Page 35 of The Rest is History
Where he acts like a man finally granted access to the forbidden fruit that’s tempted him, taunted him, for so long. Like Henry must surely have acted when Anne Boleyn finally granted him access to those long-denied treasures.
I would like to say at this point that I don’t have a Henry VIII kink. That would be impossible. Horrifying.
But, in a cruel twist of fate, it seems I may have aCharlie Vaughan as Henry VIIIkink.
Just the best bits, you see. Charlie’s astonishing good looks, the blue of his eyes against the rich fabrics of his robes, and the terrifyingly easy way with which he assumes a role that’s so synonymous with absolute power. I don’t have to deal with Henry’s physical inadequacies (he definitely wasn’t my type), his actual power or his endless capacity for self-pity or terrifying penchant for disposing of his wives in the most gruesome way.
I’m shitting myself when I rock up to school Monday morning on my bike. I wonder what he’ll do. Say. How he’ll act. Whether he’ll feel the need to apologise again (totally unnecessary, given I loved every second of it, but he’s so bloody proper that he may well feel the need. But apologising would mean acknowledging, while he’s in painful Mr Vaughan mode, that something happened between us.
I much prefer him when he’s playing an entitled, self-obsessed despot who’s trigger-happy on the wifely death warrants.
I hate that I’ve made an effort with my appearance this morning. Nothing too obvious, but I’ve spent longer than I should on achieving a dewy, bronzed look, on making sure each eyelash is fully coated from root to tip, and on mixing a lip stain, balm and gloss to the perfect shade (you know, just to remind him that I have lips. And hekissedthem) before blotting most of it off. I put on one of my favourite summer dresses—a floaty, pale green number with a modest V, cap sleeves and lots of tiny buttons. It’s comfortable, easy to cycle in and, dare I say, makes me feel pretty.
But it all goes to waste, because when I venture into the History office, he gives me the briefest, disapproving flick of his gaze before returning it to his laptop screen. He’s in a pale blue shirt—it’ssucha good colour on him—whose sleeves are rolled up to reveal tanned, hairy, anatomically perfect forearms that look positively lickable.
He told me on Saturday (pre-kiss, when he was actually speaking to me) that he was playing cricket on Sunday. Looks like he caught some sun while he played, because his face is tanned and glowing with health. No need for bronzer there.
My eyes dive straight to his mouth, obviously, and a small, delicious flutter starts up somewhere south of my stomach. It’s both fantastic and disastrous that I know how that mouth feels on mine. And it’s both intoxicating and hugely deflating to be here with him after obsessing (okay, and fantasising) over him for most of the weekend. His hair is still a little damp.
He’s had a shower!my sex organs scream at me.There’s a visual for you!
Holy mother of God, donotimagine that man in the shower.
‘I’ve sent you an email,’ he says to his laptop screen. ‘Next half-term’s lesson plans are due in my inbox by Friday.’
He doesn’t have to be such a dick. I’m sure it’s because he’s the world’s most socially awkward person, so he must be dying of mortification right now, but still. He doesn’t have to be so fucking rude. Dismissive.
‘Good morning to you, too, Charlie,’ I say brightly, less to take the high road and more to piss him off. ‘How was cricket yesterday?’
‘Hot,’ he mutters, and I roll my eyes. He’s not worth the bother. I’ll ignore him till Zara gets here. If he can sit in stony silence and pretend nothing happened, then I’ll take my cue from him.
Because of his hostility, and because I’m driving myself insane with my relentless obsessing, I confide in Zara over lunch in a discreet corner of the staffroom. It’s unprofessional, because I know Charlie woulddieif he thought I was spilling such a personal encounter, and because it should be my responsibility to keep it quiet and not Zara’s.
But I have no choice. I wouldn’t tell the other queens—that would make what happened between us seem like a bit of gossip, to be scattered around for everyone’s amusement. And something’s stopping me from telling Grace at the moment. I’m not sure why. I think I feel frivolous, telling her I kissed a guy at work when she’s got so much on her plate.
Zara is my only option. She always has my back, and she knows Charlie as well as anyone can, given the closed door he isat school. The only downside is that she’s already convinced he has some sort of interest in me, so she’ll be insufferable.
My misery over almost forty-eight hours of endless spiralling and a morning of Charlie ignoring me makes me positively cut-throat when it comes to delivering the news. Henry would be proud.
‘Something happened at the weekend.’ I fork up a spoonful of the delicious-looking rice salad the school chefs have created for the staff today alongside some baked salmon. I’ll really miss the food at this place when my teaching stint here is done.
Zara raises an elegant eyebrow. ‘Pray tell.’
I look her in the eye. God, I’m a badass today. ‘Charlie kissed me. Like, properly. On the mouth.’
I resist an urge to punch the air at the expression on her face. It. Is.Priceless.
She leans forward.
‘Holy fuck. At the palace?’
‘Yep.’
‘Were you in costume?’
‘Yeah. He was too.’
‘Hot,’she hisses. ‘Tongue?’
