by Chloe Cox
I had plenty to keep me busy. The Doctor has helped me find the confidence to go after my dreams and all the rest, which I guess is sort of the point of his unusual practice, and I’m determined to pursue them even if he never wants to see me again. So I submitted my portfolio to the only art school worth applying to, hoping my community college credits would somehow help, and I’ve muddled on, hidden amidst the people who should know me best, but don’t – my family – and planned a new life for the person I’ve secretly become under the Doctor’s care.
My family are. . . I would not describe them as supportive. They don’t take me seriously, I guess. My younger brother gets all the love and respect, even though he hasn’t even pretended to try to get a real job since graduating high school. I used to be pretty angry about this, honestly, but now, with all I’ve experienced, with all the Doctor has shown me about myself, I find that I can see my parents clearly now, too. And they are unhappy. Neither of them has the courage to be who they really want to be; my Mom has a box of half-finished novels getting musty in the attic, and my Dad drinks way more than is strictly necessary.
I like to think I’ll be able to help them, once I’ve gotten my new life sorted out. Once I’m pursuing a career as an artist, and have a good job, and am fully. . .myself.
This is what I was thinking, pushing peas around on my plate while my unhappy family ate a silent dinner – you know the really awkward kind, where no one has anything at all to say to each other, and after a couple of comments about the food everyone just gives up? Yeah, nightly ritual at my parent’s house – and day dreaming about all the things I finally felt capable of doing, and I realized that I would feel this way even if I never heard from him again. I was certain I would hear from him, don’t get me wrong, but that was the strength of the gift he’d given me: I had complete faith in him because he’d shown me how to have faith in myself.
And then the doorbell rang.
“What is that?” My mom sounded alarmed. No one ever just drops by our house.
“I’ll get it.” I was so quick to jump up from the table, even my Dad noticed something was wrong.
I was nervous, I’ll admit it. It had to be the next appointment card. But what if it was really him, and not just a black card this time? My old anxiety and discomfort crept up on me as I thought about the Doctor meeting my family, as I thought about those two worlds awkwardly colliding over half-finished plates of meatloaf, but I shook it off, threw back my shoulders, and opened the door.
It was a bike messenger.
“Are you Claire Donner?” I nodded, and he shoved a clipboard at me. “Sign here.”
I fumbled with the clipboard, mumbled an apology. I was going crazy.
“You ok?” the bike messenger asked me. I couldn’t figure out how to tell him I’d soared all the way past “ok” to “mind-numbingly fantastic.” I’m positive he left thinking there was something seriously wrong with me.
So, this was a little bit anticlimactic, to be sure. But at least when I ripped open the oversized envelope, a familiar black card fell out of it. My faith was rewarded. Here was the proof. My hand was even shaking as I bent down to pick it up, my skin hot with the anticipation of what the card would tell me, my mind racing with thoughts of what might come next. I bit my lip and turned the card over, holding it up to the little light above the door.
I’m sorry.
That’s it. That’s all it said.
I wish I could say that my reaction to this was all poetic and profound and noteworthy, but I’m pretty sure the first thing that went through my head was this: What. The. Fuck.
And then the next thing was: Hell no, is what.
Which is how I’ve come to be standing in front of the Doctor’s townhouse again, gripping an embossed card of my own, trying to get a glimpse through his windows like a crazy stalker lady.
I’m dressed especially for the occasion. This is another change in me: I never used to see the point of dressing up or putting much effort into the way I presented myself to the world. Now I do. Today’s outfit is like battle armor: a tight white dress with an asymmetric cut, white heels, red lipstick. The wind curls around my carefully groomed hair, but I know from experience I look pretty good when I get a little windswept.
I have to be well-armed for this confrontation. My faith in the Doctor, in Cedric, and in what I know I’ve felt between us. . . well, I don’t want to say it’s shaken. But there have been moments of doubt. I know, deep down, I know that he loves me, and I even know how crazy it is to believe that, though that doesn’t make it less true.
But what if he just doesn’t love me as much as he loved her?
What if it’s just not enough? I’ve read up on Julia, his dead wife, in old society columns and such. I mean, how could I not be curious? And she was incredible. There is a part of me that can’t ever imagine a newspaper saying the same kinds of things about me – a decorated scholar, a philanthropist, a regular volunteer at a freaking homeless shelter, stunningly beautiful, charming, and of course funny; she was your basic nightmare ex all around – and I really think. . . maybe she just was better. Maybe I simply have no hope of ever measuring up.
And of course, something drove even the perfect Julia to suicide in the end.
Well, I’m not perfect, not by a long shot. But I know what I’ve felt. And I know how I’ve made the Doctor feel. I know how I’ve made Cedric feel. And I’m going to fight for a shot at making it work. I won’t let him be a coward about it. I won’t let myself be a coward about it.
This is how I worked up the courage to press the buzzer at his front gate. I thought that working up the courage to press the stupid buzzer would be the hard part, just like last time. Nope. The hard part is when whoever is already inside chooses to ignore me.
I know, I know. I sound crazy again. But there is movement in the dimly lit windows of his limestone mansion; dull shadows flicker against the paned glass, teasing me. Someone’s home.
And I’m getting. . . blown off?
A few months ago – hell, a few weeks ago – my response to this would have been to curl up and cry. And part of me still wants to do exactly that. But there’s also a newly awakened part of me, a part of me that the Doctor himself found and nourished, that rises up and gets angry. I pause to relish the sensation, the newness of it, the courage of it, just like he taught me.
I may not have any idea how I’m going to get inside, but I damn well know I’m going to try. This is Bold Claire. This is New Claire.
I’m nearly frothing at the mouth, working myself up to, I don’t know, hop the fence? Complete my transformation to Totally Unhinged Crazy Claire? When I am scared shitless by a little dapper man in a three-piece suit.
“Oh, you must be Lena,” he huffs at me. His face is shiny and flushed; he must have run, or waddled, pretty fast, which makes his sudden appearance at my elbow all the weirder. I’m surprised a man so rotund could be so stealthy, but you learn something new every day.
I’m even more surprised when he shoves a file folder at me.
“Here’s your figures. I am just so sorry to be late, and for something like this!” He takes out a handkerchief and dabs at his sweaty face, wisely making himself more presentable in advance of. . . whatever he’s here for, I guess. I’m suddenly reminded of how very little I know about Cedric’s life outside of his practice as the Doctor, and it rattles my newfound confidence.
“You’re such a dear for not buzzing in without me. I would have been mortified,” the little man says, and I watch in slow motion as his pink finger reaches out and presses the buzzer with finality. He has an appointment, and I don’t.
And this is where I decide to lie.
“I take it John briefed you on the financials before he left?” the little man asks out of the side of his mouth, warily eyeing the camera lens embedded in the intercom system. I try to hide my face behind his.
“Yes,” I say, surprised at how easy it is to just, you know, lie.
“Go
od, so you can make that pitch. Imagine, getting a call out of the blue that a major donor is interested, and leaving it to the new girl while you go on vacation! Almost as bad as being late, isn’t it?” And he laughs at his own expense. I like him, and feel bad for lying, and hope the real Lena is taking care of business. He looks up at me, suddenly worried. “No offense, of course.”
“None taken.”
The buzzer pierces the air like a starter’s pistol. No turning back now. The little man steps forward and holds the gate open for me.
I tilt my chin up and stride towards the gate like I imagine a woman in my position, doing what I’m doing, wearing what I’m wearing, would do. The adrenaline buzzes in my ears like the echo of the gate buzzer, and a certain secret-agent thrill courses through my body. I’m very aware of the tight, white dress hugging my hips, gently squeezing my breasts together, clinging to my ass. It is a conqueror’s dress, for sure. I just hope I know how to wear it.
He looks me up and down as I walk past him, and onto the Doctor’s property.
“Very effective ensemble, by the way,” he whispers appreciatively, using the French pronunciation of “ensemble.” I could kiss him for that.
I let that cloud of confidence buoy me all the way to the front door, where I am suddenly aware of how very much I need it.
We stand on the stoop together for a beat too long, and I have just enough time to wonder if there’s someone on the other side, watching us and deciding what to do. My confidence cloud is on the verge of evaporation when the door opens with a rush of cool air to reveal Cedric Durant.
The Doctor.
I hadn’t realized how much weight I put on this moment until it arrived. The surprise on his face tells me that he was not watching from behind the door, that he did not skulk in the shadows of his own house and pretend not to be home, and I am so, so relieved; of course he didn’t do those things, of course he’s not like that. And beyond the surprise there’s something else playing out across his features, a flash of unguarded emotion that I seize upon like a greedy child: it’s joy.
Joy, as he looks into my face. The same joy that I feel looking into his.
It doesn’t matter that it’s quickly replaced by brief confusion, by worry, that in just a few moments he pulls the mask back on and becomes stern, impenetrable Cedric Durant, because now I’m really sure.
The dapper little man inhales deeply, and speaks much too quickly. “Mr. Durant, I really must apologize profusely for our lateness. I’m –”
“It’s all right, Mr. Penrose. Your colleague Lena has been keeping me entertained.”
“My colleague?”
I feel poor Mr. Penrose look at me with the first hints of suspicion, but I am focused on Cedric. I’m wondering how entertaining this Lena could possibly be as I raise my eyebrow at him in mock – mostly mock, anyway – jealousy.
“I think there’s been some confusion,” Mr. Penrose finishes lamely.
“Yes.”
Cedric and I say it simultaneously. Mr. Penrose gives a nervous little laugh, but neither of us offers an explanation. I somehow, miraculously, have the presence of mind to remember my main reason for coming: the card.
I open my clutch – also white – and remove the single white, embossed card that I had printed up this morning. Convincing the printer to sell me a single card had been easier than I’d imagined; I didn’t even have to flirt. At the time it had felt like the dress had done all the work, but I wonder, now, if this isn’t also part of the change in me. It doesn’t seem so strange for men to react to me this way anymore. I remember the printer’s eyes on my body, and I flush for the man standing in front of me.
Wordlessly, I give Cedric the white on white card. All it says is this:
Not good enough.
He laughs.
In spite of himself, he laughs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh, which, thinking about it, is incredible. Happiness swells in me from a deep, bubbling well I didn’t even know was there. I watch him rub his forehead, I watch his smile become more of a grimace, and it’s weirdly ok: of course this is complicated. But I can still make him laugh.
He looks up at Mr. Penrose and me, the odd couple standing awkwardly on his stoop. “Mr. Penrose, you’ll find Lena in the drawing room to your right.” He steps aside to let Mr. Penrose in, but his startling blue eyes are suddenly, intensely focused on me. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Oh no, you won’t. You’re going to need more than just a moment, Doctor.
I try to sail past Cedric with an air of confident detachment, but he only barely moves aside, not giving me any quarter. I turn slightly towards him as I squeeze by, trying to retain my dignity, but my breasts rake across the lower part of his chest. This first contact, after so long. . . I think about his hands, his wonderful hands, teasing my nipples, caressing my ass. I think about his mouth, trailing across my chest, down my stomach, further down. . .
All in a moment, and I’ve forgotten I’m in public. Weak, flushed, and short of breath, I pause in that doorway, and not just to collect myself, either – I want another moment to breathe his scent. Pathetic, I know.
“Claire, are you all right?” His hand goes to the small of my back, his voice gentle.
Damn him.
“Of course,” I say.
And I force myself to break free.
I remember the grand layout of the formal first floor as though I’ve been here many times. I remember the dull ring of the marble stairs under my heels, I remember the cool chill of the air, I remember the surprisingly shabby decorations of the more lived-in second floor. I charge ahead, afraid that if I stop now to think about what I’m doing I’ll be unable to push on. I remember the huge antique chandelier that hangs in his otherwise very masculine study, I remember the worn carpet, and I especially remember that huge, dark desk as the place where I betrayed the Doctor’s confidence and read those letters from his wife.
The desk where Gerald, his supposed best friend, tried to seduce me.
The desk where Gerald told me about Julia’s suicide.
Not great memories, but fitting that I confront him here. If I confront Cedric, I should confront my own actions, too. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m trying to rectify an invasion of privacy by being invasive again, and that this might not be the most thought-out plan I’ve ever had. That maybe this could come off as a little unstable. Worse, that maybe perfect Julia was a little unstable herself – she did kill herself, after all – and that maybe my behavior might trigger some unpleasant things for Cedric.
Well, shit.
I hear him come in behind me, and turn to see that I am, unfortunately, at least a little bit correct. He no longer looks happy as he enters the study. He looks worried and uncomfortable, and a little pained. And he’s deliberately left the door open. I can hear Mr. Penrose and the unlucky Lena arguing below, their strained whispers echoing up the cold stairs.
This was not how I imagined things would go.
He looks up at me, and I suddenly see him, for the first time, with sadness in those blue eyes. I’m not sure what is happening, but all of the confidence I felt, and the sense of entitlement I just now realized I was carrying around with me. . . they abandon me. I feel naked and silly, in this dress, and silly about what I did to this man who helped me so much, and all I want to do is find a way to apologize and show him that I love him.
But he speaks first.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He crosses the room, passing me on his way to that imposing desk. He plants his hands and leans over it, rounding his broad shoulders. Is he getting angry? His tone is one of forced patience, like he’s talking to a child. Or a mental patient.
Well, now I’m angry again.
“I’m only being as crazy as you are cowardly,” I shoot back, realizing too late that he never actually called me crazy.
I can’t believe that came out of my mouth. Neither can he. He spins around, stunned.
“I’m sorry,” I stu
tter. This is such a disaster. “I know I’m not. . . I mean, I know this is messed up, and I know I’m acting a little nuts. . .”
I look up to see if that admission has had an effect, but he’s put the mask back on. Nothing to do but forge ahead.
“. . .But that card you sent me was seriously bullshit. And I think you know that.” That sounded angrier than I intended. “I’m just. . . I’m sorry.”
And I am. I really, profoundly, truly am. And I’m tired now, too. I walk past him, behind his desk, and pull out his chair. I don’t even care about how inappropriate it is, I slump into it like a sad little puppy. I just don’t know how to fix this.
He watches me quietly. The late afternoon light streams in through the window behind me, bouncing off the early streaks of grey in his black hair. His button-down white shirt – crisp and clean, as always – is open at the collar, revealing a few soft, curling chest hairs. I can’t help but think about what he looked like with his shirt off, when he was wearing that hooded get up, still trying to hide from me, even when he was inside me.
“What do I call you now?” I ask, breaking the silence. I honestly don’t know. Neither does he, by the looks of it. He has to think a moment.
“Cedric,” he finally says, and I can tell that allowance means something.
“About what I did. . .”
“You read my private letters.”
I don’t know how to answer. It’s true, I did, and his tone is flat, perhaps deliberately so. I wonder if he’s one of those people who does that to try to control his anger, and am once again saddened to realize that I just don’t know.
Well, only one way to find out.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to know. . . anything about you. You keep yourself so locked up, Cedric, so –”
“You had no right!”
He slams his fist down on the desk, rattling an ivory pen cup, lifting the blotter briefly into the air. His yell petrifies me. Something in the timbre of it is primal, animal – it is a voice to be obeyed without question. A voice you do not want to anger.
