This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  “Great outfit by the way,” she said, giving Bev a nod as she arrived with another hamper of food.

  “Thanks, I made it myself. I figure the world has enough fancy dress going straight to landfill. Oh, Minnie, did I show you a picture of the T-shirt my daughter made Betty for the march next week?” Bev said, pulling out her phone. Minnie leaned in to see a photo of a toothy youngster with long brown plaits wearing a green T-shirt that read my gran’s fantastic, she says no to single-use plastic.

  “Oh, Bev, look how cute she is. I’m so glad you’re getting into all this campaigning.”

  Minnie put an arm around Bev to give her a hug but found herself hugging the pillow Bev had secured around her shoulders.

  “Oh, you’re the Hunchback of Notre Dame!” she said, finally clicking.

  “Who else would I be?” said Bev.

  Bev set about adding the final hamper to the scene. They had laid out a giant red-and-white-checked picnic blanket with hampers full of pork pies, ham, cheese boards, and fruit. It looked like a feast fit for Henry the Eighth (if Henry the Eighth had been friends with a mermaid, the cast of the RSC, Quasimodo, some freaky animatronic sheep, and half the Teletubbies).

  “Wow,” said Bev as they stood next to each other surveying the scene. “Not bad, hey?”

  Fleur had taken on the role of event coordinator and was ushering people into positions, while a sweaty Ian was being manhandled onto a horse dressed as a unicorn by the sturdy horse handler. There were actors dressed as mer-people, elves, a snowman, and a dancing hedgehog in a tutu. Minnie frowned: Where had the dancing hedgehog come from?

  “You do think this reads Disney fantasy, don’t you, Bev, not weird trippy Christmas panto?” said Minnie.

  “I haven’t watched much Disney so I’ve got no idea what this is all about,” Bev said, shaking her head.

  Minnie’s eyes darted around for someone else to ask as Bev wasn’t filling her with confidence. She hopped over to Fleur, holding up her tail with both hands—it wasn’t easy to maneuver with your legs tied together.

  “Fleur, this does look like a Disney fantasy scene, like Enchanted, doesn’t it?” Minnie said. “It’s just, the dancing hedgehog and the Teletubbies—”

  Fleur had a headset on and touched a finger to her ear, holding out her other hand to silence Minnie.

  “Leila is out of the tube so ETA five minutes, people—five minutes!” Then she turned to Minnie with an eye roll. “I know Bev is really letting the side down with her weird dead-bear-head outfit, but I’ll hide her at the back. Don’t worry, Leila loves all this weird crazy shit.”

  Minnie hardly recognized this efficient and organized version of Fleur—she had never been like this when she had been working at No Hard Fillings. It was too late to worry whether the scene was Disney enough. Leila would know what it was supposed to be the second she laid eyes on it—that was what mattered.

  Everyone took their positions around the picnic rug, shielding Ian and the horse from view. The plan was for Leila’s new colleague Iggy to bring her here under the pretense of going to a mutual friend’s birthday picnic. The setup was perfectly positioned behind some trees, so you would only see the full spectacle when you turned the corner.

  Tourists stopped to take photos of them, asking if they were shooting a movie, and a group of small children started hugging one of the Teletubbies. Fleur yelled at them all to get out of the way. A crowd of onlookers had now gathered, and people had their phones out, filming, waiting to see what was going to happen. Minnie felt a surge of adrenaline as she looked around her. Even though they no longer worked together, everyone had come to help her create this fantasy for her best friend. Leila was going to be so impressed that Minnie had remembered every detail all these years later.

  Finally, Leila and Iggy arrived. Minnie saw them coming around the line of trees, and she felt her chest buzz with anticipation. Leila stopped in her tracks when she saw the scene. Iggy, a willowy brunette in her twenties, pulled Leila’s hand and guided her over to the front of the picnic rug.

  “What the actual blazing fuck-nuts is going on here?” Leila asked through nervous laughter. “Am I hallucinating? Is it This Is Your Life?” Leila’s eyes darted around, and she pointed as she started recognizing faces in the crowd.

  “Minnie? Is that you?” she said, squinting at the mermaid.

  “Put this on,” Iggy instructed, picking up the voluminous sparkling blue Cinderella dress folded neatly in a picnic basket.

  This had been another excellent find from Fleur. One of her contacts ran a cosplay site with replica dresses from all the movies. It turned out Fleur wasn’t a compulsive liar after all—she had delivered on everything she had promised. Her millionaire friend who’d invented seaweed packaging was here dressed as a fairy, and the location producer for Tarantino’s new ghost film was somewhere in the crowd too, recording everything for Fleur’s YouTube channel. Minnie felt bad for ever doubting her.

  Leila shook her head in bewilderment, looking around as though expecting some TV presenter to jump out of the bushes. Then the crowd parted and the horse trainer guided Ian and the “unicorn” forward. Ian tried to open his helmet but the eye flaps kept clanking shut. Leila started laughing as soon as she saw him; bent-double belly laughter. Ian huffed and clanked, then decided to dispense with the helmet altogether, taking it off and letting it drop down onto the grass.

  “Leila, I love you with all my heart, you crazy, sexy woman. If you want the fairy tale, even this incredibly weird fairy tale, I promise I will try every day to give it to you. Leila Swain, will you marry me?”

  Then he pointed to the fake sparkly gold unicorn horn, where his grandmother’s ring was glinting in the sunshine and the singing sheep on the front row started bleating out a sinister rendition of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

  Leila was crying and laughing, clutching her sides and gazing up adoringly at Ian, while everyone in the crowd started clapping and cheering.

  “Get down here, you mug,” she called up to him.

  The horse handler and the hedgehog in a tutu helped lift Ian down in his clanking armor. He lumbered over to Leila, crushing a tray of pork pies as he went, causing Bev to let out an involuntary yelp.

  “Well then?” Ian said. “Will you?”

  “Of course I will, you absolute mentalist.” Leila squealed, grabbing him with two hands and kissing him. “But first explain to me what, in the name of the weirdest trip imaginable, is going on here? Why are there mermaids and singing sheep and a hedgehog doing ballet?”

  Minnie stepped forward with a Nutella pancake carefully folded on a pink paper plate.

  “This was your dream proposal, remember?” she said, beaming from ear to ear. Leila looked blank. “Remember!” Minnie said, nudging Leila. “We were seventeen, we were at my house watching romcoms and you said that when the perfect guy proposed to you it would be exactly like this. Well, not exactly like this, but you get the idea—it’s the romantic Disney fantasy you always dreamed of!” Minnie spread her arms in a ta-da gesture, waiting for Leila to click.

  “I have absolutely no memory of that conversation,” said Leila, her mouth locked in a confused smirk, her eyes wide and unblinking. She turned back to Ian. “Tell me you didn’t organize all this based on some random conversation Minnie and I had thirteen years ago?”

  Ian turned to look at Minnie and covered his face with his hands.

  “I thought it was a seminal conversation!” cried Minnie.

  “It definitely wasn’t a seminal conversation,” said Leila, laughing.

  “What’s going on?” said Fleur, striding over to join the discussion.

  “Leila doesn’t remember the engagement fantasy,” said Ian, shaking his head.

  “It was a seminal conversation!” cried Minnie, jumping up and down. How could Leila not remember? She’d been so impassioned about it.


  “You are kidding me?” said Fleur, glaring at Minnie with her hands on her hips.

  Then there were whoops of delight from the crowd as Leila jumped into Ian’s arms and they both collapsed into a heap on the picnic blanket. As they started rolling around kissing, everyone cheered. Minnie smiled—even if Leila didn’t remember, she looked happy. Her friend was engaged to the man she loved, and now even Fleur had a tear in her eye.

  Minnie’s tail started to vibrate. She turned around, patting herself down; she’d tucked her phone into one of the scales. She backed away from the group, using the phone as an excuse to get away from any more interrogation by Fleur.

  “Mum?”

  “Minnie,” her mother was panting, breathless on the other end. “Something’s happened, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Is Dad OK? Where are you?” said Minnie, holding a finger to her ear and walking away from the group so she could hear what her mother was saying.

  “I’m with Tara Hamilton at her house in Primrose Hill.” Why would she be with Tara? “She had this turn, said she was having a heart attack and started hyperventilating—I think she’s having a panic attack. I thought I should call an ambulance just in case, but she screamed at me not to. She’s asking for Quinn, but I can’t find her phone. Do you have his number?”

  Minnie couldn’t understand why her mother would be at Tara’s house. After all these months had she finally decided to meet her and hear Tara’s side of the story?

  “She suffers from severe anxiety—it probably is a panic attack. I’ll come, I’m not far, I’ll call Quinn on the way.”

  Minnie turned to shout, “I’ve got to go!” to the others, then hitched up her tail and started running toward the nearest road. She flagged down a cab on Bayswater Road and told the driver to hurry. In the car she called Quinn. He picked up straightaway.

  “Minnie.” He said it in a way that sounded almost affectionate, which was strange given how they had left things and that they hadn’t spoken in a month.

  “I think your mum’s had a panic attack,” Minnie said briskly. “My mum’s at her house, she called me, said she was hyperventilating. She thought she might be having a heart attack.”

  Quinn was silent on the other end of the line. Minnie listened to the sound of her own labored breathing, the result of running through the park.

  “I’ll head over there now. Thanks for letting me know, Minnie.” Quinn’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “I’m in a cab, I’m going to be there in a minute.”

  June 13, 2020

  Minnie’s cab pulled up to the blue house and she slithered out of the side door. Slithered because she was still wearing a constricting mermaid tail skirt that limited her leg movement to five inches in any direction. She rolled onto her front and flapped her legs backward out of the taxi door, so she could push herself to standing, like a totem pole being winched upward. Dashing through the park, she’d unzipped the side of the tail but the zip only stayed in two positions, all the way up or all the way down, so she’d been flashing bright pink panties to everyone in the park as she ran. In her haste to leave, she hadn’t picked up the bag with her change of clothes, only her handbag and purse. She shuffled to the front window to pay the cab driver.

  The driver was an elderly Liverpudlian with long graying sideburns and a beige flat cap.

  “Thought you’d be wanting Finsbury Park,” he said, flashing her a mouth full of cigarette-stained teeth. Minnie shook her head, confused. “Fish,” he said, nodding to her tail, “like Fins-bury Park.” He gave her a slow wink, cocking his head at her.

  “Oh I see, ha-ha, very funny,” she said.

  Minnie hopped up the front steps and rang the doorbell. Her mother answered the door. She did a double take and then looked Minnie up and down. Her lips started to move, as though trying to find words that refused to form. Finally she said, “What you come as?”

  “Long story. Is Tara OK? What are you even doing here?”

  Her mother beckoned her in with a brisk flap of the hand, her eyes darting from left to right as though she was worried about the neighbors seeing a mermaid on the porch.

  “We were just talking,” said her mother in a whisper, leading Minnie through to the sitting room. “I don’t know what set her off but she had some kind of panic attack, clutching her chest. She was trembling all over, gasping like she couldn’t breathe.”

  In the sitting room, Tara was lying on the sofa, propped up against some cushions. She looked paper white. Her hands were pressed over her eyes and she was gently rocking her head back and forth.

  “I would have called an ambulance, but she begged me not to. She shouted for her pills. I turned her bathroom upside down to find the ones she wanted. I figure they’ve kicked in because she’s been like this for the last ten minutes.”

  Minnie pulled off the wig she was wearing so she wouldn’t scare Tara. She crouched down next to the sofa and placed a hand on her arm.

  “Tara, it’s Minnie. I don’t know if you remember me.” Tara glanced at her sideways from beneath her hands. “What do you need, what can I do?”

  “Quinn,” murmured Tara.

  “Quinn’s on his way; he’ll be here soon.” Minnie gently squeezed her arm. Tara took a rapid panting intake of air, juddering like a breathy machine gun. “OK, just breathe, Tara. Look at me now.” Tara uncovered her eyes, blinking at Minnie. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Just breathe with me.”

  “I’ve done all this,” muttered Minnie’s mother.

  Minnie exhaled slowly and then inhaled loudly through her nose. Gradually Tara started to focus on Minnie, to replicate her breathing pattern.

  “There you go, perfect, just in and out,” said Minnie’s mother, then in a different tone of voice, “Hello.”

  Minnie turned to see Quinn standing in the doorway, watching her. He was stock-still, a strange look in his eyes. Minnie smiled up at him—it was a reflex, like a sunflower opening toward the sun. Then she remembered the zoo, the rejection, the fact he hadn’t called her since that day, and she reined it in, turning it into a more perfunctory greeting—a small nod of the head.

  Quinn watched her face change and the look in his eyes disappeared. He stepped forward and bent down to his mother, Minnie stood up and shuffled backward out of the way. Quinn looked her up and down with a quizzical what-the-hell-are-you-wearing? expression, then moved to take her place where she had been crouching next to Tara. He patted his mother’s hand, a precise, rhythmic patting, as though communicating some code. Minnie turned to see Tara’s head relax back on the pillow, her hand folding around Quinn’s.

  “Did she take something?” Quinn asked, turning between Minnie and her mother.

  “Two of these,” said Minnie’s mother, stepping forward to hand Quinn a brown pill tube. “I wanted to call an ambulance, but she was very insistent.”

  Minnie’s mother knitted her hands together, twirling her thumbs around each other.

  “It’s OK, you did the right thing,” said Quinn. “Thank you for being here, Connie. I know how much Mum’s enjoyed talking to you these last few months. It will have meant so much to her that you came.”

  Minnie looked over at her mother in confusion. Her mother had been talking to Tara for months? Why hadn’t she said anything? Her mother prickled uncomfortably, glancing at Minnie and then rubbing the back of her neck with a hand.

  “I’m going to take Mum upstairs,” said Quinn.

  Minnie nodded. She watched as Quinn gently propped one of Tara’s arms over his shoulder and lifted her from the couch as though she weighed no more than a child. Watching him pick her up sent a spark of memory through Minnie’s mind, that day at the pool—his dripping wet torso. She chastised herself; this wasn’t the time to be mentally undressing the man!

  “Don’t leave. I’ll come back down,” Quinn said to Minnie as he carried his mother toward th
e stairs.

  When he had gone, Minnie shuffled toward her mother and hissed, “So, you have been speaking. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her mother shrugged and walked off toward a side table full of silver photo frames and ornaments. She picked up a white china dog and examined it. “Would you look at that, just like mine.”

  Minnie looked at the dog. It couldn’t have been more different to the tacky old ornament her mother was talking about. Tara’s was probably an expensive bone-china collectors’ item; her mother’s had come from the odds ’n’ ends shop off Kilburn High Road.

  “Well?” Minnie whispered again, hands firmly planted on her scaly mermaid hips.

  “We’ve just been talking. It’s not your business, Minnie, that’s why I didn’t say.”

  “Not my business? I was the one who gave you her number, I was the one who said you should hear her side of the story!”

  Her mother shrugged again. She picked up a framed photo of Tara with a young Quinn on her lap—they were watching a sunrise together somewhere tropical. She looked back at Minnie, who was watching her wide-eyed, waiting for an answer.

  “I’ve got to do some things in my own way, Minnie. We’ve been talking here and there; she’s had a difficult time of it, she has.”

  Minnie couldn’t understand why her mother wouldn’t have told her. Then she paused, tempering her irritation. She was glad they had been in touch. Perhaps some closure on the “name-stealing incident” would smooth at least one of her mother’s jagged edges, redress her cynicism about human nature.

  “Well, what did you say that made her”—Minnie paused, not sure what to label Tara’s episode as—“react like that?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” her mother said. Then, after a pause, “She was telling me how upset she was I didn’t call you Quinn, how bad she feels.” She shook her head. “She got so worked up just thinking about back then. I said it’s only a name, isn’t it—it doesn’t matter. But then she started hyperventilating.”

  Minnie laughed in disbelief—“only a name.” She looked at her mother as if she’d started speaking some strange Martian dialect.