Page 52 of The Rest is History
Nor did the fact that his codpiece was definitely protruding way more than it should have after he finished me off.
Nor the, ahem, wrist injury he mentioned.
Nor the fact that he looked at my marked neck this morning like he was a vampire and it was way past dusk.
But above all that, nothing about Charlie Vaughan screamsno strings attached hookups.
Although, nothing about him saysI’m going to finger a co-worker in full costume and bring her to orgasm in an unlocked room,either.
So, you know, I’m in uncharted territory here. Which is inconvenient when you’re trying to focus on your students and instead feel compelled to chantyou made me comein your head every time you see your delicious colleague between periods.
Luckily, I’m covering the Hanovers today with my Nineteenth Century A Level group, so I have something to keep my mind off the conundrum that is Charlie. I infinitely prefer royal history to economic or social history (did I mention those Corn Laws?), and I haven’t focused much on the Hanovers before this academic year.
It helps that I’ve spent a decent amount of time exploring the heavenly Baroque wing of Hampton Court. It’s got me far more interested in the Hanovers, especially George II and Queen Caroline, who flourished under the gorgeous frescoed ceilings with their racy, romping nudes.
Unfortunately, George III, who we’re covering today, disliked the palace and didn’t spend much time there. At least his mental illness and need for a regent provide enough human interest factor for my students to dive into a lively debate (though I spend too much of the lesson bringing them back on topic after continuous diversions to discussBridgerton).
At any rate, being firmly in a Hanoverian headspace gives my poor, exhausted, lust-fuelled brain a break from remembering my own naughty Henry VIII and his deliciously dirty deeds in that room at the palace.
I exchange a hurried goodbye with him and Zara before we go to our classrooms to dismiss our students for the day. At Hampton Park, a different department acts as class teachers for each year group. History covers Year Ten, so Charlie, Zara, and I all have classrooms next to each other. Once I’ve dismissed my class, I head straight home. Sometimes, I like to mark in the office or the staffroom, but today I need headspace. I need a breather from obsessing over Charlie.
I’m working at the kitchen table when Grace and Olive arrive home an hour later. Grace is a physiotherapist and can choose her own hours to a large extent. Thankfully, her business is thriving, and it’s been a source of consistency in her life since Jake walked out. She just doesn’t have enough hours in the day.
I hug Olive hello. ‘How was netball?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ She extricates herself from me gently without volunteering any additional colour and heads straight for the fridge. She’s been watching a lot of lifestyle videos recently on YouTube and has developed a penchant for over-engineered snacks and multi-step night-time routines. Grace and I monitor this phase with a mixture of amusement and wariness.
An interest in health and nutrition? Excellent.
A discovery of the grounding benefits of a solid routine? Great.
Having a meltdown one night because she hasn’t had time to do her night-time routine and the YouTuber told her it only worked if she was consistent? Less great.
‘Whatcha making?’ I ask her.
‘Toasted pittas with strawberry cream cheese,’ she replies in her quiet, even voice.
I purse my lips, impressed. ‘Yummy. If you need a guinea pig for, you know, quality control purposes…’
That gets me a smile. ‘You can have some, Liddie. I’ll make enough for all of us.’
‘Thanks, honey. That would be lovely.’
I wander back to the sink to fill the kettle as Olive sets up the relevant video on her iPad and busies herself with slicing the stalks off strawberries and throwing the fruit in the Nutribullet. She is one-hundred percent focused on the task at hand, at cutting off only the green bits and not her own fingers.
She’s only nine, and she’s so damn self-sufficient. She’s always been like this. Outrageously competent and super independent. Dyslexia can bring with it real resilience, the willingness to work through problems over and over, to find coping strategies, and Olive has resilience in spades.
Grace sidles over to me. ‘So,’ she mutters over the YouTuber’s gratingly perky voice. ‘How was it with Henry the Hottie today? Any more orgasms you want to tell me about?’
I shoot a panicked look over at Olive.‘Grace.’
‘Relax. She’s in another world. So tell me. I’ve been thinking about it all day.’
I shrug. ‘Not much to tell, really.’
She slumps against the counter. ‘Oh. That’s disappointing. Did he acknowledge it, at least? And how did you feel when you saw him?’
I cock my head, considering. ‘I felt very, very bad things happening in my panties when I saw him. He looked so fucking gorgeous. And we did have one moment.’
