This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  Once they were inside, she held her fingers to her ears and moved her head like a metronome.

  “See, relaxing, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know—it’s quite charming. It’s like the house where time lives.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. She’d taken to making this face whenever he said something poetic.

  “Maybe that could be the title of my autobiography,” she said.

  She led him up to her small attic bedroom and he had to hunch to get through the rabbit-hutch-style door.

  “Oh, I love Hopper, I have a print of Nighthawks in my flat,” said Quinn, instantly honing in on Automat.

  “No way,” she said, “I love his paintings.” Clearly Quinn didn’t remember she’d been privy to the Amanda conversation outside his office. “This school friend of mine, Lacey, she moved away from London when I was fourteen. We stayed in touch writing postcards to each other for a while. She must have had a multipack of Hopper prints, because they were all his. His pictures have that association for me—kind words from a sorely missed friend.”

  “She looks so lonely, doesn’t she,” said Quinn, looking down at the picture. “You want to know why she’s sad.”

  “You think she looks sad? I never thought that, I always thought she looked content in her solitude. I envy her—I’d never be brave enough to have coffee alone with my thoughts.”

  Quinn looked sideways at her, still holding the print.

  “That’s a very optimistic outlook.”

  “Leila gave it to me.” Minnie shrugged. “Maybe that’s her world view rubbing off on me.”

  As he put the picture down, Lucky sprang through the door and started weaving in and out between Quinn’s legs.

  “Who’s this?” he said, bending down to stroke the cat’s head.

  “This is Lucky. Lucky hates moving so we have to trick him and pretend it’s some kind of cat game show and he’s won a holiday. You can play the part of the glamorous assistant.”

  Minnie had far more boxes than she remembered. It would have taken her at least two trips in an Uber. Willesden was only fifteen minutes’ drive south of her parents’ house. It wasn’t quite as edgy and cool as her previous address in east London, but it had character and her flat wasn’t far from the tube station. She could afford a place to herself here, even if it was on a run-down estate next to a noisy main road. She and Quinn finally got her boxes and an unhappy cat unloaded into the hall of the new ground-floor flat.

  “It’s nice,” said Quinn, craning his neck to look into the various rooms of her tiny one-bedroom apartment. To the left of the front door was a small wet room, estate-agent speak for a shower with a toilet in it. “Who doesn’t like to wash while they’re on the loo?”

  “I’m sure it’s not as palatial as you’re used to in Primrose Hill, but it’s all mine and it’s blissfully quiet,” said Minnie. As though on cue, several lorries went roaring past on the road outside, which made them both smile.

  To the right of the front door was a kitchen the size of an ant’s nostril, with cupboards stacked three layers high all the way up to the ceiling. There was a small stepladder, presumably used to reach the highest level.

  “You don’t want to keep the booze up there,” he said, pointing to the top cupboard. “Three gin and tonics and this kitchen’s a death trap.” He banged a hand twice on the stepladder.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said.

  “OK, I’ll admit that did sound very dad-like. But can I just say, Minnie, I never had a father figure, so dad jokes are very triggering for me.”

  Minnie’s face fell, her eyes darted up to look at him.

  “I had you for a second,” he said. “You had a very concerned look in your eye.”

  “No, I did not,” she said, flicking him on the neck with a finger. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Ow,” he said, laughing as he rubbed his neck. Then he reached out and squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

  He walked back through to the hall and picked up another box marked “kitchen.” There was a bottle of champagne poking out of the top of it. “Good to see you’ve packed the important stuff,” he said, nodding toward the bottle.

  “Leila gave it to me as a moving-in gift,” said Minnie. “I’ll put it in the fridge.” She paused, looking up at him. “Unless you’d have a glass with me now? There’s probably ice in the freezer. I can’t face unpacking any more boxes today.”

  He had that look again, that look by the breakfast van, as if she was tempting him to do something he shouldn’t.

  “I have to drive back,” he said.

  “Of course, silly idea, it’s warm anyway.”

  “I could have one glass.”

  They abandoned the rest of the boxes in the hall and moved through to her sitting room. It was supposed to be a furnished flat, but the living room contained only a small two-seater sofa and a low rectangular coffee table. Though the room was tiny, there was a large window looking out over an empty block opposite, so the light streamed in, making it feel warm and inviting compared to the dark, claustrophobic kitchen. They sat next to each other on the small green and white baize sofa. There was no ice, and no glasses, so they drank the champagne warm out of mugs.

  “So I noticed one of the boxes I carried in was labeled ‘pie-making kit,’” Quinn said, looking down into his mug of champagne. “Do you think you’ll go back to it one day?”

  Minnie took a gulp of champagne.

  “I can’t really, can I? We sold everything.”

  “You gave up your lease—you didn’t get rid of whatever is in that box.”

  “Well, I didn’t say I was never going to bake a pie ever again, did I?”

  “That would be a travesty.”

  The sofa was so small their legs were touching. Minnie felt very aware of every point at which his body was in contact with hers.

  “Warm champagne isn’t great, is it?” Quinn said with a comical grimace.

  “Sorry,” she said, taking a large swig. “Drink faster, it doesn’t taste so bad.”

  He followed suit and then topped them both up. What were they doing? He had to drive home. But she didn’t want to ask questions; she just wanted him to stay.

  “I’ll leave my car here, fetch it tomorrow,” he said, as though reading her mind. “Can’t leave you to celebrate alone, can I?” He picked up his mug and clinked it with hers.

  Minnie realized she wanted to be drunk, she wanted to relax, to turn off the anxious inner narrative that kept asking what she was doing, what she was hoping would happen. The champagne would dull that questioning voice, allow her to relax and enjoy herself. She got so tired of the barrage of questions constantly knocking away at the inside of her head; alcohol was sometimes an excellent mute button.

  “So, no more baking, just catering,” Quinn said, getting comfortable on the sofa, sinking down into it.

  Minnie didn’t want to talk about work, she just wanted to snuggle down into the nook beneath Quinn’s shoulder and feel the warmth of his body against her face. She blinked. She felt drunk already. Had she said that out loud, about putting her face into his nook?

  “I think you loved running your own business, though. You loved helping those people.” He looked at her, sensed in her face that the direction of this conversation might puncture the pleasant atmosphere. He changed gears. “But then you wouldn’t have time to enter the wild swimming Olympics and that would be a tragedy for Great Britain.”

  She smiled and briefly patted his knee, acknowledging she appreciated him changing the subject. They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Minnie glanced over at him. She knew now she was deluding herself if she thought she could be happy just being his friend. She had lifted the bell jar by bringing him here—she might as well just smash the glass now—say what had not been said.

  “So, what is this,
do you think?” she asked, moving a hand between them to indicate him and her. She was doing it; she was digging up the elephant in the room from the giant elephant-shaped box they’d buried in the garden months ago.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. His eyes darted around the room like a prisoner looking for an escape route. She should drop it, talk about something else.

  “I mean you and me. What is this? Are we really just swimming buddies?”

  He gave her a smile that looked self-consciously sheepish.

  “I will take all the credit for your illustrious swimming career.”

  “Seriously though, Quinn.” She wouldn’t let it go. “You genuinely don’t have any feelings for me other than swimming-buddy feelings?”

  He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and closed his eyes. She’d done it now. There was no papering over that.

  “Because I know you said you didn’t want that, but when”—she exhaled loudly—“when we’re together it just feels— I’ve never had anything like this connection with someone. I can’t—” She closed her eyes, she couldn’t look at him as she said it. “I look forward to seeing you all week. When we’re together it just feels . . . like it’s meant to be. Am I imagining this?”

  She opened her eyes and looked over at him. He looked into her eyes and she saw clearly that she hadn’t imagined it. He leaned in toward her, the blue of his eyes suddenly wild, like a raging sea as he reached a hand behind her head and then he pulled her toward him, his lips meeting hers—a forceful, urgent kiss that took Minnie by surprise. She knew it! She knew he felt the same! Her mind fizzed with victory. The kiss softened, his lips gently parting hers, and she felt dizzy with desire as she pulled herself closer to him, wanting to erase any molecule of space between them. He gently pushed her back onto the sofa, his body controlling hers. Being held in his arms she was suddenly very aware of the strength of him, his broad shoulders, his arms, the sheer size of his frame. A bolt of heat coursed down through her belly and between her legs; she was falling, intoxicated, with no sense of solid ground beneath her. She lifted her face to kiss him again, but the sofa was too small, restricting them from pressing their bodies against each other.

  “Shall we move?” she asked, her voice breathy against his cheek.

  In one deft movement, he was on his feet, picking her up and setting her gently on hers. He danced her in a circle over to the wall by the door, but she turned and pressed him against it, pulling his jumper and T-shirt up over his torso, her hands searching out the firm skin of his chest. Then he clasped his hands around her waist, gently easing her top off, and she felt every pore burn with pleasure where his hand made contact with her skin. She unclipped her bra and he looked at her body as though it was some rare marvel he had just discovered. He traced one hand gently down from her neck over her breastbone, around her waist, and into the small of her back. Minnie thought she might explode with pleasure and her lips reached up again to find his mouth—

  A trill noise suddenly rang out—the doorbell.

  They froze. Her face whipped toward the door.

  “Is that mine?” she said breathlessly.

  “I think so,” Quinn said, his voice hoarse, pained by the interruption.

  “I don’t know anyone here, it’s probably a wrong number. Ignore it.”

  Quinn put his hands up to her face, cradling her chin between his palms—he drew her face gently toward his, their eyes locked, and she felt this earth-shifting moment of—

  “BBBBBBBRRRRRIIINNNNG,” the doorbell again, then, “Hello? Minnie? You in there?” Her mother’s voice.

  The earth-shifting moment between them turned to panic, and they both leaped apart, searching around for their clothes.

  “What is she doing here?” Minnie hissed. There was a rap on the door. “Maybe the bell’s broken,” she heard her mother say.

  “I’m coming!” Minnie yelled. “Just on the loo.”

  She gave Quinn an oh-my-god-sorry look as she quickly pulled her top back over her head. She also tried to convey an “I’ll get rid of them and we can pick this up from right where we left off” with her eyes, but that was a harder emotion to condense into an eye roll.

  “Hi,” Minnie said, opening the door to find both her parents standing on the doorstep.

  “You are here,” said her dad. “We saw you’d taken all your boxes while we were out and we thought you might need a hand settling in.”

  Her mother bustled past her carrying bags of shopping.

  “I bought you some essentials. Can’t have you moving into a bare kitch— Oh.” She held a hand to her chest in surprise when she saw Quinn emerging from the living room, his hair disheveled.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cooper,” Quinn, said, clearing his throat and raising a hand in greeting.

  “Quinn helped me move,” Minnie explained.

  “I see,” said her mother, turning to Minnie and staring at her with wide, bulging eyes.

  “We won’t get in the way,” said Minnie’s dad. “We just didn’t want you to be on your own in a strange flat with no food in.”

  “Your father thought we should check out the neighborhood. Not quite as nice as your last one, is it?” said her mum.

  “This lock on the front door is no good; they always play up, these ones do. You got to have a double lock on a ground floor. Get your landlord to fix you a new one,” said her dad, locking and unlocking the front door to demonstrate.

  “Aren’t these impractical,” said her mum, eyeing up the tower of kitchen cupboards. “Now, we won’t stay, but I am gasping for a cuppa, have you got teabags unpacked yet?”

  Minnie’s parents took themselves off to inspect the rest of the flat, while Minnie started scrabbling around in boxes looking for teabags.

  “Is this the whole of it?” called her mum from the living room, then, “Sweet Jesus!” as she walked into the bedroom. “Did someone die in here?”

  “You sure this is better than my clock room, Minnie Moo?” called her dad.

  Minnie carried a tray full of teas through to the sitting room. Her parents had made themselves comfortable on the sofa, while Quinn sat on the floor. As Minnie put the tray down on the coffee table, she noticed her black bra on the floor behind the door and tried to subtly scoot it beneath the sofa with her foot.

  Minnie’s mother frowned at the tea that had been placed in front of her.

  “Use one bag between the four, did you? I suppose you’ll be making economies now you have to buy your own.”

  Minnie’s father shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

  “Not much room for two on here, is there?” he said.

  Minnie looked over at Quinn, who shifted his gaze to the window.

  “Quinn, hasn’t your mother got that garden looking good lately? She’s a font of knowledge, that woman. Very green fingers, you must be pleased she’s out and about again?” Minnie’s mother said proudly.

  Minnie couldn’t read Quinn’s expression; he looked distant all of a sudden. His smile a polite veneer, painted over something unreadable.

  “Yes, you’ve been a very positive influence, Connie. It’s wonderful to see her out in the garden again. It genuinely calms her,” he said, getting up from the floor. “Listen, I’m afraid I have to head off. It was nice to see you both.”

  “Don’t go,” Minnie said, turning to face him and shaking her head. “You haven’t had your tea?” She tried to convey with her eyes how much she definitely did not want him to leave. His eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

  “I don’t think the tea’s worth staying for, love,” said her dad with a grimace.

  “I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere this afternoon. I’m glad I could help with the boxes,” Quinn said, already in the corridor.

  “But your car?”

  “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he said, already halfway out the door.

  “Oh, I h
ope we didn’t chase him away?” said her mother, as Minnie came back through to the living room.

  Minnie felt her heart sink down through her chest and into her feet. Of all the ways that kiss could have played out, this was not high on the list of optimal outcomes.

  “Minnie Moo, I brought you a moving-in present,” said her dad, picking up a carrier bag from the floor next to him. He pulled out a square box wrapped in Bubble Wrap and presented it to Minnie. She peeled back the plastic; it was one of his clocks, the one with the silver hands and the most annoying tock of all.

  “On loan, just so you feel at home,” said her dad with a wink.

  New Year’s Eve 2003

  The bath water was getting cold. Her skin above water level had sprouted goose bumps and the tips of her fingers had wrinkled into white, alien-like pads. She put her hands over her chest—still practically flat as a pancake. She was going to be fourteen tomorrow, surely they’d have to grow soon. She wanted to run the hot tap and stay in longer, but her mum was in the bedroom—if she heard the tap she’d shout at Minnie to get out.

  The school holidays felt like life in slow motion. Time could be stretched out; a bath could take an hour, preparing a meal could take two, a walk around the park could take the whole afternoon. Life in term time was faster, harsher; you couldn’t pause for a second. In five days she’d be back in the fast lane, back in Hannah Albright’s sights. Five days.

  Last term, the girls in her class had invented a game where they sang songs whenever Minnie came into a room. They all high-fived each other when someone thought of a new one. “Driving in My Car,” “This Car of Mine,” “Life Is a Highway”; it was amazing how many songs there were about cars and driving.

  Minnie had learned to cope with the name-calling and the singing. Let them sing, let them laugh, don’t react—it stopped quicker that way. Hannah Albright was always the one who took it furthest, goading her for a reaction. In the last week of term things had notched up a gear. “Notched up a gear.” Minnie sunk her head beneath the surface of the bathwater—now she was even thinking like a car.