Clarity - Chapter 6
She was going to kill Jamie. Clara realised that since she'd started working for the Education Department, she'd had more murderous thoughts in the span of five months than she'd ever had in her entire life until then. This probably wasn't healthy. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd just lost a couple of years from her lifespan in the last hour. Why hadn't Jamie told her that this interview was so important? And that half the staff of the Guardian would apparently be present? She was proud of the fact that she hadn't lost her cool and managed to stay - mostly - on topic, but she couldn't help but notice that her hands were still shaking. She was holding the folders she had brought with her too tightly. In the end, she hadn't really used her notes, since she knew the proposed curriculum almost by heart. What she hadn't anticipated were the questions relating to her own point of view as a new advisor in the Department. And as a former teacher. She had been terrified at one point that they were going to ask her about her work for the French government. Or about her precipitated departure. But thankfully, there hadn't been any questions on that subject.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. The interview was over, the journalists had seemed pleased with her answers - which could be a bad thing, she knew - and although some of the questions had forced her to step out of her comfort zone and to actually voice her opinion (an opinion that might not be shared by the rest of her department), she'd survived. Hopefully, her dignity - and her reputation, whatever it was - were intact. She could deal with the consequences later. The most important thing was that they didn't seem to know much about her past, apart from her short career as a teacher and the fact that she was half-British. That had been a welcome change: the fact that for once she was half-British first and half-French second. Perhaps they had expected her to have a weak command of the English language. Or that she'd have a strong accent. Or that she would show up wearing a beret and a striped shirt with a baguette under her arm and a bottle of red wine in her hand. Maybe she should have.
Next time, she thought, smiling, finally feeling better. She couldn't believe the day wasn't over, yet. Martha's phone call and Jamie's appearance at the Sanctuary Buildings this morning seemed very far away. She knew she'd probably look back on this interview experience fondly, at some point A later point. After all, although it had been her first big interview here about her job, it wasn't exactly the first time she'd done something like that. But she preferred not to focus too much on those past experiences. She'd come to this country to start anew. This interview was just one step in that direction. A crucial step she knew she could now replicate if necessary.
She finally reached the lifts. Just as she was about to press the button, she felt a presence beside her. She turned quickly and found herself face to face with, but of course, Malcolm Tucker, who actually seemed just as surprised to see her.
"I thought you'd already left."
Wasn't too big on hellos, then.
"Yeah. Got a bit lost," she lied. She would never admit that she'd had to sit for a little while after the interview before she felt comfortable enough to leave the building without noticeably shaking.
"The building's pretty big," he commented, apparently aware that she might not be telling the truth but not caring either way.
"Wait, you knew I was here? For the interview, I mean?" she'd only now realised that he hadn't questioned her presence in the building.
"Of course. What do you think?" he said in a somewhat cold voice he probably reserved for slow people. Most people, then. She felt a bit chastised, and tried not to show it. But once again, he seemed capable of reading her perfectly and added in a gentler tone: "It went well, nice job."
She started, and finally turned fully towards him.
"You were there? I didn't see you. Were you..."
He smiled slightly, looking as though this situation was procuring him more fun than it should.
"Of course not, but Alex just told me."
Of course he did, thought Clara, feeling herself blush self-consciously. She turned back towards the bank of lifts and they stayed silent, waiting for one to arrive. When nothing seemed to be happening, he said in a still infuriatingly cool tone: "You know, I'm sure it would go a lot quicker if you actually pressed the button and not just stared at it."
She refrained from giving him the satisfaction of cursing at him, and pressed the button angrily more times than were really necessary. It arrived quickly with a soft ding, and they both went in. He pressed the correct button for the lobby and once again, she stopped herself from commenting on his functioning arms, which he could have used to call the lift himself earlier.
"When did you learn about this interview?" she eventually asked, feeling that she was entitled to know this at least.
When no answer came, she turned towards him and rested her back against the cold side of the lift. She could see he was debating what to answer.
"This morning. It was Jamie's idea to give it to you," he finally said. She didn't know why this information seemed to have cost him so much to reveal. "But it went fine."
"You already said that," she snapped back, unsure why. She guessed her apprehension at the interview hadn't completely left her yet. But Malcolm didn't seem to mind being snapped at, she guessed it happened often. She still felt slightly chastened and refrained from asking him why he was here, exactly. It wasn't her place to ask or to know.
When they reached the lobby in silence, he let her exit the lift before him, and just as she was wondering how she would politely make her departure known without blurting out half of the questions she desperately wanted to ask him, he beat her to it.
"Are you going back to the Sanctuary Buildings?"
"Huh, yes. Still got some work to do today." She actually desperately wanted to go home and regroup - perhaps with the help of a glass of wine or two - but it was not even four, yet. She wasn't lying when she said she still had work to do and she knew she had to face Emily about this morning. Better to deal with it today than tomorrow and not let her have time to sharpen the knife she probably wanted to lodge between her shoulder blades.
"Want a lift? I've got a driver waiting."
Malcolm was looking at her expectantly. She felt as though this was his olive branch. Even though he hid it pretty well, he seemed to be feeling a bit guilty about something. And she guessed this something had to do with the nerve-wracking interview.
"I thought I'd...walk," she answered truthfully, knowing that since she couldn't go home yet, walking was the next best thing to gather her thoughts. She'd come by tube, and knew she could have taken a taxi back, but she didn't want to admit - least of all to herself - that even five months in, she still hadn't really grasped the concept or the know-how of haling a cab in London. This just wasn't something people did a lot in Paris. So she'd taken to walking everywhere when she could in the city, and she enjoyed it.
"In this weather?" he asked, with that annoying half-smirk of his.
So it was raining. Quite a bit. And it was the middle of December. So what?
"Yes," she replied simply, as though he had no reason to question her motives. She had her pride, after all. She wasn't a damsel in distress who needed rescuing. As tempting as that rescue was at the moment.
"I just thought you'd wanted to ask me about the interview," he added in a similar, matter-of-fact tone.
The bastard. He knew that would trigger a reaction from her. She did want to ask him about the interview. And about the Keith-in-Wales the journalist-reporting-on-manure one. Or if Jamie had told him anything about their (non) conversation this morning regarding his marital status. Or what the hell Friday night had all been about. Nothing, really.
"Sure, then. Thanks." So she was weak. She already knew that. And maybe some answers would indeed be nice, even though she was absolutely certain she wouldn't dare ask half the questions she wanted to.
Sitting next to him in the back of the luxury saloon car, Clara was once more reminded that Malcolm Tucker was actually quite an important figure in the government. And that perhaps she should be a little more grateful that he'd offered to drive her back to the Education Department. Granted, the Sanctuary Buildings were kind of in the same direction as his, but still. As a mere junior advisor, she didn't often get the chance to travel through London in such surroundings or such company. Even though said company was rather silent at the moment, which Clara perceived as unusual. Malcolm was holding his BlackBerry and staring at it with such intensity that if the thing had been sentient - and some people claimed electronics were, after all - it would have rung or exploded out of sheer fear.
Didn't feel like talking either, then.
Clara surmised that he expected her to ask questions. But now that she was alone with him - the driver seemed totally absorbed by his radio show at the front and didn't pay any attention to them - she didn't know where to start. Or whether she should actually start. Realising that the drive would only take about 20 minutes, she decided to risk it. She was pretty sure this wasn't a situation that would present itself again in the near future. If ever.
"Why did Jamie MacDonald had me doing the interview? There were more qualified people at the the Department. A lot more qualified." As was apparently always the case when it came to Jamie, Malcolm took his time answering, his phone still being unresponsive.
"It was time to shake things up a bit. Education always sends the same old boring fucks to the Guardian, thinking that they don't have anything to prove since the newspaper will probably back whatever stupid drivel they come up with, as long as it's not too fucking cuckoo."
Clara guessed yoga was probably something for the "too fucking cuckoo" category.
"It was a risk, but it paid off, Jamie was right. You were articulate but not in a condescending Ox-fucking-bridge way, didn't bang their heads over with vomit-inducing rainbow analogies and managed to stay in line."
She was surprised he got all that from the short talk he had with Alex Young at the end of her interview. Perhaps they talked in codes. Clara wondered what it could be instead of focusing on the compliments that were probably hidden somewhere in his speech.
"And you look definitely better than Bill or Gerry with his giant fucking Gremlins-gone-bad ears, so it helps," Malcolm added as an afterthought.
"Thanks," she answered, blushing slightly, even though once more the compliment wasn't exactly one. Just as she was phrasing in her mind a way to broach the Keith subject, her own phone rang.
"Shit, sorry," she couldn't stop herself saying, rummaging in her bag for the blasted thing. She had turned it back on after the interview, but didn't think it would disturb her. Seeing that it was Martha and fearing it was some more bad news, she picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Clara, hey, I thought I'd leave you a message, but since you're there, got a few minutes?"
She hesitated, then realised it was probably the only way she'd manage to mention the dreaded subject in Malcolm's presence, so she took the plunge.
"Is it about Mr. Graham? Any news? Has your boss calmed down?"
Clara then surreptitiously looked in Malcolm's direction to see his reaction but, damn it, he was on the phone as well now, and wasn't looking at her. She could hear him talk rapidly but couldn't catch his words.
"No, it's not about that. Well, yes, in a way. I wanted to apologise again for this morning. The Minister was apoplectic at first, but now he's kind of realised it's not necessarily a bad thing that Graham left, he could be a bit volatile. So, yeah. Whatever happened, whether you had anything to do with it or not, unconsciously or otherwise, it's all good. And I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Clara answered truthfully, no longer really minding that she might have played a part in the scenario, since it had apparently turned out okay.
"So, drinks on me? Tonight? I should be able to get away early, for once."
"Thanks, but it's going to be tough for me, tonight. My work had to be pushed back today for reasons I'll tell you about later but I still got to do it. I rather stay late today than have it pile up."
"Oh, a mystery, I quite like that. Perhaps it has something to do with the rumours I heard."
"What rumours?" Clara jumped in defensively.
"It's nothing, really, don't worry. Just stupid stuff. You sure you don't want to meet at the pub? I don't mind if it's late, I owe you one for Friday night. And for this morning. I'll buy you those awful crisps you like so much and that blasted Irish stout." Martha really seemed to want to make up for her actions, and Clara felt bad letting her down.
"Sorry, there's nothing I would want more tonight than drinking Guinness and eat salt & vinegar crisps, but I'll have to pass. I'll probably have to stay until 9 or something, maybe later. I think I'll only feel like taking a quiet walk with the Doctor once I'm home. But let's go out soon, yeah?"
They hung up soon after that, and Clara, thinking Malcolm was still on the phone, noticeably jumped when he started talking.
"Guinness and salt & vinegar crisps?"
Clara wanted to be angry at him for having listened on her conversation, but she hadn't actually been whispering, thinking he was also on the phone, which he apparently hadn't been all that time. So she decided to give him a cheeky answer, seeing that they had almost arrived at her workplace anyway.
"Yes, I'm a cheap date, really."
She expected him to be startled by her familiarity perhaps, or make a joke as well, but she realised he actually looked pissed off. A bit mean, even. As though she had done something unbelievably stupid and deserved his ire. But she hadn't.
"As a doctor, I'm sure he could certainly be more considerate."
A doctor? What was he on about? Oh, he thought... But Clara didn't have time to correct his false assumption, he was apparently on a roll.
"I certainly hope the interview didn't fuck up your social life too much. I didn't know the Education Department had so much to do at this time of year anyway, or needed that many advisors."
God, he really lashed out when he was on the back foot. She was catching her first glimpse of a Tucker rant - one that was directed at her - and she was amazed at the rapidity at which he'd come to his conclusion, incorrect as it was. She knew she'd spend time later on wondering on the reasons.
"It's my dog," she finally cut him mid-diatribe, pissed off as well, now.
"What?"
"The doctor you heard me mention in a private conversation. That's the name of my dog. Not that it's any of your business."
Clara thought this would put an end to their discussion, and hoped they would finally reach Westminster Abbey. She definitely should have walked. The rain and the cold didn't bother her, it always rained anyway.
"Doctor? What, has your dog fucking time travelled or something?"
The man was infuriating. To think she'd actually found him interesting on Friday. Turns out he was a just a plain old knob.
"This dog is the most precious thing that I have. And you don't get to mock me for that, no matter how ridiculous you might think it is. Now, can you ask your driver to drop me off? I'm almost there, and I feel like walking the rest of the way."
She'd never seen him look so contrite, but she didn't take the time to focus too closely on that realisation, since he did precisely as she'd asked.
"Thanks for the lift," she said in a voice that she hoped wasn't too shrill - but probably was - before closing the door. She wouldn't let the last few minutes shatter her happy mood. Especially since she knew she now had to deal with Emily back at the office. She walked resolutely the three hundred yards that separated her from the Sanctuary Buildings, not taking the time to open her umbrella. The rain felt good against her face.
Three hours later, sitting at her desk and typing away at her computer in the quiet office, she was able to admit to herself that she had overreacted in the car. Malcolm Tucker wasn't to know that her dog was a touchy subject. She'd apologise the next time she saw him. If she saw him. Maybe. For now, she needed to focus on her work. She expected she still had about a couple of hours' worth. She didn't really mind, especially since she was alone in the office. There were other people working in the building of course, but she had the room all to herself. Clara had managed to earn a few precious appreciation points from her colleagues by suggesting she would complete some boring paperwork that had been sitting in the virtual in-tray for a while. Emily had seemed non-plussed, but Clara knew she'd at least avoided having her tea poisoned tomorrow. She'd just have to keep on granting her colleagues small favours until things went back to normal. Even though this particular small favour seemed to take forever. It was tedious to say the least, and she'd probably see double tomorrow.
Just as she was contemplating another trip to get some tea, there was a knock on the door.
"Miss Oswald?"
"Yes?"
She was surprised to see Danny, one of the young interns who sometimes stayed late to do odd jobs around the office carrying a parcel.
"A courier left that for you downstairs, Miss."
They sometimes got memos delivered by couriers, but not when it was close to eight at night. Danny looked just as puzzled as her but, being so well-behaved, he left the room after handing the parcel over. Or perhaps he was afraid it would explode. It looked like a take out bag, Clara realised. And clearly addressed to her. She sighed, so fed up with her work that an anthrax panic actually seemed like an entertaining distraction, and opened the bag.
At first, she didn't understand why she'd received such items. But when she saw the plain business card, she started laughing. Some girls get flowers, I get Irish beer and crisps. He's bloody perfect.