Page 39 of Sad Girl Hours

Chapter Thirty-nine

Nell

“Here we are!”

Home.

I do love my uni life but – like the great Bilbo Baggins – I’m always glad to be home again after an adventure.

It all looks the same, our house sitting at the end of a quiet street, at the north end of the village.

The same wonky gate, the same weird fairy garden that Owen and I planted in one of the beds in the front garden, the same arched mustard front door with the stained-glass panel over the top.

Every time I come home, I expect it to look different.

I’ve been away, time has passed, and yet still it stays the same.

When we head inside, I try to see it through Saffron’s eyes. I’ve seen photos of her house before. Apart from Saffron’s room, it’s super modern and minimalist, and the only colour in the pictures I saw was a pile of zingy green limes in a crystal bowl in the kitchen.

The Holloway family has never been one for minimalism.

In the hall, there’s an umbrella stand filled with ornate vintage canes that my dad collects, dozens of family photographs in a higgledy-piggledy arrangement on one wall, an old pew we found at a reclamation yard on the opposite one.

To the left, there’s the archway through to the living room, where there are books piled high on shelves that nestle into the alcoves either side of the giant old fireplace.

There’s the huge, faded sofa and green velvet armchairs.

And, as it’s Christmas, there’s the giant real Christmas tree in the window.

Multicoloured fairy lights shine out from between the branches covered by years’ worth of weird baubles (including my favourite gay merman one, scantily clad in a very not-winter-weather-appropriate version of Santa’s red suit, holding a cocktail) and tinsel older than I am strung round them.

There’s mistletoe hanging in every doorway, ready for my parents to embarrass us every time one of them passes through a door until Twelfth Night.

It’s all a bit ramshackle, and definitely not what Saffron must be used to. I turn round to her, dragging her suitcase into the hall to see if I can gauge what she’s thinking.

I can. My fears about it being overwhelming for her, or even just not to her taste, evaporate into the mulled air.

She’s gazing around with pure wonder in her eyes, like it’s already Christmas morning.

“You have a beautiful house,” she says to my dads.

“Why, thank you, we do try. Well, no, we collect a bunch of weird shit and hope that it all goes together.”

“None of it goes together,” Pops points out.

“Well, no, but in a fun, eclectic way, mon ch é ri . Eclecticism is very in .”

I’m about to suggest we leave them to their arguing when a huge orange furry thing hurtles towards my feet.

“BEAN BURGER! Hello, my baby!” My boy weaves himself round my legs, purring almost violently as I pick him up and rock him in my arms. “Saffron,” I say, angling him towards her, “meet the great Beandini.”

“Hello, Mr Burger,” she says, stroking his head. “It’s an honour to meet you at last.”

“She’s back!” The voice comes from the kitchen shortly before two more creatures hurtle towards me.

“Hi, guys!”

Naomi and Owen, matching wellies on their feet, pelt into me, nearly knocking me flat, Mrs Dolores from next door staggering after them.

“Sorry, boys—” Pops is always delighted that she calls them ‘boys’, despite him being in his fifties. “They got away from me. I’ll be off now then if you’re home. Lovely to see you again, Eleanora, and looking so well.”

“You too, Mrs Dolores.” I smile. She kisses my dads’ cheeks and then exits, looking glad to be escaping.

“Right then.” Pops crouches down once the door is shut behind her and extracts the twins from my legs. “If you ran away from Dolores, then I’m guessing that means we’ve not had time for a frog check.”

“A what check?” Saffron asks, bemused.

The twins, however, just sigh. Naomi pulls out her trouser pockets to show that they’re empty, and Owen does the same on his dungarees.

“OK, all clear,” Pops says, but as he stands up I see them exchange a triumphant look. I know exactly what that means.

I decide to keep quiet for now, however, and do the introductions. “Saffron, these are the two little rotters. Rotter number one –” I point – “is Naomi. Please be on guard and never leave anything around her that could be used by an animal because she will steal it.”

“Ugh!” Naomi rolls her eyes. “Will you get over the Pringle thing, please? It’s been literally, like, ten years.”

“I had just bought a full tube of them and you dumped them straight in the bin so that you could turn it into part of your rat obstacle course. And it hasn’t been ten years, you’re only nine. So unless you were a very advanced foetus…”

“Whatever,” she says in the most withering tone she can muster.

“And this one, little rotter two, is Owen.”

Bless him, he brushes down his dungarees, looks rather solemn and extends his hand. “Hello, Saffron. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Owen watches too many old crime dramas,” I explain with amusement.

Saffron takes his hand. “The pleasure’s all mine, sir.” She smiles, shaking his hand until she notices what I do too – the pouch at the top of his dungarees wriggling conspicuously. “Is that—” she starts, frowning.

He leaps back, grinning mischievously. “Naomi and I have urgent business to attend to in the garden. We’ll see you!”

“Wipe your feet next time!” Pops yells after his rapidly retreating back.

Naomi lingers, however, frowning up at Saffron. “You’re very pretty. Are you Nell’s girlfriend?”

“Um…” Saffron’s pale complexion colours in an attempt to compete with radishes everywhere.

“NAOMI!” I protest.

“Naomi, is that a polite question to ask?” Dad asks.

“Oh, I’ve decided not to care any more about being polite,” she says matter-of-factly.

My dads exchange a weary look. “Right… Well, we’ll talk more about that later. For now, why don’t we leave Saffron and Nell alone to settle in and unpack?”

“Good idea,” I say, turning to Saffron. “Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

“I’ll come too,” Naomi says ut Dad grabs her by the shoulders and redirects her away back towards the kitchen.

“Nope. Come on, little lady. Come tell us what you’ve been plaguing Dolores with while we’ve been out.”

“Ugh,” she groans, rolling her eyes again (I’d love to know where she’s got that from since I’ve been away). “But fine. I just want to say before I start, though, that the swamp juice was Owen’s idea, NOT mine.”

“Swamp juice—”

“Ask Owen, not me.” She shrugs.

“On that note…” I grab one of Saffron’s bags and start hauling it up the stairs.

On the landing, I point out the bathroom as we go past, and then shoulder-barge one of the other doors. “And this … is my room.”

“Oh my God, of course it is,” Saffron says, dropping her suitcase on the floor. “It looks exactly like how I imagine the inside of your brain.”

I do see her point. My bed is tucked into one corner under the eaves, fairy lights are criss-crossed between the beams, and there are, oh, about a thousand books stacked up everywhere and as many candles.

My ceiling is painted a dark cornflower blue and covered in glow-in-the-dark stars.

There’s a fainting couch that my dads bought me from an antique shop for a steal and then refurbished in a knock-off William Morris fabric so that I can live my best dramatic poet life and collapse on to it to write poems. There are clothes spilling out of my walnut wardrobe that is probably a health-and-safety risk now.

And then there are six lamps dotted round the room because I’m a vehement opponent of the Big Light and a giant proponent of creating atmosphere with lots of tiny warm ones.

I don’t even think the bulb in my overhead light works any more.

“It’s like a magician’s lair in here,” Saffron says.

“I hate magicians. Professional liars.”

“That’s … one way to look at it.” She smiles, pointing towards the stars on the ceiling. “I was never allowed those as a kid in case they damaged the paint getting them off, but I always wanted them.”

“That sucks.”

I swear, every fact I learn about her parents makes me want to punch them both even more. Let your kid stick stupid stars on her ceiling – her interests should have meant more to them than a tester pot of magnolia paint.

“I know it’s not the same, but you can enjoy them while you’re here at least?

Oh.” I realise what I’ve implied. “That is, if you want to stay in here with me. We’ve got an air bed that I can sleep on, and you can take the bed.

But we do also have a guest room that you’re also very welcome to stay in. ”

“In here sounds good,” she says.

“Good,” I repeat stupidly. “In here it is.”

She smiles at me and then continues gazing around, flopping down on to my bed, the springs creaking as she does so.

My first thought is that I wonder whether there’s anywhere I can go before Christmas that’ll sell more stars.

My second is that I’ve lived in this house since I was one year old. But somehow it feels even more like home with her here.