John swears softly, jumping up from the bed. His movement seems to break the spell cast over them both; as the sweat on her body cools she suddenly feels very, very stupid. Naked and vulnerable in a stolen hotel room, thoroughly fucked by a man she barely knows. A thief and an adulteress. Nice job Oswald!

She retreats to the bathroom, to clean herself as best she can and dress in privacy. When she re-enters he is doing up his belt, looking similarly wrong-footed.

"I'm pretty sure it was Dora and Elias returning," he says.

She swears. "I'm sorry—"

"Both at fault," he says simply. "Are you okay to…?"

"Yes. Yep. Um." There's not a lot of point to straightening the thoroughly unmade bed. They slip out into the corridor. John puts his ear to the second door, listening intently, while she holds her breath.

"Yes," he says, "at least two voices. Come on, we'd better get out of here."

They take the elevator down to the second floor and find the service stairs to take them the rest of the way underground. Mercifully unseen, they escape onto the night-time streets of the city. She lets him lead, her head abuzz with self-recriminations until they are almost back home.

"Um," she manages.

"Hmm?" He is similarly self-absorbed.

"Do you think it's safe. Your flat?"

"Possibly not."

"I'd offer you a place to crash—"

"Probably not very appropriate," he replies shortly.

"I know."

"Well…"

"Well, then…"

"I'm sorry that didn't—"

"I apologise for—

"Sorry, you go first."

"No, no you were saying?"

She gives up. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Clara."

She has half a hope he'll at least watch her out of sight. His door slams shut instead, and her heart sinks. Never have the steps to her flat seemed so long. It is dark inside and she half hopes Tom is away at writer's circle; that she has time to shower away some of the sweat and shame and make a more collected decision about what on earth to do next.

She hasn't quite managed to push the key home when the door opens under her hand. Shit, Tom—

"Who the hell are you?!" hisses the angry woman revealed in the doorway. "It's almost bloody midnight, not time to be pissing about in the corridor!"

Clara goggles at the stranger, panda-eyed with smudged mascara and wearing a very familiar dressing gown. Reflexively she checks the number on the door. It is her flat. "Er," she manages, and her heart sinks as Tom appears in his underwear.

"Clara?" he manages blearily. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean, what's going on? I come home and—"

"Is something wrong with your flat?"

"My flat?"

"Yes, you live just above us don't you?"

"Oh, of course you know where she bloody lives," sniffs the blonde. "Regular caller, are you?"

"Gwendolyn, no, you've got the wrong idea…"

"Or too bloody right!"

And just like that she has become the supporting character in someone else's drama. She pulls the door shut on their shrieking row, and turns the extra spiral of the staircase. Her key fits the lock of this apartment too, somehow, and inside is the handbag she knows she left on the sofa downstairs. Her work files are spread across a neat but unfamiliar writing desk. Like a woman in a dream she crosses to a bedroom. There is an ugly crochet bedspread she'd never have chosen in a million years, but the clothes hanging up in the wardrobe are undeniably hers.

She taps her fingers against her teeth, silent in the dark for a long moment, considering.

Five minutes later she is knocking on his door. He opens it with a scowl after several knocks, shirt untucked and somehow looking even more rumpled than when she left him.

"Clara? I don't think—"

"Shut up. What flat do I live in?"

"What?"

"Just, answer me, damn it! Which flat? Who do I live with?"

"Flat five," he replies. "You live with your boyfriend Tom. Clara, what the hell is this?"

"Flat six," she says, fighting to keep her voice calm. "By myself. Tom is apparently in a relationship with a blonde woman named Gwendolyn, who was wearing my dressing gown when she answered what I thought was my door."

"What? Clara, no—"

"You think I'm making this up?!" she finds she is shouting. "You can go and check for yourself."

He blinks a few times, processing. "I think you'd better come inside..."

"I'm sorry," she says, after the third sip of brandy. She feels an intruder on his private space, as he moves back and forth with dustpan and brush, sweeping up bits of broken lamp.

"Stop apologising."

"I just don't want you to think this is something that I normally do," she confesses.

He comes to a halt. "And that would be what exactly?"

Seduce a man on a stakeout and then bend reality to get invited back for a drink? She baulks at the thought of saying the words aloud. "I dunno," she manages instead.

He frowns at this inarticulacy. "Right. Okay. Anyway, I think I've got all the glass up. How's the brandy going down?"

"Well?" she offers, earning herself a flicker of a smile. "Are you going to have some?"

"Why not?" he replies, pouring himself a large measure from a cut-glass decanter. He hovers awkwardly for a moment, clearly struggling between the choice of his wing-backed armchair or the space next to Clara on the sofa. He opts for the later, but sits primly on the edge of the cushion, as if afraid she might explode. "You should probably stay here tonight," he says after an age. "I'm not sure Flat Six is safe."

"And your flat is?"

"No. But at least here together we have the advantage of greater numbers. And I don't think anyone else has a key."

"How'd the Mummy get in?"

He looks irritated. "I left the door unlocked for a moment when I was collecting a telegram."

"Oh? Anything interesting?"

"About the job in Brighton. More precisely, the lack of one."

"Sorry about that," she lies.

"It's fine. It's probably for the best." He gives her a brief, humourless smile. "Things that need my attention here, anyway."

"Things," she repeats, but he is too clueless to take the hint. She sighs softly. "I'm happy to stay. I can sleep on your sofa—"

"No, no, that wouldn't be right. You can have my bed and I'll take the sofa."

"Honestly, there's no point in both of us sleeping badly. I'd feel bad if I kicked you out of your own bed."

"I think I might insist on it…"

She laughs. "I think you might not sound very insistent. Look, if you really want to be kind, I would very much like a bath."

"That I can arrange," he says, and this time his smile, whilst brief, is genuine.

"Great. While you draw it, I'm going to pop upstairs and collect a few things." He looks like the might be about to argue with this. "I'll be five minutes," she adds hurriedly, "any longer and you can come up to rescue me. It is your turn, after all."

In fact she is six, and returns to find him with his foot already on the bottom stair.

"Good Lord, John, did you have a stopwatch?"

"Just a wristwatch."

"I know, I was joking."

"Oh."

"Sorry."

"Um… There's a bath..." He is practically writhing with awkwardness.

"Oh good. Thank you," she replies, taking pity and heading back into the flat.

"Towels," he manages, shepherding her through his bedroom.

"Yes, I can see. Um, thanks. I can probably manage on my own from here. Unless you want to join me?"

He remains far calmer than she thought he might. "Another joke."

"If you like."

"My… straightforwardness amuses you, doesn't it?"

"Tiny bit, yes."

"Most people find it annoying."

"I'm not most people."

He takes a step forward. "And if I called your bluff?"

Something like excitement swoops, low in her stomach. "What do you think?" she replies, looking up at him. "That I'd fold?"

"Not for a second," he whispers, and kisses her.

She has to crane to reach him, almost over balancing. "You're far too tall," she manages, wrapping her arms around him to steady herself.

"Nonsense," he declares, mouth dipping to her neck again, to the spot he found earlier that makes her shiver. "You're simply too short. Also, somewhat overdressed. May I be of assistance?"

"Only," she replies, "if I can return the favour."