This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  Part of the problem was that her best friend, Lacey, wasn’t in her class anymore. She didn’t have anyone to stand up for her. Hannah, Pauline, and a few of the other girls had taken to physically pushing her, yanking her hair. At one point someone had stabbed her with a pencil. This new violence scared Minnie. She didn’t know how to deal with it; it wasn’t something she could just ignore or silently endure.

  She opened her eyes underneath the water, looking up at the stained beige ceiling tiles through the shimmering lens of water. She broke the surface, filling her lungs with air, then pulled her legs toward her, hugging them against her chest. On her thigh she could still see the small purple welt from the pencil wound. It felt as though the girls at school just wanted to keep needling her, poking her until she snapped.

  Was it just her stupid name that made her a target? She was studying Romeo and Juliet in school and one quote had stuck in her head all term: “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Would life with any other name still be as shit? There were other kids at school with strange names who didn’t attract the kind of grief she did: Isla Whyte in Year Nine was too beautiful to tease and Ziggy Zee Zane in Year Ten had a dad who used to be in a band—that bought him a free pass. There must be something else about Minnie that made her so pick-on-able. Was it her brown frizzy hair, her plump hamster cheeks? She’d secretly thrown away the Quality Street chocolates Grandma C had given her for Christmas. Maybe her cheeks would shrink if she stopped eating chocolate.

  Tonight she’d done something drastic; she’d bleached her hair blond and spent six months’ pocket money on hair straighteners. Maybe a new look was all she needed? She was scared to show her mother what she had done, that’s why she’d been in the bathroom for over an hour. Tonight was going to be her first night out as a blonde—maybe her luck would change.

  A knot had been growing in her stomach all afternoon, knitting itself into a painful ball. Minnie got these stomachaches whenever she was anxious. In term time she had them constantly. What if she changed how she looked and things didn’t improve? What if it wasn’t the hair, the cheeks, or even her name? What if it was something she wasn’t able to change?

  What she wouldn’t give to swap lives with someone like Grace Withies. Grace, who was so pretty, so good at hockey, and who smiled like a celebrity. People buzzed around her like bees around a flower. No one wanted to buzz around Minnie. Life must be so easy for someone like Grace; going to bed every night, safe in the knowledge that no one was setting out to make your life a misery the next day.

  “Minnie, have you drowned in there?” her mum shouted through the door.

  “No, just getting out,” Minnie said, pulling herself out of the water and shivering as she grabbed a towel.

  “I’ve got to go out,” her mum said. “You off to this party with your friends then?”

  “Yeah, the youth club—Bambers up the high street. Lacey’s mum is dropping us off.”

  Her mum was leaving, perfect; she could avoid the freak-out about her hair until tomorrow.

  “Will Elaine drop you back after?” Her mum’s voice sounded tired.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Minnie stood in front of the mirror, distracted by her new hair. It was so blond—she looked like a completely different person.

  “Minnie, you hear me?” said her mum. “No drinking either; if I smell it on your breath tomorrow you won’t be allowed out again, we clear?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  A few minutes later she heard the door slam. Minnie walked over to the flat window with her towel wrapped around her. She looked down to see the hunched figure of her mother walking toward the tube station, pulling her coat up around her ears against the cold.

  They’d had a good day today, she and Mum. Will and Dad had been out at a car-boot sale all day and Mum had been batch cooking for the Salvation Army bake sale tomorrow. She’d made a dozen chicken and veg pies and she’d let Minnie help. Baking was one of the few activities Minnie and her mother did together. Mum patiently taught her how to knead the pastry, then roll it out with just the right amount of flour. Today, Minnie had been in charge of the casings while Mum stewed the filling. “Well done; good, even thickness,” her mother had said over Minnie’s shoulder. Her mother rarely gave compliments. Minnie had glowed with pride.

  Her mum was softer somehow when she cooked, too busy in her own head to criticize. Sometimes, she even sang as she baked; she sounded happy. Today, while they were baking all those pies together, Minnie hadn’t thought about Hannah Albright once. Baking was like a holiday for her head from all the bad stuff.

  As she stood by the window she felt nervous about going out. The knot in her stomach was still there. What if blondes didn’t have more fun? What if Hannah turned up? What if her new hair just drew more of the wrong kind of attention?

  Up in the sky a single firework exploded, tendrils of light hung in the air leaving a shadow of brilliant white behind it in the gray, cloudy darkness. Something about that firework made Minnie feel hopeful; it wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe it was planned for a bigger display at midnight and had been let off by mistake. That lonely firework, all the brighter for going out alone.

  August 15, 2020

  “What is this place we’re going to?” asked Bev.

  “Hair by Clare,” said Leila. “They do your hair in the proper fifties style, with curlers and a set.”

  It was Saturday morning. Leila had booked for Bev, Minnie, and Fleur to all have a hair trial ahead of the wedding in December. She had decided if they were going to be her bridesmaids, they would all have to embrace her favorite decade.

  Fleur planned to meet them at the salon, and Minnie, Bev, and Leila were walking together from the tube station. Getting off at Chalk Farm made Minnie feel she was stepping back in time, as though she was seeing the world through a sepia lens. She looked up at the window of the flat she’d grown up in; it looked just the same. Now, as they passed the railway bridge, which led to Primrose Hill, her eyes found themselves drifting in a new direction. Quinn’s flat must only be a five-minute walk from here.

  It had been six days since the kiss and there had been just one text exchange between them. She’d hung around all morning on Monday, waiting for him to come back and collect his car. Eventually, some guy in a peaked hat had turned up, who turned out to be Quinn’s private driver. His driver? He’d sent his driver.

  Minnie had felt something was off as soon as he left that day. Maybe it was her parents arriving, maybe he’d sobered up, maybe it was the zoo all over again. When she still hadn’t heard from him by Tuesday evening she’d sent him a text.

  You have a driver?

  She’d deliberated for hours over what to send. In the end she’d just gone for those four words, something simple to remind him she existed. His reply had been cold and underwhelming.

  Yes. Sorry, crazy week at work. Maybe see you at the ponds.

  No kiss. No jokes. No sense of him at all. Reading it late that night made Minnie’s insides tense up into a familiar grinding knot and she couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.

  The next day she’d tried to be positive. Maybe he really did have a crazy work week? What did she expect—that after kissing her he’d suddenly want to spend every minute of his time with her? She noticed he’d said “maybe” see you at the ponds. Would he even be there tomorrow if she went? However much she went around in circles thinking about it, something about the silence from him this week just didn’t feel right.

  “Walking down the street with Leila is like going out with a celebrity, isn’t it?” said Bev, interrupting Minnie’s spiraling thoughts.

  Leila was wearing a bright green 1950s dress with yellow roses all over it. She had freshly colored rainbow-striped hair, and wore bright red lipstick. Bev was right; Leila was drawing the gazes of everyone they passed.

  “It’s nice to be noticed,” said Lei
la, doing a little skip along the road.

  Bev was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt that read straws really suck. Minnie didn’t even know what she was wearing; with all the talk of clothes, she had to look down to check she had actually gotten dressed this morning. Jeans and a blue T-shirt, phew.

  “Can I just say, you are looking so well, Minnie. All this swimming you’re doing clearly suits you,” said Bev.

  “That’s nice of you to say, Bev. You’re looking lovely too.”

  “Don’t you love August? The warmth in the air, the flowers in the park. London looks so beautiful at this time of year,” Bev said, taking a loud inhale.

  “Bev, you’re sounding very upbeat,” said Leila, reaching out to squeeze Minnie’s hand as she said it. “Is this Minnie’s influence, sending you out campaigning with all the do-gooders?”

  “Oh, I’ve met so many wonderful people, so inspiring. I’ve also joined this brilliant group called ‘Pick Litter, Have a Witter.’ They coordinate groups of people to go litter picking and you can chat to like-minded people on any given topic while you collect rubbish. There was a bit of a mix-up when I first joined, they put me in a group of people suffering from PBA—Post-Brexit Anxiety. I was talking at cross-purposes with this lad for hours about the trauma of separation—I thought his wife must have left him!” Bev laughed.

  “Well, I’m so pleased you’re feeling better about everything,” said Minnie.

  “My GP also started me on a course of antidepressants, but I don’t think that’s what’s making the difference to my mood. I think it’s more likely to be the litter picking.”

  “Well, you’re feeling better, that’s the main thing,” said Leila.

  They arrived at the hair salon, which was tucked away down an unassuming side street. Hair by Clare was run by two ladies who were both in their eighties and both, unsurprisingly, called Clare. Leila had known them for years and was a regular client. Walking into the salon felt like stepping back in time. The walls were covered in old prints of vintage cosmetic adverts; there was a gramophone in the corner playing jazz music, and two of those old-fashioned-style hairdryers, with large pink plastic helmets. Even the magazines laid out on the coffee table were from a different era, and the two Clares wore vintage pink and gray smock shirts over their clothes. Fleur was already there. She was scrolling through her phone with one hand and holding a flowery teacup in the other.

  “At last,” she said, looking up as they came in.

  Leila hugged both of the Clares, and then turned to introduce everyone.

  “So Fleur you’ve met. Bev, Minnie, this is Claire and Clare. One with an i and one without.”

  The Claire with an i wore glasses and had neat brown hair set into a wave. The Clare without had gray hair styled in a short bouffant bob.

  “So, how did you decide whether Hair by Clare should have an i in it or not?” Minnie asked.

  “Don’t mention the name,” said Leila dramatically, shaking her head.

  “It’s a long story . . .” said Claire.

  “. . . involving a great deal of sherry, and a game of gin rummy,” Clare said with a laugh.

  “Which I won,” said Claire. “There used to be an i on the sign, you can see the gap where it used to hang. This old crone pulled it down with her walking stick one day. I watched her do it, then she blamed it on pigeons. Pigeons, my arse!”

  “It was pigeons. Don’t listen to a word of it,” said Clare, shaking her head, and they all laughed.

  “So what are we doing for you lovely ladies today?” asked Claire.

  “Well, I’m getting married in December, as you know, and I wanted my bridesmaids to go a little fifties in the hair department. We thought we’d have a trial, make sure they can pull it off,” said Leila.

  “I don’t want too many weird chemicals on my hair,” said Fleur firmly.

  “Don’t worry, the chemical hallucinations usually stop once the hairspray dries,” Clare said, revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth as she grinned. Fleur narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  Minnie perched next to Leila on one of the button bar stools by the counter, and they watched the Clares set to work on Bev’s and Fleur’s hair. Minnie was feeling nauseous. She hadn’t slept properly all week. The situation with Quinn had cast a cloud over everything and the effort it took to appear fine was exhausting. Leila had planned this day out weeks ago. Minnie wanted to be upbeat and enthusiastic for her friend, but she felt like curling into a ball on the floor.

  “Hey, you OK?” asked Leila, reaching out to put her arm around Minnie.

  Minnie clenched her teeth and gave Leila a beaming smile.

  “Sure, of course. Sorry, just tired.”

  Sometimes she wished her friend didn’t know her so well. Sometimes, she just wanted to pretend to be fine, and for Leila to just pretend right along with her.

  “Still nothing from Quinn?” Leila asked.

  “Have I missed something happening with Love Twin?” asked Fleur, her eyes darting up to look at Minnie.

  “Nothing, let’s not—” Minnie protested weakly.

  “Minnie has liked this guy for ages,” Leila explained to the Clares, “and then finally they got it on and now he’s gone quiet on her.”

  “Oh dear,” said Claire, giving Minnie a sympathetic look through the mirror.

  “They kissed last Sunday, and now he’s fully Charlie Chaplined her,” said Leila.

  “Charlie Chaplined?” asked Bev.

  “Gone silent,” said Leila.

  “Well, not totally silent. He has sent me a text,” said Minnie, shifting her weight awkwardly on the stool.

  “What did the message say?” asked Clare.

  “Some bullshit about a busy week and maybe he’d see her at the ponds sometime. They swim together,” Leila explained.

  Clare screwed her face up into a grimace.

  “Maybe he really is busy,” said Bev, giving Minnie a long sympathetic look.

  “Maybe he’s married,” said Fleur with a shrug.

  “He’s not married, Fleur,” said Minnie irritably.

  “Maybe he’s a secret agent then,” said Fleur. “He could be working undercover for the Russians. You can’t form attachments if you’re a spy.”

  “Maybe he’s a homosexual,” said Clare. “My first husband was a homosexual.”

  “He and Minnie have become friends and I doubt he’s ever started a relationship with a friend before. He’s scared of intimacy,” said Leila.

  “You want my advice?” asked Claire.

  “The Clares give good advice,” said Leila, slowly nodding her head.

  “If you kiss a man and he runs a mile, he’s no good. Life is full of times you have to turn toward the storm, and life brings many storms. Sick children, parents dying, cancer, just the challenge of building a life together and not driving each other completely nuts. You need a man who’ll turn in to the storm with you when it comes, doesn’t she, Clare?” said Claire, as she pulled Fleur’s hair into rollers.

  “She’s right. When life gets stormy, a man afraid of commitment will be off in a flash, looking for calmer shores with some flibbertigibbet called Kimberley,” said Clare. “He won’t be up in the night when you’ve got a bubba to feed; he won’t be at your bedside after a double mastectomy.” Clare paused, leaning over to pat Claire’s hand as she worked. “Your best friend will be there.” A look of deep understanding passed between them.

  Minnie watched this moment between the two older women. She wondered if she and Leila would still be friends when they were that age. Maybe this was the important thing; maybe this was the love that truly endured.

  “And if he asks you to bleach your love glove, he’s a miscreant to boot,” said Clare, tapping two fingers against her pubic bone. Then Fleur sprayed a mouthful of tea across the room and slapped a hand over her mouth, which
broke the somber tone and made everyone laugh.

  Minnie moved the conversation away from men and on to Leila’s wedding. Part of her knew they were right, but another part, perhaps it was the ever-hopeful owls, wanted to go swimming tomorrow and find him there, and all would be as it had been before.

  Once the Clares had set Fleur and Bev in rollers, it was Minnie’s and Leila’s turn to have their hair styled.

  “So, when’s the big day, Leila?” asked Claire.

  “Thirtieth of December,” said Leila with a sigh.

  “Oh. Well, that’s . . . unusual.”

  “We wanted New Year’s Eve, but my maid of honor is superstitious about that date so we had to shift it twenty-four hours,” said Leila.

  “That is not the reason,” Minnie said, talking to her friend in the reflection. “They couldn’t afford New Year’s Eve and they got a great deal on the thirtieth. No one else is having a big party the night before New Year’s Eve.”

  “And you wouldn’t have come if it was New Year’s Eve,” said Leila.

  “But mainly you got a good deal,” said Minnie.

  “Plus you wouldn’t have come.”

  “But mainly the deal.”

  “And you wouldn’t have come.”

  “The deal.”

  “You.”

  “The deal.”

  Minnie’s phone started to ring, which saved the discussion from escalating further. It was her mother.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Minnie, now, I’m at Tara’s house,” she said. “I’m setting Tara up on a blog page, she wants to write about gardening for anxiety, but I’m struggling to work out this site. Do I want a banner? And would the standard design be OK or should we pay for a theme? And how do we get photos of her garden out of the phone and into the website?”

  Minnie closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the barrage of questions.

  “I’m not an expert on blogs, I’m afraid,” she said. “Oh wait, I’m with Fleur, she’ll know.” Minnie covered the receiver and held out the phone to Fleur. “Will you talk to my mum about setting up a blog?”