Summary: Clara Oswald moves back to London after the death of her husband and meets her mysterious neighbor.
~~Part One
My husband, Danny, felt an odd twinge in his side that wouldn't go away. He insisted that it was more annoying than painful, but I dragged him to our GP when I caught him trying to pretend that he wasn't winded after climbing a half flight of stairs. The twinge turned out to be liver cancer that had silently metastasized to his lungs and to his bones. The prognosis was very poor and treatment options were aggressive, tortuous, and likely futile. Three days after his diagnosis, Danny smiled softly at me, gave me a kiss on my forehead and told me he was going to have a short kip before tea. I found him two hours later on the chaise in his studio, his body cool and still.
Danny and I had not had time to internalize the idea that he was ill. There was no anger, no denial, not even fear. We had not yet discussed going forward — or not — with treatment, nor had we scheduled a second opinion. We had not told Courtney, our fifteen-year-old daughter, nor Rory, Danny's thirty-year-old son from a previous relationship. We had not thought about talking to our solicitors. Danny said he didn't feel sick. He was not in pain. He truly believed that he could finish the last two concert dates on his tour.
We thought we had time. Then he was gone.
After the funeral home took away his body that evening, I kept finding signs of Danny alive: a half-drunk cup of coffee and a plate with toast crumbs on a side table in his studio, his phone still charging on his desk, his toothbrush, damp from that morning. The smell of him everywhere.
Our Courtney quietly fell apart. My brash, brilliant girl did not speak a word for nearly a year, her beautiful eyes wide and blank with shock. She clung to me and Rory and had flailing, silent panic attacks if one of us was not at least within eyesight at all times.
Rory expertly handled the press, gave the eulogy at the memorial, then firmly requested that everyone leave us alone. He moved back home with Courtney and me, got roaring drunk with his mates only once, then went back to his residency at the hospital right away. Rory was strong but I knew that in his own way, he was just as broken as his sister.
I was devastated, of course. Danny was the love of my life, and I, his. We were the Rock Star and the Random Nobody. People snickered behind their hands. The tabloids dogged us endlessly. No one thought it would last. But we did. We were a real-life fairytale, never a cross word between us, in love every day for seventeen years.
A wise man once said, the day someone dies isn't the hardest. At least you have something to do. It's the days after that they stay dead, and you have to go on without them. That didn’t apply to me. There was too much work to be done. I wanted to wail and cry and tear at my hair but I had to hold the world together for our children.
Two weeks after Danny's memorial, I walked into a mahogany-paneled, Wall Street conference room, with a dozen lawyers sat around a table the length of an airport runway. Danny never cared about money but he was smart about it. I wasn't totally clueless about our finances but there was lot more than I ever imagined. I also wasn't a "random nobody". I was a successful author who wrote mysteries under an ambiguously male pseudonym, my true identity more closely guarded than nuclear launch codes. I had two bestsellers before I married Danny and seven more after. I earned this money, too. The cash alone was enough for several lifetimes, but then there were investments, merchandise manufacturers, tax shelters, royalties, real estate, three production companies, a twenty-five-year library of platinum hits that was in the middle of negotiations with a music streaming platform, art, antiques, endowments, a girl's school in Malawi and so much more. At one end of the table was a four-inch stack of papers for me to sign. I looked around the table, gathered the stack of papers and had it and countless boxes of financial records couriered to Linda, my wicked stepmother in Blackpool. There was no love lost between Linda and me but she was a sharp-eyed harpy, well-versed in international accounting practices.
Even with a dozen lawyers and Linda's hawkish oversight, it took over two years to sort Danny's estate. We took another year to auction off most of the art and antiques, holding some back as heirlooms. We purchased his birth home in Brixton, and turned it into a museum that housed his musical instruments, concert costumes, his gold and platinum records and hundreds of photographs. I divested the estate of almost everything, put the proceeds into a trust for Courtney and Rory, and created a foundation that built schools and clean-water infrastructure in developing nations.
And just like that, it was nearly five years gone. Courtney was on the mend with a good therapist and finishing up her second year at university. Rory met a Scottish firecracker named Amy who introduced herself to him by saying, "Oh yeah. We're definitely getting married."
I sat next to Rory at their wedding table, dressed in my plain, mother-in-law dress, barely five years older than the bride, watching them dance to one of Danny’s songs, my jaw clenched against the ache in my heart. It had finally hit me that Danny Pink was dead. And he would stay dead tomorrow, the day after, and the day after, and the day after.
After the wedding, I lay in the bathtub and sobbed until my head throbbed and my throat ached. I hauled myself out of the tub, dried off, washed down an aspirin with a big glass of water then crawled into bed, curling up under the duvet. No one tells you that grief is physically painful, too.
But as I drifted into sleep, I thought, this is horrible, but I think I can do it.
Months went by, then a year, then another.
Anniversaries and birthdays were cause for celebration again. Courtney spent her first holidays away from home with a pretty, gangly girl named Bill who had hair even bigger than Courtney's. Rory and Amy gave us little Oswin Pink, born the same day as Danny. A man who was famous for being wealthy tried to chat me up at a charity event and I didn’t walk away while he was till talking. It didn't go beyond the one conversation, but the interaction was not unpleasant. The other realization was that my lack of interest was about that particular man, not all men.
When we were first married, Danny and I promised that if something happened to one of us, the other was allowed to remember them for five minutes a day, have a proper cry — or even better, a good laugh — then just get on with it. I was not quite laughing yet, but I was smiling more.
I was getting on with it.
I was also writing again but I had a lot of false starts and plots that seemed destined for ridiculous Scooby Doo endings. I usually released a new novel every two years. I had fortunately completed a trilogy a month before Danny died and the third was due to be released soon. I wasn’t technically behind but I usually had the outline for my next book complete by the time the previous one was ready for release. This one eluded me. I wasn't exactly blocked but I was stuck. My editor thought deadlines and a change of scenery might help.
I thought I would be sad to leave New York but I wasn't. Danny had loved America and I liked it there, too — I would've lived barefoot on the moon with Danny Pink — but I missed England and wanted to go home.
*****
I closed up our Manhattan apartment and bought a modest house in a quiet, semi-suburban neighborhood in London. I could’ve afforded to live anywhere but neither Danny nor I ever liked hobnobbing with the ultra-rich. My new neighbors were BBC actors, a smattering of old money families and single, young techies with money to burn.
The day after I arrived in London, the whole world locked down due to COVID-19. Courtney was happily “stranded” in Barbados with Bill and dozens of cousins from Danny’s side of the family. Rory was pulling sixty-hour shifts at the hospital, while Amy wrangled Oswin and conducted online therapy with her patients. Oswin was just turning three and was absolutely beautiful. She had Rory’s face, Danny’s complexion and a massive mop of burnished gold curls. There was room for them all should they want to join me when the world opened up again.
I didn’t mind Locked Down World. The planet seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. I loved my house, liked staying home and I was happy to have a back garden around which to putter again. On the rare occasions I went out, the colorful masks that Courtney sent me made me invisible to the paparazzi. I even adopted an elderly, extremely crotchety dog of an unknown, shaggy lineage. I named him Motley.
Most of the homes in my new neighborhood have a small stone outbuilding in their back gardens. Most are garages, some converted into usable spaces. I made my outbuilding into my writing studio. I replaced a window with French doors that open onto a tiny terrace, giving me the option of working inside my studio or outside.
In addition to an eight foot stone wall, hedges and trees blocked the view from my neighbors' gardens into my mine. The people who live on one side are an actor and his wife. I had to have a diseased witch elm removed on that side and the removal created a gap near my studio. The neighbor’s house was built on a slightly higher elevation than mine and with the tree gone, they could see into the French doors of my studio. I hadn't seen any of my immediate neighbors in the almost six months since I moved in, so I wasn't too worried about this tiny breach.
It was private and quiet and exactly what I needed.
****
I stood in my kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, turning over a plot idea in my head. Cheema, my housekeeper, wiped at the spotless countertop with a clean towel.
"Humph," she huffed.
I ignored her.
She stared at me with raised brows and pursed lips, one hand on her hip.
I sighed. "Yes, Cheema," I said.
"Since you asked, Gisela tell me that she be gone and he sometime don’t know where she at." She gestured vaguely towards the neighbor’s house.
I frowned. "Gisela went back to Germany?"
"No, the lady, not Gisela," Cheema said, as if she were explaining something to an idiot child. "Gisela say River Song stay gone for months and that the man be home now he not working. Though acting not be real work, if somebody ask me," she sniffed.
"Well, it's probably due to COVID. Maybe she’s stuck somewhere. People can't travel like they used to," I said.
Cheema raised a brow. "COVID don’t make them sleep separate. It been more than a year, now. Before the plague.”
"Cheema, I really don't care about these people I've never seen and I have my own shit to deal with," I said. "Leave it."
"Humph," said Cheema.
*****
I coped with my writer's block by going for long runs on the trails in the park behind our houses. There's a high, grassy hill where I liked to end my runs before I looped back home. I could see my house and back garden over the trees. I usually rested up there and took my five minutes to think of Danny. One day, I saw a man in my neighbor's garden, leaving their outbuilding. My housekeeper told me that the actor uses it as his own studio.
I watched him from the hill as I paced back and forth. I was only mildly curious but I could see that he was slender and tall and had a full head of silvery hair. As I watched, he stopped, turned and inspected the gap left by the witch elm removal. Motley ambled grumpily over. The actor must have said something because Motley begrudgingly wagged his tail. Motley never wagged his tail.
I watched the actor walk back into his house. Just before he went inside, he turned and looked up. I wasn't sure if he could see me but I had the sudden urge to duck. There was nowhere to hide so I just pretended to stretch, then I ran on.
When I got home, my housekeeper was grinning big.
"What?" I asked.
"Him back," she said.
She tilted her head toward the neighbor's house, practically rubbing her hands together with glee.
"Who?" I said, with feigned disinterest.
I was surprised that I was actually curious. I don't usually have the emotional energy to get caught up in other peoples' intrigue.
Cheema leaned forward and whispered, "He not home five minute and the man come with a big packet of papers for him sign." She winked at me. "He free."
I decided right then that my next novel would be about a nosey, crime-solving Afro-Caribbean housekeeper. Cheema’s family were from the same islands as Danny’s so I wouldn’t even have to do much research.
"Cheema, what are you talking about," I asked. "And why are you whispering?"
She leaned forward again. "River Song official gone. He official alone now. Gisela say he magic.” She pointed at me with a tapered finger. “I say Clara Oswald magic, more. You let him see pretty you. That be all it take," she said. “You be off with him in he blue box.”
"No. Oh my God, no," I said. "I am not trying to start something, especially not with some newly divorced, sad sack old man. Plus, I've got a deadline in five months and I'm way behind."
“Him old but him not,” said Cheema.
“What does that even mean? Never mind. I don’t care.”
Cheema sniffed and sucked her teeth, twisting her lips.
"Don't you dare," I said.
"Pretty girls walk through open doors," Cheema said.
"Cheema, I'm ten years older than you. Too old for you to be acting like my fairy godmother. I'm telling you now to keep my business with me," I said.
Motley grunted grumpily. Cheema pointed at him.
“He know. This old dog been here before,” she said.
"Leave it, Cheema," I said.
"Clara Oswald said none of my business, it none of mine. I just work here."
She walked off in a huff, flicking her duster at non-existent dust.
Motley snuffle-snorted through his mustache and stared at me.
“You stay shut up,” I said.
I was serious about not wanting to get involved. It would be the worst idea in the world. But the writer in me couldn't help but raise her curious head at the occasional sounds coming from next door. For so long after my husband died, I still felt like his wife. The thought of another man seemed like cheating. I will love Danny Pink always and forever but I was finally making space for someone else. I lingered at the top of the hill a couple of times that week, but I didn’t see him in his back garden again.
And what was this about a blue box?
*****
England was having its worst heatwave in a century so I moved my runs from late mornings to well after sunset when it was slightly cooler. One day, clouds began to build in the sky. The forecast had threatened showers for days. The clouds looked particularly dark and heavy but I went for my run anyway. I was pacing the top of the hill when the first, fat, warm drops of rain splashed down. I looked up and rain poured from the clouds as if the gods turned on a faucet. I was instantly drenched.
I turned to run back down the hill. My feet tangled and I fell, sliding right into a puddle. I lay there for a moment, spread-eagled. I glared at the sky.
“Don’t think I don’t know this was your doing, Danny Pink,” I said.
By the time I reached my garden gate, my shoes were squelching with water and I was plastered up one side and down the other with mud. Cheema was gone for the day so I was stuck outside without a towel. Then, I remembered the tiny sink in my studio and that I had a towel there.
Being washed by the rain is one of those things you see in cheesy romance movies but I had always wanted to try it. If I ever needed to write about it, I'd know if it actually worked. I stood on my tiny studio terrace, toed off my sodden running shoes and peeled off my socks. Standing in the rain was a bit disappointing and not in the least romantic. The downpour was too inconsistent, like the dodgy shower in my old bedsit when I was at university, but at least the rain was warm. Slimy grit rubbed me sore along the band of my sports bra. I glanced around. My garden was pooled in darkness. I had not seen nor heard the actor for days. There were no lights on in his house. I decided to risk taking off my tee-shirt and bra, quickly rinse off the grit in the rain then put my tee-shirt back on for the trek back to my house.
That was the plan, anyway.
I forgot that wet sports bras magically morph into a binding device if you’re not careful when you remove them. Not only did my tee-shirt roll tightly into the straps, my ponytail got hopelessly caught as well. To top it off, part of my soaked shirt adhered to my face like cling film. I couldn’t see, and felt as if I was getting waterboarded.
I tried to free myself, but I was well and truly stuck. There I was, in tiny running shorts, face covered, arms bound above my head. It was so ridiculous that I started to laugh. I soon discovered that laughing is a mistake when you're getting waterboarded — which made me laugh harder.
The more I struggled, the tighter I was bound. The situation became no longer funny. I was just starting to panic when I heard a deep voice say, "Uh, are you — do you need help?"
I froze in my contorted position. My mind raced. What do I do? I was barefoot, my breasts were exposed, and I was totally helpless. I couldn't run away if I wanted to. I was completely rooted where I stood, mortified.
"I'm John," the voice said. "I live just next door."
My whole body flushed with hot embarrassment. I couldn't speak.
"Well, okay," he said. "I'll…leave you to it."
My throat unlocked. "Help," I squeaked.
"Hang on. I've got to come round to your back gate."
After a moment, I heard my gate open and close. I jumped when I heard John's voice.
"I'm here now," he said. "Let's see. You are slightly stuck, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said.
“It is all right if I touch you? I’m vaccinated,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I said breathlessly.
I felt cool hands on my waist turn me so that I faced away from him. I was grateful for that tiny concession to my modesty.
The thought, Thank God my tits got bigger after having Courtney came out of nowhere.
Incredibly, I started to giggle again.
"What the hell were you thinking," he asked.
I couldn't answer because I could barely breathe — and I couldn't stop laughing.
His hands gently inched the tightly rolled fabric up my arms.
"Stop fighting me," he said.
"I can't breathe," I laughed.
“Calm down.” John turned me back to face him. "I'll have to rip this," he said.
"No! It's my favorite."
"If you'd rather suffocate?" he said.
"Okay! Okay," I said.
I felt his fingers stretch the fabric until it ripped open and my face was free. I gasped for air.
He stared at me with raised brows.
"Hello," he said.
"Hi," I whispered.
He worked his fingers under the roll and lifted it over my chin.
"Straighten your arms," said John.
He stepped in close, pulled the wad of tangled fabric over my head and off my arms. His clothes were soaked through but I felt the heat of his body when my breasts briefly pressed against his chest. I was faintly disappointed when I saw that his eyes remained steadfastly on my face. He stepped away and moved behind me again. My ponytail was still trapped.
"I think I can —," I start.
"Might as well finish the job," he said.
I crossed my arms over my breasts cupping them in my hands. John stood very close again as he worked my hair loose, his calloused fingertips brushing the skin at the nape of my neck. I tried not to shiver.
"My daughter has long hair like yours," he said. "When she was a kid, she'd get elastics stuck in. Her mother didn't have the patience for it, so I'd take the time to work them out. I got quite good at it."
His hands were so gentle that I started to forget that I was essentially naked, standing in the rain with a strange man.
"My friend, Stephen said she did it on purpose because it was the only time she had my undivided attention," he continued.
I looked up and saw my dog staring suspiciously at us through the sliding glass doors leading from the kitchen to the back terrace.
"I think I can —," I said, reaching back.
He gently brushed my hand away. "Almost there," he murmured.
The last of my hair fell over my shoulder.
"There," he said softly.
Neither of us moved for a long moment. I jumped when he handed me my clothes over my shoulder.
"Thank you," I stammered.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. His gaze traveled over my bare back. He blinked and cleared his throat.
"Goodbye," he said. Before I could respond, he turned and strode away.
I stood for a moment, wondering what the hell just happened, thinking that I couldn't even use the event in a story. It was just too unbelievable. I took a step towards my house and John reappeared.
"Sorry," he said. "Do you have a ladder?"
"What?" I said.
John motioned vaguely behind him. "I forgot that my back gate automatically locks. My phone is in the house somewhere and I don't have my key fob. When I was younger, I could climb over but now." He smiled ruefully, red-faced.
I couldn't help it. He looked so pained that I started to laugh again. John's lips twitched, then he started laughing, too.
When I caught my breath, I said, "No, I don't have a ladder."
John looked momentarily lost.
"Come through," I said, still chuckling. "You can go in from the front."
"Uh, my front door is locked, as well," he said. "I have to keep the place kind of buttoned up. There were incidents with fans at our old house. If I could use your phone, I’ll can message the house’s computer and tell it to unlock the door."
"I'm sorry for laughing. This is all my fault," I said.
I turned and walked to my house. I could feel him looking at the back of me and imagined Cheema's knowing grin. I resolved to never tell her about this.
John took off his boots and socks before stepping inside. My dog greeted him like he was his best friend.
"This is Motley. He hates everyone.”
“Clearly,” John said, kneeling to scratch Motley's ears. "He looks like he’s hiding the fact that he can talk.”
“I wouldn’t be in the least surprised,” I said.
John stood and ran long fingers through the wet waves of his hair. "Have you got a towel?"
"Oh! Sorry! I'll be right back," I said.
"Wait," John said. "What's your name?"
"Oh, God. Sorry.” I slapped my forehead then quickly dropped my arm back over my breasts. "I'm Clara," I said.
"Nice to meet you, Clara."
"I’ll get your towel," I said.
When I returned with his towel, he was standing at the kitchen sink, wringing the water from his tee-shirt.
I never fancied having a type of man who I was attracted to and if I did, men like John Smith had never been it. He was the literal physical opposite to Danny — flat-chested, taller by a couple of inches, his shoulders somehow both narrow and broad. I had had the impression that he was whip thin but he wasn’t. He wasn’t muscular but he wasn’t soft either, except for the barest hint at his midriff. The skin on his chest and back were blindingly white, even for a Scotsman. His soaked jeans clung to his bum and thighs.
A strong wave of lust flushed me bright red from my hair to my feet. It was so unexpected that I let out a soft gasp. John saw me, blinked and looked politely away. I realized with a start that I was still mostly naked, clutching my ball of tangled clothes to my bare chest.
"Sorry!" I said, throwing the towel at him and running away.
I quickly pulled on an oversized tee-shirt from the laundry hamper in my room. I picked up my phone, considered it for a moment, then put it down. I fetched a bathrobe from my guest bedroom and went back to the kitchen.
I held out the bathrobe to John.
"There’s a guest bath down the hall. You can wear this while your clothes dry." I said. "There's a laundry chute in the bathroom."
He did not ask to borrow my phone to message his house’s security system.
After putting John's clothes in the dryer, I came back up to the kitchen. John was sitting at the breakfast bar wearing the bathrobe, his head down, drying his hair with the towel. The sliver curls were bright under my kitchen’s lights, the back of his neck smooth and tender as a baby’s. I gave myself a mental slap across the face.
I pointed. "Kettle, there. Tea, under there. Mugs, up here. Give me twenty minutes to wash off the rest of the mud,” I said.
"I'm actually kind of hungry. I was going in to eat when I saw you struggling."
"Oh! Uh…" I said. "I can order something in," I said. “It’s the least I could do.”
John stood and looked around. "I can cook pretty much anything. Go have a wash. I'll knock something together." When I hesitated, he flapped his hands in a shooing motion. "Go, go."
I lingered in the shower, carefully exfoliating every inch of my skin. A week before, I’d waxed my naughty bits for the first time in the almost seven years since Danny died. I stroked my fingers over the breath of soft wisps only just growing in. I closed my eyes, imagining John Smith’s strong, slender fingers. I opened my eyes, shocked at myself. I just met the man half an hour ago. All I know is his name. What was I thinking? I told myself to go down and give him my phone so that he could unlock his house.
Or, said the voice in my head, you could have a nice chat over tea and toast while you wait for the storm to blow over.
I told myself that nothing was going to happen, while I rubbed scented shea butter into my skin. I put on a shapeless cotton shift. The hem of the dress hit at mid-thigh and was reasonably modest — if I didn’t raise my arms. I decided against underwear. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I brushed my damp hair back from my face. I’d let my hair grow for the past couple of years and it fell in slight waves nearly to the small of my back. I smoothed my eyebrows with my fingers. I looked soft and kind of sexy, I thought.
"Damn you, Cheema," I muttered.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, expecting at the most, scrambled eggs on buttered toast, but John had halved figs with shaved Parmesan and basil on a plate, scampi searing in a pan, and a big pot boiling water for pasta.
"Holy shit," I said. "This is just knocking something together?"
"Eh," he said. "This kind of meal is mostly done for you." He held up a bottle of red wine. "I hope this is okay. You've got some nice ones, a couple of which you need to drink soon."
"No, it's fine!" I said. "I open a bottle, and usually half goes to waste."
"Well, that won't do." John set a glass of wine in front of me. He picked up his glass. "What shall we toast to?"
"To the rain," I said.
"To the rain."
We both took a drink.
John held out his hand and waited for me to take it. "Hello. I'm John Smith,” he said. “I was an actor but I sort of retired a year ago. Now I'm a painter. Because I'm famous, my paintings will sell, even if they're shit. They aren’t shit. I have a daughter named Jenny and a brand new grandson named Carter. I'm freshly divorced after a hundred years. One weird fact about me is that I can sleep standing up."
He stared at me expectantly.
"I'm Clara Oswald. I was a school teacher for a couple of years before becoming a bestselling mystery writer. If I told you my nom de plume, I'd have to kill you, but you can find my books in very prestigious airport kiosks worldwide. I have a daughter named Courtney, a stepson named Rory and a brand new step-granddaughter named Oswin Pink. You've met my dog, Motley. One weird fact about me is I know when I’ve had too much to drink when I can no longer say the word sausage. Hilarity will ensue if you try to make me say it."
We shook hands. "Pleased to meet you, Clara Oswald," he said.
"Embarrassed to meet you, John Smith," I said.
"Don't be. These things happen."
"Do they? Do they really? I swear I'm not an idiot."
"It was strange, actually," he chuckled. "I looked over and wasn't sure what I was seeing. Then saw that you were starting to panic. I couldn't leave you to it."
"Hell of a way to meet your new neighbor," I said. “But I’m glad you came along when you did.”
He drained the pasta in a colander that I couldn’t have found in my kitchen without Cheema finding it for me. He dumped the pasta into the pan with the scampi and tossed them together. He plated our food and set them on the bar. I took a bite and hummed happily. John grinned and poured us more wine. He cocked his head.
"Pink?"
"Yes."
"You’re that Clara Oswald."
"Yes,” I said. "Is that okay?”
He nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "Your husband's music had a huge influence on me and my own creative process. I mourned his passing.”
"Thank you,” I said. “So, what kind of acting did you do? Stage? Screen?"
"A bit of this and that.” He paused. "Mostly, one could say I was sort of a…magician."
“Oh my God. It’s you,” I exclaimed. “The Doctor. With the big blue box.”
“That’s me,” said John.
“My husband and daughter loved your show. Didn’t some tech guy put up five million pounds for anyone who can figure out how your box works?”
“It was NASA and it’s ten million. There’s an act of Parliament that considers any foreign government’s attempt to “confiscate” my box a declaration of war.”
“You’re kidding.”
For the briefest of moments something steely flashed in his eyes then he smiled and shrugged with a tilt of his head.
“Well? How does it work,” I asked.
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”
“Well, you did say only your husband and daughter liked my show.”
I raised a brow. “John Smith? That’s your disguise?”
“I hide in plain sight. I can be seen if I want to.”
“You’ll have to explain what that means.”
John wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood. “I’m John Smith,” he said.
He held up his hand dramatically and snapped his fingers.
“I’m the Doctor,” he said.
The timbre of his voice changed. His features hardened and his eyes smoldered under his long lashes. He seemed to take up more space in the room. Even the light around him was brighter. He looked — and felt — like an entirely different man. He snapped his fingers and he was John Smith again. He sat down.
“Wh— What? How did you do that?”
“I go out as John Smith and no one gives me a second glance,” he said. “It’s like flipping a switch. A trick I learned from Marilyn Monroe.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “But, erm, Marilyn Monroe?”
“Long story,” he shrugged.
I heard the distant buzzer of the dryer, signaling the end of the cycle. We both looked up. John put down his fork and dabbed at his mouth. To my surprise, he picked up the bottle of wine and poured more in our glasses. I kept eating, the pounding of my heart loud in my ears.
John leaned his forearms on the breakfast bar, fingers toying with his wine glass. He looked at me. "Why isn't this more awkward?"
"As my grandmother used to say, no one's ever died from embarrassment," I said.
John snorted. "You were obviously one of the cool kids. But that's not what I mean. I'm never this comfortable with new people. Certainly not women."
"We kinda started at third base with all the not wearing clothes," I said.
"I met you an hour ago, then suddenly I’m in a bathrobe, in your kitchen, cooking pasta. I don't do that. I've never done that." John said.
"I can get my phone, if…," I began.
"It’s okay,” he said. “That is, if it’s okay with you?”
We gazed at each other for a long moment. I started laughing.
"You seem to burst into uncontrollable bouts of laughter from time to time,” John remarked.
"I think my housekeeper might've put a spell on us," I said. "It's the only explanation."
"I’m sorry, your housekeeper, what?"
"She fancies herself my fairy godmother," I said.
“Princess Clara?”
“Ugh. I never wanted to be a princess when I was a girl. As far as I could tell, princesses were sometimes evil, often vapid and usually very, very unlucky.”
“Are you telling me that your housekeeper was trying to get us together?”
“I told her under no uncertain terms to leave it. Fairy tales often end badly.”
“Mine certainly did.”
I chuffed out a laugh. “Same,” I said. I held up my glass. “Fuck fairytales.”
“Fuck ‘em,” said John, tapping his glass with mine.
We finished the rest of the meal, our glances to each other starting to linger. John stacked our dishes in the dishwasher when we were done, while I got out another bottle of wine.
I sat at the breakfast bar, sipping my wine, watching him move about my kitchen after he insisted on doing the washing up as well. He didn’t ask for his clothes and I didn’t offer to go fetch them. If this evening was headed where I thought it was going, I needed to decide if it was this man I wanted, or if it was just a case of scratching an itch, and any man would do.
I assessed him with my writer’s eye.
He was a study in contradictions — somehow old and young, the sharp angles of his face softened by the lush waves of his hair. Every time I looked, his eyes were a different shade of blue. They were wide and gorgeous and fringed with thick, ridiculously long lashes. He had a profile that would look at home stamped on an ancient Roman coin. The way he moved was slightly gawky, like a teenager who hasn’t yet gotten used to their height and long limbs, but he was not without a strange kind of grace. Danny was baby-faced and pretty. John was…beautiful. The sliver in his hair ended abruptly in a couple of inches of feathery brown at his nape, drawing my attention again to how sweet and vulnerable the back of his neck seemed. I wanted to kiss him there, on the knob at the top of his spine and in the deep hollows behind his ears. I wanted to kiss his pink lips and rub my breasts against the stubble of his beard.
I hadn’t been with a man since my husband died and had only in the past few months recovered my libido. I hadn’t so much as rubbed one out in seven years. And here I was, leering at John Smith who made dinner for me and was doing the washing up. I had to admit that it felt really nice to be looked after. I was confident that he had no agenda other than doing me this kindness.
John Smith’s kindness and good intentions aside, I wanted to tear open that bathrobe, fall to my knees and shove his cock into my mouth with both hands. I was lost in that thought and didn’t realize that John had finished the washing up and was speaking to me.
“Clara?”
“Yes? Sorry! What? No, I wasn’t,” I said, wide-eyed and blinking.
He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Yes, you were,” he said, grinning.
I covered my eyes with one hand. “Oh, God. Sorry,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“It’s ok. I get it. You find yourself with a strangely compelling, masculine —.”
“Oh, shut up,” I laughed. I peeked at him from between my fingers. “It’s been…a while.”
He took a sip from his glass of wine then peered into it with exaggerated suspicion. “Maybe your housekeeper spiked the wine with a potion.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.”
“Yet here we are, in varying stages of undress, having entirely skipped the awkward getting-to- know-you phase.”
"It can't be this easy," I said.
We gazed at each other for a long moment.
"Let's find out, yeah?" John said softly.
“Yes,” I answered, my face on fire.
John picked up the bottle of wine. "Can we sit somewhere more comfortable," he asked.
I stood and lead him to my living room. I sat at one end of the couch and he sat at the other.
“Can you move closer to me so we don’t have to shout,” I asked.
“Say, sausage.”
I smiled and carefully enunciated the word.
“Just checking,” he said.
He scooted over then slumped down into the cushions, legs stretched out before him. The robe fell open, exposing a long, muscular thigh from knee to hip. I could smell the wine on his breath, his deodorant just starting to wear off and, very faintly, the musk of his sex beneath the bathrobe. I inhaled deeply. I’d forgotten how much I missed the smell of a man’s body.
I sat sideways, facing him, ankles crossed, knees drawn up. His eyes traced my bare arms and legs. He huffed out a laugh and looked away, smiling, shaking his head.
"What?" I asked. "Can you see my knickers?"
"No. I can't see your knickers," John said.
"Good, because I'm not wearing any," I said.
John dropped his head back with a groan. “You’re trying to kill me,” he said.
“You’ll live.”
"So,” he said. He carefully set his wine glass on the coffee table. He gestured vaguely between us. “There is clearly something very unusual happening," John said.
“Is it magic?”
“No such thing.”
“You’re a magician. Shouldn’t you not be saying things like that?”
“Science can look like magic. Sexual attraction is mostly chemistry,” he said. He gave me a sideways glance. “Which explains why you’re staring at me like a cartoon wolf holding a knife and fork.”
I picked up a pillow and bonked him lightly on the head. “Says you,” I said.
John grabbed the pillow and tossed it aside. He took my hand and held it, examining it with great concentration. He turned it over and traced the lines in my palm with his long middle finger.
“Your life line and your love line diverge then come back together to form one line,” he said.
“What does it mean?”
“I have no idea. I just wanted to touch you.” he said. “I’ve always found holding hands to be extremely intimate,” he murmured. “An expression of trust and safety. Connection. Reassurance. It’s something I never do casually.”
He bent his head and pressed his lips to the center of my palm, then released me. I curled my fingers into a fist, trying to hold the warmth of the kiss in my hand.
“Sorry, can I ask — you don’t have to answer,” I said. “What happened to your marriage?”
John stood, walked to the small fireplace and gazed at the pictures on the mantle. An adorable Rory at age seven, all nose and missing front teeth. A hinged frame with Courtney in her school clothes on one side and Danny’s mother at the same age on the other — the spitting image of each other. Oswin and Amy sleeping in the sunlight. Danny, shirtless and in leather pants on stage, sheened in sweat, bent backwards with a microphone, his dreads nearly touching the floor. Teenaged Rory carefully holding infant Courtney in his lap, staring into her face, his eyes round with wonder. My parents on their wedding day. Me and Danny on our wedding day.
John turned back to me with his hands in the pockets of the robe.
“I don’t mind telling you at all,” he said. “Very long story short, River put her life on hold for mine. She got tired of waiting for her turn. She left.”
“And what about you,” I asked.
“I made a promise that we both knew I couldn’t keep.” He shrugged and quirked a smile. “You?”
“My life was perfect until it wasn’t. I suddenly had a teenager who lost her father and I had a massive estate to deal with. It was a couple of years before I could let myself really grieve.”
John came back over and sat next to me, closer than he was before. He looked out the sliding glass doors at the storm.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m okay. Truly.”
John nodded, thoughtfully. “So am I,” he said. He looked at me. “So. What are the rules for things like this?”
“Are we negotiating?”
“Nothing wrong with knowing the terms before we, er, go in. Everything’s a negotiation. Promises and compromises. Concessions. Dealbreakers. People should do more…negotiating.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” I said. “If that’s not beating the metaphor with the dead horse.”
“With the dead horse,” John chuckled. “That’s a good one.”
“If we wake up tomorrow and this…whatever this is. This spell is broken, no hard feelings, yeah? We high-five each other and don't make it weird.”
“High-five? I’ve never high-fived anyone in my life.”
“We don't even have to try to be friends. We go back to being neighbors. Behave like adults. Keep a cordial distance,” I said. “But, if…things are…good, and we agree to…continue, I ask that we be as discreet as possible. The paparazzi have mostly forgotten about me and I’d like to keep it that way.”
"One, no hard feelings and more importantly, no regrets. I’ve got too many of those already,” said John. “Two, this stays between us, not matter what happens next. Three, I've bought a loft in Shoreditch and already accepted an offer on the house. I'm just here for a few days."
John took my hand in his again. He leaned forward and propped his forearms on his thighs, lacing our fingers together. He sighed.
"I have to tell you though, that River will be here in a couple of days. We have a lifetime of stuff to sort so she will be staying over. I'll sleep in my studio while she's here." He studied my hand in his, massaging my palm with his thumb. "I'm letting her have it all, if she wants it. The money from the sell of the house, what's in the accounts, everything."
"If you're letting her have everything, what will you have," I asked.
“My freedom.”
"Okay," I said, unable to think of anything else.
"I'm telling you this so there are no surprises when you see her. And so that you know that we won't be neighbors after next week. I'm moving away, not running away. No cordial, neighborly distance required if this…spell is broken," he said.
"Do you want to wait?”
John looked at me, brows raised. "Wait? You mean me and you? Tonight? Christ, no," he said. "I haven't even kissed you yet and I feel like I might explode if I don't at least do that."
“Since we’re discussing terms or whatever,” I said. “What, um… how.” I looked away, biting my lip.
“Clara,” John said gently. “What are you asking me?”
“What do you, uh, like?”
“Whatever you like.” His eyes were steady on mine.
All of my doubts and most of my guilt fled.
"A kiss is a good place to start," I whispered.
John stood and pulled me to my feet. He held my face between his hands. He softly kissed my upper lip, lower lip, the corners of my mouth. He parted my lips with his thumb on my chin and thrust his tongue in my mouth. I leaned into him with a moan. I could feel his cock press against my lower belly.
Surely some of that is the bathrobe’s belt, I thought.
I broke the kiss and walked backwards away from him.
I turned and headed for the stairs with John following close behind me. When we reached the stairs, I felt his hands at the hem of my dress. He pulled it up and over my head and tossed it away. His hands were everywhere on my body, stopping us halfway up the stairs to pull me back against him, one his hands roughly fondling my breasts and the other sliding over my hip to stroke a long finger between the lips of my pussy.
“God, I want to fuck you, Clara,” he groaned in my ear.
I would’ve fallen to my knees were it not for him holding me upright. I pulled away and took the rest of the stairs two at a time, John chasing me. He caught me with an arm around my waist when we reached the bedroom, my back to his front, lifting me off my feet, his breath hot on my neck. He was stronger than he looked. His robe was open and I could feel the scrub of the hair on his slightly soft belly against my buttocks. He dipped his hips and slid his cock between my thighs, rubbing its length along my pussy, letting me know that he was big enough to fuck me standing like this.
I reached up, grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged once, hard. John grunted in surprise. I spun away and turned to face him. I covered my mouth with both hands, my eyes wide.
“I don’t know why I did that,” I said.
He rubbed his scalp where I pulled his hair. He stared at me, smiling slightly, his expression curious, almost calculating, like a man sizing up his opponent in a game that may or may not be friendly. He took off the robe and laid it carefully on the settee at the foot of my bed.
"Come here," said John. His voice was gentle but it was a command and not a request.
I didn’t move.
He gave me that assessing look again, eyes glittering beneath his lashes.
"Do as you are told," he said.
His voice was still low and gentle but his tone was that of someone who is used to having his orders followed.
I suddenly realized that this man was the Doctor.
My eyes flicked down to his cock. He was bigger than Danny. I tried to keep my expression neutral. The Doctor glanced down at himself.
“I’ll make sure you’re ready for me,” he said. “Or, we can stop here, if you like.
Whatever you like.
I stepped forward.
He reached out and ran his fingertips across my collarbone, his eyes following the movement of his hand. Before I could react, he dropped his hand and pinched my nipple. Not too hard, but hard enough that I gasped.
The Doctor tsked apologetically, dipped his head and kissed a circle around my nipple before sucking it gently into his mouth. I shivered, a small whimper escaping my lips.
"There," he said. "All better."
I reached for him but he moved away and stepped around me. He lay down on the bed.
“Come here.”
I walked over to the bed and started to climb in.
“No,” said the Doctor. He tapped his lips with a finger. “Up here, darling.”
I knelt on the bed with one knee by his shoulder, gripped a rail on the brass bed frame and hesitantly swung my leg over him, carefully straddling his face, holding myself above him, resting my weight on my knees. I’d never felt this physically vulnerable with a man, not even Danny. Being exposed like this was hotly erotic. I looked down at the Doctor. He was gazing at my pussy, his pupils hugely dilated with arousal. All of me was open to him. It felt as if all of the blood in my body rushed to my sex and my clit throbbed once, then again. He hooked his hands on the inside of my knees and spread my thighs wider, lowering me to his mouth. He kissed my pussy the way he kissed my mouth. Soft kisses, licks, gently sucking my labia into his mouth, avoiding my clit, except for a few barely perceptible flicks of his tongue, until I thought I would scream.
“Doctor,” I moaned.
“Hmm?”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please. Oh, God.”
“Tell me.”
“I — I want you to…lick me.”
“I’ll need more precise instruction than that, Clara,” he said.
He twirled his tongue around my clit without touching it. The insides of my thighs trembled and I could feel the fluttery beginnings of an orgasm. It was all I could to to not grind myself down on his face.
“My clit. I need your tongue on my clit,” I panted.
One strong stroke of his tongue was all it took. I came with a sound that I’d never heard from myself, my hands tight on the brass rail, my back arched. The Doctor held me fast with his hands gripping my hips. He fastened his mouth on me and kept up a gentle, steady suction, the tip of his tongue tracing circles on my throbbing clit.
“Ah, Doctor. Oh, God. Oh, oh. Oh my God,” I groaned loudly.
And I did grind myself down on his mouth then, wantonly rolling my hips, letting go of the rail with one hand to grab a fistful of his hair. His hands tightened on my hips and he lifted me off face so he could breathe, not stopping what he was doing. I had the longest, most intense orgasm of my life. My clit was still throbbing when I felt him lift me by my hips again and move down his body.
“Put my cock inside you,” he said.
I reached between our bodies and gripped him. He was hot and heavy in my hand and thick enough that I couldn’t close my fingers around him. I rubbed the head of his cock along the folds of my pussy, wetting it with my juices, then placed it at my entrance. As ready as I was, I knew that his size meant that I couldn’t take him all at once. I whimpered in frustration.
“Okay. Shh, darling. Let me,” he whispered.
He shifted his hips and pressed against me, withdrawing then pressing again until just the head of his cock was inside me. He pulled out then pushed in again, ever so slowly going deeper with each stroke. He stopped, holding me still with his hands on my waist.
“Don’t move,” he said, breathing carefully through his nose. “How does it feel? Any pain?”
“Only the good kind,” I said.
He pulled me down into a long, slow kiss.
“You’re so tight,” he murmured, nuzzling my ear.
I gave him a tiny squeeze with my vaginal muscles. I felt him smile against my neck.
“Naughty girl,” he chuckled. He pulled back and looked at me. His face was flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Stay just like this. Let me do the work. I’ll be as gentle as I can. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” I said breathlessly.
He started with long, slow strokes, his hands roaming my body. He sat up with me straddling his lap, gathered my breasts in his hands and sucked my nipples hard. I buried my fingers in his hair and held him to me. His strokes became thrusts, harder and faster but I could tell that he was holding himself back. I bent my head and pressed my lips to his ear.
“Fuck me, Doctor,” I breathed.
He flipped me over unto my back and and spread my thighs with his knee. He lifted my leg, pushed my knee to my chest then drove his cock into my pussy. He paused, eyes closed, jaw clenched. I could see his pulse strong in his neck and fancied that I could hear his heart beating. I brought my other leg up and hooked it around his waist. I arched my back and slowly pumped my hips up and down, stroking him, clenching and releasing my muscles around his cock. He looked down between our bodies and watched himself slide in and out of me. A moan rumbled from deep in his chest.
“You’re going to make me come, Clara,” he groaned.
“I want to hear the sounds you make when you come. I want to see your face,” I whispered. “And don’t hold back. That’s what I like.”
He pressed me down into the mattress. Not only was he stronger than he looked, he was heavier. I had no idea how much I missed the feel of man on top of me. I ran my hands down his body, feeling the muscles shift in his back. His ass was tight and hard. I squeezed and held on, matching him thrust for thrust until I couldn’t keep up. I writhed beneath him, panting and sucking and biting his neck and anywhere else I could reach with my mouth. I raked my nails across his skin. I whispered filthy things in his ear, telling him what I wanted him to do to me and what I wanted to do to him. He groaned and pounded me harder.
“Oh, God. Doctor.”
“Clara. Clara. I’m going to come. Ah, fuck!”
I could feel his cock swell, stretching me to my limit. I gripped double handfuls of his hair and pulled his head back so I could see his face. He shuddered and cried out, his hips tight against mine. I felt his cock pulse strongly inside me and I came with a soft gasp. The Doctor’s eyes were closed, his lashes resting on his cheeks. His lips were parted, his expression soft and vulnerable. I leaned up and kissed his mouth. He pressed his forehead against mine.
“Hmm,” he sighed, nuzzling my nose. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all,” I said, even though I knew that we were both going to have marks and bruises in the morning.
He rolled over onto his back, taking me with him. I lay my cheek on his chest. His heart was beating fast in a strange, irregular rhythm. I shifted my hips and his cock slid out of me in a warm rush of fluids.
“Ahh. Oh my God,” he gasped, laughing.
“That was amazing,” I said.
“You’re amazing,” he said kissing the top of my head.
I heard a soft ping from my phone on the bedside table. I groaned in dismay.
“What is it,” asked John.
“I’ve got to give Motley is medication and then let him out in the garden. It takes him forever, even when it’s not raining.” I kissed John’s chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I should probably go home. I’ve got workers coming in early.”
“Don’t move,” I said, getting up.
“Yes, boss.”
I padded into my in suite and ran a flannel under a warm tap. I brought it back to the bed and handed it to John.
“Oh, thank you,” he said, his face pink.
“Now, you’re embarrassed,” I laughed.
“I know. It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“You okay,” I asked.
“Better than okay,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, actually.” I smiled at his earnest expression as he carefully cleaned himself off. “Your clothes are probably hopelessly wrinkled in the dryer. Come down when you’re ready.”
I went downstairs, hobbling a little. I was going to feel it tomorrow. I retrieved my shift and pulled it on. I went down into the basement to retrieve John’s clothes. Back in my kitchen, I prepared Motley’s pill then let him out into the garden. He looked at me, looked out at the rain, grunted then trundled out the sliding door. I stood just inside watching him go to one bush, lift his leg, not pee, then go on to the next bush to repeat the cycle. He looked back at me and I pointed sternly at the next bush. He huffed and ambled on.
I turned and saw John in my kitchen. He had his pants on but was shirtless and barefoot. He had my phone in his hand. His hair was adorably tousled and his lashes made shadows on his cheeks. I don’t know why I ever thought he looked old.
“I’m sending myself a text so that you’ll have my number,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Call me or text me anytime. I don’t mind late-night phone calls.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
He handed me my phone and pulled his tee shirt over his head. He stuffed his socks into his pockets and slipped his feet into his boots, leaving his boots untied.
“If I don’t stand here and watch, Motley will fake pee then wake me in an hour to go out again,” I said.
“It’s okay. I’ve only got two minutes before my house automatically locks again.”
We stood gazing at each other.
“Go on, then,” I said.
He leaned down and gave a lingering kiss.
I watched him walk away then heard my front door close. I turned back to watch Motley creak around in the soft drizzle. My phone vibrated in my hand. I looked at it. It was a text from John.
See you tomorrow, Clara Oswald. xo — The Doctor.
Motley came back in and I gave him his pill. I went back upstairs and crawled into bed. I could smell the Doctor in my sheets. I smiled. I picked up my phone and began thumbing a text.
I don’t want to wash you off of my body — Clara
…. …
Same. You really beat me up. I have marks everywhere. This one is going to be a beauty in the morning.
He sent a picture of a heart-shaped love bite on his collarbone.
… …
Something to remember me by
…. …
Do I need to come back over there, missy?
…. …
Go to sleep, Doctor.
…. …
Goodnight, darling.
xxxXXXxxx
Next up: The Widow, the Magician, and the Big, Blue Box
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