Page 3 of The Rest is History
Elodie
I t’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 from the 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 has excellent 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.
Maybe he even allows his face to break into a pleased grin after he hits the ball and it races away to the boundary.
For some reason, that would make me happy.
I don’t answer Zara’s comment, because I have nothing appropriate to say after that brief fantasy, and I don’t have the same disrespectful, banter-based relationship with him that she does (even if hers is wholly one-sided).
‘It’s my favourite thing about this time of year,’ Charlie says voluntarily, and I nearly die of shock. The guy has just admitted to a positive emotion. Today is a big day.
‘It was a nice evening for it.’ Zara picks up her mug of tea and slurps. ‘I quite fancy a bit of cricket on a spring evening. Do they have Pimms there? Maybe Elodie and I will come and watch you one night. Do you have any hot, single teammates you can introduce us to?’
‘Yes. And no,’ he grunts. ‘Neither of you is invited. And I’d never inflict you on my teammates, Zara. They don’t deserve that.’
I think that was a joke? Think. Though you never know with Charlie. It was either a joke or extremely rude.
‘Charlie the Charmer.’ She sighs. ‘Back to the PE department it is, then. What’s up first for you today, my lovely?’
She addresses this question to me. Obviously.
I think. ‘The fall of the Romanovs with Year Nine.’
‘Excellent.’ She nods sagely, chugging down more tea. ‘Estimated split of time between discussing the actual Russian Revolution versus debating conspiracy theories that Anastasia Romanov didn’t actually die?’
‘Oh, I’d say eighty-twenty in favour of Anastasia. She’s by far the most fascinating part of the entire period.’
Charlie snorts. ‘The Russian Revolution is still astoundingly relevant to the geopolitical situation today. Debating whether Anastasia Romanov was executed with her family is not. And there is actually a syllabus to follow, in case you haven’t managed to work that out over the past six months.’
I glance over at the back of his dark head. It’s bent over his laptop as if he’s exhausted, one hand raked through his waves. I’m not sure if it’s last night’s cricket or Zara’s well-meaning chat that’s knackered him.
‘I know. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’ Gosh, that was brave of me. But he really needs to chill the fuck out. ‘I’ll strike a balance between getting the facts across and making sure the kids can find something to get animated over. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Honestly.’ Zara tuts. ‘Why don’t you and I go to the staffroom? This guy is a mood killer and we’ve got’—she checks her watch—‘twenty minutes before the bell goes.’
Now that’s a good idea. I’m just about to tell her so when Charlie turns around suddenly and pipes up.
‘You go, Zara. There’s something I need to speak to—um—Elodie about.’
He says my name the way he always says it, in a slightly strangled fashion, as if he finds it too ridiculous to articulate.
I happen to love my name. I find it lyrical. It’s a mix of French and Greek, meaning foreign riches. But at this moment, the suspicion that he’s making fun of it isn’t what I’m focused on.
It’s the excruciating idea that Charlie Vaughan wants to speak to me.
Alone.
I must have really fucked up.