This is a work of fiction, very, very loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe. I wrote it for my own entertainment, and entertainment is its only purpose. No insult or injury is intended.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit adult language and sexual references.

Meant To Be

(or not meant to be, that's the question!)

A Quentin Finch story

©2007 by: Jackie

Chapter Twenty

Next morning I wake up, my head on Quentin’s chest and his arms around me. He’s snoring softly and his chest fur is tickling my nose. I snuggle up against him and he half wakes up and pulls me in closer.

‘Hmmmm... Tazzie...’ he rumbles drowsily.

‘Hey Quent,’ I say, stroking his hair back. ‘You sleep OK?’

‘Still sleeping OK... Don’t wanna wake up yet...’ He’s keeping his eyes closed. ‘Maybe you’ll disappear if I open my eyes... Taz?’

I scoot up a little and carefully peel back one of his eyelids. ‘Look, I’m here,’ I say, and I softly kiss his face, his earlobe, his nose, and finally his mouth.

He grunts a bit and takes over the kiss, never even opening his eyes, and he rolls us over. I don’t even think about it, just wrap my legs around him, and before we know it we’re in the middle of a slow, sleepy, dreamy good-morning shag that leaves us panting and boneless and grinning satisfied grins.

‘I’m gonna fuck you senseless,’ Quent sighs into my ear, and then he promptly falls asleep again, snoring softly into my hair.

‘Promises, promises,’ I say, and rock him a little, trying to get him off me.

‘What... oi, what is it...?’ he mutters, not wanting to move.

‘We’re getting glued together, I need to pee, you’re squashing me... gerroff!’ I give him a totally ineffective shove.

He moans like he doesn’t want to, but then he reluctantly disentangles himself from me, only to pull me in close again soon as he’s rolled on his back. But I give him a quick kiss and slide out of the bed, looking around for something to wear. Ah, Quentin’s shirt. That’ll do for now.

I hear him muttering that I should come back to bed, but I pad into the living room and survey the damage. Quentin’s managed to make a humongous mess in just a couple of hours: apparently he’s raided my kitchen because there’s beer cans and half-eaten bags of junk everywhere.

I quickly gather up the mess and make to throw it in the bin, but as I go past my front window, I can’t help but notice through the curtains that the WHOLE STREET is literally packed with people. People with cameras.

‘Yikes!’  I say out loud.

‘What is it, luvvie?’ Quent has extracted himself from the warm covers and wanders into the room in nothing but his glorious skin, scratching his bedhead.

‘Stay away from the window!’ I squeal, waving a hand at him.

‘Why?’ he wants to know, and he carefully peeks out from behind the curtains. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ he then shouts, and he takes a leap right into the middle of the room. ‘Toldja I shoulda gotten out while I still could! Bloody...’ he grumbles, but I toss all the stuff I’ve collected back on the low table and walk into his arms.

‘I’m glad you stayed though...’

‘Yeah... so am I, sweetheart...’

We cuddle and feel each other up, grinning, but then he suddenly turns serious again. ‘ We need to sort out a way out of here, Tazzie. The both of us. I’m not leavin’ you here, and I got things to do today with Ade, and I’m supposed to be meeting a possible investor in an hour and a half, so, um... this building have another exit?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ I say, leaning against his warm shoulder. He smells wonderfully sleepy, and I stick my nose in his armpit and inhale.

He jumps and giggles like an idiot. ‘Crikey, don’t do that, crazy sheila...’

‘You smell nice. Shall I put the kettle on?’

And we both get into the kitchen and make breakfast.

While we eat, I have an idea. I tell Quent about Rafiq’s ridiculous plan of climbing down the tree at the back and exiting through the garden gate and the alley. If I can put on some normal clothes instead of a skimpy dress and a pair of killer heels, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage, and we pause to lean out the kitchen window at the back, to have a look at the stout tree that has some of its lower branches almost grow right into Rafiq’s flat.

It looks feasible. Quentin grins at the prospect; I actually think it speaks to his adventurous side. Plus he likes a bit of physical action. He’s after all the sort of bloke who will insist on doing his own stunts and who will put up a huge fight to get his way, even though whatever production company is doing the film will have to deal with enormous insurance issues. And he can do all these cool movie star sort of things, like duelling and horseback riding and sliding down ropes with a knife between his teeth. For some reason it’s still hard to believe he’s actually here with me; I can only smile as I look at him, still stark naked, sitting at my little kitchen table and wolfing down an enormous breakfast of eggs, bacon, and white beans in tomato sauce on toast. I’ve never liked the stuff myself, but he found a can in my kitchen and wanted it for his brekkie. Who am I to deny him that?

‘Wha...?’ he says, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel.

‘Oh, nothing... I love a man who can eat.’

He grins, and shovels another forkful of bloody red nasty icky into his mouth, chewing happily. ‘Bem wuff ya ma’ me hngry!’ he proudly growls with his mouth full.

I laugh so hard, tears roll down my face, and he grins back at me. ‘Our love life is devastating for your eloquence as well as your table manners,’ I hiccup, and he shakes his head and grins some more.

When all the food is gone, he belches, says ‘pardon me’ and wiggles his one eyebrowed wiggle at me. ‘So how about we go wash, Tazzie-luv, and get dressed, and talk over the plan with your local poofter? I’m gonna ring Ade, see if he can send someone to pick us up where that alley at the back opens into a street. And then, we run like the wind...’ Another eyebrow wiggle, and a piratical glare. ‘Feels like I’m running away with you. Let’s go to Gretna Green, get married!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Quent, and besides, I don’t think they do that any more, in Gretna Green,’ I laugh, but for an instant, it’s like there’s something in his eyes. Like he regrets the fact that I make light of it. Then, he laughs with me, and the moment is gone. I steal a look at his ring though, still around my finger, and of course, Mr. Quick on the Uptake notices. He takes my hand in his, and kisses it, then rubs his cheek against it, as if he wants to say: ‘it will all be OK. Don’t worry.’

‘Hey, um, shouldn’t I pack or something? Who knows how long it will be until I can get back in here?’  I alter the course of our conversation, retrieving my hand and raking it through Quentin’s hair.

‘Naw... We’ll buy whatever you need, and I can get someone to come back here for you and get the stuff you want... No worries, luvvie.’

Ah, yes. I keep forgetting. He’s got a ton of money and an army of staff.

He sighs, leans against me and lets me massage his scalp. ‘Ooooh, Christ, I love it when you do that... you’ll have to come with me when we’re on location, I don’t think I’ll be able to survive unless you give me a head rub every day... and a rub somewhere else as well...’

‘You, Mr. Finch, have a dirty mind,’ I grin, allowing myself to think about travelling around with him, writing while he does his filming, anywhere but in the States. I can’t help myself, it sounds wonderful to me.

So, we hop into the shower together and give each other a wash. It’s a lot of fun with Quent, he’s so ticklish and so easily aroused; when we come out he’s got a massive hard-on again. He looks at it, looks at me, then looks at his watch. ‘Mm, we should get goin, luvvie...’ he says, with a voice full of regret.

‘Hey, you’d better save that for later,’ I grin, and make a grab for him. As my hand closes over his erection, his eyes actually cross and he dives for my mouth, sucking my lips hungrily and pumping in my hand. I grin and squeeze and pull until he moans.

‘In, let me in, Taz, fuck, we don’t have time for this...’ he pants, and he pushes me up against the wall and rams himself inside. It only takes about five or six strokes, then he spurts and shakes and breathes into my ear.

I stroke his hair back. ‘Good?’

‘Uhhh,’ he sighs, ‘brilliant. You didn’t come though; I’m sorry luvvie, um, you want me to...’ he slips a finger in between my slickened folds and does something that feels very good, but I grab his hand. ‘No, wait... we were in a hurry? It’ll keep. Love, let’s get dressed and move.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, come on...’

It only takes us a couple of minutes to put our clothes on, and Quentin rings Adrian on my mobile as we get down the stairs to Rafiq’s flat. I pound on the door.

‘Rafe, you up yet? Hello-o-o!’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m up, I’m...’ I hear him approach. Then, he opens the door, wearing a dressing gown that is a veritable explosion of colours. He has three cats, two of which are circling his legs. ‘He’s still here!’ he says in delight, looking at Quentin behind me, who is trying to describe to Adrian where we are.

‘Yeah... he stayed the night... But have you seen the battlefield outside? We’ll never get out alive, so I was thinking about what you said, about climbing down the tree... Perhaps we could still do that, and now that I’m not in my glad rags...’ I look down at myself. Jacket, T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. And a messenger bag with all my girly stuff and my laptop.

‘Oh, sure, sure, come on in, it’ssss... a bit of a mess in here...’ He waves us inside, nearly tripping over the cats, and making his way over to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make tea. Just a minute...’

Quentin just then ends his convo and gives me back my phone. ’Um, Rafiq? We’re actually in a bit of a rush, mate, so, if you could just...’

‘Noooo problem, mate,’ Rafe grins, in a simply awful attempt at imitating Quentin’s accent. He opens the kitchen window and motions to us. ‘Through here, if you please, and mind the step. Well. Mind the tree.’

Quentin sticks his head out and measures the distance, and while I turn back to thank Rafe and to tell him that there will probably be someone coming in to get some of my things later on, Quent manages to climb out the window and into the tree. ‘This is goin’ to be a breeze!’ he calls back though the window, ‘I can see a way down, easy as fuck. C’mon Tazzie, I’ll show you how.’

So, a few minutes later, I’m dangling precariously between heaven and earth, one leg still inside Rafiq’s kitchen. It is suddenly painfully clear to me why I’m the one writing books and Quentin’s the one starring in action-packed movies. I’m shit at tree climbing. I’m scared of heights too. Quent is of course sitting on the branch like he’s been doing this his entire life; I’ve passed him my bag through the window, he’s slung it across his back, and now he’s trying very hard to get me out the window without me breaking my neck.

Finally, I’m on the branch beside him, and he tells me how we’ll go about climbing down. Rafiq has his head out the window and he’s shouting all sorts of advice at us in his high-pitched, hysterical voice, until Quentin looks up at him and good-naturedly grumbles: ‘Rafiq, will you shut the fuck up? You’ll alert the bloody paps!’

‘Oh, oooops! I’m sorry!’ Rafiq whispers really loudly. And he continues to pour out his well-meant advice over us it that same, equally hysterical whisper.

Quentin ignores him altogether and proceeds to climb down ahead of me, showing me where to put my hands and feet, softly talking to me to keep my courage up. ‘That’s right Tazzie, that’s brill, keep going, eyes on me... okie dokie...’

He reaches the bottom first, while I still dangle halfway, and I see him immediately going for a fag and lighting up like he’s dying for it. ‘You been waiting... for a smoke... since yesterday lunch?’ I pant at him, trying to find some sort of purchase for my left foot on a minute branch.

‘Naw...’ he says, and blows out a lungful of smoke sideways, ‘I hung out your kitchen window yesterday evening for a smoke while you were kipping... that’s when I found all your crisps and stuff... oh, watch it, careful, sweetheart,’ as my tiny branch snaps and my foot dangles.

I’m getting really tired of this, I just basically suck at climbing down trees, and I’m sort of scared. ‘Quent... what do I do now?’ I squeak, hanging from my hands and with my right foot leaning on the small stump of a previously sawn-off branch. There is another really big branch just below that, which Quentin could reach easily, but I’m just too short. It’s about level with Quent’s head. I know that if I can get on that branch, I’ll be down in no time, only problem is... I can’t. And it’s beginning to get a little precarious. My arms are cramping up and my breath is coming in frightened little gasps. ‘Perhaps... this wasn’t... such a good... idea... after all...’ I manage, and then Quentin takes one quick last drag of his fag, tosses it away and leaps back up again, practically running back into the tree.

‘I’m gonna... get up there... and... help you down...’ he pants, scrambling up the branch I can’t reach, as fast as he can.

‘Taryn, be careful,’ Rafiq screams in a whisper.

And then, all of a sudden, my arms just give out. There is nothing I can do about it. One moment, I’m hanging there, sure of the fact that I’ll make it until Quentin can grab me, the next I’m sailing through the air in slow motion, seeing Quentin’s startled face gliding past, and falling smack on my bum in the – thank God for that – fairly high grass.

‘Fuckin’ hell!’ I exclaim. And then I feel how much it hurts. I squeeze my eyes shut and tears course down my face, as Quent jumps out of the tree and kneels beside me in worry.

‘Tazzie, Taz, Christ, you OK? Say something, are you... did you...’

‘Ow, ow,’ I moan, rolling onto my side, ‘I won’t be able to sit for a week, Jesus that hurts...’ and I hide my teary face into Quentin’s shirt. His arms are around me and he’s muttering comforting words into my ear. But the pain is subsiding already and I feel a giggle bubble up inside me. ‘I must have looked really ridiculous,’ I mutter, and chuckle against his chest.

‘Yeah, you did,’ Quent replies, flooded with relief that nothing seems the matter with me. ‘Crazy sheila, did you do that to scare me?’ and then he’s grinning with me, and we’re laughing harder, until Quent lets himself fall back on the grass with me in his arms.

‘Ooee, my bum feels numb,’ I exclaim, which sets us off again. Rafiq is giggling from his window.

Quentin helps me get up again, and I carefully shake out my legs, still grinning. It’s all very funny, but at the same time, I was really scared, and it really hurt. I shiver, and rub at my arms. ‘Let’s not do this ever again, shall we?’ I quietly ask of Quent, and he looks into my eyes and sees there what I’m not telling him.

‘No worries, sweetheart,’ he softly says to me, ‘I’m goin’ to take care of everything from now on.’ He puts his big warm hands on my upper arms, and gives me a comforting rub. ‘You ready to go look for the car? Ade said he’d be there in no time.’

‘He’s coming to get us himself?’ I exclaim in total disbelief.

‘Yeah, he said he knows exactly where we are and it’s no trouble for him... he’s lived in London all his life, really knows his way around here, you know... C’mon, where’s that gate?’

‘Over there,’ Rafiq whispers from his window, pointing into the corner of the garden.

We walk over, open the gate and peek into the deserted alley. Looks safe. I’m rubbing at my backside; it’s really quite sore.

‘We’ll get you into the tub over at Ade’s,’ Quent mutters at me, ‘don’t want your muscles to stiffen up after a fall. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. You don’t want to know how often I’ve come off a horse in exactly the same way... take a hot bath, luv, and you won’t feel a thing in the morning.’ He wraps an arm around me and we carefully slink down the alley to where it opens into the street.

‘I’m sure you know what you’re talking about,’ I say with a grimace, ‘I just hope your Adrian will be here soon because I could just kill for that bath. Right now. Bloody hell!’

‘You’re a tough little sheila,’ Quentin says to me, and he kisses my temple. ‘I’m really proud of you. I know you were scared, climbing down, and you did it just the same. You fell really well too, I could tell.’

‘Well it didn’t feel very well,’ I grump at him. ‘How does one fall well? I thought it was just a matter of aaaah, ker-splat...?’

Quentin is concentratedly scanning the street, and in the meantime he instructs me, quite seriously: ‘...you need to go with the fall, not fight it. Absorb the energy as you hit. You know? Ah, look, there he is!’

A wine-red vintage Jaguar is zooming down the street.

‘Nice car!’ I mutter.

‘Yeah, he’s got taste... Hi Ade,’ Quent says as he opens the door and gets in the back. ‘Thanks, mate, for coming down so quickly. This is Tazzie, my, um, fiancée...’

‘How do you do, Adrian Blakeley,’ Adrian says as I crawl into the car on my hands and knees, and he holds out a hand over his shoulder. I shake it awkwardly, and mutter ‘...Taryn Archer, lovely to meet you.’

‘You have an interesting way of getting into a car,’ Adrian comments, as Quentin leans around me and manages to pull the door shut. I very, very carefully sit down, wincing, and Adrian drives away, past my street where the journalists are crowding, totally unaware of our successful, if somewhat painful, escape.

‘We had to climb down a tree to get out, and I fell on my bum,’ I say, and I look at Quentin with raised eyebrows. Am I going mental or did he just call me his fiancée in front of Sir Adrian Blakeley? Quent looks back at me, his face the epitome of innocence.

He wraps an arm around me and totally ignores my unspoken question; then says to Adrian: ‘We’ll have to give her a soak in your tub, mate, don’t want her to have a sore bum for the rest of the week. Looks like she came down OK, but you know, it’s better for the muscles and all.’

‘Oh, definitely,’ Adrian smiles, and I see him take us in through his rear view mirror. His eyes are full of warmth, and I can feel that he’s really fond of Quentin. I like him on the spot.

And I relax against Quentin’s shoulder as we zoom down the London streets, my flat besieged and my behind burning like it’s on fire. I don’t think anything will ever be the same again in my life, and I’m actually quite sure that I won’t ever get the chance to think about Quentin and me, and our baby, calmly, and quietly, like I had in mind when I fled Nana... but in all honesty, I don’t give a fuck about any of that any more. The only thing that really matters to me, if I’m totally honest with myself, is that we’re together. Principle? Fuck that.

Chapter Twenty-One