Fleur clicked her fingers, then pushed up the giant pink cylindrical heater she was sitting beneath and took the phone from Minnie. “I swear that thing is frying my brain. Hi, Connie, yes—what do you need?”
A very confusing conversation followed, where Fleur attempted to talk Minnie’s mother through the options she needed to click, screen by screen. In the end Fleur had to give up.
“Listen, you’re just in Primrose Hill, aren’t you? We’re all in Chalk Farm at some weird hairdresser’s. I can just nip down there when we’re done, it will take me two seconds to set this up for you if I can see the screen . . . Yes, we can all come . . . Sounds good . . . I’ll tell Minnie.”
Minnie shook her head wildly and flapped her hand for the phone, but Fleur had already hung up.
“What?” Fleur said to Minnie.
“We can’t all go down there!” said Minnie.
“Why not?” asked Fleur.
“This is Quinn’s mother’s house, what if he’s there? Plus Tara won’t want a load of strangers coming by.”
“Who’s Quinn?” asked Clare.
“The guy she likes—Storm Avoider,” said Leila.
“Well he’s not going to be there, is he?” said Fleur. “Your mum said Tara wants us all to see the garden or something, said they had a gooseberry tart that needed eating.”
Minnie frowned; she couldn’t go to Tara’s house. What if Quinn popped in and found her there? It would be too awkward. She called her mother back.
“Mum, we can’t come over to Tara’s,” she said firmly.
“Oh, Minnie, don’t be ridiculous, Tara wants to see you, and she said to bring your friends, didn’t you, Tara? . . . Oh, well she wants to know how many of you are there?”
“Four of us.”
“Four of them, Tara . . . Yes, that’s fine, she says come.”
Minnie felt her skin getting hot. Clare pulled the last curler into place and sprayed a cloud of setting spray over her head.
“Is Quinn going to be there?” Minnie asked quietly.
“I don’t think so, why? Do you want to see him?” Connie asked.
“No, I just wouldn’t want him to think I was—um, following him around London.”
“Tara, Minnie wants to know if Quinn’s coming over?” Connie yelled.
“Oh god, don’t ask her!” Minnie sank down into the chair and put a hand over her eyes. Pleased as she was that her mother had a new friend, it wasn’t ideal that this friend happened to be the mother of the man she’d just been ghosted by.
“No, he’s at some conference all day. So you don’t need to fret about running into him without your lippy on, Minnie.”
Half an hour later, the four of them were standing outside Tara’s house, each modeling impressively bouffant 1950s hairstyles.
“Jesus—this is her house?” said Leila. “It’s bigger than my whole block.”
“You know, if I lived somewhere like this, I’d probably never want to leave the house either,” said Bev.
“Shhh,” Minnie hissed as they stepped up to the front door and rang the bell.
Tara answered the door.
“Minnie, well look at you? You look gorgeous. I used to wear my hair that way once upon a time.”
Tara was wearing gardening gloves and a green apron over a gray shift dress. Her skin was sun-kissed and her eyes twinkled with life.
“Are you sure we’re not intruding?” said Minnie. “We won’t stay long.”
“No, no, come in, come in. Oh my, how colorful!” Tara said, on seeing Leila and her rainbow hair. “What a jolly way to be.”
Minnie introduced Tara to her friends and they all followed Tara through to the kitchen, where Minnie’s mother was scowling at a laptop. Leila and Bev both gawped at Tara’s palatial interior with undisguised awe. Minnie mimed closing their gaping mouths at them while Tara was looking the other way.
“Oh, Minnie, you look like a young Elizabeth Taylor,” said her mum. Minnie did a double take at such a compliment from her mother. “And, Fleur, a touch of the Bette Davis. What’s this all in aid of?”
“Hair trials for Leila’s wedding,” Minnie explained.
“Right, show me this blog you need set up?” said Fleur, pulling up a stool next to Minnie’s mum.
“Well, we haven’t got past the first page,” said her mum, shaking her head.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage if it’s complicated, Connie,” said Tara, clasping her hands together, her brow knitted in consternation.
“It’s not complicated; don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it,” said Fleur, dismissing Tara with a wave of the hand.
“Show Minnie the garden, Tara, I’m sure she’d like to see,” suggested her mother.
“Oh, it’s nothing remarkable,” said Tara quietly, shaking her head, “but it’s something of an achievement for me.”
Tara led Minnie, Leila, and Bev down a flight of stairs into the basement, where there were French windows leading out to the back. The garden was huge by London standards, stretching off to a wall of trees a hundred and fifty feet away. Nearest the house was a cobbled patio with wicker table and chairs, then beyond, an arc of flowerbeds full of white roses, purple foxgloves, and orange dahlias—a wild array of color.
“This is all the gardener, I can’t take credit for the flowers,” Tara explained, “but this I can—this is our little project.”
She couldn’t hide the pride in her voice as she showed them the vegetable garden beyond. Four neat squares of soil, all planted with rows of leafy vegetables, herbs, climbing beans, and tomato plants.
“Wow, you’ve been busy,” said Minnie, kneeling down to smell the thyme.
“Your mother drove me to the garden center last weekend. I got out and bought those myself,” said Tara, pointing to the row of herbs. Then she turned to Leila and Bev. “I know that doesn’t sound particularly impressive”—Tara clasped her hands again, rubbing the back of one hand with the other palm—“but I sometimes have trouble getting out, I get a bit overwhelmed.”
“We’ve all got our demons to fight, hey,” said Bev heartily, and Tara nodded.
“Your mother is such a wonderful woman, Minnie. She’s pushed me to make a small step every day. Doesn’t take no for an answer, does she?”
Tara spoke with such warmth in her voice, it caught Minnie off guard. She rarely heard anyone talk about her mother like that. She hadn’t often considered that her mother’s stubbornness could be such a positive trait.
“Well, I’m glad she’s been helpful,” said Minnie.
She could see Tara’s hands begin to shake; she was clasping them together so tightly her knuckles were turning white. “Please, we don’t want to overwhelm you, Tara, if it’s too much us being here,” said Minnie softly.
“Please stay,” said Tara, “I need to push myself to do more.” She blinked quickly, her eyes darting back toward the house. “Would you all have tea if I made a pot?”
They all agreed that they would.
As Tara hurried back inside, Bev, Leila, and Minnie sat down on the chairs around the patio table.
“Jeez, I need the toilet, but I’m scared to go,” said Bev. “This place is like Buckingham Palace or something.”
“Bev, if you need the toilet, go,” said Leila. “It will be more embarrassing if you wet yourself.”
“I won’t be able to go. My bladder seizes up in fancy places.”
Tara returned five minutes later with a tray of tea things and a gooseberry tart. She had a phone balanced beneath her chin.
“Yes, Minnie and her friends popped in . . . Her friend is helping me set up a blog page . . . No, I’m not overdoing it, darling. Here, Minnie was wanting to speak to you,” Tara said, laying down the tray and passing the phone to Minnie. “It’s Quinn, checking up on me.”
Min
nie felt the blood drain from her face, the knot in her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Of all the ways she wanted to hear from Quinn, this was not it. She shook her head weakly, but Tara kept thrusting the phone at her.
She finally took it and walked down the garden with it. If she had to talk to him, it wouldn’t be in front of everyone else.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, Minnie,” said Quinn. He cleared his throat. “So you’ve been roped in to helping with the gardening?”
“Something like that,” Minnie said.
The line was silent for a moment, then Quinn spoke.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called you, I know I should have. I’ve . . . none of this is straightforward for me.”
His voice was awkward, embarrassed. Minnie squeezed an earlobe with her free hand, the pressure distracting her from the horrible realization of what she had suspected.
“Why are you being like this?” she said quietly. “I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.”
“Minnie.” His voice softened. “I . . .” He let out a sigh. “I can’t just jump into something like this. I’m not sure I can handle disappointing someone again, and I know I can’t be what you need me to be.”
“How do you know?” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “I don’t want you to be anything.”
There was silence on the line. She thought maybe he’d gone.
“I’ve already disappointed you. I can hear it in your voice.” They were both silent for a moment. Minnie stood shaking her head. “Please don’t think it’s you, Minnie, you’re so . . .” Quinn took a sharp inhale of breath. “Do you remember that penguin we heard about at the zoo, the one in Japan who was in love with the cardboard girl?” His voice sounded hoarse, broken.
“Yeah,” Minnie said, closing her eyes.
“Well, I’m the cardboard girl. I don’t have the capacity to be a living, breathing penguin. I think Lucy was right—in what she wrote about me.”
Minnie felt tears welling in her eyes and she wiped them away furiously; she didn’t want the others to see her crying. “Maybe we’ll see each other at the ponds?” he said softly.
“I don’t think so, Quinn.”
She hung up the phone and gritted her teeth, willing the tears not to come. She took a minute to compose herself and then headed back toward the house. At least she knew now, at least there was no more deluding herself, no thinking of excuses for why he’d gone quiet. A cardboard girl was definitely not someone to weather the storm with.
She walked back over to the others and handed Tara the phone as cheerfully as she could. She got through tea and then, finally, once Fleur had finished setting up Tara’s blog and shown her how to use it, they were able to leave. As Tara thanked them and said good-bye at the door, she pulled Minnie aside.
“I know I’ve made life difficult for him, poor boy,” Tara said, her voice shaking. “I tried not to lean on him so but . . . when I was at my lowest, I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
Minnie squeezed Tara’s hand. She didn’t know what to say. Tara pulled Minnie into a hug and spoke quietly in her ear. “Don’t give up on him, Minnie. You’re what he needs, I can see it.”
Minnie didn’t want to tell her that it was too late, she had already given up.
New Year’s Eve 2019
“Where have you been hiding, Quinn? I’ve hardly seen you all night.”
Lucy walked toward him, her hips swaying hypnotically as she sashayed across the room in stiletto heels. She planted a firm kiss on Quinn’s lips then took him by the elbow, escorting him over to the far end of the room, away from the volume of the band. The party was in full swing; there were over two hundred people here. Quinn didn’t know he had this many friends. Lucy had arranged it all—the venue, the band, the private catering.
“Have you talked to Rupert yet?”
“Rupert . . .” Quinn’s eyes hovered up and to the right, betraying the fact he had no idea who Rupert was or why he was supposed to speak to him.
“Oh, Quinn.” Lucy gave a delicate foot stomp. “Rupert! The Lexon guy, he’s a great business contact for you. He’s also desperate to employ me. I keep telling him I’m happy at the paper, but you never know when these contacts are going to come in useful.”
Quinn nodded, as though it had been a case of temporarily forgetting the guy’s name, rather than having no memory of the conversation.
“Can we step outside?” Lucy said, lifting her glass toward the balcony behind the sliding glass door. Quinn pulled the door open and a sharp blast of cold air hit them both. He took off his jacket to wrap around Lucy’s shoulders.
“Listen, I know we said we wouldn’t talk about it tonight, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Carol said,” Lucy said, hugging his jacket.
Carol was the relationship counselor Lucy and Quinn had been seeing for the last month. Lucy’s idea. She decided Quinn had a “fear of intimacy, stopping him from taking their relationship to the next level.” She thought he needed therapy to “unpack unresolved issues about his childhood.” This was the problem with the internet; everyone fancied themselves amateur psychologists.
He and Lucy had been together for a year and three months. Lucy expected “I love you” by six months, preferably three. Fifteen months meant there had to be something wrong with him. She had said it at six, to the day. He didn’t know many women who would drag someone to couple’s therapy just to get him to say those words, but she clearly thought he was worth trying to fix. Lucy was solutions-based; it was one of the things he liked about her.
The therapy with Carol was a warning siren pulsing through his temple, yet for some reason he had muted the sound for over a month. Why hadn’t he just ended it? He would never have tolerated such scrutiny or interrogation from past girlfriends. One answer could be that he did in fact love Lucy; perhaps he didn’t want to leave? She was beautiful, bright, and confident—what was not to love? She had even been accommodating about his aversion to phone calls, something other women had never been able to tolerate. She didn’t need him, she wanted him—it was a dynamic that worked.
And yet, in the dimly lit periphery of his subconscious, Quinn was aware of a darkness lurking. If he ever shone his attention toward it, it would skulk back into the shadows, ungraspable. And yet. Only yesterday he had stared down that shadow for the first time. He had seen it for what it was and he had formulated it into words. Ever since Polly, he had been subconsciously attracted to women with unappealing qualities. It didn’t make sense, he didn’t understand it, but once he’d thought it, he couldn’t help looking back at his relationship history through this strange, murky lens. Jaya had been a narcissist, Edie a compulsive liar, Anna hated dogs, and Lucy was a snob who was rude to waitstaff. All these traits had been immediately visible to him and yet, strangely, were part of the attraction.
Why? When he tried to peer into this rabbit hole he started to feel anxious. What kind of psychopath would actively choose to go out with women who possessed traits he disliked? The anxiety made him feel as if he were his mother, that it was in his DNA, that he was not in control.
Back to the question in hand: Why hadn’t he ended things with Lucy? The idea he might love her appealed to him. If this was love, this was manageable; this was not an earthquake waiting to destroy his foundation. If something went wrong in the future with Lucy, he would be sad, but he couldn’t imagine locking himself away for the rest of his life.
There might be another explanation for this stay of execution; that he had started to see value in the sessions with Carol. Growing up, Quinn came to think of therapy as akin to fixing bomb damage with wallpaper—it was something to take your mind off the fact that the walls of your house had been blown to bits. In the sessions with Carol, he’d found himself talking about his mother and father’s breakup, about his mother’s condition, his father’s disappearance. Wha
t had made him unload like that, heaping emotional coal into the filthy engine of therapy? Carol just listened, nodding in comprehension; she did not try to wallpaper anything.
At their fourth session, Carol said, “Now, I know you have booked this as couple’s therapy, but if I’m honest, I feel Quinn could benefit most from some one-to-one sessions. You should only embark on one course of therapy at a time, so you’d have to do one or the other.”
Lucy looked disappointed. She liked being involved; she liked nodding sympathetically, as though if only he could unload all these words about his past, then at the bottom of the pile of words would be the three she was looking for.
“Well.” Lucy frowned, looking back and forth between Carol and Quinn. “We’ll have to discuss it. I felt we were making progress?”
Lucy leaned forward in her chair, her usually taut face creasing into frown lines. She clasped her hands together and nodded both forefingers in Carol’s direction. Carol responded with one of her neutral, dental-advert smiles.
“I think you were right to want to talk this through,” she said to Lucy, “but what is becoming clear to me is that Quinn needs a lot more time to work through some issues independently.” Then Carol gave Lucy one of her encouraging nods, the nod that made you feel you’d given all the right answers and were winning the therapy game show. “You’re doing a fantastic job being a supportive partner, Lucy.”
“Well, I have a very secure attachment style,” said Lucy, keen to out-therapy the therapist.
That had been over a week ago. They had said they would discuss it. Now Lucy was bringing it up at the party.
“So what do you think we should do?” Lucy asked, reaching out to hold Quinn’s hands. “I think you should ask to be referred to someone else. Carol’s supposed to be the best when it comes to relationships, so I’d rather we saved her for us, don’t you agree?”
“It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back in and enjoy the party. We can talk about it tomorrow,” Quinn said, pulling Lucy toward him and kissing her on the forehead.
This Time Next Year Page 28