The following days, leading up to the court case, Quentin rang me up at least twice a day, and he texted me several times a day too. I was amazed he found the time for it.

Usually, we didn’t really know what to say – there was just so much that couldn’t be said. So he told me what he had been doing, and I let him know what had been happening at Nana.

Between phone calls, all I really did was count the hours, trying to figure out when I would hear from him again. I never knew when that would be and I had to sit on my hands to prevent myself from ringing him when it took longer than I had anticipated. But I didn’t. Ball in his court. He was the one getting married.

Every time we spoke, I could hear he was getting more and more anxious as the court day drew nearer, but I couldn’t tell if what was going on between us was causing any of it. I mean, after all, it wasn’t as if there was actually anything, erm, happening between us... he just, erm, rang me up and we talked a bit. Twice a day. At the very least. And I bravely soldiered on, trying to convince myself that he was only waiting to get his permit back and pick up his life as an international A-list actor. And it didn’t help.

You’re not surprised? Can’t imagine why not.

Oh, how I dreaded that moment when Quentin would leave the courtroom, work permit secured, ready to get on with it in good old Hollywood. I knew that every day I allowed myself to be in love with him would make it harder to deal with reality the moment he would marry Brianna and star in the next film. But I just couldn’t help myself; it felt too damn good.

Most times he phoned in when he stepped outside for a smoke break. Sometimes he rang me from the bathroom, which was always a bit strange. Once, he rang up from a broom closet in the hotel he was staying in: he found the door unlocked, checked if his phone still worked amidst the cleaning carts and the buckets and stuff, and jumped at the opportunity. It had a wonderful sense of illegality to it, which, added to the impossibility of the whole situation, was all the more irresistible to an utter romantic idiot such as yours truly. 

Jo saw it all unfold and smiled. She was immensely happy that I had decided to stay until after the court case and it was like she could barely restrain herself from treating me like… like I was… Quentin’s girlfriend? The thought alone made me giddy. Me. Quentin Finch’s girlfriend. Just imagine. No! No, don’t imagine. Whatever you do, Taryn, don’t imagine!

Then, the day before the court case, Jo came back into the kitchen with the mail: a stack of letters and a newspaper in her hand, and a frown on her face.

The kitchen had become my favourite room in the house. In the evenings, everybody gathered in the lounge to watch the news or sport on the immense flat screen TV – they were all very much into cricket and football, but Sadie was a sitcom addict, and sometimes, hilarious fights over the remote would break out. Days however were, as far as I was concerned, best spent in the enormous, sunny kitchen. And since the cabin was still far from inhabitable, I made the kitchen my base when I wasn’t at work in the guest room.

‘What is it, Jo?’ I asked, emerging from a huge tea mug.

She smacked the mail on the table and gingerly folded out the newspaper. I saw a big Q in the headlines and stretched to see. Jo turned the paper a bit so I could read with her; she sighed and her face fell as she continued to read. Quentin had made the front page yet again, and it wasn’t good.

‘Quentin Finch hasn’t lost his punch’ it said, and the piece featured a large blurry photo that showed Quent, fist ready to let fly, and what looked like a guy in a black jumper, and jeans. They were obviously not on friendly terms. Several chairs were strewn around.

The scene had unfolded on the terrace of an apparently very posh restaurant in LA. A blonde blur at a table was, according to the caption, Brianna Roberts, Quentin’s fiancée. The guy in jeans was a reporter who had approached the pair during their lunch, and apparently he had pressed Quentin for the date of the wedding. Quentin wouldn’t say, and the guy wouldn’t leave. A fist fight ensued.

There were two smaller pictures as well, one of the reporter, showing a big bruise on his chin, and one of Quentin, taken from a distance and enlarged almost beyond the point of recognition. It looked like he had a black eye, but it was hard to be sure.

The Australian newspaper did not necessarily condemn Quentin, but it did mention a lot of negative publicity in the US. Chances were, it said, this stunt could affect the upcoming court case.

Jo sat down and gave me an exasperated look. ‘If only he’d learn to count to ten…’ she sighed.

I got my mobile out.

‘Are you going to ring him?’ Jo asked. ‘You’ll probably not get through. I used to try to phone him whenever something had happened and I saw it on the news, or read it in the paper, but he was always completely screened off by his publicist, until the whole thing was under control again.’

‘Maybe if I’ll text, it’ll get through?’ I said, and thumbed the menu on my mobile. I’d be breaking the rules, getting in touch with him. But this was an emergency, I convinced myself. You can no doubt imagine how hard it was, convincing myself. My thumb raced over the keys on my phone.

‘you ok?’ my message said. Immediately after I sent it, I started worrying if he’d even notice it. He probably didn’t even have his mobile on him, and if he did, he’d never be able to reply. Or would he?

30 seconds later that question was answered when my mobile beeped. ‘no worries just coupla bruises’, it said. And another, say, 20 seconds later: ‘my press lady goin mental on me’

I answered: ‘it’s in the papers here too’

A few seconds later ‘lost my rag’ came in, followed shortly by: ‘sorry’

I smiled and sent him ‘no apologies’ in reply.

Another 30 seconds later, my mobile rang.

‘Quent?’

‘Ta-erm... hi.’

He couldn’t speak freely, then. He sounded clipped, tense. I heard some voices in the background, someone calling his name.

‘I’ll be right with you,’ he said to whoever wanted him, and then continued to me: ‘Can’t stay on for long, Jenny’s got me on radio silence and she’ll have me put to the sword if she finds out I’m talking to anyone other than who is on her list.’

‘Guess I’m not on it then. Her list.’

‘Reckon you’re not. But hey, you’re on mine,’ he said, and I could hear a smile in his voice.

It sounded like he was moving around. Suddenly his voice was different, closer by, ‘Christ, Taz, what a bloody mess, hey? I’m a mobile disaster area, me. Yeah, I know what you’re going to say, it’s all my own fault. Shouldn’t have let that fuckin’ journo get me out of my chair. Had a massive blue over it with Bree when we got back to the hotel... She reckons I should have given him a date for the wedding. We’ve been talking about the when on and off and...’

‘Have you set a date then?’ I asked, shivering, feeling really cold all of a sudden. Jo, who had stuck around to listen in, suddenly had big round eyes.

‘No-o,’ he said hesitantly.

He had the worst case of Ozzie vowel spillage. He managed to put at least an extra i and a u in that one little o of no. I smiled, despite the coldness around my heart.

‘I can’t seem to make up my mind on the bloody date,’ he went on. ‘Every time Bree comes up with a suggestion, I have some reason why not. I’m driving her crazy. Reckon I’m driving everybody crazy around here.’ He sounded so unhappy, I gripped my mobile a little tighter, as if I could get closer to him that way.

‘Are you...’ I wasn’t sure I should say this, but I couldn’t stop myself now that I’d started, ‘are you... absolutely sure you still want to go on with it then?’

Quentin made a coupe of false starts trying to answer that: ‘I, um, well, I gi... wha...’ then he fell silent. After a bit, he softly muttered ‘Bloody hell!’ as much to himself as to me, then he seemed to be thinking. ‘I don’t know anymore, Taz,’ he finally said, ‘I really... it’s a fuckin’ nightmare.’

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just listened to him breathing for a bit. He didn’t say anything either, but neither did he hang up.

I heard the clicking sound of high heels on a wooden floor on his end, getting louder, and then Bree’s voice: ‘Q? Where are you?’

Quent kept silent, but I noticed his breathing change ever so slightly.

‘Q! You’re on the phone! Jesus H. Christ. Have you completely taken leave of your senses? Why do you keep ignoring what Jenny is instructing you to do? You’re so unbelievably stupid sometimes; it’s hard to believe you’re actually a grown man. Who the hell are you talking to?’ She sounded really close by now.

Christ, was she like that all the time? Suddenly I remembered Sadie calling her an überbitch. Good description. I grimaced.

‘...’s just home,’ he said, defensively at first; then, annoyed: ‘I’m allowed to talk to my rellies, or am I?’ I imagined his brow forming a straight line, his eyes narrowing.

‘Give me that,’ she snapped, and from what I heard I took it she tried to grab his mobile.

‘Oi! Rack off!’ he bellowed, really loud, right into the phone. I jumped. He added a quick, low ‘...uh, sorry,’ to me, as if he could see me.

‘Quentin, give it to me. You never once called home when we were together before, and now you have this sudden urge to call your “rellies” every other minute, or to send messages, or whatever it is you’re doing. Who are you talking to? Who’s on the other end? Give me that phone.’

‘It’s my Mum!’ he growled. ‘She was worried I got hurt. Can’t say your reaction was equally caring, luv.’

‘I just won’t condone your ridiculous, childish behaviour. I just wish you’d finally remember you’re in LA. Behave accordingly, damn you! Why couldn’t you just give that reporter a proper answer to his question? We’ve discussed so many dates, there has to be one that fits your “schedule”,’ she said it with palpable disdain, ‘since you’re currently not attached to any projects?! Now give me that phone.’

Apparently she managed to distract him long enough with that verbal lashing to grab hold of his mobile and wrench it from his grasp.

I surprised myself and reacted lightning quick. ‘Jo!’  I whispered, ‘Bree thinks he’s talking to you!’ I handed Jo my mobile.

She grabbed it, put it to her ear and said, completely calm and in control: ‘Hello? Quentin? What’s going... Oh hello Bree, how are you?’

I couldn’t hear what was said on the other end, but Jo said, still utterly calm; ‘Yes, I think it’s lovely that he calls home a bit more often nowadays. He never used to, but I guess these things change as one grows older, don’t they? I’m really happy to hear that he’s all right, my boy.’

Some more blathering from Bree, to which Jo replied with a variety of monosyllabic answers. Then Jo said, ‘...will you put my son back on, Bree? There’s a good girl. Bye now.’ She gave back my mobile with a conspiratorial wink.

I listened and heard Quentin growl: ‘Let me have that, for fuck’s sake’ and then, directly into my ear: ‘Mum?’

‘Erm, yes it was your Mum, we swapped just in time,’ I said, smiling.

‘Oh. Right.’ He still sounded gruff, but I was sure it wasn’t directed at me. I heard him take a couple of deep breaths. ‘So... erm,’ he finally said, when he had calmed down a little, ‘I reckon I should go. But, uh, thanks for getting in touch, that’s really... it means a lot to me right now, it really does. So, um, yeah... I’ll ring back when I can, OK… Mum?’

‘Yes. OK. Quent? I...’

‘Mmm?’ he went, and I remembered his eyes, staring down into mine, changing from gray to sea green and back with the light. That treacherous warm feeling gushed through me.

‘No, I just wanted to say I’m, I’ll be right here, waiting to... hear you, I’ll... erm,’  I stammered.

‘I know. I know you will. Love you. Take care. Talk to you soon.’ He hung up.

I nearly gasped. He had said it. Deliberately, this time. Slipped it in craftily, too. Or... was it only part of the act, part of talking to his “Mum”? I sat staring at my mobile again.

~*~

That evening, when dinner was over, I withdrew to the guest room with my coffee, with the intention of doing some editing. I fired up my laptop and stared at the wall, sipping my coffee, Quentin’s voice still ringing in my ears. Love you. Take care.

Earlier in the day, I had helped Jo with some of her washing. When I thought she wasn’t looking, I had fished Quentin’s old flannel shirt out of the hamper – the one he had been wearing when the roof came down. It smelled of him. It made my heart slosh around in my chest; I had to close my eyes against the giddiness.

I of course had nicked it and hid it under my pillow. Yeah, yeah, so go ahead and make fun of me; let me see what you’d do in my position.

So now, alone in the room, I got my booty out and I buried my face in it. It was like he was there, like he had his arms around me. That sensation of belonging that I had felt when he held me came back in a rush and I nearly sobbed. I also felt a hot flame of longing lick through me, and all my sensitive spots fluttered and tingled in response.

It was no use; I couldn’t work like this. I’d be totally useless. So I shed my clothes and got into bed, hugging the flannel and holding my mobile. It was lights out at ten.

I allowed my imagination to wander, my cheek against Quentin’s shirt. My hand crept down and nestled between my legs, all on its own accord, and I took it slow, enjoying the haziness for as long as possible. In my mind, Quentin and I were together, making love by the fire. Yes, it’s corny, but allow a girl her fantasies, all right? He was between my legs, nuzzling my cleft. I writhed and moaned; he looked up at me with sweet, loving mischief in his eyes, the firelight playing over his hair and face. Then, when I could barely hold on any longer, he covered my body with his, his big, hard cock throbbing against my…

…mobile. It rang. God, I felt so caught! I must have blushed a hitherto unimagined shade of eggplant and I yanked my hand away from my nether regions. Turned on my belly and picked up.

‘Quent?’ Still a bit breathless.

‘Tazz-zie?’ He slurred. ‘Christ, Taz, I can’t sleep… I’m as awake as an… uh... can’t think of anything, actually.’ He giggled at that.

‘Where are you, um, what time is it?’

‘…’m in the loo and it’s, oh, lemme check… uhhh….  Bloody hell, fuckin’ watch, I pay good money for a watch and they can’t even… Well have a go at that! It’s got a light!’ He sounded absurdly happy all of a sudden. Then I heard a weird noise. Thud. Then: ‘…fuck.’

‘What’s going on, Quent, are you OK?’ I was counting in the mean time: it must be either really late or really early for him. Then a thought struck me. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Nah, wouldn’t call it that. I only ordered a bottle of Glen… somethin’-or-other. Can’t remember. Expensive single malt. Polished that off, still couldn’t sleep. So I had a bit of a go at the minibar. Then I thought I ought to have a wank. Or maybe chunder up my guts. Either would do at this point, reckon, ‘s why I’m in the loo. Fuck, Taz, I’m knackered and I wanna get some sleee-eeep…’ He yawned and burped. ‘Pardon me,’ he added, politely.

‘Poor Quent,’ I smiled into my mobile, ‘You do know that I can’t come ‘round to wipe your face if you throw up, do you?’

‘Ah, no worries, I’ll be alright... Hey, you not gonna give me an ear bashing for bein’ on the piss, tomorrow being the big day and all?’ He sounded mildly incredulous.

‘No, why?’ said I. ‘Should I?’

‘No-o,’ vowel spillage again, ‘Just reckoned, uh... Oh well, fuck it.’

‘So let me see, instead of throwing up or masturbating, you decided to ring me?’ I smiled again. ‘Should I be flattered or insulted?’

‘Ooh, flattered, Tazzie-luv,’ he sighed, somewhere between tired, drunk and lustful. ‘Definitely flattered. I was just thinking about... when the roof... remember, how we nearly got to... Jesus, just thinkin’ about it, about you...’ I heard him fiddle about a bit, then his breathing quickened a little.

‘Hey, are you... are you having that wank after all?’  I inquired, his drunken uninhibitedness taking me completely by surprise. I felt embarrassed, but also aroused beyond belief. I touched myself again, tentatively at first, but it felt so good, I couldn’t stop.

‘Uh,’ said Quentin. ‘Talk to me Taz, I wanna hear your voice...’ Something with a certain rhythm was definitely going on over on his end. ‘Christ, I wanna be with you...’ he almost gasped now. ‘... You with me there, luv?’

‘I am,’ I breathed, ‘I’m with you... I want to feel you, Quent, feel you deep... inside me... I need you so, I’m thinking about you all the time, I want to ... to...’

‘What, luv-vie-...  Ahh, God I wanna pin you to the wall and root you blind... and you’ll be mine, all... mi-ine...’ A strangled grunt, and then he was done.

Just to hear him was enough to have me come right alongside of him and I could only squeak as I shook and shuddered from the release.

Immediately after, though, I felt horribly ashamed. I’d never done anything like that in my whole life, and if that weren’t enough to induce at least a twinge of uneasiness, the man I had this flash of sexual liberation with was... I mean, just consider the situation. He was so far out of my league it was laughable, he was engaged to a woman who was about a million times more beautiful, interesting and, well, famous, than I, he was... I hid my head under the duvet and tried very hard not to cry.

I heard him come down slowly on the other end, breathing heavily into the phone for a bit, then came a soft ‘...Tazzie-luv?’

‘Quent... I’m so embarrassed,’ I whispered in the dark, head still under the covers.

‘Ohhh, why, luvvie? Don’t be, wasn’t it good?’

‘Yes... it was very good. It was almost as if we really were together. But you know, I’ve never... on the phone. And besides, you and Bree...’

‘Shhh,’ he interrupted me. ‘Don’t. Don’t say it. I know, bloody nip it in the bud and all that, but I just... Taz, I just...’ He floundered.

‘What?’ I still whispered.

‘You really thinkin’ about me all the time?’ he whispered back after a bit.

‘Yes,’ almost inaudible.

‘I’m thinkin’ about you all the time, too,’

‘Oh... gosh...’ I said, hating myself for sounding so lame.

‘Yeah... fuckin’... gosh indeed,’ he said softly. ‘Christ, Taz, I reckoned that, because you’re so keen to go home, and because you never ring me first... I guess I just thought you didn’t really...’

‘But I only never rang you because I thought you’d be too busy,’ I hastily cut in. ‘And besides, you’re engaged... It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to ring you. And I wanted to go back to London because I thought you’d just... well, once you got to the States, you’d get sucked back into, you know, the big life, and you’d just forget about me.’

‘Mm-mm, Tazzie-luv,’ he purred in a dreamy voice, as if forgetting about me was just an inconceivable notion.

That made my stomach flutter, but still I had to ask: ‘So erm... what’s happening with... you and Bree then...?’

‘Well fuck if I know, Taz,’ he said, sobering up all of a sudden. ‘Bree’s asleep, she’s in the other suite, said she needed some time to herself... We had a bit of a... discussion yesterday afternoon... We’re not... I guess we’re not doing so well at the moment. I’m, I dunno if we… Shit, I just dunno. Period. I’m not dealing with that at the moment, I reckon I should get through tomorrow first. I’m a simple bloke, you know, I can’t handle this kind of stress at multiple levels.’ He laughed ruefully, but underneath I thought I heard his nervousness. God, he must feel so lonely, so forlorn, I thought. I wished I could crawl into the phone, come out again at his end and wrap my arms around him.

He was silent for a bit, then he decided: ‘Well, maybe I should have another go at it now eh, try to get some sleep while I still have time.’ And then, low and very serious: ‘So... um… goodnight then, my love.’

‘Goodnight my love,’ I replied, my heart liquefying in my chest.

‘Night,’

‘Mm,’

‘Taz.’

‘Yeah?’

‘No, just wanted to say your name again.’

‘You’re crazy,’ I smiled and loved him so much that it hurt.

‘Night then,’ he said, a smile in his voice now, too.

‘We’ll never hang up like this.’

‘No, reckon we won’t. You first.’

‘I can’t.’ I was curled up under the duvet again, hugging his voice.

‘Well I can’t either, Tazzie, Taz, Tazzie-luv...’

‘Oh, Quent...’ I melted into a puddle. ‘Maybe... maybe we should count down. On three, then?’

‘Righto. On three.’

‘One...’

‘Two...’ we said in unison, ‘...three...’

‘Taz?’

I had to laugh. So did he. Then finally, we hung up.

~*~

The next day, he was due in court at one in the afternoon, which meant seven in the morning for us. So, we all watched the news at seven to see him go in, but for some reason, at first, all we got was a mention. No live images. The telly stayed on though, and we all sat waiting for the next broadcast, talking about his chances, hoping for more information.

The first footage of Quentin entering the building came on around half eight. He was wearing shades that hid his bruises and we couldn’t get a good look at his face, but I could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was tired. Bree was with him, looking stunning as usual, but I noticed she didn’t hold his hand as they went in.

I was still chewing on everything that he had said, trying to extract every possible sliver of meaning from it. As one does when one is in love. So, he was thinking about me all the time. He was worried that I wasn’t thinking about him all the time. His relationship with Bree wasn’t doing so well. He had deliberately said he loved me, but perhaps that had been part of the act of making Bree believe I was his Mum. But then he had actually said “goodnight my love”, which felt like the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me. No, honest, it really did.

Or... was that just a phrase, too? Was it all acting to him? My mind played see-saw with me and I just sat there on the settee, my eyes wide open, watching the telly like a rabbit in the headlights, dying and terrified to find out more in equal parts.

It was amazing how much press had gathered outside the court building. As the clip showing Quentin entering the building was played again and again, I started noticing more of what was happening. There was a large crowd of onlookers and a veritable forest of cameras and mikes. Again, it struck me how different Quentin’s life had to be, compared to living here at Nana. It made me feel left out, superfluous. That world, I didn’t belong there. He did. Bree did.

My heart squeezed painfully when I realized that it was time to wake up and smell that dreaded coffee. Quentin was just not for me and I would be a fool to think even for an instant that things could be different. I forced myself to get up.

‘Going to do some work,’ I said. Everybody stared at me like I was insane. ‘Please give me a shout when there’s any news,’ I added, and marched from the room before anyone could say anything.

I sat in the guest room, staring at my laptop screen. It wasn’t even running; I couldn’t bring myself to fire it up. I have to go, I have to go, it sang in my head, and after a while I got up and moved around the room, rearranging my things, thinking I should start packing, but I just couldn’t physically put anything in my bag. Not yet. But soon. Soon I would have to get my arse in gear.

I had promised to stay on until after the court case, and the court case was happening right now. Any moment now, he could come walking out of that building with a brand new work permit in his pocket and this last week, all the phone calls and that heart-wrenching, breath-taking intimacy that had been growing between us, would all go up in smoke. He would go back to his acting. He’d patch it up with Bree, no doubt. They knew each other; I was quite sure they would find a way to work it out. I didn’t belong there with him, in the limelight; Bree did. Bree did. I folded up some clothes and laid them on the bed. I have to go, I have to go…

Then, suddenly, Sadie came running into the room, without even knocking. ‘Taz, you’ve got to come back in now, now, they’re saying he’s about to come out. They even interrupted everything else, and it’s on all channels!’

The whole of Australia must be watching, I thought, if they deem it important enough to bring everything to a screeching halt to show this. I ran after her, back into the living room, just as the news went live to the street right in front of the court building.

There were lots more people around and the press had at least doubled in numbers. We waited, while a nervous reporter lady in a red outfit stammered her way through an impromptu introduction. As she spoke, the door opened. First some security, then Bree, then Quentin. Bree looked furious, Quentin was wearing a set, resigned expression. He hesitated only for a second when something resembling a bouquet of brightly coloured microphones was stuck into his face, then he said, so composed it was bordering on uninvolved, ‘The decision to deny me a US work permit wasn’t revoked. Reckon I’m unemployed.’ He paused, then added a closing ‘Thank you,’ and turned away from the cameras.

The crowd roared and the reporter lady started nattering her incoherent comments on the situation, off camera. Quentin dug into his pocket. His hand emerged holding his mobile. Bree was repeating an uninspired ‘No comment, no comment,’ to the bunch of mikes when my mobile started ringing.

‘Quent, oh my God I’m so sorry,’ I said, as Martin considerately tuned down the volume on the telly.

Everybody was definitely looking at me now. I thought that the situation (insofar as it existed) between Quentin and me was a relative secret, but now I got the full meaning of ‘bush telegraph’. They all knew, and from their expressions I gathered that they were all rooting for me. Maybe Sadie and Martin weren’t the only ones who didn’t fancy having Brianna for a Finch family member.

‘Taz… Are you getting this live,’ Quentin’s voice was almost completely devoid of emotion and I could barely hear him over the din on his end.

‘Yes, we’re all watching,’ I said, to nods from all in the room.

‘Where are you…. Taz, where are you?’ Quentin said, swiveling around and looking directly into different cameras.

‘Stop, no, that one! Yeah, that’s the one,’ I said, as suddenly he was looking right at us on the television screen. The farm hands gave a small cheer. It was so strange to hear and see him at the same time, something inside me wanted to go over to the telly and touch his face.

He smiled a pinched little smile from the other side of the world, his eyes not joining in, then he turned away. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ car?’ he muttered, phone glued to his ear. ‘I need to get out of this… get out of here, fast.’ The crowd was moving in closer and closer and cameras followed his every move. He was jostled and I heard him curse: ‘Bloody hell! Christ, Ron I need some space.’

Immediately the security guys made some room around him and Bree, and slowly his group edged to the curb, where a big black SUV with tinted windows was just pulling up.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked, really not expecting him to answer. Things were just so hectic.

‘Y-yeah, I’m, I’ll live. Taz, I wanna... Oi, watch it, you bloody… bugger!’ This last bit to a photographer who nearly knocked the mobile out of his hands trying to get a good close-up. ‘Ron?!’ he growled, and I saw him point at the guy.

The security guys removed him quietly as Quentin and Bree got into the car. Quent disappeared from view; the cameras zooming in on the car were unable to get anything through the tinted windows. I could still hear him though, he was breathing fast and shallow.

The car drove off and the news item ended. I got up and left the room, mobile still to my ear, as everyone started to talk rather loudly about what had just unfolded. I didn’t think anyone would notice me gone as a heated discussion about US justice and the power of the media erupted.

Inside the car, I could hear Bree talking to Quent. She came in loud, clear and bitchy: ‘Q, I can’t believe you! Who are you calling now? Who the hell is so important that you can’t even wait to call until we’re back at the hotel? And don’t tell me it’s your mother again or I’ll scream.’

‘No, it’s not my Mum, Brianna,’ he said to her, dangerously calm and chillingly formal. ‘It’s Taryn Archer. It’s been Taryn all along.’ Still that matter-of-fact coldness.

My heart almost stopped beating.

‘What are you telling me?’ Bree was incredulous to the point of hysteria, ‘You’re calling Taryn? Taryn? I don’t fucking believe it …and just… get that phone away from your face, you, you…’

Sounds of a scuffle.

‘Lay off, just… LAY THE FUCK OFF!’ Quentin bellowed, his voice reverberating in the confinement of the car. ‘Taz has been a real mate, Brianna, and I am not particularly happy at the moment, as you can surely imagine. I really need to feel supported by the people I consider my close friends. You have no right to deny me that.’

‘Deny you? DENY YOU?’ Bree was screaming even louder than Quentin by now; my mobile clipped as it couldn’t process the amount of decibels properly. Or maybe it was her nasality. I grinned evilly despite feeling horrific at hearing them going at it like that. I held the mobile away from my ear, but couldn’t bring myself to hang up. I went into the guest room and sat down on the bed.

Tell you the truth, I was horrified yet… fascinated, I’m very embarrassed to admit. A part of me wanted Bree to be the worst snake-haired fury imaginable, so that Quentin could finally see her for what she really was and come to his senses. And choose me, of course. Another part of me, the better part I would like to think, didn’t want Quentin to hurt. He should be happy, as happy as humanly possible, and if Bree was the one to make him so…

But she wasn’t making him happy, she was screaming at him in the car! My evil half was winning. I put the phone back to my ear.

The sounds were a bit muffled and I heard fabric scouring. Maybe Quent had put me in his pocket without hanging up. I smiled a little smile at the image of being in his pocket; I wondered if he’d done it deliberately.

‘You’ll never change, you’ll just… never change,’ Bree said, bitter, but at least she was no longer screaming.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Brianna, I never even so much as looked at another woman when we were together, when we were really together. It was you I wanted, and you alone.’ Quentin sounded tired and resigned, but also aloof. ‘It was your decision, Bree, yours. Not mine,’ he continued. ‘You were the one to choose your career over everything else. I just didn’t see the point in remaining faithful to you when you were the one to end the relationship. You think that’s strange?’

Bree didn’t answer. I kept listening, embarrassed but riveted.

‘So why do you keep throwing a couple of one night stands back into my face?’ Quentin went on, sounding even more tired. ‘I was lonely and heartbroken, I was just trying to get on with my life.’ A big sigh. ‘Oh well, fuck it, I just don’t feel like explaining myself to you any more.’

I heard more fabric rustle and I imagined he turned and looked out the window.

‘So what do we do now?’ I heard Bree say. Was she insecure now, or was I imagining things?

Quentin’s voice suddenly sounded quite clear: ‘I’m going back to Oz, Bree. This is not working out. We’re not working out. I thought that we could finally make it, I was really happy, I mean, it was a bloody dream come true for me. But I guess I was wrong. All we do is fight. I just…’

‘You’re going to be with Taryn?’ Bree interrupted, sharply, ‘boring, eternally underdressed Taryn with her stupid book and her mousy hair and her needy doe’s eyes and her stiff upper lip attitude? God, Q, I didn’t think you could sink so low.’

‘I don’t think I’m going to be with anyone for a while,’ Quentin said, sad and dispirited. ‘I need to think. I need to get home and think. But I don’t think Taz’s got mousy hair, I think she’s actually quite nice to look at, in a natural sort of way… I think she’s…’

‘Oh shut up about that woman, I don’t want to hear her name ever again,’ screeched Bree all of a sudden, startling me. ‘You’re dumping me for that insignificant bitch, I can’t believe you’re dumping me for…’ I heard scuffling sounds again, like, maybe she was pummeling him, and then suddenly my mobile went dead.

Reckon she must have hit the phone in his pocket.

I sat on the bed, numb, for I don’t know how long. He was coming home. He was coming back to Nana, but he didn’t want to be with me. He needed to be alone. Rationally, I could fully understand that, I mean, yeah, it’s so wrong to run from the one relationship straight into the next. We all know that, don’t we? And he and Bree had a long history together. He would need time to grieve.

But I didn’t know how I was going to deal with it, emotionally; I couldn’t see myself being here with him around, and not being able to, to… A tear slid down my cheek. I had never even imagined this could happen, though now, it seemed like the only possible way. Of course he’s going to want some space, some time for himself, you stupid cow, naive bloody idiot. Did you really think he’d come back just for you?

Finally, I gathered my strength and threw my bag onto the bed. I should start packing. This doe-eyed, mousy-haired bitch was moving back to London, and that was that.

Chapter Nine

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