This Time Next Year(63)

‘Not waiting tables, I was a chef,’ said Minnie defensively, watching Leila through narrowed eyes.

‘You want to throw everything we’ve worked for away.’

‘No, I just think we should cut our losses while we’re still standing. What we wanted to do doesn’t work, we were na?ve to think it would.’

Leila stood up and walked closer to Minnie, pointing a finger at her chest, her eyes fierce with anger.

‘I remember the day we met. You were hugging your knees to your chest on this bench at camp trying to make yourself as small as possible so the world wouldn’t notice you. You were so self-conscious and afraid and I felt sorry for you. All these years we’ve been friends, I desperately wanted to give you back whatever confidence someone had stamped out of you. I thought if you just had someone to believe in you, then you’d come out of your scared little shell and this butterfly would emerge.’ Leila’s face was growing red with rage. Minnie had never seen her angry before, not like this. ‘Maybe I was wrong; you’re not scared, there’s just no butterfly in there.’

Minnie flinched. Leila had never said anything so cruel in the sixteen years they’d known each other.

‘Well, nice to know all this time I was just your pity project! I don’t need you to butterfly me, Leila, you’re enough bloody butterfly for the both of us – it’s exhausting.’

They stared at each other, bulls in a ring ready to charge or run. Minnie made a move towards the door.

‘No, I’m going to leave,’ said Leila. ‘You want to give up on this place, you deal with it.’ And then she left, the door rocking back and forth against the bell in her wake.





4 February 2020





Minnie sat on the garden step watching the cigarette between her fingers burn down. She hadn’t smoked for years, not since she worked at the restaurant, but there was something about her life tumbling down around her ears that had made her reach for the comforting feel of a packet of cigarettes in her hand. The nostalgia was more potent than the reality – the tobacco felt stale in her mouth and she stubbed it out after a few drags. That was another tenner she couldn’t afford.

She heard keys in the lock and groaned – she’d planned to be safely hidden upstairs before either of her parents got home. Now her mother would smell it on her and there would be more cross words. She rummaged around in the cupboard under the sink for an air freshener. She found an old can of Oust and pressed the sticky nozzle. It sprayed up rather than out and went straight up her nose. She coughed and spluttered, rubbing her nose with her hands, trying to shake out the sensation of a nasal enema.

‘Minnie, that you?’ called her mother.

‘Uh-huh,’ Minnie called out, quickly hiding the packet of cigarettes in the bread bin.

‘Why’re you looking so suspicious?’ asked her mother.

‘I’m not.’ Minnie clasped her hands behind her back.

Her mother wore black leggings and a top with beige and red patterns across it. It looked like the kind of fabric you found on bus seats. The top was stretching at the seams; her mother had put on weight recently and the eczema on her arms had spread up her neck and around her hairline in angry red patches.

‘You never stay at Greg’s any more,’ her mother remarked as she picked up the kettle and started filling it from the tap.

‘Greg and I broke up,’ Minnie said flatly.

Her mother looked over at her, dropping the kettle down in its cradle.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, you never said.’

Minnie shrugged. Her mother stuck out her bottom lip, her eyes creasing into slits.

‘What’s that face for?’ Minnie asked.

‘Greg seemed like a sensible boy – steady job, rents his own place.’

Minnie exhaled loudly. Her mother watched her closely, cogs whirring. ‘He ditched you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Minnie.

‘Oh Minnie, you’re not twenty-one any more. When are you going to learn to stick something out?’

Minnie shook her head. She felt a tide of tears build instantly behind her eyes. Her mother’s words had knocked a barely healed scab and the skin beneath was paper-thin.

She watched her mother go through the ritual of making tea, pouring the water from a height, pressing the teabag against the side of the cup with the back of a spoon. There was something strangely comforting about the way her mother made tea.

‘I fell out with Leila too, so now I’m totally mate-less.’

Minnie felt her shoulders start to heave and suddenly she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her mother was not usually good with tears, yet to Minnie’s surprise she put an arm around her, led Minnie through to the lounge and sat her down with the cup of tea she’d made for herself. Through sniffing sobs she extracted the whole sorry tale from Minnie; about the fight with Leila, the conversation with Ian, Quinn trying to help them out by ordering pies for his clients but none of it being enough to rescue the business.

Her mother listened patiently, only making the occasional ‘tssking’ sound as Minnie spoke. She stood by the window titivating the net curtains to ensure they were evenly spaced along the rail. Once Minnie had finished, she came and sat next to her on the sofa.

‘It sounds to me like you’re better off out of it,’ she said with a sigh.