Page 24 of The Rest is History
‘No. At the back.’ I signal self-consciously with my hand. ‘Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal.’
She sits back with her mug, a self-satisfied look on her perfectly made-up face.
‘Still. You’ve got to admit it’s all quite hot, in a macho kind of way. You know, him all dressed up like a tyrant. Tearing fabric off with his teeth and all that.’
‘Don’t forget the codpiece,’ I point out, and we collapse in another fit of giggles.
CHAPTER 10
Elodie
Ihave a parents’ evening tonight, and for once, I’m not the teacher.
I’m accompanying Olive and Grace to meet Olive’s teachers at Woodland House, her specialist dyslexia centre and the very worthy black hole down which most of my and Grace’s earnings are pouring right now.
I already believe it’s worth every penny, and I’m sure tonight will confirm my expectations. This is Olive’s third term there, and already the Woodland House team is making good on its promise to ‘unlock’ my amazing little niece.
We drop Olive with our parents so Grace and I can have some time with her teachers and her grandparents can get their Olive fix. They only live a couple of miles away, in Cobham, and they’re hands-on grandparents, picking her up from school a couple of times a week and taking her to her swimming lesson every Saturday morning.
Mum still hasn’t got over her disappointment that Grace chose to downsize when Jake walked out rather than moving in with them. Granted, she would have had far more space at Mum and Dad’s.
And no peace at all.
The thing you need to know about Susan Peach is that despite her having never heard the phrasetoxic positivity, the woman is relentless.She believes in mind over matter, in nothing being so grave that a cup of tea or a brisk walk can’t fix it. Likewise, a hot bath or a cold shower.
She had this mindset drilled into her at her Devon boarding school, a seemingly Malory Towers-esque experience many moons ago. God knows, it’s given the woman one hell of a backbone. But she won’t give an inch.
Aside from tending to her sole granddaughter wherever possible, she plays golf and tennis and helps run the local Women’s Institute and still helps at our old school (not Hampton Park, thank fuck). She’s just the right side of sixty, strong as an ox and always well put together, though she considers excessive makeup ‘common’. She favours a natural look on her pretty, weathered face.
Over the years, Grace and I have got utterly sick of Mum’s peers telling us what a ‘tower of strength’ she is. Brutal. But true. She’s a bloody marvel. Shocks and setbacks deter her in life no more than a hailstorm would on the tennis court. She’d forge on ahead.
The main problem with our relationship is that she still treats us as if we’re flighty teenagers. She speaks almost exclusively in italics, annunciating some words with such vigour that her entire face squeezes together and her mouth pinches up. She still asks me what colour my pee is. And how many bowel movements I’ve had each day.
I imagine you’re starting to understand why I had to come back. Because much as I couldn’t leave Grace and Olive alone when Jake walked out, I couldn’t let her come back here. Having your husband leave you is shitty enough without enforced reversion to living with your parents and having them treat you like a teenager.
‘Oh,you’rehere!’ Mum exclaims as we amble into the kitchen. Freddie, their twelve-year-old Jack Russell, circles us in a frenzy of delight. Like his owner, his advancement in years has in no way diminished his energy or exuberance. ‘How is mygorgeousgranddaughter?’
She scoops Olive up in a gigantic hug, squishing Olive’s face against her stomach, and I feel a pang of affection. Relief. We’re all most certainly on the same page when it comes to showering Olive with enough love to make her forget she’s missing a dad.
That’s the strategy, anyway.
‘And what have you got there?’ Mum cries, releasing Olive so she can look down at the half-finished cross-stitch suspended in a round wooden frame.
‘It’s my cross-stitch,’ Olive tells her faintly. ‘It’s a bird of paradise.’
Olive is extremely introverted and relentlessly creative. She immerses herself intensively in new crafts, and this is the year of cross-stitch. She created the pattern herself on squared paper and has followed every last X of it diligently. It’s beautiful.
Although she adores her grandparents, it’s obvious Olive finds Mum’s extreme extroversion and lack of regard for personal space full-on. Grace and I worry about it, in a low-grade way. School is doubly draining when you’re both dyslexic and introverted. It’s important for her to have a reprieve after school hours, but that’s not going to happen at her grandparents’.
Not as long as Mum has her granddaughter to herself for a precious couple of hours.
Grace gathers Olive’s fair, wavy hair in her hands, smoothing it down over her scalp. She could probably do with a haircut—her waves are erring towards scraggly—but she makes her hair work. On Olive it looks beachy. On me it would be a mess. But then, I’m not a nine year-old with the most perfect little heart-shaped face on the planet.
God, I adore this kid. We all do. There’s something about her particular mix of vulnerability and quiet stoicism that breaks our hearts. When all around her, people are losing their heads, Olive just gets the hell on with it.
‘She’s pretty knackered, Mum.’ Grace’s fingertips run through Olive’s hair and her daughter leans into her touch. ‘She could do with some chill-out time. Maybe she can do her cross-stitch in the garden.’
‘Nonsense!She needs some fresh air and a run-around after being cooped up in a classroom all day.’
