Page 31 of Sad Girl Hours
“Definitely. Maybe in a year, though, we can come back and see if we can beat our time on their new one, try to win you another prize. Speaking of which, what is it?”
Nell examines the parcel, turning it over in her hands. “Well, it’s very small and cylindrical. It’s almost like…”
She pulls it out of the wrapper and stops in her tracks. “A pencil. A pencil with footballs printed on it.”
I can’t help it. I let out an almost hysterical hoot of laughter. We spent two hours in a labyrinth, we’re soaked to the bone, and our reward for our efforts is a pencil clearly designed for an eight-year-old child.
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Nell says, but she’s clearly battling against mirth herself. “This is exactly what I was hoping for.”
“We could find a football-loving child to gift it to,” I say, still laughing. “I’m sure they’d be very grateful.”
“Um, absolutely not. I will be keeping and treasuring this forever. We earned it fair and square.”
I’m about to comment when Nell does it anyway.
“Well, maybe notfair,” she admits. “But definitely square. We earned it square.”
“Come on,” I say, swapping my apple bag to my other arm so I can loop my right arm through hers as we walk down the hill towards the bus stop again. “Let’s go home and show the others.”
Chapter Thirteen
Saffron
Back at my place, the apple-pie making is well under way. The sky’s darkening outside but, instead of putting the main light on (a garish strip of fluorescence), Nell lights a series of tapers that she produces from a bag she apparently stashed here earlier and places them all round the kitchen.
“The combo of baking and the candles does make me feel a little like a peasant woman in ye olde times, preparing a pie for her husband who’s returning from a long day down the mines,” Nell says, “but it’s still a vibe.”
“I agree,” I say, taking care not to knock into one of the candles as I roll out the pastry on the flour-dusted side. “Though I must say I’m very glad no husbands are involved and these pies are just for us and our friends.”
“Amen,” Nell says. “OK, how are we decorating these bad boys? Classic top, lattice, fun shapes?”
“I think one lattice, one we just go bonkers with.”
“Excellent plan.”
Jenna and Casper wander in ten minutes later as I’m carefully weaving strands of pastry to form my lattice top, and Nell’s sitting on the floor, taking a break after unsuccessfully trying to cut out an apple shape to go on top of the other pie.
“It looks more like a deformed pumpkin,” she grumbles.
“A verybeautifuldeformed pumpkin. Besides, that’s perfect. It’s October – deformed pumpkins are very seasonally appropriate.”
“But I’m meant to be an artist.” Nell curls up into a ball on the tiles. “Sure, my paintbrush is a pen, but I still feel as though I’ve let the muses down.”
“Why is Nell on the floor?” Jenna asks, stepping over her.
“I have failed to live up to my calling,” Nell calls up, voice muffled from being in a foetal position, the jumper I lent her (when we got back looking like drowned rodents) hooked over her knees.
“Her pastry apple looks more like a pumpkin,” I explain. “This is apparently disastrous.”
“Itis. I am a failure as an artiste.”
“It’s been a good day then, I’m gathering?” Jenna asks. “Very uneventful?”
“It’s been lovely,” I say, deciding to just ignore Nell’s artistic plight. Casper, however, crouches down in front of her and begins poking at her hair. “We went apple picking, did a maze maize and Nell turned me into a criminal. All great activities.”
“You engaged in criminal activity?” Casper prods.
“We did. We stole two bagfuls of apples and were chased off the premises of a castle, and then we lied to a very sweet, very enthusiastic teen about completing the maze without checking the map in order to win a prize.”
