Page 105 of The Rest is History
‘Because…’ he prompts.
I spread my hands wide. ‘Because she deserves the world, doesn’t she, and she wants babies—she made that very clear at Jack’s this weekend—and you know I’m not the man for that job.’ I slump back in my chair and rake my hand through my hair so hard I practically rip a few clumps out.
He watches me. ‘And she told you all that?’
‘No. I discerned it.’
He blows out a breath. ‘Wow. So you finished it because you think she won’t want you because you’re infertile, and she has no clue what’s just happened?’
‘It’s not about her not wanting me. It’s about not wanting her to have to make that decision. I think she was getting in deep—we both were—and I don’t want her to have to choose. Don’t want her staying with me because she thinks she loves me or owes me. She’s such a sweet person; I know she’d consider choosing me. This way she has no choice.’ I straighten myshoulders. ‘She’s going to have to get over me, and it means she can find someone who can actually come up with the goods.’
He flinches. ‘Mate. That’s a seriously twisted way of looking at the situation. Maybe she’d like you to treat her like an adult and actually provide her with all the information before she makes a decision about your relationship.’
I shake my head. ‘Nope. Not going to happen. What if she chooses me and then hates me in twenty years, when it’s too late? I promise you, she’ll thank me in a few years when she’s sitting there with some other guy and his kid.’
That specific visual causes such a wave of nausea to roll through my stomach that I practically puke in Phil’s shiny, crested wastepaper basket.
‘Er, she won’t thank you. She’ll still think you’re the twat who led her on and dumped her for no reason.’
‘But she’ll be glad to have got rid of me.’
He shifts in his seat. ‘This all feels extremely unhealthy to me. Do you want to speak to one of the counsellors?’
‘No, thank you. I did all that when Adeline left. Therapy doesn’t change the facts.’ It’s time to take charge of this situation. ‘I didn’t come here for sympathy, though I appreciate your concern. I came to ask if there’s a spare office I can use for the rest of the term. Clearly, I need to make myself scarce from the History office. Zara laid into me just now in the cafeteria queue—not that I blame her. But the least I can do is stay away from El. I don’t want to rub her nose in it.’
More like, I don’t want to rub my nose in it. Because I can’t be there with her, staring at the wall and knowing she’s behind me. It would be like the old days, but a million times worse.
He nods. ‘Sure. I can probably find you something—give me twenty-four hours. You know, the deputy head has a nice office. Dual aspect. That’s all I’m saying.’
I groan. ‘Now’s not the time, Phil.’
‘Okay, okay. But tuck it away. At least you’ve only got a month till the end of term. Then she’ll be gone.’
I stare up at him. ‘What?’
He looks at me as if I’m thick. ‘Amanda’ll be back from mat leave in September. I’ll have no role for Elodie. Unless…’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless you want to take up the deputy headship. Then she can take your place. Didn’t you say she’d much rather teach the sixteenth century in any case?’
I stare at him.
That’s it. I think about the lengths she’s going to to support her sister and niece, both emotionally and financially. She may hate me, but perhaps the one way I can help her is by alleviating those burdens—and taking the deputy head role could be one part of that. Another idea springs to mind, too.
I’m lying on the sofa on my terrace, glass of gin in hand—no tonic required tonight—and two overly warm dogs sprawled on top of me. I was in luck. I picked Luke and Leia up from Carol, Jack’s housekeeper, after school, managing to avoid him and Emmy. I’m going to put that conversation off for as long as I can.
Clearly, though, I’ve tempted the gods, because my phone rings seconds later, signalling the front gate buzzer. I sigh and press the button.
‘Let us in, fucker,’ my brother growls.
Fucking excellent. I press the remote entry button on my app and swing my feet down. The dogs protest until they hear the drag of gates on the gravel, and they’re off.
I don’t go to greet him and whichever members of Jack Fisher’s Circus he’s brought with him. They’ve turned up uninvited; they can bloody well find their way around the back.
I’m staring into the abyss at the bottom of my glass of gin when my brother rounds the side of the house.
‘Oi!’
