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Being helpful was a new thing for Rupert. Oh sure, he had helped carry hay bales into the various barns he’d spent time in, and he had lent plenty of tenners to friends in need over the years. He even dimly remembered once setting the table for dinner with Helen.
Tonight was testing his abilities, though. Or, rather, this morning.
“There’s no one to pay the deejays, someone’s broken a window in the kitchen, and there is vomit all over the yellow sofa.”
He’d really wanted to laugh at Taggie’s recitation of woes. Honestly, he thought he was rather impressive for managing to keep a somewhat-straight face. But then she’d pivoted into a discussion of man’s inherent loneliness and her own worries about finding love, and Rupert found himself suddenly very much out of his depth.
So, he did what he always did when he wasn’t quite sure what to do: he lied. He told her he would take care of all of it, so long as she went to bed and stopped worrying about everything under the roof of the Priory for a few hours, at least.
He was quite proud of himself for volunteering to fix it all, too — right up until he closed the bedroom door behind a sleeping Taggie and realized he would actually have to fix it all. Well, if he wanted to stay in Taggie’s good graces, that is. He decided not to think about why it was so important to him to stay in those good graces right now.
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands together sharply. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Deciding to go with the easiest task first, Rupert went downstairs to pay the deejays, who took the wad of cash he handed them with a bleary “Cheers, mate,” and made quick work of packing up their gear and heading out.
Rupert shook his head as he watched them go. How did Maud and Declan think they were going to handle this? Even putting aside the fact they pissed off and disappeared to screw each other’s brains out halfway through the night — no shame there — Taggie made it sound like there wasn’t money to pay them in the first place.
But that wasn’t really any of his concern, now was it? If Declan O’Hara and his entirely-too-flirtatious wife wanted to blow his hefty TV paychecks before they even cleared his checking account, who was Rupert to say anything?
He couldn’t help but think of Taggie, though. Taggie, with tangles in her long, red hair and food stains on her t-shirt and streaks of dish soap on her forearms. Taggie, with big, shiny eyes full of tears that she kept furiously blinking back. Taggie, who seemed to be holding the entire O’Hara family together through sheer force of will and an inexhaustible work ethic.
While he certainly wasn’t going to be nominated for Father of the Year anytime soon, Rupert was pretty sure he would notice if Tabitha or Marcus were worrying themselves sick over money or household problems. He was doubly sure he would notice if one of his children spent an entire party holed up in the kitchen, cooking the entire meal, then coming out to clear the tables like they were the help.
But again — not his concern. So instead, Rupert made his way to the kitchen to see just how badly broken this window was. He had hardly made it through the doorway before his eyes bugged out.
“Christ,” he swore, taking in the absolute wreckage of the room. Plates, cups, and silverware were stacked haphazardly on every surface. Most of them were still smeared with food, but he could see a small area where someone — Taggie, definitely Taggie — had started on the washing up. Of course, he would also see where some helpful party guests had stubbed out their cigarettes into the clean saucers. The sink was full, too, and Rupert could see the drain was stopped up with soggy food remnants.
While Rupert was trying out being helpful, he didn’t have it in him to even think about tackling the dishes. Ignoring the mess and trying not to think about how Taggie would probably spend the rest of today dealing with it all, Rupert made his way over to the window on the far side of the kitchen that looked out into the back garden.
One of the panes had been cleanly knocked out of the frame and, because Rupert seemed to be perpetually lucky, he could see the pane glimmering in the grass below, completely unbroken. He went out of the backdoor, grabbed the glass, then went back into the kitchen to see if it could really be as easy as popping the glass back into place, and —
“Voila!” he said softly, hands raised over the glass, as if to catch it if it fell again. He waited a few seconds, but it looked like it was properly stuck into place again. Perfect.
He was feeling pretty good about himself, all things considered, until he remembered the last item on Taggie’s to-do list. Rupert groaned, but oddly, the thought of simply not dealing with the vomit-covered sofa never occurred to him.
Where is this yellow sofa anyway? He wandered through the first floor of the house, kicking aside empty plastic cups and ripped paper streamers, until finally, he came upon a decidedly sunny yellow sofa in a hallway leading to what looked like Declan’s office. And there’s the vomit.
At least it wasn’t much; just a smallish, discolored patch that wouldn’t even be identifiable as vomit, if not for a few stray chunks of chipolata — and that specific, horribly unique stench that could only be vomit.
Rupert stared at it for a few moments. For all the experience he had throwing up after a night of heavy drinking, he was at a complete loss when it came to cleaning it up.
Can’t be much different than cleaning up after the dogs, right?
He made his way back to the kitchen, unearthed a large mixing bowl, and filled it with water and soap. On a hunch, he opened a cabinet under the sink and was gratified to find a small box of cloth rags. Armed with the right tools, Rupert headed back to the sofa and began gently scrubbing at the stain.
Once he finished, he stepped back to study his work. Well…it’s certainly better than it was before. The chunks of half-digested food were gone, as was most of the odor, but the stain was still undeniably there. A little smaller, a little fainter, but there.
Rupert frowned and went back over the handful of household tips he had overheard over the years. Should I try salt? Or is that just for wine? Cold water is best for blood, I know that, but would that do anything here? He even flipped over the cushions to see if there was a zipper, so he could remove them and throw them in the washing machine.
Out of ideas and, to be honest, starting to develop a pounding headache, Rupert decided to just say “sod it” and leave the sofa as it was. He hated to leave it for Taggie, but he had reached the ceiling of his cleaning capabilities, and he didn’t want to make anything worse by experimenting with whatever he half-remembered seeing Mrs. Bodkin pull out when one of the dogs got sick on the carpet.
He stopped by the kitchen to do one last thing, then found his coat and headed outside. There, he encountered the photographer who had so bothered Taggie and, while she hadn’t asked him to, Rupert thought taking the film from him would probably give her some peace of mind. Charles, too.
As he walked home, shoulders hunched against the chilly January air, Rupert found himself marveling at the abilities of Taggie O’Hara. One hour of trying to fill her shoes, and he had a splitting headache, a knick on his finger from the edge of the glass, and the still-lingering scent of vomit on his shirt.
She really is a remarkable person.
It was still early when Taggie made her way downstairs. She had tried to sleep in, she really had, but she woke up around nine and couldn’t stop thinking about the mountain of dishes that needed to be done, and the trash that needed to be gathered, and the broken window, and the vomit-covered sofa, and so decided to just get up and start dealing with it all.
The house was quiet, which was a relief; she had half-wondered if the deejays would still be waiting in the front room for their money. Rupert had said he would deal with them, but that was just to get me to go to bed. Wasn’t it?
Taggie walked down the hall and — oh, God, the sofa. After sitting puke-soaked all night, there was no telling what it smelled like now. To her surprise, however, the couch looked like it had been sponged off. There was still a stain, sure, but the worst of it was gone. All Taggie needed was a little white vinegar, and it would be good as new.
But who — ?
Finally, Taggie stepped into the kitchen, which was just as horrifically messy as she thought it would be. Something caught her eye, though; a folded piece of paper with “TAGGIE” written in large block letters.
She flipped it open to see more neat block letters; the easiest kind for her to read quickly, to be honest.
THE DEEJAYS WERE PAID, THE WINDOW IS FIXED (BUT MAYBE GET A PROFESSIONAL TO CHECK IT LATER), AND I DID MY BEST WITH THE SOFA.
THANK YOU FOR A GREAT PARTY, ANGEL.
-RUPERT
Taggie’s smile grew with every word she read. She felt like her face was about to split in half by the time she read Rupert’s name. She looked across the kitchen to see the smudged window pane, then back down at the note.
He really did it. He really took care of everything I needed to do. I didn’t even have to ask him. He just…did it.
Taggie traced her finger over the straight lines of his letters, touched by the concession to her dyslexia. While she could eventually make out cursive, capital letters were easier. How did he know that?
As she started on the washing up, Taggie hummed softly to herself, the smile never leaving her face. It stayed firmly in place as she gathered garbage, moved furniture back into place, dished out eggs and sausages to everyone who had stayed over, and tracked down her mother’s missing earring (under the piano).
Her workload was heavy, that was true, but Rupert’s help had made it feel a little bit lighter. Funny how that makes all the difference.