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I wake up the morning after my sixty-second birthday to a steaming cup of coffee and a crestfallen frown.
“Good morning,” greets my father in a tone of voice which indicates it’s a very bad morning indeed.
“I don’t drink coffee,” I tell him sleepily. “Grandfather says it’s bad for a young Timelady’s development. He said I could start after I hit puberty.”
“Well, quite honestly, Susan, I think you’ll need it today.”
Papa stares unhappily at my duvet. I take a tentative sip. It’s rather bitter, but not altogether unpleasant.
“If you’ve got news to break,” I tell him, “I’d rather you just got it over with quickly.”
Unfortunately, Papa has a flair for the dramatic which tends to prolong unsavoury announcements. It’s a quality which appears to run in his side of the family. I only hope I haven’t inherited it.
He sighs. “The thing is… I woke up this morning to find Dad in the kitchen making breakfast.”
“Oh, dear,” I say.
“Just then, Father came out of the bedroom, dressed in a robe, and let Dad feed him a piece of bacon. I asked Father what he meant by this, and he said it was none of my business. I informed him that it was, in fact, my business that my divorced parents were suddenly acting like a couple, after going to ridiculous lengths to avoid each other for the past fifty years.”
“Well,” I tell him, reasonably, “my birthday party yesterday was probably the first time they’ve spoken in years. Maybe they realised that they… missed each other? I’m sure they’ll be back to pretending the other doesn’t exist soon enough.”
“Ah– um. I’m trying to break the news to you gently before you go downstairs and get ambushed by brochures,” Papa says. “I demanded that they explain, and, well, Dad told me, with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on him, that he’d proposed to Father the previous evening, and they’re getting married. Again.”
“What?”
“They want you to be in the wedding party,” he continues with a resigned frown. “I told them I wouldn’t let them string along my daughter for some sort of hasty elopement, but Dad assured me they were quite serious about the whole matter.”
“For Rassilon’s sake.”
“You’re not old enough to swear,” Papa reprimands me sternly. “The other thing is– and this is the really bad part— Dad wants to have a dinner party with your mother. He’s convinced that if his relationship can be salvaged, any relationship can be salvaged, and uh– apparently he’s now appointed himself the de facto matchmaker of Gallifrey.”
I spit out my coffee.
“Mother’s coming over?”
“He wouldn’t be told otherwise. She’ll be here next week. After the wedding. Which they’ve already made extensive plans for.”
“Oh dear.”
This is going to tank my already tenuous social status at the Academy. My classmates know me as the girl from a long line of failed love marriages. Political marriages, on the other hand, almost never dissolve; in fact, I might be the only child on Gallifrey whose parents and grandparents are divorced, much to the dismay of the Elders at the Academy.
As though that’s not bad enough, Grandfather and Grandpa’s separation was a messy and theatrical affair which continues to inspire vicious gossip nearly half a century later. Unfortunately, Grandfather spent an extensive part of his own time at the Academy arguing in favour of love marriages, holding that they were just as valid as traditional marriages. Thus, his own divorce is a favourite topic of my civics and ethics teachers.
I have no delusions that my grandparents’ sudden reconciliation will improve the rumours or raise anyone’s estimation of love marriages. But at least Grandfather might stop acting like such a crotchety old jerk every time I mention Grandpa Koschei.
I hastily drain the remainder of my coffee and grab Papa’s hand for emotional support.
“I’m ready to go downstairs,” I tell him. “I think I can bear it now. I am sixty-two, after all. Almost a grown up.”
“No,” Papa says. He sounds very tired indeed. “I’m beginning to believe that there are no grown ups at all in this family.”
///
“Please pass the potatoes,” Mother says tersely as Grandfather and Grandpa shoot adoring glances at each other across the table. I smile encouragingly at her. It’s the first thing she’s said aloud all evening, besides ‘this is a disgrace,’ and ‘this is a farce,’ and ‘I don’t eat fruit, it’s bad for my cognition.’ I’m trying to make her feel welcome, since half the table refuses to acknowledge her existence.
Papa makes no move to pass her the potatoes, even though they’re at his left elbow. I lean over the table and pass her the potatoes.
“Don’t lean over the table, Susan,” Grandfather reprimands me. “It’s extremely bad form.”
“Nobody else was passing her the potatoes,” I protest.
“Perhaps she doesn’t deserve the potatoes, hmm?”
“Don’t scold Arkytior,” Grandpa Koschei snaps at Grandfather. “You’re too hard on the poor child. It’s not her fault her mother is a floozy. No offence, Mariastratrevabundar.”
“Shut up,” Mother says.
“Excuse me,” he replies silkily, “but you should address me as ‘Father’ or ‘sir.’ I am your father-in-law.”
“If that were still true, I’d kill myself eleven times over.”
“If you were still my wife,” Papa says, “I’d kill myself twelve times.”
“Nonsense,” Grandpa Koschei says. “Love is in the air. The Doctor and I just had a beautiful wedding. I’m sure you two can work it out.”
“It wasn’t that beautiful,” I remind him. “There was a hurricane. Wind speeds of a hundred kilometres per hour. Your collar created lift and flung you ten metres in the air.”
Grandpa sniffs. “Well, The Doctor looked beautiful.”
“Don’t compliment me in public, hmm? It’s highly inappropriate.”
“I’m your husband, I’ll compliment you wherever I want.”
“You’re setting a bad example for our daughter-in-law. She doesn’t need any more encouragement to act out of line.”
“I’m not your daughter-in-law anymore,” Mother hisses. “I got remarried, remember? I’m only here because Koschei paid me a substantial amount to attend this mockery of a supper party.”
“How dare you!” Grandfather yells at Grandpa. “You never consulted me before throwing money at this evil woman.”
“You have no right to tell me how to spend my salary, Doctor! You don’t even have a job!”
“That’s because I am a free spirit!”
“If you love being free so much, why did you even marry me?”
“I’ve no idea! It was a grievous mistake, to be sure!”
“Oh, well, then why don’t I call up our old lawyer and have her rectify your little lapse in judgement!”
“Go right ahead,” Grandfather snaps. “I can’t wait to be rid of you again.”
“Hold on,” Papa says. “Let’s all be reasonable. It hasn’t even been three days since the wedding.”
“Shut up, Rupertinoshuritryin,” Mother says. “Everybody knows they shouldn’t be married to each other. I don’t want Arkytior to grow up around this nonsense.”
“Oh, so now you want to be Susan's mother.”
I watch the table erupt into a full blown screaming match as I chew on my potatoes. It’s exactly the outcome I expected. Although, I think as Mother slaps Grandfather across the face, maybe the drama runs on her side of the family too.
//
I’m in the middle of some very precise calculations when the telephone rings. Alex rushes over, always eager to be helpful, and accepts the call.
The holographic image of an older man in a velvet coat pops up on the interface.
“Alex Campbell at your service,” my son says proudly, puffing up his chest. “And who might you be?”
“Is Susan around?” the man says.
I abandon my work on the kitchen table and move over to greet the caller.
“Who’s asking?”
“Susan!” he cries out, looking pleased. “I’m the Doctor.”
The Doctor? My stomach drops quite suddenly. It’s been decades since I’ve heard from the Doctor. I don’t fault him for his absence; he’s always been a bit standoffish. But he ditched me in 2167 without so much as a vortex manipulator. Having inherited his restlessness, I don’t exactly appreciate being trapped in a primitive time period surrounded by humans.
“Grandfather," I say drily, shooing my son out of the room. "So you know my address after all."
"Yes, yes, my dear, I've been meaning to call, but– you know– something always gets in the way. I see you haven't been bored, at least. You've befriended the local children."
"Alex is my son," I tell him with a frown. "Your great grandson."
"Oh." The Doctor seems briefly thrown. He glances behind his shoulder, as though distracted, before pasting on a neutral smile. "Well, that's very nice, I'm sure. Listen, shall I put you down for two plus-ones, then? I assume your husband will want to come."
"You mean the random man you abandoned me with? We’re not married. I loomed Alex using a makeshift DNA reuptake– never mind, it’s not important. Come where?"
"To my wedding, didn't I mention?"
"Uh…"
I wonder how long it's been for the Doctor; I've lived in the twenty-second century for nearly thirty years now, just long enough for a few wrinkles to begin cropping up on my forehead. But I'm still on my first body, and I've no idea how many he's been through.
Quite honestly, the idea of my grandfather marrying anybody makes me nervous. I've already seen that train leave the station– and wreck– multiple times. On the same faulty stretch of rail, no less. But perhaps he really has grown up since leaving Gallifrey. And I do want to see the Doctor happy.
"Who's the lucky bride or groom?" I ask, trying to keep my voice bright.
He fixes me with a patronising expression.
"Well, naturally," he begins, beckoning to someone on his right— and then another man comes into frame.
My ballpoint pen clatters on the floor beneath my feet.
“Dear God.”
While I don't recognize the Doctor's newest incarnation, I certainly know the Master's thirteenth face. He's been to visit me twice before Alex was born– more than the Doctor, but neither of them will be winning Grandparent of the Millennium, that's for sure.
“Good to see you again, Arkytior,” says the Master cheerfully. The Doctor smacks him.
“It’s Susan,” he corrects.
“Do you know how embarrassing it is that you insist on attaching some stupid human name to the child? Have some shame. It’s Arkytior.”
(In fact, it’s both. Grandpa and Grandfather were unable to decide on a first name for me– despite my parents’ protestations that they really should have been the ones to do it– and eventually settled on Arkytior-Susan, a monstrosity of a compound word. For the record, I do prefer Susan. Grandpa, on the other hand, hated the human half of my name so much that he never spoke to Grandfather again, or so the story goes.
Well… until their second marriage. And apparently now their third.)
I’m certain that their current squabble is reminding them of this charming anecdote, so often related to me by smug Gallifreyan relatives at stuffy family functions. One of Grandpa’s cousins cornered me at Papa’s funeral with a treatise on how my naming ceremony disgraced the noble House of Oakdown. I’ve never gotten a lecture about the Master’s murderous tendencies toward political rivals, though.
“Excuse me,” I tell my grandparents, raising an eyebrow. “Is this some sort of practical joke?”
The Doctor clears his throat.
“No, no, I assure you, I’m quite serious. We’re getting married. We’re very happy about it,” he says in the same tone of voice as somebody commenting on a new coat of paint.
I glance at Grandpa’s holographic image. He certainly looks serious. Perhaps a bit too serious. Ten seconds go by and he does not blink.
“Look,” I say, sensibly. “Maybe just… don’t.”
“Don’t talk back to your grandparents, girl,” the Master scolds me. “I assure you, you may dispense of any reservations this time. It will be a lovely affair. Of course you’ll be there, with your… various progeny, as we join together and lay claim to the universe. Intergalactic dominion is our birthright, and it will be yours too, when the time comes.”
“Lay claim to the universe?” the Doctor hisses. “I never agreed to that part.”
“Well, you should have read the fine print on the contract I gave you.”
“That wasn’t a contract! You told me your signature was more elegant than mine. I disputed your claim. You told me to prove it, and handed me a sixteen page docket of paper to sign which… oh.”
“Yes, indeed,” the Master says smugly. “That was a marriage contract. The wedding is just for show.”
“You can’t trick me into marrying you! That’s unethical!”
“I already did, and, clearly, you would have agreed anyway! I was simply making sure.”
“Now you listen here–”
“No, you listen!”
“Unhand me, you villainous jackanapes! I want a divorce!”
“Then make yourself scarce! This is my TARDIS! You’re intruding on my peace!”
The Doctor’s holographic face dissolves into the ether as he storms off to sulk or find legal counsel.
“Sorry you had to see that, Arkytior,” Grandpa tells me with a kindly, slightly sinister, chuckle.
“... Me too.”
We stare at each other for a long moment.
“Well?” he says finally. “Will that be two?”
Uh oh.
“Two what,” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Two RSVPs,” he tells me. “For the wedding, of course.”
“Um…”
I weigh my options. On the one hand… hell no. On the other hand, Grandpa is a vindictive psychopath who might not take kindly to dissent in the wedding party, and Grandfather is an absentee parent whom I might not see again for centuries if I don’t show up to this stupid thing. Besides, this might be my ticket off this rock. And at the very least, their last wedding had phenomenal catering.
“I’ll need a ride,” I tell him. “Or better still, my own TARDIS.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged. We’ll have to delay the ceremony until March to give us time to get divorced again.”
“That sounds reasonable,” I lie.
“It was nice to hear from you again, my dear,” Grandpa says warmly. “By the way, whatever happened to David?”
I swallow. “We– uh– got separated.”
“Really? That’s very disappointing to hear.”
“Well, you know, I don’t think my childhood inspired much faith in the institution of marriage, anyway.”
The Master frowns. “Whatever makes you say that?”
“Uh– nothing. I’ll see you in March, then?”
“Yes. Oh, and Arkytior?”
“Yes?”
Dare I hope for some parting words of affection? No. The Master just looks me sternly in the eye and says, “Don’t wear green. The groomsmen will be in green.”
March comes. I wear green.
//
The telephone on my TARDIS rings. Only two people have this number: the Lady President Romana and her secretary. My current line of work is all very hush-hush; it’s espionage, probably unethical espionage if you want to nitpick Gallifrey’s motives, but wartime calls for a looser code of morals. I’ve done things I’ve never thought myself capable of at the Timelords’ behest, and we’re not even officially at war yet.
Which is why it comes as a shock when I answer Romana’s call, only to find that Romana’s not calling at all.
“Grandfather?”
“Hi Susan,” he tells me cheerfully, as though he’s not an active fugitive from the Timelords, as though he hasn’t been absent from my life for the past three hundred years. “Do you have a minute?”
“I guess,” I say, not liking where this is going one bit.
“Amazing. Listen, Susan, your grandpa and I have recently reconnected and we–”
I hang up.
//
A week later, the telephone on my TARDIS rings again. Wary, I pick up.
“Hello?”
“Hi Susan! Listen, your grandpa and I have recently reconnected and we–”
“Grandfather.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” I remind him patiently. Sort of.
“No, I’m quite sure I’d remember that,” he says, sounding confused. I try to picture him. I know he’s regenerated a few times since the last I saw him, but I’m not sure which face to attribute to this voice. They showed me his file on Gallifrey. Told me to keep an eye out for him, to convince him of the war effort if I ever crossed paths with him. I decide this regeneration must be the youngish one who insists on dressing like a Victorian poolboy.
“Well, either way, you know I really can’t accept your invitation.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask you!”
“I’m afraid I probably do,” I tell him, “and I just don’t have the time.” Or the patience. Or the money for yet another exorbitant bridesmaid dress. War TARDISes don’t have built–in fully stocked wardrobes like the older models.
“Oh, please! We need you there.”
“Doctor, do you know how bad it would look if I abandoned my post on the frontlines to attend a wedding for two missing persons?”
“Two?”
“Yes, they’re looking for the Master too. They want to give him a new set of regenerations. Conditionally, of course.”
The Doctor tries to muffle the receiver. I hear him call to someone in the background, “Baby, they’re trying to–”
I sigh, glancing over my reflection in the scanner. I suppose a wedding might be fun– if it was anybody else’s. I haven’t had any time for fun or frivolity since I regenerated. I haven’t even been able to enjoy the fact that I’m ginger now.
The line cuts out, then screeches. I hear my grandfathers’ voices overlapping in a cacophonous tirade.
“-- well, that’s because you stole that body from an innocent paramedic!” the Doctor shouts. “I had nothing to do with it!”
“-- stupid if you think–”
“-- no, I won’t stand for this any longer! I’m leaving! Don’t follow me!”
I hear the phone thud across the line, as though someone’s dropped it. I hang up. I dial the Lady President Romana.
“Hello?” she says. “This had better be important. I’m very busy.”
“I need a new phone number,” I tell her. “This one’s been compromised.”
I get a new phone number. I don’t attend the wedding. (I do send a gift, though. A new set of ties and cufflinks. It’s only polite, and, besides, both of them could use the fashion guidance.)
//
The telephone on my TARDIS rings two days later.
“Susan! Listen, your grandpa and I have recently–”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
“Susan, you don’t even know what I’m going to–”
“Grandfather, have you been suffering from amnesia recently, by any chance?”
“Maybe? I don’t remember.”
“Alright, would you just pass the phone to the Master then?”
“How did you know?”
“I know everything,” I tell him, wondering when my voice began to sound so tired. Just for a moment, I consider attending this silly event. I could probably use the vacation.
Then again, at my grandparents’ last wedding, I had to stand in as the maid of honour after the Master miniaturised my predecessor for getting the wrong shade of champagne for the napkins. Maybe the Time War isn’t so bad after all.
“Hello, Arkytior,” says Grandpa in a smooth American accent. I can almost imagine him stroking his beard. “Lovely to hear from you again.”
“Yeah, yeah. Are you wiping Grandfather’s memory every few days so you can remarry him?”
The Master chuckles. “No, I assure you, his predilection for memory loss seems to be an entirely natural feature of this regeneration. If I’m capitalising on it to get more wedding gifts, well, you can hardly blame me in this economy.”
“Rassilon.”
“Don’t swear, child.”
“I’m six hundred and twelve years old.”
“Precisely. How many plus ones do you think you’ll bring? We’re trying to have a small, intimate affair, so I’d prefer no more than twenty-eight.”
“What do you two get out of all this?” I ask, exhaling. “You know, there are other people out there. It might be good for you to meet someone new.”
“I can’t believe you would say that!” Grandpa hisses. He sounds genuinely wounded. “Aren’t you happy for us?”
“Sure, it’s just, I’m noticing a somewhat alarming pattern–”
“Speaking of patterns, thank you for those blindfolds you sent us. Even though they were an unconventional wedding gif–”
Gagging, I hang up and buy them both an OkCupid membership.
//
The telephone on my TARDIS rings.
“Hello, Susan!” chirps my grandfather happily. “I’m getting married.”
I roll my eyes.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am! To a lovely man I met on a dating app.”
I perk up. “Really? That's wonderful to hear! What’s his name?”
“Iay Amay Ethay Astermay.”
I hang up.
//
Nearly six hundred years go by before I receive another ill-fated wedding invitation. I don’t know what makes me say yes– probably either charity, pity, or morbid curiosity at the whole arrangement (Grandfather’s explained, in a terse tone of voice, that the Master is now a woman, and his prisoner, but it’s really not a big deal, and it won’t be weird, and do you think you could handle the bouquet for me, Susan, I can’t tell the difference between lilies and daffodils.) In any case, I arrive in mid-twenty-first-century Bristol with a deep purple maid-of-honour dress and a healthy amount of trepidation.
“Hello?” demands a sharp voice when I knock on the office marked Doctor Basil Disco. “Who’s here?”
“Susan Foreman.”
The door flings open. A short bald man looks me over with a dubious expression.
“You look different to your pictures.”
“Well, I’ve regenerated a handful of times– hang on, Grandfather keeps pictures of me?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t he?” the man says, extending his hand. “Nardole, by the way.”
“Oh.” I frown. “It’s just, he’s never been much of a family man.”
“Really? He’s told us all about you. Sounded proud as could be.”
“Huh.” My hearts pick up slightly. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Getting ready downstairs,” Nardole sniffs. “The wedding’s happening on the TARDIS. I can’t approve of any of this, by the way.”
“Me neither,” I confess. "But it's never stopped them before."
“Well. It was good of you to show up, anyway. He was sure you wouldn’t.”
Nardole takes me downstairs. There’s a woman waiting outside the Doctor's TARDIS, dressed in a similar purple gown and drinking heavily.
“Are we the bridal party?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says gloomily.
She raises a commiserating eyebrow at me, then offers me a can of what appears to be hard kombucha. Ginger-flavoured. Thank the gods.
I sink down next to her and shake my head.
“You’ve no idea how many of these things I’ve been to,” I tell her as I sip at the drink.
“Weddings?”
“No, their weddings. To each other.”
“Ouch.” The woman winces. “That actually makes it so much worse.”
“Yeah. Try having them raise you.”
“Honestly, they sort of are.” She laughs. “I’m Bill.”
“Susan. Arkytior-Susan, actually. Or whatever.”
“I get it. My full name is Wilhemina, so.”
“You’re a human?”
“Yep. Sort of got involved with the Doctor by accident. But he's– I mean, I rag on him for whatever the hell this relationship is, but he’s honestly the only family I’ve ever had.”
Now, that is a surprise. I study Bill, her face split with a fond grin, and find myself returning her smile.
“So I take it he’s become a bit more, well, present over the years?” I ask.
“Yeah, totally. The Doctor is the best. He really stepped up when I was in a bad place with my foster mum.”
I’m not going to begrudge this girl a healthy relationship with my own grandfather, but I do feel a twinge of jealousy as she begins to recount her adventures with him. She’s describing a different man than the one I grew up with– so much more patient and attentive, who probably wouldn’t try to put aspirin in Bill’s mother’s tea because ‘she was corrupting her with that vile Time Lord elitism nonsense, hmm?’ Then again, the Doctor is remarrying the Master, again, so perhaps the Time War hasn’t matured him quite as much as I’m hoping.
The TARDIS bursts open and an unfamiliar, but quite familiar, woman bursts forth in a frankly shocking amount of black crepe and satin.
“What are you all sitting around for?” she asks with a breathless scowl. “I specifically instructed my bridal party to do the choreographed dance from Katy Perry’s Hot N Cold music video before I walked up the altar.”
“I thought that was a joke,” Bill says.
I take a final sip of kombucha to steel myself. If the eerie basement walls spin a bit as I stand, well, it’s my prerogative as the maid of honour to get the party started.
“Hi Grandpa,” I tell the Master tentatively. “Or is it Grandma now?”
She fixes me with a startled glance.
“Oh! Susan, darling, I didn’t recognize you– you’re looking well. Don’t call me that. It makes me feel old. Missy will do. Won’t you come and give me a hug?”
I do, frowning a bit. Gallifreyan isn’t a hugging culture. Or really an affectionate one at all. I wonder when was the last time I hugged either of my grandparents; either way, it feels nice to sink into Missy’s arms. Well, until I notice the distinct outline of a 52nd century blaster at her waistband.
“You’re wearing black,” I observe. “Is that… symbolic of anything?” Perhaps the pending divorce?
“Yes, yes, black represents love, rebirth, and passion, and it also brings out my eyes.”
“Are you colourblind?” Bill asks.
“Don’t be rude. I’ll spill red wine on your dress. And also kill you.”
I hide my raised eyebrows with a pointed cough. It’s not uncommon that the Master should make death threats against my friends, but usually, she means them. Now, it sounds like Missy is simply teasing Bill (though you wouldn’t know it from the look on Bill’s face.) Almost as though they have an affectionate repertoire. Or at least a peaceable one.
“Missy, can I ask you a personal question?”
“I suppose, if you must.”
“I mean…” I glance at Bill, at Nardole, who’s joined us in the university basement, looking very unhappy indeed in a suit and tie the same purple shade as my dress. “It’s just, we’re not living on that backwater, conservative, repressed nightmare of a planet anymore. You can date each other without getting married.”
Missy blinks, miffed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Well, it would save on the legal costs, for one,” I point out. “And this gown wasn’t exactly cheap. I have bills to pay too, you know.”
“I don’t understand. Just rob a bank.”
“It’s also emotionally taxing. For the rest of us.”
“True,” Nardole chimes in.
“No one asked you, egg,” Missy snaps. "And quite frankly, Arkytior, I need a wedding after all the hell I've been through this century. Executed, enslaved in the Dalek camps… not to mention I had to have supper with Rassilon. I still get nightmares about his table manners."
The marriage lasts 23 days this time.
“You didn’t even give me a honeymoon!” we hear the Doctor shout from the basement of the university building.
“That’s because you have me trapped in a box!” Missy screams.
Bill and I exchange a long suffering glance and a hastily-wrapped joint.
“If you’re ever on Earth again,” she says, exhaling a puff of smoke, “give me a call.”
“I’d love to,” I say, meaning it.
///
My TARDIS phone rings. The caller ID pops up with a photo of Grandfather, the eyebrows one, all stern and professor-y. I snatch it off the console.
“I’m not coming to the wedding,” I snap. I’ve got a headache and I’m nauseous and I’m heavily pregnant (just for fun. There’s a thirty percent chance it’s a demon baby.)
A distinctly non-Doctor-like laugh sounds on the other end of the line.
“Hold your horses,” says a woman’s voice. “I haven’t even proposed yet.”
I perk up. “Bill! How are you?”
“Sort of liquid, actually,” Bill tells me regretfully. “Long story. Had this ex-girlfriend, but she was a bit, you know, made of oil… anyway. I thought we should get beignets.”
“Beignets are my favourite,” I say.
They’re not my favourite. I just want to hear the pleased lilt of her voice when she says, “me too!”
“Oh, wonderful. There’s this coffee shop on Perseus. Do you need me to pick you up?”
There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the phone.
“No, no,” Bill assures me through what sounds like a mouthful of crisps. “I’ve got my own transport now. I just came back to Earth to get your number. The Doctor had it in his office.”
“By the way,” I tell her. “I look a little different now. Just a warning.”
“You’ve regenerated?”
“Not exactly. It’s just that I was really bored last week, and… Listen, how do you feel about being a stepmother?”
///
For the first time in over a century, I’m the one calling Grandfather.
He picks up. Or– she.
“I’m on the chew,” she says, sounding breathless. “What’s up?”
“You’re busy? I can call back.”
“No, no, I’m just inside the mouth of a large whale right now. Don’t worry, it’s not carnivorous. Probably.”
“Oh. Well, I was actually calling to invite you to my wedding for a change,” I say, twirling the cord around my finger. Beside me, Bill squeezes my hand encouragingly.
“Great! Brilliant!” crows the Doctor.
I smile. “You’re happy, then? You’ll come?”
“No, sorry, didn’t hear what you said. I was talking to Yaz. She just figured out a way to activate the whale’s gag reflex– whooaaaaaaah!”
I wait for her to stop screaming.
“Like I was saying,” I tell her, frowning. “Bill and I are getting married.”
“We’d love to have you as our best man!” Bill chimes in. “Or, actually, matron of honour?”
“No, baby, we talked about this,” I scold Bill in a whisper. Not that the Doctor is paying much attention anyway. “We need to keep them as far away from the centre of the action as possible.”
“I’d love to!” the Doctor yells. It sounds like she’s running. “Never been a matron of honour before. Well, actually, that’s a lie. I have. But then it turned out I was the groom after all– should’ve known when my name was on all the wedding invitations–”
I force a laugh. “Anyway, it’s Novemgust 45th, 7834, on Dushaiu. Dress code is black tie…”
“We could have a double wedding!” says the Doctor brightly.
Oh, Rassilon. Not again, I think.
“You’re not marrying the Master, are you?”
“Of course not! He’s a lovely human man.”
“Great,” I say. “I was beginning to think you were incapable of marrying anybody else.”
Bill hushes our daughter Stephanie, who’s attempting to play the cymbals as she floats around our heads. Stephanie starts crying. Annoyed, I pluck her out of the air and set her on the console. She’s always a bit cranky in the mornings before she’s had her exorcism.
"Don't be ridiculous, Susan,” the Doctor tells me. “I've married plenty of people who weren't the Master, and only some of them turned out to be the Master in disguise afterwards."
"Oh, good."
"Does spice up the wedding night, though. I mean, you're expecting to pull off his shirt, but then his whole face goes with it, and it's–"
"Stop. Please, please, stop."
“You know, it’s the most romantic story. I never wanted to get married again, but then he waved this wand-thing in my face, and I sort of forgot about that… he’s a secret agent, you know, from Mi6. Always on the hunt for the Spymaster.”
I widen my eyes in despair. Bill shakes her head at me. Stephanie crashes her cymbals.
“Here we go again,” I say, defeated.