Page 16 of The Rest is History

Charlie

B ecause today’s been an odd twilight zone of dozing, I need to get out of the house. The nausea’s gone, I haven’t vomited for over twelve hours, and I’ve even managed a piece of toast. I’m shaky, but otherwise well on the road to recovery, as I drive the short distance to my brother’s place.

Jack’s technically my half-brother, but despite our different surnames, we don’t think of it that way.

Jack was seven when I was born. He has no memory of his dad, who died of cancer when he was a toddler, though he kept his original surname (Fisher) in memory of his dad, a move I’ve always thought was a pretty cool thing to do.

Tonight, he’s hosting a family barbecue, for no reason other than the fact that it’s a warm Friday evening and it’s an easy way for him to process his large and chaotic family.

Jack’s family was chaotic even before he remarried.

He has four kids with his ex, Stacey. She’s got herself two more via her second husband, Ariel.

Jack married Emmy, who was already pregnant by someone else when she met him.

So Jack took on another guy’s kid and decided to knock Emmy up again for good measure.

You keeping up?

Emmy’s sister, Rosa, should be there too, with her husband David and their daughters.

Tallulah, who I suppose is some kind of distant relation to me by marriage, is in my A Level History class with my niece, Martha.

They’re thick as thieves and good kids, for the most part, though Tallulah has a nose for trouble.

Oh, and don’t ask me how many dogs and horses Jack has. I lost count years ago.

In other words, it’ll be mayhem, but I need a little cheering up after my day of wretched isolation.

Besides, I want to ask the girls how their History lesson went.

If anywhere can handle mayhem, it’s Jack’s place.

He lives in what can only be described as a compound.

Behind massive gates stands a huge house—The Lodge—which is a gorgeous old converted barn with serious wow factor.

The offices for both his software company and his non-profit sit in the same grounds, as do various stables and out-houses.

The splashes, synchronised with shrieks of delight, carry from the pool as soon as I open my car door.

When I get out back, it’s as if there’s a mini festival going on.

There’s a slip-and-slide leading directly into the pool—that’ll explain the screams, then.

Soaking children and adolescents dash around the enormous lawn.

I know my brother has a lot of kids, but I’m pretty sure there are a few extras here tonight.

Emmy spots me first. Let me say at this point that however bad my luck with women has been, my brother’s has been good. He’s had two knockout wives, who get on brilliantly, and he and Stacey maintain a fantastic relationship. I don’t know how the jammy bugger does it.

‘Hi, sweetie.’ Emmy pulls me in for a fragrant hug before releasing me and studying me, her eyes huge with concern, her hands gripping my forearms. ‘How are you doing? You look so peaky. Carol’s made you some chicken broth.’

I conjure up the effort to smile at her.

She’s such a sweetheart, and absolutely stunning, her copper hair framing delicate features before tumbling down over her shoulders.

She’s in a long white dress and looks like an angel.

I’m not jealous of my brother—I love him far too much for that—but coming here does tend to cause a pang.

It reminds me of what I’ll never have in my own life.

That open-hearted existence, enveloped by love. Kids. Happiness.

‘Thanks, Em. That sounds good. I’m getting there—needed to get out of the house.’

I follow her over to where the adults are clustered and work through my greetings.

An effusive, and equally fragrant, hug from Stacey, a stunning blonde who always looks like she’s either stepped out of a boardroom or off a yacht (this evening, she looks as though she’s moored her yacht in St Tropez and is heading out for the night).

A bro-hug for my brother, who’s tanned and relaxed and jovial in the middle of this mayhem, and kisses and handshakes for the others.

I spot Martha and Tallulah sitting on a low wall, wrapped in towels with heads close together, looking like drowned rats as they gossip. They’ve sequestered a platter of canapes.

‘Back in a minute,’ I tell Emmy as she hands me a glass of sparkling elderflower. I make a beeline for the girls.

‘Hi girls.’ I stand in front of them.

‘Hey.’ They look decidedly underwhelmed at being interrupted before Martha remembers my no-show today.

‘You okay, Uncle Charlie?’

‘Much better, thanks. How did your History lesson go today with Miss Peach?’

I didn’t have to say her name. But I say it every chance I get.

I’m expecting the usual teenage shrug and noncommittal good or fine. Instead, they glance at each other and grin.

What is that grin? It’s one quarter guilty and three quarters smug.

‘No offence,’ Tallulah says, ‘but it was, like, the best History lesson ever. Like, I swear I nearly cried in it?’

I squint at her. ‘You nearly cried ? What do you mean?’

‘Like, you know, from actual sadness? Because it was all so shitty for Anne? Me and Martha talked about it the whole way through lunch.’

I must look baffled, because Martha interjects.

‘She was basically amazing. Miss Peach, I mean. She said we were supposed to be talking about whether the charges matched the laws, and which boring old jury members had vendettas against the Boleyn faction, but honestly, we didn’t talk about any of that.

We talked about, like, whether Anne had an RH, and?—’

‘What the hell is an RH?’

‘You know.’ Martha lowers her voice. ‘Like a reverse harem . When a woman has lots of guys she can fuck, and she doesn’t have to choose.’

My vision begins to shrink to pinpricks as my heart hammers in my ribcage. ‘What?’

‘Don’t stress,’ Tallulah tells me. ‘She used it as an example because of Booktok. She was trying to make it relatable .’ She raises her eyebrows pointedly, and I smell a slur against my teaching methods.

‘By talking about porn?’

‘It’s not porn. Seriously, you look like you’re going to have a heart attack. Shouldn’t you be taking it easy if you’ve been puking all day? Especially at your age?’

I open my mouth, but she forges ahead.

‘It was really good. She was using it to make a point—she really got us thinking. Like, what a ridiculous idea to suggest Anne had this stable of lovers, when she’d always been so strategic—that was my word, by the way—and so sensible.

’ She leans forward. ‘But the thing that really got us was how fucked up it was that Henry had the marriage dissolved. Like days before she died. So uncool. And all the girls got really upset because we realised that if there had been no marriage, then there couldn’t have been any adultery. ’

She nods like she’s impressed a point on me that she’d like me to take away and ponder.

‘Yeah,’ Martha echoes. ‘Honestly, it was so fucked up. And, like, really, really sad. It made us all feel sick, like there was basically no justice in Tudor times. Not really. They were just going through the motions and she never stood a chance.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Yes. Well.’

‘She’s so pretty though, isn’t she?’ Tallulah asks, perking up.

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 the fuck was 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.