Chapter Text
Rupert carefully lined the sweating glass of water up against the pattern embedded in the countertop: a fussy inlay of alternating black and brass hexagons that some pretentious decorator probably got paid a small fortune for, and which nobody ever looked at twice. For good reason, Rupert mused dully. It was an ugly thing.
Having nudged the glass into place, Rupert reached for a tumbler at his left hand and drained it. Then he held up a finger. A moment later, the barman, well trained for an establishment such as this, wordlessly slid over another glass of their finest scotch.
Following his meeting with a potential new London investor, Rupert had found himself ambling around central London until he'd reached this old haunt of his and Billy's. It was one of those upscale bars with dark panelling, low warm lighting, and a wine list longer than one of Lizzie's novels, bless her. She'd always had a way with words, expressive and eloquent as she was. Maybe if he'd managed to read one of her novels, he'd have learnt a thing or two in his thirty-seven years of existence and not put his foot in his mouth time and time again.
"Excuse me, I'm so sorry. You are Mr. Campbell-Black, aren't you?"
He turned towards the breathless voice to see a woman in a red cashmere cardigan hovering above him. She was clutching a leather journal and a pen, and gazing up at him with wide eyes that were lined around the corners. "Would you mind terribly? I'm—erm, my daughter, you see. She's such a huge fan. It would mean the world to her if you…"
His eyes dropped down to the blank page she was holding out in his direction.
"Of course," said Rupert, trying hard not to slur his words as he signed something illegible near the top of the page without ever looking at it. An old reflex; he'd spent years signing diaries and posters and, on more than a few occasions, some body part or another. He could do this in his sleep.
As it was, he wasn't entirely surprised when the woman lingered for a few moments after he'd returned her pen. She had lovely eyes, and she knew it if the way she was peering at him from beneath her eyelashes was any indication. It was a look that Rupert had been on the receiving end of a thousand times in his life and had, until a year ago, known exactly what to do with. Known to let his eyes go dark and appreciative. Say something teasing, bordering on scandalous. Watch women decide, under his watchful gaze, that this was going to be a very good evening indeed.
Except now he felt none of that heady rush of attention, nor the burn of desire pounding through his veins. He was but numb to everything and everyone around him, it seemed. Had been so ever since the Hunt Ball. Ever since–
"Enjoy your evening," he murmured in a flat, uninterested voice and turned back to the bar, scotch sliding down his throat as the woman's footsteps receded. But the damage was done. Even the strongest of spirits couldn't keep away the thoughts he fought so hard to suppress in broad daylight.
He hadn't meant to think about the Hunt Ball. Had been doing remarkably well today, in fact, keeping his mind solely on the meeting, on Venturer's fluctuating cash flow, on the various small fires demanding his attention as a founder of a fledgling production company. And yet somehow, there he was, back at Henry Hampshire's estate, glass shattering under his palm while he sat—useless, helpless—watching a lush red skirt swish around Basil fucking Badingham's trousers.
He downed another finger of scotch (really, a hundred quid tip basically translated into an endless supply of his chosen libation) and a brilliant idea crossed his mind.
He should go away.
For ten days, a fortnight. Maybe more. Somewhere with plentiful sunshine and no bluebell woods, and definitely far from where bloody Bas's hand could rest on creamy backs that Rupert desperately dreamed of having under his palms. South Africa? Or Argentina, perhaps. There was always polo there, and the grueling days filled with horses and sun didn't permit him to feel anything whatsoever. He'd be too bone-weary tired by nightfall to have much coherent thought by the time his head hit the pillow.
Distance was supposed to help. Out of sight, out of…he signalled the barman for another, knocking the glass of water over in the process. Out of mind. That was the phrase, wasn't it?
It had to be easier were he not in the same country as her. Better for the constant ache in his chest to not have to hear, secondhand over drinks, or at Venturer meetings, that she'd been seen somewhere with Bas again, or that she was going out with another nice and decent boy who'd get to watch her throw her head back while she laughed.
He was just making a mental note of the things that needed to be taken care of before he could escape Penscombe for an indeterminate while, when a hand landed on his shoulder and a familiar voice said cheerfully, "There you are! God, you look dreadful. How long have you been—wait, I'm not late, am I?"
Billy Lloyd-Foxe dropped onto the stool beside him, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over the back. "Gin and tonic," he told the barman as he rolled up his sleeves, "lots of ice, go easy on the gin. Good man," and then turned his full attention to Rupert. "Well?"
"Finished with Giles early," Rupert grunted, not looking up.
"Oh yes? How'd it go?"
"Fine." He knew he was starting to slur his words horribly, but untangling them seemed a task for Billy not him. "Signed some papers. Bloody man talked about synergy for the better part of an hour. Still don't know what that means."
"Sounds thrilling. I'm not at all sorry to have missed it." Billy thanked the barman and took a sip of his drink. Rupert could sense he was being watched over the rim of the glass. "How've you been, anyway? Haven't heard a peep out of you in…hell, must be three weeks." When Rupert didn't reply, Billy added, his voice lowering, "I called Penscombe a few times. Left messages with Mrs. B."
Rupert shrugged. If he wasn't more careful, he'd land himself in deep trouble, for if ever there was one person on earth capable of reading him, it was Billy. And Rupert was not, currently, in any state or desire to handle that.
"Been busy," he said instead to fill the awkward silence.
With what, Billy didn't ask. He simply reached over and gave Rupert's shoulder a firm squeeze. "You don't look so good, Rupe."
"Thanks awfully."
"What's wrong?"
Rupert huffed. "Would be faster to tell you what is right."
There was a long silence in which both men took another swig of their drink. Then–
"Is it the Beattie Johnson thing?" Billy asked, more gently still. Like everyone else, he had not only seen the expose live on Uncensored but also read the three pages published in the Scorpion the following morning. A detailed account of Rupert's old conquests, it was sordid and gleeful and undeniably, infuriatingly true. They'd dissected and cursed the whole ordeal in detail weeks ago, then ranted about Beattie again when the Golden Gauntlet tapes had been stolen.
"Nobody who matters gives a toss what that woman writes, you know that, Rupe? It was chip paper by Thursday."
Rupert rolled his eyes. Billy had to know it was all in the rear view mirror by now. Not quite trusting his tongue to manage a full sentence just then, he simply shook his head. Another silence settled over them, longer than the first, broken only when the bartender set a fresh glass of iced water with a slice of lemon down by the glass of scotch. Clever man, thought Rupert, ignoring the water entirely.
Out of the corner of his rapidly blurring vision, he caught Billy swirling his own glass, deep in thought, ice clicking gently against crystal.
"Are you–Is this about Cameron?"
"What about her," Rupert couldn't help but sigh.
"It's over between you, right? I heard from Bas over the phone."
Of course. Basil Baddingham, keeper of every filthy scrap of gossip within fifty miles of Rutshire, custodian of not just his own but everyone else's business too. Rupert's jaw tightened at the very thought of him.
"Christ, Billy," he spat out instead, only half-aggrieved, "is that what you've been thinking sitting there?"
"Well, you were together a good chunk of this year," Billy retorted, a sheepish, defensive expression on his face.
Rupert rolled his eyes. If the entire country, even Billy for God’s sake, believed him to be nursing a broken heart over Cameron Cook, then he'd clearly missed his true calling somewhere along the way. Should have gone in for the stage instead of showjumping, he thought bitterly. He could have had a comfortable, long career playing some tragic hero or another, taking his bows and flowers till he was seventy, and never once have to feel a single thing that was real.
"Well, if it's not Cameron," Billy said slowly, watching him with a frown deepening by the second, "then who?"
Shit. He hadn't meant to say that last part aloud. Perhaps he was too drunk to ascertain where the line between what he thought and what he said was. Wordlessly, he finished what remained of his scotch in one long swallow and lifted a finger for another.
"Rupe, maybe slow down a bit—"
"I'm fine," Rupert cut across him.
Billy tried again, this time aiming for a different direction. "Is it Venturer, then? Stress about the whole consortium thing?"
"Fuck it, maybe it is." Rupert dragged a hand back through his hair, leaving it standing up at an angle that would have mortified him had he been sober. "Venturer…Tony bloody Baddingham…and the God-awful board meetings…I hate the whole grubby circus of it, if you want the truth."
It wasn't really the truth, nor was it entirely false. But Rupert felt he was beyond nuance at this point.
"Then why are you doing it?" asked Billy, still sipping on that first G&T. “I never thought you gave a damn what was on the television."
Even in his inebriated state, Rupert knew some things were better left unsaid. For instance: this, the answer to Billy’s question. It was meant to go with him to his grave, where, under six feet of dirt, it could finally rest, shielded from others’ pity or amusement. But perhaps he'd had rather more to drink today than he'd realized, for it was taking its toll on his no longer youthful body and loosening his tongue despite knowing better. And faster than he could stop them, the words were spilling from his mouth:
"I only did it for her," he admitted, the words slurring together under his breath and causing Billy to lean forward as he strained to hear. "All of it. Every bloody meeting, the investors, the hours I've spent talking about franchise applications with Declan and Freddie. Malaga…I did it for her, and now I'm in too deep to get out, and she's—fuck." He stopped, choking on the word. He pressed the heel of his hand against one eye. "I've fucked up, Billy. Properly fucked it all up."
A hand reached up and squeezed his shoulder. "It's surely not as bad as all that. You're you, Rupe. You always find a way through. You always have."
"Not this time." Rupert said flatly. Suddenly, there was no fight left in him at all, just a tired, drink-soaked certainty he hadn't been brave enough to face until this moment. "Maybe it's better this way. Tag—she deserves a damn sight better than some washed-up showjumper with a disgraced political career behind him, who's slept with three-fourths of the women between here and Rutshire."
Beside him, Billy went very still.
"Tag? Who's–wait, you don't mean…not Taggie?" he all but hissed the name, and when Rupert chanced a glance out of the corner of his eyes, he found Billy blinking owlishly at him. "Are you talking about Declan O'Hara's daughter?"
Rupert, eyelids slamming shut, dropped his head.
Taggie. All the way back in Rutshire, no doubt holed up in that yellow kitchen of hers with something bubbling on the hob and Gertrude or Claudius, or likely both, running circles at her feet, entirely unaware of the pathetic state she'd reduced him to in a bar three counties removed.
To his credit, Billy didn't prod any further. He merely lifted a hand and signalled the barman and said, "Whisky. Neat. Whatever he's having, actually." He pointed at Rupert's glass.
Rupert laughed. It came out sour and short. "Sorry, didn't mean to ruin your night as well."
"Bit late for that now," said Billy, not unkindly, "I think I need something stronger." He waited until his drink had arrived and he'd taken a proper mouthful of it before asking, very quietly, and without a trace of his usual lightness, "How long has it been going on?"
Rupert shrugged, then shook his head. What could he possibly say? He focused on the condensation slipping down his untouched glass of water and did his best to not think of how there was nothing going on. Not between him and Taggie, and, if recent events were to be accounted for, there never would be. And if that thought felt like a blunt knife being lodged into his chest over and over again… Well, it was none of Billy's business, really.
After a long, long while—long enough that Rupert had nearly convinced himself Billy had let the matter drop entirely—a hand landed heavily between his shoulder blades, once. Twice. And then, almost to himself, Billy muttered:
"Being in love is sometimes the most miserable bloody thing in the world, isn't it."
Rupert thought this was just about the single truest thing anyone had said to him in weeks. He raised his glass to it, and drank deeply.