The night before, Eilish garlanded the dark millwork with her old gold chains, and beside a set of Billie Eilish matryoshka dolls-a particularly excellent example of the fan art she regularly receives-a crèche is taking shape. (Eilish’s parents, actors who have supported themselves over the years with a mix of jobs, now work the crew on their daughter’s tours.) In the dining room, evidence of the approaching Christmas holiday peeks out from piles of Billie Eilish merchandise (so much slime green!).
The floors are barely navigable from all the suitcases. It’s clear that the O’Connells have outgrown their family home: Eilish’s father, Patrick O’Connell, sleeps-but also keeps vigil-in a bed in the corner of the living room beside a forlorn-looking baby grand piano, partly because Eilish has stopped feeling entirely safe here. Her ears prick to the shimmery sound of the doorbell-security system, and she winces lately there are so many visitors, and Maggie has hung a towel over the four long glass panes of the front door for a bit of privacy.