I stand in the hallway, staring at the door, clutching Quentin’s baseball cap. He was here, he followed me here, all the way to London. I can hardly believe it. Of course he said he was meeting Adrian Blakeley, the famous director, and that’s completely legit. But somewhere deep inside me I just know... well, I deeply suspect... he wouldn’t have been so eager to travel half the world around just to talk over his project with his mate Ade, if I wasn’t here as well.

There is something completely irresistible about a man following you halfway across the world, tacitly admitting that he can’t live without you. I lift his cap to my face and inhale; it smells of his hair. Mmm, I’d recognize his scent anywhere; it’s ingrained in my being. I close my eyes and sway with wanting him; I do have to wonder again if I could actually live without him. I’m not so sure; in fact, I seriously doubt it.

I suddenly realize that I should tell Jo what happened. She probably doesn’t even know he’s not in Sydney any more, and I’m sure she’s still very worried. So, I dash into the living room, open up my laptop and write her a quick, rather incoherent email. She’ll still be asleep, but I’m sure she’ll check her email soon as she wakes up.

My immediate duty done, I allow myself to play couch potato for a while. With only a small twinge of guilt, I eat ice cream directly from the container and watch The Weakest Link. And wait for Quent to call.

And wait, and wait.

And wait a bit more.

Around half eight, Jo’s reply comes in: she’s really happy to know that he’s not alone in Sydney, drinking himself into oblivion. She says she’s sure we’ll work something out between us, and when I email back that he’s here to see Blakeley, and only visited me on his way over to his meeting with him, Jo sends me a smiley face in return, with the words “I know my son”.

That makes me smile, and it gives me a warm glow inside, but it doesn’t make him ring me any sooner. So I wait.

And wait.

And then it’s around midnight, and still no word. Typical, my little voice is chiding, but for some reason I just can’t give up the wait, can’t bring myself to go to sleep. At some point during the evening, I’ve made a nest on the settee, with my pillow and my duvet, my laptop fired up in case he’ll email, my phone close at hand, and the telly blathering on for distraction although I can barely concentrate.

One of these days, I will have to give myself a severe talking to. If I go on like this, I’ll never finish my second book ever, I’m so preoccupied. I’m almost as bad as Quentin. See, here we go again. He’s bloody well all I can think about. I sigh and try to focus on the telly for the zillionth time. it’s a rerun of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. I do love both the book and that particular rendition of it, but I can’t even focus on Mr. Darcy now. He just pales by comparison; I’d swap his coat tails and top hat for Quent’s hoody and cap any day.

And oh, finally, finally! My mobile rings! I almost drop it, trying to pick up.

‘Tazzie-luv?’

‘Hi?’ I say, a little reserved, a little peeved by the long wait.

‘I’m sorry luvvie, but we really got into it here, and Ade’s got some really good wine, I mean, I didn’t intend to, but it was just with dinner, well at first, at least… Look, Taz, I know I said I’d go off the grog, but, um…’

‘It’s OK, Quent,’ I smile. I can’t possibly be annoyed with him; I’m just so happy to hear his voice. Even his slightly inebriated voice.

‘…you know how it goes, we really got goin’, and then Ade said he’d love to do the project, so we started workin’ on some scenes, see how they could come out… we had to celebrate, you know; Ade’s really into…’

‘Quent!’ I interrupt his apologetic ramble, still smiling, ‘I said it’s all right, didn’t I? I’m the one who shouldn’t be drinking… You can do whatever you like, really…’

‘No, but I want to…. I mean I… I want to be part of…’ he fumbles, then stops.

‘Are you still at, um, Mr. Blakeley’s place?’ I ask, trying to change course.

‘Yeah,’ he sighs, sobering up a bit, ‘Ade said I’d better crash here, it’s really no point gettin’ back to the hotel if we’re just gonna go back to work on it tomorrow morning… But I said I’d definitely phone you, so, you know, here I am. I’m keepin’ my promise.’

‘So you are,’ I say, and I feel it tug at my heart.

‘Yeah,’ he sighs once more, then he hums down the phone at me, some silly nonsensical little tune that he’s making up as he goes along. It’s really sweet. ‘Tazzzie-ie… luv…’ he goes, still singing, or what passes for it in his current state.

‘Quent, love, you should go and get some zeds in, methinks,’ I say warmly. I can’t help myself. It’s just impossible to keep my distance, especially when he’s like this, all fuzzy and charming and endearing.

‘You said luv, luvvie…’ he half-whispers triumphantly.

‘I know I did,’ I grin, ‘love.’

‘Ohh, crikey, Taz, I’m comin’ right over, just let me call a taxi.’

I contemplate this for an instant. ‘Um, Quent? I don’t think that would be such a good idea… I’m really, really happy that, you know, you happen to be in London, and that we can see each other, but, um, let’s take our time, shall we? I miss you when we’re apart, I really do, but, um, I still need to think about things too. You know?’

I don’t really know how to convey my state of mind. It sounds like a complete contradiction, and perhaps it is, too. I’m thinking about him all the time, I long for him, and the thought of losing him is unbearable, but on the other hand, I’m hedging now that I know he could actually come here and be with me tonight. I just reckon it would be really hard to stay away from each other, and all that wild passion would immediately cloud everything else. I just know it.

‘Yeah… I know…’ Quentin sighs resignedly. ‘I miss you too, luvvie, fuck’s sake, I really wanna cuddle up with you coz I just know I’ll never sleep… Look, I know I said I’d give you all the time you need, and I meant that, but… um…  Taz, um... you wanna meet up tomorrow? I was thinkin’ maybe we could go and have lunch together, what do you reckon?’

I guess what we need to do is just that, spend some time together, become friends anew – or maybe I should say, become friends period; we haven’t really had the time for that in the first place – and work on our mutual trust. I definitely need to feel like I can trust Quentin. I need to know he’ll choose me, and our relationship, above everything else that may happen in his life.

‘Lunch sounds good, where d’you want to meet up?’

He names a horrendously expensive spot, and I swallow audibly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Course I am. Listen, luvvie, I’m financial enough to eat my lunch there, and I know for a fact that the maitre d’ won’t run and ring the bloody paps soon as I show my face. So if we’re lucky, we’ll have a bit of time to ourselves before the circus catches up, hey?’

I cannot but agree to that and we decide to meet around one. He wants to pick me up, or send a car, but I tell him not to be ridiculous, I’ll just take the tube. First, he won’t hear of it, but finally he gives in, sighing: ‘I can’t refuse you anythin’ luvvie, you know that…’ as if I should be pleased that he’ll allow me to use public transport. I giggle, and so does he. Then, we say goodnight, and I can finally close my eyes and sleep.

~*~

Next morning, around ten, my neighbour Rafiq pounds on my door. He’s very nice, very Paki and outrageously gay. He’s a jewellery designer. ‘Taryn, oh Taaaa-ryn my love! What delicious secrets are you hiding from me?’ he singsongs through the door, in his best hysterical falsetto.

When I open it, he nearly falls into my flat, wearing a canary yellow long coat, very dark blue jeans, impeccable of course, and a moss green vintage shirt with absurd lapels. Oh and cowboy boots.

‘Where?’ he says, swivelling his head like an owl, ‘where is he? Where have you hidden that delicious hunk of Antipodean manhood?’

I give him a baffled stare.

Rafiq digs into his coat pocket – his arm goes in up to the elbow – and he emerges with a copy of The Sun, which features on the front page… I squint, then almost jump. It’s Quent, coming out the door, into the street, obviously in a hurry. A mobile phone picture, I’m sure; very low res, but still recognizable. “Secret love nest for Finch?” the headline runs. I grab the paper and read the nonsensical article; thank God they haven’t yet figured out whom he came to see. There are two more girls living in this house; might as well have been them.

‘How do you know it’s me he was visiting, Rafiq?’ I ask suspiciously.

‘Well, dahhhling, you don’t have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes to know that! Who travelled to Ozzieland lately???’ he waggles an effeminate eyebrow at me. ‘And who, who I ask you, did it take three whole months to drag her ample author arse out of the outback, instead of dashing back to London, city of fashion, city of dreams, soon as the much dreaded book tour was finished? I thought you had fallen off the edge of the world, mate, but now I soooo understand!’ he fans himself and rolls his eyes. ‘Quentin fucking Finch. Oh. My. God.’

‘Don’t tell me you fancy him too.’ This is really too much.

‘Fancy him??? I practically come in my jeans – God forbid! – just thinking about the man!’ He does a quick check to see if his jeans are still crisp and immaculate, as if just talking about ejaculating in them can somehow soil them.

I feel a laugh tickle in my belly, bubbling up until it overflows out of my mouth, and then I can’t stop and I’m laughing hysterically. I’m crying with laughter, it’s all too ridiculous for words, and it’s such a relief to have a good laugh after all the sadness and anguish of the last weeks. I dunno how Quent will feel when he finds out that not only stewardesses see him as sex on legs… I think it’s bloody hilarious.

‘Well?’ My neighbour persists as I wipe the funny tears from my eyes.

‘Well… All right then. He was here.’ I wheeze.

‘No! He was? Girlfriend, you must tell me everything! This instant!’ Rafiq takes possession of my kitchen and starts brewing tea, urging me over his shoulder: ‘Tell me tell me tell me! Did you shag him? What was he like, was he any good?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did shag him, but that was in Oz. We were together for little more than a month and then… well, he ended it. We’re still really close mates though…’ I fall silent, hearing something wistful creep into my tone.

‘You were… together? As in: in a relationship? Oh. My. God. Why did he end it? What happened?’

I sigh. I will have to tell him everything or he’ll nag me till kingdom come. ‘OK, in a nutshell: his former girlfriend told him she was having his baby; he wanted to do the right thing and marry her, so he broke it off with me, but they argued all the time, really, and so he asked for a paternity test, and then it turned out he wasn’t the dad after all, and that fucking bitch he used to date was just trying to use him for publicity.’ I end with a little more vehemence than I had planned, but it sort of feels good too. Bree is a fucking bitch, and if she ever dares to interfere in Quent’s life ever again, I’ll personally rip her throat out. I suddenly feel very protective and very possessive of Quent, and I have to tell myself with some force that we’re not, actually, going out any more. I don’t have the right. But I can’t help feeling this way all the same.

‘Wow,’ says Rafiq, sobering up a little and dropping at least fifty percent of the gay act. ‘That’s some story, Taryn. And so why aren’t the two of you together now? I mean, in the end he didn’t go back to the ex, did he? And obviously he still likes you, or he wouldn’t have shown up at your doorstep.’

‘Yeah... well... It’s sort of hard to explain, but I said... I wanted to...’

‘You’re not going to tell me you didn’t take him back.’ Rafiq states, flabbergasted. ‘He’s Quentin Finch! He’s beautiful, successful, rich, he wants you... What’s wrong with you, Taryn?’

‘I dunno, Rafe,’ I groan. ‘I haven’t got a clue what’s wrong with me. I just told him I needed some space, needed to think about things... It was all a bit too fast for me, I reckon. On the other hand, you know, I’ve never been so in love before and I miss him like crazy. But I’m supposed to meet him for lunch later on, he phoned me yesterday evening, so, um…. It might not be all over… I hope… I don’t know…’

‘You go girlfriend!’ he grins, but then he seems to remember something. ‘Oh, shit, Taryn, you have to look out the window! I think they’re journalists!’ Rafiq drags me by the hand to the window, and we stare down into the street. There are at least ten guys there, armed with digital cameras, and as we watch, one of the other girls living in the building tries to leave for work. The journos jump on her and shout their questions, camera’s flash in her face, and I distinctly hear Quentin’s name being said. Or, rather, shouted.

Eventually, they let her pass, but by then I almost feel sick to my stomach with the notion that I’ll have to get through them to get to my lunch date with Quent. First thing that springs to mind is that I should ring him to warn him about the fact that he’s been spotted, but then I realize that his mobile is out of commission, I don’t know what hotel he’s staying in and I haven’t a clue how to get in touch with Sir Adrian Blakeley. My lunch date is my only connection to Quentin right now. Well, I could email him, but I doubt he’d see it in time.

The combined realization of the press hounds outside and the fragility of my link to Quentin makes my head spin, and I hear myself moan softly.

Rafiq watches me closely for a second, then springs to action. ‘All right. Enough of that, darling; you will drink your tea and then I will make you beautiful. If that gay bastard can make all those fat cows look pretty for Auntie Beeb - what’s that stupid programme called again? -I’m sure I can do something for you, darling. And I’ve got so much more to work with here. Listen to me,’ he takes my face into his hands, and when I avoid his eyes, he gives me a shake until I focus, ‘Listen! You find your little black dress – you do own a little black dress, don’t you?’ I nod silently, ‘Good. You find that, and your best shoes, Manolo’s I do hope, and I’ll pop downstairs and get you my latest creation. To borrow, mind you, not to have! But I do want you to look your best for your lunch date with Quentin fucking Finch, if only to get you to take him home so that I can have a peek at the man in the flesh. The abundant, magnificent flesh. Now go.’ He pushes me towards my bedroom and as I open my closet, I hear him run downstairs, singing. Thank the Lord for gay fashionista neighbour mates.

I actually own three little black dresses, and I lay them out on my bed. Rafe will have to help me choose, I’m too shaky at the moment. I don’t own any bloody Manolo’s; I think they’re too expensive for their own good, although I could afford them easily on my current royalties. Nice black heels I do have, several pairs, and I fish them out of the bottom of my closet with some difficulty.

Then, Rafe bounces into my bedroom, carrying a very promising-looking jewellery box. ‘Taryn, I’ve had an epiphany! Why don’t you climb out my back window, into the oak tree, then down the tree and out the garden in the left corner, there’s a gate to the alley. The journos will never know.’

‘Rafe, you’re insane. You want me to climb down a tree in high heels, a tiny dress and your finery? You nutter. I’ll fall to my death.’

He thinks for a bit, then shakes his head. ‘Nah. You’re right. It would never work. This however,’ here he holds up one of my dresses, ‘is positively divine. Put it on. Right now!’

We spend the next two hours styling Taryn Archer. Rafe has many hidden talents, among which are those of a hair and make-up artist, and once he’s done with me, I hardly recognize myself. I look like I’m ready for a red carpet function. ‘Wow…’ I breathe, admiring his handiwork in my tall dress mirror. I look taller, and slimmer, more sophisticated and more beautiful than I thought I could ever look… the effect is stunning.

And then it’s time for me to leave. Rafe and I have agreed that I will tell the press – if they’re still there – that I was actually staying over with my friend Rafiq the jewellery designer, and that I don’t even live in this building. That way, I’ll be in the clear and maybe Rafe can get some publicity out of it as well. Seems a fair deal.

I carefully totter down the stairs in my heels – I hardly ever wear them and need a little adjusting, but by the time I’ve reached the bottom, I’ve sort of remembered how it goes walking in them. So, I carefully open the door, not knowing what to expect (I should have looked before I left my flat, stupid me) and find myself faced with by now at least fifteen guys with cameras. The compulsion to close the door again and run for my life is almost too strong, but I manage to overcome it and put on a brave smile.

‘Hello love, do you live here? Have you seen Quentin Finch in your building? Was he with you? What’s your name? What floor do you live on?’ It’s like an automatic gun; I can’t even make out who asks me what. The cameras click and click and I have to mentally stop myself from shielding my face with my hands. This is bloody awful. I don’t understand how Quent can deal with this stuff on a daily basis, honestly. I take a deep breath and say what we’ve rehearsed: ‘I was just staying with my friend Rafiq Khan, the jewellery designer. He’s on the first floor. I’d like to go to work now, if you’ll let me pass.’ There, I’ve said Rafe’s name. Hopefully these guys will remember it.

‘Are you a model? Where do you work, love, fancy coming out for a drink?’ one of the journos leers at me.

I shake my head. ‘Please let me pass now, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ I say, and I bravely start walking in the hopes of them just laying off.

‘Hel-lo,’ one of the journos suddenly goes. ‘I know her. She’s that writer, from that Nixie book, yeah?’

I’ve always been careful with my interviews and photo’s, even though I did get quite a lot of press, especially once my book took off. I’ve always made sure to be in full war paint, and I always dressed a bit differently than I’d normally do, whenever I did something in my official capacity as an author. It’s like putting on the public persona with the clothes, and since I’m essentially shy, I guess I just need that to pull it off in the first place. But the good thing so far has been that I could quietly walk the streets and no one saw it was me, once I was back into my normal clothes.

Now, I am done up like a Christmas tree, for my date with Quent... No wonder the guy recognizes me. Shit, I could almost hit myself for being so stupid.

They all snap a few pics for good measure, and I smile as best I can. ‘Please, enough, gentlemen, I have an appointment with my publisher,’ I desperately say, and push on.

Amazingly, they let me go. I dare not look back and flag down a taxi that happens to zoom past. This is going to cost me a fortune, getting to the restaurant by taxi all the way on the other side of town, and for an instant I contemplate asking the cabby to drop me off at the tube station. But no, I feel so rattled that I could do with the luxury. I need to calm down before meeting up with Quent – it’s going to be hard enough as it is. I’m actually really nervous about seeing him; this is the first time we’ll see each other in a public place. Christ, it’s the first time we’re having an actual date! Who knows what’ll happen. And I know he kissed me, yesterday, and I know it felt like it always feels when I’m in his arms – like I’ve come home – but there’s so much else going on between me and him, so much that needs to be addressed. We can’t just kiss it away, much as I’d like to.

Maybe, I’m thinking, maybe if the paparazzi talk to everyone in the house, and no one knows anything about Quent, maybe they’ll just go away and it’ll all die a quiet death. Maybe Quent and I can still enjoy some time together, just like he said, before the circus arrives. I try to believe it, but at the back of my head my famous little voice is nagging that my name is on the damn letterbox, and if they look, surely they’ll notice. Then, if someone is smart enough to figure out what my itinerary’s been not too long ago, they’ll know. Just like Rafiq knew. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know what to do and I fidget in my seat.

The cabby mutters over his shoulder: ‘You all right love? Meetin’ someone special?’

‘Yes… I’ve got a very… important lunch date,’ I say, trying to reassure myself by the sound of my own voice.

The cabby whistles between his teeth. ‘Must be, seein’ as where I’m takin’ you…’and he pulls up right in front of the posh restaurant. ‘Here we are, love…’

I pay my fare, try to get out as elegantly as possible and waltz inside. There is a maitre d’, just like Quent said. He seems to be expecting me, because he welcomes me like he knows me: ‘Miss Archer, please come this way, if you’d be so kind…’ and he leads me to a lift, craftily hidden behind a huge potted palm tree. Inside, one wall is a huge smoky mirror, and I surreptitiously check myself. My hair still looks OK, so does my make-up… My shoes pinch a little, the dress however behaves admirably and Rafe’s necklace looks stunning. It’ll have to do.

We go up to the second floor – I wasn’t even aware this place had a second floor, it must be VIP’s only – and as the lift door slides open, a warm glow of light and a soft touch of violin music caress my senses. I follow the maitre d’, my high heels almost disappearing up to my ankles into a lush carpet. I already feel incredibly pampered, and I haven’t even taken one bite of my lunch yet. And as we walk into the main dining room, I see that… there is just one table set, over by the window overlooking the Thames. I don’t mean that there’s loads of tables and only the one’s set, no, there’s just the one table, in this vast dining room. And at the table, there’s…

Quentin.

He’s looking out the window, and I can tell he’s made an effort dressing up as well. He’s wearing a very nice black shirt. The Maitre d’ clears his throat, and Quent looks up. He scoots out of his chair soon as he sees me, nearly toppling it backwards in his enthusiasm. He dashes around the table to meet me halfway, and I can see he’s got black jeans on, and nice shoes… but his smile is the most beautiful thing he’s wearing.

‘Tazzie…’ he says to me, grabbing my hand and kissing it, ‘….oh Christ you look beautiful.’ He pulls me into his embrace and I try to glance over my shoulder, but he whispers to me: ‘No worries, luvvie, he’s gone. It’s just you and me, and lunch. We’ve got a really nice view of the river, c’mon, let me show you…’

He walks me to our table, his arm around me possessively, then he helps me to sit like a real gentleman. I look at him over my shoulder as he does my chair, and remember him being like that at Nana with Bree… I was so jealous then, deep down, I wanted to be the one to sit with him, I wanted to be the one receiving his full attention. Our eyes meet and I receive something else as well: another one of those stunning warm smiles that make my heart sing. I can feel him, he’s happy, happy to see me, happy to play the man of the world, happy to woo me. I‘m having trouble breathing.

‘Quent, don’t tell me you rented this whole floor, just for us to have lunch?’ I ask him as he sits down opposite me. ‘I thought just eating here was massively expensive, but this… this must cost you a bloody fortune!’

He shrugs. Lifts an eyebrow at me. And another stunner smile lights up his face. ‘You impressed yet, Tazzie-luv?’ he grins, ‘just wait till you’ve tasted the food!’

I nod. I’m impressed. Very impressed. Not only has he travelled halfway across the globe, he’s now laid out an incredible sum just for us to have a private lunch here. Good God, of course I’m impressed.

I need to think about this. Call me naïve, but during our time at Nana, I’ve just never seen him in this light. He’s a household name and, uh, sex on legs to practically the whole western world, from stewardesses to my gay neighbour, but he’s also fabulously rich and apparently quite powerful, in order to get all this arranged and paid for on such short notice. Fuck me, I only think of him in faded jeans and chequered flannels, looking like your typical Aussie outdoor bloke. I mean, I know he goes to the Oscars, I know he looks differently when he’s playing one of his roles, I know all that… but it’s just not the Quent I’m familiar with. That’s the guy who took a commercial flight home because it was the first thing he could get on, on short notice. The guy who doesn’t care about materialistic things or status, the guy who wears his favourite flannel until it practically falls off his body.

‘You all right, Tazzie-luv?’ he asks me, low, worried, leaning in over the table. ‘Shall I give the signal for the first course? Or do you want some wine, here, this is really good, Aussie red as a matter of fact,’ he grins with a bit of boyish mischief, ‘obviously they’re not gonna give me any fuckin’ Frog wine. C’mon luvvie, have a go? Just a tiny sip won’t do you any harm?’ He pours two fingers into my glass, looks at me from under his eyebrows, puts down the bottle and heaves a small sigh. ‘You do like this, don’t you? Taz? Did I do wrong, arranging this? Is it too much? Fuck, trust me to make a bloody mess of it…’ He shakes his head, pinches his lips and stares out the window.

I feel his eagerness, his insecurity… It all washes over me in big crashing waves, but at the heart of it – yes, that’s really a good way to describe it – at the heart of it, there’s this warm, red glow that I’ve felt within him before. I remember the first time I noticed it, right before he left for the court case. It’s been there all the time, but I’ve never taken the trouble to look at it properly, just like I’ve never looked at him properly. Underneath the flannel, the attitude, the world famous actor, the sex symbol, the man of the world… underneath it all, he’s just full of love.

And I so want to be the one he loves.

Chapter Eighteen

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