure. I've got problems and sub-problems. But I'm not really the issue here. You are. I want to fix this. And the solution is very simple. First—this is a date. Second—you're going to have to start being very honest. Not with me. With yourself."
He lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, an almost casual and uncaring gesture. His expression replicated the action but his eyes gave away the fact that he was beginning to get agitated. Abrupt anxiety flooded through her. She blinked and ducked her gaze, focusing on the glass of water as her heart began hammering in her chest.
"I'm making you nervous."
"No," she swallowed, shaking her head.
"Don't do that," John instructed quickly, firmly. "Don't deny it. I am done with denial. This is me overwhelming you. See? You're halfway to panicking. You're tense. You can hardly look me in the eyes."
Breathing out, he grimaced and then spoke in a tone suggesting he wasn't to be disputed with. "Sex is just sex, right? It's easy. Normal. Possibly inconsequential. Not always good. And I think with Danny, it was good, and normal, and you trained him well. It wasn't boring, but sometimes, sometimes, you got restless with the repetition."
"You can't know any of that," she muttered, her failing lines of defence making a final stand.
"Oh, I'm just making an assumption," he snapped, eyes flashing with a dangerous edge. "A really fucking accurate one."
"You barely know me. You're just guessing. It's been thirty two days. Half of that we weren't together. It's implausible."
"Clara, as pathetic and poetic as this sounds, I knew you the moment you looked at me outside the studio."
The harsh insistence in his tone softened as he eased into a more gentle manner. "You've never slept with someone and not been in charge of the situation. You get men to do what you want, and I'm sure they've always been more than happy to comply to your soft demands."
"So what? Why are you fucking obsessing over it? We've only slept together twice. And none of it was like that."
"We've slept together four times."
She didn't bother arguing, knowing he would remain resolute on the trivial counting system.
"This isn't about sex," he continued, insistent. "It's about you. If we don't address this and if you won't trust me with this, then… we're done. We'll never work. And that… that would be a real fucking shame, because I really like you. And I think it would rather devastate me."
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and pressed long fingers against his mouth. "Door's over there." John tilted his knife in the appropriate direction. "If you don't want to hear this, then I suggest you use it. I haven't tied you down. You're free to leave. Keys…" He reached into his pocket and placed them on the table between them. "... here."
"You're being mean to me," she accused, brushing her hand quickly over her forehead.
"Sort of. It's more that I'm doing a hard drag out of fantasyland. Feels cruel. But I don't know how else to do it. I don't have a gentle approach."
She sent her palms over her trousers again, fingers digging into the sides of her legs while he continued.
"Right here, is why your last relationship failed. This is the gap and the space that was unbreachable. And the difference between Danny and I is that he took three years to figure this out and then didn't know how to confront you. Me—well, I figured it out in five hours at a police station and I do know how to confront you."
John sighed, scrubbing at his eyes for a moment and then dropping his hands to press both palms flat into the table. "Your… life. It's organised. You make lists. You probably have fucking… Post It notes handy for problem-solving. Right?"
"Right," she repeated carefully.
"You're pedantic. Fastidious about most things. You work on the organisational side of a creative, chaotic job, and you're good at it. You're young, as well, to hold your position. I think in some respects you've been lucky—certainly your relationship with Jack has played a role—but it's only accelerated an inevitable conclusion.
"You have the extended privileges of the white middle class, but you've still fought for what you have, succeeding because you're calm and rational under pressure. Intelligent. Quick. Make smart decisions on a regular basis."
His eyes darted over her face. "You're slightly narcissistic, but you're aware of it and so use it to your advantage. You know how men, women, look at you. And you don't have a problem using people to get what you want."
"These are some really far-flung assumptions," she muttered, wanting to drop his gaze but not knowing how.
"Shush," he instructed, shifting in his chair and continuing. "You're more persuasive than you realise, definitely more manipulative than you realise. You can read people. Again, better than you think. But you will consciously exploit weaknesses to pursue your own goals."
"John—"
"And the most consequential thing, of course," he murmured, ignoring her interjection and holding her eyes, "is that you know how to lie."
In her chest, her heart pounded against her ribcage, a frantic, hopeless repeat of strained anxiety. He was relentless now, unceasing and adamant in his task, voice low and imperative. His emphatic words washed over her ears as if he were speaking right up against her skin.
"You're not," he emphasized, leaning forward, "a casual liar. A lot of people who lie form a habit, and eventually don't even know they're doing it." He shook his head slightly, frowning. "Not you. You are very conscious of what you're doing. Your friends and family don't know the extent of just how good you are at lying to them. You let them assume what they want. Maybe the last two months have given them a better insight into something they might have only glimpsed at before, but you'd never allow them into a position where they might actually start to feel like there's something they need to do about it.
"And why, why," he stressed, insistent, "would you be lying to the people who love you?"
John stood up suddenly and grabbed the back of his chair, dragging it around to place directly beside her. He sat down, close enough now so she could see the ring of colour in his eyes, the circle of endless black and the hint of red that suggested the need for sleep.
"It's simple, really." He sighed in a wearisome sort of way. "And it's such a stupid, pointless and boring problem, ridiculous when you put it into perspective against your own self awareness. You know you could fix it if you tried, but you've never learned to share. So when someone good comes along, like Danny, who loves you, who really does care and wants to understand—too fucking bad. He doesn't stand a chance. And neither did River."
John wiped his fingers over his cheek before trailing absently down his neck. "I'm not blind. You probably classify it as an anger issue, but that's just been a consequence of your friendly, fragile denial. You, Clara, were fucked the moment your dad walked out of that doctor's office. Fourteen and heartbroken and there was nothing you could do about it. What did you receive in return? Mindless, blank rage while everything you hate had free fucking reign on their brand new and destructive paths. Out they came, one after the other. Reckless, stubborn, selfish.
"The psychiatrists afterwards—well, what the fuck did they know, right? You wouldn't write down your feelings in your fucking feelings journal, or talk to your suddenly emotionally absent father, talk to your friends, talk to some stranger about someone they never knew, someone… someone who you only knew with a child's mind. There was only one thing that helped, one instantaneous moment that allowed for the real return of your real fucking fix. And unfortunately—the solution was always going to be ridiculous while you've got absurd nihilism gripping one hand and complete rationality holding the other. I imagine, judging by the scar on your back, you discovered pretty quickly how unsustainable it was."
He laughed slightly with a dark amusement, running fingers over his chin. "So you've had to build your life around the illusion instead. In your job, in your home, how you sleep with men, how you treat relationships. You pretend because you know it's false, that it's just smoke and mirrors, some reflection of an image you once created in a moment of desperation. Because when you're angry—it's not there. When you need it the most, you're betrayed by your own goddamn head. So you've had no choice. And, honestly—congratulations, you've done a fucking excellent job of it, Clara. Far superior to anything I could ever manage to do. I could never convince my friends or my wife."
He spoke quickly and quietly, unceasing. "Except now it's spawned into a bigger problem, yeah? Because fourteen years later, as a fully formed and rational adult—you've discovered you haven't really changed. In the face of the next tragedy, all that work you did last time, everything you've built means fuck all, because in here"—John put his index finger into her temple—"you're still the barely legal, I'll buy myself a death sentence with two wheels and five gears reckless teenager who just wants to check how fast this can go. And it's so very tempting to climb back on, isn't it. You're as bad as me, buying your own personal fucking metaphor. I sit and feel the vertigo of that cliff, the pull, the temptation, the yes and no. And it feels good. Because it's real and it's mine. I'm in charge.
"Right here"—The finger slid to the back of her head, tapping twice—"is where you find it again. Pure, unfiltered control. One tiny push, one slip, one bad turn, and it's over." He bared his teeth, lips curling in a perilous grin.
"Control is an addiction. When it's gone, you'll do anything to get it back. Including forcing your friends into an impossible position, including fucking people outside your marriage, including not going to the Science Museum, being arrested for assault…" He dropped his hand, placing it over the back of her chair. "... Including destroying your career and letting all your relationships fail.
"No one's allowed in your head, Clara. If they did, they'd realise the truth of the matter and you'd be forced to confront the fact that you've built a brick wall—actually, no, a concrete dam—on a fucking tectonic fault line. And when there's a quake—please excuse my dramatic tendencies—" He grinned again and slapped his palm flat on the table, using his weight to shake it. "You haven't got a goddamn clue how to stop the fractures and the fallout from the violation of section fucking three's national building code on foundations.
"You and me. We are very similar. I'm just describing how I see myself. If it feels like I'm clawing my way through your head, it's only because I'm rather certain I know how you feel."
John took a deep breath and flashed a smile, leaning back in his chair. "I find most problems very boring. This one included. But—" He reached to drag his plate towards him and picked up his fork, stabbing it hard into his meal. "Have you been imagining I'm just going to ignore all that?"
Raising the utensil and chewing slowly, his dark and ceaseless eyes burnt into her own. A dangerous smile fixed to his mouth. "By the way, it's Sunday night. That was probably the most accurate two minute therapy session you've ever had, and I triple my rates on weekends. You owe me three hundred quid."
