She went to wash her hands, scrubbing them with Brillo pads until she was confident they were cat-pee free. Why did Quinn want to see her? It had been months. How long had that letter been there? Maybe weeks; maybe he’d been to the pond and she hadn’t been there? Had there been a date on the letter?

Minnie pulled the letter out of the bin. There was a date, but it was now covered in peanut butter, the remnants of her pre-presentation snack. She tried to scrape it off but the letter was too far gone.

Maybe the rest of the letter just said something like, ‘you’ve still got my favourite T-shirt, so can you meet me at the ponds to return it?’ Maybe it said, ‘I’m still not into you, but I wanted to apologise in person for being a dick about it.’ Maybe it said a lot of things.

Would she go on Sunday? Did she even want to hear what he had to say? After that excruciating phone call at Tara’s house, Minnie had made a pact with herself – no more mooning over Quinn Hamilton; in fact, no more mooning over anyone. She needed to take back control of her life, of her happiness. She resolved to be more Leila, to stop letting other people mess with her self-esteem.

The letter put a cloud over Minnie’s week. She had been in such a jubilant mood after the pitch with Lucy, and now she was spending all her time speculating, weighing up whether she should go to Hampstead Heath on Sunday. She could just unblock his number and text him. ‘Hey Quinn, thanks for the letter, I don’t know when you sent it because it’s now covered in cat piss and peanut butter. I know, it’s disgusting – clearly I live like an animal. Anyway, could you recap the content over text? Ta.’ What would Meg Ryan do?

25 October 2020

She went that Sunday. Of course she did. Her curiosity got the better of her. At seven thirty she was on Hampstead Heath, skulking in the bushes near the entrance to the mixed ponds. It was a cold, crisp morning and this pond was now closed for the winter. No one was around. Eight o’clock came and went. Minnie sat down on a bench nearby and kicked a pile of autumn leaves at her feet. The letter must have been sent over a week ago. She could unblock him, call him, but she didn’t want to. She’d already spent too many hours fixated on this particular cardboard girl.