Chapter Eighteen: A Change of Heart
"What?" Clara asked, regaining her breath. Tasha leaned forwards in her desk chair and propped her chin up with folded hands. There was a conniving look in her smile, the kind that fueled every insult and question she'd fired at the young writer.
"My, I wondered what it'd be like when you lost your temper." She dragged her stare across Clara's petite figure once more. "Good to know our allies are of capable stature. We are in need of people who can stand their ground."
Unsure of what just happened, Clara's eyes darted around the room, as if her answer would appear in writing on the walls. All she saw were framed magazine clippings and photographs of posh business travelers, a crowd she thought she wanted to be a part of at some point in time. It was safe to say that Tasha was not giving her the warmest welcome. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she watched Tasha print out her contract and decided that processing all of this was easier sitting down.
"Now, you need to read this and ask me any questions you may have," Tasha informed her in a perfunctory manner, handing the young writer the contract and a heavy ball-point pen. Too overwhelmed to respond, Clara swallowed whatever idiotic refrain sat on her tongue (such as whether or not Tasha was absolutely certain of this) and began reading. Her focus wore thin as her mind began spinning.
To think that the CEO of Wayfarer Industries judged her based on her temper instead of merit was somewhat off-putting. To think that The Doctor, who was right outside, may have overheard their argument upset her. She didn't want him to think that this was just a momentary fling to her. She didn't want him to consider that at all. Especially when such accusations came from the woman Clara was beginning to dislike.
Eyes scanning the contract at a careless speed, she was about to sign her name until she reached the final paragraph.
By signing below, I hereby agree that WAYFARER INDUSTRIES, INC. holds every right to censor and enhance my work without prior discretion. I understand that any publication for public domain is within rightful ownership of the company, and I waive my right of participating in any third-party business transactions until termination of this contract. All signatures under legal documentation are valid for up to five years.
Clara read it over again, just to be sure.
"So by signing this, I legally forfeit all creative liability for '101 Places to See?'"
Tasha's eyes left her computer screen with a confounded expression, as if surprised the young writer could actually read.
"If that is how you choose to interpret it, yes."
"There is no other way of interpreting it. It says so right here," she said, marking the paper with a dot of dark ink. "'Wayfarer Industries holds every right to censor and enhance my work without prior discretion.' I understand this clearly, do I not, Mrs. Lem? Should I choose to sign my name on the dotted line, I agree to have no say in what I write for my website?"
Her mother's memorial. Her own personal form of escape. Her career for almost eight years now. Gone. Like breath on a mirror.
"You are correct, yes," Tasha breathed, unable to meet her gaze. But Clara refused to stop asking questions until she got all the answers she needed.
"And what exactly does that look like for me?"
It was clear the woman was not attune to addressing such concerns, for she looked from the young writer to the contract in uncertainty. "We will give you the necessary funds to continue traveling. You will receive assignments from our directors of advertising and digital media and fulfill them to the best of your ability, though we have the final say in what is edited and ultimately published. As for your website, it will need to undergo a complete redesign, to better align with the themes of our company."
Mouth agape with incredulity, Clara felt the weight of the contract sink into her lap. The autonomy over her own website was now hovering in the balance between her and the woman behind the desk. It wasn't until that moment in which Clara began to understand the worth of creative liberty—and the consequences of giving it up for five whole years.
"I see the indecision in your eyes. You wonder how on earth others have agreed to such conditions. If they fully understood what they were getting themselves into," Tasha said. She perched her spectacles on the bridge of her nose. "The answer is simple. This is a business, Miss Oswald. Our main priority is not to inspire travel, or satisfy the wants of every aspiring writer we choose to work with. It is to grow, as far and wide as we possibly can.
The writers we foster here at Wayfarer are renowned names in this community. They are personalities with an intelligence and discipline you couldn't even imagine. This is not a decision in which you close the door on your creative liberties, but open yourself up to a field that is ready and waiting for you to join it on the other side."
Tasha leaned forward in her desk. The contract in Clara's lap was now creased from her tight grip.
"So, what do you say? Will it be a yes from you this afternoon, Miss Oswald?"
The Doctor—despite his efforts to sit still—stood up for the third time in the past twenty minutes. He would not, under any circumstances, press his ear against Tasha Lem's office door, though the thought had crossed his mind once or twice. What were they talking about in there? Was Clara winning the woman over, just as he thought she would? Or had things taken a turn for the worse, making this an unfortunate orchestration of fate?
No, The Doctor thought, nearly whacking himself in the face for such a notion. This was not one of those times. She deserved that interview. Deserved to take from it whatever the hell she wanted to, whether it be a partnership or otherwise. No matter the outcome, he knew she would gain something invaluable from it. He was sure of that much.
His heart leapt out of his chest when the office door opened and Clara emerged, her lips pulled into a subdued expression. The Doctor raised his eyebrows in anticipation as he approached, wringing his hands in a nervous fret. It wasn't until he drew closer that he could detect the verdict written across her face. His hands fell to his sides.
"They don't deserve you, Clara," he told her, shaking his head sternly. "They are daft not to see how bloody brilliant you'd be working alongside them, and if you for a second think otherwise, then I swear—"
"I turned them down."
He blinked, astounded. Impressed even, if he weren't so confused. "What?"
She handed him the contract she'd refused to sign, unaware she'd taken it in the first place. "I turned them down. I couldn't go through with it. Why couldn't I go through with it?" She paused. "Do you know that feeling when you're just about to drop on a roller-coaster?"
He frowned, eyes lifting from the paper. "Yes."
"Good. Because I've never been on one, but I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like." She sank into one of the deep-seat chairs and pressed her heels into her eyes.
The Doctor flipped the page and turned it upside-down, as if there was an inverted message he couldn't see. He patted his pockets for his spectacles before realizing he'd left them in his backpack downstairs.
"Am I reading this correctly? According to this, 'Wayfarer Industries holds every right to censor and enhance your work without prior discretion.'" He swiveled on his heel, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "So all of your work, all the rights to '101 Places to See,' would have been turned over to them?"
"Thank god you see it, too. I was beginning to think I made it up. I mean, it was an attractive offer, terms and conditions applied. Tasha spoke about it like she was holding a door open for me, everything I wanted lying on the other end of the threshold. I saw it, Doctor. I saw the raise and the reputation. And I couldn't take it."
"Because you realized it wasn't what you wanted?"
"Because I realized it wasn't worth what I'd have to give up," she replied, trying to locate her sense. "'101 Places' was meant to fill a small part of this massive void—it was always meant to be that. When I write, I like to think I'm writing to my mum. I like to think she hears me, mad as that sounds. And when I looked through that door, at what I'd be gaining from a partnership like this, I saw everything but her. Agreeing to this would take her out of my work completely, when she's been the heart of it since the beginning. And that really, really got to me."
She leaned her head against the wall above the seatback, dark eyes hiding behind a curtain of brown and blonde hair. "Is that silly of me? To not want something because it makes me feel further apart from my already dead mother?"
"To others, maybe," The Doctor replied, tossing the contract aside and occupying the seat beside her. "But to me? Never. Never in a million years."
"But what about all those things you said? About making this trip worth it in the end?"
"Just because you told them no doesn't mean it wasn't worth it. I only said I'd help you get to New York, help you get the career you deserve. And if getting you here means you're one step closer to winning it all, then that's all I could ever hope for."
She snuggled into his shoulder, grazing her nose against the fabric of his tweed coat. The scent of the wind was trapped into the threading, with remnants of his musky cologne. "Perhaps Tasha was right. Perhaps I am meant to write a book or something."
"She said that?"
"I think it was more of an insult than anything."
The tall windows beside them cast slates of golden light across the tiled floor, a coin-sized sun bouncing off the face of the building adjacent to theirs. The two travelers watched the spectrum in awed silence for a moment.
"Do you know something, Clara?" The Doctor asked, placing his hand on hers. He admired the way her fingers splayed against his. "Monday morning, when we were driving in the TARDIS, we were harping on the things that made us so dissimilar. You and your soufflés, me and my cliff dives. Well now, I think we're one and the same."
"Now, that's a shocker." He chuckled.
"No, really! Hear me out. When David told me about his practice closing, it was as if something finally clicked. I have been racking my brain over my parental inheritance for years. I didn't want to give it away to a cause unless I could see my mum and dad doing exactly the same. I wanted it to mean something to them, too," he said, taking a look around them. They would walk away from this building empty-handed but wholeheartedly fulfilled. "So while I'll probably throw myself at impending danger, and you'll be wise enough to warn me first, I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're both just horribly sentimental and picky people."
Eyes widening in astonishment, Clara began to laugh. It wasn't often on this trip she found herself so similar to The Doctor.
"Come on," she prompted, pulling him out of his seat and careening themselves back down the hallway they came from."I'm not the only reason we're here. You've got a party to go to."
"You're coming with me, yes?"
"Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to be," she drawled, shooting him an excited grin over a shoulder. Perhaps they were alike in more ways than one. "And for the record...I think it's safe to say that I'm in love with you, too."
Amelia Pond and Rory Williams lived in Kensington, a neighborhood centered in the heart of Brooklyn. The houses looked like paint swatches from a home refurbishing depot, peaceful shades of green and blue a balm against the inky sunset behind them. The house The Doctor and Clara were looking for became easy to spot, not because of the balloons tacked onto the mailbox, or the lights strung around the shrubs, but the front door. It was painted a rich shade of royal blue and was the only one of its kind on the entire street.
The two travelers split the fee for the taxicab and waved to their driver as he disappeared down the block, their backpacks straining their neck and shoulders. Clara had taken her blazer off and tied it around her waist, and The Doctor was sweating profusely. Just when they thought nothing else could go wrong, they were caught in a cab with a fast-talking New Yorker and a broken air-conditioner unit. The perfect ending to their cross-country road trip.
"God, that music's loud," The Doctor muttered under his breath, shielding his face from the sun. "Even for a place as noisy as New York City, the Ponds manage to defy all expectations."
"And home owner's regulations. Won't the neighbors mind?"
"Eh, they've lived here four years. Either the neighbors are hearing-impaired, or they've gotten used to them already."
Clara followed him across their manicured lawn and towards the back, where a small gateway led to an open patio adorned with paper lanterns and tables of refreshments. Circles of guests talked animatedly throughout the yard, smiling at one another and sipping their cocktails. The smell of barbecue filled the air. A young man with neatly combed hair and a 'Kiss the Cook' apron stood at the grill with a spatula in hand, the red-haired woman next to him peeking hungrily over his shoulder for a look-see. He caught her staring, and they both erupted into laughter.
Amy and Rory. The best friends The Doctor had traveled over three-thousand miles to see. Clara felt her stomach drop. Meeting his parents would've been easier than this, had she the pleasure of meeting them. These were his best mates. The ones that coined his nickname only to be used by those closest to him. In the entire picture of The Doctor's life, Clara was but a mere shadow. A foreign, unannounced, two-day-old shadow.
"Wait," Clara said, falling a few steps behind him. "What if they don't like me?"
"Are you joking? They're gonna love you! Now come on," The Doctor said, taking her arm in his and pulling her along. She dug her heels into the pavement.
"Dear god, that woman is made of legs. That's the most legs on any living human!" she hissed under her breath.
"She's a woman, Clara. She won't bite." He paused to think. "Actually, no, I take that back. I distinctly remember a time when—"
"Doctor?" Amy called from behind the grill. The two travelers, caught in the act of discussing the very woman whose eyes had now grown to saucers, froze in their tracks. "Is that you?"
The Doctor straightened, the question throwing him off-guard. He readjusted his bow-tie out of habit. "Were you expecting anyone else?"
He'd never seen a wider smile on her face. Practically pushing guests aside, Amy made a beeline for her best friend and crashed into his open arms. They both shared a triumphant laughter that only came from two people who couldn't believe they were sharing the same space after years of being apart. The distance between them had felt like an elastic band waiting to snap.
"God, I'm crying. How embarrassing," Amy said when she pulled away, swiping her thumbs beneath her eyes to catch the tears. "You look terrible."
"Is it the dark circles? I haven't slept properly since Sunday. I can't tell if half the people here are real or if I've adopted double-vision."
"Did you get attacked by a rabid animal again?" she asked, poking at his bandaged wrist. "I told you, they're not going to understand a word you say. Your chin is enough to trigger a fight or flight response."
"No, no! Got into a bit of a skirmish with the motorbike and the pavement. Immune system should be kicking in any day now." Her glaring expression told him she'd let it slide for now, but would demand the full story later.
"Well, look who turned up out of the blue," Rory said from behind his wife. His green eyes gleamed in delight as he pulled The Doctor in for a quick embrace. "We didn't think you'd make it in time. How was the commute?"
"Insane." The Doctor shook his head, turning to the young writer next to him to attest. "Clara and I have so much to tell you—"
He halted. The space beside him was empty. Whipping his head around in search of Clara, he spotted her standing a few feet away, hands twisted behind her back. It was clear she didn't want to intrude on what was obviously an important reunion for the three. Better to shrink back and act like she belonged with the rest of the congregation. Hard to do so when three pairs of eyes were now on her.
"Hi," she said with a small wave. It felt like the appropriate thing to do. The Doctor's eyes brightened.
"Clara, meet the Ponds. Ponds...meet Clara," he said, beaming with pride. Two extreme parts of his life were now colliding, and even though one had only entered the picture two days prior, he had no intention of ever forgetting Clara Oswald, lest she held a similar regard for him. The three stared at one another in momentary hesitation and awe of the other.
The young writer was quick to come forward with an outstretched hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you—"
Amy immediately pulled her into a hug, cutting off her words. A mixture of surprise and relief flooded Clara's face, her former anxieties of meeting the couple dissolving into sincere appreciation as she hugged the young woman back.
"Thank you," Amy said, squeezing her tightly. "Thank you for keeping The Doctor alive!"
"So this is the Clara Oswald we've heard so much about," Rory mused, folding his arms across his chest. A look of alarm was directed towards The Doctor at the statement, a look which, when Amy pulled away, was quickly rearranged into one of a cheerier disposition. "Nothing to worry about, we've only heard good things about you."
"I do hope so," Clara said. "The fact that you've heard anything at all is news to me. Word travels fast between you three, doesn't it?"
"When The Doctor permits it," Amy replied with a sly look. "He won't speak a word of what he's doing with whom unless he thinks it important enough to be mentioned."
"With the exception of him inventing a quadricycle in his garage," Rory added.
"Oi! That was one of my life's most brilliant accomplishments, and if you don't consider it as such, I have no choice but to be highly offended."
"A quadricycle is just a deconstructed car with a bell on it, Doctor."
"O-kay!" Amy interjected, extinguishing the argument before it could develop. "Clara, Doctor, I am sure you two have had one hell of a journey, and we want to hear all about it over drinks! As the birthday girl, I hereby commence: backpacks in the kitchen; there's plenty of food laid out; and please, no more talk of quadricycles until I am sufficiently tipsy."
"Look at you, the domestic goddess," The Doctor remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. She shot him a glare before turning on her heel to enter the house.
"If anyone is to fulfill that role, it should be me," Rory defended as The Doctor and Amy made their way towards the back door. He gestured for Clara to fall alongside him, even offering to take her backpack. "Welcome to the Pond house, Miss Oswald. We do hope you enjoy your stay, despite all the bickering. Feel free to contribute to it, if you like."
"Clara!" The Doctor shouted from the kitchen, an argument already brewing in their midst. "I need you to side with me that Queen's 'A Day at the Races' is their strongest studio album!"
"In what universe?" Amy fired back. "'A Night at the Opera' is far superior, and my husband agrees with me! Don't you, Rory?"
The calmer of the group observed the budding debate from the safety of the doorway. Rory whispered to Clara, "I personally enjoyed 'Hot Space.' But don't let either of them know that."
Stifling a laugh, Clara followed Rory into the kitchen, thankful enough to take up his offer.
A/N: To further augment to this story (and make it a satisfying twenty installments instead of nineteen!), I have spliced this chapter into two, with details of Amy's birthday party contained in the next. Happy New Year's, everybody! I hope turning over of a new leaf allows each and every one of you to grow and find happiness, whatever that happiness means to you. Here's to many more days of reading, writing, and celebrating fanfic!