This Time Next Year(65)

‘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 learnt 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 apologised?

Polly rearranged the wine glasses 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 favourite topic,’ she said. ‘No, I lie, my favourite 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 patissière, 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. As 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.