viewing,’ said the voice – young, male, southern.
Mack would have come with me, but as far I was concerned his job was done.
‘Nice meeting you, Mack.’
‘Same. See you around, Saffron.’
He disappeared off. I didn’t give him another thought, because I had no idea he’d be part of my story.
26
I knew I’d take the room before I saw it. Being homeless meant being vulnerable. Like Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, shelter was my priority.
The landlord, Freddie, was a post-grad whose generous parents had bought him a house. If he thought it was odd that I wanted to move in right away, he didn’t say. Nor did he comment on the sparse luggage, but I covered that anyway by saying, ‘I’ve got some stuff to pick up that I left with a friend.’
‘Let me know if you want a hand,’ he said.
I paid the deposit and the first month’s rent in cash, promising to set up a direct debit when I’d changed banks. As far as Freddie was concerned I’d decided to look for work in Leeds, because London was too expensive.
‘The other lodger’s called Polly. She’s a post-grad like me. She’s not here and I’ve got to go out. So … make yourself at home, Saff.’
I waited in my room until I heard him leave and then went to the bathroom, locked the door and ran a bath. The water was blissfully hot. I had no toiletries of my own, but there was some lemon zest showergel, so I helped myself. I felt disgusting. Dirty. A failure. And very, very alone. I sank down so deep that only my nose and eyes were above the waterline, like a hippo in a river. I needed to think. But the weariness was making it difficult. And the anger was clouding my judgement. All the way through the Dronejacker affair I’d been prepared for it to fail. So many things could have gone wrong. But they didn’t. When I finally had control of the drone, I knew nothing could stop me. And yet, something did. Crushing. Seriously crushing. I needed to channel the feeling into something positive, or I’d drown in my own bitterness.
I heaved my overheated body out of the bath and realised I had no towel. There was a small, stripy, germ-ridden one slung on the radiator, which I reluctantly used.
I nipped back into my room in my filthy T-shirt and put on a pair of joggers and a hoodie, which were only slightly better.
I wanted to curl up on the mattress and sleep, but there was no bedding, so I made myself go in search of a decent-sized supermarket. I didn’t want alarm bells ringing right away. Normal people had ‘stuff’.
I filled a trolley with bedding, towels, toiletries, a Union Jack cushion, food, underwear, clothes and a burner phone – all paid for with yet more cash – and got a taxi back. Luckily Freddie was still out, because I was too tired to think of an explanation for the ridiculous number of orange plastic bags.
By eight-thirty on day one of Saffron Anderson’s new life in Leeds, I had stir-fry in my belly, a made-up bed, three changes of clothes in the cupboard and the means to wash and clean my body and the bathroom. Not bad. My mood had lifted too. I hadn’t chosen the easy path – that would have meant grieving for my grandma and moving on. I’d chosen to take a stand. My first attempt had failed. I decided right then that my second, whatever shape it might take, wouldn’t.
I was slipping into sleep, thinking about the people who’d narrowly missed dying on the streets of London three days before, when I heard someone come in the front door. I was instantly wide-awake again, too recently in fight-or-flight mode to properly let go. I wondered who it was – Freddie or Polly? Wondered what they’d say if they knew their new lodger was Dronejacker.
27
‘You certainly seem to have packed a lot in,’ said Liam, the manager, flicking back to the first page of my application form.
I nodded enthusiastically.
‘I’ve always been a busy sort of person.’ My voice was as clear and confident as when I’d said exactly the same
Mack would have come with me, but as far I was concerned his job was done.
‘Nice meeting you, Mack.’
‘Same. See you around, Saffron.’
He disappeared off. I didn’t give him another thought, because I had no idea he’d be part of my story.
26
I knew I’d take the room before I saw it. Being homeless meant being vulnerable. Like Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, shelter was my priority.
The landlord, Freddie, was a post-grad whose generous parents had bought him a house. If he thought it was odd that I wanted to move in right away, he didn’t say. Nor did he comment on the sparse luggage, but I covered that anyway by saying, ‘I’ve got some stuff to pick up that I left with a friend.’
‘Let me know if you want a hand,’ he said.
I paid the deposit and the first month’s rent in cash, promising to set up a direct debit when I’d changed banks. As far as Freddie was concerned I’d decided to look for work in Leeds, because London was too expensive.
‘The other lodger’s called Polly. She’s a post-grad like me. She’s not here and I’ve got to go out. So … make yourself at home, Saff.’
I waited in my room until I heard him leave and then went to the bathroom, locked the door and ran a bath. The water was blissfully hot. I had no toiletries of my own, but there was some lemon zest showergel, so I helped myself. I felt disgusting. Dirty. A failure. And very, very alone. I sank down so deep that only my nose and eyes were above the waterline, like a hippo in a river. I needed to think. But the weariness was making it difficult. And the anger was clouding my judgement. All the way through the Dronejacker affair I’d been prepared for it to fail. So many things could have gone wrong. But they didn’t. When I finally had control of the drone, I knew nothing could stop me. And yet, something did. Crushing. Seriously crushing. I needed to channel the feeling into something positive, or I’d drown in my own bitterness.
I heaved my overheated body out of the bath and realised I had no towel. There was a small, stripy, germ-ridden one slung on the radiator, which I reluctantly used.
I nipped back into my room in my filthy T-shirt and put on a pair of joggers and a hoodie, which were only slightly better.
I wanted to curl up on the mattress and sleep, but there was no bedding, so I made myself go in search of a decent-sized supermarket. I didn’t want alarm bells ringing right away. Normal people had ‘stuff’.
I filled a trolley with bedding, towels, toiletries, a Union Jack cushion, food, underwear, clothes and a burner phone – all paid for with yet more cash – and got a taxi back. Luckily Freddie was still out, because I was too tired to think of an explanation for the ridiculous number of orange plastic bags.
By eight-thirty on day one of Saffron Anderson’s new life in Leeds, I had stir-fry in my belly, a made-up bed, three changes of clothes in the cupboard and the means to wash and clean my body and the bathroom. Not bad. My mood had lifted too. I hadn’t chosen the easy path – that would have meant grieving for my grandma and moving on. I’d chosen to take a stand. My first attempt had failed. I decided right then that my second, whatever shape it might take, wouldn’t.
I was slipping into sleep, thinking about the people who’d narrowly missed dying on the streets of London three days before, when I heard someone come in the front door. I was instantly wide-awake again, too recently in fight-or-flight mode to properly let go. I wondered who it was – Freddie or Polly? Wondered what they’d say if they knew their new lodger was Dronejacker.
27
‘You certainly seem to have packed a lot in,’ said Liam, the manager, flicking back to the first page of my application form.
I nodded enthusiastically.
‘I’ve always been a busy sort of person.’ My voice was as clear and confident as when I’d said exactly the same
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