Page 13 of The Rest is History
Jake the Jackass may have upped and left her and Olive, but she has Mum and Dad and me. And I won’t let her take this burden on by herself. Not the emotional burden. Not the financial one. She’s the other half of me. I felt her heartbeat against me months before I was conscious, and I feel her pain now just as keenly as if it were my own.
Grace and Olive don’t get to suffer the tiniest bit more than I can help. Jake took so much of their fucking dignity and love and trust when he left, and I am their person now. I will not leave them alone. I won’t let his desertion be the thing that defines them.That will not be their story.
I consider my sister’s question and decide to embellish a little. I suspect she could do with a little cheering up, a little distraction. Even if it’s at my expense.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I reply airily. ‘You know, whatever Anne and Henry used to do when they were newlyweds. Some sparring. Flirting—in the style of courtly love, of course. A little light PDA.’
Her eyes widen, and she raises her glass of cheapo Sauv Blanc to her lips. ‘Elodie Peach. Will you let Charlie Vaughan take liberties with you in front of the tourists?’
She’s been reading too much Philippa Gregory, but I’ll humour her.
‘If he bestows some high value gifts or titles upon me, I might show him my duckies.’
Grace bends over double and some wine spurts out of her mouth onto the floor. She swallows and coughs and waves her wine glass around. I chuckle and step forward to take it out of her hands.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasps. ‘That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard. Can we have a wager on how long it takes you to get your tits out—in character, of course?’
She’s so right about the term being creepy.Duckieswas a medieval slang term for breasts, a term Henry actually used in his love letters to Anne, when he told her he couldn’t wait to rest his head upon her fine, fine duckies. Seriously horrifying. Still, I shoot her a mock-judgemental look when she straightens herself.
‘You don’t have any money for gambling, weirdo. And obviously I will behave with the utmost class at all times. Anne may not have had royal blood, but she was a woman of exceptional breeding, after all.’
CHAPTER 6
Elodie
My costume is stupendous.
It’s a far simpler affair than Anne’s would have been, in that I can put it on as a single layer. Anne would have worn four. In my version, the ornate petticoat edge is just an insert. But the damask and velvet of my gown has a real weight to it, and my iconic B choker hangs heavily around my neck.
The process of dressing as Anne, in this small room upstairs in Hampton Court Palace, is quite transformative. It’s weird, really. The more of Anne’s costume I put on, the more equipped I feel to act like her. I’m acquiring her mannerisms as I dress. Sensing the desire to improve my posture. Slow my walk. Make greater use of my hands. After all, Anne was famous for her slim, expressive hands.
But it’s when Carol, the very nice lady who’s helping me dress (I suppose she’s the Mistress of the Robes to my Anne) puts the elegant French hood, with its black velvet and pearl trim, on my head, that I have the weirdest sensation. Almost like I’ve gone back in time. Like the mirror in front of me isn’t a mirror at all, but a portal.
Jesus. Creepy. It’s this place. It’s impossible not to be affected by the sheer weight of history bearing down on you from all around. Even if Carol is in anachronistic corduroy flares and an electric lightbulb shines above us.
Standing here, pretending to be Queen Anne in the palace she actually lived in is one of those moments. One of those moments when I understand in a very profound way why I find history so fascinating.
One of those moments when past and present feel like they’re converging, and I’m not sure who I am, or what period I’m supposed to exist in, and it sends tingles down my spine.
The door opens without a knock and in walks a woman I’d put money on being Jane Seymour, hair hidden under her iconic English gabled hood. Her skin is fair, peachy and glowing. I grin at her like a kid. This is such perfect casting. I can already tell she’ll be serene. Docile. Sweet-natured. Everything Anne isn’t. Everything Henry wanted after he’d got rid of his intoxicating second wife in the most gruesome possible way.
And then she opens her mouth.
‘Carol, darling. I am fuckingdyingfor a vape.’ Her accent is broad Essex. And suddenly I adore her even more.
She stops. ‘Oh. Hello. You must be the new Anne. I’m Shelby.’
‘Elodie.’ I give her a big smile and shake her hand. ‘Jane Seymour, I gather?’
‘The one and only. Boring as fuck. It’s hard being nice to everyone all day, though the old dears love me. You’ll have a bit more fun. Wait till you see your Henry. He’s fucking hot. You’ll have some fun with that one.’
She winks and picks up a glittery vape pen from the table.
I blink.
Are we talking about the same guy?
‘You mean… Charlie?’
