This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

“Bev, give me a break, we’re feeding the elderly and isolated, we can’t be expected to save the planet too,” said Leila, dumping all the packaging on the central steel countertop.

  “You know my granddaughter, Betty, she’s four, she said to me last week, ‘Gran, what are you doing to save the planet from snowball warming?’”

  Minnie and Leila laughed.

  “I couldn’t think of anything, isn’t that terrible?” Bev chewed her bottom lip as she carefully transferred pies from the cooling rack into cases.

  “Bev, I think you’ve got enough to worry about with your forgetfulness, I wouldn’t be getting stressed about global warming too,” said Leila.

  “She’s got eco-anxiety, it’s all the rage right now, all the celebs have got it,” said Fleur, poking her head around the doorway from reception. “My friend had it so badly she stopped showering and shopping for like a month, and just lived in the dark with no TV; well, she had the basic channels, no Netflix or Amazon. Then she invented this new biodegradable packaging that’s made of seaweed or mushrooms or some hemp shit, and now she’s like a millionaire and has a private jet, but she’s almost totally carbon-neutral so it’s fine.”

  “Is this the same friend who invented armbands?” Minnie asked skeptically.

  “No,” said Fleur pointedly, “armbands were invented like, ages ago, Minnie.” Fleur made a huffing sound and flounced back through to reception.

  “I can’t keep up with all her famous movie director and inventor friends,” Minnie whispered, and Leila giggled.

  “He’s here!” Fleur called in a singsong voice from reception.

  Minnie handed the box she was folding to Bev, pulled off her grease-stained apron and hairnet, and hurried out to meet him. Standing in their pokey reception, Quinn looked even taller than she remembered. He was dressed in jeans and a soft camel-colored jumper with a blue Barbour jacket slung over one shoulder. He stood with his weight backward, one leg bent, surveying the space around him like a king surveying a newly conquered land. Minnie could see Fleur was desperately trying to catch her eye, so she purposely avoided looking in her direction.

  “Hi,” said Minnie.

  “Hi,” said Quinn with a slow grin.

  “You really didn’t need to do this. I don’t expect people I hardly know to loan me their car at a moment’s notice just because I phone them by accident,” Minnie said, fluffing her flattened hair out from behind her ears.

  “Was it an accident, though?” Quinn asked, slowly leaning forward, one eyebrow raised. Minnie opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Quinn broke the silence. “I’m joking. Besides, I wasn’t doing anything—nor was my car.”

  Fleur giggled, a stupid schoolgirlish giggle. Quinn gave her an indulgent smile, his eyes sparkling with approval. So predictable—she was probably just his type.

  “This is Fleur, by the way.”

  Minnie gave a halfhearted wave in Fleur’s direction. Fleur jumped up to sit on the reception desk, swinging her legs childishly in front of her.

  “Have you ever had your aura read, Quinn? You know you have a really strong energy around you,” said Fleur.

  “I haven’t,” he said.

  “Maybe I should come and see where you’ve parked?” Minnie suggested, before Fleur could monopolize the man with her wanton quackery.

  * * *

  —

  “So how was the rest of your birthday?” Quinn asked as they walked down the street away from the kitchen.

  “Oh, um, great,” Minnie said, giving him a tight smile.

  He was looking at her with cool amusement, as though he somehow knew what a pathetic, depressing day she’d had yesterday. She was pretty sure Quinn Hamilton would not have spent his birthday drugging himself to sleep in an attempt to blot out the big 3-0. He’d probably spent it having sex with Lucy Donohue on a speedboat, or doing some luxurious couples spa day where you got matching dressing gowns and a salt body scrub, followed by a nut-based salad on a scenic veranda. “You?”

  “I spent most of it asleep in the end,” said Quinn. “Tuesday was a big night.” His eyes flashed her a conspiratorial look. Minnie cleared her throat and swallowed—was he teasing her or was he telepathic?

  As they turned the corner of the street, Minnie saw an enormous black Bentley taking up most of the side road behind their building. It let out two high-toned beeps as Quinn unlocked it with a key fob.

  “This is your car?” Minnie asked. “You’re kidding me, I can’t drive that.”

  “Why not?” Quinn asked, throwing her the keys. She caught them in one hand, savoring her unlikely catch with an internal high five.

  “It’s the size of a tank. A very expensive tank.”

  Who drove a Bentley, and in this part of London? Minnie stood staring at the car, unsure what to do or say next.

  “It’s insured for anyone to drive. I’ll swing by and pick it up tomorrow.” Quinn gave a staccato salute with his hand, then turned and started walking away.

  “Hey wait, you’re not serious?” Minnie said, her voice squeaky with panic. “I honestly can’t drive this. I don’t drive in London much and when I do it’s only Greg’s Mini.”

  “Your boyfriend drives a Mini?”

  Quinn turned back to face her, his eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Don’t start with the Mini Cooper jokes,” Minnie said, her eyes narrowing.

  Quinn took a large stride toward her. Minnie’s body tensed, the confidence of his gait slightly intimidating. He reached out a hand, sweeping the keys from her grasp, his fingers grazing her palm.

  “I’ll drive you then.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want to drive the car, I don’t have plans, I’ll take you where you need to go.”

  Minnie started making shapes with her mouth to object, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. She also lacked any other options for how she was going to get everything delivered today.

  Quinn followed her back into the kitchen to help her collect the pies for delivery. Leila and Bev hadn’t quite finished packing pies into cases, and Quinn cheerfully rolled up his sleeves to help with the last bits of labeling and packing.

  “These smell amazing,” he said, taking a long slow inhale as he held one of the boxes in his hands. “What’s in here?”

  “That there is steak and Guinness,” said Leila, handing him a label, “and these are chicken and vegetable, our two most popular flavors.”

  “I thought we were calling them Steak Gyllenhaal and Chick Jagger?” said Minnie.

  “No,” Leila said, shaking her head. “None of our customers liked those names.”

  Quinn laughed as he held a box up to his nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelled a pie this good.”

  “Don’t suck all the smell out, that’s the best bit,” said Leila, taking the box from his hands.

  “It’s the buttery pastry that makes them smell like that,” Bev explained. “Minnie’s secret recipe.”

  “It’s not a secret, Bev, it’s just butter.” Minnie laughed. “Butter makes everything great.”

  “Yeah, everything,” said Fleur, gently tugging her lower lip down with the pad of her middle finger. Minnie glared at her. Leila steered Fleur out of the way, with a hand on each shoulder, then started ushering Minnie and Quinn out the door.

  “Anyway, you guys should head off. I’m sure you have lots to catch up on, you know, first of January stuff.”

  She and Bev followed them out to the car to help load the last of the boxes into the boot.

  “Blimey, people are going to think they’re paying us too much,” said Bev.

  “Or that these are some seriously classy pies,” said Leila, opening the passenger door for Minnie. As she shut the door she bent down and silently mouthed “love twins” through the window, and made a little heart shape betwe
en her thumbs and forefingers.

  Quinn tapped the first delivery address into his GPS. Minnie sat awkwardly on her hands, trying not to touch any of the beautiful cream leather.

  “How come you drive a Bentley then?” she asked. “Compensating for something?” Quinn burst out laughing.

  Minnie felt herself blush. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

  Minnie glanced up to look at Quinn as he started the ignition and pulled away from the curb. When he smiled, a fan of lines radiated out from his eyes. When he stopped smiling, some lines stubbornly remained, as though they knew they’d be used again soon, so there was no point in going away. There was something so warm and familiar about his face, though she couldn’t explain what.

  “It was my mother’s. It’s not something I would have chosen, but she doesn’t like to drive anymore so she gave it to me,” Quinn said.

  He tilted his head to one side and briskly scratched his neck.

  “My mum gave me a meat thermometer for my birthday,” said Minnie.

  “My dad got me a card saying ‘Happy thirty-third,’” said Quinn.

  “I’d take the car and the card with the wrong age any day.”

  Minnie gently bounced up and down on her hands; she felt fizzy with an unexplained energy, as though she’d downed eight coffees.

  “So what do you do when you’re not driving Miss Daisy around?” she asked.

  “M’lady.” Quinn doffed an imaginary cap. “Nothing as interesting as owning my own pie business.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a drug dealer? This feels like a drug dealer’s car.”

  Quinn laughed. “Bit conspicuous for a drug dealer. No, I’m a management consultant.”

  “I feel like that’s what a drug dealer would say.”

  Minnie gave him a slow wink. He let out a deep, rusty sort of laugh that caught in his throat. It was the kind of laugh that lulled people into an unearned familiarity. Hearing it made Minnie feel as though she was drinking hot wine by a log fire wrapped in Nordic furs. Not that she’d ever done this, but she imagined it would be a very enjoyable thing to do.

  * * *

  —

  Their first delivery was to a social center for the elderly near London Fields. Minnie said she would run in, Quinn could wait in the car, but he wanted to come too. Mrs. Mentis, one of the regular volunteers at the center, opened the door for them. She was a sweet lady in her late sixties. She wore purple varifocals and a chunky green cardigan trimmed with large buttons shaped like hedgehogs.

  “Oh, hello, Minnie, we haven’t seen you for a while,” she said in a soft Yorkshire accent. “It’s usually your man Alan who comes. He’s not poorly, I hope?”

  Mrs. Mentis looked up at Quinn and then moved her glasses down her nose to inspect him more closely. She pulled a gray handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe her nose.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Minnie said, “just a mix-up with his van. This is Quinn, he’s helping me out today.”

  Minnie nodded toward Quinn and then made a “these pies are quite heavy, can we just get to the kitchen please” face. Mrs. Mentis took the hint and moved aside.

  “Just down to your left, Quint,” she said, pointing the way with a wavering arm. Minnie and Quinn walked past her and Mrs. Mentis hobbled after them. She was plagued by bunion trouble; Minnie had heard about it at great length over the last few years. She had named her bunions Billy and Boo and talked about them as though they were her grandchildren.

  “How are the feet, Mrs. Mentis?” Minnie asked.

  “Oh, Billy’s not so bad, Minnie, but Boo’s playing up no end, she is—doesn’t like this weather.”

  The kitchen was small and beige. It smelled of cleaning fluid and marmalade. There were a few old coffee cups and an abandoned game of checkers on the beige Formica table.

  “Everyone loves pie day,” said Mrs. Mentis, opening one of the lids to see inside. “I hope steak and Guinness is on the menu?”

  “Always,” said Minnie. “Do you have someone to help you warm them up? They’re fresh this morning but could do with thirty minutes in the oven.”

  “Yes, everyone likes to volunteer on pie day,” said Mrs. Mentis, licking her lips. Then she turned her attention back to Quinn, who was stacking boxes straight into the fridge. “Oh, isn’t he helpful? Is this the boyfriend Alan mentioned?”

  Mrs. Mentis waggled a finger at Quinn.

  “Afraid not, I’m just the driver,” Quinn explained.

  “You haven’t taken Alan’s job, I hope?” Mrs. Mentis frowned. “The ladies upstairs would be most aggrieved. They like having a cuppa with Alan, they do—bit of a dish, they say. Not that Quint here isn’t, but not such a one for the over-sixties perhaps.”

  “Don’t write me off too quickly, Mrs. Mentis, you haven’t seen me play bridge.”

  Mrs. Mentis let out a slow, throaty chuckle. “I can see why he’s your type, dear—nice to have a bit of girth to hold on to, isn’t it?”

  Minnie’s eyes widened; Mrs. Mentis was prone to getting words slightly wrong. Minnie doubted she meant to use the word girth.

  “No, he’s not my type, Mrs. Mentis, Quinn’s just a friend helping me out today.”

  Quinn silently mouthed “not your type?” at Minnie, then made a mock wounded face, his dark eyebrows knitting together in overblown consternation. Minnie couldn’t help smiling.

  “You aren’t this funny journalist then?” asked Mrs. Mentis, counting the pies off on her fingers. Minnie was beginning to see why Alan took so long doing the deliveries.

  “That’s Greg, he’s ever so funny,” said Quinn, leaning conspiratorially toward Mrs. Mentis. “Not quite as gifted as me in the girth department, though.”

  Minnie let out an involuntary high-pitched noise. She clutched a hand over her mouth, turning the sound into a strangled sort of sneeze.

  “Bless you, dear,” said Mrs. Mentis, turning her attention back to Quinn. “I used to be lithe and bonny-faced like Minnie here, you know. Had the pick of them in my day, I did.”

  “I can certainly believe that, Mrs. Mentis,” said Quinn.

  “Now, Quint, while we have you here, you wouldn’t mind having a peek at the air vent in the social room, would you? It rattles no end on a windy night, and we’re hard pressed to reach it. Someone of your size won’t have any problems giving it a little sort out.”

  The next dozen deliveries were equally time-consuming. Quinn found himself fixing a dodgy antenna at Mrs. McKenzie’s flat, volunteering to hold Mrs. Terry’s wool with his “nice big spool hands,” then wrangling a broken flea collar back onto one of Mr. Marchbanks’s cats.

  Quinn was obliging and charming with all her customers and Minnie felt herself softening toward him—he was impossible not to like. Yet beneath the surface there remained some ingrained mistrust, some Pavlovian conditioning that bristled at the name Quinn Hamilton and everything he stood for. When she saw him being kind and funny with her customers, her resolve to dislike him would melt. Then they’d get back to his Bentley and she’d remember—it’s easy to be charming when you’ve led a charmed life.

  “You have a way with the old folks,” Minnie said, looking across the hood at him as they stood outside Mr. Marchbanks’s house.

  “I definitely don’t have a way with cats,” Quinn said, holding up his scratched forearm to show her.

  Minnie opened the passenger door, laughing. “Poor diddums, did little puss-puss scratch you with his tiny claws?”

  “I didn’t see you volunteering.” Quinn’s cheek puckered into a dimple.

  “The look on your face when he told you that you had the wrong cat,” Minnie said, letting out a little snort.

  “That man didn’t know which cat was which,” said Quinn, shaking his head. “I could have collared next door’s dog for all he knew.”

  “Just because he’s e
xtremely near-sighted doesn’t mean he can’t tell his cats apart, Quinn. He says they all have very distinct smells,” Minnie said primly.

  “His flat certainly has a very distinct smell.”

  “Don’t be mean, he’s had a hard life, that man.”

  Quinn paused, the jokey expression falling from his face. “I know. It’s amazing what you do for these people, Minnie.”

  “Oh yeah, pastry for pensioners—it’s Nobel Prize–winning stuff.”

  Minnie opened the car door and climbed in. Quinn got in next to her, his face still serious as he stared ahead out of the windscreen.

  “You’re clearly a lifeline to these people. It’s so much more than just food delivery, it’s . . .” Quinn trailed off, turning back to the windscreen. “People need that connection in their day, someone dropping in just to see if they’re OK.”

  Minnie watched a small muscle in his jaw start to pulse. He turned back to Minnie and forced a smile. “Not that I need to tell you, it’s your brilliant business.”

  “Not that brilliant.” Minnie sighed. “Not financially anyway.”

  “Well, you need to start charging for cat collaring,” said Quinn, holding up his forearm again and pointing to the scratch marks.

  “Aw, you need me to kiss it better?”

  It was the kind of sarcasm she might have used with Ian or her brother, but Quinn responded with this piercing look. It felt as though someone had pressed pause between them and then Minnie realized she was holding her breath. He looked away and someone pressed play.

  “Maybe we’ll save the kissing for next time.”

  Minnie knew he was joking, but his saying it sent a flurrying sensation through the depths of her belly. It felt like a nest of baby owls living dormant in her stomach had all woken up at once and started flapping their wings, ravenous to be fed. She clenched her teeth together, annoyed with herself for being so predictable, getting all Fleur-ish when someone like Quinn said anything vaguely flirtatious.

  “Ha-ha,” she said, shaking her head slowly from side to side, trying to quell the feeling in her stomach. “Right, enough of the chitchat, chauffeur, we’ve got a lot more old folks to feed,” said Minnie, clapping her hands together.