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It had been the conversation with Ian that made Minnie realise things with Greg weren’t right, but if Minnie was honest with herself, the fluttering owl feeling she had around Quinn was also a factor. Logically, she knew the owl effect was simply a chemical reaction based on pheromones; some ancient animal instinct. It did not mean he was viable boyfriend material, or that the feeling was mutual. No, the owl effect simply served to remind her of what she no longer had with Greg.
All of it faded eventually. In every relationship, that initial fluttering feeling would simmer down and then disappear. She imagined the young excitable owls inside her aging into wise old birds; they’d wear spectacles and have less energy for flapping about. The ephemeral nature of it meant you had to think with your head. You had to choose a partner based on logic; someone with similar life experience who would share your point of view and your interests. Quinn did not fulfil any of these criteria.
‘You know the truth is, I don’t find it easy to commit to anyone,’ Quinn said, looking up at her with glassy eyes. He swallowed, pinching his lower lip back with his top teeth. ‘Apparently I have “commitment issues.” ’
He whispered the last words, as though confiding a secret. Then he blinked, collecting himself.
‘We can talk about it if you want?’ Minnie prompted, softly.
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin, Minnie.’
‘Try me,’ she said, leaning forward in her chair.
Quinn looked pensive, his features halting as though stealing themselves to take a plunge from a high board. Then he leant back in his chair, pulling away from the brink, the opportunity to jump missed.
‘Then you’d know things about me, Minnie Cooper, and I know next to nothing about you. You need to trade some emotional currency first.’
‘OK,’ Minnie tilted her head to one side and took a slow sip of her drink. She felt the warming whisky loosen her tongue. ‘My best friend’s boyfriend just told me he’s going to propose. He also told me the stress of work is killing Leila, and he wants me to fold the business. He wants her to be free to thrive and he doesn’t think she’ll thrive while she’s having sleepless nights over No Hard Fillings.’
Quinn was watching her intently as she spoke. She plunged on, ‘I might have been cross that he was interfering, or sad that he might be right. Mainly, I just felt happy that my friend has someone who thinks about her that way.’ Minnie paused. ‘I guess I was cross and sad but also happy and a bit jealous. I think I decided if I can’t have a relationship like that, then maybe I’d rather be on my own.’ Minnie paused and then added, ‘Greg didn’t like me to call him unannounced. He liked me to text first, can you believe that? When you love someone, you want to be able to call them without having to make an appointment.’
Quinn looked incredibly sad for a moment; she saw it flash across his face. His eyes, usually flickering on the brink of amusement, took on this rheumy, lifeless quality, a distillation of misery. Minnie had said too much. She shuffledback in her chair, putting the glass in her hand down on the side table with a bang. ‘Come on then, I got all serious on you. Spill your guts, Hamilton; what’s your emotional constipation about? Not a misguided romantic like me?’
He brushed a shaking hand through his hair and then the look was gone. A shrill, buzzing noise pierced the air and Quinn and Minnie both jumped in surprise.
‘It’s the intercom,’ said Quinn.
‘Expecting someone?’ asked Minnie.
Quinn looked confused, then his eyes bulged and he slapped a hand to his mouth.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I arranged a Tinder date.’
Minnie laughed awkwardly. She felt her cheeks prickle.
‘I’ll cancel, I’ll tell her to go.’
‘No, no you can’t do that. Poor girl!’ said Minnie, standing up and brushing down her creased jeans. ‘I’ll leave.’
‘This is awkward.’ Quinn grimaced.
‘It’s fine, it’s none of my business how you spend your afternoons – whisky and Tinder is an excellent combination.’
Minnie brushed her hair out from behind her ears in an attempt to cover her burning cheeks. Quinn stood up and followed her to the lift, where he answered the intercom with a shaking hand.
‘Hello, Quinn?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Yeah, I’ll be right down,’ he drawled.
Minnie called the lift, the doors opened and they both stepped in. She fiddled with her hands and fixed her stare on the silver reflective doors as they closed.
‘Do I smell of whisky?’ Quinn whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Minnie turned to look at him and then leant over to sniff him.
‘Only like you bathed in it.’
He did smell of whisky, but he also had this manly, hot sort-of Christmassy smell that made Minnie inexplicably want to nuzzle into his neck. No, she mustn’t think like that; Quinn was a player with commitment issues, and she had just broken up with someone – neck nuzzling was not an option.
