This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  Yesterday, Minnie’s mother had told her she was popping down to Primrose Hill with a homemade quiche. A quiche? Minnie couldn’t remember the last time her mother had baked a quiche from scratch.

  “I know, it’s strange,” Minnie said, ruffling her wet hair so that it looked less flat against her head. “She’s never really had female friends, my mum. None that I’ve known of in any case. She’s always too busy working to socialize.”

  “Nor mine,” said Quinn. “What do they talk about?”

  “What it’s like to give birth on the first of January in 1990?” said Minnie with a laugh. “That’s literally all I can think of that they have in common.”

  “Maybe they’re both lost souls,” said Quinn thoughtfully. “They see themselves reflected in the other.”

  “That sounded very poetic, Quinn Hamilton. No one would imagine you were a boring management consultant.” Minnie sucked in her cheeks to stop herself from laughing.

  He reached out his rolled-up wet towel and playfully patted her on the bottom with it. “Watch your tongue, Cooper.”

  “You call that a towel slap?” Minnie laughed. “Pathetic.”

  “Well, unlike you, I don’t go around beating people with towels until they bleed; I’ve still got a mark where you branded me, you know.” His voice took on a husky quality.

  “You do not,” Minnie said, elbowing him in the ribs.

  “And now with the elbowing.” Quinn clutched his side as though deeply wounded. “I’m going to be black and blue being friends with you.”

  They got breakfast rolls from the van. Quinn suggested they walk back to the top of Parliament Hill to eat them in the sunshine. They sat in the grass looking out at the London skyline, a vast carpet of buildings rolling out in front of them, dotted with cranes and skyscrapers.

  “Feels incongruous having this giant heath here, doesn’t it?” said Quinn.

  “I love it. It’s like the last spot of wilderness in London, where nature has yet to be pressed flat beneath the concrete.”

  “Now who’s sounding poetic?” Quinn said, looking sideways at her.

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “The heath has inspired many poets: Keats, Wordsworth, Coleridge, now Cooper,” Quinn said in a lofty, English-teacher voice.

  “I’m certainly not a poet,” Minnie said with a sniff, biting into her bacon bap. She knew he was only joking but, when Quinn said things like that, it made her acutely aware that he had gone to university and she had not.

  “‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense,’” he said.

  Minnie turned to look at him with startled eyes. She stopped chewing mid-mouthful.

  “Keats. ‘Ode to a Nightingale.’ Written here, I think. I can’t remember any more of it.” He blushed, perhaps realizing she hadn’t registered he was quoting from a poem. “He died at twenty-five, what a waste.”

  “Is this how you usually try to impress girls, quoting poetry and Wikipedia at them?” Minnie asked, turning her focus back to her coffee.

  “No.” Quinn leaned back in the grass, resting his weight on his elbows. “Why, are you impressed?”

  “I’m not supposed to be impressed, this is just a friendly post-swim blap chap—bap chat.” Minnie stumbled over the words. “That’s hard to say—Post. Swim. Bap. Chat.”

  Quinn turned on his side, resting his head on one hand as he looked up at her. “You think that’s my modus operandi, do you? Dropping in poetry where I can?”

  “You just dropped in Latin. What do you want from me, Quinn, a B plus?”

  Quinn lay back in the grass and laughed, a deep chesty laugh.

  They talked for over an hour—about everything and nothing. Minnie felt that warm hum of contentment as she sparked into life. She felt relaxed and fun, interesting and interested—it was the version of herself she most enjoyed being. They strolled the long way back around the heath down to the tube.

  “Thanks for the post-swim bap chat,” he said, hands in his pockets as they stood outside the station.

  “No problem.” She nodded, combing a hand through her tangle of curls.

  “I guess I might see you next time,” he said. The train roared into the station. “I’m going to get this one south.”

  “I’m going north,” she said, indicating the other platform with her thumb. The train doors opened and Quinn got on. He turned around to look at her as the doors slid shut and he held his hand up, in a motionless wave. Their eyes connected and he gave her a little smile. She stayed on the platform watching his train pull away, their eyes locked onto each other until the tunnel pulled him out of view.

  August 8, 2020

  “So you just talk?” Leila asked her.

  “Yes, we just swim, walk, talk, and eat bacon sandwiches,” said Minnie.

  “And nothing in between? No texts, no emails, not even an emoji?” Leila looked confused.

  “No, no emojis. What emoji would I send? Swimming man, bacon, and a wavy hand?”

  “Oh, there’s this cute little baker emoji, I always think of you when I see it.”

  Minnie and Leila were sitting in the audience of a fashion show Leila had helped produce. Minnie was there as her “plus one.” They sat in prime position in the front row, watching outlandish outfits parade past. There were models dressed in giraffe-print hot pants, wearing huge elongated hats with giraffe’s heads on the top. The fashion show was taking place in a converted church near Aldgate. The pews had been turned inward toward the raised catwalk and the church ceiling was alive with light projections pulsing in time to the DJ’s music. The whole event had a very cool east London vibe.

  “Are these all animal-themed outfits?” Minnie asked. “I’m not sure I could pull off a giraffe-head hat.”

  “It’s sustainable, animal-friendly fashion—one designer’s been a bit literal,” Leila explained.

  Leila was dressed in her usual demure style—a 1950s-style cocktail dress in silky silver fabric, with a superhero-style cape made of what looked like pink cotton candy. On her head she wore a small top hat with a placard attached to it, which read, it’s a hat, deal with it. Minnie felt conspicuous wearing black jeans and a simple blue cotton blouse.

  “Anyway, tell me more about these swim dates. Are they as fueled with sexual energy as the banana role-play situation?” Leila said, turning back to her friend.

  “They aren’t dates, that’s the whole point; we’re just friends,” Minnie explained. “And no, nothing as weird as the banana scenario.”

  After that first Sunday on Hampstead Heath, a new routine had evolved between Minnie and Quinn. Every Sunday they would meet at the ponds at seven thirty. They didn’t arrange it, they just both started going when they knew the other would be there. They swam for half an hour, sometimes longer, they got breakfast and coffee at the van, they walked, talked, and then circled back to the train and said good-bye.

  Minnie didn’t want to question what they were doing. She never wanted to leave when they reached the station, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to go on somewhere with her. Outdoor swimming was a hobby they both shared; having a coffee afterward was casual, friendly. Anything more and it might verge into “date” territory. If he suggested it, fine, but he never did.

  She looked forward to Sunday mornings every minute of the week. She dreaded Sunday afternoons, when it would be a whole week until she could see him again. She turned down invitations from other people to do anything on a Sunday morning: Swimming was an immovable fixture in her calendar, just as it had been when she was a child.

  When it rained she worried he wouldn’t come. Who went swimming in the rain? She went anyway and he was there; they were the only ones. She didn’t ask him about his love life again, and he didn’t ask about hers. Minnie purposely avoided the subject. Perhaps he was still seeing whoever she was, perhaps he was still dating pneumo
nic blondes from Tinder—she didn’t need to know. Talk of other people would taint the nature of their meet-ups. These Sunday mornings were bell jars full of precious conversation. Minnie didn’t want too much of the outside world getting in; she thought that he understood and felt the same.

  “And you talk about what?” Leila asked.

  “Life, work, parents, books—everything. We joke around a lot, he’s quite philosophical; he’s so smart, such easy company. I feel like we could keep talking for hours and then the morning is suddenly over and it feels like no time at all.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Leila, fanning herself with her program.

  “Uh-oh what?”

  “Sounds like you in lurrve.”

  “No.”

  Minnie shook her head, scrunching up her face as though squinting to see. On the catwalk a group of models wearing pink and beige army fatigues came hopping onto the stage.

  “What are they doing?” asked Minnie.

  “They’re supposed to be flamingos, in military camo gear,” said Leila, as if she was explaining the most obvious thing in the world. “’Cause we’re all fighting for survival, right, it’s just a different kind of war.”

  Minnie nodded. She didn’t understand fashion but everyone else in the front row was looking immensely impressed.

  “I’m not in love with him; we just get on really well,” she said.

  Leila turned to look at her friend—a piercing, interrogatory look.

  “OK, I know that face.” Leila frowned. “I’m being serious now. If you love your love twin and if he’s not interested in you in that way, then it’s only going to mean heartache for you, Min.”

  Minnie made a “tsk” sound and crossed her legs, bobbing her top foot rapidly up and down.

  “The other weird thing is that our mothers are spending all this time together. It’s like my mum’s taken on Tara as this project. She wants to fix her like my dad fixes his clocks. She’s always over there helping with the gardening or the shopping or something. It’s kind of sweet, I guess; I don’t think my mum’s ever had many friends.”

  “Right, answer these questions truthfully,” said Leila, looking down at her program as though she was finding the questions on the page. “Do you think about him when you go to bed at night?”

  All the time—he was the first person she thought of when she woke up.

  “No, not every night. Occasionally,” said Minnie.

  Leila frowned. “Has anyone else asked you out in the last few months and you’ve said no because they’re not Quinn?”

  “No . . . well.” Had she told Leila about that guy Tino from the catering firm? Shit, it was a trick question. “There was that one guy, but I said no because he had weird sideburns, not because of Quinn.”

  “Um, weird sideburns have not put you off before. OK, question three, would you be fine with it if he brought his girlfriend along to your little swim club?”

  “How do you know he has a girlfriend?” Minnie bolted forward in her chair, leaning into her friend. “Have you seen him with someone?” Her voice sounded strangled and urgent.

  Leila turned to her and moved her hands apart like a performer preparing to take a bow.

  “I rest my case.” Then she quickly pointed a hand back at the catwalk. “Oh look, this is one of the most exciting designers—what do you think?”

  On the catwalk were seven models, each dressed in a different color of the rainbow; they wore strange ball gowns that looked both rigid and graceful at the same time. “It’s all made out of plastic reclaimed from the sea,” Leila explained.

  “Wow, incredible, Bev would approve,” said Minnie. The dresses were genuinely spectacular, but she pulled her attention back to the conversation at hand. “Seriously, though, have you seen him with someone? I don’t care if you have.”

  Leila turned to look closely at her friend.

  “Listen to what you’re saying. Look, you said yourself he’s a self-confessed commitment-phobe. For whatever reason he likes disposable relationships that don’t require him to give too much. Maybe he’s never been friends with a cool, interesting woman before, he doesn’t want to ruin things. Fuck me, this cape is hot.” Leila pulled off the cotton candy cape and stowed it under her chair. “Does my look work without it?”

  Leila might as well have been asking a camel what he thought of the political situation in Mozambique.

  “Totally works,” Minnie said. “So you think Quinn might be biding his time?”

  “No, I think he’s having the best of both worlds. He gets to have these lovely soul-searching chats with you—no commitment or expectation; then he gets to shag Little Miss Tinder when he likes—no commitment or expectation. Win-win situation for him, lose-lose for you.” Leila paused, reaching out to squeeze Minnie’s knee. “You’re a hot, fun, incredibly awesome woman. Don’t sell yourself short, Minnie, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Leila stood up and started clapping as the designers came out for a turn of acknowledgment on the catwalk with their models. Minnie slumped down in her chair and clapped despondently. Maybe Leila was right. She’d never thought about it that way. Was she his platonic weekend girlfriend? A companion with no expectations, no dates or obligation. He could simply not turn up one week and she would have no recourse to be cross with him for standing her up. What would happen if she didn’t go tomorrow? They’d been meeting for about seven weeks now. If she didn’t go, would he call her? Would he be disappointed? Would it make him seek her out and commit to more than a post-swim bap chat?

  The next morning she woke up at six, hungover from the fashion show and restless with indecision. She’d resolved the night before that she wasn’t going to go to the ponds. She had too much to do here anyway. She’d finally saved up enough deposit and found a flat to rent in Willesden—she’d picked up the keys yesterday. She needed to move her things out and get the flat set up before work tomorrow.

  Six fifteen. But she desperately wanted to go to the ponds. She couldn’t deny herself the short-term enjoyment of seeing him. Six thirty. She had to leave now if she was going to be there on time. She got dressed. She’d head that way and then decide what to do. She could always go for coffee alone in Highgate. She didn’t need to go as far as the ponds if she decided against it.

  Seven thirty. Who was she kidding? Clearly she was going to go and meet him. She walked up the path to the ponds with a sinking feeling. Testing herself like that made her realize how dependent she’d become on this weekly dose of happiness. She looked around for him; he was usually here by seven thirty. What if he didn’t come this week? What if he hadn’t come, and she hadn’t come, and he wouldn’t even have known she hadn’t come, so her stupid test would have been pointless.

  “Hey.” She felt a hand on her elbow, a bolt of electricity.

  She turned to see him looking down at her with a dimpled smile. Her blood pumped faster through her veins—an addict getting her fix.

  “I thought maybe you weren’t coming,” she said, locking eyes with him.

  “Why wouldn’t I come?” he said, staring right back.

  They swam as usual, dried off, and got dressed. Sometimes, when they dried off on the bank, she thought she saw him glancing at her legs beneath the towel. If she saw him looking over at her, he’d immediately turn his gaze and then she wondered if she had imagined it.

  As they walked toward Barney’s breakfast van together, Minnie towel-dried her hair.

  “So, how’s your week been?” he asked.

  “Good. I got the keys to my new place in Willesden. I’m moving in this afternoon.”

  “No more ticking clocks, or I could come and hang some in your new place, make it feel more like home?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin.

  “No thank you. I am looking forward to some blissful tick-free sleep.” She paused. “You could help me move a few
boxes in, though—if you don’t have plans?”

  What was she doing? She was breaking the unwritten rule; she was smashing the bell jar, breaking the bubble. Their friendship only worked on Hampstead Heath, a flat move was uncharted territory. He turned his head sideways to look at her, a questioning expression in his eyes. She could tell he was thinking it too. It sounded like such an innocuous request, one friend asking another to help them move. They both knew it wasn’t.

  “Are you sure you’d want me to help?” he asked, his voice quiet and serious. “I’d probably be more of a hindrance.”

  He was trying to get out of it. She was stupid to ask. Why would he want to help her move house?

  “Forget I asked,” she said, giving him an overly cheerful smile, crushing her cheeks into tight baby fists. “Clearly not how anyone wants to spend their Sunday afternoon.” She skipped forward to get ahead of him; she didn’t want him to see her look disappointed. “Right, whose turn is it to buy the baps? I think it might be yours, my friend.”

  They got down to Barney’s and there were a couple of people queuing ahead of them. Quinn hadn’t said anything in a few minutes, and Minnie found herself pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I will help if you want me to,” he said softly. She turned to look at him as they queued for the van. She saw something behind his eyes: sadness, resignation? She couldn’t read him at all. “I have my car here today, I could drive you.”

  Minnie was about to protest, to say it had been a silly idea and she could easily do it herself in an Uber, but then she stopped herself. The conversation with Leila had made her realize the extent of her feelings for Quinn. She couldn’t go on like this, just living for Sunday. She wanted to open the bell jar, take this beyond the heath, whatever that meant.

  “That would be mega-helpful, thank you,” she said.

  “What are friends for?”

  August 9, 2020

  It felt strange taking Quinn to her parents’ house. She had never brought a man there.