Page 22 of The Rest is History

Charlie

I ’m almost more nervous about seeing Elodie today than I was yesterday.

I know she got the blouse, because she sent me a long, excited WhatsApp to thank me and tell me it was completely unnecessary and too generous and that she’d never owned anything from Gucci before.

The last part made my heart hurt. Gucci should be so lucky to have a woman as stunningly beautiful as Elodie Peach wearing its brand.

I wish I could dress her head to toe in it.

I have my ex-sister-in-law, Stacey, to thank for the blouse.

I texted her yesterday morning, my chair rammed tightly under my desk as I wrestled the hard-on that was threatening to punch through my trousers at seeing Elodie’s neck.

The marks of my teeth and lips on her skin.

The memory of devouring her on Saturday.

The taste of her skin. The sound of her moans as I unravelled her.

Holy fuck.

Best place to buy those silky women’s shirts with the long ties that wrap around the neck and tie in a big bow?

Pussy bow blouses?!! How very Harry Styles of you, sweetie. You’ll look fabulous!!! Only one option: Gucci. Great silks. Great colours. And Harry-approved xxxx

Who is Harry Styles? Thx.

I can never tell if you’re joking. You scare me sometimes. Laters xxxx

I rolled my eyes. A quick Google search told me that the thing Elodie was wearing when she unwrapped her neck for me like a gift was indeed a ‘pussy bow blouse’.

Deeply troubling name for it, but still, it might possibly be my new favourite item of women’s clothing. I pulled out my Amex and got to work. Later, I replied to Elodie’s WhatsApp.

Most welcome. And very necessary.

And, in case you’re wondering, unfortunately, I do know who Harry Styles is. I teach teenagers, for God’s sake.

When she walks in, I’m at my desk, having already done a weights session in the school’s excellent gym and showered. Zara’s not here yet, thank fuck. It’s exhausting trying to behave normally in front of Elodie, and more so when Zara’s sticking her nose in.

Holy fucking shit.

Yesterday’s blouse was pretty, but this is another level. She looks stunning. Elegant. Every man’s dream. The top is sea-foam green, and I was right. It’s a few shades lighter than her eyes and showcases them to perfection, rendering them even more hypnotic than usual.

The silk is lustrous. Glowing. It skims over her curves, the lengths of the bow draping modestly over her breasts and leaving everything to my imagination.

She’s tucked it into long navy trousers that make her legs look endless, and her hair is tied back.

Pearl earrings in her ears. The blouse’s high neck the perfect offset for her bare arms.

Zara was wrong. Yesterday’s ensemble didn’t say sexy secretary .

This does.

And to think she’s wearing something I bought her, and no one at school will be any the wiser. That turns me on more than anything else. Gives me an illusion of a claim far more than the marks I made on her skin do.

Before I realise it, I’m out of my chair, standing in front of her.

We stare at each other.

‘You look’—I clear my throat—‘beautiful. The—it’s perfect on you.’

‘Thank you.’

She shifts her weight and smooths a hand over the ends of the bow. My eyes fall to them. I wish so hard I could reach out and tug one end and unspool this length of silk. Unwrap her again.

‘I’m still overwhelmed,’ she continues. ‘I love it so much, Charlie. But it’s so extravagant. I mean—Gucci!’

I shake my head, embarrassed. ‘It’s not. You trusted me with’—I gesture awkwardly—‘your body, and I messed it up. I got carried away, and I marked you, and I wanted to send you something you’d enjoy wearing while it faded.’

Her face gets a sad, serious look on it. ‘I loved every second of you messing me up, you know,’ she says quietly. She puts a hand on my bare forearm before walking past me to her desk, and we proceed to sit in silence until Zara turns up.

I don’t know what to do, you see.

I don’t know how to square being committed to never having anything serious with someone like Elodie with being utterly crazy about her.

Nothing’s changed. I can’t make her happy in the long run.

I know that. But then I went and kissed her, and tasted her, and learnt the sounds she makes when she orgasms, and my addiction to her is coursing through my veins, and all I can fucking well think about is getting my next fix.

I’m being deliberately obtuse. Another thing has changed.

A big thing.

Because I now have pretty decent evidence that she’s interested in me. Or finds me attractive, at least—unless it was her Henry VIII kink playing out, of course. The heat between us, even here, in the office, is undeniable.

It’s more than heat.

It’s a weighty pressure of emotion.

The air is charged when she’s in the room.

I can barely remember my own name when she’s in the room.

And the more I act on what we both so clearly want in the short term, the more I screw us both over in the long term.

So, no. I don’t know what to fucking do.

I do the only thing I can, and steer clear. I go for a run at lunch. I take my laptop to the staffroom in my free period to be safe, even though I know she’s teaching. Yes, of course I know her timetable better than I know my own.

But when I’ve dismissed my class for the day, I can’t resist. I do a visual sweep of 10V for any forgotten blazers or discarded sports bags and exit the room. Elodie’s classroom, 10P, is across the hall. There’s a man’s voice booming through the open doorway, and I peer in from a safe distance.

Hugo fucking Crane. Honestly. The guy’s a twat.

He’s got to be mid-forties. Hedge fund manager, divorced, absolutely minted, with two boys in the school—both total toolboxes.

He sports a year-round tan and a chunk of metal on his wrist courtesy of Patek Philippe, which he will almost certainly be passing down to the next douchebag generation.

And he’s coming onto Elodie. There’s no doubt whatsoever.

He’s standing way too close to her. She’s leaning back, her arms crossed over her chest. I’m pretty sure that’s universal code for back the fuck off , but this guy’s choosing not to notice.

That’s the problem with a lot of the parents at this school.

Too bloody entitled, used to getting everything they want.

I hear the word Portofino .

For fuck’s sake.

Enough’s enough, mate.

I step into the classroom and cough loudly. The Crane boys are messing around at the back of the room, clearly bored by their dad’s attempts at chatting up their teacher. Elodie’s eyes go wide when she sees me, and I win a little smile from her.

‘Hi, Mr Vaughan!’ Her voice is artificially bright. ‘Do you need me for something?’

I’m so tempted to say yes. Drag her back to the office, lock the door, and put us both out of our misery. God help me, it’s too alluring a thought.

‘Hi, Miss Peach.’ I make my own tone jovial. ‘Actually, I was hoping to run into you, Mr Crane. Troy and Tate are crushing it at cricket this term. I was wondering if I could walk you out and fill you in on their progress?’

‘Er, sure, Mr Vaughan.’

He sighs heavily in my direction. His expression says cockblocker . I grin broadly.

He turns back to Elodie. ‘Miss Peach. Always a pleasure. I’m in Bermuda next week, but I look forward to catching up soon. Er, maybe we could?—’

‘Let’s go, boys,’ I call firmly before Crane can give me an excuse to introduce his nose to my fist.

As they clatter out of the room in front of me, I shoot Elodie a look over my shoulder. She presses a palm to that blessed bow and mouths thank you .

I nod at her, my eyes filled with fire. And that’s what it fucking feels like. Putting out fires. Running to stand still. Cockblocking parents who think they have the right to a piece of her.

And still, it feels like stalemate.

Until the next time we’re in costume, anyway, and none of this bullshit exists.