Clarity - Chapter 2

She was going to kill Martha. Plain and simple. She couldn't remember now why she had agreed to come and babysit her friend's boss. Surely, another junior advisor from her own department could have done the job. She didn't work for Health. There was no logical reason which explained why she was standing there, with this disgusting man's hand resting precariously close to her arse wearing heels she was desperate to take off. There just wasn't. And two glasses of champagne hadn't helped her come closer to an answer. She had switched to red-wine because she knew she would feel even worse tomorrow if she kept gulping down the fizzy liquid that actually was real champagne for once.

Clara tried to pay more attention to the journalist. Catherine something, she thought. Frankly, she had stopped remembering names about an hour ago, there was just so many people here she just had to meet, love. To think that she had actually been looking forward to this party. She had refused to go to most of the ones she had been invited to until now (a surprisingly large number, given her job), but she had heard numerous times that the Treasury parties were the best. Hell, it was Christmas in a couple of weeks, she thought she deserved a break. What she hadn't really thought through was the fact that this definitely wasn't a break from work, since everybody from work was here. Granted, she had never seen most of those people, but then she had only been working for the Department for Education and Skills for five months. She often came in contact with people from the Home Office of course, and some people from the Health Department. But really, apart from the other advisors from her own department and a few people she had recently met here and there before the party, she didn't know anyone.

She tried once more to wiggle out of Mr. Graham's hold but it was no use. Worse, her movements seemed to have encouraged him to slip his hand even lower. She didn't think she would be able to restrain herself if he kept grabbing her like that. Who did he think he was? Yes, he might be Martha's boss, and Martha was possibly the only real friend she had in this country, but that didn't mean it gave him the right to behave like a perv. Just keep an eye on him, Clara. She remembered Martha telling her. The Minister can't take any more flack from the press, and Mr. Graham can get a bit troublesome with journalists.Troublesome, right. She thought of other words that could be used to describe the Health minister's senior advisor.

She looked desperately around the room for one of Martha's colleagues, who surely would be more suited for this job and would know when to stop Mr. Graham from divulging too much information to the press. Even though she was pretty sure it was too late already, given how many perfect white teeth the journalist was showing. But there was a reason why Martha, her colleagues, and even their minister were absent tonight. The end of life care fiasco. Martha had told her that the government had regularly been trying to push for reforms for years now, and they were once again in hot waters with the press. Which meant she probably wouldn't be seeing the outside of her office at the department for quite a while. Clara was almost jealous: her workload had considerably lightened these past few days, and she feared she actually would be forced to take a few days off around Christmas. Her colleagues thought she was mad, but she knew she wasn't. She was just very focussed on her job, a job she loved. And yes, okay, maybe she was a bit of a workaholic but then so what? Most of the people in this room probably were, too.

Oh, God. His hand was slipping lower. No. That's it. I'm out. Let the creep commit career suicide in front of the journalist, she just couldn't care less. In ten seconds, I'm walking away. I'm going to the bar and to hell with it. Champagne was available, champagne she would drink. Just breathe, she thought. She closed her eyes, flexed her toes, rolled her shoulders...

Un, deux, trois...

...and promptly lost her footing when her right shoulder rubbed against the guy standing beside her. Bloody stupid heels! she barely had the time to think before her ankle partially gave out and she was forced to break her fall by thrusting both her hands forward, right into M. Graham's chest.

Oh. That was an unexpected result. A welcome result yes, but unexpected nonetheless. She had been set on escaping the advisor's grip and would have probably allowed herself the satisfaction of intentionally stepping on his toes (and then apologise, of course) before walking away. But spilling her red-wine on his tie was an added bonus. A very noticeable bonus. So noticeable that she couldn't help smiling at first.

"Mr. Graham, I'm so sorry, I must have slipped! Oh, this is terrible, I do apologise, your tie..."

"There, there, it's nothing. Look, there's barely a stain, and it will be dry in a minute."

She had to hand it to him, he looked unfazed. He didn't even seem to be entertaining the thought that she might have done it on purpose. How very British, she thought, and smiled once more.

"I'm really sorry, I must be tired, I can't even stand straight. I had a very long week at work and should probably head home, soon."

"Nonsense, it's barely ten. I thought you French knew how to party. Do grace us with your presence a little longer, love. Let me get you another drink."

"It's alright, I'll go myself. There's someone over there I need to talk to about a meeting on Monday, I'll be quick. I'm really sorry about your tie." She added, walking away as quickly as she could with those heels.

Well, turns out it wasn't such a bad idea to wear them, then. She knew she might have overdressed, but she hadn't gone out in a while, and she liked that dress, short as it was. She didn't feel uncomfortable in it, as opposed to the heels, and if she was completely honest with herself, she enjoyed the looks it got her. What she didn't enjoy of course was the liberty Mr. Graham took when he manhandled her.

She had thought the heels would help her feel less diminutive in such a charged environment. She always wore flats at work because she knew how long days didn't equate well with sore feet and backaches. And she didn't mind being among the smallest in her team. It didn't matter in the long run, she had other ways to put her point across than through the help of physical attributes. She was confident in her abilities and her ideas. But here tonight, she felt anything but confident. In fact, she hadn't felt like such an outsider ever since her first day at work in this country.

She ordered another glass of red-wine at the bar. She had ditched the idea of champagne partly because she thought the best solution was perhaps to head home, and partly because the red-wine had turned out being a good ally. She was debating whether she should walk back to Mr. Graham to tell him she was leaving or make a hasty exit straightaway when Emily called after her.

"Clara, there you are! We thought we'd never find you."

The "we" referred to her and Michael, obviously. Those two were joined at the hip. She couldn't for the life of her understand how they managed to function when they were not together. They didn't, let's be honest. This had earned them the nickname of M & Ems. Actually, some of her other colleagues had come up with more colourful nicknames, but she decided not to think of them right now, knowing she would need to look at them in the eye at one point. And as annoying as they were, they were better than grabby-arse Graham.

"Come and join us! Sophie was just telling us about last year's Christmas party here. You wouldn't believe what a guy from the Home Office did to her."

I bet I can, thought Clara. Not seeing Mr. Graham anywhere, she decided that listening to Sophie gossiping and spending time with the colleagues she had tried to avoid all evening was better than heading home at ten on a Friday night she had meant to enjoy.

Sophie was already in the middle of another "hilarious anecdote" when she joined the group. Clara stood next to Mary, who was one of the few department employees she felt close to. They had both spent time teaching at one point, before joining the government, which Clara had naively thought to be one of the job requirements to work for the Education sector. Boy, had she been wrong. Obviously, she'd only just started her career as an English teacher in France when she had agreed to join a think tank which then led her to work for the government over there, but she'd still spent much more time in a classroom than most of the other advisors. Her passion was and always would be teaching. And although her career had taken a turn she hadn't really anticipated, a turn she hadn't completely chosen in fact, she felt she was making a difference still, as small as it may be.

Which was why she had a hard time reconciling that fact with the more vacuous aspects of her new job. She knew she was too independent-minded (and bossy, if she was completely honest) to be a good team player. She didn't mind being given orders as long as her opinion was taken into account in the decision making process. She liked sharing new ideas with others and discuss matters that were close to her heart. What she didn't like was what seemed to automatically come with all that, which mostly consisted in fake camaraderie and water-cooler discussions. Working for the French education department hadn't been very different in that respect. But at least over there she could pretend she was somewhere she belonged. Here, she was destined to be an outsider. No matter how hard she tried or how perfect her English was or that technically, she was half-British. She would always be "that French girl".

"Who was that guy?" whispered Mary to her. She knew better than to interrupt Sophie mid-anecdote (there'd be hell to pay, probably in the form of more anecdotes) but she couldn't see the harm in having a quiet conversation.

"Did you see him? The nerve!"

"I only saw you throw your wine at him."

"I didn't throw it, I was pushed. I mean, I lost my balance and I slipped. It was an accident."

"Well, he looked like he deserved it."

"Yeah, but he's Martha's boss, kind of. I promised to look after him, make sure he didn't spill government secrets to the press or something. I think I failed pretty miserably."

"Blimey. Well, at least you're having a better night than Tony. Look over there." Mary said, pointing to a corner at the other side of the room.

"Yuck, it looks fluorescent green even from here! How is that possible?"

"I don't now, but it seems that his troubles aren't over, Jamie's looking at him."

Clara could indeed see Jamie MacDonald standing close to the bar and looking reproachfully in Tony's direction. She had come across Jamie a few times already, in matters relating to press announcements, mostly. She knew that those who'd been working in the department for a while dreaded his "interventions". He did have a colourful vocabulary and his voice did carry quite far, but she'd always had a hard time taking all his words seriously. With his big blue eyes and his syncopated Scottish accent. But then, she had never been on the receiving end of one of his remonstrances. Not yet, anyway.

"Who's that standing next to him?" Clara then asked, noticing a tall, thin man in a nice suit looking in her direction. Not only she hadn't realised that she was being observed, but she also missed the fact that Sophie had stopped speaking.

"You don't know? Clara, that's Malcolm Tucker!" Sophie told her patronisingly. Clara had apparently become the new centre of attention. Once again, she was made to feel as the new girl who was still a bit clueless five months in, the poor dear. But Clara had heard about the PM's enforcer. The mighty Malcolm Tucker whose name was whispered in fear every time something went wrong in a department. And whose stories were apparently the stuff of nightmares.

"I thought he'd be older." Clara said, turning back towards the group. She was met by startled gazes.

"He's mad, Clara. He sacrifices puppies for fun. And by puppies I mean Ministers of the Crown."

Some of them probably deserved it, she thought. And let's not forget senior advisors as well, she added silently in her mind, watching grabby-Graham making his way towards her.

"There you are! I was afraid you'd left without saying goodbye." he said in his sickly sweet voice, standing once again right beside her. She quickly turned towards Mary and rolled her eyes dramatically, but it was Sophie who leaned in to whisper rather loudly in her hear, "Oh, I get it. You like older men!" She then winked and proceeded to gesture first towards Mr. Graham and then towards Malcolm Tucker. Clara blushed, somewhat mortified when Michael sniggered, having heard what she'd said. Mary, bless her, looked just as embarrassed as her.

She quickly gathered herself and chose not to answer, lest she became known as "that French girl who actually had daddy issues". She turned towards Mr. Graham, realising that she'd rather deal with him than with Sophie.

"Mr. Graham, I'm sorry. I guess I got caught up with my colleagues." she smiled nervously, desperately looking for an appropriate subject of conversation which wouldn't give him cause to grab her arse again. STDs, perhaps. He did work for the Health department, after all. Just as she was contemplating this idea, Mary gripped her arm.

"Clara, he's looking at you!"

She followed her colleague's gaze, and stared back at Malcolm Tucker.

"Oh lord, I didn't know Tucker was here tonight. Why is he looking at me like that? What have I done? He can't possibly know about yesterday. I mean, I know I should have..." Clara didn't pay attention to the rest of Mr. Graham jerky, frightened words, but she felt him physically move closer to her. She refrained from pulling away in disgust because she found it highly amusing that a grown man would shy away from a stare that wasn't even directed at him and choose to take shelter next to a girl. She knew that the thin man was looking at her. Right through her, it seemed. His stare froze her in place. She felt a mix of dread and excitement in the pit of her stomach, as though she was facing a wildcat ready to pounce.

He looked down before her and she couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. She hadn't thought that the Mighty Malcolm would shy away from anything. He stared at his shoes as though in shame but quickly looked up once again, perhaps to make sure that she was still looking at him. She was. And then he smiled.

Fuck.