Page 6 of The Rest is History
One false move, and it’ll collapse, pulling me under the rubble.
I won’t survive.
And despite being a smart enough fellow, despite the torture of having her around me these past two terms, I’m about to make a move that will have that fucking Jenga tower obliterate me faster than the blade of that French sword fell on Anne Boleyn’s little white neck.
CHAPTER 3
Elodie
It’s still a shock to me that the History Department’s office is an actual thing. And it’s still a shock how gorgeous it is, with dual aspect sash windows and its own Nespresso machine. It’s completely over the top, like everything else at this crazy school, which is like an academic Disneyland.
I’ve never seen excess like it. I guess this is what ten grand a term buys your kids. Hampton Park is set in acres of lawns and woodland alongside the river Thames, with playing fields galore and indoor and outdoor pools. The vast sprawl of buildings is bright, modern and immaculately conceived.
And the facilities blow my mind. Hundreds of iMacs. Two recording studios. Ten science labs. A Design Technology room that could be Dexter’s wet dream. And a Sixth Form area that pretends to be a WeWork space.
The kids aren’t impressed, though. They’re sanguine. Like this is their birthright (which I suppose it is). After twelve years in the state system and six months in the private sector, I’ve drawn the conclusion that one of the biggest gifts a private education buys you is confidence.
I smell Charlie before I even get through the doorframe of the History office. It’s a combination of intoxicating wafts fromthe Nespresso machine (our other department member, Zara, doesn’t drink coffee) and his particular scent—a cologne that, on his skin, is refined. Herbal. Masculine.
At least he has the decency to smell amazing and look, well, acceptable, even if he’s a miserable bastard.
I hope Zara is here. I hate being on my own with him in this room. He’s just so hostile. Our desks face opposite walls, which helps, but I can still sense the disapproval radiating from every pore. He even has a habit of scooting his swivel chair further under his desk when I enter the room, as if he’s trying to put as much distance between us as humanly possible.
She’s here. Thank God.
Charlie looks up and grunts a begrudging good morning before jerking his head back to whatever he’s doing on his laptop—probably marking homework—so quickly he risks whiplash.
‘Why hello, gorgeous girl,’ Zara trills. I suspect she does it in such a way as to piss Charlie off. Most things she does are with the objective of pissing Charlie off or riling him. She finds his grumpiness as offensive as he finds her perkiness. ‘You get up to anything fun last night?’
‘It was rock and roll.’ I ease my bag off my shoulder and let it fall to the ground beside my chair. ‘I made dinner for Grace and Olive and then marked essays in bed with a glass of white. You?’
I’m living with my twin sister and her daughter at the moment. I say her daughter, but really she’s our daughter, because, come on. If your own twin has a child, it’s basically your child too.
In fact, Grace and Olive are the entire reason I quit London to live down here, but that’s a whole other thing.
‘I went out with the Science department.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Geeks on the loose are a dangerous species, let me tell you. Those kids can drink.’
‘You look a bit peaky,’ I tell her. Despite her cheery greeting, I can tell she’s knackered. Her choppy blonde bob is as mussed-to-perfection as ever, but there are shadows under her eyes and her lips look chapped. ‘Did you kiss someone? Your mouth looks—abused.’
She snorts. ‘I promise you, no one abused my mouth last night. Or anytime recently. I wish.’
‘You sure? You didn’t find chemistry with some nice member of the Biology department?’
‘Ew.’ She cringes, rolling her shoulders. ‘Definitely not. I should target the PE staff instead.’
Charlie clears his throat pointedly and shifts in his chair, causing Zara to smirk at me and wiggle her eyebrows mischievously.
‘How ‘bout you, Charlie?’ she asks the back of his head. ‘You get up to any dirty deeds last night? It was a Thursday, after all.’
He sighs. Doesn’t turn around. I admire her courage. She winds him up on a daily basis. His relentless hostility doesn’t scare her off in the least. Not like it does me.
He throws her a bone. ‘I played cricket in Esher,’ he mutters. ‘Had a couple of beers with the team afterwards.’
‘Interesting.’ She drawls the words out. ‘Didn’t know you played cricket, but now you say it, I can see it. Can’t you, El? I reckon you’d actually look quite hot in your cricket whites, Cheeky Charlie.’
She’s unbelievable. And unhelpful. Because now an unwelcome image has inserted itself into my brain. Charlie, his pristine whites offsetting his gorgeous skin tone. A tanned V of skin visible beneath his sweater and the open collar of his shirt. Brushing dark, slightly damp hair out of those blue eyes as he leans his weight on his bat.
Shit, that’s vivid. I can indeed see it. Thank you very much, Zara. His build is athletic, in a lean, rangy kind of way. He hasexcellent posture. Unnaturally good, if you ask me. He won’t be one of those old people bent nearly double over a walker. Not like me. I bet he’s a great batsman. I bet he can cover a lot of ground with those long legs. Maybe he makes an effort and banters with his teammates.
