Almost Perfect

GWEN IS LATE FOR WORK

Gwen was late for reasons that bored even her. She briefly toyed with an apology to Jack that took in Rhys’s eccentric approach to whites-only laundry, but figured ‘life is too, too short’. So she slumped down at her desk, grabbed a bite of her Greggs pastry thing, logged in to the baffling swirl of her Torchwood desktop, and then noticed the New And Upsetting Thing.

‘Er, hello!’ she said, grinning broadly at the stunning woman tidying a workstation.

The woman looked up briefly, smiled weakly, and went back to watering the plants.

Bitch, thought Gwen. She’d clearly missed a memo. First Martha, now this. Replacing Owen with some ice queen with no personality, great hair and bloody amazing shoes. Gwen decided this was the worst Monday at Torchwood ever. Working with a supermodel. Great. Goodbye biscuits, booze and Primark. Hello gym, bottled water and clothes she couldn’t afford. What was Jack thinking?

She sneaked a glance across the desk. Actually, she knew exactly what Jack was thinking. For a man who’d lived through the entire twentieth century, he sometimes seemed stuck in the Dark Ages. Gwen breathed in. Better make friends. You never know, she might be genuinely nice, or she might get horrid period pains or have a really bad stutter. Poor lamb. Thinking about it, hell, she worked for Torchwood – she was bound to have lost half her family and everyone she’d ever kissed.

‘Hiya!’ Gwen said again.

‘What?’ said the woman, looking up. She looked odd. Distracted, but also a bit… no, not shy… embarrassed. Why? She hadn’t farted or something had she? Oh, please let it be that. Please.

‘Is everything OK?’ ventured Gwen, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

‘What do you think?’ the woman snapped back, miserably. ‘I look like this! It is definitely not OK.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Gwen, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘I think you look very nice,’ she finished, sounding like her Aunt Phyliss outside Sunday chapel. Please tell me she’s not about to start ranting about feeling fat. I am so going to hate her.

‘Nice?’ snorted the woman. ‘Not you too. Honestly, you turn up with a short skirt, and suddenly everyone’s trying to jump you. Typical Torchwood.’

Gwen blinked. ‘Excuse me, I think you’re mistaken. I’m, ah, definitely not trying to have…’ What would they say in a real office? Er… ‘Oh god. I’m not flirting with you. I am simply saying that I think that you’re looking… quite nice. Yes.’ Gwen finished the sentence and vowed never to start another one. There. It probably hadn’t gone too badly – the poor thing was probably constantly being hit on. Easy mistake to make, etc, olive branch extended. Lovely.

‘Oh, please, get over yourself, Gwen,’ snapped the woman, miserably. ‘You don’t understand a thing.’

‘Is that so?’ Gwen felt herself puffing up. The woman started to smile, smile in a way that Gwen decided would go really well with a slap. As the red mist started to descend, Gwen heard the thundering of boots on the metal gantry behind her.

‘Gwen!’ yelled Jack. ‘Gwen!’

Gwen turned. ‘What?’ she snapped.

‘It’s not what you think!’ said Jack.

‘No, it’s not,’ said the woman, looking a little scared. Good. Hang on. There was something familiar. A little sad, even.

Gwen looked back at the woman. ‘Do I know you?’

The woman shrugged helplessly.

‘Gwen, this is Ianto,’ said Jack.

‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said Gwen.