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About the Author

Sophie Cousens worked in TV in London for over twelve years, producing The Graham Norton Show, Big Brother and Ant and Dec. She now lives in Jersey and balances her writing career with working for an arts charity and taking care of her two small children. This Time Next Year is her first novel.

Dedication

To dear Aunty Em, who would have loved to read this

New Year’s Eve 2019

The Night Jam was rammed. Pounding music pulsed through the club and the walls felt sticky with sweat, alcohol and likely worse. Minnie held tightly to Greg’s hand as they jostled through the crowd near the door.

‘We’re never going to get to the bar,’ Greg shouted back to her.

‘What?’ Minnie yelled back, her ears adjusting to the heavy bass.

‘We won’t be able to get a drink before midnight. I don’t even know where Lucy’s party is,’ said Greg.

He pointed upwards, indicating they should try to push their way upstairs to the terrace on the mezzanine above. Minnie looked at her watch – it was ten to midnight. So far, this whole evening was only validating her hatred of New Year’s Eve. Why hadn’t she stayed at home and gone to bed early? Then she remembered that her heating had been cut off – she’d come out to keep warm. And Greg had been determined to go to his work friend’s party; she would have felt like a bad girlfriend if she’d made him go alone.

Minnie let herself be dragged through the throng of pulsating bodies. Finally, they emerged from the crush, stepping out into the cool night air where the thumping bass from the club settled to a more manageable decibel.

‘Watch it!’ Greg said, pushing a drunk guy out of his way. Greg glared at the man, trying to make him notice he’d spilt his beer on someone, but the man was too far gone to care.

‘I did warn you about spending New Year with me,’ said Minnie.

‘Will you stop with this jinxed stuff?’ said Greg, shaking his head.

‘Honestly, it’s a thing; bad things happen to me at New Year’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole building went up in flames before the night’s out. Or perhaps a very small asteroid lands right where I’m standing.’

‘I don’t think we’re having a terrible night because you’re jinxed; I think we’re having a terrible night because you dragged us to dinner at weird Alan’s house on the other side of the galaxy. Now we’re arriving at a party two seconds to midnight when everyone’s high on moon juice and … come in Star Command?’ Greg lifted a finger to his ear, pausing to listen to an imaginary transmission, ‘Mission control says we’re not even at the right party.’