Quentin

It was always so bloody hard to wake up when he finally got a good night’s sleep. Day’s sleep. What time was it? He’d hitched a ride from LA to London with Peter, a businessman he knew from Oz - the bloke owned a jet - and had taken a sleeping pill because he didn’t really feel like socializing. Besides, he could do with getting some zeds in; he’d only slept in fitful little bursts every night for most of the past year.

At first he thought the sleeping troubles would pass, and recently when he’d started going out with Muriel he had hoped that being in a steady relationship finally would put an end to them, but no luck so far. Only when he drank himself into a stupor, which he did fairly regularly, or when he took a sleeping pill, which he only did on transatlantic flights, did he get a relatively restful night in. He was still considering seeing a doctor about it, but then deep down he knew exactly what it was. Ever since Taz it had been practically impossible for him to get a proper night’s sleep. Unless she was in his arms.

He rubbed at his eyes and removed the hair band from his wrist to tie up his yellow mop in a ponytail. Cap, sunglasses, and he was ready for the world again, insofar as Heathrow airport could be called that.

He’d only be in London for the weekend, because Ade had phoned him and had asked him over. Ade, that was Sir Adrian Blakeley, his very British, much lauded film director mate, who had developed the script he had worked on with Taz into a full-blown feature film project, and who had helped him get Tazzie back when she’d fled to London…

Ade and he had been in touch regularly in the past year, but hadn’t seen each other since they finished shooting for the project together a good six months earlier. That had been about the time Quentin finally got his work permit for the States sorted, after endless legal red tape. He’d rolled straight into the wireworks production after that – he was after all hot property and not only because of his incredible talent. The whole Brianna affair and the work permit situation would have been enough to keep Quentin in the headlines at least weekly, and his temper did the rest; his enormous media profile practically secured commercial success for whatever film that had his name attached.

And now Ade was in the final stages of the project, and he wanted Quent to come over and have a look at a rough cut. Quent had not even hesitated; he’d practically jumped at the opportunity to go to London on a valid pretext. He just hadn’t bothered sorting out his true motives.

‘Quent, you need a ride to somewhere?’ Peter asked over his shoulder as they climbed out of the jet. There was a shiny black car waiting for them.

‘Sure, mate. You wanna come along for a beer at Ade’s?’

‘Nah. Gotta be somewhere, you know... I’ll just drop you off, yeah?’ Peter had a very expensive Russian mistress installed in London, in a very expensive flat. He went to see her once a month; claimed it kept him sane. He’d probably have lent her to Quentin had he asked, he was a very generous bloke if a bit debauched, but Quent just wasn’t in the mood for any of that shit. He had Muriel, and was determined to make it work. Finally forget about Tazzie and bloody well make it work, for once in his life.

So it caught him completely unawares that when he walked into Ade’s large, tastefully decorated sitting room, there was a copy of Tazzie’s new book sitting on the coffee table. It was called The Nixie Secret – the long awaited sequel to The Nixie Cycle, and it had a very pretty cover. He felt his heart hammer in his chest as he picked it up, feigning nonchalance, and turned it over. She had had a new picture taken and looked as stunning as ever. He quickly scanned the blurb then put it back on the table.

‘Have you read it yet?’ Ade asked, following him in carrying two cold beer bottles.

Quentin shook his head, accepted a bottle and took a deep drink, his mind in overdrive at being back at Ade’s, seeing Tazzie’s book, seeing her photo, and all the memories that flooded back in.

‘Do you intend to read it?’ Ade continued, observing his friend with a sharp, intelligent eye. ‘You look done in, old chap; did you have a rough flight over?’

‘Not really; I got a ride over from Peter Karpfinger in his jet. Took a sleeping pill; reckon I’m still a bit woozy.’

‘Are you sleeping any better?’ When they had been working together, Ade had noticed how Quentin was constantly tired and moaning about sleepless nights.

‘Nope.’ Quentin was short and to the point; he didn’t want to get into it, He took another swig at his beer, ran a hand over his face and said: ‘So show me your reel, Ade. I didn’t come all this way for nothing, did I?’

The rough cut was actually very good, and seeing it and discussing it with Ade over an excellent dinner cooked by his excellent housekeeper, and a couple of equally excellent bottles of Australian red, Quentin managed to actually stop thinking about Tazzie for a while. Only when he was back in his room – Ade had insisted he’d stay for the night – and he saw Tazzie’s book lying on his pillow, did it hit him again. He physically jolted and stopped dead in his tracks. What the fuck? What was Ade up to, putting the book in his room like that?

Quentin sighed deeply and sank down on his bed, right next to his expensive leather holdall. He zipped it open, not really looking at what he was doing, and dug around with one hand until he found his laptop. He flipped it open and before he knew what he was doing, he found that he was looking at Tazzie’s site again. There were a couple of her fans online, posting about the book, and then suddenly he saw a post from her appear. She was online… that very moment he was watching her site, she was looking at the same screen. His heart sped up again.

He looked for just a while longer, then closed his browser and opened his second video diary entry. Played back some bits, until he came to the end. Where he’d decided to stop this digging in the past. He’d wanted to find some sort of closure, but he’d only gotten more confused and more obsessed in the last week. It was as if Tazzie was haunting him. He grunted at his laptop, then set it aside on the bed. He couldn’t possibly go to sleep yet so he got up and paced the room, thinking. Who’d know he was here? Would the press have gotten wind of it yet? Probably not. Perhaps he should just take a chance, go out. He could certainly do with a drink.

And then suddenly he made up his mind, stuffed his mobile and his wallet in his pocket, opened the window and climbed out. He was on ground level so no acrobatics were necessary and only a few minutes later he was in the street, looking up and down, trying to decide which way to go. Left looked like the best option.

There was a fairly large pub on the corner called The King’s Head. He briefly wondered how many King’s Heads the UK would actually boast, and then he was inside. The place was heaving with bodies and he practically had to fight his way over to the bar where he ordered a pint of lager. That sorted, he had a  look around. There were more men than women in, and the few sheilas that were in there weren’t really his… Hang on! Was he actually looking for a… He was supposed to make it work with Muriel from now on; that’s what he intended to do, didn’t he? Didn’t he?

He drowned his confused thoughts with another pint, followed quickly by a third. Then, he had to pay a quick visit to the lavs. When he returned, just a tiny bit unsteady on his legs, for a moment he froze on his way back to the bar: that girl over there, it couldn’t be, it just couldn’t… he blinked, blinked again, and then she turned. He exhaled audibly. It wasn’t Tazzie. But it was a close enough match.

Before he had time to think about anything, his legs had carried him over, he’d ordered himself another drink, ordered her one as well, and was chatting her up. He turned on the Finch charm full strength, and downed another two pints in quick succession. He was wondering all the time: did she recognize him or not? She didn’t really let on, which he found sort of sexy in some way, but she gravitated closer and closer and as another punter elbowed his way to the bar, she practically got pushed right into his arms. He didn’t think twice, just grabbed her and snogged her. It wasn’t very subtle, but it was very effective.

She didn’t resist at all, and let him grope her right there in the pub. He couldn’t think clearly and with some small part of his brain he actually believed it was Taz, although this girl felt very different in his arms. Yes, she was warm, and supple, and inviting, just like Muriel, but they didn’t share that heartbeat, that strange sensual heat, that bond…

That didn’t stop him though from stumbling after her as she made for the door, following her into the cold night air, grabbing her again and pushing her against the wall in the alley next to the pub. He was hot and hard and he was sucking at her lips, running his hands over her tits and rubbing his groin into her. She moaned and he muttered ‘Tazzie…’ into her neck.

‘My name is Kelsey,’ she panted, ‘and you’re Quentin Finch…’

‘Yeah,’ he managed, fumbling. He never even noticed that two guys from the pub had followed them out and were now taking pictures with their mobile phones.

‘Say my name,’ Kelsey demanded heatedly, running her hands through his hair.

‘Oh, Tazzie,’ he whispered, eyes closed. He could barely stand up now, he was so plastered.

‘It’s Kelsey, you fucker,’ she suddenly shouted, pushing him off her and whacking him across the head hard. He stumbled and leaned a hand against the wall for support, running the other hand over his face and through his hair. He felt awful all of a sudden. What was he doing, for Christ’s sakes? He sluggishly lumbered forward when suddenly he saw the guys still snapping shots of him.

‘What the f-fuck you think you’re doing?’ he bellowed, falling forward into a drunken run. ‘Get the… fuck out of here, you bloody arseholes, clear off, I’ll… I’m gonna…’

The guys scattered much faster than he could get at them and he found himself staggering down the road back to Adrian’s place, slowly sobering up a little as the cold night air got its teeth into him.

Oh my fuckin’ God, what sort of trouble have I gotten my arse into now? What did almost happen in that alley? And fuck, please, please let those pictures not make it to any sleaze mongering journo’s desk… he quietly worried and prayed as he made his way over to the window he’d climbed out of earlier. He tumbled in over the windowsill and crept over to his little sink to splash some water on his face, trying to get his brains to function again.

Dripping, he slumped on the bed, grabbed his notebook and flipped it open. His email dinged and he saw there was one from his Mum. She’d told him earlier that Tazzie was seeing someone nowadays, and apparently it sounded serious. She’d practically moved in with the fucker. Quentin was dying to know exactly how serious it was, but at the same time he wanted to ignore the whole subject. Ignore it into submission, ignore it so hard that it would just evaporate.

He shook his head to clear it, opened the video recording programme and clicked the record button. ‘Right… I said I wasn’t gonna… gonna continue this but I’m so fuckin’ destructive I just need to... do something… Bloody hell… I’m at Ade’s; I climbed out the window like I was in fuckin’ high school; went to the pub, got seriously pissed, there was this sheila, she made me think of Taz… before I knew it we were in an alley together and I would have shagged her there and then, in full view of everybody, if she hadn’t slapped me in the face for not sayin’ her name properly. Dunno what it was, her name, couldn’t remember... Not that it mattered… Christ, there were a couple of blokes taking piccies with their mobiles… I’m gonna be in so much trouble tomorrow morning…’ He moaned softly and fell backwards, the laptop still open and running on his legs. His head hit something hard and his hand flailed around behind until it encountered Tazzie’s book, forgotten on his pillow.

‘Ohhh, Taz, where are you? I need you, bloody hell, I need you so much…’ he softly moaned, eyes closed. He let the book come to rest against his cheek and imagined it was Tazzie’s cool hand on his face, comforting him, rescuing him…

He allowed himself to lie still for a moment longer then sat up again with superhuman strength. To his own surprise, he had tears in his eyes.

Rubbing at them with his thumb and forefinger, he swallowed hard then found the strength to continue. ‘I just can’t figure out why I had to be so bloody inflexible. I mean, why did I have to respond to Bree’s threats in the first place? She didn’t have a case, I didn’t even need my lawyers to tell me that. She wanted the bloody publicity, nothing more... And all right, I know it’s not something to be proud of, but I was so fuckin’ happy when she miscarried... That solved that once and for all... She even had the gall to have a DNA test done on the remains... Wasn’t mine. I knew it wasn’t, just knew it... but I was happy to get the definitive result on that all the same... I dunno whose kid it was, and honestly I don’t wanna know... But what I really can’t understand is why I had to go over to the States, and why I decided to stay. Can’t get my head around it. I should have gone back for Taz, I should have... just... I’m such a stubborn fucker, me. It was like a sword through the heart when she said she didn’t want to come along with me and I should have just paid attention to what it actually was that she was saying... She didn’t want me to call the shots like that, she didn’t want to follow me around like just another member of the Finch crew, and what did I do? I just went anyway. And stayed away, I reckoned she’d come to see sense in a week or two, and give me a bell. I mean, I thought I’d tried everything; I’d given her my bloody ring and all. But she never rang... And neither did I. Fucker, me. Bloody stupid fucker... And then the whole deal with the permit got going and I had the best excuse in the world not to have to come crawling back to her... Ohhh...  I feel like such an idiot...’

He thought for a bit, blinking drunkenly. Then he abruptly snapped shut his notebook, switched off the light and fell into a fitful drunken sleep, still in his clothes; Tazzie’s book under his head.

Taryn

It was the most dreadful morning since she woke up the first time alone in Scotland, Taz decided as she opened her eyes and lay staring at the ceiling. She’d have to come clean with Vince today. She was going to go to the APA alone.

All week she had thought about when, and more importantly, how she was going to tell him that she didn’t want him to accompany her. But now it was Saturday, and she couldn’t really postpone it any longer. He had to be told, and hopefully he would understand that their... thing, fling, affair, didn’t have any real future as far as she was concerned. She cringed at the thought of having to explain that to him as well. She just hoped that, when she’d travel to the USA and would just never ring him, he’d be in no doubt as to the status of their relationship. It had worked for Quent and her, so she didn’t see why it wouldn’t work for her and Vince.

She quietly slipped out of bed before he woke up and padded into the living room, grabbing her discarded sweats and a tee and quickly putting them on, then went through to the common hall to pick up the newspaper.

Next to Vince’s letterbox she saw Mrs. Harbottle, Vince’s elderly downstairs neighbour, her thin gray hair in pink curlers and her nose buried in a tabloid. Mrs. Harbottle was a classic busybody and she hadn’t yet found out all she wanted to know about Taryn, so she jumped at every opportunity to have a wee chat with her and learn something new about what appeared to be her handsome single neighbour’s new girlfriend.

‘Morning pet, isn’t it a glorious day?’

‘Morning, Mrs. Harbottle,’ Taz answered absentmindedly, trying to dislodge a fat envelope from the letterbox. Vince was very lazy at getting his mail out.

‘Have you seen the news?’ Mrs. H moved in closer and pointed at what she had been reading. ‘These film stars, they think normal rules don’t apply to them... would you just look at this picture! He’s practically doing, well, that, with some girl, out in the street, right here in London! For shame! Well, I can understand they do that sort of stuff in Hollywood, but here! Look, just look at this dearie, what do you say to that, eh?’

Taz turned for a polite look, but then got a very nasty shock from the picture combined with the big Q in the headlines. She turned red, then pale, then red again as she quickly scanned the headline, the photo caption and a portion of the salacious article. Quentin’s capers, the headline read, and the pictures showed him quite clearly, with some sluttish girl, first in a drunken but no less passionate embrace, somewhere outside a pub, then, in the next pictures it looked like the girl in question and Quentin had gotten into some sort of argument, then he seemed to have come straight at whoever had been snapping shots of him, an expression on his face that was somewhere between enraged and confused. He looked awful. His bleached hair was a mess, he looked bloated and blotched, he had lipstick smears on his face...

Several notions fought to get the upper hand in Taryn’s mind and heart. He was here in London. The girl in the picture wasn’t Muriel Manning. That was good. She looked like some horrible piece of white trash. That wasn’t good, that was awful. He was here! In London! He’d been in this pub, drinking, or so the article claimed, and then he’d gone out to, to have sex with this girl in an alley?!? Oh my God, definitely not good. But he was here? In London?

Suddenly Tazzie felt Mrs. Harbottle’s eyes boring holes into her.  She swallowed, put on a disgusted face and looked up. ‘Yes. Terrible. Unbelievable what these actor types do, isn’t it?’ she squeaked. ‘Amazing really, that they get away with it every time.’  She clutched the envelope from Vince’s letterbox to her chest as if it were a life jacket and wished she could think of an excuse to get away from the Harbottle woman fast.

‘He’s quite the ladies’ man, isn’t he, that Quentin Finch. Ever seen any films with him in them?’

‘Um, yes, a few.’

‘Well. He looks nice enough on the silver screen, but I’ve read,’ Mrs. Harbottle came closer with a conspiratorial look on her wrinkled bird’s face, ‘that he’s got a terrible, terrible temper, that man. I’m sure any girl would be better off with someone like Vincent, eh? What do you say?’

‘Yes... yes I’m sure you’re right,’ said Tazzie, blushing again but feeling icy cold inside. ‘I... I should go back in... Vince is waiting for me... Um, have a good day, Mrs. H... um...’ And she turned, and fled back into Vince’s flat.

Vince was still happily snoring away, totally unaware of the storm that raged in Tazzie’s heart. She plonked down on his lumpy sofa and pulled her knees up. Why was Quent in London? Where was that pub? What on earth was he doing here? Why hadn’t he phoned her? Well that was a question easily answered: he’d never phoned her after he’d left for America, and there was no reason to assume that he would start now. And apparently his relationship with this Manning woman wasn’t as rock solid as Jo thought... Well that was a relief! But Christ he looked awful in those pictures! Unhappy and tired and... well... But then he didn’t deserve her pity, he deserved her anger, if he deserved anything at all from her... He’d really sunken low if he was misbehaving like that... but he looked so unhappy in that one pic; wouldn’t it just be because he was lonely? Christ, he was a grown man, he should have know better than to behave like that, it was completely disgusting...

Vince entering the room was what shook her out of her brooding. ‘Hey Taryn...’ he kindly said to her, ‘what’s the matter? You got up about an hour ago and you never came back into bed...’ He knelt in front of her and looked up at her with his puppy eyes. ‘Won’t you come back in now, sweetie? I’m sure I can make you feel better...’ He slowly moved his hands up her legs, then up her arms, until he had her in half a hug, and he started to pull her off the sofa.

All of a sudden however, she just couldn’t stand to be near him any longer. His pleading look, his floppy dark brown hair, the whole bloody propriety of him, his hands, his voice, his smell... it all drove her bonkers and she felt trapped inside a nightmare posing as a good dream. She looked around, desperate, and finally managed to say to Vince: ‘I need to... I need to get out of here... Vince I’m sorry but... This just isn’t...’

His face fell.

Taryn didn’t care – she just wanted out.

Chapter Four

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