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Chapter 7

Clara set the cup of coffee down on Malcolm's desk and granted him a smile, which he briefly replied before he continued to talk on the phone. She checked her watch, surprised at how time had flown on this Friday and in an hour her third week as his intern would be over. Smiling to herself now Clara knew she could be proud of everything she had done so far and Malcolm was nothing if not pleased with her work. By now she was allowed to handle some of his phone calls and give advise to politicians while he stood next to her, nodding in approval. Just last Monday she had also been allowed to help the Prime Minister with a speech after Malcolm's suggestion. Everything was going perfectly.

"Is there something else you'd like me to do?" Clara asked him once he had hung up on Ollie Reeder.

"Actually, there's-"

The ringing of the phone interrupted his sentence and Malcolm reached for the Blackberry to answer, indicating towards her to wait for another moment. Then his entire posture changed in front of her. His forehead wrinkled in deep frowns and Clara could see him grow tense.

"He did what?!" Malcolm shouted at the person on the other end of the line. Burying his face in his hand he apparently listened to whatever story he was being told, growing visibly impatient the longer it went on, "The Daily Mirror. Of course it's the Daily fucking Mirror. Fuck! Why was he even asking in the first place? Nevermind, cause he's a fucking dimwit. Yes, I'll settle it somehow. Just keep him from accidentally stumbling into a damn brothel."

Malcolm hung up and slammed the phone down on his desk, inhaling sharply.

"What happened?" Clara asked sheepishly, biting down on her tongue. She could tell by his expression that it was something nasty.

"That fucking idiot asked a fucking hooker for directions," Malcolm complained.

Clara cleared her throat. "Who exactly?"

"The fucking Prime Minister!"

Okay, that was even worse than nasty. The Prime Minister had flown to Spain a few days ago and with the information Malcolm had just given her and the words "Daily Mirror" she had overheard during the phone call Clara could imagine all too well just what kind of story was circulating in the news right now.

"Do they have pictures?"

Malcolm groaned. "Of course they fucking have. Fuck! I'm going to kill him. I'm going to rip out his fucking entrails and strangle him with them!"

Clara took a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. "Okay, that's bad, but we can manage this," she concluded, "What can I do?"

Malcolm scoffed and sank deeper into his office chair. "You can run to the little shop around the corner and get me a copy of that written pile of crap. And then you can go home."

"But I can help," she protested, "I want to help."

After the first few days of this internship Clara wouldn't have thought it possible but now she as actually enjoying it and she wanted to grasp every opportunity to learn something new. Besides, she wouldn't actually know what to do once she got home, not really knowing anyone around London.

Malcolm granted her a smile. "That's nice, sweetheart, but I'll probably be here all night, shouting and swearing and you've been a model intern all week. Go home," he told her, "Relax. Enjoy yourself."

Malcolm rose from his chair and reached into his briefcase before handing something to her. A key. The key to his house.

"Come on, take it. Go home."

Reluctantly Clara took it from him. "Fine," she said eventually, "But you will call me if you need an extra pair of hands, right?"

He snorted. "More likely an extra brain. But not tonight. Enjoy your Friday night."

Even though Malcolm had told her to go home and relax Clara was determined to wait up until he returned from Number 10 to hear how it had gone. She used the spare time to make a lasagne, something that could easily be warmed up in the microwave, just in case he felt hungry after a long day at the office. Or rather after a long night because the front door didn't open until after 2 am and Clara jumped up immediately to greet him by the door. Malcolm had looked tired for days, but now he seemed utterly exhausted.

"How did it go?" Clara asked instantly as soon as the door closed behind him.

Malcolm let out a long and heavy sigh and Clara could tell by the frown that was still visible on his face that he hadn't been able to fix the matter entirely.

"I've spoken to Tom and told him what to say in case he's asked about it. However the Daily Mail is full off arseholes who wouldn't even talk to me at this hour, even though those fuckers are definitely still working. As for the woman in question – she cannot be found," he explained gravely.

"Well, tomorrow then," Clara concluded.

He nodded. "Yes, tomorrow."

Malcolm turned around and headed towards the sofa before sinking deep into the cushions and kicking off his shoes. Clara didn't know what else to say, so she took a seat next to him, an arm's length away.

"I made lasagne. Would you like some?"

Malcolm turned around to look at her and for a moment Clara wasn't quite sure what he was going to say next while he seemed to scan her with his gaze. "Not right now," he said eventually, "But how are your massaging skills?"

Clara gave a light shrug before she rose from her seat again and walked around the couch, coming to a halt right behind him to place her hands on his shoulders. His muscles were so tense that Clara thought her hands would tire of this massage before he even felt a thing. Suddenly Malcolm let out a satisfied groan, a sound she had expected from anyone except him. He sounded so grateful, so human as he sank deeper into the sofa.

"You are a very talented woman, Clara Oswald," Malcolm said after a moment and even though she couldn't see it Clara knew that he was smiling, "Can I hire you after you've graduated?"

Clara chuckled. "I'm not actually studying to be a massage therapist, you know."

"Shame," Malcolm inhaled sharply and then she could feel him tense up a little more, "We can't have a scandal now. Tom isn't the most loved PM as it is and the party is weak. A scandal could bring us all down."

Clara, now actually tiring of tending to his shoulders, moved her hands up to his head, running her fingers through his short, grey hair to massage his scalp instead. His curls felt a lot softer than she had expected. Malcolm hummed in reply and let his head fall back when she scraped her nails over his skin.

She had never actually spent much time thinking about her boss, but slowly Clara was beginning to understand a few things about him.

"You really care about this party, don't you? It's not just a job for you, am I right?" she asked carefully, not sure if she wasn't overstepping some invisible boundaries. Yet Malcolm was tired and he was enjoying her massage, both of which seemed to put him into a talkative mood.

"This party is my life," he replied in a low and serious voice, "There is nothing else. The job is me and I am the job. Besides, I love my country and I will do my best to prevent another government from driving it into ruin. That's why we need people like you."

Clara raised her eyebrows. "Like me?"

"Young, passionate brain-owners," he said, his voice getting slower as if he was about to fall asleep, "You're the future."

She was about to withdraw her hands when Malcolm spoke again. "Don't stop," he whispered and Clara continued to run her fingers through his hair even though she could feel he was falling asleep.

The first impression, and the one given by the newspapers, had been wrong. Malcolm didn't want to be that infamous, swearing media adviser – he had to be just that to hold his party together, to prevent mistakes, to fix things. It was like he had told her. Swearing and threats were probably the only thing that worked on those people, who were only human and couldn't help messing up sometimes. But Malcolm was human, too, and Clara was seeing it for the first time.

For a brief moment she considered waking him so he could go to bed or setting an alarm for the next morning, but she decided that he probably needed some sleep, so Clara quietly retreated into her own room and left him lying on the sofa.