Page 8 of The Rest is History

Charlie

W e amble around Base Court a little more and wander under the clock, through Anne Boleyn’s Gateway, to Clock Court.

She tells me that though she’s been here a few times, she doesn’t have the layout quite straight in her head, nor is she familiar with all the public rooms. I mentally make it my mission to acquaint her with this magical place that’s come to feel like a second home to me.

An elderly couple approaches. The woman is clutching a book and has a chain hanging from her glasses. Uh-oh. I can smell amateur historian a mile off. They’re the worst type of visitors.

They stop in front of us, and she looks Elodie up and down before leaning in and peering up into Elodie’s face.

‘Anne Boleyn’s eyes weren’t green. They were almost black ,’ she crows, the venom in her voice causing Elodie to take a surprised jerk backwards.

What the actual fuck? I’m standing here, looking like the physical opposite of Henry (I hope). Elodie’s the consummate Anne Boleyn, and this old bat is having a go at her for her eye-colour ? Not on my watch.

I step forward, looming over her. ‘Madam.’ My voice booms. ‘To insult my queen is to commit treason. Should I have you escorted to the Tower?’

She gives me a disgusted glance and hobbles off with her husband. They both shoot us vicious glances over their shoulders as they go.

‘Easy there, tiger.’ Elodie puts a light hand on my arm.

‘Stupid old crone,’ I mutter. ‘Come on.’

Being ‘on’ for a few hours at a time is something I usually find exhausting, but Elodie’s presence by my side is a shot of adrenalin.

I feel compelled to put on a good show for her, to demonstrate that she’s made the right call by taking on this role, that it can and will be enjoyable and rewarding, and that she doesn’t have to worry about my being a miserable fucker the whole time.

I’m amazed and impressed by how quickly she gets into the role until I’m hit with the uncomfortable realisation that the swing factor is probably me.

She’s always easy. Friendly. Approachable.

She’s a people person. Every last bit of awkwardness between us at school is down to me.

So when I ramp down the fuckwittery, I allow her to do what she does best.

Shine.

She poses with kids and admires little girls’ outfits.

She humours elderly pains in the arse, and she seems genuinely pleased to meet all the palace employees who come out of the woodwork—or stonework—to meet her.

Hampton Court is an enormous machine, and we characters are tiny cogs in said machine.

But we are, after all, representing the historical figures who gave this place its legacy, so it’s natural that the other employees enjoy meeting us.

We play our small part in bringing this staggering location to life.

In fusing past and present in a way that brings meaning and even awe to those fortunate enough to visit.

After an energetic encounter with a bunch of Six the Musical fans dressed in Doc Martens and t-shirts reading Sorry not Sorry , I steer her away from the crowds for a drink behind the scenes.

It’s warm for early May, and we need to pace ourselves.

We’re doing a six-hour shift, after all.

We need to safeguard whatever personality (or lack of it, in my case) we have.

It’s odd how quickly I’ve already got used to touching her. Putting my hands on her. I lead her back upstairs and guide her through to the staff quarters, a hand featherlight on the small of her back. On that arch I’ve admired so many times.

It’s cool in this corridor. Quiet. Elodie lets out a tired sigh.

‘Phew. It’s intense, playing a Tudor legend in a place full of Tudor nuts.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘I’m really not sure you did.’

She reaches up to claw off her hood, which is really a puffy velvet hairband with a piece of black fabric that hangs down past her shoulders. Kind of like a nun’s wimple, I suppose.

‘I need to take this thing off,’ she mutters. ‘It’s giving me a headache.’

She slides it back off the crown of her head, but rather than coming away in her hand, it snags.

‘Ouch.’

I stop. ‘You okay?’

‘Shit.’ She tugs gingerly at it. ‘It’s caught on something. Oh, it’s my necklace.’

I stand there like an idiot, watching her uselessly as she wrestles with it.

‘Can you take a look?’

Oh no. That is not a good idea. I stare in horror at her now-bare head with its sleek crown of dark hair. She’s tied it in a low bun, and I have a prime view of said bun and of an alluring expanse of white neck above where the fabric of the hood is tangled.

It’s stuck at the back of her neck.

Not. A. Good. Idea.

‘I’m not sure?—’

She circles around a little, craning her neck like a dog trying to chase its tail, to no avail. ‘Charlie.’ There’s irritation in her voice. ‘Seriously. I don’t want to break the necklace. If I yank it too hard, I’ll send the pearls flying. Please .’

‘All right.’

I approach with caution, as if her exposed neck is a hazard. Because where I’m concerned, it really is.

I’m right behind her. I take hold of the bunched fabric. ‘You can let go,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got it.’

She releases her grip on it and leans a palm against the wall of the corridor, bending her head further to give me access.

I stand.

And gaze.

And marvel.

Her skin is flawless. Luminous. So smooth, I want to lick a path down it.

Her neck is shapely. Elegant. So narrow, I want to slide a hand around it. I wonder how close my thumb and forefinger would come to meeting.

And her scent. It’s one I’ve caught traces of when she enters or leaves the History office, or we pass in a corridor.

I’ve been more painfully aware of it today as we move around together.

It’s light and floral and ridiculously feminine, and here in this dark corner of the palace it’s rising off her skin and overloading my senses to such an extent that I’m practically reeling.

I want to bury my nose in that soft place where her neck meets her shoulder, where a choker of pearls is currently pulled taut, and never, ever come up for air.

I want to follow the scent trail under her clothes. Find out where she sprays her perfume each morning. Show her the effect it has on me. How it undoes me.

‘Charlie?’

Shit.

‘Sorry. Er…’

I attempt to pull myself the fuck together and focus on the task at hand. I inspect the damage. One of the tiny gold rings that connects the choker’s clasp with the string of pearls has opened a fraction, allowing a couple of fine threads of fabric to become ensnared.

No big deal.

‘The thingy next to the clasp is caught on the hood. I’ll just snap the threads.’

Or not.

I grip the fabric with one hand and try to secure the metal ring in a pincer grip with my other so it holds when I yank the two apart.

My knuckles graze her skin as I attempt to pull.

But it’s too tiny. Too fiddly. I can’t get enough traction.

If I pull any harder, I’ll ruin the little piece of metal.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I’m going to have to get my teeth involved.

‘Any luck?’ she asks. Her voice comes to me through the sensory haze the sight of the tiniest hairs on her neck is inducing.

‘Nope.’ Dammit. ‘You were right. If I pull them apart, I’ll most likely bugger the necklace. I think I’ll have to break the threads with my teeth, if that’s okay.’

‘Okay.’ Her voice is small. She’s still bracing herself against the wall with her hand as I loom behind her, the back of her skirts brushing against the front of my doublet.

This is not a good position. Not in the slightest. I know exactly what it makes me think of, and that’s something I can’t allow, not for a second, because my fabric codpiece will be no protection at all. For her or for me.

I take one more step, closing the distance between us, and lower my head to the patch of her skin that’s never failed to undo me, these past few months. A smattering of goosebumps has erupted on the nape of her neck. My fingers are shaking. Fuck’s sake.

My mouth closes over the offending part of her choker.

It’s so bloody short that there’s no slack to pull it away from her skin.

My cheek is actually resting against her neck.

The coiled hair of her bun touches my temple.

My mouth and nose are far too close to her skin for this to be in any way sensible.

That sweet scent invades me again.

Jesus Christ.

She’s so much better up close. Better in every way than I could have possibly imagined.

The desire to turn my head, to kiss her, to wrap a hand around her shoulder and clamp down on her breast and pull her to me while I devour her skin with my lips and teeth and tongue is so acute, so intense, I could faint from it. This must be how crack addicts feel.

I close my eyes, savouring the moment as I use my heightened sense of touch to find the trapped fibres and my heightened sense of smell to drink her in. Because God knows, I’m unlikely to have another opportunity like this. I grit the threads between my teeth and they fray easily. Too easily.

The fabric comes away from the necklace, and I reluctantly raise my head from her body. I put my hands on the choker to straighten it up, sliding pearls over skin until the clasp is perfectly centred at the back of her still-bowed neck.

There.

Perfect.

I pause for a second, allowing my thumbs the briefest contact with the skin directly below her choker. My fingertips graze the hallowed spots where her square neckline meets her shoulders on either side, and I bow my head in reverence.

‘All done.’

God, my voice sounds husky, even to me.

And it’s only after she’s thanked me awkwardly, and shot me an even more awkward glance over her shoulder, and bolted down the corridor ahead of me, that it occurs to me that I could have just unfastened the damn clasp and taken the necklace off to untangle it.