Chapter Text
Taggie couldn’t believe what her life had become.
People often said that, more as a way to brag about the spectacular things that had happened to them, usually through nepotism or knowing the right people. Oh, you’ve got a friend of a friend who’s letting you use their yacht for the weekend to go sailing around the coast? Or, wow, you’ve found a superb semi-detached with minimal mould and an en-suite all for under a thousand pounds a month in Hampstead - but it’s not a scam, because daddy’s cousin is the landlord!
Nepotism only served Taggie in small, pointless ways that had aided her very little in her personal and professional life. Her father was a semi well-known journalist (as well known as journalists could get) and was often featured on serious panels debating who’s ballsed up this week in politics (always the puffed-up Tories, occasionally the spineless Labour party). The most the O’Hara name had ever earned her was piteous looks at school following her golden brother, and the odd hate comment on social media from a riled-up right winger.
She’d also inherited some pretty deep-rooted daddy issues, which she was trying her best, but ultimately unsuccessful, to never, ever think about. Take her sexual awakening for example, Dennis Quaid in The Parent Trap. From an early age she was doomed to fall for unattainable, older men who fulfilled some twisted gap from her childhood. This was one of the reasons, she supposed, she’d put in an application to become an escort on a site her roommate recommended.
Anybody who knew Taggie in the slightest would have said this was very out of character for her. She rarely dated, was never on any apps, and ‘casual fling’ was not something from her vernacular. However, the offer had been too tempting to pass on. Simply put, she was in dire need of money. Having finally moved out of her family home in Fulham at the grand old age of twenty-three, she was faced with London rent prices for the first time (not including when she was and still was helping to pay off her family’s mortgage). Taggie had been stuck between pursuing her passions and making enough to pay rent, so she had taken a part-time job in a fancy restaurant in Sloane Square that paid pennies, yet was both the most rewarding and most physically demanding venture she had ever agreed to. She was low down in the kitchen hierarchy, with her shifts split between early morning prep and late night services. She had neither the energy nor the time to actually date, and not enough money to stay afloat.
Hence, the escort service.
It was a discreet site for wealthy clients, usually seeking agreeable company or arm candy. Taggie had perused the anonymous profiles several times the past week before getting an overwhelming sense of ickiness that led her to turning off her phone and taking long showers. Her roommate, Daysee, had encouraged her not to judge the men, explaining that they were more lonely than perverted. Taggie couldn’t get over the median age on the site being sixty-three - something even her unaddressed daddy issues couldn’t get on board with.
However, after some more needling from Daysee to give it a go - “even one date with some sweaty suit would make you enough money to cover rent for the month!” - she caved and agreed to a brunch date with the youngest man she could find.
There were no pictures, and she hadn’t been pushed to provide any either, as the site prided itself on preserving client’s privacy, as well as the girls who signed up. It all seemed rather legit and safe, although Taggie wished she could at least have an idea of who she was agreeing to an hour long meal with. All she knew was that he was forty, based in London, and that his name was Rupert.
Daysee had offered to pick out an outfit for her, whilst she looked over the very succinct profile listing.
“It says he’s looking for company to work events,” Daysee said, lying on her stomach on Taggie’s bed in her modest (London estate agent speak for fucking tiny) room, doing more snooping than helping. “At least you know he’s not married then.”
“Does that happen?” Taggie asked, distractedly as she held up two dress options. Neither seemed right.
“What? Married men on the site? Oh yeah, heaps of them.” Daysee laughed at Taggie’s horrified expression. “Don’t act naive Tag. Men have always gotten bored of their wives and looked to the latest generation of fuckable women.”
It had always baffled Taggie that men could be so audacious as to have wives or girlfriends at home, and yet they were still willing to pay for the company of another woman, though she knew it was common. Extramarital affairs were not something she was completely oblivious about, having provided her own mother many an alibi to sneak off with her newest paramour. One of her earliest memories was sitting outside a dressing room in the West End, playing with a ratty old Punch and Judy puppet, whilst her mum played with her co-star behind closed doors. The matter of affairs, however, was not as pressing in that current moment as what to wear was. She did not know what kind of man Rupert was and what he was after, only that the brunch place was very fancy and that he had picked her from name and age alone.
“Wear the checkered maxi dress you bought last week at the thrift shop,” Daysee suggested, propping her head on her hands. She’d decided that the account was legit enough that she’d happily send her off to meet this total stranger. Even practically wrap a ribbon and bow around her too. “Makes your arse look great.”
Taggie grinned. “Shouldn’t the meeting go well based on my personality and not my arse?”
“It never is just about your personality,” Daysee sighed.
Taggie hummed and decided Daysee, as usual when it came to men, was probably right. Though the site explicitly banned any sexual relationships between the escorts and clients, the men were clearly after younger and prettier women.
She shrugged off her jumper and jogging bottoms in favour of the burgundy dress, that did in fact make her arse look spectacular. She went to undo her hair from her plaits, when Daysee shot up. “No, no, leave them in! You’ve got a whole milkmaid, lost farm girl look going for you that this Rupert bloke is going to lose his mind over.”
Taggie gave herself a once over in the mirror. She looked nice, especially after Daysee had applied a light layer of blush and mascara. She could fool herself that she was going for a morning stroll through the Sunday markets, and not on a paid date with a man old enough to be her father. She remembered when her ex from college, Ralphie, had left her in favour of a girl old enough to buy them all cigarettes. He’d broken up with her on a park bench, idly toying with her plaits and her feelings, as he’d told her that she needed to grow up. She’d been crying, rather mortifyingly, when he’d revealed he’d been cheating on her - but that of course it was her fault, that she hadn’t been enough.
Taggie was never enough.
She shook her head, deciding that rehashing memories of her first heartbreak was perhaps not an ideal way to head off for another date.
“Taggie, you look fit,” Daysee cooed, sitting up. “I’d pay you for a date.”
“Why pay when you get my time for free,” Taggie replied, pecking her friend on the top of her head. She let out a little sigh. “Let’s hope this isn’t a complete disaster.”
She triple checked the address once again, when she caught sight of the time. She’d be late if she didn’t jump on a bus right this second.
“Shit! I’ve got to go!” Taggie gathered up her belongings, blew Daysee a kiss, and promised to keep her location on and text her updates throughout the meeting.
Fifteen minutes later, and several Fontaine’s D.C. tunes later, she made it to the restaurant, out of breath and panicked that she’d gotten to the wrong place. It was even more upscale than the website made it seem. The customers were all financiers and wealthy pensioners. She scanned the restaurant for a man sat alone, but could see only couples or groups.
The server at the door looked her up and down, making her feel even more out of place, as she approached the stand. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to meet . . . someone,” she said, catching her breath. “Rupert?”
Immediately, the server’s demeanour changed. His body stiffened, scooping up a menu. She might as well have told him she was dining with the owner. “Right this way ma’am.”
He gestured for her to follow, as he led her to a secluded section of the restaurant that had been concealed from the door. There sat a man who looked neither old nor desperate, though he was checking his watch. He looked refined in a suit that cost more than Taggie’s whole wardrobe, his tan hinting at a lifestyle she could only dream of. He was also the most handsome person Taggie had ever seen. Older, but not old. His hair was jet black, the colour of freshly brewed coffee, his face clean shaven. He gave off the air of somebody who knew they were good-looking, a suave sort of cockiness, but fuck wasn’t it attractive.
It took the server coughing for her to be shaken from her reverie, as he moved to hold the seat out for her.
Rupert looked up at her, and she felt the air leave her lungs.
-
Stood in front of him was an angel. No other way to describe it. A girl, for she had to be younger than twenty-four, with the most breathtaking doe eyes was staring at him as though he had laid an egg. She was wearing a delightful burgundy dress, checkered, that hugged her in all the right places. Her hair, the most spectacular shade of auburn, hung in two long adorable plaits framing her face, curls escaping. He was desperate to tug out the hairbands and run his hands through the tresses, to see them spilled out across his pillow. She was sweet and beautiful and almost certainly here for somebody else.
The waiter glanced between the pair before deciding it was above his pay grade to interfere, and wisely left.
“Rupert?” the girl finally asked, gesturing to the empty seat.
He nodded, standing up as was polite, though he wasn’t sure why he would even entertain the idea of letting her join him when he was waiting for somebody else. He considered telling her that the seat was taken. “Yes.” Who was he kidding, he’d much rather have brunch with this delightful creature than whatever age-appropriate escort Gerald had selected for him off of some seedy website. “Sorry, have we met before? I’m certain I would have remembered.”
Pink tinged the girl’s cheeks, as she set her bag down on the floor. Wired headphones peeked out of the top. “No, we haven’t met. That is to say, not formally. I’m . . . I’m Agatha.”
“You’re Agatha?” Rupert spluttered.
“Yes, but nobody really calls me that,” she said, quickly. “I much prefer Taggie.”
“Jesus, you’re really Agatha?”
“Please call me Taggie.”
“I believe there’s been a mistake,” he muttered. It had to be some practical joke his office had set up. This girl was going to burst out laughing any second. She was going to tell him that of course she wasn’t Agatha, that he’d been set up, and then some completely average, perfectly fine, middle-aged woman was going to walk around the corner. “My assistant arranged this whole thing, and well, I was under the impression Agatha - you - would be older.”
The girl raised an eyebrow. She leant back in the chair and Rupert had to pretend not to notice the way the dress shifted over her chest, small but mighty. Perfect palm size. “Oh.”
Christ, even her voice was doing unspeakable things to him. It was low and husky yet soft at the edges all at the same time.
“I’d expressly asked that he find me somebody suitable. Agatha was a suitable name.”
“And Taggie isn’t?”
“Taggie certainly isn’t.” He couldn’t help flitting his gaze from her big, expressive eyes to her lips, plump and tempting.
She pursed those lips and made to stand up. “Ah, well I’ll get going then,” she said, reaching for her bag. “Nice to meet you, Rupert.”
A jolt ricocheted through his body as he shot forward, holding out his hands. This wasn’t a joke, and she really was Agatha. If she left now, he wasn’t sure he would ever see her again, and that was a heart-wrenching possibility.
She stood over him and he felt as though he was worshipping at an altar. He realised that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t have done to keep her there. Forever, if she’d have liked.
“Now, hold on a moment. I’ve got this table booked for the next hour, and a bottle of something nice on the way. It would be a shame to enjoy it all alone.”
To his delight, she smiled, brightly and wonderfully, and sat back down. He felt so relieved that he momentarily forgot she was paid to be there, and relished in the prospect of an hour spent with the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
A comfortable silence settled over them as the server came over to pour them the bottle of something nice Rupert had promised. Rupert didn’t take his eyes off of Taggie once. When the server left, he held his glass up to clink against hers.
“So, Agatha? Do your parents hate you?”
Taggie laughed hollowly. “As my ma tells me, ‘I can’t hate you, you’re my daughter’.”
She executed a perfect Irish accent, though it was overshadowed by the harshness of her statement. Rupert felt a shared sense of apathy towards one’s parents with her, though she had said nothing derogatory towards her mother; he recognised the tone of somebody who was disappointed in their family. “Jesus.”
She took a sip of the champagne, and a credit to her age, she didn’t pull a face. In fact, it seemed she approved as she took another gulp. “Agatha is a family name. A strong Irish name, goes back a few generations.”
“Vintage,” Rupert teased.
Taggie smiled once again. “Hence why I like Taggie better.”
“I take it you’re Irish then?” That explained the red hair, the freckles and the aptitude for good booze.
She nodded. “Born there, raised here. My full name is Agatha Maud O’Hara, it does not get more Irish than that.”
Rupert cocked his head to the side. “Maud O’Hara, that rings a bell. Isn’t she some old theatre actress? Was on the trashy soaps for a bit. Any relation?”
“My dear old ma, yeah.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean - “
“No, she’d love that you recognised her.”
A coldness trickled down Rupert’s spine. “Then that means your father is . . .”
“Declan O’Hara, yes,” Taggie said slowly, filling in the gaps. She surveyed Rupert quietly. “Is that going to be an issue?”
He pondered the idea for a moment. “Not if you think so.”
“I may not be a staunch believer in some of his political leanings, but I’m not a true blue Tory either.” She gave him a somewhat mischievous grin when she added; “In fact, I’ve tried to vote your lot out in the last few elections.”
A smile enveloped his features. “Smart girl.” He meant it too. He knew next to nothing about Taggie, but he had quickly figured out that she was brilliant.
Rupert was eager to discover everything there was to find out about her. He crossed his leg over the other, and lounged back in his chair. “What are you allowed to tell me about yourself?” he queried, hoping he didn’t sound as keen as he felt. “What do you do when you’re not rinsing desperate old men for money?”
“God, don’t put it like that,” she replied, pulling an appalled expression.
“It’s true angel, I’m an old man, I’m desperate, you’re taking my money.”
Taggie appraised him, matching his demeanour as she folded her leg over her other one. When Rupert spotted the tattered cowboy boots she wore his mouth dried up. He longed to see her wearing those boots again, and only those boots. “Sounds like Pretty Woman,” she said with a slight smile.
“That makes you my pretty woman then.”
Taggie chose to ignore that comparison. “I’m a chef. Aspiring chef. I used to cater dinner parties and private events, but now I’m a commis in an actual restaurant.”
“That’s interesting,” he said, with a wide grin. “Very interesting. Anything I would have attended?”
“I would have remembered.” She had echoed his words back to her, and it suggested to Rupert that while she might look innocent and naive, she could dish exactly what he gave out. Fuck, if that didn’t give him ideas.
“Careful darling, is flattery extra?”
“Included.”
“Excellent.”
Rupert was willing to book the most coveted table in the restaurant for the next ten years all day, every day, just to keep sitting across from Taggie.
-
Several times throughout the next half hour, Rupert found himself laughing too hard at something Taggie said, or staring too long at her lips as she drank her champagne. God, she was infectious. She smiled, he smiled.
The waiter took their order after their first glass, and they both got the scrambled eggs on sourdough. Rupert was surprised that she didn’t choose something pricier, something worth the meeting considering he was footing the bill and paying for her time. However, he quickly surmised that Taggie wasn’t that sort of girl.
Their food came out swiftly, no doubt prioritised in the kitchen. It was nicely presented, but he saw Taggie’s brain whirring as she took her first bite. “What do you think of the food then, cheffy?”
She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “It’s nice,” she answered, politely.
“Oh come on, tell me what you really think.” He wanted to push her, to see if she would just placate him because that’s what she thought he was after.
She met his gaze, and he watched the glint in her stare ignite. The glint that hinted she was more than the appeasing, sweet little thing she appeared to be. “It could be better.”
Rupert grinned from ear to ear. “Good girl.”
At those words Taggie lowered her eyes in a coquettish manner that had him adjusting his sitting position. Fuck, did she have a praise kink? Knowing that tidbit was dangerous information to hold. “I’d swap the parsley for chives. And the egg is a bit watery. And the bread isn’t thoroughly toasted.”
He could have listened to her talk about food the entire meal. “Next time you can pick the place.”
Taggie set her knife and fork down, and leant back in her chair. She was looking at him the same way she had scrutinised the scrambled eggs. “What is it you’re wanting from me, Rupert?”
There were a million things he wanted from her, and none of them were appropriate.
“How presumptuous of you Taggie, we haven’t finished our meals yet.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, firmly. She quickly looked down at the soggy bread. “And that isn’t even on the cards.”
“Shame, but I understand the terms,” Rupert replied. He shut out images of Taggie in all the ways he was desperate for her, and adopted his Hall of Commons speaking voice. “Is this the business portion of this brunch? Well then, I like a woman who knows what she wants. You know who I am, I presume.”
“Of course.”
She was a clever girl, she had already told him she was a keen voter. Given who her father was, he suspected she perhaps held less than favourable views of him.
“You will know then that I am no stranger to controversy,” he began. “I might not like everything my party upholds and stands for. I’m not keen to be a poster boy for the Tories, but I do want to help bring about change from within. To do so, I need to remain employed. I need my personal life not to overshadow my career. Long story short, I’ve been told I need to ‘reign it in a bit’.”
“You need a girlfriend,” Taggie said. She was certainly a bright spark.
“Exactly.”
“Well then . . . get a girlfriend.”
“Not that simple,” he said with a forced smile. “Too complicated.”
Taggie gestured between them. “This isn’t?”
“By comparison, no.” He sighed, taking a long drink of his champagne. He’d previously decided not to be this honest with the Agatha he thought he was meeting. Instead, he found that total transparency was coming rather easily to him. “I need somebody at my side who will help sell the image of me settling down, but I don’t want any unnecessary entanglements.”
“And that’s where I come along?”
“That’s where you come along,” he agreed, though he was struggling with reconciling with the plan he had in his head and the situation in front of him. Or rather, the girl in front of him. “Forgive me if this is forward, but what on earth is someone like you doing on an escort site?” He wanted to add, but didn’t, that he would have thought Taggie would have a slew of options in the dating pool her own age. God forbid, if he was twenty years younger he would be chasing her already.
That deliciously coy expression danced across her face. “Same could be said about you, Minister.” That sentence both confirmed, at last, that she really knew who he was, and that he didn’t oppose to the title all that much when it came out of her mouth.
“I’m serious Taggie.”
She closed off almost immediately. “It’s personal.”
He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to intrude - “
“No, it’s ok,” she said, taking a resigned bite of her eggs. She mulled over next words for a moment, then seemed to decide that honesty was the best policy too. “I just . . . I need the money.”
“But you’re a chef?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“I need a lot of money.”
He admittedly didn’t know much of the culinary world - apparent in his choice of upmarket yet severely lacking restaurant - but suspected that due to her age and perhaps that she was a woman, she wasn’t that high on the payroll.
“And this pays well?” he asked, then held his tongue. It sounded uncouth, as he had accidentally made it very clear what she was, and what she was doing. “I’m sorry, I know this is perhaps not genteel to talk about, but I’d like to know why you’re doing what you’re doing.”
“I don’t really know how much this pays,” she admitted, shyly. “My friend tells me it pays well enough.”
Rupert’s stomach turned to ice. A bomb had been dropped, maybe a slip up from Taggie, and he didn’t know how to diffuse it. “You haven’t done this before?”
Her cheeks tinged an adorable pink. “No.”
“I’m your first?”
“You’re my first.”
Fuck. Rupert, not for the first time that meeting, had the horrid, uncomfortable sensation he was corrupting her. That by unfortunate circumstance she was out to brunch by a man nearly twice her age - old enough to be her bloody father - and he was paying her for the pleasure of it. It felt twisted, and while he was no stranger to sordid and debauched situations, this was one he wanted no part in.
Well, not entirely. And that was the problem.
“Taggie, are you sure about this?”
“It’s just a few dates,” she said, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
“Yes but I’m - not to blow smoke up my own arse, but I’m a recognisable figure,” he pointed out. He envisioned the headlines that would come out of this, if they were to continue with the charade. They’d be nasty, and he didn’t want to see the court of public opinion tear her down. “A few dates with me and you’ll be in the papers. You’ll be gossiped about. Is that really worth a few thousand pounds?”
“If we go through with this it’ll be a bit more than that,” she reminded him, brazenly. He liked that fire about her, fire he was uncovering more and more.
“Good, know your worth,” he said with a grin, then quickly buried it. “But seriously Taggie, I’m not convinced you understand what you’re agreeing to.”
“Do you not think I can handle it?”
In all honesty, no he didn’t. Even he couldn’t handle it at the worst of times.
“I think you’re too wonderful to be seen with me, angel.”
-
Taggie and Rupert left the restaurant together. He discovered he was much taller than her, and the urge to shield her from the horrors he knew out there became overwhelming. Especially when a passerby in an expensive suit gave her a once over, then nearly broke his neck to look at her again, licking his lips.
He wasn’t sure whether to hug her, or to simply part ways with a mere nod. It was Taggie who offered him her extended hand, and he nearly jumped at the prospect of contact with her. She was warm and soft, and he was entirely unworthy of her.
“It was nice meeting you, Rupert,” she said, before walking the opposite way without giving him the chance to return the favour. He could only watch as she made her way towards the tube, fitting her headphones into her ears. He wondered where she was going, what she was listening to. He wondered a lot of things about Taggie O’Hara.
As if to drag him back down to earth, his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the caller I.D., and saw that it was his aide.
“Gerald, I have half a mind to fire you on the spot,” he said. A car pulled up, and he recognised his driver. He climbed inside after the door was opened for him.
“So the brunch went well then?”
“Agatha, or as she prefers to be called, Taggie, is twenty-three for Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed. “How’s that going to help my standing if I’m seen to be courting somebody half my age.”
“I was of the disposition that it would only help sell the agenda. Who could believe that Rupert Campbell-Black would be dating somebody his own age?”
Rupert considered that notion, and decided his aide was correct, and that’s why he got paid the hefty amount he did.
“ . . . Well, yes, I suppose you have a point,” he conceded. “But still, Gerald, she’s basically a bloody teenager!”
“She’s not, she’s of age. I vetted her properly - “
“Oh you vetted her, did you? And you still sent me to brunch with her?”
“Did you not get on with her?”
There was a long pause.
“That’s besides the point.”
“As I’m sure you discovered, Taggie isn’t like most girls her age. She’s bright, she’s kind, and she’s - “
“Gorgeous,” he sighed.
“I suppose. More importantly, she’s trustworthy, and she’s not expecting any attachments. She is the perfect candidate for you, Rupert.”
“I feel like a cradle snatcher.”
“As if you haven’t dated women younger than her before.”
“I haven’t had to pay them for the pleasure of it,” he said. He remembered another spanner in the works. “You know who her father is, don’t you?”
“Yes, and before you use that as an excuse against this arrangement, you should know that Taggie and her father have been on the rocks recently. If my intel is to be believed, they had a rather heated argument in his office, no less. Her seeming to be dating you, a staunch member of her father’s least favourite group - ”
“Tories, or the upper class?”
“Both. Listen. Her supposed relationship with you, in the public’s perception, will appear as though she is rebelling against her father. It’s what women in their twenties are expected to do.”
“So I’m to be a pawn in her tumultuous family drama?”
“As if you’re not using her to gain favour with the PM. Rupert, it’s too good to pass up. It’s believable, you’ll look wonderful together, and I know the pair of you got on. Are you really going to demand I cast her aside and line up some age-appropriate, prim and proper, woman for you, or are you going to admit that you can feasibly see yourself dating - albeit pretending to date - Miss O’Hara? I can call her right now and - ”
“No. She’ll do.”