I cry intermittently for the whole duration of the trip. It’s not an uncontrollable sobbing, nothing overly dramatic, just a slow trickle of tears. On my way to London, as the night sets in and most passengers are settling down to get some sleep, the Qantas stewardess brings me a packet of paper hankies and softly asks, with genuine feeling behind it: ‘…boyfriend?’

I nod, and smile through my tears.

‘Been there, done that, never gonna do it again,’ she confides in me. ‘Mine was an English banker in Malaysia. I cried for hours, every time we had to say goodbye. Until I found out he had another stewardess, from another company thank God, scheduled in during the days I was working. Then, I didn’t shed a tear. But Christ it hurt. So… tell me about yours?’

There is an empty seat beside me, for which I am inordinately grateful. She lowers herself into it for a bit and looks at me expectantly.

‘He’s in the entertainment industry,’ I half whisper to her, wiping away tears. ‘Films.’

‘Oh no, those are the worst,’ the stewardess grins cynically. ‘What does he do, act? Direct?’

‘Um… act. Maybe he’ll direct in future…’ To my surprise, I feel something glow inside me when I talk about Quent; it takes me a while to recognise it for what it is. I’m proud of him, of all that he’s done, all that he’s achieved. He’s a brilliant actor, and he’s my boyfriend. Well… was my boyfriend. Technically, we’ve split up. But on the other hand, it isn’t entirely over either. A few new tears well up as the feeling of missing him pierces my heart again.

The stewardess rubs my arm comfortingly. ‘Shh, love, I’m sure he’s a wonderful bloke who’ll love you forever. Unlike my banker. So tell me, is he any good, as an actor?’

I nod, feeling absurdly proud again.

The stewardess grins some more. ‘Oh come on, you’re just saying that. Is he well known? Will I have heard of him?’

‘You may have,’ I mutter, smiling now for her obvious fishing.

‘You can tell me, don’t be shy; it’s not like you’re dating someone really big, is it? Someone like... like say, Quentin Finch?’ She throws her head back a little and laughs delightedly, no doubt imagining the prospect, and thankfully missing my startled expression entirely. ‘Because, love, if you were dating him, I’m sure you wouldn’t be on this plane. You’d probably be whizzing ‘round the world in a luxurious private jet, joining the mile high club... Phew,’ she fans herself, ‘just imagine; you and Quentin Finch, in your private jet, the lights dimmed, the world gliding by below you... Now I wouldn’t mind explaining the intricate workings of a seat belt to the likes of him... several times if necessary... I mean, he’s bloody sex on legs, that man.’ Then, she slaps her hand over her mouth, and it’s her turn to look startled. Her eyes crinkle up humorously above her hand.

She’s a nice girl, I decide, and she’s making an effort to cheer me up. It works too; I can’t help myself, I’m grinning. But Christ, if she only knew... I lean in confidentially, and whisper to her: ‘I won’t tell a soul you said that.’

She grins again, gives me a wink, then quickly gets up and disappears into the pantry, leaving me behind to brood on our little conversation.

Quentin Finch is a household name. God, it’s not that I didn’t know that; it’s just that I never gave it much thought before, at Nana. I didn’t have to. But apparently, when people think of a famous actor, he’s one of the first ones to spring to mind. And apparently, when women think of him, they think he’s, well, sex on legs. I try not to squirm in my chair; I’m distinctly uncomfortable with the notion.

I stare out the window into the cloudless eternity and contemplate the possibility of Quent and me ever getting back together again: if, if we ever will, I’d have to deal with the fact that everyone wants a piece of him. Nana probably is the only place in the world where he can just be himself, where he’ll be left alone. If the both of us work out our problems (I catch myself almost thinking ‘when’ instead of ‘if’), I’d have to come to terms with the fact that they’ll probably want a piece of me as well, and of our child…

My stay at Nana truly was a time outside reality, and I suddenly realize that, apart from everything else that needs to be resolved between Quent and me, if we’re to stand a chance, we’ll have to be able to survive in the real world as well.

~*~

My eyes are still dripping when I open the door to my London flat, only I tell myself it’s with exhaustion now. The door won’t open more than a few inches due to the stack of mail blocking it, and I’m doing weird acrobatics, leaking tears all the time, trying to dig my way in.

Finally inside, I look around and am amazed at how cramped my two-room flat actually is. Cramped and full of stuff. Have I actually lived here for years? It looks like I don’t fit in here any more.

In a way, it’s good to see all my stuff again, after all these months, and I find myself going through the room, picking up little bits and pieces here and there. It’s like my life was interrupted, put on hold, and now somebody pressed the play button again. Only I have lost concentration during the break and now I’ve gone out of character. I feel really displaced and wander around and around in my living room, trying to remember how I felt, living here, before I left for my book tour.

Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust, and I’ll have to do some massive cleaning before I can even remotely feel comfortable again in here, but right now I’m too tired, way too tired to do anything but cry. I sag on the settee, the stack of mail on the coffee table, and look around with a feeling of utter despondency.

I felt it, the moment I entered London. I feel it now, sitting in the little pigeonhole that is my flat, this tiny slot to accommodate one human being in this massive, teeming beehive of a city. It’s almost like all these people in close proximity are physically crowding me, and suddenly I realize that the wide open emptiness of Nana had a soothing quality to a soul like mine. I feel people all around me here, and it’s a very oppressive feeling.

Or maybe, maybe I’m just tired, and sad. I miss Quent. I eye the phone, but tell myself no, and then drag myself into the bedroom. I fall asleep on top of the bed, fully dressed.

I wake up again in the early evening, and everything comes back to me with a jolt. Immediately, I’m so wide awake that going back to sleep really isn’t an option, so I get up, take a quick shower and unpack my bag. Then, I start on the mind-numbingly tedious job of cleaning my flat, which hopefully will exhaust me enough to be able to catch some more sleep before morning.

It is 2:30 AM when finally I fall into a freshly made bed, in a clean flat, with high hopes that once I’ve talked to my agent and my editor tomorrow, everything will slowly get back to normal and my life will resume its old course.

~*~

Jumping in and out of taxis and running into and out of tube stations is not necessarily beneficial for my general mood, I find as I make my way to Sam’s office. Sam’s my agent and he’s a fun guy – very rude and irreverent, which he covers up deftly with a veneer of public school poshness. Originally, he’s from Australia, and I’ve been calling him Dingo, to tick him off, since I became aware of the fact. He hides his background with care, and with said posh accent. He couldn’t be more different from Quent.

Sam’s actually quite intuitive, underneath it all. He immediately notices something’s wrong with me, the moment I step into his office, and he rolls his eyes at me when I quietly admit to having met someone in Australia. ‘Taryn,’ he says, ‘you know these Aussies are no good. Get rid of him, quick!’  Then, he makes me another brew and entertains me with horror stories of one of his biggest and most troublesome clients. He’s a good lad.

However, the tube remains a bloody nightmare and I make it to my appointment at the publisher’s just in time. I’m knackered and no matter how hard I try, I can’t really concentrate. I haltingly explain what I’ve done so far, and meet with approval all round, but my heart isn’t in it. I tell Maddie, my editor, that I’m probably just jetlagged, and promise to drop in some time next week, when I’m coherent again.

And so I drag myself back to my flat, to go through the enormous stack of mail still waiting for me. I feel immensely dispirited and lonely, and I question my own sanity. Why did I have to feel the absurd need to leave Nana, beautiful, quiet, sunny Nana, for a drab, polluted, overcrowded London? And why did I leave behind the man I so desperately love?

Principle. Yeah. Well, fuck that, actually.

In the evening, I sort of mull around and watch the telly listlessly, until I feel obliged to fire up my laptop and have a look at what has happened with my email and web site. I haven’t checked since I got back.

Three emails from Quentin, and one from Jo, glare at me indignantly.

I glare back for a little while, before I decide to open the one from Jo first.

From: jo.nana@eaia.com.au
Sent: 15 June 2007 15:03
To: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Subject: Taryn

Hi Tazzie,

Will you give us a shout once you’re back home safely? I don’t want to ring you, you may be really busy, but my son is prowling around the house like a caged animal, growling at everybody, and I’d feel so much better if I could tell him that you were home safe. He’ll email you as well, I’m sure.

Everything all right with my grandchild?

Love,

Jo.

Oh, Jo. She’s such a wonderful friend. I write back to her on the spot, telling her of my return trip, how hard I cried on the plane, how tired I was when I came home, how I cleaned my flat and spent the day visiting my agent and my publisher. And how much I miss her and Nana. I want to tell her how much I miss Quent as well, but I decide against it. Instead I open his first email.

From: quent.nana@eaia.com.au
Sent: 15 June 2007 15:30
To: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Subject: fuck

fuck taz im losin it here without you. goin mental

That’s so Quent, isn’t it? He’s so totally preoccupied with what’s happening, so in the moment, he can’t even be bothered with capitals or punctuation… I know I’m just being bitchy, but I really miss him so terribly, I need to bitch about something. It’s all his fault, after all, he left me in the first place and now look what happened. I’m here, in bloody London, where it’s even worse weather in summer than what they call winter in Australia, I’m in this tiny flat, paying way too much rent, I’m alone, I’m pregnant, and he’s sending me emails without punctuation.

I don’t know how to respond, not yet anyway, so I click open the second email instead. It’s from only a few minutes later and it’s got no subject header.

From: quent.nana@eaia.com.au
Sent: 15 June 2007 15:36
To: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Subject:

cant believe your gone tazzieluv, i mean bloody hell what am i gonna do hey?

I swallow and feel the tears burn again. Christ, I miss Quent, and I miss Nana… He’s not the only one who doesn’t know what to do. Really. I wish I’d never left. I could kick myself. I go for the last email and that’s the killer punch.

From: quent.nana@eaia.com.au
Sent: 15 June 2007 15:39
To: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Subject:

tazzie i need you please ring me please

Oh God, that sounds about as desperate as I feel inside. And suddenly I feel so bad about myself… I haven’t even bothered to phone him since I’ve gotten back, I’ve just been wallowing in self-pity, thinking only about how horrid I felt, how bad he’s treated me. I’m heartless, and selfish, I don’t deserve him and I wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see me again. I fumble for my mobile, dialling his number with shaking hands.

It rings.

And rings.

He doesn’t pick up and apparently I can’t leave a voicemail message. So I text him:

Quent, so sorry I wasn’t in touch before; have arrived safely. Miss you. Taz L

I email him something similar, and as I click send, my email dings and Jo’s reply comes in.

From: jo.nana@eaia.com.au
Sent: 17 June 2007 09:20
To: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Subject: Re: Taryn

Oh finally, there she is! I’ve been practically sitting on my email waiting for you to reply. I’m so happy you got home safely.

Quent’s gone back to Sydney this morning, he said he had some meetings with film people he needed to attend, but I think he just found it too hard being at Nana alone, without you, love.

He is very upset. I do hope you’ll send him an email, or give him a ring. He said he wasn’t going to ring you for a change, leave it up to you to get in touch with him. I told him not to be so stubborn, but you know him; might as well talk to a rock.

I’m worried he’ll go on a binge again. I know I shouldn’t ask you this but if he does fly off the handle will you come back to Oz? You’re probably the only person in the world who can talk some sense into him.

Love, as always,

Jo

I hurriedly reply, feeling as if I’m almost back there as I imagine Jo at her computer, and I promise I’ll be there for her, and Quent, if necessary. No matter what, she can count on me. Of course she can.

Oh, Quentin, where are you? I try to ring him again, and still he doesn’t answer. I’m beginning to get really worried; maybe he won’t pick up his mobile when he sees it’s me. Maybe he refuses to talk to me, maybe I’ve lost him forever… or maybe he’s gone on a binge like Jo fears. Maybe… I walk around my living room like a zombie, until finally I tumble into bed around midnight.

I wake up again around three and try to ring him once more. Still nothing. It should be afternoon for him; I mean, where is he? I stare at the ceiling for what seems an eternity, but finally I fall asleep again.

The next morning, first thing I do is look at my mobile. No text messages, no missed calls. As if I would have missed it if he’d rung; I slept with the bloody phone on my pillow. I quickly get out of bed and fire up my laptop. Check my email. Nothing from Quent. There’s only a short, worried email from Jo: apparently she’s been trying to get in touch with him as well, to tell him I’ve emailed, but he won’t respond.

Where on earth can he be? What is he doing? I feel so cold, so frozen inside, I can’t even cry. I can’t eat. I shiver and drag myself into the shower. After I’ve washed and dried and dressed, I make myself a big pot of coffee and sit down at my laptop to write, but also to monitor any emails coming in.

Nothing. The whole morning, nothing. No phone calls either.

Around lunchtime, I need to get out of my flat, I feel so boxed in that I want to scream, so I go to Gigi’s, a trendy Italian lunchroom within walking distance of where I live. I order something that seems to consist of all the right ingredients for my present situation; it has a complicated name, consisting of at least five syllables and ending in –ini. It tastes really nice, but I’m only dimly aware of it; I bury my head in a newspaper while I’m eating, hoping for some sort of distraction. I’ve never enjoyed eating out alone and besides, I’m still not that hungry.

After I’m done with the food I listlessly hang in my chair and stare out the window at the morose day and the hurried Londoners, while cradling a cup of tea. And suddenly it’s three-thirty in the afternoon and with a jolt, I realize I should be getting back; maybe Quent’ll have emailed by now. Why didn’t I bring my laptop to Gigi’s? He definitely hasn’t rung; my mobile’s been on the table all this time, almost accusatory in its silence.

So, I settle my bill and hurriedly make my way back. For a moment, I think I see Quent ahead of me, walking down the street, but of course it’s just someone who looks like him. On second thought, he doesn’t even look like him that much, it’s just the hair, and maybe something in the way he moves… I must be losing it, I’m beginning to see things. I hesitate in front of the Tesco’s on the corner, then go in: I seriously need to replenish my fridge. I want comfort food: chocolate and red wine and crisps, a big bottle of Coke, apple pie and ice cream. Out of guilt, I also add some fruit, veg, healthy stuff… I’ll probably end up puking my guts out if I eat all that awful food.

As I walk into my street, I notice someone slouched against the wall next to my front door and again, for just a split second, I think it’s Quentin. I shake my head, blink, put my bag down to rub my eyes… I’m really losing it. This bloke is wearing old, faded jeans, a hoody, a cap hiding his eyes… he’s looking down, shuffling his feet, smoking. It’s probably the way he’s holding his cigarette that makes me think of Quent, he cups it in his hand in exactly the same…

…he looks up. Sees me. Suddenly springs to life, flicking away the half-smoked fag and pushing off from the wall, lunging forward in my direction, and I just stand there, my mouth hanging open.

It’s him. It really is him!

He reaches me in what seem only three really big leaps, and then he’s standing right in front of me. He yanks off his cap and looks at me with wild, worried eyes. ‘Tazzie, you OK? Here, let me carry that for you, Christ, you shouldn’t be doin’ that you know, come on, let’s get you inside…’ He stuffs his cap in his back pocket, picks up my bag with one hand, uses the other to grab mine and drags me to my front door.

‘Quent… I’m fine… really I am… just really shocked to see you here…’ I’m almost gasping, digging in my pocket for the keys. I glance at him sideways. He’s really here. I’m not dreaming, that’s Quentin standing there right next to me, carrying my bag, hovering over me protectively.

He carries my stuff upstairs and once inside, he looks around the room quickly, then sighs. ‘Where do you want this, luvvie?’ he asks softly, lifting the shopping bag. I point him in the direction of the kitchen. Not that there are many options in my flat. He dutifully heaves the bag onto the counter and starts to unpack.

‘I’ll do that,’ I say quietly. He gives me a look, nods once and steps back, his eyes on me all the time.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ I ask, surprising myself with how distant that sounds.

‘Mh, ‘bout half an hour,’ Quent mutters, running his hand through his hair, then stuffing it into his pocket.

‘Half an hour?! Good God. Why didn’t you ring me, Quent, I tried to get in touch with you, you know, um…’ I say, turning to face him.

‘I know you did. That’s why I came here first thing. Look, Taz, this is goin’ to sound really stupid but I sat on my mobile on the plane over and I must have broken it or somethin’, because I got your texts and I could see you tried to ring me, but I couldn’t ring you back. The fuckin’ thing just wouldn’t work. And I just haven’t had the time to get a new mobile, between gettin’ on the plane, gettin’ off, gettin’ here...’

‘When did you get here, Quent? In the UK I mean…’ Now I understood why he hadn’t phoned, or emailed. He was on the plane already.

‘Landed at Heathrow about two hours ago. Dropped off my stuff at the hotel, then came straight here, but you weren’t in.’

‘Weren’t you worried that someone would recognize you? I mean, you could have gotten mobbed, or hurt… Isn’t it dangerous? You were just standing outside, all on your own, in the street…’ I remembered my conversation with the Qantas stewardess and shuddered, thinking what could have happened to him.

‘Naw, don’t worry, luvvie, no one know’s I’m here. Yet.’ That last little word he adds as a cynical little afterthought. ‘Besides, I would have come here anyway, I mean, fuck it, I wanted to see you.’

‘You didn’t come all this way just to… to see me?’ I almost whisper. Inside me, a struggle between wanting space and wanting Quent flares up. And I don’t know who’s winning any more.

‘No! Christ, no, I’m…’ Quentin, backs up a step, hands up in the air. ‘I said I’d give you space, Taz, and I’ll not go back on that. I promised, didn’t I?’

I nod, speechless.

‘I’m, uh… I’m actually here to meet up with Ade, you know, Sir Adrian Blakeley,’ he stops to roll his eyes at the Sir thing, ‘I’m supposed to see him around four, over at his place; he said he’d be interested to look at… directing… well.. what I’ve been workin’ on… what we’ve been workin’ on… You know, Ade and I, we’ve worked well together in the past, and he’s a brilliant visual artist… and a mate… Hm.’ He falters to a stop, looks down, shuffles his feet.

‘So… why… why didn’t you ring me from the hotel…?’ I quietly say, turning back to rescue my ice cream and stick it in the freezer. ‘Would have saved you the wait outside…’

‘Yeah, reckon I could have, and it would have, but I… I wanted to see you, luvvie, wanted to make sure you were doin’ OK, you know? Seein’ as I was in the neighbourhood and all.’ Quent steps up to the counter and starts to sort through my purchases again. ‘Can’t believe you bought all this trash, Tazzie-luv, that can’t be good for you, nor for the baby…’ and suddenly he turns to me and makes a grab for me, hugging me tight against his chest. I hug him back, clutching a bag of salad behind his head.

He nearly crushes me and lets go just a little when he hears me gasp in his embrace. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles into my hair.

I lean back a little, manage a small grin and show him the salad I’m still holding. He gives me a dazzling smile and I feel his warmth engulf me; his relief at seeing me, holding me in his arms, wash over me. I drop the bag of salad and lay a hand against his cheek, softly stroking his I’m-too-lazy-to-shave half-beard. ‘Quent, I’m really happy that you’re here,’ I whisper to his smiling mouth.

He pulls me closer again, his face practically squashed against my temple, and sighs contentedly. ‘Are ya, Taz?’ he mumbles, then he nuzzles his way down, at the same time lifting my chin with his hand, until he can cover my mouth with his. He softly strokes his lips over mine, then nips, then sucks in my bottom lip, and I go limp against him as our kiss deepens. Oh, he’s such a wonderful kisser, I could get lost forever in this slow, lingering, toe-curling flow of a snog.

We break apart reluctantly and share a sigh, staring into each other’s eyes. Suddenly though, I notice the kitchen clock over his shoulder. Five to four, it says. ‘Oh, no, Quent, look at the time! Didn’t you say your meeting was at four?’ I turn him around bodily to face the clock, but he’s already checking his watch.

‘Fuck, Tazzie! I’ve got to get my arse in gear, flat out! Shit, fuck, I’m, uh…’ He grabs me again, kisses me hard, then runs for the door. ‘I’ll try to get back to you later tonight, yeah? If it doesn’t drag out too long I’ll come back here, or I’ll ring you… Taz, I’ll definitely ring you.’

And he’s gone. I hear him thundering down the stairs, I hear the door slam shut… and I’m alone again.

For an instant it all feels like a dream, like he wasn’t really here, but then I see his cap: he’s left it on the kitchen counter. Quentin was here. He definitely was. And I can still taste his kiss, and I miss him more than ever.

Chapter Seventeen

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