Page 42 of The Rest is History
I blink. ‘Who? Anne?’
‘No. Duh. Miss Peach. Her dress was a bit meh, but I’d honestly kill for her bone structure. I’m hoping I grow into mine.’
I stumble away from the girls.
Somewhere, deep within me, I’m aware that I should be celebrating this. Martha and Tallulah are so pumped up about a lesson that they’re thrashing out its messages with their teacher on a Friday evening.
But, right on the surface, where I can feel it, I am pissed. Off.
What thefuckwas Elodie thinking? Talking to sixteen-and-seventeen-year-olds about reverse harems, or whatever the hell they are? Throwing my lesson plan out of the window and going off on some fucking tangent about feelings and ‘stables of lovers’, for Christ’s sake?
The plan is there for a reason. It contains the salient points the syllabus requires us to cover for exam purposes. Simple. Now I’ll clearly have to re-teach the lesson, which will be doubly hard because of the all the nonsense she’s stuffed in their heads.
As I pull out my phone, a wave of heat washes over me. Elodie was talking to them about sex. They had a liberated and frank conversation about Anne’s alleged lovers. In my twisted mind, the only way I can handle imagining Elodie is as chaste and sensible and suppressed.
I know how chauvinistic and horrifying and fucked up that is. I also know how unlikely. But my Jenga tower stands because I steadfastly refuse to allow myself to imagine that she may be liberated and open, with a deep and unapologetic understanding of her body and its desires and capabilities and needs. That she seeks guys out when she needs release. That she gets herself off with a drawerful of toys. That she can talk about sex openly and unashamedly. That she advocates for herself and for other women, even women far back in history who they had little idea of how constrained they were.
What I’m trying to say, very inarticulately, is that I’m hanging on by a thread, and if I allow myself to think of Elodie as a sexual creature in her own right, I will lose the fucking plot.
I pull up her name in my phone. I’ve never dared contact her before this morning, but needs must.
What the fuck were you thinking today?
We had an amazing lesson. You’re welcome.
REVERSE HAREM??? We need to talk.
I was making a point. And it’s Friday night. I’m not doing this now. See you tomorrow if you’ve finished
She is a piece of fucking work. She’s poked the bear, and she has no idea how ill-advised that is.
CHAPTER 17
Charlie
I’m still vibrating with anger when Elodie swans into Base Court on Saturday morning. I lounge against the reproduction of Henry’s wine fountain and watch her. The fountain is decorated, appropriately enough, in red and white, and yes, it can still pour forth wine of both colours when the occasion demands.
I could use a glass of red right now, actually.
She seems to float across the enormous courtyard, deep in conversation with Lauren. They’ve struck up something of a friendship these past few weeks—they seem to have bonded over some show that sounds like it’s calledShit’s Creek, but I must have the name wrong—and I detect a protective element in Lauren’s demeanour towards her.
Elodie’s ability to assume the character of Anne Boleyn over the past few weeks has amazed and delighted and awed me. Whatever the physical differences between them close up, she has the same demeanour. Posture so enviable it must seem haughty to those who envy her. A willowy build and long, slim fingers so full of expression when she uses them in conversation.
As usual, her dark gown showcases the elegance of the neck that as she takes in today’s visitors. She throws her head back,and laughs, and lays a hand on Lauren’s arm, and I’m transfixed. Mesmerised. Just as Henry must have been whenever he caught a glimpse of Anne.
And yet, the sight of her happy and carefree makes my entire spine tighten. Because she set the cat among the pigeons in my History class yesterday, and I’ll have to deal with the fallout next week. Have to remind my students that we’re here to work through a syllabus and gain a firm understanding of the political, social, religious and legal machinations of the Tudor monarchy.
Notto compare the spectacular political coup effecting Anne’s downfall to semi-pornographic romance novels in a manner that’s plain reductionist.
Elodie glides up to me and drops into a theatrical curtsey for the clusters of appreciative visitors staring our way.
’Good morrow, my Lord.’
As she rises, she tilts her face to mine. Her mouth’s already in an insolent smirk, and I could swear there’s triumph shining in those eyes. My jaw clenches, and the hand holding onto the wine fountain tightens its grip.
The things I want to do to her right now.
Pinch her jaw between my thumb and forefinger.
