This Time Next Year

by Sophie Cousens

  “It wasn’t Dad’s fault. You can’t blame him, Mum,” said Minnie.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Her mother finally turned to look at Minnie. “Never put your chips on someone else’s gamble, that’s all I ever wanted you to learn, Minnie. I don’t think this business was ever likely to end well, Minnie, not with your luck.” She patted Minnie’s leg. “You can’t change the wind, it’s always gonna blow. All you can do is plant your feet firmer on the ground.” She sighed.

  “I always feel like you’re so disappointed in me, Mum,” said Minnie, hanging her head.

  “You’re too sensitive, love,” said her mother, reaching out to push a curl behind Minnie’s ear. “You always have been. It’s hard for a parent to see her child struggle, and you seem to struggle more than most. I won’t always be here to pick up the pieces.” Minnie closed her eyes and dropped her head onto her mother’s shoulder. “Maybe just avoid taking any more big risks for a while, love.”

  “OK, Mum.” Minnie let out a sigh. “I’m going to go to bed.”

  As she got up and headed for the stairs, Minnie suddenly felt calmer than she had in weeks.

  “Minnie,” her mother called softly after her. “This Quinn Hamilton’s got nothing to do with you ending things with Greg, has he?”

  “No, why? What makes you say that?” Minnie was taken aback; it was strange to hear her mother mention Quinn’s name.

  “I just wouldn’t trust someone like that, you’ll only end up disappointed. You need someone cut from the same cloth as you, someone who knows what life’s about.”

  “I thought you’d be all for me marrying him then divorcing him and getting that fifty grand back?” Minnie said with a smile.

  Her mother’s mouth twitched in amusement. “You don’t need someone else’s money, love, you’ll be all right.”

  New Year’s Eve 2010

  Twenty-nine pounds for sea bream on a bed of samphire and wild rice; twenty-nine pounds! Quinn did some quick mental arithmetic; if they had three courses and the cheapest wine on the menu, this was still going to set him back a hundred and fifty quid. The restaurant was on the top floor of a hotel. Outside he could see the huge expanse of Hyde Park, beautifully illuminated by moonlight and round pools of light from the street lamps, which lined its long wide avenues. The Serpentine looked like a black mirror, still and glassy. The whole park glowed with a pink aura bleeding from the city lights, cocooning it in dark tranquility. At midnight they’d be able to see firework displays all over London.

  When Quinn had reserved the table one month in advance, he’d been on hold for an hour. Now that he saw the prices on the menu, he knew he’d overstretched himself trying to impress Polly. He closed the menu sharply. There was no point worrying about the bill now; she would love it, that was all that mattered.

  “Quinn, the bathroom is bigger than my flat,” said Polly in hushed excitement as she returned to the table. “We could set up a dance floor in there later.” She giggled, picking up the napkin from her chair and slipping into the seat opposite.

  Polly had short blond hair and a delicate angular face. She had prominent cheekbones that gave her face a beautiful elfin quality, yet her deep blue eyes transmitted a steely intelligence.

  “Are you sure you can afford this?” she whispered, lifting a hand to cover her mouth.

  “It’s a special occasion,” he said. “I did promise we’d celebrate your university scholarship properly.”

  “Well, I feel very spoiled. I have been fantasizing about this meal all month. It all looks so delicious, Quinn.”

  Behind Polly, Quinn watched an older man with gray hair lean forward in his chair and squeeze the hand of the woman he was with. It was a confident, intimate gesture and he saw the woman gaze back at her partner with doe-eyed admiration. Quinn reached out to take Polly’s hand.

  “Don’t worry about it. I want you to enjoy yourself,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

  Quinn had borrowed one of his father’s old jackets for the occasion. It was a beautifully cut blue woolen blazer, handmade on Savile Row. His father was a slighter build and it was too tight for Quinn across the shoulders. Extending his arm caused him to hunch uncomfortably.

  Quinn had met Polly six months ago. He’d spent the summer backpacking around Brazil with his university friend Mike. It had been a rare opportunity to escape London, afforded by his aunt coming over from the United States to hold the fort at home. Quinn and Mike had run into Polly and her friend Gina in a bar in Salvador. The girls were in Brazil on their gap year, planting trees for a charity. The four of them had spent the evening comparing travel tales and drinking caipirinhas so full of lime they made their eyes water. Quinn had been besotted with this beautiful, funny, generous soul, from that first caipirinha.

  “So what shall we make our toast to?” Polly asked, picking up her glass.

  “Your academic brilliance,” said Quinn.

  “What about your birthday tomorrow?” suggested Polly.

  “How about finally being in the same place?” said Quinn.

  Polly had only returned from South America in August, and then she’d started university in Reading that September. Quinn would go and visit her for a day at weekends but found it hard to stay away overnight. He sent her train tickets so she could come up to London, but Quinn was still living at home and Polly often felt awkward staying with his mother.

  The waiter arrived and presented their main courses. Hers, delicate slices of duck balanced on a tower of red cabbage and gratin potato, a perfect obelisk of food in the middle of a large white plate. His, the pan-fried sea bream he estimated at about ten pounds a mouthful.

  “Wow, this looks spectacular,” said Polly, her eyes dancing with delight. “I don’t want this evening to end—maybe we should go clubbing later? Imagine if we could stay out until four and then spend all of tomorrow in bed,” said Polly wistfully as she rubbed his leg with her foot beneath the table. “But I’m not sure that would be allowed at your mother’s house.”

  Quinn glanced down at his lap. Living at home did mean there were some restrictions on his nocturnal activity—his bedroom was right above his mother’s room. A couple of times he had splashed out and hired a hotel room for an evening, just so they could be free of any inhibitions, but he felt seedy taking Polly to a hotel where they checked in at seven and out at eleven.

  As if she knew they were talking about her, Quinn’s phone began to vibrate.

  “Right on cue,” Polly said quietly. “Go on then.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, leaving the table to take the call out in the corridor.

  New Year’s Eve was always hard for his mother. It was the anniversary of the day his father left. Quinn had learned it was better to answer quickly, talk her down from whatever trigger had upset her. If he ignored her calls, it only made it more likely she’d have a full-blown panic attack.

  Over the phone he managed to calm her. She was anxious about the locks on the French windows again. He was patient, he listened, he spoke in soothing tones, but inside he felt himself growing tense at the sound of her voice. He willed her to rally. He didn’t want to go home; he didn’t want to cut this evening short.

  Back at the table, Polly had finished her main course.

  “Is everything OK?” she asked. “Do you need to go?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” How many times had they had this conversation in the last six months? How many times had he apologized?

  Polly rearranged the wineglasses on the table, setting them into a symmetrical pattern.

  “She knows we’re celebrating tonight,” Polly said with a sigh.

  “She doesn’t do it on purpose, Pol. It’s been a tough few months, with Dad getting married again.”

  Polly watched him across the table as he tried to paste on a smile.

  “And it was a tough month in September when
your aunt went home.”

  “Yeah, there are a lot of tough months . . . what do you want me to do?” he said, more sharply than he meant to.

  “It just doesn’t seem fair on you,” Polly said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

  Quinn wordlessly shook his head. “Please, let’s not talk about it tonight,” he said, shuffling forward on his chair. “I want this evening to be about us, about you.”

  He looked up and caught her blinking away the concerned look in her eyes.

  “My favorite topic,” she said. “No, I lie, my favorite topic is cheese, as you know.”

  “Look, Pol, I know it’s not been easy to see each other, but everything in my life changed when I met you. I meant what I said the other night—I love you. You’re the first girl I’ve ever said it to and I’ve never felt so sure about anything.”

  “I love you too, Q,” Polly said, holding his gaze.

  Quinn felt a warm pulse of energy pump through his whole body. To be loved by the one you love—was there any greater feeling?

  After dessert, an extra course arrived from the kitchen.

  “The chef has prepared a miniature Christmas pudding, filled with brandy-infused crème pâtissière, compliments of the season,” said the waiter with a bow.

  “This is such a treat! Thank you so much—the food has been superb!” Polly gave the waiter a beaming smile. Her effusive energy caught him off guard and he gave her an awkward nod.

  Just as Quinn picked up a spoon, just as the evening felt it was back on track, he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket again. At the same moment, Polly started making a gagging sound and he turned to see her spit out the pudding, which she’d popped whole into her mouth. Quinn reached into his jacket pocket as he asked, “Are you OK?”

  Polly’s whole face creased in a grimace. Quinn glanced at his phone. He didn’t need to look, he knew who was calling.

  “There’s something in it,” Polly said, “something grisly.” Polly started poking the tiny pudding with her fork. “I think it’s plastic.”

  Quinn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, moving the pulsing phone to his lap, every muscle in his body tensed, the air in the room suddenly feeling dense and suffocating. Polly shook her head and cleared her throat again.

  “Quinn, I just choked and you’re looking at your phone.”

  “You didn’t choke,” he said weakly. “You spat it out.”

  “Just answer it,” she said, closing her eyes.

  Quinn hung up the call, switching his phone from vibrate to silent. He topped up Polly’s water glass with a shaking hand.

  Polly called a waiter over and told him about the plastic in her dessert. She said she didn’t like to complain, but she was worried someone else’s pudding might be affected. He was profusely apologetic and brought over a complimentary bottle of champagne. Quinn tried to relax, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what might be going on at home. This feeling, of being made to be a bad boyfriend or a bad son, he hated it; it made him feel physically nauseous.

  There was no crass countdown at Le Lieu de Rencontre. New Year was announced by the sound of glasses clinking and murmurs of “Happy New Year” echoing around the room. Outside, the dark horizon erupted into shards of light tearing through the darkness. The distant boom and crackle of explosions audible even through the thick glass. Directly across the park, the fireworks appeared to converge in a fountain of light, and stardust rained from the sky.

  They both sat in silence watching the spectacle outside. Then Polly slowly raised her glass to his, a pensive look in her eyes.

  “To us, to the next chapter,” Quinn said with forced jollity. He could feel his forehead beading with sweat.

  “Just call her back,” Polly said quietly. “I know you won’t relax until you do.”

  Quinn walked out to the landing by the toilets. It would be rude to take a call at the table in a restaurant like this. He slumped to the floor at the top of the stairs and stared at his phone, his portable prison. To his left were double doors through to the kitchen, where he could hear clanking pans and curt voices. It was a room full of fiercely paddling feet that made the restaurant on the other side of the wall appear like an effortless gliding swan.

  As he was about to call, a girl in chef’s whites with curly brown hair came running through the doors. She was crying, and their eyes met for a second. She looked how Quinn felt—consumed by misery. He wanted to ask if she was OK, but she carried on down the stairs before he had a chance to speak. As she disappeared around the corner, he saw that the girl had dropped her chef’s hat on the stairs. A thought of Cinderella and a glass slipper flashed into his mind. In an alternate universe, he might run after that girl and return her hat. In this one he did not have the headspace for gallantry. He would hand her hat in to the kitchen.

  His mother didn’t answer his call. He would have to go home. He walked slowly back into the restaurant to see a spectacle of fireworks still lighting up the horizon over the park. As he took his seat, Polly didn’t turn her head away from the window.

  “I’m sorry, Polly. I have to go,” he said.

  “She’ll always come first, won’t she?” Polly said.

  “No, not always. It’s New Year, it’s a bad time for her, Polly . . .”

  “I don’t think I’m an especially needy person, Quinn, but you make me feel so needy and I hate it.”

  “You’re not needy, Polly. You are the only good thing in my life—”

  She cut him off.

  “Quinn, go home, let’s not do this now, just go and do what you need to do. I’m going to go and meet some friends at a club in Hoxton. Thank you for a lovely meal.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, a lingering kiss. Something about it felt more final than simply a good-bye. And as she left, Quinn found the nauseous feeling began to recede and the tightness across his chest finally started to ease.

  May 17, 2020

  Minnie stood on the grass bank, starring down into the murky brown water. Minnie first swam in Hampstead Heath ponds as a teenager, but the look of the water and the unnerving feeling of swimming when you couldn’t see your hands or feet had put her off. Plus, she’d been conditioned to swim fast in those days, and the ponds weren’t the best place for speed. Swimming was the one thing Minnie had been good at as a child, a sport she could do alone, with no one jeering at her. Or if they were jeering, she couldn’t hear them with her head underwater. She wasn’t sure why she’d given it up in her twenties—life and work had got in the way. Over the last few months, she had found herself drawn back to the water.

  Hampstead ponds were old reservoirs, now open to the public to swim in. They were dotted around the edge of Hampstead Heath—a beautiful, wild parkland that sprawled across nearly eight hundred acres of north London between Hampstead and Highgate. From the highest point you could see most of London, a Legoland of buildings and skyscrapers receding toward the horizon.

  Minnie had always loved the heath. It was an idyllic, unspoilt oasis of nature in an otherwise tamed landscape. It served to remind the homogenized city dweller what wild grass and tumbling, tangled tree roots looked and smelled like. It wasn’t just the wild landscape Minnie loved, but the familiar characters she saw there. While all of London migrated to the heath in the summer, during the rest of the year you saw the same faces again and again. The regular pond swimmers were a tight-knit community in themselves, with some diehards going in all year round, cracking ice in the winter to get in.

  Last autumn, Jean Finney, one of Minnie’s No Hard Fillings clients, had encouraged Minnie to give the ponds another chance. Jean swam regularly there herself, and spoke about the experience of wild swimming with almost religious reverence. Minnie hadn’t got around to it last year. Now, she had time on her hands and a newfound motivation—maybe bracing cold water would toughen her up, body and soul. She’d come for the first time a month
ago. Today, the water still looked uninviting, but this time, once she was in, she soon forgot about the murk below, losing herself in the exhilarating sting of the cold and the simple pleasure of wild swimming.

  Minnie thought Jean must be doing something right if she was still swimming most days at the age of eighty-six. Jean had a calm demeanor that belied a life well lived. “Don’t cry about something you wouldn’t cry about in five years’ time,” she once told Minnie. “And swim—swim when you can.” Those were her two pieces of life advice.

  This morning Jean’s familiar white ruffled head was nowhere to be seen. Launching herself into the water, Minnie felt needles stab into every part of her skin. She struggled to control her breathing as her body fought against the cold. She blocked out the pain and started to swim a rapid breaststroke. She counted her breaths; it took twenty for the pain to subside, then her body mellowed, the needles softening to warm tingles, and every part of her felt infused with energy, her brain burning off its early morning fog.

  Swimming had become part of Minnie’s new routine. Now that she was working for the catering company, she had mornings to herself and felt healthier than she had in years. She had time to cook herself good food, do exercise, and she’d even started reading again. She worked six nights a week, and was trying to live frugally. She was saving up a rental deposit to move out of her parents’ house, and in another month or two she’d have enough. Life was simpler, easier, less stressful. Of course she missed the No Hard Fillings kitchen, she missed working with her friends, she missed Leila, but she was trying to be more optimistic, to see the positives.

  Since their argument three months ago, she and Leila had patched up a practical peace. They’d had to communicate to wind down the business, but it was a Band-Aid on something that ran much deeper and they both felt it. The administrative hassle of dismantling the company had been easier than either of them imagined. By selling off the kitchen equipment and the delivery van, they’d had just enough to pay remaining salaries and settle the majority of their debt. Everything was made easier by the fact that a chicken-themed fast-food chain wanted to take the lease off their hands and agreed to buy their equipment at a fair price. In a matter of weeks, the deals had been done; it was like watching a giant, painstakingly crafted sandcastle being swept away by one giant wave.