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“She’s fecking late,” Declan murmured, glancing at his watch for the fifth time that minute. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was considerably more frazzled than usual due to the amount he was running his ink-stained hands through it. The man was a bundle of worry, as though it was his very first screen test and not his daughter’s.
Rupert shared his friend’s anxieties, albeit for entirely different reasons. Declan deemed this screen test a reflection of his intelligence and honour; intelligence in opting for his daughter as the new presenter of Venturer’s debut cooking show over more experienced and known chefs, and his honour as a man with three bright young children to continue on his hard-carved legacy.
It was obvious to anyone with eyes Declan didn’t think his daughter was good enough, in more sense than one.
Wracked with nerves, Rupert was wondering why Taggie, wonderful, thoughtful, selfless Taggie, was running late. He knew she didn’t have her father’s propensity and adoration for the camera, but she had seemed excited when they’d pitched to her the idea of her very own cooking show. She’d fretted over whether she had the same pull Declan did, whether people would care enough about her to tune in, all qualms that Lizzie and Freddie had hurriedly put to bed. Rupert had been in the room when the question was posed, but Taggie had been vehemently avoiding him the last few months - since their impromptu kiss in the kitchen - that he hadn’t felt welcome to say anything. He didn’t think she wanted his input.
Against his better judgement, Rupert had been consumed by all things Taggie. Thoughts of their kiss, of the awkward way Seb had pulled her out the room to celebrate with the others, of the phone call he received from a panicked Cameron after she’d whacked Tony with her bloody award that had forced his hand in leaving early. As he had told Taggie that night, he was trapped. Utterly and completely trapped. For the first time in his wretched life, he was living for somebody else, which had left him in a horrendous position. He wanted Declan to like him, to approve of him leching after his daughter, so he tried ever so desperately to hide his attraction until it was appropriate to announce it to the world. He hadn’t been able to leave Cameron for a while out of fear she would ruin the company, in turn destroying every chance the O’Hara’s had to stay in Colchester. Everything Rupert did was to keep Taggie close, and yet his actions had meant she kept him at arm’s distance. She’d let poor Seb down gently, and spent most weekends in London with her friends, or burying herself into catering or Venturer work. The girl was burning herself out in order to not spend a moment alone with Rupert, and it was killing them both.
“Taggie won’t let us down,” Lizzie assured them, standing a hairsbreadth from Freddie as though making their affair less inconspicuous. “She’s a good girl. There’s probably a delay with the trains.”
“She bloody ran off to London again when she knows this is important,” Declan huffed, wearing a hole in the carpet as he paced. “She’s just like her mother.”
“Taggie is nothing like Maud,” Rupert muttered, shuddering at the image. When Declan shot him an intense glower, Rupert shrugged, feigning indifference. “She’s twenty, let her live a little.”
Cameron waltzed into the room, throwing a stack of papers onto her producer’s chair. It took her two seconds to notice the crew all stood around, the distinct lack of cooking happening, and she sighed. “No Taggie? Did she come to her senses and bail?” She came to a halt next to Rupert, and brushed her arm against his in a way that was supposed to be teasing but only succeeded in bristling him.
“I don’t understand why you think Taggie can’t do this,” Lizzie said, with a furrowed brow.
His head in his hands, Declan let out a deep sigh. “It will be a live show, for Christ’s sake, and she’s already late to the screen test. I love that girl, I really do, but this will be too much responsibility for her. She can’t tell the time, she won’t be able to read the prompter, and she won’t be able to read the recipes.”
“She’s too much of a liability to pin a whole show to her,” Cameron agreed.
“Keep your wig on,” Freddie clapped Declan on the back. “She’s the loveliest of girls, audiences are going to flock to her. Besides, her cooking will speak for itself. I sent a car to pick Taggie up from the train station, my driver is probably stuck in traffic or something.” He pointedly ignored Declan’s incredulous glance. “She’s a potential star of Venturer Television, and I’m treating her as such.”
“A waste of company funds,” she whispered. Rupert’s blood boiled, though he remained frozen, and said nothing.
They waited a painstaking few more minutes, the hands on the clock ticking by ever so slowly. Declan looked just about ready to call the whole thing off, when a door swung open and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the sound stage. Every head turned towards Taggie, rushing in, weighed down by her weekend bags.
Rupert felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. His doe-eyed, sweet Taggie, had cut her hair. Her usually long, wavy auburn locks had been chopped, and now sat just below her shoulders. She had a fringe now, framing her heart-shaped face like a gilded painting, and the shade was just a touch darker. Before, she had resembled a Renaissance maiden, innocent and unspoilt, but this new haircut made her look sophisticated and elegant. She looked breathtakingly ethereal.
“What the fuck?” Cameron spat, in a hushed voice. Taggie couldn’t hear as she unloaded the bags off her shoulder, hurrying to tie an apron around her waist. “Stupid girl has only gone and ruined the whole ‘girl-next-door’ look we were going to build the show around.”
Rupert swallowed, unable to tear his gaze away from Taggie. “Don’t be so bullheaded,” he scolded. “She looks . . . fantastic.” Yes, fantastic was a neutral adjective to describe her. Very unsuspicious. He blinked, and managed to flit his attention down at Cameron. She was scowling so profoundly her glamorous features had twisted and contorted into something unbecoming. “Look around you. The crew can’t take their eyes off of her.”
Taggie came to stand in front of them all, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she panted. “I didn’t know there was a car waiting for me so I’d started to walk back, hoping to catch the bus into town. The driver gave me such a fright beeping at me down the lane, I’d thought somebody was trying to run me off the road!”
Rupert’s heart sunk a little, as his take away from that story was that Taggie assumed nobody would come collect her, that she wasn’t worth a cab fare.
Letting out a giggle, Lizzie reached forward to run her hand through Taggie’s new locks. “This is fabulous!” she cooed, making the girl blush. “You look so grown-up!”
The strain in Rupert’s trousers couldn’t help but agree.
“Thanks Lizzie,” she said, a little shy. “Hazel’s industry friends twisted my arm after I told them about the screen test. They said I should look like somebody who knows their way around the kitchen, not somebody who’s barely old enough to turn on the hob.” Freddie guffawed, as Cameron rolled her eyes.
“Well Tag, you ready?” Declan asked, gesturing towards the kitchen set.
Taggie nodded, making her way to stand behind the wooden table. The lights flickered on, and she squinted. Unused to the spotlight in more ways than one, she quickly removed her grey cardigan, revealing the fitted white tee underneath. Rupert could make out the outline of a simple cotton bra, and he forced himself to look elsewhere, anywhere.
“Just be yourself alright?” Declan called to her, doing a poor job of masking his anxiousness. “You’ve got all the ingredients in front of you for that stew you wanted to make. Do it how you normally would.”
Wringing her hands, Taggie glanced around the table, as the make-up team came to polish her up. She didn’t need much, of course she didn’t. When they’d finished up, Cameron instructed the camera to start rolling. She moved to stand in front of the monitor, and even she couldn’t deny that Taggie looked like she belonged there.
Taggie remained stock still as she took inventory of the ingredients. Somebody in the back coughed, and she was spurred to pick up a peeler as she went to work on the carrots.
“Jesus girl, say something!” Cameron barked out.
Taggie flinched, as she searched her brain for the right words to say.
“Talk to the camera like it’s a friend,” Lizzie suggested, softly. “Or like Caitlin has burst in and is demanding to know how to make a stew to impress her latest schoolgirl crush.”
At this advice Taggie smiled, and visibly loosened up.
In her element after peeling all the vegetables and browning off the beef, Taggie began chopping away. “This is what chefs call a mi . . . mirror . . . milepoix? Mimepoix?” She was stammering over the word, and Rupert recalled the horrendous menus Taggie had written out in French last year. He’d not known then that she was dyslexic, and even now the extent of her learning difficulties caught him off guard, considering how capable she was in every other aspect.
“It’s a mirepoix dear,” Lizzie helped out.
Declan frowned. “You won’t get help if it goes live,” he told her. “Just do the job and leave out any words that are going to trip you up.” Telling a child of his to skip complicated words clearly irked him, whilst it riled Rupert up.
Cheeks mottled pink, Taggie nodded. She struggled to recover her confidence. “Well, ok, yes so this is a mirepoix. It’s, um, a foundation in French cooking and used to . . . enhance flavours in stews, soups, stocks and, um, sauces.”
“Speak up!” Cameron instructed.
Taggie winced, nearly clipping her fingertip with the rather large knife. Rupert snapped and stepped forward, unable to stand by any longer. “You’re the best bloody chef I’ve ever met angel. Ignore the cameras, ignore the producers, just focus on what you’re good at.”
For the first time in months, Taggie met his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and kiss her worries away, then take her on the table too, amidst the carrots and onions, mussing up her new hair. He’d ask Cameron for the tape afterwards too. Instead he gave her a genuine smile, warm and hopefully supportive, and winked.
“You’ve got this Tag,” he whispered, then backed away, ignoring Declan’s indignation once again.
“I’d watch you talk about paint drying!” came a cry from across the room, and the crew all piped up with their agreements. This uproar of encouragement from the crew bolstered Taggie, as she took a deep breath and flashed the camera a dazzling smile.
The room was in raptured captivation as Taggie eased into the work more and more, stirring the mirepoix on a low heat as she added minced garlic and a litany of herbs. The aromas wafting around the soundstage were nearly as enticing as her presence.
She poured in a cup of beef stock, telling the camera about how she came to learn the recipe. “I spent a lot of time in my granny’s kitchen in Clondalkin, just outside Dublin. I had different term times to my brother and sister, so I was usually sent to my granny Fionnuala’s. The week I had to myself with my granny was my favourite time of the year. After bringing up my father and his four brothers, she seemed to like having a girl in the family who didn’t care much for sports or books. Instead I wanted to be just like her; I wanted to cook.”
This anecdote, spurred on by the scent memory of the bubbling stew, was a welcome surprise. When talking about something she was passionate, or even just happy, about, Taggie blossomed wonderfully, no stuttering or tripping over words. She said what she wanted to, and people couldn’t help but hang off of every word.
“Granny is your typical Irish granny, in the way that she pulls your ear and tells you to pick up your muddy boots, but it’s over a bowl of something hearty and delicious. I was six when she taught me this recipe, and it’s something I’ve committed to memory, something I crave when I feel like everything’s falling apart.” She briefly, very briefly, darted her gaze towards Rupert, before returning her attention to the pot and stirring. She let out a soft giggle as she recalled something her granny had told her. “She once told me that this stew could mend broken hearts and win wars. She said; ‘if Napoleon or Romeo and Juliet had had just one spoonful of my stew, then there wouldn’t have been any need for any of that nasty business, the eejits.’”
The crew all laughed at Taggie’s perfect imitation of her granny, the Irish lilt rolling off her tongue like second nature. Rupert, who’d never really found the Irish accent to be all that sensuous, suddenly wanted more than breath itself to hear Taggie recite every single word from some dull book in that melodic brogue.
When the stew was simmering nicely, a healthy dose of potatoes added in for good measure, Taggie slid something across the counter that had previously been hidden by a large jug containing kitchen utensils. It was a pint of some kind of dark stout. Her eyes glimmered cheekily as she held it up to the camera.
“This is my granny’s not-so-secret ingredient,” she said, a hint of naughty schoolgirl about her that had Rupert’s mouth drying up. “Only a pint of Guinness will do. Anything else is . . . blasphemous.” She looked so startled to have gotten the word right the first time, so proud of herself, that she held the pint up and cheersed the camera, taking a sip. She suddenly pulled the glass from her lips, a milky moustache left behind that Rupert wanted to lap off with his own tongue, as she looked past the camera at Declan and Cameron. “Oh fuck, am I allowed to drink?”
Once again the crew laugh boisterously, with her, not at her. She had them in the palm of her hand.
The rest of the test shoot went spectacularly. Taggie was a goddess in the kitchen, no steps missed, nothing left unexplained. The stew simmered away as she told more anecdotes about her granny, a woman who from the sound of things was a real force of nature. Even Declan was laughing along as Taggie told the tale of when her granny had tried to send the stew to Declan at university when he’d been holed up finishing his dissertation, and the stew had seeped through the brown parcel and the postman had threatened to stop delivering to the student halls altogether.
Once Taggie had decided the stew had had long enough to cook, she opened the lid and the crew were practically salivating at the smell. She dipped a spoon into the pot and took a little taste, letting out an orgasmic moan. Rupert immediately made up his mind in asking Cameron for the tape afterwards, where he would wear out the rewind button just so he could hear that sound over and over and over again. That heavenly, filthy sound.
Taggie began to dish up bowls and bowls of the seemingly never-ending stew, and to the shock of Cameron and Declan, she began to offer the portions out to the crew. Freddie, of course, was first in line. The camera continued to roll as the crew dug in, lathering Taggie in compliments. Freddie even planted a slobbery kiss to Taggie’s forehead, as he raved on about the dish. She flushed a deep scarlet as she insisted it was just stew, to which she was assured nobody had tasted a stew like hers.
Cameron cut the cameras, and gestured for the Venturer heads to follow her into her office. Rupert stole one last glance at Taggie, who was surrounded by grateful men, their bellies full and their eyes glued to their angelic chef. He was overjoyed that she was in the room for once to hear the praises being sung about her cooking, and he decided there and then that he would do everything within his power to keep her there. To keep her happy.
In the producer’s office, Freddie, Rupert, Declan and Cameron gathered around the table. For a while only the sound of Freddie’s spoon scraping his already empty bowl could be heard, and Rupert grinned.
“Well, if that’s anything to go by, I think she’s hired,” he announced, pointing at the dark remnants of gravy around Freddie’s lips.
He chuckled, and patted his belly. “She’s a bloody good cook, your Tag,” he told Declan.
Cameron propped a hand on her hip. “It’s all well and good Taggie cooking competently, but the audience won’t be able to taste through the screen,” she huffed. “We’ve got to decide if she can host, and I’m thinking we can find someone more experienced who cooks just as well.”
“You won’t find anyone better than Taggie,” Freddie scoffed. He looked to Rupert for help. “I for one think she’s fucking spectacular - excuse my French.”
Rupert wholeheartedly agreed. “She’s got a pull about her, Cameron, you can’t deny it.”
“She can’t be stuttering and mispronouncing the fucking ingredients on air!” Cameron cried. “She’ll just embarrass herself - “
“Now hang on,” Rupert interjected. His hackles were rising. “Give her a chance. She can study up before a filming, we can help her out.”
“I’m not going to hold her fucking hand!” Cameron said, vehemently headstrong. It was clear she had made her mind up before the test shoot, and Rupert suspected it had less to do with Taggie’s quality of presenting and more about the way Rupert’s whole existence revolved around her laugh, her smile, her fucking whole being.
“She’s not a child, you don’t have to treat her as such,” he spat. “She’s magnetic, everyone in that room thought so. Put her on the show, give her the whole fucking show, and she’ll have people at home tuning in every week, every bloody night.”
Cameron bore a hole into his eyes with the intensity of her stare. She was trying, and failing as she always had, to read his mind.
“She’s not good enough,” she said, slowly, with venom dripping from the syllables.
“That’s not fair,” Freddie piped up. “Watching Taggie made me think I could make that stew, and I burn the toast in the morning. Hearing her talk about her granny made me think about my dear old nan, made me connect with her over that bloody stew. She’s dynamite, Cameron. You’d be a fool to pass her over.” He looked around the room with a little surprise after his outburst, and tugged on his tie, settling into his words. “I’ve been passionate about putting on a cooking show since Tony was trying to press-gang me into his sordid business. If it’s not going to be Taggie, it’s not going to be worth the money to air it.”
Declan, arms crossed, his expression stern, finally added his two cents. “I know my daughter better than any of you,” he began, with an added glower at Rupert. “She downplays her dyslexia, but it’s hard on her. She’ll struggle to keep up with the workload of learning new recipes.” He took a deep breath. “But I’ve found myself underestimating her more and more lately. She’s been keeping the family afloat for far longer than I’d realised. I have to admit, she was wonderful today. She’s just the person we need.”
-
“I bet you were wonderful today, darling,” Bas cooed, topping up her glass of whisky.
Taggie, who’d never been a particularly big drinker, found herself getting a glimpse into her father’s inner workings. The test shoot had been . . . interesting, and she’d been gasping for a stiff drink by the time she’d dragged herself to Bar Sinister. She imagined preparing all week to go live in front of twelve million viewers for an hour, and she felt her stomach churn. Her father, though his habits excessive, suddenly made a little more sense to her.
She furrowed her brow and gave Bas a look of bashfulness. “I wouldn’t say that,” she sighed, watching the ice cubes melt, achingly slow, into the amber liquid. “I knew what I was doing, but talking about it, giving it all these fancy terms, that’s where I kept tripping up.”
Bas waved off her concerns. “You’re a bloody good chef Tag, and yes I’m calling you a chef because that’s what you are. Not some home cook making scones and cakes - although your cakes are fucking fantastic. I remember trying to poach you, convince you to come work for me. You were at Bibendum and Harvey’s, which you kept secret you little minx, but I asked around. Marco bloody Pierre White raves about you.” He leant in, as though sharing a scandalous secret. “You’ve earned your spot, darling. You were washing dishes at these big establishments, before you worked up the ranks. Yes you were never chef de partie, or running your own pass, but you were making incredible food. You still make incredible food. Exceptional, even.”
Blushing profusely, Taggie pushed lightly at his chest. “Alright, that’s enough.”
“They should snap you up at Venturer, or else somebody else will come along and put you in the spotlight,” he announced, holding his glass up to cheers hers. His other hand came to rest upon her knee. It was warm, and the friendly affection welcome. “Besides, your food is delightful, but not nearly as delightful as you are to look at. You’re wasted away, hidden in the kitchen.”
The drink hadn’t emboldened him, he was always that flirtatious with her, and Taggie rather enjoyed it. It was harmless, knowing that Bas didn’t do relationships, and that he was more infatuated with her mother anyway.
“If Cameron has her way, I’ll never get that show. In which case, you might get your way and I’ll come work for you.”
Bas lit up. “Yes! We’ll show the people of Cotchester what they’re missing, one way or the other.”
He planted an exaggerated kiss on her cheek, and she laughed heartily. They were broken apart by the sound of a deep cough, and they turned to see Rupert looming over them. He had his jacket thrown over his shoulder. The pressed white shirt was tucked, though the top few buttons had been undone, retaining the rakish air he wore so well.
“Am I interrupting something?” His eyes flitted down to where Bas’s hand remained on Taggie’s knee, before peering down at her through heavy-lidded eyes.
Taggie dared herself to meet his gaze. “Just catching up,” she said, refusing to feel affected by the possessive way in which Rupert looked at her. “Shouldn’t you be at the studio? I thought you had more screen tests to watch?”
Jaw working, Rupert shrugged. “Well yes we did, but we cancelled the rest. We found just the presenter we needed. Declan’s calling them now.”
Heart plummeting, Taggie gave a little nod. She scooped up her rocks glass and chased her disappointment with the burn of whisky. She could hear Bas trying to console her, but it all sounded like an echo, as she was desperately blinking back tears. She felt all at once like a silly little girl, trying to recite her daddy’s favourite poem at one of their dinner parties just to please him, only to find the words swimming off the page. He’d been so disappointed then, telling his guests that Taggie was just shy, that he’d get Patrick to read them something instead. She imagined that’s how he had behaved today, making excuses for his dyslexic daughter, telling the others that the show would go ahead, just with somebody better.
Wanting nothing more than to snap out of her pathetic reverie, she plastered the falsest of false smiles onto her lips, and braved another look at Rupert. His features had softened now, the jealousy or whatever he’d been channelling a moment ago dissipated.
“Of course, Declan won’t get an answer because you’re here, but I’m more than happy to relay the message,” he said, doing his best to act nonchalant, the way the corner of his lips upturned giving him away.
It took Taggie half a beat to realise what he had said. What the words meant. “Are you . . . are you saying . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
Rupert broke out into an earth-shattering grin, and nodded. “You’ve got the job angel,” he said, happily.
The world around Taggie all but erupted, though it was just her little bubble that reacted. She leapt off of her stool and collided into Rupert’s arms, burying herself into his chest as she tried to control the racing of her heart. Bas, cheering raucously, barrelled his way behind the bar and nabbed a bottle of top shelf champagne. He popped it open and began pouring three generous glasses, but Taggie didn’t care much for the alcohol anymore. She was good enough, she was wanted, and Rupert was holding her.
Things couldn’t get much better.