Chapter Text
“But she’s not you.”
Rupert’s breathy, urgent whisper scattered Taggie’s thoughts and sent the air fleeing from her lungs.
She had ached, nearly begged, for those words for months. She had been desperate for Rupert to acknowledge her with something beyond a loaded look or a secret smile.
Now he had said it.
Any horrified shame Taggie felt at blurting out Only, he’s not you evaporated. Rupert didn’t pity her. He didn’t think she was some embarrassing girl with a crush, a child trying to sit at the grown-up table.
He felt the same.
Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he felt the same.
“I can’t breathe without you.”
In that moment, Taggie was the one incapable of breath. She worried she would swoon like a heroine from her mother’s romance novels. Yes, it was a dramatic, hyperbolic thing for Rupert to say–he had been literally and figuratively breathing without her, breathing the same air as Cameron, for weeks. But Christ, was it romantic.
She had prayed for something like this for months, and now that she had it, she sure as hell was going to savor it.
Then he had touched her, not in a consoling, let-her-down-easy way, but like a man touched a woman, a woman he wanted.
The sensations all blurred together–the gentle grip of Rupert’s broad, strong, warm hands on her hips, unexpectedly tentative as they slid around her waist and up her sides. The warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck. The hoarse, cracked whisper of his voice. The almost wild look in his hazel eyes–as if he was as adrift as she.
In those few, expectant seconds, as she turned in his embrace and they drank each other in, Taggie didn’t know if she wanted to sob with relief or scream with joy. In the end, she decided she would do neither–she would kiss him.
She did kiss him.
To borrow Rupert’s metaphor, kissing him, being held in his arms felt as natural as breathing. Yes, he had just told her he was trapped, that he was Cameron’s. But just then, none of that mattered.
Taggie wouldn’t ask for anything beyond this single taste of perfection. She could feast on this memory, this small ration of perfect happiness, for the rest of her life.
And that kiss, it was perfect happiness. It was everything Taggie imagined it would be–and she had imagined thousands of times. Rupert’s lips were gentle and searching, a little hungry, like he was both desperate and afraid to drink her in.
Taggie, however, drank Rupert in like she was dying of thirst–she was dying of thirst. She heaved in a breath, filling her lungs with the bergamot notes of his cologne, her fingers memorizing the hard planes of his chest and the soft curls of his dark hair at the nape of his neck. Every touch, every breath was unspeakably precious.
When they finally parted, Rupert’s hands trembled, and Taggie’s blood felt like lightning in her veins. She took a small step back and searched his face. She didn’t know what came next. Nothing had changed in that handful of seconds, not out in the Priory front hall or the world beyond. But in that kitchen, and in Taggie’s heart, everything had changed.
Maybe she and Rupert could find a way forward. Cameron would understand, her father would come around. Now that Taggie had this, him, within her grasp, letting him go again would be like plunging a carving knife into her chest.
She and Rupert began to speak at the same time, both stammering out the same word. “I–”
A flicker of movement in the doorway of the kitchen caught Taggie’s eye, and a red-hot rush of annoyance washed over her. Then, cold dread.
Oh, God, what if it was Daddy? What if he’d seen?
She and Rupert both shrank from each other, and Taggie blushed like a schoolgirl caught being naughty. She immediately heaved a sigh of relief when she realized it was just Bas leaning against the doorway, sleek in his black shirt and gold-accented tie. They could trust Bas not to tattle. Irritation flared up inside Taggie. A rake like Bas should know better than to hover and interrupt something like this.
Bas’s brow lowered in an uncharacteristically troubled frown. “Rupert, something is wrong. You need to come, quickly–”
An urgent, feminine whimper cut Bas off, and a battered Cameron appeared at his side.
Taggie’s little pastel paradise burst like the bubble it was.
Bas was lounging in the sitting room with the rest of the Venturer group, celebrating, when he heard a frantic pounding at the Priory front door.
“Do you hear that?” he asked Henry Hampshire, jerking his head toward the door.
Henry rolled his eyes. “It’s bloody open! If they’re too daft to let themselves into a party, then they deserve to rot on the stoop.”
Bas laughed, shrugged and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. Not his house, not his party. Let it be someone else’s headache.
He wandered back out to the hall to scrounge up a fresh bottle of booze when the frantic knocking sounded up again. He frowned at the door. Henry was right, it was unlocked. Anyone with half a brain would just let themselves in or move along.
Bang bang bang bang bang
Bas rolled his eyes. Maybe in these short hours someone had gotten so pissed they’d already forgotten where they were. A sassy little smile ready on his lips, Bas flung open the door, ready to harangue a friend, only to be totally taken aback by the person before him.
Cameron was trembling violently, her teeth chattering despite the temperate evening weather. Her brown eyes were wide and glassy, and the front of the red dress she wore was smeared with blood. Bas noted the beginnings of a nasty bruise rising on her cheekbone. His stomach pitched. He had a very good idea of who might have given that to her.
“Christ, Cameron, what’s happened?” Bas asked in a low, soothing tone, addressing her like he would a startled horse.
“I need him,” Cameron whispered, her voice cracking. “I need him.”
There was only one him that came to mind.
“I’ll go find him, just come in,” Bas said softly. He laid a hand on Cameron’s shoulder to guide her in, and she flinched. He immediately withdrew his hand, holding both his hands before him, palms out.
She remained planted on the front step, her hands clenched into fists. “He told me he would look after me, no matter what happens. He promised,” she keened. “I need him.”
Bas’s palms were suddenly a little clammy, and his tie felt too tight. Whatever had happened to put ice queen Cameron in such a state, it must be on scale of Chernobyl. He took a step back, both hands still held out in front of him. “All right. You stay there, I’ll fetch him. I won’t be a moment.”
He stalked through the empty hall and into the sitting room, scanning the group stood around the television. Rupert wasn’t there. Neither was Taggie.
Bas sighed and rolled his eyes. This was just his bloody luck. Of course he would get stuck interrupting Romeo and Juliet’s tryst, all so Romeo could sidebar with Rosaline.
The kitchen seemed a likely place for an assignation, so Bas slipped from the group as they all migrated toward the piano. He stomped his feet, cleared his throat, and even clapped twice as he approached, hoping to God Rupert and Taggie would hear him approaching and right themselves.
Of course, being the star-crossed lovers they were, Rupert and Taggie did not hear Bas coming, nor had they righted themselves. Because of bloody course not.
They were standing a foot apart, both their bosoms heaving, clearly on the verge of snogging each other senseless. Or continuing to snog each other senseless, based on the state of both their hair and clothes.
Thank fucking God Rupert had finally made a move.
Their months-long dance around each other might’ve been funny if it wasn’t so bloody depressing. Well, depressing for Taggie, as Rupert dithered and strung her along while he fucked Cameron. Bas rather enjoyed watching Rupert act like a lost little puppy. Seeing the tables turned on such a notorious rake was objectively amusing, at least for Bas.
Bas propped a shoulder against the door frame and cleared his throat, determined to get their attention before they pounced on each other. “Rupe.”
“I–” Taggie and Rupert choked out simultaneously, their eyes locked as their bodies swayed toward each other, like gravity itself was pulling them together.
Bas heaved a bone-deep sigh, rolled his eyes, and tried again. “Rupert!” Bas barked.
Rupert and Taggie broke apart with a start, spinning to face him. They both looked nearly as stricken as Cameron, and while Rupert wouldn't meet Bas’s eyes, Taggie did, a deep crimson flush spreading from the roots of her auburn hair to the neckline of her light blue dress.
Long practiced in ignoring awkwardness, Bas acted as if he had seen nothing. “Something is very wrong, Rupe. You need to come now. Cameron’s–”
As if on cue, Cameron materialized in the doorway beside him. The moment her eyes locked onto Rupert, the last shred of her self-control gave way, and she burst into tears, her body wracked with despondent sobs. Rupert hesitated for only the briefest of moments, slanting Taggie a quick look before rushing forward and enfolding Cameron in his arms half a second before she crumbled to the floor.
Rupert cast a tortured look at Bas, and Bas replied with a silent nod, sliding a chair from the table. If ever Bas had envied Rupert, he surely didn’t now. The poor bastard had his hands full with whatever mess this was.
Rupert eased Cameron into the chair, squatting at her feet and taking her hands in his as he scanned her face. “Cameron, what the fuck’s happened? Are you hurt?”
Taggie remained in her corner of the kitchen, ghostly pale and perfectly still, palm resting against her stomach as if she were about to be sick. Whatever had occurred between her and Rupert, it had rattled her enough to keep her from rushing to Cameron's aid. Or, perhaps Taggie was frozen in place because it was Cameron. Either way, Bas couldn’t blame her.
Cameron sobs gave way to shallow, gasping breaths, and as she hyperventilated, Rupert ran his hands up and down her arms in a soothing motion. “Cameron, Cameron, you need to breathe. I'm here, Darling. You're safe. Can you tell me what's happened?”
“Tony’s dead! I killed Tony!” Cameron blurted.
“What?” Bas and Rupert cried in unison.
Cameron wheezed in another shallow breath, frantically nodding her head as she stared unseeingly into her lap. “He’s dead. I killed him. Oh my God, I killed him. I thought he would kill me. But I killed him. I killed him.”
Bas suddenly worried he might be sick. Tony, dead? Murdered? By his own mistress, who sat just in front of him? Christ, that would explain all the fucking blood. With one hand, Bas gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles and he pressed the back of the other to his mouth.
Rupert grasped Cameron's chin and tilted her head back. His hazel eyes bored into hers as if he could will her to calm, his tone firm and urgent. “I need you to tell me everything. Right now.”
Cameron haltingly told the story as Rupert stroked and soothed her–her and Tony’s argument–in which apparently Cameron threatened to marry Rupert, Tony’s attack, her self-defensive strike, how she had fled Tony's office and his limp, prone body.
While Rupert was calm, cool, and collected on the surface, Bas could see in his friend's eyes that he was panicked. His own state was much the same. Bas crossed his arms over his chest, and his fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on his forearm. In a “kill or be killed” showdown, Bas was obviously glad Cameron had come out the victor, but Christ. What about Monica and the children? Venturer? Cameron? Would she go to fucking prison? Tony, Machiavellian prick that he was, had a massive orbit, and his death–not to mention murder–would send shockwaves through the entire country.
Bas supposed he should feel guilty that he didn't feel more brotherly grief over Tony's demise, but that would have required Tony to have ever behaved like a proper brother. He wouldn't proclaim his lack of anguish from the rooftops, but he couldn't pretend feelings where there were none. He'd mourn the local butcher more sincerely than he would his only brother.
By the time she’d finished her terrible tale, Cameron was draped over Rupert, her face hidden in his neck, while he stroked her back like a child.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Cameron whispered. “I came here. I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t have anyone else. I need you. I need you.”
Bas flicked a sympathetic glance across the kitchen. Taggie’s palm had drifted up from her belly to lay over her mouth. She looked as nauseous and dumbstruck as he felt, although clearly for different reasons. What a fucking trainwreck.
Rupert took Cameron by the shoulders and gently peeled her away from him before taking her tear-streaked face in his hands. “You’re coming home with me, right now. You can’t be alone, not in this state, and you can’t go back to your flat. It’s not safe.”
Rupert looked to Bas as he helped Cameron to her unsteady feet. “Bas, can you–” he waved his hands in the direction of the sitting room beyond the kitchen.
Bas just stared blankly, his mind racing with images of police sirens and the Falconry festooned in black, news vans parked all along the drive.
Rupert waved his hand more insistently. “Can you?”
“Can I what?” Bas asked, squinting at his friend.
“Call 999,” Rupert hissed, “tell them there’s been an accident, to send an ambulance to Corinium, while Cameron and I slip out the back.”
Bas gave himself a little shake. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”
Some of the tension left Rupert's shoulders. “Thanks.”
With one arm around Cameron’s waist, Rupert nearly carried her out of the house while Bas dialed emergency services. He relayed Corinium’s address and a life-threatening accident just as Declan wandered into the room. Declan gaped in shock as he listened, his cigarette nearly tumbling from his lips. Bas nodded sharply in the direction of the Priory back door, and Declan immediately vanished in that direction.
Bas hung the phone back in its cradle, put his face in his hands, and groaned.
An answering whimper sounded behind him, and Bas whipped around in confusion. He slapped his hand to his forehead.
Jesus Christ, he was an arsehole.
Taggie was still in the kitchen, and he had forgotten about her. It seemed all of them had, in the midst of the crisis.
She was riveted to the same spot she’d stood in when Bas first entered the room. She was now gripping the edge of the counter beside the sink with white knuckles, all the blood drained from her face, and shaking like a leaf. Seeing him approach, Taggie straightened her spine and tried to muster a weak smile before collapsing in on herself.
“Christ, Tag, I’m sorry,” Bas murmured, rounding the end of the table.
Taggie held out a hand to stop him, pressing the other to her face in an attempt to hide her tears. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He took another step forward and gently encircled her wrist with his fingers, drawing her toward him. “No, you’re not. No one's all right. It’s been a beastly night.”
Taggie didn’t even try to resist. She simply sobbed and slumped against his chest. Bas wrapped his arms around her limp frame and stroked her long, loose auburn hair.
A flash of pink darted past the doorway–Caitlin perhaps–but Bas pretended not to notice.
As Taggie sniffled into his shirt, Bas couldn’t help but feel for her. Despite the endless, thankless tasks she did for everyone around her, no one really noticed her. Bas supposed her siblings did. Rupert, too, in his own stunted, ass-backward way, and Bas himself always made a point to chat and joke with her. But they’d both forgotten her tonight–again–leaving her literally on the margins, a supporting character in someone else's drama.
Bas knew from personal experience how rotten that could feel.
When the ambulance arrived at Corinium studios that night, not only was Tony Baddingham not dead, but he was sitting up against his desk, his suit jacket pressed to his head, waiting for them. He insisted his injury was an accident, that he’d “tripped” and hit his head. Cleaned off, stitched up, and minorly concussed, Tony was sent home to the Falconry that same evening.
Of course, the urgent, anonymous call and Tony’s gory blow to the head fueled all sorts of local rumors, but Tony, to his credit, stuck to his story and never pressed charges against Cameron. Even he was reluctant to put any of that nastiness on the record; it would damage Corinium’s chances at the franchise as much as Venturer’s. A violent, bloody, adulterous brawl was very, very bad press for everyone.
Cameron, meanwhile, holed up in Penscombe.
It was awful to admit, but Taggie couldn’t have cared less if Tony lived or died. All that mattered was that his violence had driven Cameron definitively into Rupert’s arms–and home, and bed.
Taggie supposed it had only been a matter of time before things turned out like this anyway. Rupert and Cameron were well-matched–even Taggie had to admit they were very alike–and clearly had a connection, some reciprocal sense of responsibility. For God’s sake, Cameron had gone so far as to say she would marry Rupert to stay in England. Promises like that didn’t come from nowhere, and for Cameron to blurt that out in front of Tony meant things between her and Rupert were far, far more developed than Taggie had ever suspected.
No wonder Rupert couldn’t get out of Cameron, if he had proposed to her.
Taggie was such a fucking idiot. She felt like a child watching the grown-ups play chess.
If Rupert cared for her so deeply, if he couldn’t breathe without her, would a single sentence from her father have kept him away? No. If he loved her, would he move in another woman and make her think he would marry her? No.
Rupert had months before this attack to say or do something–dozens of Venturer meetings, dinner parties, canvassing for Venturer, walks through the wood, and Rupert had done, had said nothing. Even if Rupert did care for her, he cared more for the franchise, for Cameron. He put them first.
But being an idiot, Taggie loved Rupert anyway. She couldn’t help it any more than she could help the sky being blue.
And part of Taggie was proud of him. Rupert was trying to do the right thing, to protect someone he cared for. It would have been so much easier to celebrate his good behavior if the cost to herself hadn’t been so fucking steep.
Not only was the cost steep–sleepless nights and seemingly endless tears at random times during the days, but the reminders of that cost were constant. In the weeks following the attack, the Venturer crew met often at the Priory. Of course, Rupert and Cameron were omnipresent–-sleek, well-spoken, ambitious, beautiful. It hurt her eyes to look too long at the two of them--it was like looking directly at the sun.
Rupert didn’t so much as glance in her direction. It was as if she didn’t exist.
She’s not you, Taggie recalled bitterly. Indeed, she was not Cameron.
So, like a wounded animal retreating to its burrow, Taggie withdrew to the Priory kitchen, the one place where she was queen, where she made the rules. She went a bit mad those first few weeks, distracting herself by experimenting with more and more complex new recipes. Feeling her way through the textures, balancing the flavors, perfecting a glaze or a crust–it gave her a sense of control, made her feel powerful. It was as close as Taggie would ever come to being Cameron Cook.
That cooking bender returned some color to Taggie’s sepia-toned world, and as always, she had an endless list (and waitlist) of catering jobs. She welcomed the distraction and threw herself into the work. Even if it meant pasting a false smile on her face as she sliced, and garnished, and served, it helped her forget, for a little while, how perfectly miserable she was.
Conveniently–yet still insultingly–no one seemed to notice how low she felt, other than Caitlin, who set up a constant vigil in the kitchen at Taggie’s side, watching her over the tops of her books with wide, concerned eyes.
“Is something wrong, Tag?” Caitlin asked two days after That Night. “Can I help with anything?”
Taggie had forced a smile and shook her head. “No. It’s all normal.”
And this was all normal. Taggie had always buried her grief and shame and managed them alone. She didn’t need comfort or sympathy, she didn’t need anything.
She was Taggie.
Taggie was the one who gave; never asked, never received. Asking led to expectations, and expectations inevitably led to disappointment–this whole fiasco was just another case in point.
Well, there was one other person–beyond Caitlin–whose behavior changed after That Night.
On Venturer meeting days, Bas always wandered into the Priory kitchen, making small talk, throwing Taggie and Caitlin cheeky smiles as he stuffed his face with whatever food was to hand. He always had a ream of questions for Taggie–did she approve of the dishes his current chef was proposing, what would she do instead, what was she making and for whom. He usually posed these questions with his mouth full.
The first time Bas drifted into the kitchen, Taggie and Caitlin were taking tea beside a plate of still-hot butter tarts. Taggie's body went rigid when she noticed him in the doorway.
That Night, after Taggie pried herself out of Bas’s arms, she wiped at her eyes, blustered a quick “I’m sorry,” and fled upstairs to her room.
Bas thought his brother had been murdered, and had she offered him a single word of comfort? No. No, she had simply soaked his shirt and tie with tears and snot and then ran away like a toddler having a tantrum. Somehow, that scene felt even more humiliating than what had passed between her and Rupert, and Taggie had avoided Bas just as diligently as she had his friend.
Taggie blushed all the way to her hairline as she shrunk in her chair.
Bas, however, acted as if nothing was amiss. He greeted them both by name with a casual, sideways smile, before circling the table and popping one of Taggie’s tarts into his mouth. “Mmmmm, oh my God,” Bas moaned, eyes rolling back in his head.
Shockingly, Taggie found herself smiling and relaxing, just a bit, as she watched him reach for a second pastry. Awkwardness rolled off of Bas like water off a duck–he could charm and smile his way through anything. Of course he wouldn’t make her feel guilty or ashamed of what had happened.
“People shouldn’t make sounds like that at a kitchen table,” Taggie teased. “I'm going to feel indecent every time I assemble a tart now.”
Bas beamed at her. “I might consider that the greatest accomplishment of my sordid little life--making the unimpeachable Taggie O'Hara feel indecent in the kitchen.”
Taggie smiled down at her cup of tea, then glanced back up at him. She laughed when she saw him reach for a third tart, his mouth still full. “You’re going to choke, if you continue on like that.”
Bas waved his hand dismissively. “This one’s for later.” He grabbed a fourth and stacked it on top. “This one, too.” He fixed Taggie with a thoughtful look. “You know, if you’re looking for more stable, permanent work, I'd hire you in a heartbeat to replace my chef. Louie’s a nightmare–I haven’t been able to keep any female staff for more than a week since he’s been on. Not to mention, he’s the world’s biggest hypochondriac. Counting last Valentine’s Day, you’ve worked at Bar Sinister almost as much as he has.”
“Bas, I’ve told you,” Taggie admonished shyly, dropping her eyes to her lap. “Restaurants are too hectic. I couldn’t even handle a commis gig. Managing the work of your head chef and a kitchen full of people would be impossible.”
Bas took her refusal in stride. “I’m going to keep at you until you say yes, Tag. I know you’d be brilliant.” He backed toward the kitchen door and winked at her, “Who knows? You might thrive having someone under you.”
Taggie eyes widened at the double entendre, coughing and spluttering into her tea while Caitlin howled with laughter. Both girls caught their breath as Taggie dried the tea from the corners of her mouth, but it took only one look at her sister before they burst into another fit of giggles.
Laughing felt good, like a beam of sunlight peeping through the clouds after a rainstorm.
After that day, Taggie made sure to keep extra of anything she made on hand, just in case Bas stopped in for a sample. Or four.
He always did.
Taggie kept track of the things Bas liked–he had a raging sweet tooth–and found herself tailoring her experiments to his tastes. It was her silent way of thanking him for his kindness That Night and in not bringing it up since. She was lucky to have a friend like him.
Bas was ducked behind the bar top, fiddling with bottles of cheap Scotch and hiding from his employees. There had been a string of crises since he got in, and he desperately needed a break. He had organized this cluster of bottles four different ways–ascending order of fullness, descending order of fullness, alphabetically, and then finally, according to personal preference. This was the most difficult, as he hated them all equally.
Bas frowned at the bottles, decided he deserved a treat, reached for a bottle on a higher shelf, and poured himself a healthy dose of Macallan 12, his go-to working Scotch.
“Night, Bas,” a voice called from behind him.
He turned to see Rupert with Cameron on his arm, smiling and waving as they headed for the door. Bas returned the gesture, toasting Rupert with his glass of whiskey.
Despite his smile, Bas was rather out of sorts.
Earlier that day they’d all been at the Priory for yet another endless bloody meeting. Bas was happy enough to be on the Venturer board, and thrilled at the idea of polo on television, but Good Lord, the endless tedium and paperwork and bureaucracy might actually kill him. By the time he left, he felt more than half braindead. If it wasn’t for the lure of Taggie’s sweets in the Priory kitchen, Bas probably wouldn’t turn up for the meetings at all.
Taggie’s sweets.
That brought to mind the striped cotton dress she wore that day, how it clung to her body, accentuating the narrow span of her waist and the curved flare of her hips.
Sweet, indeed.
Bas sighed as he swapped another pair of bottles. Lovely as Taggie was, given her current state of depression, he couldn't even admire her without feeling like a nasty lecher.
Taggie was always flitting about in the background of meetings, swapping out plates of sandwiches or biscuits before withdrawing back into the shadows. And she was always, always looking at Rupert, like a small, injured bird in the middle of the road, gazing up with adoration at the lorry about to squash it.
And Rupert? Rupert’s eyes were just as often glued to Taggie, like a wounded knight, granted a vision of heaven as he lay dying on the battlefield. It would have been a laugh if Taggie weren’t so clearly distraught. Nor would it be funny when Rupert inevitably got caught staring at her, the bloody obvious git. Bas didn't fancy breaking up a second Rupert-Declan brawl–of course, it would be down to Bas, the resident voice of reason, to break it up.
Beyond Rupert’s tortured glances, no one else seemed to notice, not to mention care, that Taggie was absolutely crushed. She’d been slumped and hunched for weeks, her eyes shadowed by dark circles. It was like her natural brightness had vanished along with the vacant space in Rupert’s bed.
It was all so dispiriting. A waste of a lovely girl, too.
Bas felt an insistent tap on his shoulder and sighed. An hour ago, a very flustered waiter had dragged him to the loos to contend with a clogged toilet. Running an upscale bistro could be surprisingly disgusting. Bas shuddered at the memory, and sent up a silent prayer that this crisis would be a little less grisly.
Bas turned, noting with pleasant surprise that the slender, manicured hand belonged to Felicity--a lovely green-eyed redhead and one of his many, consistently-inconsistent flings. He hadn’t seen her since Valentine’s Day, when he’d bedded her and someone else whose name he couldn’t remember. He smiled, his spirits raised by both the memory and the prospect of a repeat performance.
It briefly occurred to him that maybe what Taggie needed was a good, meaningless shag. He had always found it good for morale.
“You’re on bar duty tonight? I can think of a dozen better uses for those hands,” Felicity purred, gazing up at him from beneath dark lashes.
Bas nodded absently, his thoughts temporarily derailed by the image of Taggie’s red hair fanned over his silk sheets. He grimaced. Taggie was lovely, and of course he had thought about sleeping with her–Bas had thought about sleeping with almost everyone–but now, Taggie was so sad that just the idea made him feel a little slimy.
“Perhaps you need a break,” Felicity continued, running the tip of her index finger along the edge of the bar. She cast a pointed look at his whiskey. “You could finish that upstairs.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Bas replied lamely, motioning to the row of Scotch bottles. “I’ve got to get this mess in order.”
Felicity sighed, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned back on the barstool.“You’re a bore tonight,” she groaned, clearly out of sorts with how thick he was being.
“Sorry, darling.” Bas leaned across the bar, drawing his face closer to hers. “Seems all the chaos tonight has me a bit slow on the uptake. I think a break is just what I need.”
Within minutes they were in the flat above Bar Sinister. Felicity writhed and moaned beneath Bas as he drove into her, and while it was all perfectly adequate, Bas found his mind and eyes wandering. He noted a patch of dust on the corner of his nightstand that his cleaner had missed, the torn condom wrapper on the edge of the mattress.
A brief flash of panic hit as Bas realized that he was a bit bored. Christ, if he lost interest in sex, he would need four new hobbies just to fill the time.
“Something on your mind?” Felicity teased breathlessly, raking her nails down his back.
Bas’s eyes jumped from Felicity’s face to her red tresses fanned out over his pillow. Her hair was so different from Taggie's. Shocking, really, how varied “red hair” could be. He had become closely acquainted with the properties of Taggie’s that night in the Priory kitchen, stroking it as he held her. Even now, naked and on top of someone else, Bas could still feel the thick, silky strands between his fingers. Thinking of Taggie’s hair made him remember how pale and wan she looked that day.
God, he was bored.
“No,” Bas replied with a weak smile.
He was a bad liar, and both of them knew it. Neither made any further attempts at conversation.
“I’m looking forward to the Hunt Ball,” Felicity said casually as they both dressed.
“Yeah.” Bas smiled. “It’s always a good time.”
Bas walked her to her car parked in front of the Bar and stood, smiling with his hands in his pockets as she closed her driver’s side door. He was about to return inside when Felicity rolled down her window and beamed at him. “I thought we might go out tomorrow, the two of us. There’s a new place that just opened, The Chadwick. It’s supposed to be very good.”
Bas’s brows drew together, a prickle of concern raising the hairs at the back of his neck. “Felicity,” he said cautiously, “that’s not what this is. It never has been.”
Her smile slipped for a moment. “Well, if you’re not free, I’ll come back tomorrow for a drink. Maybe you’ll need another break,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, seductive tenor.
Bas’s frown deepened and he searched her face for a long moment. “I don’t think that's a good idea,” he said finally.
She acted as if she hadn’t heard him, waving as she rolled her window up and drove off. Bas’s hands stayed in his pockets.
He stood on the sidewalk, watching her car disappear from sight and ran through the last times he had seen her–New Year’s Eve, Valentine’s Day, tonight. Every encounter had centered around casual sex.
What had he missed?
Those other nights, there had been little to no conversation. For God’s sake, they had been in bed with one to four other people. But tonight, with just the two of them, she had been rather chatty. His brains had been somewhat scrambled, filled as it was with visions of clogged toilets and sad girls with auburn hair.
While Bas had been an uncharacteristically poor listener tonight, he could recall a few of Felicity's comments. She was looking for a nicer, bigger flat as a thirtieth birthday present to herself. She had a busy social calendar over the next few weeks–her sister’s wedding, her best friend’s engagement party, her niece’s birthday party.
Oh, Jesus Christ he was an idiot.
He made a mental note to never take Felicity to bed again. The last thing he needed was to give her ideas. The last thing Bas needed was a determined woman like Felicity taking him on as a “project,” trying to wear him down until he let himself be shackled by matrimony.
As Bas walked back into the Bar, he was greeted by no less than a dozen people, and his spirits rose. His life was full. The Bar was thriving and kept him on his toes. He played polo, often and well. He bought and sold horses and real estate. He was, by all accounts, very successful and people liked him.
Bas knew that his popularity was largely due to how he moved through the world. His go-with-the-flow attitude had been his way of being for as long as he could remember. Being able to take the temperature of a room, gauging others’ moods, and adapting himself accordingly had been a matter of survival when he was a child, navigating a mercurial, adversarial older brother and distracted parents, then the casual brutality of boarding school. But those skills had also served him well as an adult. It made him a good manager, a good businessman, and a good lover.
His life was full, and he was content as he was.
The last thing he needed was a woman, any woman, trying to ensnare him, changing things.
A few days later, feeling like Sisyphus, Bas was back at the Priory for yet another interminable meeting. Taggie, clad in a t-shirt and jeans, briefly emerged from the kitchen to replenish the empty plates of sandwiches on the sitting room coffee table. Bas watched her eyes flick to Rupert, then away. A moment later, Rupert’s eyes darted from Cameron to Taggie, resting on her face as she swapped the plates.
Two ships passing in the night. Bas rolled his eyes.
As Taggie retreated to the kitchen, Henry Hampshire nudged Declan with his elbow and nodded in Taggie’s direction. “Sweet girl, your Agatha.”
Declan smiled as he poured himself another whiskey. “Everything Taggie lacks, she makes up for in sweetness.” Declan’s eyes flashed briefly to Rupert, who was deep in conversation with Cameron. “Thank God she was born an O’Hara. I’d hate to think what would become of her without her family to protect her.”
Bas stiffened, Tony’s words ringing in his ears. Your only asset is the Baddingham name, and you got that by the skin of your illegitimate teeth.
Families, in Bas’s experience, were often more trouble than they were worth. Even his warm and lively Argentinian clan came with so much baggage that Bas preferred to keep his distance.
And for all Declan prattled on about “protection,” it didn’t seem to extend to Taggie’s emotional state. Or perhaps a miserable, wrung-out Taggie was just the O’Hara status quo. More likely, Declan never paid enough attention to his eldest daughter to even notice she was unhappy in the first place.
Bas crushed the remnants of his cigarette and glanced in the direction of the kitchen, catching a last glimpse of Taggie, shoulders slouched as she disappeared through the doorway, her long red ponytail lit up by the sunlight streaming in the windows. Bas impulsively dumped one platter of sandwiches atop the other, leaving him with an empty plate and, most importantly, an excuse for infiltrating the kitchen. Not that he needed an excuse, but he didn’t want to give the impression of lurking.
Taggie was standing at the sink, taking immediate notice as he crossed the threshold. She smiled over her shoulder. “I was wondering how long it would take you to wander back today.”
He held the empty plate beside his face and beamed back at her. “I decided to play busboy.”
Taggie pressed her lips together, trying to hide a smile though her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I’ll take that,” she said as she reached for the plate. “I hope you didn't eat all of them yourself,” she teased, dipping the dish into the sink full of suds. “Clearing a plate that size in this amount of time would be a new record, even for you.”
“Oh, I made sure to leave one or two for the others,” Bas replied airily, earning himself a playfully withering look. His chest swelled with a silly bit of pride at Taggie’s squint and scrunched-up nose.
Where the Henry Hampshires of the world saw a syrupy-sweet angel, Bas suspected if one scratched Taggie’s surface, it would expose something a little more saucy–a stern governess ready to chasten a naughty schoolboy.
And Bas liked playing naughty schoolboy, and it gave him no small amount of satisfaction to make Taggie blush at his more risque comments. The rosy flush that spread across her cheekbones always drew his eyes to the clusters of freckles there. Bas had never really thought about freckles on women. He decided he rather liked them.
“What’s this delicious morsel?” Bas asked, eyeing a bright pink mound covered with berries on a platter in the center of the table. He also flicked a quick glance at Taggie’s nicely rounded backside, hugged by her well-worn Levi’s.
Taggie swiveled around, frowning in a brief moment of confusion before doubling over with laughter. Bas hadn’t waited for an answer before shovelling a heap of the whipped-cream-covered confection into his mouth, both because he wanted to, and because he knew it would amuse her. His eyes rolled back in his head in a dramatic display of pleasure.
“Bas!” Taggie cried. “That was an experiment. A variation on a summer pudding.” She pointed at a plate of shortbread next to the platter. “I set those out for you.”
“Bloody delicious,” he groaned, filling his hands with shortbread. “I’ll also take a healthy sample of these, too, since you offered so nicely.” Bas’s enthusiastic responses weren’t all theatrics. He loved eating almost as much as he loved sex, and Taggie’s dishes, especially biscuits and puddings? Well, they almost made him reconsider that hierarchy.
Taggie leaned back against the sink and gave him one of her saucy little squints. “You should consider being a food critic. People would pay you to come into their kitchens and devour all their food.”
Bas shook his head, swallowing and biting off a mouthful of shortbread. “I’d be fired immediately. According to some people,” he playfully raised his brows, “I make indecent sounds when I eat. I would scandalize everyone.”
Her lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Some people might find that a selling point.”
“Agatha O’Hara, are you flirting with me?” Bas asked with a sly grin.
Just then, Caitlin, tucked in the kitchen’s side entrance, cleared her throat. Neither of them knew how long she had been standing there, watching from the corner of the room, hidden behind a stack of dishes on the counter. Taggie flushed a deep scarlet and spun around, returning to the dishes.
Bas, pleased with himself for having filled his face and gotten his daily rise out of Taggie, threw Caitlin a wink and sauntered back into the sitting room.
“So…” Caitlin nudged Taggie with her elbow. “Were you?”
Taggie shoved her arms into the dishwater with such force it splashed back onto her shirt, covering her chest in soap bubbles. “Was I what?”
“Flirting with Bas.”
Taggie's blush deepened. “Don’t be ridiculous. It's Bas.”
Caitlin wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, you should have been, because he was flirting with you.”
Taggie slanted her sister a dark, warning look then grimaced down at the wet cotton clinging to her skin. “No, he wasn't. He's like that with everyone.”
Taggie had read Rupert so very, very wrong, and she wasn’t about to do it again with the other age-inappropriate local womanizer.
“Whatever you say,” Caitlin huffed, waving away Taggie’s words. She leaned against the sink next to Taggie, staring out the doorway in the direction Bas had gone. “He's like a sexy sheepdog,” Caitlin mused.
Taggie snorted and laughed, meeting Caitlin's eyes. “What?”
“A sexy sheepdog,” Caitlin repeated. “Strapping, silly, always hungry, eager to please, a little stupid--”
“Caitlin,” Taggie reprimanded, fixing her with a stern look. “Don't call him stupid. That’s unkind.”
“Sorry,” Caitlin muttered. “Although, when you’re as handsome as he is, I don’t think it’s what’s between your ears that matters, if you catch my drift.” Caitlin wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. When Taggie’s glare didn’t falter, Caitlin interpreted that as a lack of understanding. “I mean, there are other things you’re good for–”
“I know what you meant,” Taggie grumbled, attacking a sandwich platter with her washrag. “That doesn’t make it any less rude.”
It rankled Taggie to hear anyone spoken of that way, but especially someone like Bas, who was kind to everyone. He was also one of the few people who respected her and treated her like an adult. Beyond that, Taggie loathed hearing people described as unserious or stupid. If she had a pound for every time someone had called her stupid, she would be a millionaire.
Caitlin gave her a sidelong look. “I don’t think he was talking about the pudding when he asked about your ‘delicious morsel.’ I’ll eat my shoe if he wasn’t looking at your arse.”
Taggie studiously ignored Caitlin, plunging her arms up past her elbows in the dishwater as blood rushed to her face. Perhaps she sat in something and stained the seat of her jeans. Why else would someone like Bas waste a second’s thought on someone like her? Tears pricked Taggie’s eyes, and she willed herself to breathe, to resist the impulse to cry.
She’s not you.
Would those words never cease to haunt her?
Cameron would always be everything Taggie wasn’t–well-spoken, confident, sophisticated, a match for a man of consequence. Taggie wasn’t fit for anything beyond playing housemaid to the talented people in her family.
Caitlin leaned forward, smirking at Taggie. “Did you hear what I said? Delicious morsel? Bas thinks you’re–” Caitlin’s tone immediately shifted when she realized that Taggie was on the verge of tears. “I'm sorry, Tag. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just joking,” she whispered.
“I know,” Taggie replied, slotting the plate into the drying rack and wiping at her eyes with her soapy forearm. That’s me, a fucking joke.
That night, Felicity turned up at Bar Sinister again, zeroing in on Bas and promptly taking a seat at the bar. “I’ll take my usual,” she purred seductively. An annoyed frown pinched her brow as she watched him pour the wrong brand of gin into her glass. Bas had never mucked up her order before.
He was probably being an arsehole. He certainly felt like one, but Bas simply wanted to spare Felicity the mortification of being told he wasn’t interested. He’d said it once already. Saying it twice was humiliating to both of them.
Felicity, however, seemed determined to misunderstand him.
Plastering a smile on her face, she blithered on about the upcoming Hunt Ball; what time he should pick her up, what color her dress was. When none of that captured Bas’s interest, Felicity revealed that she had cleared her calendar for the day after the ball, as she assumed they would both be “occupied” in his flat.
Bas gave a noncommittal shrug, mumbling a “yes” or “oh” or “uh huh” every so often as he fussed with glasses behind the bar.
In a last-ditch attempt, Felicity covered Bas’s hand with hers as he wiped down the bar. “Why don’t we continue this conversation upstairs?”
“Sorry, Darling. Too busy tonight,” Bas said absently, withdrawing his hand and staring pointedly beyond her shoulder, wiping out the same glass for the third time. He pretended not to notice her dejected scowl.
When one of Felicity's friends walked in, a perky blonde named Caroline, Bas brightened and greeted her with a smile and a wink. That seemed to be the last straw for Felicity, who, without so much as a muttered goodbye, stormed out the door without paying her tab.
Bas considered it a few quid well spent.
Given that state of things, Bas wasn’t exactly surprised when the Bar Sinister phone rang at half four the next afternoon, and Felicity informed him she wouldn’t be attending the Hunt Ball with him after all.
Bas knew he deserved it, of course. He’d been a proper arse.
He politely asked if she was ill, and he rolled his eyes as he heard her tone brighten.
“No, I’m not ill. I just–I don’t know, Bas. Do you actually want to go with me?” she asked in a wheedling tone.
“Of course I do. Come on, Darling. It’ll be loads of fun,” Bas said automatically.
She sighed into the phone. “I’m just not sure...You could always find another date.”
Bas wrapped the cord of the phone around his finger, twisting and untwisting like he would a strand of hair. Suddenly, he found himself struck by the vision of another redhead who desperately needed a night out. He had mentally planned to go stag, but this new idea was far more appealing.
Felicity continued to fish for compliments and reassurances, but Bas had absorbed no more than two of her words, a slow smile spreading across his face.
another date
Another date, indeed.
Bas suspected Rupert would take it very poorly, but Rupert had made his own bed–and he’d placed Cameron squarely in the middle of it.
Taggie wasn't Rupert's property.
Declan would also be irate. Taggie wasn't Declan’s possession, either. It seemed he barely knew his daughter, given how he talked about her like she was a precocious toddler. Maybe that was the last time Declan had actually paid attention to Taggie, when she was three.
Bas decided that they could both go fuck themselves.
Mood much improved, Bas straightened his spine and beamed across the empty bar. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Darling. You’re absolutely right–it’s best you stay in tonight and rest up. I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” Bas replied cheerfully, not caring that he had cut Felicity off mid-mealy-mouthed sentence.
While Felicity sat gaping at her phone, its shrill dial tone buzzing through the receiver, back at Bar Sinister, Bas was already dialing the Priory, feeling rather proud of himself.
He would take Taggie out, show her a good time, and who knew? Perhaps seeing Taggie on someone else's arm would spur Rupert into some sort of action other than moping.
Bas smirked as he held the receiver to his ear.
And if Taggie decided she fancied a fuck for morale’s sake, he would be more than happy to offer himself up as tribute. It was merely the friendly, gentlemanly thing to do.
Taggie and Caitlin were sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa in the sitting room when the phone rang. They pulled faces at each other, and in a break with habit, Taggie refused to reach for the phone, and Caitlin clapped her hands to her cheeks in mock outrage.
“Phone!” Declan bellowed from upstairs.
Caitlin rolled her eyes when it was clear Taggie wouldn't budge. “Ugh, fine. I hate answering the phone. It's all business business business, Venturer this, Venturer that.” She grabbed the receiver from its cradle and sighed into the phone. “Yes, hi, Priory, Caitlin speaking.”
A wicked grin immediately overtook Caitlin’s face, and her eyes locked with Taggie's. A chill ran down Taggie’s spine. That look meant one thing–something terrible was happening. Or, more precisely, terrible for her and wonderful for Caitlin.
“Oh?” Caitlin chirped, widening her eyes. “Yes, do tell me more. I am managing all of her affairs at present.”
“Caitlin! Who is it?” Taggie hissed, lunging across the sofa to wrestle the phone from her sister.
Caitlin stood, evading Taggie's grasp, and spun in a circle, gleefully twisting herself in the phone cord, “She would love to. And even if she wouldn’t love to, I’ll convince her. But in return, I need you to promise to take me, too,” Caitlin sang into the receiver.
Taggie watched in horror as Caitlin brightly rattled off her and Taggie’s dress and shoe sizes, then dropped the receiver back into its cradle. “We’re going out tonight!” she shrieked.
Taggie said nothing but widened her eyes and waved her hands in large circles, silently inviting her sister to elaborate.
“You’re going to the Hunt Ball with Bas,” Caitlin said matter-of-factly.
Taggie's blood ran cold. “What? What are you talking about?”
“You,” Caitlin grunted, hunching her shoulders and swinging her arms at her sides in what Taggie assumed to be a caveman impression. “Go Hunt Ball.” She laid her palms atop Taggie’s shoulders, swaying side to side, miming dancing. “With Bas,” Caitlin finished, removing her hands and mashing her pinched fingers together and making loud, wet kissing noises.
Taggie closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and groaned. “Caitlin, no. Absolutely not. I can't.”
Everyone in Rutshire went to the Hunt Ball, which meant that they would be there, dressed to the nines, looking perfect and happy and in love. Just the idea of being in the same room as Rupert and Cameron all night turned Taggie's stomach.
Caitiln pursed her lips and primly shook her head, “You need to get out and stop moping. And you can't say no, because, if you go, then I can go. It's so bleak around here, with you and Daddy both shambling around like a pair of depressed zombies. You need this. I need this. Do it for both of us, Tag.”
Taggie released an exasperated groan and slumped back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. “Cait–you know as well as I do that we both have nothing to wear. Mummy made sure of that when she took all of my best clothes with her to London. I know you want us to have fun, but waltzing through a ball in jeans and trainers won't help anything.”
“Bas said he had wardrobe covered! He’ll be over in an hour. Accept it Tag–Cinderella is going to the ball, and it’s about bloody time.” Caitlin wiggled her eyebrows at this last bit.
Taggie rolled her eyes. “Caitlin, I don’t want to–”
“I don’t care, Tag. You need to get out of this house, for just one night, for something other than a job. If you don't, you’ll start growing mold like the roof.” Caitlin nodded in the direction of Penscombe, and Taggie shrank into herself. “They aren’t going anywhere–you’re going to see them everywhere, in town, in the papers. They’re even in the house half the time. You can’t let them make you hide. You have to live!”
Hearing it put that way made Taggie feel more pathetic than she already did. She was on the verge of becoming a moldy rotten roof. How flattering.
Caitlin’s tone softened. “Tag, you literally haven’t left the house in weeks, except to slave away in someone else’s kitchen. You can’t go on like this. It’s worse than when we lived in London.”
Caitlin was right. If she wanted to truly avoid Rupert and Cameron, she’d spend the rest of her life confined to her bedroom. Even the Priory sitting room and the upstairs loo weren’t safe.
Maybe it would be a good thing, to see Rupert and Cameron as a couple, outside of Venturer meetings. It would make it more real, help her accept it, like closure.
What a load of bullshit. It would just be torture.
Caitlin saw the battle playing out over Taggie’s features and fell to her knees at Taggie’s feet, grabbing at Taggie’s hands. “Please, Tag? Will you suffer through one glamorous evening with the second handsomest man in England for my sake?”
Taggie laughed and squeezed her sister's hands. “And just why do you need this night out so desperately? You and I could always just go to the cinema instead.”
“To see Archie,” Caitlin said.
“Archie?”
“Archie.”
“You want to see Archie Baddingham? Why?”
Caitlin gave a pert little toss of her head. “We’ve become friends since New Year’s Eve. You’re always telling me to make more friends.”
“Just what kind of friends?” Taggie asked with a sinking feeling.
Caitlin grinned. “Exactly the kind you’re thinking.”
Taggie groaned and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Babysitting two horny teenagers on opposite sides of a franchise war was the opposite of a glamorous, escapist night out.
Taggie slowly shook her head. “Caitlin, I’m sorry, but no. I won’t. I can’t.”
Caitlin scrambled to her feet and linked her hands behind Taggie’s neck. “If you won’t do it for your favorite sister, you should do it for Bas.”
Taggie did a double take. “Bas doesn’t need me. He’s Bas.”
“It didn’t sound that way on the phone.” Caitlin frowned. “He sounded put out–said his date cancelled on him last minute, and that you were the first person he thought of to take instead. He said he wants to pick your brains about business and get in your knickers.”
Taggie ducked her head to hide her blush and pushed Caitlin away. “He didn’t say that.”
Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Well, not the knickers part, obviously, but I’m sure it’s true.” She fixed Taggie with a knowing look. “Bas is nice, and you like talking to him. The two of you with your restaurant-ese are nearly as bad as Daddy with his Yeats. Tag, I don’t want to be cruel, but if you don’t get out among people, you’re going to become a hermit weirdo.”
Taggie gnawed on her bottom lip. She didn’t want to be a coward. Or a hermit weirdo. Unlike some of her other past dates, she trusted Bas not to dump her at the door for someone else. He would take her home if she wanted to leave.
Caitlin, incisive as ever, saw Taggie’s weakening resolve and pounced. “Think of this as a favor to him, an act of self-sacrificing friendship in his hour of need! It’s more helpful than stuffing him with pudding until you make him fat, and he has to buy all new trousers.”
“Well, you can explain this to Daddy,” Taggie relented. “If he says yes, then I’ll go.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Caitlin purred. “You think this is going to foil me, but it won’t.”
Caitlin sauntered upstairs and yelled into Declan’s study at such a volume that Taggie could hear from downstairs. “Taggie and I are going to the Hunt Ball tonight. Bas is taking us both.”
Declan, already advanced in his cups based on the incoherent grumbling and violent clacking of his typewriter, bellowed back a “Yes, yes. Fine, just leave me in bloody peace, so I can get some work done!”
Caitlin wasn't finished. “Also, I’m pregnant and quitting school, and Taggie has eloped with James Vereker.”
“Great, Love. Ask Tag if she can set some supper out by the door for me.”
Caitlin tripped back down the stairs and rolled her eyes at Taggie as she strolled back into the sitting room. “Negligent parents take all the fun out of rebellion,” she sighed.
True to his word, Bas arrived exactly an hour later.
He didn’t arrive alone.
At his side was a sleek, petite woman in her thirties with chestnut hair, aggressively chewing gum. She flashed Caitlin and Taggie a bright smile when they opened the front door. Bas’s arms were overflowing with garment bags, while the woman held two large cases. “Where would you like the goods?”
“This way!” Caitlin led them both up the stairs to Taggie’s room, which had the most space and the full-length mirror.
Bas dumped the bags on her bed while the woman set her cases on the vanity. “It’s Sharon,” sticking out her hand.
Caitlin grabbed and shook it vigorously, with a wide grin, “Caitlin.”
“I’m in wardrobe at Corinium. When Bas rang this afternoon and told me he needed a favor, I was only too happy to oblige.” Sharon gave Bas a salacious wink over her shoulder, which Bas returned. “I’m here to gussy you both up, courtesy of Corinium Television.”
Caitlin gave a delighted squeal.
Taggie gulped. “This is all from Corinium? Bas, won't Tony be…” Livid, murderous “...upset?”
Bas just laughed his way out Taggie's room. “He'll never miss them, not for a few hours.”
“Caitlin, you start. I’ll sort Daddy’s supper.” Caitlin was too enthralled by the stack of gowns to pay her sister any mind.
Taggie followed Bas into the hall outside her room and gingerly tapped his shoulder. He turned and raised his brows questioningly, a friendly smile curving his lips.
“Thank you for this. The invitation itself was kind enough, but you've gone to so much trouble,” Taggie said, nodding in the direction of her room.
Bas chuckled. “There’s nothing kind about it, Taggie. You’re helping me. It's curry night all over again. I have to sort some things back at the Bar, but I’ll be back for both of you no later than eight.”
Taggie returned to her room a few minutes later to find Caitlin gleefully ripping open all the bags and pulling out dresses, as if it was early Christmas. Sharon was clicking open cases and pulling out trays and trays of cosmetics and hair styling equipment.
“And what are you going for this evening?” Sharon asked Caitiln.
She grinned and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I want everyone to be afraid of me–afraid of how much they want me.”
Sharon laughed as she unwound the cord of a curling iron. She gave Taggie an appraising look. “And your sister?”
Caitlin became suddenly serious. “Taggie needs to look ravishing. Someone’s broken her heart, and he’s going to be there tonight with the other woman. She needs to look so good that everyone instantly falls in love with her.”
“Caitlin!” Taggie cried.
“What! It's true!”
“It’ll be no work at all to make you look stunning,” Sharon said to Taggie around chomps of her gum. “‘Revenge looks’ are one of my specialties. They’re a staple of soaps, and I’m the foremost wardrobe person on Four Men Went to Mow. Bas told me this needed to be a special night for both of you, so I came prepared.”
Caitlin's face split in a wicked grin. “I’ve told Taggie she should shag Bas,” she whispered behind her hand.
“Caitlin!” Taggie hissed. “Don't pay her any mind,” she said quickly. “She has no idea what she's talking about.”
“You should. He’s the best fuck I’ve ever had,” Sharon said absentmindedly, sorting through palettes of eye shadow.
Caitlin’s eyes went wide with glee. “See, Tag? A testimonial from a satisfied customer!”
Taggie, utterly scandalized, threw a balled up shirt at her sister. It was one thing for Caitlin to say such deranged things to her, alone in the kitchen, but another entirely to do it in front of a stranger.
Caitlin, however, was only picking up steam. “He’s a slag, Tag–ooo that rhymed!--and even if you won’t admit it, he’s been sneaking glances for weeks. It would only take one tiny little itty-bitty hint for him to whisk you off to bed.”
Taggie felt lightheaded from the violence of her blush, and she couldn't even look at Sharon. “Caitlin, stop it. You know that’s not true.”
Caitlin groaned and flung herself backward onto the pile of dresses on the bed. “God, Taggie, I love you, but your insecurity makes you so thick sometimes. A good senseless shag is exactly what you need to snap you out of this funk.”
“I think this will do nicely.” Sharon, unfazed, held up a dress and looked at Taggie approvingly.
Taggie blanched. “I-isn’t it a little much?”
“No such thing as too much in these situations.” Sharon pulled out a metal flask, unscrewed the lid, and passed it to Taggie. “Have some Dutch Courage if you need, but it’s time to get to work.”