Page 27 of The Rest is History
‘No.’ Believe me, sweetheart, you could knock me down with a feather right now.
‘I talk about her a lot to Zara,’ she insists.
‘I’ve got good at zoning you two out,’ I say coldly. Which I know is a dick move. It’s also highly inaccurate. The reasons I zone her out are not the disinterest I’m implying now, but self-preservation and my tendency to lose myself in a rapture of fantasies about her. The latter means that when she thinks I’m lost in a textbook, I’m often in cloud cuckoo land.
A flash of disappointment, or hurt, maybe, crosses her face. I tell myself it’s for the best. Her dislike of me is by far the most effective way of buttressing my Jenga fortress.
I throw her a bone. ‘I’ve heard you mention your sister. And your niece. You live with them, right? I just didn’t realise you were twins.’
‘Yeah.’ She brightens, and I want to shake her. I want to hear her tell me I’m a rude, obnoxious twat and a terrible boss who has no business managing people. She’s too bloody quick to give people the benefit of the doubt.
Especially me.
‘How old is your niece? Is she at school locally?’
‘She goes to Woodland House.’
‘Ah. Great establishment. They do excellent work there.’ A few of our pupils have joined from Woodland House in Year Seven, with some of the finest grasp of the fundamentals of learning I’ve seen.
Her eyes widen, either because I’m being not-hideous, or because she wasn’t expecting me to know Woodland House so well.
‘They really do, don’t they? We went to a parents’ evening there a couple of weeks ago. I couldn’t believe how much progress Olive—that’s my niece—had made in a couple of terms.’
‘Youwent to her parents’ evening?’
She hesitates, as though she’s evaluating something in her head. ‘Yeah. My brother-in-law walked out last summer. They’ve hardly heard from him since. That’s the reason I moved down here—just to be with them, you know?’
‘That was the ‘family thing’,’ I mutter.
A wry smile. ‘Good memory.’
I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.
I gaze down at her, drinking in the vision before me. We’ve been mobbed this morning, and it’s all her. She draws people to her. I’ve seen it at school—pupils, staff members, parents—but here, doing her best impression of one of the most beguiling characters in all of history, she unwittingly makes sure no one stands a chance. They can’t keep away from her.
It’s in the way she carries herself in this costume. Perfectly poised, just like Anne Boleyn would have been. The square bodice framing the flawless skin of her bust, while that bloody necklace dangles itsBtantalisingly, three drop pearls suspended on bare flesh. The black hood showcasing her beauty.
That’s all they are: the dress, the hood, the jewels. Props. Gimmicks. The real magic lies beneath them.
I want to tell her that my opinion of her has just shot up even further, no matter how impossible that seemed moments ago. That her giving up her job and home to support her sister is a sacrifice of immense proportions. That her willingness to make such a sacrifice is revealing.
That people in my past have been as closed to the concept of sacrifice as Elodie has been open.
But all I say is, ‘They’re lucky to have you.’
My reward is another smile. Less wry this time. More genuine. Open.
And another brick falls, the Jenga tower around my heart wobbling precariously.
When her family does turn up a while later, I almost laugh. Because, yeah, her sister’s an attractive woman. Very attractive, even. Fair hair, delicate face that her daughter’s clearly inherited. But that’s it.
Next to Elodie, she looks ordinary.
There’s much hugging and gushing and squealing when they spot her. I mean, it’s not my reaction of choice, but I get it. Elodie Peach as Anne Boleyn is a fucking miracle. A sight for sore eyes.
Elodie introduces us. I can hear the reluctance in her voice. Presumably, she’s as keen as I am to keep her work and personal life strictly separate.
‘Charlie, this is my sister, Grace, and my niece, Olive. Guys, this is Charlie.’
