Page 83 of Sad Girl Hours
Something akin to fury flickers across Nell’s face, before settling in the hardness of her jaw. She takes a few seconds to compose herself before fixing me with a stare that feels like heat from a well-stoked fire. “They don’t deserve you.”
There’s a pause while I try to decide, again, whether to cry, smile or kiss her, but then she continues. “Come on,” she says. “I thought we’d go for a walk this afternoon. Thoughts?”
“Positive,” I say (they usually aren’t but in this particular instance it’s accurate). “It sounds lovely.”
I do feel a little guilty about still hidingsomethings from Nell, but they’re all things I want to hide from myself too. It’s not personal. It’s just if I’m going to survive the next few weeks, I need to not think about them.
I didn’t go to that meeting with my tutor. The one about my attendance. Ironically. I got up ready to, but then, when I reached the front door, I couldn’t quite manage to open it. I was worried if I went that he’d tell me I was being kicked out. And if I didn’t go then he couldn’t tell me that. A foolproof plan.
Apart from the fact that when I remember this, at unbidden intervals, I feel even more anxious. If there was any chance I wasn’t going to be reprimanded for my attendance, that went out of the window with menot attendingthe meeting. So, my time with Nell here now feels a little like I’m on death row and have been offered one last incredible meal. I do intend to enjoy it, to make the most of our days together, but in a way, if going back in January is the end of my time in Lancaster … it’s going to make it even harder to say goodbye.
And the worst thing is— No, not the worst. One of the frustrating things is, I passed the exam last term. Barely, but I did. And I know if I could just have made it to spring, I could pass properly,studyproperly. But I doubt that I’ll have the option now.
James sent me a follow-up email, rearranging our meeting for the first day back in January. The ninth. Vivvie has her fashion show in the evening the day before, so at least I can go to that and cheer her on before I’m sent packing. Literally.
But anyway, I’m not thinking about that. Not yet, not until I have to.
Right now, I want to think about lacing up my boots next to Nell, about putting on the thick coat that I’ve borrowed from her, and heading out together to explore the place she grew up.
“That –” Nell points – “is the kerb where I fell off my tricycle as a kid and got this scar here.” She lifts up her chin so I can see the faint line underneath.
“Poor baby Nell.”
“That was my primary school,” she says, gesturing towards a charmingly small building with gables painted green. “Many lunchtimes hiding in the cloakrooms were spent there. And then, when they clocked on and forced me out to the playground, I instead snuck seeds in and started planting herbs in any spare patches of ground I could find.”
“You really started your ‘convince the neighbourhood children you’re a witch’ mission early, didn’t you?” I say, my heart growing a couple of sizes as I imagine a tiny Nell poking seeds into the earth and tending to them carefully during her breaktimes.
“You remembered!” she says, midway over a wooden stile.
“Of course I did. I’m very invested in the concept. I’m going to be a frequent visitor to your cottage.”
“You’d better be,” Nell says.
We head away from the village, up a steadily sloping hill. The buildings grow smaller behind us, and the light has the kind of hazy property that signals dusk is looming.
Nell plods on next to me, stopping at intervals to point things out like the field she normally walks through to befriend the new batch of cows that arrive in March.
“And that—Oh.” She draws her hand back, puts it on her chest and closes her eyes. “Oof.”
“Are you OK?” I’m by her side instantly, hand on her arm. “Is it your heart?”
“The PoTS do be PoTting, yes,” she says, scrunching her eyes shut even more and swaying slightly.
“Come on, sit down,” I say, helping guide her slowly to the ground.
“Thanks.” After a moment or so, she reopens her eyes. “Sorry, I think it’s the exercise and the cold. I’m not so good with changes in temperature.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” I say. “How are you doing now?”
“My heart’s still going. I might need a minute or two.”
“OK.” I shrug my bag off my shoulder and reach in. “Would these help?” I hold out a mini bag of salted pretzels.
She stares at them in my hand for three blinks and then looks up at me for another three. “You brought pretzels.”
“Yes.”
“You often get snacky on a walk?”
