People: Dominic Twatt/Jemima Dormandy (Minister Dormandy's daughter)

Rating: K.

Inspired by: A deleted scene from "The Boat That Rocked". Easily available on YouTube: watch?v=t5HoKGdRfwI (Start video at 0:54.)

Twatt really hadn't known what to expect when he was invited around for dinner at his Sir Alistair's house. The dinner itself had been stifling and formal. He'd only got through it because of the daughter. God, she was pretty. Extremely pretty. It was a shame though. Sir Alistair would never allow it. Probably because of the family name. Twatt sighed and took another puff on his cigarette before dropping it onto the pavement and entering his own dingy, little flat.

The next day, it was around six o'clock in the evening when the phone rang. At the time, he'd been halfway through drawing up the Marine Offences Act, an act which would slaughter those damn pirates once and for all. Expecting the caller to be Miss C, Twatt answered it with a heavy-hearted hello. The person who answered back however, was not Miss C.

"Hello. I just wanted to ring... say hello. And apologise, for my dad."

It was her. Sir Alistair's daughter. He could barely speak with the shock.

"Jemima. Hello. I'm so sorry; I thought you were a colleague..."

"Don't worry. I haven't got much time though. I just wanted you to know that I had a great time last night. Dad's dinners can be so boring sometimes. It was nice to see a new face."

Her voice was gentle and soft, like a whisper. It was so different to the sharp, clipped tone of her father's and the reedy, delicate tone of her mother's. Twatt smiled, listening to her speak.

"It's fine. I had a nice time too."

There was a long pause. Twatt momentarily wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Finally, she spoke.

"My dad can be a bit of dick at times can't he?"

"It's not my place..."

"I won't tell anyone."

"Oh." Twatt paused, wondering what to say next. "Well, admittedly, he can be a bit forceful."

"I've lost count of the amount of potential boyfriends he's driven away from me."

"Are they never good enough?"

"Not to his standards. I think he wants me to marry a mini-me of him," she muttered with a heavy sigh. A bubble of laughter emitted from Twatt's throat.

"That does sound awful," he murmured.

"Yes. Goodnight Dominic."

"Goodnight... Jemima."

The phone beeped suddenly, indicating that she'd run off. Quietly, Twatt put the phone back onto its receiver. He picked up his pen to do some work, but stopped himself. A small smile grew on his lips as the conversation ran through his mind and his brain processed the words. Her voice was so sweet and gentle, yet it had an authoritative air. He was tempted to ring her back, but he didn't. Too risky that someone else would pick up, and anyway, Sir Alistair would fire him on the spot. For the rest of the night, Twatt diligently carried on with his work with the wonderful sound of her voice as his soundtrack.


People: Miss C, Fredericks and Mark. (O.C: Miss C's boyfriend)

Rating: M.

Inspired by: The question of exactly what could have happened to make Miss C be such a devoted but secret listener to Radio Rock.

It was a late night in the office when Miss C discovered her liberation. She'd been rushed off her feet all day and now she was tired. However, she still had a stack of letters to write, all of them detailing Sir Alistair's disgust at many different things. He was such a cross, tight little man. As soon as she had the money she needed, she was gone. She'd only entered this job because of the salary.

What she really wanted to do was open up a bookstore, somewhere in London high street. Her boyfriend already worked as an artist, and she'd promised that when she had her bookstore open, she would sell some of his items for him in the store. In return, he'd promised to marry her. It was a compromise that they both liked, but first she had to find some money, and that was what had landed her here, in a grey suit and in a grey office, typing on a grey typewriter. So little colour in this world. The only way she got through it was by imagining one of her boyfriend's many paintings, all of which were always bright with colour and vivid with life. She sighed and continued typing, the low sounds of the radio near to her right buzzing in her ear. It was tuned to Radio 4 and deadly dull. However, as the night wore on, her exhaustion slowly began to overcome her. When she found herself slumped against the typewriter and snoring lightly, that's when she knew she needed coffee. Pausing in her work, she got up and went to the break room.

Hardly anyone was there, aside from one blue-suited man who was lying on the mint green sofa, snoring loudly. She recognised him as Fredericks, the one that Sir Alistair referred to as "the one with the bad haircut". A pile of papers were scattered on the coffee table in front of him, notes of black ink scrawled carelessly over them. Deciding not to disturb him, Miss C quietly began to make herself a coffee. Suddenly, behind her, she heard a groan. She turned her head. Fredericks had woken up, and he looked like hell.

"What time is it?" he muttered groggily.

"20 past ten," Miss C said, a little more sharply than she'd intended.

"Oh. I must've been asleep longer than I thought." Fredericks sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands.

Miss C stared at him, feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor man. Sir Alistair would never be content until everyone in this office was exactly like him, all of them black-suited with slicked back hair and wide framed glasses. He wanted an army of subordinates, just so the 'common people' weren't able to listen to the music he happened to dislike.

"Do you want a coffee?"

Fredericks looked up, and blinked. No-one in this office had ever offered him anything before.

"Er, yes. Please."

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Milk, two sugars."

There were a few minutes silence as Miss C made the coffee. She always took hers black, especially when she was tired. When the coffee was made, she picked up the two polystyrene cups and moved towards Fredericks, handing him his coffee. He gestured for her to sit down, but she shook her head.

"No thanks. Sorry, but I have to get back to work."

"Oh. Of course. Same here. See you around, Miss..."

"Just call me Miss C. Everyone does around here."

Fredericks nodded, taking a sip of coffee. Miss C smiled warmly at him and left. It was nice to know that there was someone apart from her in this office that hated late nights.

Back at her desk, she sat down and leant back in her chair, quietly and slowly sipping her coffee. Sir Alistair's indignant opinions would have to wait. The radio was still going, still droning on about something or other. Something to do with the economy. Carelessly, she reached out and began to tune it, looking for something else to listen to. She didn't even care if she landed on the fishing forecast. Anything that wasn't dreary old politics. Suddenly, the radio hit a signal and music bled out of the speaker, breaking the dreary peace of the office. Miss C sat up a little, recognising it.

"If you want someone to play with..." the song sang, Aaron Neville's voice breaking through the speaker as if singing straight to her. She smiled, mouthing along with the words as the song played.

As she sipped her coffee, she found herself swaying slowly with the beat. She could just visualize her boyfriend now. His brown shaggy hair, his strong torso under her hands, his breath sweet on her cheek as he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. As the song built into its crescendo, the images in her mind evolved into a memory, specifically the last time she and he had made love. It had been wonderful. It was on her birthday and he'd been hiding himself for months, working on a special project. The project had turned out to be her present: a portrait of her, with her long blonde hair flowing down her naked back. He'd captured her perfectly. They'd made love right there and then, in the midst of his studio. It made her heart melt and her body warm just to think about it. The song faded to a stop and a voice replaced the song.

"Wow," was all it said. Miss C smiled and sipped her last sip of coffee, the memory still fresh in her mind. So this was Radio Rock, the scourge of the high seas. And it was perfection.