Page 81 of Sad Girl Hours
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 hadjust boughta 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 dungareeswrigglingconspicuously. “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 justwant 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.”
