Page 20 of The Rest is History
Shine.
She poses with kids and admires little girls’ outfits. She humours elderly pains in the arse, and she seems genuinely pleased to meet all the palace employees who come out of the woodwork—or stonework—to meet her. Hampton Court is an enormous machine, and we characters are tiny cogs in said machine.
But we are, after all, representing the historical figures who gave this place its legacy, so it’s natural that the other employees enjoy meeting us. We play our small part in bringing this staggering location to life. In fusing past and present in a waythat brings meaning and even awe to those fortunate enough to visit.
After an energetic encounter with a bunch ofSix the Musicalfans dressed in Doc Martens and t-shirts readingSorry not Sorry, I steer her away from the crowds for a drink behind the scenes. It’s warm for early May, and we need to pace ourselves. We’re doing a six-hour shift, after all. We need to safeguard whatever personality (or lack of it, in my case) we have.
It’s odd how quickly I’ve already got used to touching her. Putting my hands on her. I lead her back upstairs and guide her through to the staff quarters, a hand featherlight on the small of her back. On that arch I’ve admired so many times.
It’s cool in this corridor. Quiet. Elodie lets out a tired sigh.
‘Phew. It’s intense, playing a Tudor legend in a place full of Tudor nuts.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I’m really not sure you did.’
She reaches up to claw off her hood, which is really a puffy velvet hairband with a piece of black fabric that hangs down past her shoulders. Kind of like a nun’s wimple, I suppose.
‘I need to take this thing off,’ she mutters. ‘It’s giving me a headache.’
She slides it back off the crown of her head, but rather than coming away in her hand, it snags.
‘Ouch.’
I stop. ‘You okay?’
‘Shit.’ She tugs gingerly at it. ‘It’s caught on something. Oh, it’s my necklace.’
I stand there like an idiot, watching her uselessly as she wrestles with it.
‘Can you take a look?’
Oh no. That is not a good idea. I stare in horror at her now-bare head with its sleek crown of dark hair. She’s tied it in alow bun, and I have a prime view of said bun and of an alluring expanse of white neck above where the fabric of the hood is tangled.
It’s stuck at the back of her neck.
Not. A. Good. Idea.
‘I’m not sure?—’
She circles around a little, craning her neck like a dog trying to chase its tail, to no avail. ‘Charlie.’ There’s irritation in her voice. ‘Seriously. I don’t want to break the necklace. If I yank it too hard, I’ll send the pearls flying.Please.’
‘All right.’
I approach with caution, as if her exposed neck is a hazard. Because where I’m concerned, it really is.
I’m right behind her. I take hold of the bunched fabric. ‘You can let go,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got it.’
She releases her grip on it and leans a palm against the wall of the corridor, bending her head further to give me access.
I stand.
And gaze.
And marvel.
Her skin is flawless. Luminous. So smooth, I want to lick a path down it.
