Page 4 of The Rest is History

Elodie

C harlie shuts the door behind Zara. I can tell from the face she made at me before he ushered her out that she’ll require a full debrief as soon as she gets me to herself. She has her own theories on why he’s so weird with me.

Let’s say they’re theories I deliberately choose not to entertain.

He gestures at the small table in the middle of the room.

It’s just big enough to seat three people, conveniently.

We use it when we’re discussing lesson planning and Charlie has no alternative but to interact with Zara and me.

Otherwise, we avoid it. Charlie and I keep our faces to the wall and our backs to each other when we can help it.

This should be interesting. He’s voluntarily sitting across the table from me. Alone. We each pull up a seat. He’s brought two identical pencils over from his desk, but no paper, which strikes me as odd and pointless.

I sit and wait for him to begin. I hope he makes this quick—I have an espresso to make and glug before I put on my form teacher hat and check in with my class.

‘Do you want to make yourself a coffee?’ he asks suddenly. That’s spooky.

‘No, thanks. It can wait.’

‘Okay, then.’ He pauses and, looking down, carefully rotates the hexagonal sides of his pencils so the Staedler sign is facing upwards on both of them.

I huff out a little laugh. ‘What’s going on, Charlie? You’re making me nervous. Have I done something wrong?’

His head jerks up. ‘ No . No. Not at all. It’s nothing to do with school. It’s. Ah. I wanted to ask you…’

He’s going to ask me out. The thought hits me from nowhere, and a tidal wave of heat rushes relentlessly up my neck. Shit shit shit. I’m equal parts horrified by how excruciating this will be and filled with anticipation. What the hell is going on with me?

‘I have—there’s a gig I thought you might be interested in.’

He cuts through my mental spiralling. Oh, thank God. Wait—what?

‘A gig ?’

‘Yes. That is’—he adjusts his pencils again so the rubbers and points are exactly aligned—‘I hope you don’t mind, but I heard you mention the other day that you wouldn’t mind a bit of extra cash, so I thought of you for this… thing.’

Oh my God. It’s mortifying that he knows I need cash. I mean, it’s not for me. It’s for Olive, but… There’s an unfortunate conflict between my attempts to keep my personal life away from Charlie and Zara’s love of gossip. Sometimes I forget he’s in the room when I’m answering her questions.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right. What kind of gig?’ He makes it sound like I’d be pulling pints at a concert or something.

Not that that would be a problem, especially if there are tips.

It all adds up. If I was still at St Michael’s, I’d have been forced into some extra bar shifts already, but this substitute teacher thing pays far better.

‘It’s—’

He clears his throat and tries again. He seems to be finding this inordinately difficult.

Those blue eyes, with lashes darker and thicker than they have any right to be, keep flitting between my face and those bloody pencils.

Props, that’s what they must be. Something to keep him occupied while he, God forbid, has a one-on-one interaction with another human being.

‘It’s a Saturday thing. At Hampton Court.’

I perk up. I adore Hampton Court. I haven’t been in ages—it’s far from cheap—but I wouldn’t be a Tudor aficionado without finding Hampton Court Palace to be one of the magical places around.

Not only is it physically breathtaking, but the knowledge that I walk in the footsteps of Henry VIII, his queens, Cardinal Wolsey, and God knows how many larger-than-life characters from history never fails to give me goosebumps.

So if Charlie Vaughan is offering me a chance to get past those high walls and iron gates and get paid for the privilege, I know I’ll take it.

Even if it’s shovelling up horse shit.

I can’t help it. I smile at him, a slow smile of surprise and delight that he’s already piqued my interest so unexpectedly. His eyes widen.

‘Go on.’ I gesture impatiently at him.

‘It’s an acting role.’ He studies my face for a reaction as he says it.

‘An acting role? Need a new beefeater, do they?’

He doesn’t acknowledge my lame little joke.

‘I don’t know if you know this about me’—he rolls the pencils in sync—‘but… I work there on the weekends.’

I definitely did not know this about him. ‘Do you?’

‘Yeah.’

A pause, where I raise my eyebrows in a silent question.

‘I play Henry VIII. As, like, a kind of actor.’ He looks up at me again as if daring me to challenge this statement. Or, more likely, daring me to laugh.

Because oh. My. God .

We stare at each other, and I’m so fascinated I forget to be uncomfortable.

‘There’s a lot to unpack in that statement,’ I deadpan.

More staring.

I cock my head to one side. ‘You don’t exactly look like old Coppernose.’

‘Neither does Eric Bana,’ he retorts so quickly that I suspect he’s had to defend this role before. ‘Or Jonathan Rhys Meyers.’

My mouth twists. ‘True.’

Also true: Eric Bana was hot as fuck in The Other Boleyn Girl. And I suspect he was cast precisely to portray the hotness that Henry may or may not have had at that point in his life. He was cast to prove how attractive power and majesty could be.

I hate the fact that the good people at Hampton Court may have cast Charlie for the same reason.

Once again, he can read my mind. It’s as annoying as it is creepy.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘It’s not like they had lots of options, or a big casting budget. They were more interested in finding someone who had knowledge of the period and could bring some colour to the role.’

‘I always assumed they’d use actors,’ I say.

‘They do. Usually. Appointing me was a little… unorthodox.’

I’m really struggling to equate the guy in front of me, with his public-schoolboy good looks and conservative white shirt, with a cosplay lover who likes to dress up and cavort around as a character from half a millennium ago on his precious weekends.

I have a pretty clear idea in my head of the type of guy who likes cosplay, and they’re usually big, bearded motorbike owners whose day job involves wearing all black and being a roadie or something similar.

I know, I know. I’m being obnoxious. And reductionist. But suffice to say, if you saw someone as square and clean- cut and totally devoid of personality as Charlie Vaughan, you’d pigeonhole him, too.

‘But why d’you do it?’

He clearly doesn’t need money. I can tell from his understated clothes that scream quality. And from the very nice Audi I see him get out of when I cruise through the staff carpark on my bike.

In fact, the bigger mystery is not why this guy has a side hustle, but where the hell he gets his cash from, because it sure as hell isn’t Hampton Court.

He must be a drug dealer. Or a secret crypto millionaire.

Charlie shifts in his seat. Fiddles with the pencils.

‘I find it rewarding.’ He glances up as if he’s expecting me to snigger at him.

‘There’s nothing better than bringing history to life.

And I enjoy educating people. Let’s just say most of the tourists are far more engaged than the entitled little shits we teach around here.

We don’t get any school trips on the weekends, which is a bonus. ’

I stare at him. It’s not that I thought he liked the pupils of Hampton Park.

I didn’t. After all, he doesn’t seem to like anybody much.

Except for Philip Willoughby, our Headmaster, but it’s impossible to dislike Philly Willy (as he’s known).

Still, I’m surprised he’s confiding in me.

Humouring me with an actual adult conversation.

‘So where do I come in, then?’

He sighs. ‘We’re down a queen.’

I wait for clarification, but none is forthcoming. I lean forward, my bare forearms on the table.

‘Charlie.’ I give him a tiny smile. ‘Did you behead someone again?’

I have no idea what’s got into me today.

I feel a little skittish. It must be the rush of discovering Charlie Vaughan has unexpected, intriguing, and exceedingly well-hidden dimensions to his character.

And that rush makes me want to capitalise on the moment.

To tease him a little. To push for the slightest bit of connection.

Don’t ask me why.

‘It’s always tempting,’ he mutters, ‘but I’ve managed to restrain myself so far. No, one of them needs an operation, and she’ll be out of action for a few weeks.’

‘Oh, right. Which one?’

He holds my gaze.

I hold my breath.

‘Anne Boleyn.’

Oh, Jesus Christ. I knew it. I bloody knew it! I had the weirdest feeling it’d be her, as soon as he said he was ‘down a queen’. And there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that suggests he’s trying to communicate something significant.

Let me tell you, in this moment, it feels pretty damn significant.

Anne Boleyn.

One of the most famous royal consorts of all time. One of the most vilified, enigmatic, glamorous, tragic characters in history.

And by far the spouse with which Henry had the most intense, fucked-up, toxic relationship. The majority of their time together was a relentless series of power dynamics.

The guy broke with Rome for her, for God’s sake.

He initiated an upheaval in Britain that stands to this day. He murdered and pillaged and martyred.

He wrote love letters, extraordinary ones, which survive today and illustrate how ardently he loved her. Desired her. How desperate he was to make her his.

I know it’s just a silly Saturday job.

I know it’s just a bit of fun.

But Charlie Vaughan is sitting in front of me, asking me to be his Anne Boleyn.