This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  “Why you laughing?” Her mother frowned. “You don’t know what sets these things off. Poor woman’s traumatized—postnatal anxiety, a terrible miscarriage, husband left her high and dry. No wonder she’s a walking bag of nerves.”

  Her mother picked up another frame from the collection of photos on the side table. This one showed a couple in their twenties, standing on the doorstep of the Primrose Hill house, holding a baby in their arms. Quinn’s father was making a show of holding up the key for the photographer. It must have been taken when they’d first moved in.

  “You see a big house like this, Minnie, and you think people got it all. Sometimes it’s like too much icing on a cake—it’s covering over a crumby base that’s cracked down the middle.”

  Minnie put her face into her palms and inhaled deeply. She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mother’s mouth; this kind of empathy didn’t sound like her at all. How many times had they spoken? Minnie doubted Tara would have confided all this in a few phone calls. Clearly this dialogue with her mother had been going on awhile.

  “Don’t you have a panic attack and all,” said her mother with a sniff, pushing out her bottom lip defiantly.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. They both turned to see Quinn come back through to the living room. He looked tired, deflated. He brushed a hand through his hair and leaned a shoulder against the door frame.

  “Thank you for being here today,” he said to Minnie’s mother. “She doesn’t have many people she’ll speak to, she doesn’t let anyone in. I hope today won’t”—he paused, looking for the right word—“put you off being in touch.”

  Minnie’s mother blushed and then jutted out her chin. Minnie had never seen her blush in her life.

  “Takes a lot more than that to put me off.”

  They all stood in silence for a moment until her mother said, “Right, best be off. Can’t stand around all day gassing. I’ll call to see how she is in the morning.” She looked back and forth between Quinn and Minnie, gave Quinn a curt nod, and then marched back toward the front door. “You make your own way home, Minnie, you’ll only slow me down with that ridiculous getup you’re wearing.” She gave Minnie a firm stare, as though trying to convey something with her eyes, though Minnie had no idea what it might be.

  Once she had left, Minnie turned around to see Quinn standing next to her in the hall. He looked exhausted and forlorn.

  “Well, I’d better be off too,” Minnie said, looking around for her purse and phone.

  Quinn let out a deep, audible sigh. He put a hand across his chest and grasped his other shoulder.

  “Can I do anything?” Minnie asked, nodding in the direction of the stairs.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll just stay here until she wakes up. When she takes her medication, she comes around all groggy, forgets things. She’ll need me here.”

  His gaze turned to the floor. Looking at him now, Minnie couldn’t be cross. Whatever awkwardness had passed between them, he was still a decent person dealing with a difficult situation.

  “Do you want some company?” she asked quietly, her heart in her chest. Such an innocuous question, but she didn’t know if she could take the humiliation of being rejected again.

  His head shot up. “Yes.” Then a smile played on his lips. “But can we talk about the mermaid outfit now? And is that wig in the living room part of it because, if so, I think I need to see the whole getup.”

  Minnie gave him a playful shove as she hopped past him, but she pushed him a little too hard, lost her balance, and fell into him. He caught her, clasping both hands around her shoulders. She breathed him in; he smelled like every good Christmas she’d ever had. The owls went into overdrive, pulling crackers and chirping owlish Christmas songs.

  “Maybe you have something I could change into,” she said, righting herself and stumbling backward.

  Quinn found her some of his gym shorts and a T-shirt to wear. She went to change in the downstairs bathroom. She didn’t have another bra with her, so she just put the T-shirt on over the coconut bra. Once she was back in the living room, she realized how ridiculously big and solid this made her boobs look. While Quinn was in the kitchen, rather than go back to the bathroom again, she decided to subtly perform the magic trick that all girls know—the one that involves taking your bra off beneath your T-shirt and pulling it out of an armhole. Unfortunately, this was not a smooth operation when the bra in question was made of two giant coconut shells.

  Quinn came back in with a bottle of wine and averted his gaze when he saw what she was doing.

  “Is my T-shirt attacking you?” he asked. “Do you need some privacy?”

  “All good,” said Minnie, finally pulling the coconuts out through the bottom of the T-shirt. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to pick up her change of clothes?

  Quinn poured them each a glass of wine and she told him about Leila’s engagement. She covered her face as she told him about Leila’s reaction, how she hadn’t remembered the conversation at all. The lines around Quinn’s eyes creased into deep grooves and he let out a low, hearty laugh.

  “So she had no idea what this whole scene was in reference to?”

  “Not an inkling.” Minnie gave a wincing smile.

  “Oh, Minnie.” Quinn leaned back against the arm of the sofa, laughing. “That’s very sweet of you to plan all that for your friend.”

  As he looked over at her with his warm blue eyes, she couldn’t help but feel again that she’d known this man for far longer than the time they’d spent together. They sat in contented silence for a minute and then Quinn leaned over to top up her glass. She shouldn’t have anything else to drink; if she did she’d say something stupid. She’d mention the elephant in the room and she’d ruin things again.

  “So, how are things with you?” she said, looking up at him over the rim of her wineglass. “How’s Amanda, or Amanda Two, whatever her name is? Any madly romantic proposal on the cards there?”

  Oh great, she’d done it—she’d mentioned it. Why had she brought up Amanda? Quinn didn’t want to talk to her about his love life! Quinn shuffled forward on the sofa, then took a long sip of his wine.

  “I guess we should talk about what happened at the zoo,” he said.

  “It was a month ago, Quinn, you don’t need to explain. It’s fine, whatever, I was just making conversation. You know: How’s work? How’s the weather? How’s your girlfriend? We don’t need to talk about it at all, if you’d rather talk about the weather; this sunshine we’re having is lovely, isn’t it?”

  She was babbling.

  “Minnie,” he said, cutting her off, “I felt like such an idiot as soon as you left.” He leaned forward, putting his wine down on a side table and then propped an elbow on each knee. “We had such a great day together and I ruined it, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, they do say penguin poo is a real aphrodisiac.”

  “You don’t need to make a joke about everything, Minnie. I’m trying to do the decent thing here.” Quinn closed his eyes but carried on talking. “I’m no good at relationships, I just end up hurting people. I’ve got my business, my mother—I don’t have the capacity to look after . . . for anything else.”

  “Quinn, it’s fine. It was a moment, I’m over it. Wow, do you have this much angst every time you almost kiss someone?” Quinn made a face of embarrassed amusement. “Anyway, what makes you think I’d need looking after?”

  “Well, I know you’re now holding out for your knight on a shining unicorn.”

  Minnie scrunched up her face. She knew she shouldn’t have told him all that stuff when he’d been drunk at the office.

  “Look, you don’t have to give me the whole tortured-loner routine.” Minnie rolled her eyes at him and his mouth twitched in the hint of a smile.

  “Is that what I’m doing? I wasn’t aware there was such a routine.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, guys do it all the time,” Minnie said, with a limp-wristed flap of her hand. “Poor me, I can’t get close to anyone because I had a tough childhood.”

  She said it in a mocking voice, then flashed him a quick grin. Humor was the only way she knew to defuse an awkward conversation, the only way to salvage some sense of dignity in this dynamic.

  “Wow, OK. Sorry for being so obvious,” he said, brushing his stubble with a palm.

  “It’s fine, I forgive you. I’d just rather you were playing a more original character trope in this romcom. ‘Tortured commitment-phobe’ is so nineties.”

  “Is it now?” He laughed. “And who said we were in a romcom? If I’m going to be in any kind of film, I’d want it to be a thriller or an action movie.”

  “I don’t think management consultants get to be action heroes,” said Minnie. She was relieved to be on safer ground. The elephant in the room had been dealt with. Now they could pack it up in a giant elephant-sized box, bury it in the garden, and never speak of it again. It could all just be banter and friendly conversation again.

  “So what film are you playing a leading lady in?” Quinn asked.

  Minnie bounced slightly on the sofa. That second glass of wine had sent a buzz to her head. “Finding Nemo, when I had the fish tail on, but usually Ratatouille. Maybe my genre is kids’ films.”

  “Ratatouille?”

  “It’s about a rat who’s a chef.”

  “You’re definitely not a rat, I see you in a superhero franchise,” Quinn said, taking another sip of wine. “They’d call you Coco Nuts, and you’d take out all the bad guys by bashing their heads together with these enormous coconuts.”

  Quinn glanced at the coconut bra lying between them on the sofa.

  “I don’t know if I could kill a man with those.” There was a fruit bowl on the coffee table and Minnie reached out for a banana. “I think Coconut Girl would have some other fruit-themed weaponry up her sleeve.” She held the banana against Quinn’s chest like a gun and Quinn raised his hands in surrender.

  “Ah, Coco Nuts, we meet again. I see you have foiled my cunning plan to steal all the fruit in Fruitopolis.” Quinn affected a deep American drawl.

  “You won’t get away with it this time,” said Minnie, in a theatrical voice of her own.

  “Unfortunately for you, my superpowers involve telepathically forcing you to eat your own weapon,” said Quinn, still in character.

  “I don’t think so, Evil Baddie Man,” Minnie said.

  “Is that my name?” Quinn asked in a stage whisper. “It’s not very good.”

  “You didn’t introduce yourself,” Minnie deadpanned, trying to compose herself. “Very bad manners.”

  Quinn reached for the banana, Minnie grabbed his elbow, and then followed what Minnie could only describe as a sort of play-fight, which ended up with Quinn pinning her to the sofa and taking the banana from her hand. Minnie suddenly felt very aware that she was not wearing a bra.

  “I’m not eating it,” she said, still in character. “You can’t make me.”

  “Can’t I?” said Quinn, his voice an even deeper drawl. “I have very persuasive powers.” He peeled the banana and held a piece to her mouth. Minnie pretended some supernatural force was taking over her body.

  “Oh no, not the banana!” she said breathily, putting her mouth around the chunk he was holding out for her.

  She started eating it with her eyes closed, and when she opened them, their eyes met. He was looking at her wide-eyed. Oh god, how had this suddenly got so weird? She’d stayed for a glass for wine, and now they were engaged in some kind of sexy fruit-themed role play. Quinn cleared his throat, and slowly moved to his side of the sofa. Minnie swallowed the piece of banana in her mouth and stood up.

  “Sorry, I got carried away,” Quinn said awkwardly.

  “It’s fine. I should, um . . . I should get home anyway.” She paused, looking down and remembering she was wearing his clothes. “Can I borrow these to get home? My land legs only last until midnight and then I’ll just be thrashing around in some tube stop somewhere, begging someone to throw water on me. I can post them back to you tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” said Quinn, “or I can pick them up sometime.”

  He found Minnie a bag for her mermaid costume and ordered her an Uber. At the front door he paused.

  “I promise not to force-feed you bananas next time we see each other,” he said. The muscle in his jaw flexed and he dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “Lucky for you I like bananas,” said Minnie, daring to make eye contact when he glanced up again.

  Quinn looked as though he wanted to say something else but didn’t know how.

  “You’re great company, Minnie. I know we’ve had a few false starts, but I’d—I’d like us to be friends,” he said, looking at her hopefully. “I need more laughter in my life.”

  “Court jester at your service,” she said, crossing her leg in front of her and giving a bow.

  “I don’t mean it like that,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm. He looked worried he had offended her. “I just can’t handle anything more at the moment.”

  “Of course.” She reached out to give him a reciprocal tap on the arm. “Anytime.”

  He opened the door for her, the Uber was waiting outside. She hovered in the doorway. Why was she hovering? He’d think she was hovering because she was waiting for him to kiss her and he had just established that she was firmly in the friend zone. So why was she still standing here? She jumped down the steps, tripped, and stumbled on the bottom stair.

  “Are you OK?” he called after her.

  “Fine, totally fine. See you later, friend,” she said with a backward wave.

  June 21, 2020

  The next Sunday, Minnie went back to Hampstead ponds. She could have gone to the Ladies’ Pond farther into the park. It was smarter, had better changing facilities, and more sun in the morning. But she found herself at the Mixed Pond, peering at each head that glided through the water, wondering if one might belong to him. Clearly he was not likely to be there. She always looked for Jean Finney too, with her distinctive white ruffled swimming cap. It was just something you did when you went to the ponds, you looked out for people you knew.

  Minnie swam for longer than she planned to, pulling the water back and down as though her life depended on it. She felt strong. These last few months she’d noticed new muscles developing in her shoulders, her stomach felt flat for the first time in years, and her legs and arms felt longer somehow. On the downside her hair was a wild frizz bomb. Did any swimmers have good hair? Maybe if she was really serious about swimming she should chop it all off and go full otter.

  When all her energy was spent, she pulled herself out of the water and dried herself standing on the patch of grass just in front of the changing rooms. Flashes of memory from this exact spot surfaced—stealing Quinn’s towel, their breakfast together, his dimpled smile as they walked side by side through the park. She needed to stop thinking about him.

  “Are you leaving?” came a voice behind her.

  She turned and then blinked, as though she didn’t trust her eyes. Was he really there, or had she conjured him up just by thinking about him? He was standing holding a towel, fully dressed in jeans and a pale blue shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair looked longer, disheveled. His face was unshaven; she’d never seen him with this much stubble before. The stubble made her conclude he couldn’t be a mirage. If her subconscious was going to create a vision of him, it would create him in the way she knew him to look, not some new, unshaven version.

  “Hi,” she said, feeling her mouth launch into an unconscious smile.

  “I hoped I’d run into you,” he said. “Shame we’re not in sync to go for a post-swim bacon roll. You must get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Oh, I’ve only done a few laps,” she
lied. “I could swim longer if you . . .”

  Minnie couldn’t swim another stroke, she was exhausted.

  “Great, shall we meet back here in thirty minutes?” he said, pulling off his shirt in one smooth movement.

  Minnie’s body protested as she sank back into the water behind him. She watched Quinn set off at a pace across the pond. Had he genuinely hoped to see her here? She hadn’t been in touch with him since last weekend. She’d wanted to send a text asking how his mother was, but then she didn’t want to be the instigator, didn’t want to look too keen.

  As she swam halfheartedly across the pond in his wake, she wondered what it was about Quinn that she liked. She had now admitted to herself that she did like him, even if it was not reciprocated. Maybe the very fact that he didn’t want to be with her was part of the appeal. She’d always gone for men who kept her at arm’s length. Greg had been far more interested in his job than in her. Her previous boyfriend Tarek had been selfish at best, verbally abusive at worst. Leila used to say that you got the relationship you thought you were worth. If you thought you were only worth part of someone’s attention, perhaps that was all you looked for.

  And yet.

  She had ended things with Greg because she wanted more; because she knew she was worth more. So why was she now swimming around like an idiot just to go for a coffee with a guy who wasn’t interested in her? Did she actually want to be friends with him? Was that the consolation prize?

  Minnie’s skin was wrinkled and white by the time Quinn finished swimming. They dried off next to each other on the bank; retreated to the changing rooms to get dressed, and then met up again outside the iron-gated entrance to the pond. They walked across the heath, down the hill toward Hampstead Heath train station. Quinn said he wanted to go back to the same breakfast van Minnie had taken him to before.

  “So how’s your mum doing after last week?” Minnie asked, swinging her wet towel as she walked.

  “Talking to your mother a great deal,” said Quinn.