“Bit late for coffee, hey, Clive?” said Greg, turning to face Minnie and giving her an overblown horrified face. “You’re going to be bouncing off the walls, my friend, and the walls here are none too substantial.”
“I’ve got a presentation to write for tomorrow; I won’t be in the way of your romantic evening,” said Clive. “PowerPoint and I will be reacquainting ourselves in my bedroom.”
Clive took his coffee mug and plodded back to his room with a backward wave.
“Space leech,” Greg groaned under his breath. “Hey, did you read the paper today?”
“I read your column on immigrant mice—very thought-provoking. I didn’t get the chance to read much else, I—”
Greg cut her off.
“You didn’t see Lucy Donohue’s column then?” said Greg, slapping a copy of the paper down on the kitchen table in front of her. His lips pulled into a Cheshire cat grin. “Hell hath no fury like a food writer scorned.”
Minnie picked up the paper and looked at the page Greg was pointing to. She clutched the paper with both hands, quickly scanning the words in front of her.
DINING WITH LUCY DONOHUE
This week I am supposed to be reviewing La Côte in Windsor, a restaurant The Times called “out of this world,” “the perfect place for a romantic meal,” and “love in edible form.” I was due to go with my boyfriend for a tasting menu that takes over three hours to consume. Reader, I dined alone. My boyfriend of over a year decided that his New Year’s resolution was to cancel his regular booking at the table of Lucy Donohue. I feel it only fair to La Côte to disclose this, as a seven-course tasting menu was not designed to be eaten alone, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that a broken heart doth dampen the taste buds.
So, rather than giving La Côte an unfairly miserable review, I thought this week I would review my ex—Q—in restaurant form, for any unwitting girl out there who might be considering making him her next meal.
Ambience: While the décor at Q is beautifully proportioned and the place appears brimming with character, don’t be fooled by this veneer of charm. This is a restaurant where you will never relax or feel at home because all diners are seated in the entrance hall rather than in the heart of the restaurant.
Food: The food at Q first appears beautifully seasoned with a delightful sharpness. In fact, it proves tough to get your teeth into and unevenly cooked, with patches of hot and cold throughout. (As an aside, all the dishes at Q are served with a little more spice than a well-brought-up girl might be accustomed to.)
The dessert looked to possess the perfect sweet finesse to round off a meal, but in fact left a sour taste in my mouth. I fear Q was being overly ambitious in tackling this sophisticated dessert, and should perhaps stick to little tarts and light, airy sponges in future.
Service: The maître d’ might welcome you with open arms, but he knows full well he will be taking you off the guest list before long. They don’t value loyal customers at Q, they aim for a fast turnover—people too awed by the façade to notice that this restaurant has no heart at all.
“Wow,” said Minnie, once she’d finished reading. She instantly felt bad for Quinn, to be so publicly attacked like this. Then she wondered if there was any truth to the article—was he really such a heartless boyfriend? He and Lucy had looked like the perfect couple from the outside.
“I’m surprised the paper ran with it,” said Greg with a snort. “Pretty brutal.”
Minnie neatly folded the paper and pressed it down on the counter with both hands. She didn’t want to talk to Greg about Lucy or Quinn.
“Listen, I have to start moving out of my flat at the weekend. Could you help me? I don’t have much, maybe one carload.”
Greg tilted his face to a disapproving angle.
“Just go online and hire a man with a van; they’ll be better at lifting stuff than me.”
“I don’t want to hire a man with a van, and I can’t afford to. I’m asking you, as my boyfriend, to help me.”
“Jeez, Minderella, I’ll pay for it then.” Greg sighed. “I don’t want to spend my weekend moving boxes around.”
Minnie heard the inner voice of her sixteen-year-old self let out a silent wail and start beating her fists against the inside of Minnie’s chest. When had Greg ever done something for her sake that he didn’t want to do?
Minnie stared at him as he peered down at Lucy Donohue’s byline on the counter. “You’re never going to champion my invincibility mode, are you?” she said quietly.
Greg didn’t move, he was still looking at Lucy’s article. Minnie had ignored Greg’s unchivalrous behavior for the last time. If she was Minderella, he was definitely not Prince Charming.
“I think we should break up,” said Minnie.
“Huh?” said Greg, glancing up at her.
“I don’t think this is going to work between us.”
“Jeez, I’ll lend you the car, Minnie! You don’t need to be a baby about it.”
“It’s not about the car—I don’t think we’re right for each other.”
“And you this second decided that, did you? Five minutes ago we were right for each other, and now we’re not?” Greg made a “pfff” noise and waved the newspaper at her. “Women are so bloody tempestuous.”
“No, I should have seen it earlier, I’ve been—”
“It’s not like you’re perfect, you know, Minnie,” Greg said, interrupting her. “You think if someone asked me who my ideal woman was, I would paint a picture of you? No, I would paint a picture of Jennifer Aniston circa 2010. No one gets perfection! Reality is someone you fancy despite their shortcomings; reality is accepting that seventy percent is pretty good going.” Greg’s voice softened, his mouth twitched into a smile. “Look, I might not be perfect, but you have to admit we’re pretty good together? We have the same politics, the same sense of humor—we work, you and me.”
“I never realized I was settling for seventy percent, Greg. I guess that’s the difference between us.”
At that point Clive wandered back into the kitchen.
“I forgot my toast,” he said, plodding over to the toaster, oblivious to what he’d walked into. “I didn’t even pop it down,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated at his own forgetfulness. Clive busied himself pulling out plates and cutlery. Minnie watched Greg’s face growing redder by the minute as his eyes followed Clive around the kitchen, willing him to leave.
“So how’s life, Minnie?” asked Clive amiably. “Business going well, is it?”
“No, not really,” said Minnie with a smile. “Terribly, in fact.”
“Oh dear, well, at least you’ve got Greg here to cheer you up.” Clive gave her a double thumbs-up. “Problem shared is a problem halved and all that.”
“Actually we just broke up,” said Minnie.
“We didn’t break up,” Greg spat, “you were talking about the possibility of breaking up. We haven’t broken up until we’ve both agreed.” Greg’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I’ve walked into the middle of something,” said Clive, briskly buttering his toast. Then after a pause he added, “Though I’m not sure that’s true, Greg. If Minnie says you’ve broken up, you’ve broken up, I don’t think it needs to be by mutual agreement.”
Minnie nodded.
“Nobody asked for your legal opinion, Clive!” Greg shouted. “Just take your toast and fuck off.”
Clive drew his lips closed and gave Minnie a wide-eyed sympathetic shrug.
“Don’t talk to him like that, Greg. I’ll go; there’s nothing more to say anyway.”
Minnie stood up and lifted her handbag from the chair.
“You really think you’re going to do better than me?” Greg snarled. “Unemployed, thirty, and living at home—you aren’t exactly the catch of the century you know, Minnie.”
“Now that was uncalled for,” said Clive, putting down his plate of toast and laying a reassuring hand on Minnie’s arm.
“It’s OK, Clive,” said Minnie, combing a shaking hand through her hair.
“No, I won’t have you end it like this. You’re both good people—people break up, they move on; it doesn’t mean you can’t stay friends and it doesn’t mean you have to leave things on a bad note. Come on, sit down.”
Clive pointed to two chairs at the kitchen table. Minnie looked at Greg, who crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked firmly up at the ceiling. She glanced out the window. It was pouring rain outside. Part of her just wanted to leave, to call an end to this horrible scene, but another part of her didn’t want to end things like this. This side to Greg—she knew it wasn’t who he was.
“Sit down,” Clive said firmly, pulling both chairs out from the table. They slunk into the chairs like chastised children. “Right,” said Clive, taking the third seat between them. “How long have you been together? Six months? Now, you’ve decided you don’t want to be together anymore.”
“She’s decided,” said Greg, nostrils flaring.
“Whoever initiated it, it’s happening. But you saw something in each other once, so before anyone goes anywhere, I want you both to say three positive things about the other person, and then share a favorite memory of your time together.” Greg let out an irritated “humpff” sound.
“It will save you months of bitterness, trust me,” said Clive.
Minnie looked across at Clive’s hopeful round face, then she looked back at Greg. She knew this spiteful petulance was simply Greg’s way of masking a hurt. She still cared for him enough to feel that if she could temper that hurt, she should.
“Well,” said Minnie softly, “I can go first.”
Greg glared at her, arms still folded tightly across his chest, nostrils wide as caves, mouth pinched into a thin pout.
“I always admired your passion for your work. You’re a really good writer,” said Minnie.
“Excellent!” said Clive, clapping his hands together. “Greg, you go.”
Greg paused. He looked at Minnie and his eyes softened slightly.
“Go on, Greg,” Clive said gently.
“You’re a pretty good cook, I guess,” said Greg, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“Great. Minnie?” said Clive.
“You used to make me laugh with your silly jokes. You’re good company; you know how to tell a story and make everyone listen.”
Greg jutted out his chin and gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment.
“Greg? What else?”
“Well, I suppose we always had good bedroom . . . stuff. You’re very imaginative in the—”
“OK, we don’t need any more details there. As mentioned previously, the walls in this flat are not that substantial.” Clive blushed.
“You always appreciated my opinion on your writing and I liked that. It made me feel valued,” said Minnie, speaking more assertively now.
She watched Greg’s defensive veneer melt. He turned to face her and reached a hand across the table.
“You make me want to be funny,” he said gently. “You have the most beautiful laugh. It’s so satisfying to be the one to unleash it.”
Clive was looking back and forth between then. He took a loud bite of his toast and munched away noisily.
“OK, favorite memory now—Minnie,” Clive said, spraying crumbs across the table.
“I’ll always remember the time we went to Brighton for that column you were writing and we swam in the sea and went skinny-dipping and you said you loved my feet, even though I hate my feet.”
Minnie reached out and squeezed Greg’s hand. He squeezed back and she glimpsed sight of the man she had loved, his petulant mask discarded.
“I’ll always remember the first night we kissed. I felt like a teenager, I couldn’t sleep for thinking about the girl from the street rally with the ‘mousing’ sign.”
Minnie and Greg were looking directly into each other’s eyes now. Reminding each other of these good memories felt like playing a favorite song on a worn-out record player before closing the lid.
“Now you say good-bye without regret and without bitterness. Perhaps in time you can be friends,” Clive said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth with both hands. “Anyone for more toast? This Waitrose granary loaf is delightfully nutty.”
“Good-bye, Greg,” said Minnie.
“Good-bye, Minnie,” said Greg. “I can still help you move if you need me to?”
“It’s OK, I’ll get my dad to help.”
Minnie stood up, hugged Greg, hugged Clive, and then left. It had stopped raining outside. On the doorstep she paused, confused by what had just happened. She hadn’t gone there tonight to break up with Greg, but she’d felt this shift inside her. It was as though Ian’s speech had awoken her inner romantic, a voice she’d been silencing for years. She wanted to be with someone who spoke about her the way Ian spoke about Leila, and she definitely didn’t want to be anyone’s seventy percent.
Lucy Donohue’s column flashed into her mind. Dumping Greg had nothing to do with that column. The fact that Quinn was now single was irrelevant; this was about Greg not being her Sonic the Hedgehog, or whatever Ian’s analogy was.
As she neared home she got a text from Greg.
Did we just consciously uncouple?
She smiled. I think so, she replied.
Am I living with male ginger Oprah?
Minnie laughed out loud. Though she knew it was the right decision, she might miss his jokes. Greg was a jigsaw piece she’d been trying to make fit and the effort of forcing it felt like wearing a corset, pressuring her to conform to its shape. Now she had no Greg and soon she might have no Leila.
“Player one,” she whispered to herself as she unlocked her front door.
New Year’s Eve 2003
There was going to be a party at the youth club on Castlehaven Road up in Camden; some of Quinn’s mates from school were going. It would probably be lame, but it was the first New Year’s Eve party not hosted by someone’s parents.
Matt Dingle said he was bringing vodka. Deepak Patel said some of the grammar school girls who played netball were going; his mate Shiv went out with one of them and he said they were definitely, a hundred percent going to be there. Quinn wanted to go, not necessarily to meet girls but just to get out of the house, to hear noise and hang out with his friends.
His mother was watching TV in the living room. She was curled up under one of the soft pink blankets that used to live in the spare room. Her hair was lank and she was wearing one of Dad’s old T-shirts. She’d been watching the news and then some program about fishing had come on. She hadn’t bothered to change the channel.
“I’m going out now, Mum,” Quinn said, coming around the side of the sofa and sitting down next to her. “OK?”
“Where are you going?” she said, slowly lifting her gaze to his face.
“To the youth club in Kentish Town, Bambers. There’s a party, remember?” he said softly. He’d put on a clean white shirt. He’d washed and ironed it himself. “Do you want me to ask Mrs. Penny to look in on you while I’m out?”
Mrs. Penny was a nice northern lady in her fifties who lived on one of the high-rise estates near the park. Once a week she cleaned the house, laundered the bedclothes, and did a food shop for them.
“You look so grown-up, Quinn, so handsome,” she said, stroking his face. “You’ll need to start shaving soon.”
“I’m fourteen tomorrow, Mum, I already shave,” he said, letting her leave her hand on his face.
On the sofa next to her, he noticed she’d got the russet-colored wedding album out again. This was never a good sign.
“Mum, you’re not making yourself upset again, are you?” he said softly, nodding toward the albu
m.
She covered the album with a sofa cushion.
“Just thinking about happier times,” she said flatly, her eyes pensive and still.
Quinn walked around her, picked up the album, and went to put it back on the highest bookshelf he could reach. “Never give your heart away, Quinn, because you don’t get it back, you know,” she said, staring up at the ceiling.
She often said things like this to him. Quinn had already decided that if this was what it did to people, he didn’t want anything to do with love.
“OK, Mum, I’m going now.”
“You’ll keep your phone on?” she asked, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice. “And you’ll take the spare, just in case?”
“Yes and yes,” said Quinn, tapping both sides of his jeans. He hated how they bulked out his pockets.
“And you won’t put your drink down; you know how easily people spike drinks these days?”
He needed to leave before she talked herself out of letting him go.
On the street, Quinn felt the stifling atmosphere of the house dissipate into the cool night air. He felt free for a moment, though he knew he was not. Sometimes it felt as though he was under house arrest. His phones were like those electronic tags—he could go outside the prison walls, but he was still permanently connected.
School was release. It was always harder over the holidays, when there were fewer reasons to go out. His friends had packed holidays full of skiing and “getting out of London.” For those left in town, most of the mothers planned endless entertainment. Pete Thompson’s mum had organized Laser Quest for eight of them last Thursday and it wasn’t even anyone’s birthday. At least this year he’d been allowed to start traveling on public transport alone—that was a game changer.
Quinn liked the street where he lived. He liked the multicolored houses and the symmetrical trees along the road. He liked the bakery on the corner and the bookshop that smelled of toasted cinnamon. He liked the old lady with the funny felt hat who sat on the wall with her cats and said, “All right, young lad?” whenever he passed.
This Time Next Year Page 15
