Clarity - Chapter 1

The annual Treasury party. Not that the Treasury did parties only at this time of year. Oh, no. They had the money, after all. Seemed like they were throwing parties every fucking month. And with Christmas less than two weeks away now, nobody was there to rain on their parade and be the voice of reason. "Do you think hosting another party is such a good idea? What kind of message are we sending? Will voters actually believe us when we tell them, 'Well, you know, the Austrian PM was there'". Big deal. There was always a PM going, apparently. Not that it should have mattered to Malcolm, since he was here only because his own PM was present. Not that the PM owned him, really. Clearly, if someone had been looking at things from the outside, it would have looked as though he was owning the PM.

But, frankly, wasn't one actual annual party enough? As in once a year? How many bad jokes could you actually recycle before it became obvious the only real thing you could say came from the back of the cereal box you had been staring at intently that very morning, whilst your enforcer was on the phone with you to tell you to try and not fuck things up at the party? But Malcolm was being overly critical with himself. After all, total disaster had been averted. He had managed to get the PM out before he revealed that breakfast was indeed the most important meal of the day. And that skimmed milk was more healthy than whole milk.

It was barely ten, the party was at full swing, and he was in desperate need of a drink. But alcohol had to wait, he could still spy some influential ministers hanging about. Didn't they have their own press officers to tell them that it was time to go home? And let the kids have their own fun? Because, really, some of the junior staff were in desperate need of a break, if the vodka consumption and flapping arms were any indicators. Thankfully, he didn't give a flying fuck what spectacle they were apparently offering to the nearby hacks. For once, it wasn't his problem. As of now, Keith from Health was his problem. Dear God, didn't he have a wife home to tell him this suit made him look a tit? But the missus was very noticeably absent, given how low his hand was on that young girl's arse. Was that Cathy from the Standard standing in front of them? She looked far too happy for someone who should have been talking to the minister's senior advisor about end of life care reforms. What was that prick telling her? Should he...

"Oi! Malc! Where have you been? And where's your fucking glass? It's Christmas, for fuck's sake."

Jamie had just appeared behind him. A bottle of lager in his hand. By the look of him and his tousled hair, he guessed that the bottle was probably his fourth.

"Did the boss leave?"

Make that sixth, there was no way Jamie would have missed the PM's departure, except if he had been in the bathroom. Which happened after the fifth bottle with Jamie. And yes, he hated himself for knowing that. But as it had been already noted, these kind of parties did happen quite a lot. He didn't think it necessary to inform Jamie of the fact that the PM had indeed left, quite a while ago. And anyway, Jamie was already diverting his line of thoughts somewhere else.

"Poor Clara, why does she have to pull up with creeps like Keith? He must have understood the 'munchkin' thing too literally. He's got no fucking clue what he's in for, though. Can't wait to see her reaction."

He finally paid more attention to the young girl whose poor arse was being fondled by Keith from Health. Well, he may have been fondling her arse a second ago, but now the senior advisor was apparently fondling at thin air, whilst his other hand was busy trying to ineffectively shake off his red-wine soaked tie. Said red-wine had visibly come from the empty glass the girl was still holding. She was smiling. He decided he liked her on the spot.

"Who is she?" he asked, turning once again towards Jamie who was guffawing appreciatively. If guffaws could actually be appreciative in any way, especially when they came from half-drunk adult men.

"You don't know? I thought the great Malc knew all the pretty girls before all the other boys of Whitehall."

"Not this time."

"She's with the fucking rainbow builders. Been there for about six months. I hear good things. And not just because she looks fucking sizzling in that red dress."

"I didn't know they got new advisors at Education."

"I know, they seem to be getting fucking omnibuses of new blood every month or something. They suck them dry faster than anywhere else."

"Well, young blood, that's for sure."

Looking back at her, he still had a hard time imagining her working at the Education Department. She looked 25. Fuck, she probably was.

"So, another Oxbridge genius then." He added with a smirk. She had escaped more wandering hands and was making her way to the bar, probably asking for a fresh glass of red-wine. Given how beautiful she looked, she definitely needed all the liquid courage (and weapon) she could get, he thought. In many ways, this crowd wasn't safer than your average Friday night clubbing scene.

"Clara? No, don't think so. She's French, you know. Used to work for their Education department."

"French?" That was unusual. And interesting, he guessed. More interesting than keeping an eye on Tony from the Home Office who definitely wouldn't make it to the bathroom before throwing up.

"Yeah. Or, you know. Half-French maybe. Clara Oswald. Bill seems utterly infatuated with her. And who can blame him, look at her. Where do you think all the surprisingly sensible ideas in DfES have been coming from, lately? Smart munchkin, this one. Maybe she'll even get them to drop the munchkin thing. And the build your fucking rainbow thing as well."

He could see her now making her way back to some junior advisors who hadn't been purged from her department yet. He had to hand it to Jamie, that red dress was really something: very respectable and classy when you looked up, but criminally short when you looked down. She didn't seem too fond of her high heels, though. Maybe she wasn't used to them. And even then, she was shorter than most of the other women in her team.

"Oi, stop looking at her tits and come and have a drink with me. A proper fucking drink. This piss isn't working, it just makes me want to shout at people more."

His view of her was now blocked by Jamie, who was intent on leading him to the bar. He let him order a gin and tonic he probably wouldn't touch, but his colleague was already halfway through his by the time his eyes found Clara once again.

"Did you see Tony throw up? Nasty. I wonder what he's been eating for it to be so fucking green."

"Did the hacks get a picture? I'm sure it'll look fucking hilarious next to their piece on the Environment minister's speech."

"Did you know she was gonna make that speech? It sounded like she'd been smoking fuckin' grass or something."

"Maybe she had been. She went completely off script at the end of it. We'll have a proper talk on Monday. Or maybe tomorrow. Or in a few hours. I might be in a need of a shout at the end of this."

The only thing he actually wanted by this time was to go home. And have that proper drink. His own whisky. And fall asleep on his couch to the sound of Miles Davis. Or maybe he could just keep looking at Clara Oswald.

"Are you still fucking staring at her? Well go on, go and talk to her, you big pouf. You've never been shy. I can introduce you."

By this stage, Jamie was on the verge of ordering his second gin and tonic. He knew that he would probably stop after the third, but he also knew that he was just as tired as he was, which didn't mix well with alcohol. He would soon have to forcefully put him in a cab, knowing that he had Sarah and the twins waiting for him at home. Twins. Trust Jamie to never do things the easy way round.

"How are the bairns?"

"Don't change the subject. You never ask me about them."

"I do."

"Not here, you don't. Not at work. Not when you've been staring at a girl with that fucking look of yours. Come on, go, she looks desperate for a big angry Jock to shout at her."

"Do you really know her?" Malcolm asked, actually glad to see that Jamie was slowly becoming too far gone to hear the bashful tone of his voice. He would have been all over him otherwise. But it didn't mean that the younger Scot had stopped being aware of what was happening around him.

"Oh, here goes. Keith on the attack once again. Hope Clara will kick him in the fucking balls, especially with those heels."

Malcolm knew he never would have actually gone and talked to her, but he sure would have liked to have the possibility to do so. Even though this was definitely not the right place for that. And Jamie was right, he never was shy with girls he liked. But that was because the girls he met usually knew who he was before he opened his mouth. And he could rapidly surmise from the way they would be looking at him if he had a shot at taking things further. Luckily (and surprisingly, given his job and reputation) he usually did. But he didn't think Clara knew who he was. Oh, she'd probably heard about him, but he found himself wishing that for once, he could decide to introduce himself on his own terms. And not with a fucking truckload of bitter and fearful remarks sitting on his back, remarks which were probably half-gossip and half-actual facts. Who was he kidding? This would never happen. But then, why was he staring at Keith with what he could only describe as jealousy?

"She doesn't look happy. Come on, Malc. Go and be a fucking gentleman and rescue the poor lass."

"I'm always a gentleman. And she doesn't seem to be requiring any help. Your pal Steve over there, on the other hand.."

He knew Steve worked with Jamie at the Strategic Communications Unit. What he didn't know was why he'd decided to get Jamie away from him.

"Oh, bollocks. I'll go and kick his head in. For fuck's sake, why does he always have to open his big fucking mouth to the Mail? Oi! Steve!"

Now that he was alone, Malcolm leaned against the bar, his full glass still in his hand, and observed Clara and Keith carefully. He unconsciously made sure that no one was paying attention to him and think him some sort of old perv (although really, that wouldn't be the worst thing he had been called) and started reading her body language. It was obvious Keith made her feel uncomfortable, in the way that she kept shuffling her feet towards another woman from her group of colleagues. But he could see even from where he was standing that there wasn't any actual fear in her eyes. He probably would have done something if there had been, although this realization gave him pause. She must have thought she had gotten rid of him, but he knew very well that Keith was a fucking pain. God, why wasn't he giving her more space? Couldn't he see how pissed off she was? Was he some kind of masochist? Did he thrive for a wet face to match with his wet tie? He could see how tightly Clara was holding her glass, and he was pretty sure she wanted to throw the wine over his head. The wine and the glass, probably.

Surprisingly, she then turned towards the senior advisor and smiled at him. A polite smile, but a smile nonetheless. Had he been reading things completely wrong? Were they close? He shuddered at the image of them actually being a thing. Surely not. Jamie would have told him. Jamie knew better than anyone who was shagging who in Whitehall, he made it part of his job description (which, to be fair, was indeed part of his actual job, in a way). He'd kill the little bastard if he'd done it on purpose. He had seen the way he was looking at her, after all. But no, that didn't make any sense. What would a beautiful girl like her do with an old fat fuck like Keith? He was more than a decade older than him, and Malcolm felt pervy enough just watching Clara from afar.

Her friend then seemed to be telling her something, and she turned again to face her. And then, just as quickly, they both turned and looked at him. Intently.

Fuck.