Page 95 of Sad Girl Hours
I open up the door to what used to be the airing cupboard with the boiler in, but is now just a storage cupboard.
“Is there room in there for both of us?” Saffron says dubiously.
“Well, it’s usually full to the brim with our spare blankets, but as most of them are still up in our room, I think we’ll be golden.” I hoist myself up on to the wooden shelf, shuffling along, knees hugged to my chest, and then offering a spare hand to Saffron. “Here.”
Gamely, she clambers in and we manage to pull the handle shut. I arrange a duvet cover in front of us so we’d be blocked from view if they open the door. “That should do it.”
“Nice.” There’s quiet. “We do do some strange things at New Year, don’t we?”
“What, like celebrate a fake New Year’s Eve and hide out from two terrifying nine-year-olds in a now defunct airing cupboard? I mean, if you think that’s strange, sure.”
“No, you’re right. Perfectly normal.”
“I can’t believe it’s been a year since we met. And also that it’sonlybeen a year since we met.”
“Right? I can remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday, but don’t you also feel like it should have been longer ago?”
“Definitely longer.”
There’s only a little light in here shining through the cracks around the edge of the door, but I can still see the thoughtful smile curved up Saffron’s cheeks. “I thought you were amazing, even then. The way you seemed so secure in yourself, the way we danced … and then when we were talking outside I remember thinking,My God, who is this beautiful poet woman and where has she been hiding all this time?”
“At that point, mostly in my room writing slightly depressing poetry.”
“You know what I mean. Not just that first term, more like…”
“Our whole lives,” I say. “Yeah. I do.” It’s my turn to pause. “I wish I could have met you earlier.”
“God, me too,” Saffron says, sounding like she really means it.
“I remember thinking last year not only that you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen but that you must surely be the most beautiful thing I everwouldsee. But tonight? Somehow you’ve topped that again.”
“Nell,” she protests, a laugh juddering in her breath. “Stop it.”
“I’m serious! It’s hard to look at you sometimes. It’s like looking at the sun. Sometimes I have to squint so it’s not too much.”
I hear her swallow next to me. “With words like that, you’re going to make some person feel like the luckiest muse in the world some day.”
“I hope I do,” I say. Present tense, not future. I’m getting bored of this skirting around it. “You know, at first, I used to write to help me make sense of things – my brain, the outside world, everything really. Now, though, I feel like I write because I love the world so much Ihaveto write about it. And one of the things I love most about the world is the people that live in it.” It’s time. “One person in particular.”
“Oh yeah?” The dark feels like it’s lessening the pressure between us. Like all bets are off. “And who is that?”
“Saffron.” I twist to face her, scanning that perfect face. “You have to know by now.”
“Know…?”
“I wrote this,” I say, hearing the breathless quality in my words as I dig in my pocket for my phone. “The other day. I wrote this one and another poem, and I finished my collection.”
“You finished it?” she says incredulously. “Nell, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you say?”
“Because I thought you’d ask to see them, and I was waiting for the perfect time.”
“Well, this is it! Show me!” she says firmly.
I open up the document. “Here,” I say. “This is the one I was waiting for really.”
I hand my phone to her and sit, waiting, not looking directly at her as she reads.
Look, I don’t know, OK?
