Chapter Text
Music passes quietly through the closed door, hitting Taggie's ears as soon as she steps into the waiting room. She wasn't sure what she expected: a constant stop-start of instruction, wrong keys bashed as mistakes were made, maybe even a frustrated groan. In reality, all she can hear is a smooth melody that ends with a soft clapping.
Marcus, she has learned, is extremely particular about who can listen to his piano lessons. His father had been outright banned, having fallen asleep at one too many recitals over the years. Taggie had not yet been welcomed into the sacred space that was the music room, only ever hearing snatches of music before Marcus caught her lurking and shyly pulled his hands away from the keys.
It's complete coincidence that she's able to pick him up from his lessons today, a gig at the rugby club ending just before his private lesson with Enid. Typically Rupert does drop-offs and pick-ups, attempting to make up for years of absence by being overly present. It was a valiant effort, even if Tabitha had secretly confided that she wished he would let Taggie pick her up sometimes. "All the mums talk about his butt when he picks me up," she had whispered, frowning slightly. "What's so nice about butts anyways?" Forcing herself to hold back a giggle, Taggie had simply herded Tabitha into the kitchen for an afternoon snack, not wanting to traumatize the girl further by explaining that daddy really did have a nice arse and it was normal for people to stare at it.
The door opens just as she tucks her diary away, crossing rugby lunch and pick up marcus from her to-do list. There's only one item remaining, ravish your husband scrawled in Rupert's increasingly familiar handwriting. It's even got a little heart beside it, definitive proof that her husband is an absolute sap. "Good afternoon, Enid," she says cheerfully, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Marcus sounded absolutely lovely, didn't he?"
"He's got a natural gift," the older woman crows, a fond hand landing on Marcus's shoulder. "I've no doubt that every conservatory in the country will be fighting over him by the time he reaches eighteen."
Despite the flowing compliments, Marcus looks rather dumbfounded. "You came in to listen?" His voice is quiet, disbelieving. "Dad usually just waits in the car."
"Oh I know," Taggie says, suddenly worried that she's overstepped. Did she push too far, too soon? Marcus was lovely and kind, though he was much more closed off than Tabitha, who wore her heart on her sleeve. She adored the boy wholeheartedly, but knowing how much he preferred his mother to his father left her feeling slightly out of place with him. Was this how mummy felt, she wondered, every time she sided with her dad? "I was hoping to hear you play a little bit, is that alright?"
She barely has time to brace for impact, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist. There's so much she wants to say, I promise Rupert's trying and we love you so much and I know how it feels all gathering on the tip of her tongue, but she holds off. He's ten, caught in the awkward age between childhood and teenage years, and there are only so many more times he will want to hug her in public. Carding her hand through his hair, she gives Enid a small smile, watching as the woman quietly went back into the music room. There's no need for words, she finds, the simple hug telling her everything she needs to know.
Taggie waits for him to pull away first, his cheeks flushing red when he does. "Is it alright if we pop by the market before we go home," she asks, letting Marcus lead the way out of the building. "I have a couple of things to pick up for dinner."
His eyes light up a bit at her words, interest piqued. "Yeah. Mum never takes us to the grocery store, says its overstimulating for our developing minds." He mimics Helen's accent with eery accuracy, causing her to snort with laughter. Rupert would absolutely howl if he heard it, his own imitation a little too Valley Girl to truly represent Helen.
"Mrs. Bodkin does most of our shopping," Taggie shares, squinting as they step out into the late afternoon sunlight. "I'm just parked down the road, it's so gorgeous out that I just had to give myself a reason to walk longer. Anyways—Mrs. B covers the majority of our list, but I'm trying a new recipe tonight and really want to make sure the veg is fresh."
Marcus peppers her with thoughtful questions, asking how she chose recipes and what made something a dinner meal versus lunch. It was nice, having someone ask about her work because they were curious, rather than consumers. Her clients are all wonderful, her rolodex beginning to fill with contacts from beyond the Rutshire county lines based almost entirely on word of mouth, but sometimes she just wants to cook for the joy of it. "Dinner is usually based on what cutlery is used to eat it," she shares, pulling open the passenger door and gesturing for him to sit up front with a wink. It's not the worst thing she could do, she thinks, remembering Rupert's guilty look when she caught him with Tabitha on his knee in the combine mower. "Steak knives are never brought out for lunch, for example, so I would never make a beef wellington for a luncheon."
"What about steak kebabs," he asks, tossing his book bag into the back seat. "That's steak, but you eat it with your hands."
The car gives a low grumble as she turns it on, peeling away from the curb slowly. "I would serve kebabs as lunch," Taggie ponders, trying to think if she had ever worked them into a menu. "But the people I cook for are a bit… fancy. They prefer little bites, so I would probably have to make tiny kebabs. Maybe with roasted pepper and onion, on a crostini."
"Fancy people are the worst," Marcus says with a grumble. "Who doesn't like a kebab!"
She can't help but agree with that. Back in London, she had loved finishing a restaurant shift and dashing down the street for a late night wrap, rich meat and garlic sauce filling her hungry stomach after a long shift. When they pull into a long line of traffic, likely paused due to a flock of sheep crossing or another horse drunk on cider apples, she turns to Marcus with a grin. "If you were throwing a party, what would you put on the menu?"
He perks up at her question, taking a moment to seriously consider his response. His face, scrunched in contemplation, reminds her so dearly of Rupert's. The same eyes, the same wrinkled brow. How painful was it for Helen, to look at her son and see so much of the man she despised? "I would have bolognese," Marcus says decisively, drawing her from her thoughts. "With garlic bread and a lot of cheese."
"That's one of my favourites as well," Taggie shares, grinning at him. "Though I swear, every time I make it your dad ruins his shirt. I've never seen someone spill so much pasta sauce on themselves before."
A wicked little cackle fills the air, Marcus tossing his head back with laughter. There it is again, she thinks, the same laugh as Rupert. "You should make him wear a bib," he suggests, smiling back at her. "So that Mrs. B doesn't have to scrub his shirts every time."
"Or a frilly apron," she thinks aloud, imagining Rupert in a pink gingham monstrosity that she could likely find at Mousie's boutique. The idea makes Marcus break into another fit of giggles, a sound even sweeter than the music he made earlier.
The grocers is busier than she expected, half of Rutshire apparently in desperate need of provisions. Marcus is clearly nervous, the rush of people pressing in on all sides making his breath hitch. With a basket hooked in the crook of her arm, she takes his hand in hers. "Just in and out, don't worry," she soothes, leading him into the slightly less populated produce section.
Her recipe calls for heirloom tomatoes at perfect ripeness, the bright colours guaranteed to hold up when she bakes the galette. Setting her basket down, she reaches for the nearest tomato and gives it a squeze. Still a bit too firm, likely just put out that day. Marcus, tucked against her side, looks up at her curiously. "Why wasn't that one good?"
"It wasn't ripe enough yet—here, feel this one." The fruit in her hand is the perfect texture and Marcus gives a small nod when he squeezes it himself. "It's not too hard, not too soft. It will be easy to cut but won't become all soggy in the oven."
He tentatively reaches for one, poking the red flesh before holding it out to her. "Like this one?"
"That one's perfect." He absolutely glows at her praise, face lighting up before he turns back to the pile in front of them. "Alright, two more and then we can move to the cheese section."
The rest of their grocery trip passes leisurely. Marcus is clearly interested in all of the options that line the shelves, his sheltered upbringing clear as he gawps at the brightly coloured cereal aisle. Placing a box of Froot Loops in her basket, she gives him a wink. "Don't tell your mother," she warns, knowing that Helen would raise hell over the ultra-sugary cereal. When his eyes linger on the candy bars near the checkout, Taggie finds herself snagging two Fruit and Nut bars before turning to Marcus. "What one do you think Tab would like? Can you pick one out for her? And yourself, of course."
It's easy to be the fun parent, she reminds herself carefully. Especially the fun step-mother. She knows she probably should have put her foot down, remained aligned with Helen's strict rules on sugar and sweets. But when Marcus whoops on their way out of the store, boldly proclaiming that he always wants to go grocery shopping with her, she can't find it in herself to regret her actions.
Taggie lets him ride in the front for the rest of the drive home, the radio playing Fleetwood Mac and Billy Joel loudly. She even lets him roll the windows down, the wind ruffling his hair until it stands on end. The tape ends just as they pull into Penscombe, but she pulls it from the cassette player with a grin. "I think Tab and your dad are still down at the stables," Taggie states, covering her eyes with one hand to block the sun. "I'm going to get started on dinner, do you want to help?"
Surprisingly, he really wants to. He likes how Taggie talks about food, like it's something more than just a meal. It's special, the ingredients have to work together, like a concerto. He's just pretty sure he won't be any good at it.
"I've never really cooked before," he mumbles, eyes falling to his feet. "I wouldn't want to ruin anything."
Her arm wraps around him suddenly, pulling him into her side. "You could never ruin anything," Taggie says softly, a small smile on her face. "Every chef has to start somewhere!"
Mum would never let him in the kitchen, usually proclaiming it as a kid-free zone. Dad, well, before Taggie he had never even seen his dad in a kitchen. He burnt soup, after all. But something about Taggie makes him feel brave, like he can try something new and make a mistake safely. Nodding his agreement, he pulls one of the grocery bags from the back seat and follows her into the house.
The dogs meet them at the door, everyone but Beaver and Gertrude. They're probably down at the yard, Marcus thinks, bending to stroke Fortnum's scruffy little head. Ushering them all into the kitchen, Taggie starts to unload the groceries immediately and gives Marcus the most important job: finding a cassette player that will fit on the Welsh dresser. "I think there's one in the mudroom," she mentions, setting their tomatoes on the counter. "The white one, that we bring to polo."
He knows the one, racing down the hall to pull it from one of the many picnic baskets that they use for storage. Dad had just let everything sit on shelves before, a hodge-podge of waxed coats and binoculars, until Taggie put her foot down. That had been a funny day, watching his father cower to the demands of a woman who barely reached his shoulder. What basket had they last brought to polo, Marcus wonders, pulling the lids off a couple of baskets and coming up empty. The fourth basket he tries is the winner, the cassette player sitting nestled with Tab's wiffleball bat and a cozy plaid blanket.
When Taggie suggested he help with dinner, he kind of assumed she would give him an easy task and then shoo him away. Instead, once they get her car mixtape rewound and playing on the kitchen counter, she walks him through each step. How to cut a tomato, why you should pour salt into your hand first and then sprinkle it onto your ingredients, what made goat cheese different from regular cheddar. He knows he asks a lot of questions, the desire to know everything warring with his instincts to be quiet and polite, but she answers all of them. Or, she tries to. Some things stump her too, so they write them down and resolve to ask dad later.
The galette goes into the oven for thirty minutes, already turning golden brown when he takes a tiny peek. "It looks good," Taggie murmurs, cleaning the last of the dishes in the sink. "I should hire you as my sous chef."
He can feel his cheeks flush. She really meant it, he can tell, not just giving him an empty compliment like so many adults do. Mumbling a thank you, he drags his toe in an imaginary circle, trying to summon some courage. "I, um. Could I play you something?"
Taggie's face lights up, a big smile crossing her face. "I would love that."
One song quickly turns into two, then three. He doesn't even notice his dad in the doorway at first because he's so focused on the music. It's only when he hears a second set of hands clapping that he realizes his audience grew at some point.
"I took dinner out of the oven," Dad says, waving Taggie's silly chicken-shaped alarm in his hand. "It looks delicious, angel."
"Marcus helped me," Taggie smiles, standing from the piano bench and letting Dad pull her into a hug. They're always touching, Marcus has noticed, like they can't stand being apart in the same room. It's not like Mum and Malise, who will hug occasionally and press kisses to each other's cheeks when they say good morning. Dad and Taggie are like two magnets, the kind they do experiments with in Science class. It's hard to pull them apart and you can almost see the waves between them when you do separate them.
Lost in his thoughts, he misses whatever his dad says next. "Sorry, what?"
Dad just laughs, arm wrapped around Taggie's shoulder. "I said you sounded really good. Would you be willing to play again, maybe after dinner? For all of us."
He can't remember the last time Dad asked to hear him play. This might be the first time ever, honestly. Part of him wants to say no, aware that Tabitha will try to find some way to make it all about her, but Taggie gives him an encouraging nod. You could never ruin anything, she had told him earlier. Maybe it was time to test that theory.