Chapter 2

5 Years Ago

"Hello, I can't find the internet," Clara complained as soon someone had finally picked up the phone after what felt like a thousand rings. She needed to finish her thesis and for that she needed internet of some sort. She was already behind on her work and it seemed as if the universe had conspired against her.

"Uhm, excuse me?" The voice was male with a hint of a Scottish accent and it sounded husky as if from sleep.

"This is a helpline, isn't it?" Clara asked, trying to keep down her anger. No wonder it took them so long to pick up the phone when they were sleeping on the job.

The man needed a moment before he eventually replied. "Why? Do you have a medical emergency?"

"A medical what? No, I'm just trying to fix the internet."

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you've got the wrong number."

"Oh," Clara uttered after a moment and looked down at the small note the woman in the shop had written down for her. She was 100 percent sure that she had dialled the right one, even double checking it before hitting the green button, so they must have given her the wrong number to begin with. "I'm sorry. The woman at the shop must have given me the wrong one."

"What shop? What woman?" the man wanted to know. Clara couldn't quite place the tone of his voice. Curious? Angry?

"Just some woman at the electronics shop, said it was the best helpline out there. I'm sorry if I've bothered you. I'm just trying to finish my thesis here and the bloody internet won't cooperate," she cursed nervously, "Sorry again."

"Well, you've successfully woken me up," the man said and Clara could hear shuffling in the background, "I might as well try to help you now. What seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, no, you really don't have to. I'll just find a real helpline and kill the woman at the shop the next time I see her," Clara argued immediately.

"I might kill her first," he sighed, "Tell me, was she Scottish?"

"Yep, that's her. Very Scottish. Long, dark hair, looked very pleased with herself. But you really don't have to help me," she protested.

"Go and find the router, will you?"

With a sigh Clara rose from her seat and stomped off in the direction of the corridor. She felt just a tiny bit guilty for having woken a strange man from his sleep and the fact that he was still determined to help her with her own, personal problems didn't really aid to make that guilt go away. Then again, she had a deadline to stick to and she was desperate.

"What's your name?" Clara asked as she walked down the stairs.

"John Smith. Yours?"

"Clara Oswald," she replied, "And how did you know the woman at the shop was Scottish? Do you know her?"

There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line and Clara raised an eyebrow when he didn't answer immediately. "Unfortunately, I do. That was my friend Missy and she likes to play tricks on me. I have the theory that she wakes up in the morning and goes 'How can I annoy John on this fine day?'"

"I'm sorry," Clara chuckled as she imagined a grown woman playing jokes on her equally grown up friend. She didn't have many good friends and her best one was currently backpacking across the globe with her new husband. She missed Amy dearly and made a mental note to call her tomorrow.

"Don't worry, you couldn't have known," John reassured her.

Clara stopped in front of the router, only to realize that the device seemed utterly foreign to her. She didn't know a thing about how it worked or what she was supposed to do with it. Not to mention that it wasn't even her own house and she was afraid of breaking something.

"Well, I'm at the router now," she said, "It looks. . . intact."

"Intact?" the man laughed at her.

"Well, it looks like a router should look like, I suppose. It hasn't exploded or anything."

He chuckled. "You don't know much about that stuff, do you?"

"Not really my area of expertise, no, but I know the whole Jane Austen biography. You can quiz me on that."

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife," John quoted and suddenly the sound of his deep, gravelly voice in combination with his accent made Clara shiver. She felt herself blush. Did he really have to quote her favourite author, exploiting the one weakness she had?

"You know Jane Austen?" she asked, smiling to herself. Why was she feeling nervous all of a sudden? Because a strange man on the phone, who, by the way, had a damn erotic voice, quoted one of her favourite books?

"I've read a bit here and there," he replied matter-of-factly.

The smile on her face only widened. "And are you a single man in want of a wife?"

Clara instantly felt the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. If John Smith was friends with the woman at the shop, he must be older and he was most certainly married. She couldn't possibly flirt with him. But damn, he had quoted Jane.

She heard him clear his throat. "Now, Miss Oswald, let's focus here. The router," he reminded her.

"Yes," she said, "Yes, uhm, there's a row of green lights and they're blinking."

"They shouldn't do that. Try to unplug the router for five seconds and then plug it back in," John suggested.

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that just a variation of have you tried switching it off and back on?"

He laughed in response. "Yes, I suppose it is, but it does the trick with the router I have at home."

"Okay, I'm gonna try that." Clara took a deep breath and pulled the plug out of the socket. The lights all went of. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. She plugged it back in. It took a moment, but eventually the lights lit back up. "They're all on now, only one of them blinking."

"And that's how it should be. Congratulations, Miss Oswald, you've found the internet," John said, the amusement over her expression from earlier all too audible in his voice.

"Shut up," Clara giggled, "Thank you for your help. You saved my thesis."

"What's it on?" he asked.

"Uhm," she hesitated, biting down on her lip, "Jane Austen."

"Give a girl an education and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody."

Once more Clara giggled, the heat instantly returning to her cheeks. "Do you want to write my thesis for me?"

"Nah, I think I'm gonna pass, but good luck with that. I'm sure you'll do great," John said and he sounded sincere, "It was nice talking to you."

"And to you," Clara smiled into her phone, "Thank you."

Once he had hung up Clara walked back upstairs to the room she currently occupied and only when she sank down in her chair did she realize that the smile was still stuck on her face. She tried to tell herself that John Smith was probably a lot older than herself, that he was most likely married, that he might look like an oaf, but as her gaze fell on the small piece of paper with his number written on it, Clara knew that she wanted to talk to him again.