Page 13 of The Rest is History

Charlie

Instead, I find myself hemmed in, surrounded by a giddy cluster of Charlie’s Angels (definitely not my name of choice for the esteemed women who play my queens).

They’re all in high spirits, except for one.

All joking rowdily and knocking back rosé, except for the one who sips her drink quietly.

She’s the one I can’t get out of my mind.

The one I’m employing every fibre of self-control I have not to look at.

The one who, when I cave and glance in her direction, alternates between staring into her wineglass and shooting furtive looks at me. Looks I can’t decipher.

The one I kissed earlier, in a moment where fear flared before abating as relief took its place, and the resulting insanity had me break every rule in my book and take the tiniest crumb of what I’ve wanted from her for months now.

My mouth on hers.

My hand around her neck.

My fingertips on her skin.

My nostrils flooded with her sweet, sweet scent.

And now I know. In the most fleeting, infuriating way, I know how she smells up close. How her lips taste. How perfectly her neck fits the cradle of my hand.

Worst of all? I know she liked it. In those few seconds of suspended reality, before I came to my senses and got myself the fuck away from her and her intoxicating charms, I had my answer to the question that’s tormented me for months: what would Elodie do if I kissed her?

She’d lean in.

Her neck would heat.

Her breath would hitch, then come more quickly, causing her breasts to tremble against me.

And her slim hands would grapple at my sleeves. Seeking purchase. Asking for me.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck .

Today was another insight into what it must have been like for Henry. Setting eyes on Anne Boleyn and wanting her for so long, and being unable to have her. From what we know, she allowed him to take some liberties with her before she gave herself to him completely.

Those glimpses at what he was missing must have been fucking torture.

In case I haven’t made it clear, I’m not the slightest fan of Henry.

Sure, he’s a lot of fun to impersonate, mainly because he could do whatever the hell he liked, but I’ve always been on his queens’ sides.

Especially Team Anne Boleyn. That said, being an historian isn’t about liking the protagonists of your period of study, but rather understanding their motives.

I’ve made continuous efforts to understand what motivated Henry, and significant strides over the years in achieving some level of understanding, if not empathy. But my greatest teacher, albeit unwittingly, has been Elodie.

I now truly comprehend the agony for Henry of being a man, used to having his way in all things, proven unable to have the one thing he wanted more than anything else.

A woman.

A woman who tantalised and amused and tormented and beguiled and fascinated him.

As Shelby laughs over a comment a visitor made today, I slide my gaze over to the woman who’s caused me similar torment, even if my expectations for a happy ending with her are set far more realistically than Henry’s were for one with Anne.

She’s in a lightweight sweatshirt sporting the slogan C’est la vie , frayed denim cutoffs and lightweight trainers.

Her long hair is free from the knot she often has it in, casually tossed and cascading over her shoulders.

The shorts aren’t super short, but she’s still showing far more leg than I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing at school.

And I’m buggered. Because her legs are, unsurprisingly, gorgeous.

Long and lean and pale and smooth.

Toned thighs. Shapely calves. Narrow ankles that I itch to cuff with my hands as my nose and lips glide upwards, worshipping every inch. And worst of all, a couple of dark freckles punctuating her pale skin like chocolate drops in a sea of cream.

Like fucking beacons.

My eyes slide back up her body and lock with hers. She’s watching me, which means she saw me ogling her. She gives me a tentative smile. It’s not smug—not by a long shot. More pleased. I don’t acknowledge it, instead turning my attention to Shelby.

I hate doing that. It crucifies me to let her think I’m slighting her (even if the reality of my obsession would have her running for the hills). But it’s the best option in an impossible choice. Hurt her feelings—let her think I don’t care, that our kiss meant nothing—or show my cards.

And I can’t show my cards. Because Elodie Peach isn’t the type of woman you do casual with. She’s the type of woman you throw everything you’ve got at, in the hope that she’ll let you slide a ring on her finger and make you the happiest fucker on the planet.

But that’s only an option if you’re good enough for her. If you’ve got what it takes to make her happy. And given I’m damaged goods, as my ex-wife so kindly put it, and fundamentally incapable of giving Elodie what she deserves, I have no choice but to let her think I’m a total arsehole.

I force myself to focus on the conversation in general. I tried— hard —to get out of coming for a drink, but my queens feel I’ve cried off too many times and they were having none of my excuses.

The sad, pathetic thing is that my masochistic side is glad to be here.

Glad to be close to Elodie, no matter how shitty the circumstances are. It shortens the gap between bidding her farewell on Saturday afternoon and seeing her again on Monday morning.

Because I. Cannot. Stay. Away. From. Her.

The conversation has moved onto Six the Musical , which is coming to the palace next month.

I already know more than I’ve ever wished to know about the show, mainly because the queens witter on about it far too much.

From their high-concept pitch—it’s a Spice Girls-esque take on Henry’s six wives—it sounds utterly horrifying.

It seems the rest of the world disagrees, because Six is a Big Deal, and apparently it’s an even bigger deal that Hampton Court is hosting a handful of live performances as part of its summer festival.

‘We all get a pair of free tickets,’ Cassie, who plays Katherine Howard, squeals. She’s half my age—a good seventeen years younger than my thirty-five. The age gap between Henry and Katherine was double that, if you can believe it, though it doesn’t bear thinking about.

I roll my eyes. ‘You can have mine.’

She gasps theatrically? ‘Seriously? OMG, Charlie. That would be so amazing?—’

Lauren, aka Anne of Cleves, holds up a hand to cut her off. Her formidable head of candy-pink hair, usually hidden under a modest hood when she’s in character, is an untamed mane this evening. She’s what I would describe as a badass (if I was cooler).

‘Don’t be hasty, Charlie,’ she says. ‘Honestly, the history behind it is seriously interesting. A couple of Cambridge grads wrote it. It takes revisionist history to a new level.’

My ears prick up at my favourite R-word.

‘How so?’ I address the question to Tess, who’s the only one whose opinion I value.

Incidentally, she’s the only one of us (aside from Elodie and me) who’s not a professional actor but instead is an academic and plays Catherine of Aragon for the sheer thrill of it.

She’s most definitely Team Catherine, but obviously she’s well-adjusted enough not to let her character’s hatred of her usurper spill over into real life and has been very sweet to Elodie.

Tess smiles enigmatically. ‘Lauren’s right. Tell him, Lauren.’

‘Well,’ Lauren says, ‘in the musical, Anne of Cleve’s number is all about what a great divorce she negotiated from Henry and what incredible freedom she enjoyed after she got rid of him. She’s a proper powerhouse.’

Hmm. I’ll admit that does sound interesting. I make an approving noise and nod at Lauren. ‘You’re well cast then.’

She rubs her shoulder against mine in mock-affection, and I hold on tight to my beer bottle.

‘Ooh, you’re such a charmer, Charlie.’

I roll my eyes again. ‘Never on purpose.’

‘He’s so adorable, for an old guy,’ Cassie coos.

Jesus Christ. I risk a glance at Elodie. She’s standing on the outskirts of the huddle, looking a mixture of a little amused and a lot uncomfortable. Just because I won’t—can’t—engage with her, doesn’t mean she should get left out altogether.

‘What about Boleyn?’ I ask the others, with a nod at Elodie. ‘Can’t imagine they’ve reinvented the wheel with her much?’

Rebekah—Catherine Parr—notices Elodie’s a little excluded and ushers her further into our group with a hand on her arm.

She’s tall, with a short, austere ponytail.

This is very much a stepping stone for her on her acting journey.

I can tell she has talent, though her acting style is understated.

She’s perfect as the dignified Parr, though I could see her popping up in Line of Duty or some other police procedural before long. She’d make a great on-screen cop.

She wrinkles her nose a little. ‘They haven’t done much with Anne’s role—it’s more of a tongue-in-cheek performance. Very smug. Not so polite to her poor predecessor.’

Elodie smiles properly for the first time all afternoon. ‘Eek. Sorry, Tess.’

‘“Sorry not sorry,” you mean,’ Tess jokes, and even I recognise the phrase from the seemingly millions of Six t-shirts that do the rounds of the palace every weekend.

Sorry not sorry is possibly one of the most irritating phrases ever invented, if you want my opinion.

‘They’ve taken an interesting stance on Katherine Howard, though,’ Rebekah continues. She jerks her head at Cassie to continue, which is typical of how I’ve noticed these women operate. They’re very much a team.

‘Yeah,’ Cassie pipes up. ‘My song is all about how Katherine was a victim of abusive men using her as a pawn in their agendas from a young age.’

I sigh. ‘It sounds not as utterly terrible and moronic as I may have assumed it was.’

‘See?’ Shelby says. ‘That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?’

I jerk my head away before she can squish my face. So undignified.

‘It’s definitely not terrible, or moronic,’ Tess says in a chiding tone. ‘Its messages are important, and it’s very cleverly executed. But, at the end of the day, it’s Anne the punters all come to see. Just like here, eh?’

The others turn to grin at Elodie, and I take advantage of the opportunity to drink her in in all her leggy, casual beauty.

Anne Boleyn had nothing on her. God, if Henry had set his sights on Elodie Peach…

I shudder at the thought. He’d have done far more than raze monasteries to the ground and execute men who were rumoured to have been intimate with her.

Because women like her don’t come around in every lifetime.