Page 77 of The Rest is History
He steps forward, extending an extremely nice bottle of champagne and dutifully letting Mum grab him robustly by the shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks. ‘Mrs Peach. The pleasure is entirely mine. Thank you for welcoming me into your lovely home.’
Oh, Jesus. I think I prefer Churlish Charlie.
‘Hello, Elodie.’ Mum steps forward to kiss me, her eyebrows practically through her hairline with appreciation for my date. ‘Why didn’t you brush your lovely hair? And you look tired.’ She pinches my cheeks.
I’m tired because the guy you’re fawning over has spent the entire weekend fucking me into next week.
‘I’m absolutely fine, thanks,’ I say brightly. Railing against Mum like a petulant teenager doesn’t work at all. The only way through is to match her peppiness.
It’s exhausting, thirsty work.
‘Sothisis the famous Charlie,’ she says theatrically. ‘We’ve heardsomuch about you from Elodie.’
‘You’re famous in our family for being a grumpy arsehole, and I complain about you a lot,’ I tell him to keep his ego in check.
‘Course you do,’ he murmurs, shooting me a grin that threatens to melt my panties off.
‘Liddie!That’s not how we treat our guests,’ Mum says chidingly. ‘Now,docome through to the garden, Charlie. Are you a tennis man? You lookveryathletic. I must persuade you to try out at Esher Tennis Club.’ She takes his arm and leads him on out through the back.
I sigh and follow. I did warn him.
Out back, Dad rises stiffly and reluctantly from his seat. He conducts all socialising with reluctance. He removes his glasses and wipes his eyes. His chronic under-eye shadows give him a permanent panda-like appearance.
‘Charlie. Doug.’ There’s resignation in his voice, like he can’t stop this guy from leading himself like a lamb to the slaughter into the bosom of our family.
They shake manfully before Charlie turns to kiss Grace, who’s sidled up to him. She may find the inner strength to behave around Charlie, but she’ll most definitely corner me and ask me many questions of extreme candour about the sex. To be fair, she’s barely seen me since I went off for my ‘date’ on Friday night, except for a moment earlier where I popped in to find a parent-friendly outfit.
‘How are you doing, Olive?’ Charlie asks, shaking her hand gravely before she slinks up to Dad and tucks herself against him, his hands going to her shoulders. She’s in her safe place now.
‘We’re doing the Reformation at school,’ she tells him in her low voice. I catch him leaning in to hear her. ‘Liddie says you know loads about it.’
He has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Ah. Well, I would say your aunt knows as much as I do, if not more. I’m sure you must learn a lot from her at home.’
She shrugs under Grandpa’s hands. ‘Not really. We mostly talk about nail polish colours and whether to make smoothies or açai bowls for breakfast.’
Way to throw me under the bus, Olive. Charlie’s mouth twitches.
‘Do you, now? Well, that sounds… fun. So what’s your view on the Reformation, then?’
My ovaries are doing a little dance at this new and delightful experience of Charlie being sweet to a child (I haven’t seen much evidence of it at school) when my sister tugs me by the arm.
‘Gazebo,’ she hisses. ‘Now.’
I do a quick recon. Mum’s busy opening the champagne, taking longer than she should because her eyes keep flitting to Charlie. Dad’s gazing down at Olive as she speaks like she’s the second coming of Christ.
‘Fine.’
We slink off to the far corner of the garden, where a twee but useful gazebo stands flanked by ancient apple trees. We used to smoke in here when we were teenagers. Its peeling interior may or may not feature lovesick etchings that provide an unwelcome reminder of past low-points in our love lives.
EP 4 DBwas a particular nadir, I would say. Daniel Brody was a scrawny, football-playing youth at school upon whom I fixated long, hard and fruitlessly. He was entirely undeserving of my teenage self’s adoration, obviously. The only explanation I can muster is that Grace and I spent most of our teenage years bored out of our brains and desperate for something to happen.
I suppose crushing on and endlessly discussing irrelevant boys alleviated the boredom. Though I’m extremely glad Daniel Brody didn’t ‘happen’ to me.
Ugh.
Grim.
Now, though, I’m in the enviable position of having actual smoking-hot sex with an actual smoking-hot man up for discussion. Sadly, my sense of propriety has grown with the years and I’m no longer willing to give my sister a blow-by-blow account of the past forty-eight hours.
