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Chapter 8

On quiet toes Clara sneaked downstairs the next morning, just in case Malcolm was still asleep on the sofa. And as it turned out, she was right in her suspicion. He was no longer sitting, but must have turned around during the night and was now sleeping spread out over the length of the entire couch. Clara sighed quietly as she walked past him into the kitchen. The poor man must have been utterly exhausted last night or otherwise he wouldn't still be asleep at 9 am. In the three weeks she had already spent with him Clara had noticed a lot of different, contradicting sleeping habits from his side. Some days he came home and went to bed instantly, on other days she thought he didn't sleep at all when she caught him still sitting in front of his laptop at 4 am while she went to the bathroom in the middle of the night. However Clara had never seen Malcolm sleep until 9 but she assumed that he probably needed it right now.

So Clara made an effort to be as quiet as possible when she poured herself some cereal and set out to make tea and threw him a glance every once in a while to make sure he was still asleep. Like this the infamous, frightening Malcolm Tucker looked almost adorable and after Clara had come to some conclusions about him she was now able to say that she liked him. Quite happy with that realisation about her boss she decided to retreat back to her bedroom when she realized he had finally woken up.

Malcolm breathed in deeply when he woke up and instantly realized that his neck was hurting. Of course, he had fallen asleep on that damned sofa again after a long day at Number 10. Today would be another one. Somehow he would find a way to fix that problem the fucking PM had gotten himself into again. Maybe Clara would have an idea.

Clara. Malcolm wanted to groan when he thought of last night, of how he had let his guard down in front of Clara. There was something about her cleverness and wit that felt so familiar, but he mustn't forget that she was his intern and that he couldn't get close to her. Malcolm shouldn't let himself be tricked by her intelligence or her pretty face.

When he suddenly became aware of a noise coming from the kitchen Malcolm sat up instantly, only to look straight into Clara's face. She was still wearing her pyjamas and carrying a bowl and spoon in the direction of the stairs. Then a very important question was beginning to dawn on him.

"What time is it?!"

Clara swallowed a bite. "It's, erm, it's past 9."

"Fuck!" Malcolm threw the pillow aside and jumped up from the sofa, the living room spinning around him for a second after the sudden rush of blood. "Why didn't you fucking wake me?"

"Calm down," she smiled at him in an infuriatingly calm manner, "It's Saturday."

He inhaled sharply. "No, not when the PM was spotted talking to a hooker. It's not fucking Saturday when we have some serious damage control to do. Come on," he clapped his hands, "Get fucking dressed or I'm taking you to Downing Street exactly the way you are now."

"Okay, okay," Clara sighed in defeat as she made her way towards the stairs, but not without taking a spoonful of her cereal. Something about the way she behaved pushed his buttons at this moment. Clara acted as if she was at home in his house, walking around in her nightwear, eating out of his bowl, using his spoon, massaging his shoulders and head last night. She had no fucking right to act as if she belonged here. It was his home and there was no space for a woman. He didn't bloody need a woman around.

"Fucking stop that! We haven't got time for food!" he yelled after her and Clara shot around, glaring at him. There was that fury in her eyes that he had seen so often before when he was shouting.

"Why are you acting like this?" Clara spat back, "Yesterday you were perfectly nice and now. . ."

Clara broke off, hesitating.

"Now what?" Malcolm scoffed.

"Now you're back to being a complete jerk," she replied, her voice suddenly smaller, "You don't have to bully me to get what you want. I'm not one of your party clowns that you can shout at whenever you please!"

Malcolm took a step back. Clara was right once more and he didn't even understand why he was being rude to her. He enjoyed her presence, he enjoyed her input and admired her work and yet something about her being around him all day bugged him greatly. Whenever Malcolm came home from work he felt the pressure drop off his shoulders and for a few hours he could pretend not to be the swearing spin doctor he was to everyone who knew him. He would cook a lovely meal, he would read a nice book and just not be that man for a while. With Clara around he couldn't. The pressure never stopped, unless he let his guard down by accident. But that was not her fault, not a good enough reason to treat her badly because, like she said, she was anything but one of his fucking party clowns.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm mumbled quietly.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Clara said and he knew just how well she had understood him. She was just enjoying her moment of being right.

"I said I was sorry. There. Can we go and shout at some other people now?" he asked impatiently.

A pleased smile spread over Clara's face. "Yes. Yes, we can."

Malcolm slammed the phone down on the table. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"The prostitute simply cannot be found," he complained loudly, throwing a glance at Clara who was going through the morning newspapers, "Hey, are you even listening to me?"

She seemed more than distracted even as she lowered the paper and handed it to him. "I think someone found your prostitute after all," she said.

He took the newspaper from her and stared at the front page, which, at first glance, was nothing but a picture of a woman leaving an expensive looking hotel. The headline however gave away a little more.

Prostitute spotted leaving PM's hotel

The same prostitute the Prime Minister was seen talking to just a day before has now been spotted leaving his hotel.

Malcolm stopped reading at once and dropped the newspaper on his desk. "Shit," he cursed and leaned back in his chair. Talking to a hooker to ask for direction was one matter, the same hooker leaving his hotel was another matter entirely. How were they ever going to set this straight if the woman in question simply couldn't be reached?

"What are we gonna do?" Clara asked him.

Malcolm took a deep breath, trying to sort his thoughts. "Well, first of all, the weekend's over, sweetheart."

"Figured. But how do we start?"

He rose from his seat and leaned on his desk, closer to Clara. "We're going to get the biggest cup of coffee available in this city and then we're going to harass people on the phone until they are tired of us and tell us exactly where we can find this woman."

Clara smiled broadly at him until the dimples in her cheeks were starting to show. "Sounds like a plan."