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

©2008 by: Jackie

Chapter Twenty-One

Sir Adrian Blakeley has a beautiful house. It’s huge, it has a big garden with an even bigger fence around it, and it has loads of rooms. It also boasts an enormous bathroom with a tub big enough to wash a family of five. In one go. And everything is so very tasteful. Not too old, not too new. Not too designerish and not too antique, just... perfect.

I sit and sigh and soak, and enjoy the fragrant bath oil and the peace and quiet. Quentin’s gone to his meeting with the possible investor, Ade (he insists I call him Ade) has made sure I could get comfy in his tub, and we’ll just have to see how the day progresses. Apparently we’ll have to wait for Quent’s cavalcade to arrive, and then, he’s sure, everything will be sorted out and I’ll never have to worry about a thing any more, ever, in my whole entire life. I can’t really see how, yet, but maybe I’m just not experienced enough where these things are concerned. I’ve never dated an international film star before.

I’m still having trouble seeing Quentin that way. I mean, like I said, I know that that’s what he does for a living, but to me he’s just a big, broad, beefy, all Aussie male in a threadbare plaid flannel. When he’s like that, I fancy the pants off him and I love him to pieces.

All the other stuff I really have to get used to. Enormously. The power he seems to hold, his business side, the reporters... the army of staff, the money, and the ease with which he seems to be able to take things for granted ... It’s really snobby of me to object to him having money, I know, but I’m just not sure yet I actually like that side of him very much. He’s just so very, very different from who he was when we were at Nana. Only when he’s physically close to me, when he wraps his arms around me, when I bury my nose in his shirt… when we’re kissing, making love… I can’t think straight and all I want is never to be parted from him ever again.

It’s very confusing. I want to be with him, because I know that I can’t bear being apart from him, but at the same time... it’s like he’s a total stranger. Or, no, that’s not right, he’s like about 75% a stranger. Maybe a bit less, maybe a bit more, but enough anyway to have me seriously worried. And then there’s the fact that he’s called me his fiancée to Ade... I feel proud, and happy, on the one hand, but on the other it’s like he’s taking over my whole life without so much as asking me how I feel about it... I suddenly remember Martin telling me about Quentin’s focus, and how it can shift... I just wish we were back at Nana, that Bree had never rung him, and he’d never left me... We could have just stayed there, and we would have been happy for the rest of our lives... Oh Christ I know that that’s not realistic, but I’m just so confused.

I’m pondering all that, up to my chin in the water, when suddenly I feel a nasty cramp tearing up my insides.

What the fuck?

I sit up in a hurry, sloshing water all around, and grab at my belly. It feels like... like... it feels like I’m having my period! Oh please no, don’t let that be true...

I sit frozen for maybe ten minutes, waiting for the next cramp to hit. Is it because I fell out the fucking tree, stupid, clumsy me? Or is it something else, something I ate? What? Why? What did I do wrong? It is stress? I’ve had a lot of that, the last couple of weeks. Come to think of it, I’ve been stressed out ever since my book tour started; it’s a miracle I even conceived at all. That month I spent with Quent at Nana was the happiest I’ve ever been, yeah, but it looks like that’s just as much in the past as my own fairly quiet life here in London. Shit, shit, shit...

Hot tears run down my cheeks. Nothing much else happens. I wait, and wait. No more cramps, and the water starts to cool, so eventually I shakily climb out the tub, dry off, and get dressed again.

Ade is waiting for me in his formidable living room, with a big pot of tea. ‘How’s the backside?’ he asks with a gentle smile, when I emerge from the bathroom.

‘Um... OK I reckon...’

‘Do sit, Taryn, please, sit, and let me get you a cup of tea. Now.’ Ade pours the tea and looks at me with an observant eye. ‘Is it true that you and Quentin have worked out your problems, and you’ve agreed to marry him? Good God, girl, you are very pale. Are you all right, at all? What is the matter?’

‘I, um... I feel a bit funny...’ I manage, clutching my teacup between both hands and shivering, still panicked from that cramp.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Ade reassuringly, ‘I’m sure it’s all a bit much. I mean, I know Quentin; he can be very overwhelming. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even realize when he does it. First time we worked together, he nearly drove me insane; he was so much trouble. Brilliant, mind you, but he questioned everything. Everything. Good grief, I had to fight him every step of the way. I’m really happy to see that he’s calmed down somewhat, and I think we have you to thank for that. He’s told me everything, you know, how the two of you met, Bree’s role, his own actions... Oh he’s been so worried about you, he thought he had lost you forever. I’m really happy that it all worked out so well. But never mind me, I’m just blathering on like a madman, and here you are, looking all fraught. Should I order some food for you? I’ve got a housekeeper who’s quite the cook, if she puts her mind to it, you know?’

‘No thanks Ade, I’m quite all right... I’m not hungry... I just feel a little... I dunno, I guess it’s just all the emotions from the last couple of days, plus I got a real fright when I fell out the tree... no permanent damage I think, but still... you know...’

Adrian Blakeley’s sharp eyes never leave my face. ‘Quentin’s told me about the... pregnancy. Is... everything still as it should be?’

Oh my God the man sees everything! I close my eyes and hang my head, and whisper: ‘I’m not sure, really.... Just now in the tub, I felt something really... oh I’m just not... I really hope everything’s still...’ and then my eyes fill up and I cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ I hiccup from behind my hand, ‘I’m just such a mess; first I wanted to run from Quent because I didn’t want him to be with me just because of the child, like he did with Bree, then I nearly died I missed him so much; now he’s here, he’s a completely different person from the man I fell in love with in Australia, and now I’m worried I’ll lose the child and lose him as well... I feel like a bloody freak, Ade, I don’t know what to feel any more... Only when he’s close to me, you know, I feel like I belong, right there, at his side, like we should be together... And when he so much as leaves the room, it’s like physical pain to me... but then once he’s gone, it’s like my mind clears, and I get completely confused... I probably need to get my head checked...’

‘Taryn.’ Adrian sounds very strict, and more than a little fatherly. ‘Taryn, listen closely. I’ve had three wives, and all of them bore me children. The moment they got pregnant, they changed completely, and not always for the better. I think it’s called hormones.’ He lifts his eyebrows at me. ‘I think you should just stop worrying for a while, and do as Quentin says. Wait until his people get there, let them handle the press, let them pick up some of your stuff, and you just enjoy being with him. He is very special, and I do believe he loves you very much. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before, with any of his other girlfriends, Taryn...’ Adrian shakes his head. ‘Let’s just hope that he’s finally grown up enough.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, sniffling and wiping at my eyes.

‘Oh, you know... We men are always so immature,’ he grins, ‘it took me three marriages to finally learn how to behave like an adult about the whole thing, and now I’m too old and no one will have me...’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I finally smile at him, ‘you’re a great guy, and I’m sure there are loads of women dying to go out with you.’

‘Yes, well...’ is all that Sir Adrian Blakeley says to that, but he has the good grace to blush a little.

~*~

It takes Quentin almost the entire day before he’s done with whatever it is he was doing, and he can make his way back to Ade’s place. He storms in, shucks his coat, plops down on the sofa next to me and gives me a cuddle.

‘Bloody hell, Taz, I thought I’d never get back here. Took the bloke the whole morning to make up his mind, but he’s in. I had to turn on the charm like, like...’ he scratches his head, then grins at me. ‘Dunno like what, but anyway, it worked. And then I went to the hotel and picked up my new mobile,’ he pulls a wafer-thin phone out of his pocket, ‘and I’ve arranged for some more room, so that you can move in with me there.’

‘What do you mean more room?’ I say, turning his new phone over in my hands. ‘Did you rent a separate room for me? I thought we’d share a room, um...’ I give him a puzzled look before I hand him back his phone.

‘Bit more than that, luvvie,’ he grins at me. ‘I got the whole floor. Tomorrow morning they’ll clear everyone out, Ron and my press lady and everyone comes in from Sydney in the arvo, and we’ll move back there as well, then.’ He turns to Ade. ‘If that’s OK with you, mate, I mean, I’m just assuming you won’t mind putting up with us for the night...?’

‘Certainly not! I told you you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, and that of course includes your fiancée.’ Ade winks at me.

‘The whole floor?’ I mutter, not even picking up on the fiancée thing any more. I’ll deal with that whenever.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s the only way we’ll have a bit of privacy, Taz... Don’t worry about it, will you; I’ve done this shit before, OK?’ Quent kisses my temple. ‘If I knew for cert we’d be staying here longer, I’d get us a house... well, we’ll just see about that later, hey?’

We drink tea, then Ade and Quent open a bottle of wine and start talking about the project, and Quentin fills me in on the progress they’ve made so far. It sounds very good, and I’m really very proud that I’m actually part of it, in a small way. Quentin grins at me that he’ll put me on as co-author, and that we’ll go collect that Oscar together.

Adrian’s housekeeper cooks us a lovely dinner, and the brainstorm just follows us to the dining table. Ade and Quent are deep into this, and I sort of sit and observe. It’s interesting to watch them work together, two brilliantly creative minds, but I feel a bit like an outsider all the same even though Quentin constantly touches my hand, or leans over to give me a kiss.

I stay silent; I’m still a bit confused, and deep down I’m still very worried about the pregnancy. So, I decide to turn in early, and huddle under a beautifully soft duvet in an equally beautiful bed. I fall asleep almost immediately, and hardly notice when Quentin joins me. I just turn to him and hide in his arms.

Next morning I wake up finding him inside me, sleepily sliding in and out of me, his eyes closed and his hair a mess. Our bodies seem to know what they’re doing even without our minds being awake, I marvel, and I stroke his hair back. He halts, cracks open an eye and smiles at me lazily.

‘Don’t stop, Quent,’ I whisper, and lift my hips to urge him to continue what he was doing. He hums at me, rubbing his nose against my temple, then he picks up the pace again, and we end in a slow, quivering, giddy tangle, happy and intertwined and cuddling and kissing. I want the rest of my life to be like this, to be so close to this wonderful man when I wake up... I’m just unbelievably happy.

We get up, and shower, and eat breakfast. My bum doesn’t feel too bad, and while I really want to tell Quent what happened while I was taking a bath yesterday, for some reason I just can’t. The moment just never comes. At the breakfast table, Ade and Quent launch into this wild brainstorm again, and I don’t want to break up their creative flow, and then Quent’s new phone keeps ringing... I can’t keep track of who he talks to and what it’s all about, so after a while I just decide to withdraw into a corner with my laptop, and do some work, until it’s time to move into our hotel room. Our hotel floor, I mean. Christ.

I’m thinking, maybe I’ll be able to tell him in the car, when we’re driving over. Maybe he’ll have enough time then. I’m still very worried, and I can feel Ade’s eyes on me from time to time. Quentin doesn’t seem to notice. But then, he’s got so much to arrange for right now, I can hardly blame him.

And then it’s time to go. I pack up my stuff, give Ade a big hug and thank him for letting me use his tub, and we’re off in this big, plush car with tinted windows. Quentin has his arm around me and his phone to his ear the whole time; he doesn’t have a moment’s rest. Apparently his troops have landed and are on their way to the hotel as well.

‘Jenny’s havin’ a bloody heart attack,’ he confides in me in the few seconds he has between ending the one call and getting the next. ‘She thinks I’m not supposed to get engaged to anyone without her knowing in advance, and she’s givin’ me a fuckin’ earful… I sprung it on her with Bree as well; don’t think she’s forgiven me yet…’

I think he looks a bit odd as the realization hits him that his engagement to Bree actually happened less than two months ago. Or, maybe I’m just imagining that. Maybe it doesn’t hit him, but it certainly hits me. I dunno; I feel weird thinking about it, how fast everything has changed, and changed again. I squirm under his arm. He feels my unease somehow, even if he isn’t necessarily aware of its reason, and he pulls me in closer and nuzzles my hair while still speaking into his phone. I can’t help it, I turn to him and plant a little kiss on his jaw, and immediately, I feel his attention drifting. Our eyes meet. I hear the person on the other end of the phone conversation yakking on, but Quent is lowering the phone and plucking little kisses off my lips.

I cup his cheek in my hand. ‘Quent, there’s something we need to talk about,’ I whisper. He just looks into my eyes, a little startled at first, but then smiling at me reassuringly.

‘Don’t worry, Tazzie-luv, everything will be fine once my people get here,’ he softly says, while his mobile is emitting a muffled “Quentin? Are you there? Hello?”

‘Your phone, love,’ I say, softly nudging him and deciding that the time isn’t now. We’ll find the time. Somehow.

He blinks, puts the phone to his ear and then slips back into business mode in a split second. He just amazes me, doing that. Frightens me a little too, if I’m totally honest.

We’re at the hotel sooner than expected. Well, anyway, we’re there before I get the chance to tell him about my worries. And once we get inside, we’re just never alone. We’re welcomed by the hotel manager, who guides us up to our floor. Once there, there’s a small army of staff dedicated to our floor, waiting to meet us. And soon as we’ve had a look around in a couple of the rooms on our floor, the first signs of Quentin’ troops arriving again rob me of any chance of having a private convo with him.

I sigh, find a relatively quiet spot and flip open my laptop again. Hopefully we’ll be able to talk about it tonight, before we get some sleep.

A little while later, Quentin comes in with a bunch of people in tow. They look travel worn and jetlagged, but he insists that they meet with me straight away, and again, he introduces me as his fiancée.

I’m sort of beginning to get used to it, I think; or maybe I’m just too overwhelmed to protest. All my ideas of having some time to think about anything, anything at all really, are just washed away by this maelstrom that apparently is Quentin Finch’s life. I smile and shake a lot of hands, trying to remember everyone’s names.

There’s Jenny, his publicist or press lady, as he refers to her, a wiry, businesslike woman in her early fifties, who gives me a firm handshake and a stern look, and there’s Ron, his security guy, whom I’ve seen on TV on the day of the court case. Ron is big, muscular, quiet and trustworthy, and he heads a detail of no less than six equally turned out guys who will ensure that Quent and I can go anywhere we want to go without being hassled. Provided we adhere to Ron’s earlier laid out battle plans, of course. Then, there is a driver, he’s called Peter – a fairly young, lanky fellow, and a personal assistant, a nondescript guy named Toby. His job is to take care of Quent’s diary and to coordinate everything and everyone if Quent decides he wants to go somewhere or do something. Apparently it’s a huge production just to get him out the hotel, let alone get him inside somewhere else. I can suddenly understand all the better why he would actually want to wait in the street outside my flat for half an hour, if he had the chance to do so unnoticed, for once.

‘Do I have to do all that as well?’ I ask Quentin, with no doubt a look of horror on my face.

‘What, luvvie?’

‘Tell Toby and Ron and everyone when I want to go out?’

He grins at me. ‘Well, yeah… the idea is that they keep us safe and stuff, and we’ll have to allow them to do their jobs, hey?’

‘But what if I want to run down to Boots and get… and get…’ My mind races. I want to say “tampons”; the worry about the pregnancy still at the forefront of my mind. ‘…a lipstick. Or paper hankies. Or…’ I fumble, looking at Quent imploringly.

‘Well, you ask Peter. He’ll get you whatever you need. Ask him nicely though, he’s a sensitive soul.’ Quentin grins again, and punches Peter playfully on the shoulder. Peter winces, but grins right back all the same.

‘Oh,’ I say, and look at the floor. ‘So basically, I can’t get out of here any more.’

‘Course you can, sweetheart, we just need to coordinate beforehand, that’s all. You’ll get used to it in no time, you’ll see. Now, I reckon you should tell Pete here what you want him to get from your flat, so you can put on a clean pair of daks, yeah? Don’t stress, luvvie, it will all be OK, I promise you.’ And with that, and a quick, but delicious kiss, Quent turns and leads his entourage out again. Peter stays behind, looking at me for orders.

‘Um… aren’t you, um, really tired and everything? Shouldn’t you get some zeds in first, acclimatize and all that?’ I ask him.

‘Nah… I’ll be fine… I kipped on the plane over. I’m used to it, you know; Quent always has these spur of the moment things going on. Keeps you on your toes, I reckon. But it’s very kind of you to ask.’ Peter smiles at me tiredly, but reassuringly. So after another couple of moments of hesitation, I hand him my key, give him my address and inform him what I’d like him to bring me from my flat.

The day wears on in a flurry of these odd activities. I never get any time alone with Quent, but what I do get is a grilling by Jenny, who wants to know everything there is to know about what she calls my ‘public profile’. I wasn’t aware that I had one, but she seems to think that it’s of the utmost importance, because my public profile apparently will reflect upon, or interact with, Quentin’s public profile, once we ‘go live’ with the engagement. I feel like we’re in some sort of paramilitary operation all of a sudden, but Quent reassures me that’s how it’s supposed to go. Public statements like these should be prepared and carefully rehearsed. Jenny gives him a meaningful look when he says that, from which I gather that Quentin himself, in the past, has been less than stellar in holding to these principles… But apparently he’s intent on doing things right this time. And Jenny, by the end of the strategic pr-meeting, seems to be satisfied as well. Tomorrow at eleven, we’ll call an official press conference, here at the hotel; Quentin will introduce me as his fiancée, use the moment to leak some information on the upcoming project with Ade, and we’ll be ‘live’. Engaged and ‘live’. Jenny seems to think that the whole thing will be very good for Quentin’s – here we go again – public profile, but I’m beginning to feel like I’m a public relations stunt, and when I whisper that into Quentin’s ear, he grins into my hair, kisses me sweetly and asks me not to be upset with Jenny. She’s only doing her job, he tells me, and she’s really good at what she does.

I’m sure she is. I just wish things weren’t so… so… hectic. One minute Quent is close to me, the next he’s consumed by the next emergency and being ushered out of the room by Ron and one of the security guys. I know I have no right to claim him, but it feels so fucking awful to have him close by and not… not…

And then another cramp hits me. It’s really bad, I gasp audibly and Quentin, just about to step outside, rushes over from the other side of the room as he sees me double up. ‘Luvvie, what, what is it?’ he mutters, wrapping his arms around me and guiding me to the nearest sofa. ‘Christ, you’re all white; talk to me Tazzie, please,’ he implores.

I just gasp some more, hide in his arms, and tears start to run down my cheeks. I know for sure now: I’m having my period. I’m losing the baby. Has it been long enough to call it a miscarriage? I’m not entirely sure, but it does hurt like the bloody blazes.

‘Q-Quent,’ I sob, ‘I was trying to find… trying to tell you all day long, but you were just so busy… we were never really alone, and… you know…?’

‘All right, everybody out,’ Quentin orders sternly over my head. ‘Now, bloody now, everybody out the room, I need a private word with Tazzie!’

Everyone files out quickly and without fuss, but I catch a look from Jenny like she thinks I’m some kind of attention seeker. If only she knew… But I reckon she’s seen a lot of girls in her time with Quentin, she’s worked for him for years. Some of them must have been real characters.

The idea of Quentin’s former girlfriends throwing fainting fits and tantrums just to have him notice them makes me shiver. Is that my future? But then he tips up my chin, looks deeply into my eyes and kisses the tears from my cheeks. ‘Talk to me Tazzie,’ he softly says. ‘Is it the baby?’

I nod, more tears run down my cheeks, and I close my eyes. ‘I’m having my period,’ I whisper. ‘It really hurts. No baby.’ And another cramp blossoms inside me, making me moan softly and squirm in Quentin’s arms.

‘Oh Christ… Tazzie-luv, sweetheart…’ Quentin pulls me even closer. ‘Is it because you fell out the tree? Oh I could kill myself, fuckin’… bloody… Are you going to be OK? Should we get a doctor in, or should we go to the hospital? Luvvie?’ His voice chokes up as well, and when I open my eyes and look into his, I see they’re full of pain and guilt.

‘I’m going to be fine, love, it’s just painful… but our baby’s gone… so, um…well, we don’t… um…’

I have to say it. I just have to know. I sit up, wipe my hair out of my face and the tears out of my eyes, and swallow. ‘Quent, if you want to, um, end the engagement, I’ll underst…’

He won’t let me finish my sentence. Instead, he covers my mouth with his and kisses me thoroughly and possessively, until I almost forget the pain. ‘Tazzie,’ he finally says, a bit breathless, ‘don’t give me that shit. I love you and I want us to be married. You’re more important; you’re the most important person in the world to me and I want you to be part of my life. I’m sad about the baby and I feel bloody awful about letting you climb down the tree, but…’ he gives me a watery smile, ‘the way we’re going, I’m sort of… not too worried… we’ll manage to get you preggers again, wouldn’t you reckon?’

I smile as well, feeling strangely relieved even though I’m infinitely sad at the thought of having lost our baby. But then again, this is the answer I was dying to hear. Quentin wants me for me, not for carrying his child. And he’s probably right. I’ll get pregnant again in no time with how often we make love. I should just trust him, lay my life in his hands and stop worrying, just as he says, and it will all turn out all right.

So that night, I fall asleep with Quentin’s hand on my belly, the pain having dulled somewhat. I’m sad and happy at the same time; I didn’t know that that was possible. And finally I’m beginning to feel secure about our shared future. Tomorrow, we’ll announce our engagement to the world, and our life as a couple in the public eye can start. I’ll have to get used to a lot of things, but I’m sure I’ll manage; after all, we’re meant to be, aren’t we?

EPILOGUE

Did I mention that nothing ever goes the way you expect it to go, where Quentin is concerned? Well, if I forgot to mention it, I’m doing it now. Christ, was I mistaken when I thought that we’d sort everything out, that I’d be pregnant again in no time, that we’d be together forever…

I’ve been in Fort William for six weeks now, I’m staying in a little summer cottage that belongs to Sam, my intrepid agent, though why anyone would want to have a summer cottage here; I really don’t have a clue. It’s in the middle of fucking nowhere - my mobile doesn’t even work here. I only get a proper signal when I drive into FW itself. Thank God I do have an Internet uplink, or I’d be cut off from the world completely.

The cottage sits alongside the loch, yeah, and it’s actually quite pretty, though a little rough, but the weather is bloody awful. Or maybe the weather is just reflecting the way I’ve been feeling since I left London. Bloody awful. Took me all this time to gather my wits, and my courage, and tell you the last leg of my sad adventure, but I’m determined to see it through to the end. Even though it has ended very differently from what I expected, let alone what I hoped. Oh well, that’s life I guess, it’s not easy and it’s generally rather painful.

When I started out writing all this down, I was confused, hurting, but still hopeful, in a way. Remember? I was beneath the tree, typing away, I had been in Nana for three months, I was heartbroken and had just found out I was pregnant… But I was going to get my life back on track; I’d have my baby and I’d live on memories of the love Quentin and I had shared, however brief it had been. And then, Quentin managed to turn everything upside down again, by coming after me to London and giving me his ring. I still have it; I’m wearing it on a chain around my neck. I never take it off; it’s the last thing I have of him.

I was still hurting from when he left me so suddenly for Bree when she claimed she was carrying his child, and I was in serious doubt if our relationship would survive, even though I missed him more than I had thought possible when I left him and went back to London. Good God, now I’m writing all this down, thinking it over, it’s like I’ve suddenly become part of a real-life sitcom. I can’t even keep track of my own life any more; all of it just sounds completely unrealistic. But then, truth always is stranger than fiction, isn’t it? And the fact remains that Quentin’s just so bloody irresistible. He just takes me over, body and soul and emotions, whenever he comes near. I can’t possibly say no to him. I want him too much. Probably still do.

Well, he took over my life as well as all the rest; after we escaped from my flat by climbing down the tree – I am still crying my eyes out thinking about that, how stupid I was. I’m sure I lost the baby because of that little stunt – it all became a weird, disjointed roller coaster. There were people around all the time, Quentin seemed the centre of the bloody universe and I was sort of trapped in the maelstrom. It made me very unhappy, I felt insignificant and superfluous, even though we seemed to be officially engaged. It wasn’t that all these people didn’t treat me nice. They were absolutely wonderful to me. I just felt trapped in somebody else’s life, and I wasn’t even sure I knew that person at all. Quentin was completely different from what he had been like at Nana. Oh, our mutual attraction was still there, but his focus (and yes, Martin had warned me about his dreaded focus) seemed to shift from this to that, and once it was off me, it was almost as if I was just another part of his entourage. He was sweet to me, and he touched me and kissed me all the time, but I didn’t feel like we were into this together at all. It was his life; I was welcome to get aboard, enjoy the ride, but I didn’t get to have any say in where we were going. Sometimes it was almost as if Quentin himself didn’t have any say in it. As if he just surfed the wave and let it ride him to wherever it took him.

Oh, and the press conference where we were to announce our engagement? That never happened. A big fat emergency came up that morning, which forced us to reschedule. And what do you think the emergency was? Well, it was Brianna Roberts, who publicly stated that she was carrying Quentin’s baby, that he had forced her to do a paternity test, that he had withdrawn his support on the basis of the outcome of the test, but that she had had more testing done which had disproved the outcome of the original test. The end result of that was that we’d all have to wait until the baby was born to get a conclusive result on the paternity, but in the meantime Bree had decided to sue Quent. I didn’t even understand exactly what she was suing him for. Something along the lines of damage to her career. She wanted money, of course, and she aimed for a shitload of publicity. Her latest film wasn’t doing well at all, and Quentin suspected that that little insignificant fact had a lot to do with her attacking him publicly.

The effect of Bree’s actions was probably much larger than she had anticipated. A media circus exploded around Quent, and everything bad that could have been dragged up concerning him was rehashed and recycled until he looked like the baddest bad boy Hollywood had ever seen. He was furious, and really, the injustice of it was staggering. Finally he was sorting out his life and he was seriously working on his own project, now this happened. Most of the stuff they had said about him in the past was completely over the top anyway, if not outright lies. But that didn’t stop the gutter press from reprinting it.

The only comfort Quentin had was that Bree’s little plan backfired on herself as well. She got about as much bad press as he did, and her film definitely bombed. But in the meantime, the announcement of our engagement had dropped several notches on Quentin’s priority list. As well as actually being engaged to me. Or so it seemed anyway; I just didn’t see Quent at all during the day. He rolled into bed tired at night, got up really early for a workout or a run or something, we had breakfast together and he was off again. He phoned a lot of journalists, he actually rang them personally, and raged at them for printing lies about him. That didn’t really help, but gradually, he got so angry and unreasonable that he was beyond listening to anyone’s advice. He nearly fired Jenny in a two hour shouting match. He just got totally absorbed by what was said about him, and it made him dismally unhappy.

Our love life suffered as well. He was just so stressed out. I didn’t know what to do to help him, or ease his mind, and on top of that I was quietly grieving for the loss of our baby. He didn’t seem to notice, nor did he seem to feel what I was feeling. I felt us drift apart by the hour, and I spent a lot of time on the phone with Jo. I never told you before, but I lost my parents at a fairly early age, and I was so, so thankful for having her for a friend and a substitute Mum. She patiently listened to my rants, and comforted me as I sobbed into the phone. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have known what I’ve done.

Then, after a good ten days or so, Quentin told me he’d have to go back to the U.S. Not only was Bree suing him, he was going to sue her right back, and on top of that, his lawyers seemed to have found a way to fight the verdict on his work permit. He didn’t know how much time he’d need to do whatever he had to do there, but he wanted me to come along. No, he expected me to come along. He expected me to tag along just as he expected the rest of his entourage to hop on the plane with him. The idea that I should have a say in that, that I should have a choice, didn’t even seem to enter his mind.

And then and there, I broke. I cried, and told him at length how unhappy I was, how sad I was about having lost the baby, how much it hurt that he didn’t seem affected at all, that he was just completely absorbed by his little media drama, how much we were drifting apart… in short, how this whole arrangement just wasn’t working out for me at all.

It hit him like a truck. He sat down in a chair like someone had cut his string and he stared at me with eyes full of pain. He stared at me as if I had betrayed him. It made me feel awful about myself, but still, I couldn’t deny my own feelings any longer.

So, I told him that I wasn’t coming along to the States; I told him I was going to go into hiding. I could stay at Sam’s cottage for as long as I liked, and I was going to do exactly that. I’d try and finish my book, I’d finally have the time to think about things as I had wanted to do all along, and if this whole frenzy was over, and Quent had had some time to think about things as well, perhaps we could… talk, maybe… see where we were… But one thing I made very clear to him. If we were ever to have a life together, it would have to be us. Together. Not him calling the shots and me tagging along. Also, I wasn’t prepared to have our life together overrun by his ever-present entourage. I’d want us to find another solution. And besides, in the sort of relationship I envisioned, he wouldn’t need a whole damage control squad on constant standby. I’d be prepared for some media intervention, obviously, but our life together would be calm, and stable… not much news there.

He heard me out in silence, then ran a hand over his face. Then, after some time, he looked away and resignedly said ‘Fuck. I’ve done it again. Just like I was afraid of.’ And then he just… let me go.  He had Peter pick up all the stuff from my flat that I might need that wasn’t already at the hotel, and then the poor soul had to drive me all the way to Fort William.

We hugged, and kissed one last time, when we said our goodbyes, but I didn’t cry. I was finished crying. I was still infinitely sad, but I was convinced by now that it would never work out between the two of us. At least not until Quentin sorted some things out for himself, and I had serious doubts that he was actually prepared to do so.

And that’s where you find me now. In Sam’s cottage, by the loch. My book is nearly done. The worst of the heartache seems to be over – I still live with a dull throb in my chest, but it’s nowhere near as debilitating as the first two weeks I was here – and I’ve begun to accept the loss of our baby. It really is true what they say, you know, I can feel it. Time heals all wounds. And apparently I can now safely return to London, as Quentin still hasn’t returned from the U.S. and the media frenzy has followed him there.

I haven’t heard from him. Nor do I expect to, in all honesty. But I do still wear his ring on a chain around my neck, and intend to do so for the rest of my life, in honour to the most beautiful and most devastating love I have ever experienced, and no doubt will ever experience, in my entire life.

THE END