Chapter Text
The idea was finally approved – as they often were – after Declan’s fourth shot of whiskey.
“Ye got a point, Taggie needs her own cooking show!” He crowed, his mustard yellow socks prompting frowns from fellow patrons in The Plaza’s Champagne Porch. “She’ll be brill, I promise!”
Every muscle in his face is fighting for its life, straining to temper the most arrogant smirk ever attempted in Campbell-Black portraiture history. “And that’s another point for us, since Baddingham never bothered researching Cotswolds’ biggest target audience: the homemakers. They might want oiled bodybuilders, but what they need is cooking guidance.”
Good old Frederico, three sheets to the wind himself after their win with Cablevision, was equally enthused. “Oi, good one mate! Let’s get the lass on camera, they'll love her for sure!”
“Gentlemen, please. We should ask the lady herself before we make any decisions.”
For once bone dry sober, he was the only voice of reason in their dysfunctional trio since Cameron had already bid them adieu hours ago. No one - least of all daddy-of-the-year Declan O’Hara - could know it’s his efforts and subtle nudging which planted the idea in the first place.
“We’re an ocean away Rupe,” the journalist cackled, his thick Irish brogue dancing out of its daytime confines. “Can’t just fly back before we meet with NBC next week!”
“Who said anything about flying, old chap? She’s only a call and several hundred dollars away. Give it a try, will you?” He gave his two partners the quickest of smirks as he attempted to restrain himself from sprinting for the telephone in his own room, a sickening smile already struggling to break free.
Finally, another reason to fulfil his parliamentary duty of asking after his constituent s .
Just in time too, since it’s nearly six back home and Taggie’s seconds away from getting up.
He’s surviving all these contract negotiations by the skin of his teeth, racking up massive bills for overseas calls. He’s no better than an addict getting his post midnight fix just to wake up and start all over again in a few hours. The increasingly dark circles underneath his eyes and decreasingly few words out of his mouth had Gerald inquiring if he needed to see a doctor thrice. Cameron and the boys merely concluded that the hotel’s discreet service provided him with samples of the city’s beauties.
They’re not far off the mark, exactly. They just didn’t know which discreet service he’s utilising, as well as the pitiful reality that he’d spent the equivalent of a dozen nights in a pleasure house yet had not seen hide nor hair of this singular beauty in weeks.
It’s deadly, this sickness that had consumed him. And all from a kiss.
Some higher power was most likely laughing at his plight, calling it karma for all his past misdeeds.
Frankly, they should’ve known better than to gift a proud masochist with such pleasurable torture.
She answered on the third ring, as always.
“Good morning, angel.”
A sleepy chuckle answered him, scratchy from disuse. “And a good night to you too, Rupert.”
His heart stuttered in hummingbird speed. As much as he suffered from neither seeing her face nor talking about their encounter in the Priory kitchen until he came back for a proper discussion, there’s a reassuring intimacy enveloping their many late night – and early morning – conversations. No fathers, no gossip mongering neighbours, no tabloid reporters could get within these impenetrable hotel walls an ocean away. Here, they’re free.
“It’s always sunny when I’m talking to you, angel.”
“Liar,” she accused, “you tried to hide your yawn just now.”
“You’re far too clever for your own good.”
“And you’re far too self-sabotaging,” she retorted, the edges of her voice curling into a smile “what if you fall asleep on your breakfast tomorrow?”
“All that toast and jam? I’ll turn into a roly-poly for sure.”
She giggled so hard he could feel her belly aching. The sound was barely human, and far too angelic.
And that’s another Olympic gold for Rupert Campbell-Black.
“Better stay in New York then, because Bas will surely eat you.”
“You know I’ll face his deadly fangs to see you again, angel.”
”I might try to save you… or I can slather you in ice cream. Then all of Rutshire will want to take a bite of you, not just your fangirls.”
“Such a cruel, cruel angel you are, darling Taggie.” Please, please know you’re now the only one allowed. He had half a mind to twirl the telephone cord like a lovesick schoolboy before his only legitimate reason for calling re-enters his mind. “And speaking of your wonderful culinary feats, what say you to your own cooking show?”
“… what?”
“Seeing as you’re the best cook in all of Britain – and now that I’ve tasted American fare again, most likely the northern half of the world – there’s no other candidate for Venturer’s first cooking show, don’t you think? Your father and Freddie happened to agree as well. Quite enthusiastically, I should add.”
She would be unstoppable with a cooking show, he knew from his very first bite of her salmon mousse entrée at the Joneses’. She already was. Brilliant enough to turn everything he tasted in the unsleeping city into ash because it’s not her cooking, always seasoned with the perfect amount of salt and decorated with garnishes that astoundingly also tasted incredible. Intoxicating enough to blind him from any other woman he met in the Big Apple – including Cameron’s frequent propositions – because it’s not her smile, warm and kind and slightly chapped from the Rutshire cold because Caitlyn and she-who-left-and-shall-not-be-named always stole her lip balms. Endearing enough to mute him from his usual jests and double entendres because it won’t be answered with her laughter, rich and deep as crushed velvet.
She’ll turn any viewer into putty in her calloused, capable hands.
“I… I don’t have any idea how I can face a camera and not just vomit all over the floor! I’ll turn us into a laughingstock, and - and then no one would watch us, and then you’ll lose your house, and – “
“Breathe, angel. There’s only you and me here, no one’s watching, we’re safe.” He had to take it back, being so far away and unable to comfort her was utter torment. That higher power bloke must be so smug now that he’s eating his words. “First, the horses and the dogs and I will trample over anyone who dares to laugh at you wrong. Second, you cook like you’re sent straight from heaven and you’ve catered to practically everyone in Rutshire and beyond, they’ll want to watch how you do it. Third, that’s not my only property in Rutshire, remember?”
The endearing sound of her hair scratching the transmitter told him she’s shaking her head, disbelief taking over her worries. “You, living in Bluebell wood?”
“I’ll be happy in a rundown shack.” As long as you’re in that shack with me, of course.
“You’re impossible,” languorous laughter caressed his ear. There it is again, endearing. “You know you’ll be a block of ice come winter, right? I’ll have to find a slow cooker big enough to thaw your freezing arse.”
He couldn't stop his laughter even if he wanted to. “My knight in slow cooker.”
That angelic belly laugh again. Maybe the higher power bloke wanted him to combust before sunrise instead. “If you teach me how to ride on Rocky, I’ll become a proper knight on a white charger too.”
“I’m afraid he’ll like you more than me and run away for the Priory.”
“He won’t even fit in the kitchen! He’ll steal all my sugar.” She chuckled. “And I’ve buckets of carrots I have to grate for Miss Templeton’s five-tier wedding cake, I can’t let him eat that too.”
“Five-tiers? Angel, I know you’ve worked miracles, but please don’t tell me you’re doing this alone.”
“Of course not, you’ve nagged me enough. I’m sticking my tongue at you right now, just so you know.” I’d prefer you sticking your tongue down my throat. Talk about dangling a carrot and getting the stick instead. “I’ve recruited Caitlyn and Patrick, as per your suggestion many, many times before. And I've done the numbers, everything from the dowels to the buttercream is structurally sound.”
“I’m glad you’ve seen reason.” Footsteps marked her incoming siblings. Fuck. Every single time, ending the call was always the hardest part. “And it seems my time is nearing its end. Think on it for as long as you want, angel. We’d love to have you gracing our screens, but I’d rather you stay with crafting nature-defying wedding cakes with the power of Physics and catering to us Rutshire snobs if that’s what makes you happiest.”
For a long, heart stopping moment, he was answered with silence. Had he said something wrong? Was his comment on the wedding cakes too critical? Maybe he shouldn’t pressure her to ponder it too -
“You’re a much kinder man than you think, Rupert Campbell-Black.” She said it so gently, so fondly, her warmth traversed the ocean and seeped into his skin. “I hope you know that.”
I miss you. I don’t deserve you. This city is no better than a shithole without you.
He coughed instead, his throat tight, eyes strangely damp. “Only you, angel. Only you.”
Little did he anticipate the hell he’d unleashed upon himself.