‘I promise you, I’m never going to stop you from having that Mustang moment when you need it. And I’m sorry I hurt you, I was scared to feel like this – to not be in control.’ He took a breath. ‘It took me all these months to realise I wasn’t scared of you needing me, I was scared by how much I needed you.’

‘I’m scared too,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s overwhelming.’

They looked into each other’s eyes and in the stillness of the moment, beyond the owls communing with each other, a new dialogue opened up between them. They held hands in the semi-darkness. Suddenly, Minnie knew what she wanted to do.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Nearly half eleven,’ said Quinn.

‘Let’s go out. Let’s take a picnic to Primrose Hill and watch the fireworks. I’ve always wanted to do that.’

‘Go out? what about the jinx?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

‘What jinx? I make my own luck these days.’ Minnie cocked her head at him. ‘I just want to do one New Year right, one New Year where I’m not stuck in a toilet or an airport or A&E or hiding at home watching TV. I just want one proper midnight, to start this year right.’

She said it tentatively, not sure if he’d understand. Quinn smiled, something behind the liquid of his eyes flashed in comprehension. Minnie’s owls were not happy about what she was saying; the owls wanted her to get naked with Quinn as fast as possible, but she overruled them – the owls were short-termist creatures.

‘Let’s go find ourselves a midnight,’ he said, standing up and reaching for Minnie’s hand.

Minnie rummaged around her kitchen cabinets and pulled out a picnic blanket. She threw a few picnic supplies into a canvas bag and then they were out of the door and into an Uber.

*

Primrose Hill was packed. They wouldn’t be able to push their way up through the crowd to get the best view from the top. It was four minutes to midnight – they’d made it just in time. Minnie laid the rug out on the only piece of grass that was free. It was near the bins at the bottom of the hill, next to a group of teenagers drinking beers and playing the guitar. Quinn opened up the bag of picnic supplies she had brought.

‘Milk?’ he said, laughing, as he pulled out a carton.

‘I didn’t have anything else to drink in my fridge,’ she laughed.

‘Weetabix and a banana,’ he said, pulling out the remaining contents of the bag.

‘They go with the milk,’ she laughed again. ‘Look, a picnic’s a picnic.’ She elbowed him gently. ‘We don’t keep champagne and canapés on tap in Willesden.’