Page 46 of Sad Girl Hours
that sometimes it’s enough to drift in the breeze
and not know anything at all.
Satisfied, I save the note, and start to get ready for my day, periodically checking my phone for messages that never come.
“Did you see Saffron last week?” I ask Casper a couple of days later when we’re walking back from watching some of Jenna’s dress rehearsal together.
“We live together,” he says. “So yes, occasionally.”
“And is she … OK?”
I know I’m not entitled to her time but we’ve got a bucket list to complete and we had plans – tentative ones, sure, but she’s avoided all my messages about making themuntentative.
“She seems so,” Casper answers. “You know Saffron – she’s pretty unflappable.”
Do we know Saffron?I ask internally. “Sure,” I say out loud. “I guess.”
He glances sideways at me. “We’re all pretty busy at the minute. Everything’s ramping up towards our f irst lot of exams. We’re still going to the thing at the castle this weekend, though, right?”
“Definitely,” I say with more certainty than I feel. I’m really excited, but I’m also getting worried that Saffron will bail. If she’s avoiding me for some reason, then maybe she’ll want to keep doing that. And if she really is just busy, then who’s to say something won’t ‘come up’ this weekend?
“I can’t wait for you all to see my costume.” Casper looks mischievous, which is both never and always a good sign. Then his expression shifts – running a hand through his ridiculous blond hair. “Jenna’s shown me hers,” he says. “She looks … well, unhinged. But also beautiful.”
“She usually does,” I say as a cheeky test, and to my great delight he sighs.Moonily.
“Yes. Yes, she does.”
It’s my turn to glance sideways at him now and, predictably, he looks like the human equivalent of a marshmallow. “She was so great today, wasn’t she?” he says. “She’s so talented. If she’s not a star of stage and screen one day, then I’ll eat my hat.”
“She was wonderful, yes. She was born to be on stage. But also, you’re not wearing a hat,” I point out.
Casper pats the top of his head. “Ah. No. Well, I shall go and purchase a hat that I will proceed to consume should my prediction not come true. Which it won’t.”
“But at least then you’ll have a fancy new hat.”
He nods. “Quite right, Eleanora. Quite right.”
The rest of the week passes by with still no word from Saffron. We miss the hunter’s moon – I look out of my window at it, but it’s not quite the same as heading up to the park with Saffron to listen to her tell me all about it. It was beautiful, huge and amber, but I know it would have looked more beautiful with her.
We were going to go and pick pumpkins too. Halloween is tomorrow, Monday, and this is the latest I’ve ever left my pumpkin carving. In fact, normally I do them way too early because I get excited and then they go mouldy, so we have to put them out in the back garden to decompose or be eaten by local wildlife and go and get new ones.
Saffron can’t ignore me today, though. Jenna and I get ready in our (excellent, if we do say so ourselves) costumes, and head over to the lads’ house.
We’re all going to the Halloween event at the castle. It’s basically a giant sleepover with everyone dressed up, except instead of sleeping on a friend’s lumpy sofa we’ll be in the castle dungeons. I’m very excited. I’m hoping that I’ll come across a ghost who was wrongfully convicted that I can befriend and get justice for.
Plus, we decided to combine our Gothic Horror Night with the dungeon outing. So, all of our costumes are either a character from a gothic story in literature or an author of one, and we’re all bringing our respective books along so we can read out the spookiest sections to each other.
I’m dressed as Edgar Allan Poe, complete with an old black velvet suit I got in a charity shop a few years back, cravat, fake moustache and a (regrettably) stuffed raven stuck to my shoulder. Honestly? I’ve never looked better. It’s a vibe.
Jenna, after insisting I did a drum roll before she entered the room in classic theatre-kid style, reveals herself to be wearing a long white nightdress that, when she spins round, reveals red, orange and yellow fabric sewn into the bottom (Vivvie’s handiwork, I’m sure), paired with a crown of flames.
“And you are…” I asked.
“Bertha, Mr Rochester’s wife. Duh,” she answers, still spinning. “An absolutely wronged queen. I wish she’d managed to finish the job and kill that crusty-ass bitch.”
“Iconic.”
“Well, Mr Poe? Should we venture out into this dark and stormy night and fetch our acquaintances?”
