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There are very few people Caitlin is willing to drag herself out of bed for before noon. Really, there’s only one. Taggie’s twenty-first won’t be celebrated quite like Patrick’s, not with mummy in London and daddy fully absorbed in Venturer, but her appearance will make up for it. Hopefully.
With her present carefully stashed in her backpack and a handful of tenners in hand, she sets out on the eight o’clock train to Cotchester. She usually didn’t wake up before noon on weekends, preferring to sleep through the incessant dramas that took place in daylight hours, but for Taggie, she would do anything. Well, almost anything. Catching a ride to the Priory from the train station proved to be a challenge, with only Valerie Jones slowing down to offer a lift in her Barbie-pink convertible. As much as she loved pink, spending even fifteen minutes in Mousie’s company was sure to put her in an awful mood, which Taggie certainly didn’t deserve. Resolving to be the happiest, spunkiest version of herself, she forked over cash for a cab and told herself that Daddy would pay her back. If not now, then later, with interest.
The first sign that something is wrong is the lack of cars. The mini is parked outside, dew still covering the windows and doors. Maybe she was just too early, maybe the door would open to reveal Patrick hanging streamers from every doorway and Daddy frantically trying to flip pancakes on the stove. Surely everyone would arrive in droves after lunch, laughter filling the empty house all in celebration of Taggie. It’s what she deserved, the bare minimum of what she deserved.
As always, the door is unlocked. Mummy had always groaned when Taggie mentioned it, waving it off because this isn’t like London, what will people find here worth stealing? A goat, a cow? Guilt curls in her stomach as Caitlin remembers that it was on her behalf that Taggie fought those battles, the years of night terrors about home invasions and violent crimes deeply embedded in her subconscious. Realistically, the calm countryside should have soothed those fears, but she still crawled into her big sister’s bed when she woke from a particularly spooky nightmare.
“Taggie, are you here?” Her calls go unanswered, not even Gertrude rushing forward to greet her. “Come on, birthday girl! Let’s party!” When she still doesn’t get a response, pressing further into the bowels of this stupidly large house, she tries a more drastic tactic. “I brought cocaine! Free bumps for birthday girls!”
A sob catches her attention, the noise carrying from the sitting room off of the kitchen. God, please be tears of joy, Caitlin prays, or even bonking. Rounding the corner, her backpack sliding off her shoulder, she feels her heart drop into her stomach. “Oh, Taggie.”
Growing up, Caitlin had always thought her sister was the prettiest girl in the world, with her long red ringlets and dimples when she smiled. Even her awkward phase didn’t last long, her gangly limbs eventually settling into a statuesque figure. She’s still the prettiest girl Caitlin’s seen, unfairly beautiful with red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair. But the sadness rolling off of her is undeniable, tears springing to her own eyes as she takes in her sister’s devastated form. “What’re you doing here,” Taggie asks, words stammered out between sobs.
“I took the train for your birthday.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the noise-maker she had stowed away for this very moment and blows into it. “Surprise!”
It doesn’t cheer her up. It actually makes her cry more, her head burying in her hands. “E-everyone forgot.”
“Surely not everyone,” Caitlin soothes, sliding onto the couch and pulling Taggie into a hug. “Where are daddy and Patrick?”
“Daddy’s in Ireland, for Venturer,” she sniffles out. “And Paddy’s in Greece, I think. Maybe Italy. I don’t know, wherever Corsica is. B-but they didn’t call and neither did mummy, everyone forgot. Everyone.”
Realization dawns then, that despite their family forgetting what day it is, there is one person above all others that Taggie wants to hear from. Stroking her hair softly, Caitlin lets her cry into her shoulder a bit longer, making soft shushing noises that seem to help at least a little bit. When the sobs finally let up, leaving only soft sniffles behind, she shoves Gertrude into Taggie’s lap and scampers into the kitchen. “I’m going to make you some tea,” she calls out behind her, darting straight to the phone.
The phone number for Penscombe Court is carefully printed in their address book, For Emergencies Only underlined twice in red pen. “This is a fucking emergency,” Caitlin mumbles, dialing the number and waiting impatiently for someone to pick up.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end is decidedly female and English. Frankly, the woman sounds old as fuck, which makes Caitlin breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not Cameron, thank god, or Sarah Stratton. The last thing Taggie needed was another strike to the heart on her birthday. “Penscombe Court.”
“Hi, this is Caitlin O’Hara.” Pausing, she considers her plan of action. “Is Rupert there? This is an emergency.”
The woman’s breath hitches. “Christ, it’s the kids, innit? Are they alright? Did the old man finally croak?”
“Not the kids! Nope, kiddos are fine. I think. It’s about my sister, Taggie. Who is this, by the way?”
Turns out rich people not only have housekeepers, but housekeepers with a deep investment in their personal lives. Mrs. Bodkin, as she introduces herself, is apparently incredibly fond of Taggie and listens sympathetically as Caitlin explains the situation. There is some dramatic effect added because she’s a storyteller at heart, but the core of it is real. No, Taggie wasn’t actively sobbing into a carton of ice cream, but it could get to that point, if no one stepped up.
“He’s out with the lads, probably putting down roots at Bar Sinister” Mrs. Bodkin–or Beatrice, as she tells Caitlin to call her–explains, a sigh punctuating her sentence. ‘That poor little lamb. Let me see what I can do, call in a couple of favours around town. You focus on getting Mr. Campbell-Black on board, to give that girl a good birthday.”
“You’re a real gem,” Caitlin says, grateful to have at least one person on Team Taggie. “Call back if Rupert wanders home, or even better, just send him straight over here. The sooner the better.”
When she sets the phone down for a minute, she can still hear Taggie crying. It’s soft, muffled into a pillow or Gertrude’s fur, and the sound of it fills her with righteous fury. “Fucking men,” she scowls, dialling Bar Sinister’s number from memory. It’s the only place she can reach Archie without fear of his parents picking up, their illicit phone calls a highlight of her week. None of the other girls at Upland House have secret, forbidden boyfriends, their Romeo and Juliet-esque romance causing the entirety of her year to sigh with envy whenever she shares one of his love letters.
“Bar Sinister, Kevin speaking.” She doesn’t wait for him to finish his usual spiel, the mini advert that Bas has all of the staff do to promote their new takeout service. There’s no time, not when the daylight hours are quickly ticking by.
“Kev, it’s Caitlin. I’m looking for Rupert.” Her eyes roll as he asks endless questions, Rupert who drawled blandly into the phone. “Rupert Campbell-Fuckface, you idiot! Put him on the phone!”
She hadn’t necessarily agreed with Taggie’s drunken rant over the summer, her wild argument that men were all bloody useless falling upon lovesick ears. Archie isn’t useless, Caitlin had preened, tucking herself into her sister’s bed, their noses brushing together. But listening to the chattering over the phone, Kevin and Rupert and even fucking Bas arguing about who should field her call, she realizes that her sister was right after all. Bloody fucking useless, the whole lot of them.
It’s obvious that Rupert takes the phone, a posh sigh echoing down the line. “Hello?”
“You fucking idiot,” she hisses, careful to keep her voice low, just in case Taggie’s tears had dried up and she came looking for her promised cup of tea. “Do you have any idea what day it is?”
“September something, I’m pretty sure. Aren’t you meant to be at school, Caitlin?” His voice is smug, as if catching her playing hooky for a day makes him the paragon of good behaviour.
“It is Taggie’s fucking birthday.” The words are harsh, angry. Taggie herself would never let anger get the better of her, would explain everything with a kind and even tone. Thank god Caitlin took after their mother in this area, unafraid to bash heads together when people pissed her off. “She is crying on our couch because everyone forgot. Everyone.”
“I didn’t know,” he whispers, horror coating every word. Good, she thinks, feel bad. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t decided to be honorable immediately after seducing her sister. “Christ, Caitlin, I swear I didn’t know.”
She can hear Freddie in the background, calling him back over with a jolly laugh that ends abruptly as Rupert tells him to fuck off, he’s dealing with an emergency. “If you don’t get down here in the next hour,” she warns, voice as menacing as she can manage, “then you are going to lose her for good. You’ll just be another man who has disappointed her.”
Taggie would forgive him. Her sister is an angel, forgiving to a fault, and she would absolutely understand. She would never cut Rupert off for the simple sin of not knowing her birthday. But Caitlin knows that Taggie deserves better, deserves a man who lives in fear of losing her. If it means threatening one of the most powerful men in Rutshire, then so be it.
“I’ll be there,” he breathes. “I promise. Give me an hour–no, half an hour. I promise, Caitlin, I won’t fuck this up.”
“You better not,” she hisses. “And get a real cake, not fucking Colin the Caterpillar.” With that she slams the phone down, her blood rushing with victory. She did it, she’s saving the day! It takes everything in her to not rush back to Taggie, to tell her that the cavalry is coming with reinforcements, knowing that the look on her face when she opens the door to find Rupert will be well worth keeping this a secret.
Skipping back to the living room, she felt buoyed by the knowledge that the day wouldn’t be a complete failure. Mummy would have ruined the day anyways, moaning about how hard the labour had been and all the ways having children had ruined her figure. Daddy and Patrick wouldn’t have been helpful either, their single-minded focus on the Yeats documentary absolutely snoozeworthy. It would be better this way, Caitlin told herself, turning the corner and trying to catch a glimpse of Taggie. Just the sisters and Rupert, a dream come true.
“You forgot my tea,” Taggie mumbled as she walked in, eyes still wet with tears. “It’s okay, I didn’t really want one anyways.”
“Sorry, the kettle’s broken.” What a fucking horrible excuse, Caitlin immediately berated herself, watching as Taggie’s eyes went wide with anxiety. “No it’s not, that’s a lie. I’m just lazy. Shall we watch telly for a bit?”
If her sister notices her awkward, twitchy behaviour, she doesn’t mention it. They curl up together on the couch, Gertrude sprawled across both of their laps while four oiled-up men juggle a truly impressive number of women. “We’re going to have to stop watching this when the new series starts,” Caitlin says mournfully. “Can you imagine turning on the tv and seeing her shagging one of them?”
Taggie lets out a giggle, her hand coming up to rub her forehead. “God, why did you have to put that in my mind? Why can’t she be the kind of landlady who invites them round for supper and sends them home with leftovers?”
“Your fantasies are so innocent,” Caitlin sighs, watching as her sister’s face flushes bright red. Maybe they aren’t as wholesome as she thinks, judging by the slight smile that pulls across her face. If only Tag kept a diary or something, so that she could find out exactly what her sister dreamed of Rupert doing to her.
A knock at the door startles Getrude, sending the dog off with a sharp bark. “Can you get that,” Caitlin asks, summoning the spirit of Maud O’Hara to put on a worthy performance. “I think I ate something bad on the train, my stomach is roiling.”
“Yeah of course.” Worry lines gather between Taggie’s brows, a gentle hand cupping Caitlin’s shoulder softly. “I’ll make you some toast, get you all settled. Just let me send away whoever is at the door first.”
She usually feels some semblance of guilt whenever she lies to Taggie, shame settling like a rock in her stomach at the thought of tricking the best person she knows. But in this moment, when she hears the door open and her sister’s confused gasp, all she can feel is pride. Skulking quietly around the corner, shoes kicked off to prevent any creaking floorboards from giving away her location, she watches their conversation with bated breath.
Well, Rupert’s half of the conversation. Taggie’s face is buried in his jacket, one hand clutching the lapel like a lifeline. “Caitlin called me,” she can hear him say, his head dipped low so that Taggie can hear him. “You’ve got one very fierce sister, you know.”
Whatever Taggie says is muffled, but it makes Rupert laugh softly. Part of her wonders if she should vanish to the kitchen, the moment so tender that she feels like a bit of a creep watching it unfold. That thought disappears as soon as the picnic basket in Rupert’s grip starts whining, the plaid blanket wiggling in place.
Of course, Rupert Campbell-Black, the man who loves nothing more than horses and hounds, got her sister a puppy with less than thirty minutes notice. It’s a cute little bugger, all scruffy black and grey fur, and Taggie’s face is absolutely worth the many stolen socks she sees in the future. “Oh, he’s gorgeous,” Taggie exclaims, letting the little schnauzer curl up in her arms. “He’s very affectionate.”
“Well, he’s got good taste.” That sly motherfucker, Caitlin thinks, watching as their beaming smiles finally meet one another. It melts her slightly stony heart, watching her sister light up around Rupert. Thanks continue to pour from her mouth, even as she presses kisses to the puppy’s head.
Gertrude, suddenly jealous of the lack of attention, gives a great howl and runs to her, immediately giving away her hiding spot. “Look who it is! Just in time for the party! Hullo, Rupe!”
“Oh, I don’t need a party,” Taggie murmurs, eyes still locked on the puppy in her arms. “This is more than enough, really. I’ve n-never been happier.”
Rupert just stares at her, a goofy grin across his face. “So I should leave the cake and champagne in the car then? No need for them?”
Her ears perk up, champagne and cake? Mrs. Bodkin had clearly gotten a hold of him, there was no other way to explain how he was able to wrangle all three in such a short time frame. “I’ll go grab it,” Caitlin offers, telling herself that the two of them will probably appreciate a few minutes without her prying eyes. “But if it’s not Bollinger we’re sending you home.”
“Caitlin, be nice,” Taggie hisses at her, eyes still locked on Rupert’s admittedly handsome form. God, he was looking fit as fuck lately, Tag was a lucky girl indeed.
Turns out Rupert refused to buy anything but Bolly, two bottles stashed in the back seat with a pretty pink pastry box. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek, she told herself, carefully sliding the lid up to reveal a gorgeous little cake, Happy Birthday Taggie written in a simple font. “Christ, he really does love her,” she mumbled, taking in the frosted rosettes and fancy frosted border. It was the exact thing Taggie had always dreamed about having, only to be disappointed with M&S sheetcake on the rare occasions that she didn’t bake something herself.
There is no time to prod him about his intentions for Taggie until later that afternoon, when the birthday girl promptly falls asleep on the couch after a long walk through the woods and huge slices of cake eaten in the backyard. Neither Caitlin or Rupert have the heart to wake her or the dogs, both of whom curled around their beloved mistress.
“If you hurt her again, I’ll kill you.” Rupert chokes on his tea at her words, his button-up now littered with little brown stains. “I’m serious, Nancy Mulligan’s dad is in MI5. They won’t find the body.”
Sighing, he reaches for a tea towel, dabbing at the ruined fabric. “I don’t ever want to hurt her,” he says quietly, eyes lowered. “Trust me, it’s the last thing I want to do. But I fear… It’s who I am.”
“That’s such bullshit.” God, men really are useless. Maybe Dame Enid had the right idea, hating men and loving women. “How you treat people is not pre-determined, it’s a choice. You just keep making the wrong fucking ones.”
Running his hand through his hair, the curls now floppy and wild after an afternoon outside, he gives her a skeptical look. “You really trust me to not fuck this up?”
“When I got here and found her,” she starts, setting her mug down. “She was crying her eyes out, because she thought everyone forgot her birthday. But you’re the only one I called, the only one I trusted to fix this. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
The words land heavily on him, as if he really had no idea the power he held over Taggie O’Hara. His mouth opens, something stupid surely about to come out of his mouth, when a soft voice calls his name from the other room. “Go on, go see her,” Caitlin says, shooing him away from the table. “Wait! Leave your credit card, I want to order takeaway for dinner.”
“Not Bar Sinister,” he says warningly, handing his wallet over a little too easily. “Something good, that your sister likes.”
He’s pretty confident for a guy who, as it turns out, didn’t know it was Taggie’s birthday. For a second, she listens carefully to the conversation in the living room, his quiet voice asking if she had a good rest and was there anything else she wanted to do today? “Anything you like, angel.”
“This is the best birthday ever,” Taggie responds, dreamy and probably still half-asleep. “Thanks to you, and Caitlin. I’m so lucky.”
“We’re the lucky ones, Tag.” And for the first time in her life, Caitlin finds herself agreeing with a Tory.