Chapter Text
Declan O’Hara was a great man. She’d heard it an infinite number of times over the years, constantly being told how lucky she was to be his daughter. And he was incredible: talented, funny, smart.
But being a good man didn’t mean one was a good father. It hurt to admit, to acknowledge the little scars of being called stupid and ignored in favour of work. There were countless scraped knees which went un-kissed and parent-teacher conferences that no one attended. Why would they, her parents knew all about her academic failures. They didn’t need a thirty minute meeting with whatever teacher had the challenge of teaching her that year to tell them what they all knew. Taggie is a lovely girl, but she just doesn’t pick up the material properly. She struggles with basic concepts, with reading and writing, with tying her shoes some days.
That’s why it surprises her how loving Rupert is. She knows how much he adores his children before she ever meets them, his glowing words bouncing around her brain. Tabitha won gold this weekend. Marcus is top of his class. I’m so proud of them. All things that the kids deserved to hear, but still shocking. Didn’t all great men focus more on themselves than their children? Weren’t they ultimately just a prop, something that was used to move their careers forward?
The worst part, she thinks, is the jealousy. The aching, gnawing part of her that wants the attention he gives Tabitha, the praise he showers on Marcus. It’s greedy, she knows, to crave that kind of affection when she is already grown up, a fully formed member of society. But she’s never been one to want things, has bitten back her desire so that others could get what they wanted first. Maybe she could be greedy just this once, for the thing she wanted most of all.
Rupert can’t love her, not the way they both want. He’s made it clear that the franchise must come first, even when the board votes him out, leaving him on the outskirts of their circle. And she tries to move on, she really does. Polo players flood Rutshire for the summer, all of them as bronzed and sculpted as Rupert is. But as much as she tries to, she can’t force herself to feel anything for them. If she can’t be with him, maybe she could be something else. Something softer than a friend or confidant. Daughter didn’t feel quite right, the word sour on her tongue, but it was as close as she could get. Maybe her presence could keep him sweet in the midst of his life turning upside down, temper the short fuse that he had recently shown any time her father or Cameron spoke above a whisper.
She wouldn’t be replacing Tabitha, she could never. But Helen had stopped answering his calls, a court order delivered to his doorstep officially removing any weekend visits from his calendar. Maybe this was what they both needed. It would soothe the itch under her skin, the need to be close to Rupert that grew more and more feral with every day, while also giving him something to care for. A being to protect, to cherish, maybe even to spoil.
Desire was a twitching beast that lived in her chest, one that cried out for someone, anyone, to want her. He was a master of horses and dogs, surely he could tame the beast inside her as well.
The first thing she decides is that she needs a plan. Venturer had a plan of attack, a detailed list of steps that would make them successful. Surely an endeavor like this could use something similar. The way she thought about it, there were four things that she wanted from Rupert, observed through an afternoon spent watching him dote on Tabitha. Affection, physical touch, quality time, and praise. Surely she could bend the rules of their relationship, the fine lines that grew blurry with every encounter, to get what she wanted.
She knew, from offhand remarks and a meagre number of report card comments, that she was a good person. She was kind, she cared about animals, and she very rarely had a bad word to say about anyone. But the way Rupert spoke about her was different. He called her competent, intelligent, worthy. That she was their top striker, a phrase she couldn’t help but repeat to herself in the weeks when he and Cameron disappeared. Angel, darling, sweetheart; all of his little pet names made her preen internally. He thought she was good, as a person and at her job. Somehow his opinion had become more important than anyone else’s and she relished every scrap that he threw to her.
He was never shy to compliment Tabitha, often bragging about her accomplishments before Venturer meetings began. She was the youngest person competing in the mounted games this year, Taggie learned, a huge honour for a nine year old.
When Taggie was nine, she could barely spell horse.
It’s with this in mind that she makes all of his favourite recipes for the next Venturer meeting, carefully crimping the edges of dozens of tiny hand pies and dotting smoked salmon blinis with dill. She may not be a showjumping champion or a piano prodigy, but she’s a damn good cook. And it shows, the team immediately crowding around the platters she set out in Venturer’s makeshift office and filling their plates. Pride fills her chest for a moment, until she realizes that Rupert isn’t even here. Of course he wasn’t, she scolds herself, he was likely at Penscombe wallowing. Or, more likely, trying to figure out his next move.
Feeding people is never a waste, she reminds herself, wiping her hands on her apron and quietly walking back to the kitchen. Her job is done, at least for now. In an hour or so someone will want tea, or a pot of coffee, and her work will begin again. On and on and on until she is left with nothing but a mountain of dirty dishes and half empty sugar bowls. Reaching for one of the leftover blinis, she takes a bite and lets herself enjoy her work for once. The salmon and dill are perfectly paired, brightened by just a hint of lemon.
“Are those blinis?” Rupert’s voice breaks through her haze, causing her to accidentally smear creme fraiche across her lip. He looks tired, eyes lined with dark circles, but at least he’s here. “It smells delicious in here.”
“Smoked salmon,” she confirms, looking around for a napkin to wipe her face with. “A-and some hand pies, I think I’ve only got steak and ale left. Everything went pretty fast.”
“Vultures.” Setting his briefcase down near the door, Rupert stalks further into the kitchen. Each step is purposeful, closing the distance between them in a matter of seconds. “I hope they at least said thank you.”
They didn’t. No one did, really, not when there were others doing so much more for the cause. All of them were risking their jobs, their livelihoods for Venturer. Anyone could make food; she could easily be replaced by a quick stop at Waitrose. It wasn’t worth complaining about, ultimately, so she simply shrugged and wiped her cheek.
Without warning, Rupert’s thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. “You missed a spot,” he murmured, his tongue licking a broad stripe across the digit. “Mm, tastes delectable. Well done, angel.”
Heat flooded her face, her cheeks almost certainly turning bright red. “T-thank you,” she stuttered, eyes dropping to the floor. The toe of her boot scuffed along the floor as she weighed her next sentence. “You can–um, that is–there’s more. If you want.”
“Blinis are my favourite,” Rupert smiled, plucking one of the leftovers from the tray and biting into it with a moan. “Absolutely divine. It’s a little acidic, isn’t it? How did you do that?”
“Lemon zest. Most recipes call for juice, but I think zest rounds out the flavours better.” She had served that particular recipe at a dozen dinner parties and not one person had ever noticed that particular addition. They simply crowed about the salmon or, on the odd occasion the host offered her a better rate, the caviar she paired it with. The showy, impressive aspects of the dish. Rupert noticed the little things, the details that tied the entire recipe together. It made sense, really; he noticed her.
A crash sounded from the other room, followed by Cameron’s distinct screech of anger. She went to push away from the counter, instinctively thinking of where the closest dustpan would be, when his hand landed heavily on her shoulder. “Leave it,” he instructed, his voice soft but commanding. “Let someone else clean up the mess for once. You deserve a break.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Taggie insisted, trying not to notice how the warmth of his palm was seeping through her shirt. “Everyone’s so busy, it’s not a bother.”
“You’re busy too. You were about to tell me what it would cost to fill my deep freeze for the next few months.” A smile curled across Rupert’s face, the toothy grin that seemed to only happen when they were alone. “Mrs. Bodkin is cutting back her hours, her first grandchild is due in August. And Lord knows I’m helpless if left to my own devices.”
She could really use the money, she thought, especially with the franchise battle effectively cutting her customer base in half. Everyone in Rutshire had chosen a side, which extended to which catering service they hired. And if it happened to lead to more praise from Rupert, compliments showered over her like confetti, she wouldn’t complain. “Alright,” she agreed, her face flushing again when he clapped with joy. “I can come by some time next week, we can discuss options and what you need. Does that work for you?”
His face falls slightly, disappointment clear. He must be lonely, she reminds herself, all alone in that big house. There were the dogs, of course, and the Bodkins sounded wonderful. Plus Cameron, when she wasn’t stalking through the Priory, an apex predator in Taggie’s previously safe ecosystem. “Or we could do it over dinner tonight,” she suggests, watching happily as his eyes grow the tiniest bit brighter.
“Only if you’re free, angel. We’ll go out, my treat, of course.”
She’s free, she knows she is. Her only plan is to feed Gertrude and turn her father onto his side if he passes out in his office again. And the idea of not having to cook for herself is unspeakably relieving.
He holds her gaze until she nods, his thumb tracing back and forth against her pinky. “Do you like French?”
“The language? I can’t speak it.” Surely he remembered that, the disastrous menus she had written in the Joneses kitchen a year ago riddled with spelling mistakes and the moment in his car when she honestly believed Malise Gordon was a chef.
Rupert looks at her then, eyes soft. “I’m not much for languages either, angel. But I meant French cuisine. Do you enjoy it?”
You idiot, her mind hissed, embarrassment crawling up her spine. Of course he didn’t mean the language. Unable to trust her voice, the beginnings of an ashamed sob lingering in her throat, she just nodded and trained her eyes on the ground. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I should’ve been clearer.” Rupert’s voice was quiet, his hand sliding across the counter to fully grasp her own. “That’s my mistake, sweetheart. I’ll book us a table at La Perle, I think you’ll like it. French but not pretentious.”
His hand squeezed hers, his long fingers solid around her trembling digits. She wished she could laugh it off like Caitlin would have, that her embarrassing slip would become nothing more than a funny story they told their friends. But it lingered, another reminder of how woefully stupid she often felt among the Venturer team. Chewing her lip, a nervous tic that her mother often scolded her for as a child, she let the feeling of his hand on hers ground her for a moment.
“No foie gras,” she finally whispered, her voice slowly growing stronger as she gathered her thoughts. “It seems awfully bar-barbaric.”
“You know,” Rupert murmured, leaning his head towards her. It felt like he was offering her a secret, their heads dipped close so that she could hear his quiet words. “I’ve never cared for foie gras. Much too fatty.”
They linger in the moment for a few seconds longer, a quiet spell cast around the kitchen. If she closed her eyes, she could picture them after the bid, could almost feel the way his breath had brushed across her lips as they broke their kiss. Then, her father’s voice rang through the air, loud and angry.
“Taggie! We need the dustpan!”
The spell is broken, reality rushing in as grumbling voices echo after Declan’s. She knows she needs to leave, to clean up a mess that no one else is willing to handle, but Taggie can’t help herself. She lifts up onto her tiptoes and presses a gentle, trembling kiss to his cheek. It’s nothing more than a tender brush of her lips to his skin, so different from the great smacking kisses that she’s seen Tabitha bestow upon him. He still leans into it, however, the slight stubble that covered his cheek pricking against her lips. “Thank you,” she mumbles, her words muffled against his jaw. “For dinner a-and everything else.”
She doesn’t anticipate his hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers playing with a lock of her hair. Seconds pass, before his voice is quiet in her ear. “Sweet girl,” he murmurs, low and soft, a moment just for her. “I’ll come back after the meeting, alright? Don’t run away.”
And she doesn’t, not this time. She cleaned up Mike’s shattered glass, his face apologetic as she kneeled by his feet, then returned to tidy the kitchen happily, half-listening as the sounds of the meeting rose and fell. She only stopped when Rupert’s hand cupped her elbow gently, drawing her from the chore. She didn’t realize that he had returned, but let him pull her from the sink, softly reminding her it’s time to eat, darling and guiding her out to his waiting car.
La Perle is dark and moody, candles lining every small table in the space. It’s a far cry from her usual haunt, Caitlin’s love for Bar Sinister’s sticky floors, red walls, and bartenders who didn’t mind serving minors forcing her out more and more these days. She was usually the designated driver, sparkling water slowly going flat in her glass as she watched her sister dance around Archie Baddingham. Not tonight, she thinks giddily. She could have a glass of wine, two even, without having to worry about getting anyone else home safe.
Rupert’s hand rests low on her back as he guides her to the back of the restaurant, his skin warm through the thin fabric of her dress. She wants so badly to lean into it, to let the full breadth of his arm wrap around her like a cocoon. Tabitha had clung to his hand when they went out to dinner the month before, winding through the tables knowing she was safe in Rupert’s grasp. Maybe with enough liquid courage Taggie would do the same on their way out.
Her face flushes when he pulls her chair out for her, tucking her closer to the table once she’s sat. It’s sad that this little action sends a thrill through her, but she can’t remember the last time someone took the time to pull out her chair. Lizzie, maybe, when she had her hands full at a polo match? For a second, his hands ghost over her shoulders, drawing a shiver out of her. “Do you want a jacket, Tag,” Rupert asks quietly, settling into his own seat. “I’m sure I’ve got a spare in the car.”
Waving him off, she picks up the menu, desperate for a distraction. “M’fine,” she mumbles, eyes slowly moving over the page. “I, uh–oh.” Every word swirls on the menu, the slim cursive font turning each letter into a slithery shape. One of her hands lowers to her leg, pinching the skin of her thigh as she sighs, quiet and ashamed. “I can’t really read it. The menu.”
Rupert’s face instantly falls, his eyes softening. “I’m so sorry, duckie. I should have called ahead, had them print something easier to read.” His hand reaches across the table, grasping hers. She’s still got the menu in her grip, the fine paper crumpling under the combined pressure of their fists. “How about this? I’ll just order one of everything, that way we can both be surprised.”
Protests spill out of her, one after another. “That’s too much, really. I can figure it out, I promise, just give me a couple of minutes. I really don’t want to be a bother. Salad ni-ni-nicoise, that’s always a good choice, right?” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, eyes casting down towards the table. God, he would never bring her to dinner again, not if she couldn’t control the frustrated, stinging tears that began to fill her eyes. She wanted him to care for her, to take care of her, but not like this. Of all the things Rupert Campbell-Black could desire, she was certain that a crybaby was at the bottom of his list.
“How can I expect you to cook for me,” Rupert asked lowly, his thumb now rubbing soothingly over the back of her hand. “If I don’t know what you like? What your preferences are, what you like to work with?”
“Most people just give me a list of meals they want,” she admits, watching as his thumb went back and forth over her skin. “Meat and potatoes, the classics.”
“And that bores you.” His eyes met hers, shining in the candlelight. “I know it does. I’ve seen what you can do in a pinch, I can tell when a dish makes you proud. Like your pavlova.”
Part of her wants to shy away, uncomfortable with just how much he sees her. Filling deep freezes with casseroles and easy meals wasn’t the most exciting part of the job, but it was essential to keeping the Priory’s lights on. It was a necessary evil, even if her favourite white pots were slowly staining orange from batches of marinara sauce. But at the same time, she couldn’t help but preen. He noticed her, noticed her work. He wanted her to be creative, to have fun and cook things that she enjoyed making, not just meals that were convenient for him. Was this how Marcus felt, when Rupert sat and listened to his piano lessons? Would she have felt the same rush, the frantic butterflies-in-her-stomach joy if it had been Declan who showed such an interest?
Probably not, Taggie admitted to herself. Setting her menu aside, she squeezed his fingers, still intertwined with hers. “Can you at least pick the wine,” she asked softly. “I’m not very good with wine pairings yet.”
His grin was radiant in response, flagging down a waiter as he ran a quick eye over the menu. “Do you usually prefer red or white,” Rupert inquired, flipping idly through the leather book that held the wine list. “Obviously we’ll do both, but I don’t want to choose something you’ll hate. Hm, that’s a nice Sancerre.”
“We don’t have to do both,” Taggie blurted out, eyes widening. “Choose whichever one you like, I’m not picky. I’m sure it will be wonderful.” It would certainly be better than the bottles her mother favoured, less than a tenner at the local shop and so acidic it made her stomach clench.
He simply gave her a charming smile. “Tag, I would never dream of having you eat scallops with a red wine. We’ll do both, angel, don’t worry about it.”
Worrying was second nature to her, not something she could shake off. She felt herself withdrawing, shrinking in her seat when Rupert ordered the Sancerre for their appetizers and a red for their mains. “I think it will go nicely with the ratatouille,” he murmured, sending the waiter off with an idle wave. “And the cassoulet, I’m eager to get your opinion on it.” His attention shifted, eyes softening as he took in her stiff shoulders. “Oh, Tag.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage,” she mumbled quietly, the cloth napkin in her lap suddenly becoming very interesting. “You didn’t have to do…all this.”
“Have you considered,” Rupert asked, his voice thoughtful, “that maybe I just think you deserve a treat? Hm? A nice meal, with nice wine, that you don’t have to lift a finger for.”
“But you’re hiring me,” Taggie insisted. “Most people just give me a list of meals or ingredients they like. This is too much.”
“It’s not.” His voice is firm, scolding even. “You’re a good girl, Taggie. You deserve to have someone take care of you from time to time.”
I don’t know that I deserve it, she thought desperately, trying to ignore how wonderful good girl sounded when it fell from his lips. This was exactly what she wanted, as much as she tried to deny it, to fight his generous gestures at every turn. Why was she still resisting it, clawing away from his gentle kindness?
(A voice that sounded eerily like Lizzie filled her head, soft and sweet. You aren’t used to someone caring, someone wanting to give and not take from you. Let him be the first.)
Sensing Rupert’s eyes on her, she looked up from where she was twisting the napkin into knots in her lap. “I like when you take care of me,” Taggie admitted, nervously biting her lip. “You’re a good man.”
A sharp laugh escaped him as the waiter approached with their wine bottles. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks that. But if an angel says so, who am I to argue?”
Both wines were perfect, fruity and rich and complimentary to all of the dishes. Her palette burst with flavours, flaky scallops in butter sauce and thick stews that had her pulling out her notebook, taking notes on the flavours she enjoyed and how she could incorporate them in her own recipes. Rupert didn’t rush her through any of the dishes, asking thoughtful questions about the consistency of sauces and which of the options they tested would be viable in the deep freeze. It was nice to be asked her opinion, rather than just given a handful of requests and told to make it work. Her face flushed as she thought about other recipes she wanted to make for him, fresh breads slathered with butter and bright salads seasoned with herbs from her garden. She wanted to create perfect plates and watch as he savoured each bite, cooing about how well she did as he scraped his plate clean.
She wanted to be good for him, to make him proud. Taggie couldn’t remember the last time she made Declan proud, but Rupert would be a fine substitute.
A week later, Taggie loads her car up with coolers filled to the brim with frozen meals, every single one painstakingly inspected to make sure they were absolutely perfect. Even if they would be quickly shuffled into the deep freeze, she wanted each dish to be as lovely as possible. He deserved it, considering the rate he was paying her. Rupert insisted on almost triple what she usually charged, making all kinds of excuses as to why she deserved more money.
“It’s such a last minute request angel, surely you have a rush fee?”
“Do you upcharge for big orders? No? Well you really must, you work so hard.”
“You went to the butcher all the way in Corsham for that lamb? You spoil me darling. Let me cover your travel as well.”
It went on and on, praise heaped on her before she delivered a single morsel of food. Every compliment left her face flushed, his words tucked away for days when everything else felt too heavy.
By the time she made it to Penscombe Court, her stomach had filled with butterflies. He would like the dishes, she told herself firmly, catching Rupert’s eye as he waited outside the house. Beaver was faithfully tucked to his side, giving an excited bark and bounding towards her when she stepped out of the car.
“Hi boy,” Taggie cooed, crouching to ruffle his ears. “Handsome, handsome boy.”
“Keep talking to him like that and I might get jealous.” Rupert’s drawl carries through the air, his words making him sound almost back to normal. Almost. She can hear the smallest twinge of insecurity behind his cocky words, something that wouldn’t have happened this time last month. Beattie Johnson’s expose had left deep, clawing wounds across his entire life, the kind that couldn’t be erased in a few short weeks.
With one last pat to Beaver’s head, Taggie turns back to the car. “I’ve got a few coolers,” she calls out to Rupert, opening the Mini’s back door carefully. “Could you give me a hand?”
He’s at her side in a few short seconds, hand tentatively touching her shoulder. “Here, I can get both,” he murmurs, gently guiding her away from the car. “Why don’t you head into the kitchen, I’ll be right behind you.”
At any other job, she would insist on carrying out the work. Rutshire’s upper crust preferred their caterers to handle everything, from prep to clean-up, and even one bad review would have her entire business sunk in a week. But Rupert is different. He’s a friend, neighbour, a tenuous something-more that she knows she can always rely on. He’s happy to tote around her catering gear, forearms flexing as he tries to keep Beaver from sticking his nose into the cooler. “Back off, rascal,” he says with a grin, no fire behind his words. “You’ll get your share of it, don’t worry.”
The thought of Rupert sharing each meal with the dogs, all alone in this big, old house, makes her shudder. Surely Cameron would be around, to break bread and talk about their days over a glass of wine. She wants to ask, wants to mention that she made enough of each dish for two people, if needed, and watch his reaction carefully. Would her food serve as sustenance for a night of lovemaking? Before she can fully think it through, Taggie spins back to look at him. “I didn’t ask if Cameron had any allergies. I c-can make an alternative dish, if there’s something she can’t eat.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “Cameron’s heading to Ireland with your father, darling. I doubt any meals would survive a trip through the post.”
“I meant for when she’s here.” She wishes she had left her hair down today, the ponytail she carefully scraped together doing nothing to hide her burning ears. “After the shoot or if she comes back to visit.”
Rupert nods, rather curtly, in her opinion. “Right. Well, she keeps odd hours and prefers cooking for herself. Thinks everything I eat has too many carbs and not enough veg. Most of our meals are taken separately.”
She shouldn’t have asked, Taggie thinks to herself, scurrying into the house before she puts her other foot in her mouth. She had no right to poke into their relationship, certainly not when Rupert was so kind to hire her in the first place. Resolving to be more professional, like she would be with any other client in Rutshire, she made her way into the kitchen and began looking through his freezer. It was barren, save for a bag of frozen broccoli and a half-eaten box of ice lollies. Probably for the children, she thought fondly, moving them to the side so that her collection of meals would fit easily.
“I wrote instructions down,” she murmurs, watching as Rupert set down her coolers and began unloading them. “Well, Caitlin wrote them out. My spelling isn’t very good, neither is my penmanship. I didn’t want to risk giving you instructions with the numbers mixed up.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he said softly, stopping to look at her for a moment. “Really, Tag. You’re probably your own harshest critic.”
“No, no it’s true. It’s really bad. Mummy says so all the time a-and Daddy wanted me to fill in for Shelley one day and take meeting notes but no one could read them after. God, Cameron was furious, she–” Taggie cuts herself off, knowing that despite Rupert’s relatively relaxed demeanor, he probably didn’t want to hear her criticizing his girlfriend. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” His voice is quiet, but sure. “Angel, of course it matters. If she’s awful to you, I want to know.”
“It’s just the stress of the bid,” Taggie insists, gaze lowering to where Beaver has curled up at her feet. “It’s making everyone a bit intense. That’s why it’s nice to spend time with you.”
The confession is a quiet, tender thing. She’d thought about it the entire drive over, debating internally if she should say something or remain silent. But the things Cameron had said about Rupert, the fact that he wasn’t bothering to shave or dress most days and the way he stalked through Penscombe night after night, unwilling to sleep until exhaustion rang through his bones and he collapsed on the nearest sofa, it worried Taggie. He needed a reminder, she decided, that he was important, valued. That she could be here for him, if he wanted, in whatever capacity he needed.
Rupert’s face lights up with a smile, slight but there, for the first time in ages. “I like spending time with you too, Tag. No one else…” he stops, pausing to unload the last dish from her cooler. It’s smaller than the others, a container of tiramisu that she put together when he confessed that he had a secret sweet tooth. Lifting the lid slightly, he gave a small inhale, taking in the sweet smell of cocoa and mascarpone, before looking back at her. “That smells heavenly, angel.”
It goes into the fridge, rather than the freezer, and Taggie knows he’ll have it finished before the weekend is over. “You can’t have dinner without pudding,” she shrugs, remembering Tabitha’s comments that fruit salad was Cameron’s dessert of choice. She secretly agreed with Tab, it really didn’t count as pudding.
A yawn escapes her suddenly, exhaustion settling into her bones. Between prepping Rupert’s meals and her other catering gigs, plus keeping whatever Venturer team members who wandered into the kitchen fed, she hasn’t had much time to relax. Or sleep, frankly, the alarm clock on her nightstand going off before six every morning so that she can get started on her day before the Priory turns into a makeshift television studio. She can feel her eyes droop shut for just a second, opening wide when she hears Rupert murmur her name quietly. “M’fine, just a bit tired,” she mumbles, another yawn cutting through her sentence.
“Are you sleeping enough,” he asks softly, one hand coming to cup her cheek. Not thinking, she lets her head fall into his touch, the calloused skin of his palm warm and welcome.
“No.” There’s no use lying, not when she’s putty in his palm. “There’s no time. Not when the mortgage needs to be paid and Caitlin has school fees, plus everything to keep Venturer going. It will quiet down, when the bid is over. Only a few more months.”
It won’t end with the bid, she knows. She’s overheard Patrick going over the figures, the cost of running a franchise. This level of work will need to be her new normal, for years to come. Her eyes flutter shut again, screwing tight as a frustrated, exhausted sob lands in her throat.
“Come lie down,” Rupert murmurs, pulling her fully into a hug. “My poor little duck, you’ve been working so hard. Come on, take a load off. Beaver and I will watch over you.”
Guiding her into the sitting room, the one with wide windows and a never-ending collection of throw blankets, she lets him maneuver her onto the couch. It’s soft behind her back, and as he tucks a blanket around her shoulders, the request tumbles from her chest. “Sit with me? Please?”
He’s going to say no, she thinks, watching with wide eyes as his hands twitch. She’s asking for too much, too soon. It would be crossing a line that he isn’t willing to budge on, his fidelity to Cameron certainly more important than comforting little Taggie O’Hara. She almost takes it back, laughs it off as a silly joke, until he sits down on the couch beside her. “Alright, come here.”
His stance is relaxed, one arm loose across the back of the couch and his smile warm. Scooting across the sofa cushion, she lets herself crawl into his lap, nose nuzzled into the crook of his neck. His other arm comes down to hold her close, stroking soft circles over her thigh. “Go to sleep, angel,” Rupert coos, soft and comforting. “There’s no rush. Get your rest.”
Exhaustion washes over her quickly, almost as soon as her eyes shut. She can hear the television turn on, the soft snuffles of Beaver settling in at Rupert’s feet. As she drifts closer and closer to sleep, she can feel his hand start to card through the ends of her ponytail. “Can you take it out,” Taggie asks, her voice slurring with sleep. “Hurts.”
“Of course.” His hands are gentle as he undoes her ponytail, fingers trailing through her tangled hair and rubbing away the tension where the hair tie had sat. “Sleep, baby.”
(At least, she thinks that’s what he said. Sleep finds her easily, slipping into a dream as soon as his hands start stroking her hair. She might have made it up, somewhere between awake and asleep.)
The sun has started the set when she wakes, pinks and oranges colouring the room like the kaleidoscope she still kept stashed in her closet. The whirling colours always helped when her chest started feeling too tight or when her nerves were frayed and she could no longer hold back the rush of tears. Deep calming breaths and a peek into that little, colourful world were usually enough to bring her back to a calm, regulated state.
Now that she’s slept in Rupert’s arms, however, she fears that nothing will work better than this. The warmth of him seeps through her clothes, his chest rising with every breath he takes and she lets herself melt further into him, even though she’s fully awake now. She’s hard pressed to remember a time that she felt this comfortable, this well rested. Safe, even.
“Mm, I can hear you thinking.” Rupert’s voice is low and husky, as if he took a nap alongside her. “You’ve got a tell.”
“No I don’t.” It’s futile to argue, really, because she thinks she has several. Her ears flush red and her cheeks turn pink, not to mention the way she fidgets her hands whenever attention is dropped on her. Taggie O’Hara is many things, but no one has ever accused her of being subtle.
He huffs out a laugh, arm curling around her waist to keep her trapped against him. “You do. First, your back goes tense, like you’re bracing yourself for bad news.” Slowly, his free hand rubs up and down her back, over the thin fabric of her shirt. When he reaches the back of her neck, he gives a gentle squeeze that has her choking back a moan. “And then your brows furrow. You do it a lot when you’re cooking, I assume because you’re so focused.”
“I don’t want to mess up.” The words are murmured into his neck, her face buried back in the safety of him as she delivers her confession. “I know… no one wants to mess up. But it would be extra awful if it was me. It would prove them all right.”
“Prove who right?” There’s no demand for answers, just a genuine curiosity. She can hear Beaver snuffle quietly near them, the television still on in the background. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she curls her hand into the collar of his sweater. Something to ground her, as she spills her worst thoughts.
“Y’know… everyone. They think I’m just a stupid girl who is only good for cooking and cleaning. And I like those things, I do, but I think I’m more than that. No one else sees it though.” It feels like a weight off her shoulders, finally confessing that she’s not entirely happy. She loves her life, loves catering dinner parties and watching people light up when she delivers an exceptional meal. It just feels like the small, quiet dreams she has are childish compared to the world her father is building. Should she want more, like Patrick does? Hell, even Rupert had ambition, an Olympic gold lying amongst other trophies and treasures in his stately manor. Would he see her as childish, too childish, for wanting a simple life?
He’s quiet, hand still low on her back. For a second, she thinks about taking it all back. She could say nevermind, ignore me, I’m just being silly, a consistent refrain these days when anyone else asks how she’s doing. But Rupert has always been able to see through her, even when she didn’t want to acknowledge it. So Taggie waits, lets her words sink in and relishes the feeling of his breath on her forehead.
“You’re not stupid. God, Tag, you’re brilliant. You’re the sun, darling, shining across our darkest days. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.” One of his hands comes to her chin, lifting until her eyes meet his. “I promise, angel. If anyone is making you feel less than, please let me know. I’ll deal with it.” Then, with a smirk, he adds. “What are they going to do, fire me?”
“Don’t joke about that,” she sighs, her head heavy in his hand. “I feel awful, Daddy shouldn’t have voted you out. He’s obsessive about Yeats–sorry, Yay-tes.” Cameron’s voice rings through her head, the corrections she gives Taggie another shameful reminder of her inadequacy. Before she can duck her head again, hiding the embarrassed flush that she can feel rising in her cheeks, Rupert is pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Can you do something for me,” he asks quietly, words murmured into her hair. Curiosity rises inside her, was he looking to hire her again? Maybe for a luncheon, or worse–a romantic dinner with Cameron? Nodding, she lets Rupert maneuver her in his lap, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. It’s even lovelier like this, with both of his arms holding her close. Safe, she feels safe.
“Anything,” she mumbles, fiddling idly with the buttons on his shirt. She knows she should stop, that she’s crossed a boundary they cannot come back from. But if Rupert wants this too, how bad could it be?
Clearing his throat, Rupert gives her a small smile. “The next time you feel…low, or someone makes you feel small, will you tell me? I won’t confront them, not if you don’t want me to. But I would like to take care of you. Remind you how wonderful you are.”
“L-like call you? What if it’s late?”
“I’m not sleeping much these days,” he reminds her, the dark circles under his eyes like twin bruises. “But if it’s really late, you can call me in the morning. I’ll keep track, reward you when you’ve done a good job.”
“Like a chore chart,” Taggie jokes, the idea of it making her stomach clench. Their family had never had one, everything evenly divided until one day it was all on her shoulders, but other kids had mentioned the little rewards they got when they checked something off their list. She would be lying if she said her stomach hadn’t twisted with jealousy whenever someone mentioned allowances or small toys being awarded for completing a task, something that would never happen in the O’Hara household. “Can I get a sticker for a job well done?”
“If you want.” His voice is non-chalant, incredibly even. How can he be so calm when her heart is racing in her chest, hands shaking at the idea of him murmuring good girl and handing her a gold star. Quietly, barely more than a whisper, she responds.
“I want that.” Then, because her nan didn’t raise her to be without manners, she adds. “Please.”
“So polite,” Rupert says softly, thumb brushing over her cheekbone. She preens at the praise, his words of approval sure to carry her through the rest of her day. “Come on, upstairs. We’ll see what Tabitha has stashed in the craft bins.”
By the time she leaves for the day, her coolers are empty and she’s placed a bright pink smiley face on Rupert’s calendar, marking the date as a win. There’s a small collection of stickers tucked in his desk now, shiny butterflies and fuzzy baby animals, reserved for her use only. Her original choice had been a roll of gold and silver stars, basic but still lovely, but he had caught her looking wistfully at the others until he told her to take what she wanted, not what she thought he would choose. He even has her stick one to her catering diary, a reminder of what she agreed to.
“Call, anytime,” he presses, leaning through the Mini’s open window as she buckles her seatbelt. “I mean it, angel. Don’t shoulder it all yourself.”
She follows through for the next month, rubbing her thumb over the fuzzy Hello Kitty pressed to the inside of her diary whenever she dials his number. They miss each other a few times, messages left with Mrs. Bodkin (and Cameron once, some excuse mumbled that Taggie immediately blocked out). But it isn’t until the beginning of September, when her father packs his things for three weeks in Ireland, that she realizes just how much she’ll need Rupert.
By noon on the second Friday in September, she’s picked her cuticles to shreds. An unfortunate habit, considering how often she handles onions and citrus. The next time she cuts a lime, the juice will certainly sting the little open wounds along her nailbeds. Taggie can’t bring herself to regret it, however, not when the alternative is crying on the couch until her eyes swell shut.
She really thought they wouldn’t forget. Mummy was staying somewhere in town, close enough that she could drop by for tea or cake. Daddy had a detailed schedule, each day broken down hour by hour to ensure the shoot ran on time. Surely he had a note in there, a reminder to call home.
The phone sits on the wall, hauntingly silent. Not a single ring, the unit taunting her the longer she stared at it. She knows exactly how she can solve this, by dialing a phone number she knows by heart and simply asking for help. For a hug, a gentle hand. Anything.
Gertrude gives a bark, urging her to act. Do something already, the dog’s scruffy face seems to say, call him. Taggie resists for a few minutes longer, chewing her lower lip and putting the kettle on for yet another cup of tea. It’s only when she spots a photo pinned to the wall from Patrick’s birthday, the smiling faces of her father and brother staring right through her, that she reaches for the phone.
His phone number is memorized by heart, muscle memory letting her dial without fear of mixing up the numbers. Each ring has her holding her breath, the phone cord coiling around her finger until the pressure cuts off her blood flow. Please pick up, please pick up, she prays, eyes squeezing together to stave off her tears.
“Hello?” Rupert’s voice smoothes over her raised hackles, allowing the sob bubbling in her chest to release. “Oh, Tag, is that you darling? What’s wrong?”
“It’smybirthday,” she breathes, tears beginning to track down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, you’re probably busy b-but no one remembered and I’m all alone, I’m always alone–”
He interrupts her quietly, soft shushing noises that slowly soothe the cracks in her heart. “My angel, I’m so sorry. I can be there in an hour–no, half an hour. Can you be brave for thirty minutes, Tag? Curl up on the couch with Gertrude, put on the television?”
“I can do that,” Taggie sniffs, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry, it’s not an emergency, I promise.”
“Don’t push your feelings down. Not for me.” It’s exactly what she needs to hear, his voice a balm on her racing heart. “I’m glad you called me. Another sticker for the calendar.”
She can’t help but laugh. “Can I have two? It’s my birthday, after all.”
When they hang up, the promise of two stickers arriving with him in half an hour, she feels slightly more settled. A little embarrassed as well, that she couldn’t get through half the day without reaching out to him. She was twenty-one now, firmly a woman, her days of crying on her birthday should be behind her. Taggie slips onto the couch, Gertrude quickly curling up in her lap as soon as she gets settled, and she lets the soft sound of Dorothy Dove lull her into a more relaxed state. Daytime television is a bit pitiful, she thinks, wondering if Venturer has considered better programming for those at home during the day.
(They probably had, not that she would know. Everything had grown more secretive now that Rupert was outside the inner circle, doors shut as meetings went late into the night. They were all happy to eat her food, to ask for endless cups of tea, but God forbid she overhear one of Wesley’s endless suggestions for a Battle of the Sexes-style game show.)
The sharp rap of knuckles on the door shakes her from her thoughts, the dog taking off with a sharp bark at the sound. “Gertie, calm down,” Taggie calls, stretching her hands above her head with a yawn. Maybe a nap was in order, if Rupert didn’t mind sticking around. She had never rested quite as well as the nap she took sprawled across his lap. Following the sound of Gertrude’s little feet, she pulls the door open and can’t help but let out a gasp.
“Happy birthday, Taggie.” Rupert’s grin is wide, a black-and-grey puppy curled in one of his arms. His other hand is clutching a bottle of champagne, the green glass sweating with condensation. “Mind if we come in?”
“A puppy.” She feels as dumb as her mother says she is, gaping at the little ball of fluff and at a complete loss for words. “Yes, o-of course, come in.”
“I didn’t know it was your birthday,” Rupert murmurs, setting the champagne on the side table. It’s going to leave a ring, she knows, a permanent reminder of his presence on this day. “You should have told me, sweetheart, I would have planned something much grander.”
The puppy gives a happy yip before she can respond, drawing both of their eyes towards it. “Is–is it for me?” She can’t help but reach out and give the dog a little pet, giggling when its little tongue gives her a gentle lick.
“Well of course. Every little girl deserves a puppy on their birthday, angel.” She can feel her face flush at his words, no matter how true the sentiment is. How many years had she begged and pleaded for a dog, every Christmas list and birthday wish dedicated to a four-legged friend of her own. Gertrude had been a happy accident, left behind by the previous owners of their Fulham flat and begrudgingly adopted because mummy insisted they needed a guard dog, if Declan was going to be away at night. But this, a puppy for her birthday, brings tears to her eyes for a whole new reason.
“This is the most l-lovely thing that has ever happened to me,” she says with a sniff, eyes welling up as he transfers the little dog into her arms. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy,” Rupert informs her, crouching to pet an eager Gertrude on the head. “A new friend, right Gertrude? To keep you girls safe.”
Courage gathers in her chest, the words leaving her mouth before she can overthink them. “Isn’t that what you’re for?”
She wishes she were a poet, that she could string together words to describe the smile he gives her. It is genuine, his crooked bottom teeth poking through as his mouth goes wide. “Of course I am,” Rupert says softly, his hand still running gently over Gertrude’s wiry fur. “But in case I can’t be here, Claudius will be.”
“Claudius? Is that his name?” It’s a bit of a mouthful, in her opinion, a big name for such a little pup, but it seems to fit.
“The breeder gave them all Shakespeare names, Othello and Romeo, so forth. This one was Claudius, which I thought was quite fitting, considering you already have a Gertrude.” Taggie can feel herself nodding automatically, the meaning behind the names lost on her. The only Shakespeare she has ever understood is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, courtesy of Shelley Makepiece, and even then the only character she remembered was the donkey named Bottom. For a moment, she thinks that Claudius would be a fine name, even if she doesn’t really know the meaning behind it. But Rupert had told her to speak up when she feels small, and this feels like a moment he should know about.
“I don’t really know how they’re related,” she admits, ducking to press a kiss to the puppy’s little head. “I might just call him Claude, for short, if that’s ok.”
Stepping towards her, he wraps an arm around her shoulders. “He’s your puppy darling, you could call him Raspberry Roly-Poly if you desired. But I can explain it, if you would like. Maybe once the cake gets here.”
She would like that, she thinks. Rupert never makes her feel stupid for not knowing things, not like Patrick who scoffs when she doesn’t get his literary references. She’s about to agree, to invite him further in for a cup of tea and maybe a cuddle on the couch, if she asks sweetly enough, when his words finally hit her. “Wait, cake? What do you mean?”
His grin turns soft, eyes glowing in mid-day light. “It’s your birthday, angel, of course we’re having cake. Gerald’s just gone to pick it up from the bakery in Tetbury, the nice little one we stopped in with the kids. One last favour before the bastard takes my seat, though he was happy to do it when I mentioned it was for you. It should be here in time for tea.”
Her birthday isn’t even half over, but she knows it’s the best one she’s ever had.