Page 26 of The Rest is History
‘We have a massive audiobook library here,’ Mr Hope says. ‘Please take advantage of it as much as you can. And we can tell she’s an avid consumer of books. It’s not just her vocabulary—her sentence structure is sophisticated for a child her age, and the imagery she comes up with is quite staggering, frankly.’
When we get back in the car, I can tell Grace has had a burden lifted off her shoulders. Between the learning strategies Olive is acquiring here and her early achievements in touch typing, she’s making leaps and bounds we couldn’t have imagined nine months ago, when she interviewed here.
When I interviewed at Hampton Park.
When I upgraded my London state school salary for that of a substitute teacher at one of the swankiest private schools in the South East.
Because this evening’s conversations have reminded me just how critical it is that Grace and I manage to cobble together that seven grand every term for the next few years.
CHAPTER 11
Charlie
Elodie keeps looking over her shoulder.
We’re milling about in Clock Court because it’s a beautiful day, and it’s more pleasant to be outside than in the Great Hall. No matter how spectacular a show the sun puts on when it streams through the stained glass windows.
It’s her third Saturday at the palace. After her first day’s charged necklace incident, I made sure to keep her second week uneventful. We stayed with the other queens for most of the day, and she seemed to enjoy their company. After having spent the previous Saturday almost exclusively with me, I suspect the bar was low.
I’ve also ensured we maintain exactly the same relationship within the school gates as we have so far this academic year. Monday to Friday, it’s business as usual. By which I mean:
Total outward lack of interest on my part. Hostility, even.
A polite distance on her part.
Countless shameless stares at her arse, the nape of her neck, and any other body part (including her face) whenever I have the slightest chance.
Even more countless vigorous rendezvous with my fist what seems like every morning and evening.
So there you have it.
Consider yourself up to speed.
She’s looking backwards, towards Anne Boleyn’s Gateway, the passage under the clock tower that leads back to Base Court and the main entrance to the palace.
‘Expecting someone?’ I ask with a studiedly disinterested air.
‘Yeah.’ She breaks her vigil to glance at me. ‘My twin sister and my niece.’
Twin sister? Twinfuckingsister?
Oh, dear Lord. I am so fucked. Because—there are two of them?The angels in heaven must have been working a double shift the day Elodie and her twin were created. Or they were just so damn proud of their handiwork that they duplicated their celestial creation.
Because why have one Elodie Peach when you can have two?
It’s now my head twisted backwards, my eyes scanning the entrance. My fantasies involving Elodie, and her slim white neck, and her huge green eyes, and her extremely shapely rack, and the glorious curve of her arse, have got out of fucking hand since she came on board at the palace, and theycannothandle the extra titillation of a twin, for fuck’s sake?—
She’s a mind reader.
‘We’re not identical,’ she volunteers. ‘We just about look like sisters. She’s prettier than me. Fairer.’
There’s no way on earth the sister is prettier. That’s a physical impossibility.
‘I see.’ Not my most articulate moment, but all my capacity is employed in trying to will away an erection as I wrestle my fantasies back under control.
‘Did you not know I had a twin?’
I glance back at her. I love it when we actually converse. It gives me the perfect cover to drink in every inch of her. Every pore. Every eyelash. The rosy plumpness of her lips. She goeslight on the makeup when she’s here, but she doesn’t need much. She has a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. They’re adorable. Anachronistic, of course, but I’m not complaining.
