Melbourne. Airport. I remember eyeing the rickety plane dubiously: it had a section near the tail wing that had a dotted line, forming a man-sized square. Below it was printed: 'in emergency cut here'.  'With WHAT?' I thought, 'A can opener?' I sighed and hauled my bag aboard, then dropped into a threadbare seat.

I must have fallen asleep because 5 minutes later we appeared to be landing at a little airstrip and the pilot announced in the barely intelligible Australian version of English they called ‘Strine, that this was Coffs Harbour. The plane bounced off the runway a couple of times before it came to a shuddering stop (I was the one shuddering hardest of all), and then I stepped into the lovely weather of Coffs. It was like the Mediterranean: warm but not too humid, and I could smell that the sea was close by.

Jo was there to pick me up, she drove a big sturdy SUV with some lettering on it, probably of her farm, or so I thought. I could read NANA, the rest was splattered with dried up mud.

'Is that all your luggage?' she asked incredulously, when she saw my one bag. 'You do travel light, Taryn!'

'Well I had some more, and people give me things sometimes, presents and stuff, you know, and I had some more official clothes with me as well, but since I was going to stay on a farm, I just kept the outdoorsy stuff and mailed the rest off home. I guess I don't have to look pretty to the cows, do I? Or don't you have any cows?'

Jo laughed. 'Yes we have cows, loads of them, and horses and dogs, and quads to ride around on, and several houses and cottages and stuff. And people, too; the whole Finch family lives out there you know, remember, you saw it when you did the reading.'

'Oh yes! I remember!' A green, beautiful place full of family. I replayed the mental images I had seen, but in the mean time, in the back of my mind a little bell started ringing. Finch family? FINCH? Now what did that remind me of? The answer wouldn't come so I put it aside for the moment and said: 'Must be nice having all your loved ones close at hand.'

'Yes it's nice, but it's also demanding sometimes,' Jo said, opening the door to her car for me. 'Especially now, with my youngest back in…, but hey, we talked about that, didn't we?'

She left it at that and I didn't ask further. But the little bell kept ringing and an almost ominous feeling came creeping over me.

Of course, I should have backed out there and then. Booked a room at the local hotel and only come over for a coffee or something. I don't know. But I didn't. I didn't…

Instead, I enjoyed the drive immensely. The countryside was green and hilly and the weather was lovely. But eventually we ended up at a gate and after that, a rather large, modern, lovely house. Several other buildings. Some people, who all gave us a friendly wave as we came in, and a man in his forties with a big crease in his forehead and a flannel shirt on, who opened the car door for Jo and said: 'Bloody oath, mum, I'm glad you're back already, I don't know what I would have done to 'im if…'

Jo got out the car and silenced him with a look. She waited until I had gotten out of the car as well and then introduced us: ' Martin, this is Taryn Archer; Taryn, this is my oldest son Martin.'

'Hi Martin, ' said I, holding out my hand. I received a firm shake and an appraising look. I gave him one right back; he looked nice, rough and weather-beaten, an outdoor man and no mistake.

Martin held my hand for a bit too long and said: 'So you are the author of that book that had my mum up reading until the wee hours of night, are ya?'

I nodded.

'Well it's really ace of you to lob in. Mum's been looking forward to it to no end. She could do with a mate around now that…'

Martin was interrupted by the front door of the house, which was thrown open with a bang. Out stormed a very angry, slightly younger version of Martin. Very angry. Very, very good looking. His eyes were green going on slate grey fire spraying slits in his face and his mouth was a hard line.  I felt a wild flare of rage in the pit of my stomach and realised at once that it was his anger causing this. Jesus, he made a lot of noise on the emotion meter! I involuntarily took a few steps back to get out from under it.

He shouted, 'Marty, you bloody wanker, you're enough to give diarrhea the shits. If you ever…'

At this point he noticed me. He spun around and stuck an accusatory finger in my general direction. A lock of his wild hair fell in his eyes.

'And who the bloody fuck is this?'

And that, dear friends, was my formal introduction to Quentin Finch, the movie star, the brilliant actor, the terrible attitude problem.

So we went inside. Jo, yours truly, and Martin - gallantly carrying my stuff - in tow. And Quentin, glaring. He was not amused that his mother had invited me, not amused in the least. He knew exactly who I was, to my surprise, and it turned out that he had been opposed to my staying over at the farm from the beginning. In his opinion, his mother should have cleared it with him first before inviting total strangers over on a whim.

He was distrustful to the extreme. The media had hounded him for years on end – his Hollywood bad boy rep made sure of that – and in all honesty, he hadn't necessarily helped the situation any by keeping a low profile. He had always bitterly complained about how journalists treated him. And hadn't hesitated to punch their lights out, if he saw fit. That much I did know.

I tried to tell him that I was definitely not a reporter and never had been. I was an editor, turned author. I only knew of him through the press, had probably never even seen a film he was in – and if I had, apparently I didn't remember, a comment he didn't appreciate either (oh well, I'll never make a good diplomat) - anyway, I tried to tell him all that, but he was sure I was 'after his arse' as he called it. He raged at his mother and his brother alternately for over an hour. Screaming, cursing, pacing up and down the room, the works.

At first I wasn't sure what to do so I just stood there as if watching a tennis match - plick, plock, from Quentin to Martin to Jo - but when he began shouting at me personally, finally I decided that it was enough. I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and asked no one in particular: 'Right, what do I dial here to get a taxi?'

'Oh no you don't,' Quentin said menacingly.

'Taryn, please,' Jo pleaded, simultaneously, 'I'm so sorry, please don't leave. I'm sure it'll be all right, just don't...'

'Well I believe it's best if I just go back to Coffs and take the next flight out back to Sydney and back to London from there. I would have loved to stay, Jo, but not like this. It has nothing to do with you of course and I really, really,' here I gave Quentin the meanest look I could muster under the circumstances, 'appreciate it that you invited me, but honestly. I mean…' I lifted my hands, still holding the cell in my right, and shook my head. 'I just don't enjoy being insulted very much, not even by someone who's apparently famous.'

Jo sighed, rubbed her hands together, gathered her courage and said: 'Quentin, Taryn's staying and that is that. And I think you should apologize to her. She is my guest.'

'Too right she's staying!'  said Quentin, poking another angry finger in my direction and clearly not in the mood for apologies. 'You don't think I let her walk off my property to bump her gums at the next fucking journo about me?' And to me: 'Y're in, bloody nosey sheila, so you better enjoy it coz you're not getting out again so easily.'

'Do you intend to keep me prisoner here because you're afraid that I will talk about you to the media?' Really. That was the most paranoid thing I ever heard. 'But I'm not even interested in you.' I said. 'I'm interested in your mother.'  I had walked up to him and, thinking he wasn’t the only one who had the ability to point at people, had jabbed a finger against his chest with the last two words. He took a step back and breathed out audibly, and I could smell liquor on his breath. So that explained this weird behaviour. Well, at least some of it.

He seemed to chew on my words, a little deflated. Then he turned, abruptly, and stormed out of the house, leaving the front door open.

'Marty, luv, you mind getting the door for me? We don't want the bugs to come in,' Jo said, seemingly as if nothing had happened. But she took me into the large kitchen with her and she sat on a stool, letting out a big, big sigh. 'He'll come round you know,' she said. 'He's a good bloke at heart. Just wait until you get to see his generous side. He's probably having a bad day because he's on the wagon…'

'Jo,' I said, 'Stop making excuses for him. He's a grown man, and what's more, he wasn't sober. I smelled his breath just now. I thought that the drink had made him so aggressive to begin with!'

'He wasn't? Oh damn it; pardon me,' Jo leaned her head in her hand and looked at me. 'He came here to get away from it all, to clean up both mentally and physically. He's been like this off and on, sometimes he even stays locked away in one of the cabins, not coming out for days. I thought he was just coming down from it all, he's been on a binge sort of, when he was in Europe. He's had some trouble with the law in the United States; it cost him a lot of money and his work permit, and on top of that he got his heart broken for the umpteenth time… I know,' she held up her hands to stop me from interrupting, 'he's a grown man and I shouldn't make excuses. But if he's not off the drink… What is he doing?!'

She looked at me helplessly. Tired. Resigned, also. And then her face lit up as a lovely girl, or better, a young woman, entered. She was called Sadie and turned out to be Martin's daughter.

'I didn't know you were back already,' Sadie said to Jo with a wide smile, after she had hugged her. And to me: 'You're Taryn Archer, aren't you? I'm reading your book! I'm really enjoying it, though apparently it's gone walkabout.' Back to Jo: 'Have you put it away somewhere, Nanna?'

'No I haven't love, last time I saw it, it was on the table by the telly. But this was some time ago, so… well, if you can't find it, you can have my copy.'

'Oh well, I'm sure it will turn up at some point.' And back to me: 'Great to meet you, Taryn! It'll be brilliant, having another girl in the house! My uncle chucked a wobbly again, did he? Don't pay him any heed, he does it all the time, but it doesn't mean anything. He's a good bloke at heart. You know, he's trying to give up smoking. Makes his moods even worse!' She smiled another brilliant smile and bounded out the kitchen again like a young deer.

I smiled at that, thinking to myself: 'I'm not entirely sure I agree with everything she just said, if I even understood it all, but I guess it's different when you're family. And hey, they both said it, so I guess he really must be... a good bloke at heart…'

Jo seemed to read my mind. 'It's true, you know. Gruff as he may be sometimes, you just have to love Quent. He's so, so special. I only wish,' she sighed again, 'I'd just really like to see him happy again. See him go back to his acting. He really loved his work, you know. And he's bloody good at it too, excuse me for saying it. There's enough that he could do here in Australia, if he'd just set his mind to it…' She looked out the window, then seemed to make up her mind. 'Well, enough of that. Let's get you settled in then. Where would you like to stay? I've had a cabin prepared because I reckoned you'd appreciate the privacy, if you want to do some writing, but you're just as welcome to stay here in the house if that's what you want.'

'Oh, a cabin would be lovely! I did bring my laptop and I'm working on an outline at the moment so I would love to get some work done while I'm here… Are you absolutely sure that I should stay? I mean, apart from the fact that I'm not looking forward to another bunch of insults, I don't want to cause any disruption or, I don't know, problems or anything…' I fiddled with my hair and, to my considerable surprise, heard this little voice in my head saying: I actually wouldn't mind so much running into Quentin again, even if it means he'll scream at me. Hell, I'd like to have another look at him. Erm, yum, I guess…

Jo went out of her way to reassure me and convince me that I should stay, and she said she had a big family dinner planned in my honour. I couldn't possibly go anywhere until that was prepared and eaten. She then took me to a cabin a short walking distance from the main house – there were a few other cabins scattered around nearby but there was more than enough privacy for my liking – and she told me to get some sleep. Someone would fetch me when dinner was ready, she said.

I slept as soon as my head hit the pillow.

~*~

Now, if that was it, it would have been simple. I might have stayed around for a bit, for Jo, but not too long. Definitely not the three months that I've already been here. Three months and counting. And still, the end is not in sight and things only seem to get more complicated. If only Quentin had indeed been the bad tempered drunk diva he had seemed at that first meeting. But no, he of course had to be more intriguing than that. Sweeter, rougher, wilder… As if he's doing it on purpose, damn him!

So I was happily snoring away the hours until dinner. Then, there was someone knocking on the door of my one-room cabin. I tried to wake up, which was really hard. I couldn't focus.

Knock, knock.

I reluctantly sat up, bleary-eyed, my hair a mess, hanging in my eyes. I just managed to work one leg out from under the sheets when the person outside decided to try the door, and with some force. It wasn't locked so it flew open.

It was him. Quentin. His eyes flashed a moment, then he hung his head and looked at me through the hair falling over his brow. I didn't know what to say, I was just so fuzzy from sleep and, to be completely honest, just a tad scared that he would start, erm, wobbling at me again. But he looked like he didn't quite know where to start. He shuffled his feet. I swept my hair back and swallowed.

'Hello, uh, Quentin,' I said hesitantly; voice croaking sleepily.

He flapped a hand and gave me sort of a nod. Shuffled his feet some more and rumbled quietly in his deep voice, 'Well, um, dinner's ready at the house. My mum asked me to come fetch you. Sorry if I startled you...'

He shot me another look through his hair, then turned halfway and stared out at the field beyond the cabin. Patted his pockets, then shrugged.

I scrambled out of bed in my t-shirt and undies and dug around in my bag for a fresh pair of jeans. I turned around just in time to see him size up my legs and arse. He had the decency to look away and mutter another, 'Sorry.'

First he refused to apologize, now his every second word was sorry? Who was he, Jekyll and Hyde? In the mean time, I hoisted up my jeans and fished a top out of my bag. 'Don't look please, now,' I said, holding up the garment as explanation.

Obediently, and surprisingly, he turned around. 'I'm not looking,' he said over his shoulder. I thought that was rather sweet, so I wriggled out of my shirt and into a new one, all the while keeping one eye out. He didn't turn around until I said I was finished. He then looked at me through his hair again and harrumphed.

I watched him for a second; I didn't understand at all. He seemed like a totally different person. He looked different too, now that all that anger had run out of him. Softer, more vulnerable, but still all male. Definitely extremely attractive, said the little voice in a dark corner of my brain. I pretended not to hear and headed towards the door.

When I got closer to him, an image forcefully broke in upon my mind, a vision of confusion, of searching, of shifting emotional tectonic plates. Of losing solid ground, walking on quicksand. Blazing anger, alternating with paralyzing anxiety and shattering insecurity… lashing out and grasping at straws, grasping at opportunities for the smallest bit of relief. I had never in my life been hit by such a broadcast of emotions before, I mean, damn, he could start up a radio station. Emo radio, brought to you by Quentin Finch.

I was so surprised and overpowered by it that I nearly stumbled over the threshold. Quentin's arm shot out and he grabbed me before I could fall on my face for real, and a hot flame licked through me.

What the hell?

I whipped my head around and looked at him as he did exactly the same; we just stood there in amazement, frozen, practically nose to nose, looking at each other while the points of contact between our bodies generated wave after wave of inexplicable heat.

'You f…feel that?' he rasped. He sounded as surprised as I felt.

I nodded; my tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of my mouth. 'Uh, mm, there's some sort of… thing…' I fumbled, stupidly. My mind had lost all coherence and could only think something like: Jesus God, kiss me, for fuck's sake, kiss me, I can't take this, KISS ME!

He leaned in and complied, as if he'd heard the thoughts spoken to him. His arm crept around my waist as his lips came down on my upper lip, gently sucking it in and giving it a swift little lick that ran straight through me. Of their own volition, my hands came up and tangled in his wild hair and I leaned against his solid, warm body. Everything started to tingle. A soft sound came from deep in his throat and then he kissed me in earnest, slow, wet, hot… I smelled the afternoon sunshine on his skin and I just wished time would stop there and then.

All of a sudden, we both seemed to come to our senses. We broke away and looked at each other, shocked. I was completely thrown off balance, confused and reeling, not only from this amazing kiss but also from the view of his inner turmoil that earlier had overtaken me so completely.

His eyes shifted. The soft, vulnerable, confused look was instantly replaced by something hard and mistrusting. I quickly stepped away from him, saying: 'Maybe we should…'

'Yeah, I reckon we ought to,' he interrupted, harshly. We walked back to the main house, he a few steps in front of me, his shoulders rigid, never looking back, never saying a word. I was almost running, trying to keep up with him, all the while thinking. Furiously thinking, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

~*~

The dinner, thank God, was lovely, and quite distracting. Which was good. The food was abundant, home cooked and fantastic and the company, in general, was happy, rowdy and noisy. Quentin joined in half-heartedly from time to time, but as soon as no one was watching him, he stabbed at his food with a fork, miserably, and sighed into his plate. He hardly ate, but did gulp down three huge glasses of red wine at a dangerous speed. Was that the Australian version of being on the wagon? I wondered.

He never once looked at me, he ignored me completely. This of course intrigued me - and it bloody well hurt, too, to be completely honest - especially since the little voice at the back of my mind was clamouring top volume for another one of those kisses.

I told the voice to shut up. Several times. No way was I prepared for this. I had a few bad experiences recently with guys who first literally courted me, flowers and chocolates, tickets to the theatre and midnight dinners by candle light, and only when I started to trust them and open up they did a 180 degree flip and magically morphed into the worst fear of commitment-types. And here was a man apparently so wound up in coils that fear of commitment seemed a minor problem by comparison. No, I told myself, it actually was a good thing that he ignored me, and I would do best to react in kind.

Now, isn't it strange that you can tell yourself these things, that they seem to make perfect sense, and that something else, something intangible and unknowable, still manages to drag you in exactly the opposite direction? I can get seriously frustrated thinking about these things.

~*~

After dinner, I helped Jo in the kitchen, washing up, cleaning, making coffee. Sadie was around as well and we chatted amiably.

'Did Quent come around to your cabin before dinner?' asked Jo. Quentin had eventually stalked away at so furious a pace that he had reached the main house way ahead of me, so I guess she thought I came in on my own.

'Well yes, actually, he did,' said I, leaving it at that.

Jo gave me a mother's look. She didn't say anything but her mind was working, I could tell. I wished I could have a look at what was going on in there, but I guess I can't order this gift of mine around. It has a mind of its own. (God, that sounds like it's a mental variety of penis, but I don't mean it that way.)

Sadie chimed in: 'I still haven't found your book Taz, um, Taryn, I mean.'

I smiled. 'Don't mind if you call me that, Sade, go right ahead.' I liked her, she was just so sweet and uncomplicated.

She smiled too. ' I guess it's the Oz way with names eh? Strange though, don't you think, that your book just evaporated, just like that? I'll take another gander around the house this evening. Weird, innit, Nanna?' And to me, in lightning quick transition: 'You definitely made an impression on my dad you know?'

'I did?' I had had no idea. I had been so occupied with thinking about Quentin that I apparently failed to notice anything else. Now I remembered Martin holding my hand for just a little bit too long when we were introduced.

'Yeah, He thought you were a 'top sheila, real easy on the eyes',' she imitated a man's voice, which sounded extremely funny. We screeched with laughter and I couldn't stop giggling until I hiccupped and my eyes were watering. 'Ow, my face,' I moaned, as the laughing cramps set in.

At this point Martin came into the kitchen to see what all the noise was about and just his surprised look set us all off again. He proceeded to pound me on the back, which only made it worse, and eventually I half hung against him, trying not to fall over, tears still streaming down my face. Isn't it strange that these attacks of uncontrollable mirth can happen on almost nothing? Poor Martin, who didn't have a clue, could only smile along because of, well you know, the sheer contagiousness of it.

Apparently not so for Quentin. He was quite immune to the mirth virus. He came into the kitchen, gave the whole jolly scene one long, blistering stare and slunk out the kitchen door. Said not a word, not a hint of a smile on his face.

'What the fuck is wrong with my brother.' Martin stated more than asked. 'I've really had it up to here with 'im and his dramas. Okay, I understand that things aren't working out for him right now and I do feel sorry for him. But he just manages to make a right cock-up of practically everything, doesn't he? Ruins a perfect beaut of an international acting career, finds himself going out with Bree Roberts no less and manages to, to….' His voice trailed off.

'Marty,' Jo warned.

All the laughter had drained from the kitchen. The silence was awkward.

'Well, I am making sense and you know it, mum.' Martin said, defensively. 'It's just that no one says it out loud around here because he's the special one, he always gets away with it all, but I'm sure that even you have thought it at some point. Quent is being a right messy bastard with his life and the people he professes to love. Us, as well, not just the glitzy sheilas up in LA.' He swiveled and looked at me. 'Well I guess you landed yourself a nice family to have yer holidays with eh, luv? Bunch of deranged nutters, the lot of us.' He scratched his head and went out.

'Let's have our coffees outside,' said Jo, gathering cups and assorted stuff for coffee.

'Maybe I should dash back to the cabin, get a cardigan or something,' I was feeling chilly all of a sudden. 'Be right back,' I said over my shoulder, and headed out myself. I could do with the walk. Clear my head.

I thought a bit about Marty for a change – he had a nice, solid, warm body too, which I noticed when I was leaning up against him in the kitchen, and he seemed, well, a whole lot more reliable than his famous brother. I didn't feel all these incredible, confusing, shattering things with Marty, but if anything, he would be the sensible choice, is what I thought. If there was any choosing to be done, that is. Which there wouldn't be, because I didn't come here looking for a fling, or an affair, or a relationship, I was here for a friend. And a rest. So there.

I was so caught up in my thoughts about the Finch brothers that I failed to notice one of them leaning against a tree close to my cabin. Quentin. I only saw him when I almost stumbled over him, but apparently he hadn't seen me coming either. Instead, he was staring at my cabin. Staring like it was some sort of nasty animal, like he was working up the courage for something.

'Erm, hi. Quentin. I guess,' I said, softly.

He jolted, turned around and scowled. 'For fuck's sake, why you come sneak…' he started, apparently ready for the next row, then suddenly staring at the ground. Poking at a bit of red dirt with his scuffed blunny, rubbing one hand with the other like it was hurting.

'What,' said I, finally ready to do some wobbling of my own if necessary, now that I was fed and rested, 'what is it with you? Why are you so hostile? Why do you act like I'm some sort of a threat, I mean, you don't even know me. What the hell are you thinking? Eh? What are you really, really thinking?' I moved in closer as I spoke, and all on its own, my angry tone of voice was dissipating. I went on, more quietly, 'What's on your mind? What is it, what's in your heart, Quentin? Tell me, talk to me. Maybe you'll feel better, maybe… Maybe I can…' I couldn't bring myself to say it. Maybe I can have a look for you, maybe I can see something, and help you.

'No one's asked me that before,' he said quietly, still looking down.

'Asked you what?'

I was standing really close to him now and I was beginning to feel the pull that came off him, that wanted to draw me against his body, wanted me to wrap my arms around him and... I resisted as hard as I could. After all – I mean, be real! - he didn't know me and I didn't know him. That kiss we shared was just a strange moment, coincidental almost, accidental even. It had meant nothing. Nothing.

He started speaking, his voice almost a whisper. 'What's in my heart. Everyone has been so quick to judge me, the media put me on trial, the whole world seems to have some sort of opinion on everything that I do, or don't do, and it's all based on nothing. Nobody,' he looked up, all intensity again, 'NO ONE actually asks me.' His hand snuck out and took mine.

'Well I'm asking,' I said softly, meeting his fiery stare, my heart pounding, my hand too hot in his.

He looked at me a long, long time. He didn't speak, just looked, as if to weigh me.  'There's a black hole in my heart,' he finally said, soft, low, almost menacing. At the same time, his thumb was rubbing the back of my hand softly, and it made my head swim and my arm tingle. 'A black hole, and it sucks everything in. My brother's right. Oh yeah, I heard 'im. He's an arse sometimes, but he knows me. So I'm tellin' you. Don't come near me. Just… Stay away from me. I'm no good. I'm… I'm poison.' He spat out the last word and let go of my hand so suddenly that he almost threw it away.

'Quent,' I said, holding out my hand, wanting him to stay, to keep talking, to keep touching.

But he had already turned away. He walked off, shoulders hunched, as if he had to get rid of something.

I then heard the tinny tune of a mobile and saw him fish one out of his pocket, check the number and quickly pick up the call. His posture changed as he continued to walk away, talking into his phone; he righted his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. I heard him laughing softly. Black hole. Yeah, right.

So I went in, got my cardie, had an after dinner coffee with Jo and Sadie. Quentin was nowhere to be seen and neither was Martin. My first day at Nana ended peacefully enough, thank God for that. But that night I dreamt of Quentin.

Chapter Three

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