It’s part of the reason she doesn’t like taking separate cars anywhere anymore — because regardless of whether she’s in it, the Doctor’s car always ends up in the middle of some mad cap adventure.
But today he’d insisted, “You can’t come with me, Rose! If you watch me get my hair cut, it’ll ruin the magic! Never look behind the curtain!”
When she’d casually mentioned that her mum also cut hair, he’d literally shuddered.
But now she was here, they were supposed to be on stage in 30 minutes, and the Doctor was asking leading questions from a car halfway across town.
“What are you wearing?”
“Wellies and a skirt and a shirt. Where are you?”
“Wellies? Why? Is it damp? Rose Tyler, are you we—”
“Mud, Doctor! Mud! Get. Here.” and she’d turned the phone so the mouthpiece was right up against her lips.
There are people with cameras nearby — there are always people with cameras — and Rose doesn’t want them overhearing. Or reading lips. That happened once, when she was talking to Donna about having to pre-pay to insure her voice, and it ended up getting reported in the papers that she was most definitely talking to the Doctor’s manager about having a three-way.
Donna had hunted down that reporter and charlatan of a lip-reader and personally delivered them a cease-and-desist, along with a thorough chewing-out.
The Doctor had called up the paper and had them both fired.
The mud is making Rose’s feet cold, even through her wellies, and she tries not to sound as frazzled as she feels: “Did I mention which skirt I’m wearing? It’s the really short one from that party in Ibiza. You remember that skirt, don’t you? Well, I suppose you might not — you pushed it up quick enough, before we even made it out of the limo, so you might not’ve gotten a good look at it.
“Oh, and do you know who’s come to see the performance today, and is just sitting around with nothing to do, looking for all the world like he’s waiting for a guitar to miraculously drop into his hands? David Bowie.
“In thirty minutes, I will be taking the stage with a skinny British rock legend. So you’d better get here before I, my tiny skirt, and your Gibson go over and have a chat with David, because I imagine he does a heart-rending cover of ‘Silver-Leaf Tree’!”
“Rose!” comes the tinny gasp from the little speaker at the top of the phone. “When you talk to Bowie, tell him he still owes me fifty quid from that incident in Brisbane! He had the nerve to skip town after —”
Rose pushes the button to end the call.