Page 41 of Rewrite the Stars
With all my love,
Charlie x
I quickly delete the ‘x’ and press ‘send’ before I change my mind. Then I let out a very deep breath and I smile from the inside out when I see my husband through the window, bopping around the kitchen as he makes a cup of tea. He may be predictable, he may be a creature of habit, but we’ve created a very beautiful, very safe and very wholesome life here as a married couple.
I get out of my sparkling new car and close the door shut, feeling the sun on the back of my neck and hearing the sweet sounds of summer from above.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ I call out with a giggle as I make my way through the yellow door of the cottage. I kick off my shoes in the hallway, feeling the cool of the stone floor under my feet, and then I hear what my husband is listening to in the kitchen.
‘Have you heard this band, Char?’ he asks me, dancing around with a mug of tea in his hand that says, ‘World’s Best Husband’. ‘They’re freakin’ awesome. Now, that’s what I call a tune!’
It’s Blind Generation of course and the song is the one I just heard on the radio. Looks like Blind Generation is everywhere.
Jack puts down his mug and takes both my hands, forcing me to dance with him whether I want to or not. But Idowant to dance with him. I want to laugh with him and dance and sing in a way I’ve been waiting to for so long now.
The sun streams through the window onto the floor, making tiny sparkles of dust look like fairy magic between us, and before long we’re both singing together to the chorus of Tom’s big hit single.
I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be able to do this, when I’d totally feel free of hurt, guilt and regret, but that day has come, and it feels even better than I’d hoped it would.
I’m dancing with the lightest of hearts and a free, open mind. I’m dancing with my husband, the man I love, and it feels so good.
Chapter Twelve
Sophie and Harry arrive fashionably late as always, armed with craft beers and crisp white wines that make my mouth water at the very thought. After a long soak in a bubble bath just as I’d planned, I feel relaxed and ready for the weekend in my cool red slacks, pink blouse, flat sandals and loose ponytail.
‘It’s so good to see you!’ I say to Sophie, who looks like she’s casually stepped off the cover ofVoguemagazine in her cropped white trousers, nautical T-shirt and wide-brimmed straw hat. Harry looks like he’s just got out of bed with scruffy hair, jeans and wrinkled shirt, which is nothing unusual, but it’s why we all love him so much. As usual, he carries a Yorkie dog under each arm – no matter how many times I meet Milo and Jess, I don’t think I’ll ever know how to tell the difference.
‘Get the wine open asap,’ says Sophie, unloading her bag of goodies. ‘I’ve had the week from hell and I need alcohol!’
Jack comes to her rescue, handing her a large glass of chilled Pinot from the fridge, and we make our way outside into the evening sunshine.
We opted for a change of plan, thinking the weather was too fine to sit in a stuffy restaurant, so we’re having dinner al fresco at our place, our first time firing up the barbecue since we moved in six weeks ago.
‘So, how’s the new job going?’ Harry asks me when we’re settled on the decking, looking out onto nothing except miles of greenery and a pale blue sky.
Sophie wasn’t joking when she mentioned her husband was growing a beard. Its ginger tone gives him a very royal look (I’ve always jokingly called them ‘the royal couple’ but this is going to give me more ammunition for some playful banter), but it suits him, even if Sophie doesn’t like to hear it. Harry will do what Harry wants to do and, no matter how much Sophie pretends to think she’s boss, she won’t change his mind. But she loves him just the way he is, beard or no beard.
‘My new job is … well it’s … let’s just say it’s very different to what I was used to at St Patrick’s,’ I say to him, popping an olive into my mouth. Jack has prepared a table of nibbles including sun-dried tomatoes, small cubes of feta cheese and mixed olives with a delicious Italian dressing, and as we sit here in the garden with the smell of the barbecue and the view of the sun going down in the distance, we know we’ve made the right decision to dine at home.
‘Posh little bastards, I bet,’ says Harry, laughing then swigging his beer. ‘I used to be one of those nasty little buggers too, so I feel your pain. We gave our teachers hell in primary school. I don’t envy you at all.’
Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘He isn’t joking about being a spoilt brat at school!’ she says to me. ‘Harry went tothemost elite primary school in Wales and made his mark on the place forever. You know the type where they wear a hat and blazer as part of their school uniform? And his mum tells me he tormented the teachers every day he was there.’
Oh dear. I have about twenty versions of mini Harry at my new school then, I think to myself. It’s just going to take time to settle in, at least that’s what Jack keeps telling me.
‘Do you hear Miss Head Girl, here!’ says Jack, sticking up for his male companion and joining in on the banter. ‘Sophie, you were a right little climber at boarding school, always licking up to the teachers, not even satisfied to be a class prefect, oh no. Head Girl was what Sophie wanted to be and that’s what Sophie was.’
‘I call it ambition,’ laughs Sophie. ‘I wonder where the hell all that fire went to sometimes when my clients are boring me to tears. You all right, Char?’
I sit up straight.
‘Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,’ I mumble, taking a drink of my cold wine, then another just for luck. If Charlie is my common, girl-next-door nickname that is forbidden by my parents, then ‘Char’ is the polar opposite, a reflection of the upper-class teacher in the upper-class school, with the upper-class friends in my ever-so-fancy car and upper-class home in the countryside. How the hell did I get here?
‘I bet the parents are stuck-up assholes too,’ says Harry, reinforcing my reluctance to relate to my new job and all that comes with it. I can’t help recalling my carefree, more casual approach to teaching at St Patrick’s where the children loved to hear me make up stories and sing my ‘lucky number’ song at the drop of a hat.
At Holy Trinity it’s the opposite. We have a strict curriculum to adhere to, with weekly reports to be filed, so, in the eyes of rich, paying parents who want only A grades on their child’s records, there’s no time for spontaneous creativity.
‘I can’t say I have much in common with them,’ I say to Harry, trying to be diplomatic, but experiencing a twist in my stomach that feels like homesickness. ‘They’re definitely a world away from anything I’ve ever been used to.’
