Quentin

The driver brought the car to a quiet halt in front of the hotel entrance, got out, and opened the trunk to get Quentin’s holdall out. Inside, Quent rubbed his hands over his face, hoping to come back to this world. He hadn’t slept on the plane, fuck, he hadn’t slept since he woke up after his little London pub adventure, and he was completely flaked out. He had dozed a little on the plane back, and in the car from the airport, but his head reeled with exhaustion.

He tipped the driver generously but wanted to carry his own stuff in, and stumbled into the reception area. The desk attendant looked at him with huge eyes.

‘What is it, mate?’ Quent said, dropping his bag and suppressing a yawn. ‘Don’t look so worried, I’m not gonna chuck a phone at ya. I try something new every time.’

‘Mr. F-finch,’ the hotel guy stammered, ‘I thought you and Miss Manning had checked out? You left on Thursday, she checked out and cancelled the rest of the reservation for your suite the day after…’

‘…the fuck she did?!’ muttered Quent. His mind sluggishly caught up with the situation. He had no hotel room. No bed. No shower. No girlfriend either, apparently. Well, that was his own fault for not letting her know where he’d gone, and not ringing her once he’d gotten there, but in all honesty it had completely slipped his mind. She had completely slipped his mind.

He was still struggling, coming to grips with what had happened in that last hour before he’d headed back to the airport, and if he was completely honest with himself, nothing could be further from his mind right now than ringing Muriel.

He remembered all too well how he’d told himself he was going to make it work with her, and how he’d tried, before Ade had rung him anyway, to stay completely focused on their relationship. But soon as the idea of going to London had lodged itself into his brain, he’d just packed his bag and hopped on board Peter’s jet. No note, no phone call, no message to Muriel, nothing. He’d just left, while she happened to be at a tanning salon. And he’d not given it a second thought. Well, that was pretty stupid and inconsiderate of him, wasn’t it? No wonder she had gotten her dander up and had checked out like that. He could just see Kenny’s face looking back at him if he’d tell him about this whole situation. He grimaced involuntarily.

‘Right. Uh… Yeah. She checked out. Yeah. Stupid me, reckon I, uh, forgot… she was supposed to, to… We had these… plans… uh…’ he motioned vaguely with his hand, realizing that he must look a fright. The bloke behind the desk probably thought he was out of it, roaring drunk, or stoned, or whatever. His rebellious side decided to play along and make the most of it; after all, the US press probably would have picked up on his London antics by now, and whatever he did next would no doubt end up splashed across the headlines here as well. He was after all a Hollywood Bad Boy, whatever he did, so fuck it.

He grinned privately then took a stumbling step towards the desk. ‘Uh, listen, mate, can you get me into another room? I need to sleep this off, like, really need to… Bloody hell…’ he muttered, peering foggily at the receptionist. ‘Anything, mate, come on… I don’t need a suite, I just need a bed…’ was he hamming it? Laying it on too thickly? ‘You know how it is, wild night, uh…’ he flapped his hand again, digging in his jeans pocket with his other hand and coming out with some crumpled twenty dollar bills.

The receptionist was disarmed, charmed and grinning by now. ‘Well, if you don’t mind staying in a single room, I think something may be arranged… Was it a good party?’

‘Mate… you’ve got no idea…’ Quentin waggled his eyebrows at him, grabbed the keycard and staggered into the lift.

Once the door was fully closed, he dropped the act as well as his bag and sagged against the mirrored wall. He punched his card in the slot and the lift zoomed up. 14^th floor. Tazzie. Tazzie, Tazzie, Tazzie, his mind went as the floors flicked by. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How thin, how insecure she’d looked, it had almost killed him to see her again. And at the same time, how wonderful it had been to hold her, to feel her in his arms, feel her lips against his… he closed his eyes and suppressed a moan as he felt his heart heavy in his chest, and in a moment of complete, blinding honesty with himself, he knew that he missed her, he loved her, he wanted to be with her, and fuck, she didn’t think he cared.

He had overheard a large part of Tazzie’s conversation with Ade, when he’d left the room to go pack. He didn’t really need to pack – just basically throw his toothbrush and his laptop in his bag and he was done, but he’d gotten so frustrated that he almost blued with Taz, and he just had to get out of the room. He’d zipped up his bag and rang for a car, and was about to come back in when he heard her say to Adrian that she didn’t think he cared about her. That he only cared about himself, he only cared about Quentin Finch. That was what she’d said.

So that was how she saw him. Bloody hell. It hurt, that.

The lift halted, dinged and opened its doors, and Quent spilled out into a corridor that looked like any other corridor in any other hotel. Suddenly, he vehemently longed to be back at Ade’s, or at his place in Sydney, or, Christ, at Nana, with his family and Tazzie and everyone there… in a house, a bloody house where people lived, with their personal things in it, not this cold, distant warehouse for lonely, itinerant human beings, however expensive and luxurious it may be… It was such a sudden, powerful longing it nearly made him gasp, but he shook his head and tried to get a grip; he’d just be here for the one night, just the one night, just to get some zeds in. He’d sort out his act in the morning.

His thoughts were all jumbled together, and again he heard Tazzie’s voice in his head, saying that all he could think about was Quentin Finch. He couldn’t really claim to be surprised that she felt that way, he mused; she probably was right. He really hated to admit it, but she probably was. And it ripped his heart out of his chest to hear her say it out loud. His Mum might have said it, his brother – and at some point in time, he was sure they had – Muriel or Kenny may have said it to him, but hearing Tazzie claim he was a selfish bastard with no regard for the feelings of others was just… bloody unbearable.

He’d reached his room: the very last one in the corridor. He slipped his key in, stumbled through the door and kicked it shut behind him. The room was tiny, though fully functional. He really couldn’t care less and fell face forward on the bed, too exhausted to even take his clothes off.

He woke up with a start and a gasp when it was fully dark, finding himself across the bed instead of in it, his head hanging down the side. He’d slept, for a good seven hours even, but it was not yet midnight and he had a whole night before him.

Jetlag. Oh yeah. And in less than twenty-four hours, he’d be back in training for the wireworks gig, doing his endless costume fittings, script meetings, CGI tests… he was continually growing more muscles from all the workouts and martial arts stuff he had to do, and they had this motion capture suit for him with the little ping pong balls on that he literally kept bursting out of when he ran up and down through the studio. Made him feel like the bloody Hulk, only he wasn’t green.

Groaning, he got up and dragged himself into the shower. He let the hot water pound on him for a long time, and images of making love to Tazzie in the shower back at Nana crept into his mind, making him lean against the cold, wet wall and quickly, desperately bringing himself to a shuddering orgasm that brought tears to his eyes. He’d been lonely before, fuck, it was part of the job to be stuck in hotel rooms far away from everything and everybody you knew, but this was insane. He was ready to start fuckin’ blubbering.

He jerkily got out the shower, dripped all over the place and dug with a wet hand into his bag for his laptop. Kenny was right, he was fuckin’ right. He had to address this right now or he’d fuck up the fuckin’ movie. Fuck it.

He booted up and dried off. Sat in front of his little camera butt-naked, and clicked recording. ‘Fuck, if this ever makes it onto YouTube I’ll be so fucked,’ he sighed, blinking, rubbing his head with the towel until his blond locks looked like peroxided bristles.

‘Right. So I saw Tazzie, in London. Wonder what’s wrong with her flat, why she said she doesn’t want to stay there any more… Maybe it’s because of that’s where she fell out the tree… lost the baby… Bloody hell, what an inconsiderate fucker I’ve been, I mean, if we ever get together again and she ever, ever falls preggers again, I’ll guard her like, like…. Well how bloody likely is that happening, hey? With her sayin’ that she thinks all I can think about is me. Christ that hurt. Uh…  She did say something to Ade about that thing, that… feeling between the two of us… When I held her, when we kissed, it was like… like… Well at least I know she feels it too. That’s a relief.’ 

He had started sweating again, profusely, and as he played back what he’d just recorded and listened to his disjointed, hesitant sentences, he realized that he was just very, very bad at talking about his real feelings. It was a miracle he was able to convey any believable emotions in his acting, if he was so shit at analyzing his own. Or maybe it was the other way around: maybe acting was just a way of dealing with stuff that he otherwise didn’t know how to handle. Truth of it was that a lot of stuff came out on the surface very differently than what it felt like deep within. Like his moodiness, and his temper. Christ, Kenny was a smart little fucker, he’d seen right through him from the beginning. And again he decided, with more conviction this time, that he’d see this through to the end, this grating self-analysis. He needed it, and now that he was hesitantly beginning to entertain thoughts of Tazzie and him getting back together, he just knew that if there would ever, ever be a chance for them ever again, he should do this. Now.

He wiped his forehead. ‘Now that I’m thinking of it, reckon that’s why I wanted to go to London all along. I probably was subconsciously hopin’ to run into her again one way or another. Never thought it’d be like that though, never thought I’d see her again at Adrian’s… Wonder if she broke up with that guy she was goin’ out with because she knew I was over… Yeah, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Christ, I feel like such a bloody drongo that she had to find out about me bein’ there through the fuckin’ tabloids; I could have just rung her, couldn’t I, or sent her an email or something. But no, I had to be inflexible about it again. Or probably, I’m just scared. Yeah. I’d never admit to that in public, hey, I mean, Quentin fuckin’ Finch doesn’t get scared, right? But… Hang on, maybe… Jesus Christ, maybe I did it on purpose, you know, the pub thing, subconsciously I mean, to get my arse in the paper and make sure she knew I was there? Bloody hell!’

He scratched his head, pinched his lips and breathed out savagely through his nose. Wiped his brow again. Could it be true? Did the subconscious mind actually work like that? He was in way over his head, he didn’t know about these things, fuck, he was just a fairly simple, straightforward bloke with a talent for pretending and a guitar; he never even went to Uni.

It was enough for tonight; he could only handle so many flashes in the pan in one go. He ended the recording and flipped shut his notebook, then made a grab for his phone. Confront this bastard. Was he scared? Fuck yeah he was, he felt himself tremble at the thought of ringing Tazzie. He didn’t know what to say except the endless “I’m sorry”, and he understood full well how inadequate that statement really was, both in relation to her feelings and his own.

He thumbed through his contacts. Was she still in there? He had an assistant who took care of the phone wars, as he called it soon as some fucker would get a hold of his number and he started getting phone calls from the wrong type of people. He’d get a new number, sometimes a new phone as well, and someone made sure his numbers got transferred, one way or another. For some reason he’d never checked if Tazzie’s number was still amongst his contacts – hang on, who was he fooling, he’d never looked for Tazzie’s number because at first, he had stubbornly thought she would have to ring him, not the other way around; and then because he tried not to think of her. Tried to forget about her. Hadn’t he done that all his life? Just ignore whatever he didn’t want in his life, hoping that if he’d ignore it hard enough, it would just go away?

Taz.

There it was, staring at him from the little screen. Her number. All he had to do was punch one button. He hesitated. He’d said he’d ring her, he’d promised didn’t he, and still he didn’t know what to say to her. I’m sorry, Taz, I’m so sorry. Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and pushed the button. Slowly, slowly, brought the mobile to his ear, and heard it ring. Once, twice…

‘Hello?’ Her voice, soft, hesitant.

‘Tazzie-luv?’ he’d called her that when they were together, and it rolled right off his lips again like it belonged to her. Like she belonged to him.

‘Quent?’

Taryn

‘Um… yeah… said I’d ring you, didn’t I?’

Was she going crazy or did he sound conceited? If he was, she’d hang up on him. Her thumb hovered over the button. ‘Yes, so you did,’ she said very softly.

‘I’m so sorry luvvie, I wanted to ring you straight from the car, soon as I got in, fuck, I didn’t want to get in at all, Christ, I wanted to… But I reckon… just didn’t know what to say, I just want to say I’m sorry all the time, I know it doesn’t make any bloody difference, but… Fuck, Taz… I sound like a bloody idiot… Don’t hang up on me…’

What was he, a mind reader? Well, he definitely wasn’t conceited. He sounded confused, really confused, and Taz felt her heart go twang from worry for him, whether she liked it or not. ‘I’m not going to hang up on you,’ she said to him after a while.

‘Oh, goodo,’ his voice soft and relieved in her ear. His wonderful, low, gritty, sexy voice; she could listen to his voice forever. She gave her head a shake to clear it, to at least try to stay objective.

‘Um, I’m in Los Angeles,’ he said.

Pause.

‘It was really weird, you know, when I came back to my hotel my suite was gone? And I was really tired?’ He was trying hard, with his questioning tone.

Tazzie couldn’t help smiling into the phone. ‘How do you mean it was gone, had it disappeared? Off the face off the earth?’

‘No, uh, my… well, Muriel, she’d cancelled it… I didn’t know, I planned to stay on for the duration of the shoot here… Got to go on location for a bit after this, but I’ll be stuck here for a couple of weeks yet…’ He sounded so anxious; he didn’t even pick up on her pitiful attempt at a joke.

‘Gosh… So where are you now? Did you go to a different hotel?

‘Nah… Just told the bloke behind the desk how knackered I was, gave him a couple of twenties… He’s put me in this tiny single but I needed to get some sleep, you won’t believe how much I needed, uh… I’ll sort something out in the morning...’

‘Oh… Why did your girlfriend cancel your room? Did she take all your stuff away then? Um… Sorry. It’s none of my business, Quent. Sorry I asked.’ Taryn sighed into her coffee cup. She’d been at a late breakfast over at Ade’s when her mobile rung.

‘No, no… it’s okay, luv, really… no secret… I’m not sure if M and me are still… I mean, I never told her I went to the UK… just left, just like that… Well you know me, I can be like that; it’s a bloody annoyin’ habit and I intend to change it, Taz, really I am…’

Taryn heard him sigh as well, and then something that sounded like he was rubbing at his face. She knew he did that when he was tired, when he tried to stay focused, when he tried to wake up... She smiled again, couldn’t help herself; she could just so see him. For a bewildering instant she felt really close to him; she didn’t know what to say. The silence stretched.

‘Hey, good thing you askin’ about my gear, I’d never even thought about it!’ he suddenly sounded absurdly cheerful. ‘Don’t think she’d have taken it with her, I mean what would she do with my old trackies, hey? Taz? Oh, Christ, fuck, my schedule, my script, um, all the other project shit, my notes, phone numbers and stuff, left that in the suite as well… I’ll have to ask the desk if they stored it or something… Let’s hope it’s not on Ebay already, hey, fuck that…’

‘You could ask her,’ Tazzie suggested quietly. ‘Ask your girlfriend what she did with your belongings. It’s pretty strange, if you ask me, cancelling your rooms just like that… But, um, like I said, it’s none of my business…’ She had to sit on her hands, or more accurately, on her tongue, to stop herself from trying to get more information out of Quentin. Was it over between him and Muriel Manning? What happened? Did they have a row? Why hadn’t he told her that he was going to London? In the mean time, she really, really wanted to keep talking to Quent. Just to hear his voice, his wonderful voice...

‘Yeah, reckon I could ask her. Should ask her. I’ll give her a bell when it’s a more reasonable hour, all right? It’s the middle of the night here, luvvie…’

‘Well you don’t have to do it for my sake; it’s your girlfriend.’

‘Fuck, I’m not so sure about that at the moment, Tazzie-luv.’ He sounded resigned, but not overly sad. And he was calling her luvvie. And Tazzie-luv… And he’d called her sweetheart, in Ade’s hall, just like that, like they were still together… He didn’t even seem to notice, but to Taz, it was like he grabbed her heart, held it in his hand, and squeezed hard. Her breath hitched. She fished in her sweater, found his ring on its chain, and held it in her hand until it got warm.

‘Taz?’ His voice was really soft now, a caress almost. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Y-yeah… I think so…’

‘You still at Ade’s?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, his ring still clasped in her hand.

They fell silent again, and listened to each other’s breathing. It became almost unbearably uncomfortable.

‘Tazzie?’

‘Quent?’  They started talking again at exactly the same time, and that made them both giggle nervously.

‘You first,’ Tazzie said.

‘No, you go, luvvie,’ His voice was warm and sweet, liquid honey in her ear.

‘Just wanted to say that… um…’ She hesitated. She wasn’t sure what it was she wanted to say. How she’d missed him this past year? How she had lain awake, in Adrian’s guest room, thinking about his kiss, his embrace, his scent? How she wished she were talking to him face to face, instead of on the phone? ‘It was good to see you again, Quent. It really was.’ She breathed out slowly.

‘Yeah?’ he sounded really happy with her statement. ‘I was happy to see you too, Tazzie-luv. I was thinking about you a lot, especially, you know, bein’ back in London and all that…’

‘Mmm, yes… So, um, what, um, what did you want to ask me?’

‘I… uh… No, I just wanted to, um, ask when you were comin’ across to the States? And where will you be goin’? East or west coast? Um…’

‘Oh… Well I’m flying next week Wednesday, and I’ll be in New York for the first two weeks, and then I’ll be travelling around a bit, for, um, the book, you know, promotion… I think they’re taking me to bookshops all over the place, even really small ones, in small towns … It’s like this big road trip and as far as I know now it’s going to last for at least three weeks, but I’ve booked an open return; apparently my schedule is far from final… It’s strange, you know, I really hate to travel, but I’m actually quite looking forward to this…’

‘Yeah, it sounds like, um, good fun, I reckon, you get to see the country… Well, I’ll be, um, stuck here for this wireworks thing I’m in… I’m not sure I’ll be able to… um...’

‘Of course,’ Tazzie said, unable to keep a tone of sad resignation from her voice. It immediately dissolved any budding feelings of hope, however tiny; any small happiness that talking to Quentin had given her so far. ‘I understand. Your film. Well, I’ll be rather busy too, you know, first with the APA and then with the promotion…’

‘Yeah, your literary award nomination… That’s really ace, hey? I really hope you’ll get it… Well I’m, reckon I’m… Maybe I’ll be able to… I mean, fuck’s sake, I should probably be able to get some time to myself, if I put the pressure on… um…’ Quentin rattled, anxious again.

‘Don’t put yourself out, Quentin. It was really nice of you to ring, but I know you’ve got your commitments, all right?’ Her voice sounded quite businesslike, almost cold, all of a sudden.

‘No, I, uh, Taz, I mean…’ he tried, but Tazzie heard in his voice that he knew, just as well as she knew. It was like a missed chance, somehow. Like they had both overlooked an important opportunity, a vital clue, and now there was nothing for it. They had to end the conversation; they had to hang up.

‘I have to go, Quent,’ Tazzie said quietly. ‘Take care, all right?’

‘Yeah… you too, luvvie… Promise me you’ll…’ he fell silent.

‘Yes…?’

‘Promise me you’ll… you’ll ring when… when you, you need something, um, when you need me? All right? Promise me?’

‘Okay… I promise… Bye Quent…’

‘Bye luvvie,’

And he was gone. Just like that. The connection was severed; the entrancing voice that poured into her ear was gone, and quite possibly forever. Her mobile was a dead piece of plastic again. She stared at it in wonder.

Adrian came in with a bowl of strawberries. He offered her one. ‘I heard you talking on the phone… did he finally find his courage and ring you?’ He smiled knowingly.

‘Yes… I don’t know if it had anything to do with courage though,’ Tazzie said a little grumpily, chewing on her strawberry and surreptitiously saving his number, holding her mobile under the table.

‘Well, what do you think it was about then? Listen, my dear girl, the lad still is seriously smitten with you, I don’t know how many times you want me to tell you that he is, but he is. I know all the symptoms, so will you just listen to an old cove like me, and for once in your life not think about propriety or any other silly notion?

‘Ade, you talk about Quent, and me for that matter, as if we were teenagers, and you a veritable Methuselah. Come on, will you? How old are you?’

He grinned. ‘I’m old enough to be your dad, and if I were, I’d have your hide for being such a stubborn child and not following your heart. Call him back.’

‘What? Why?!’

‘Just call him back, tell him you miss him, you love him, tell him whatever’s in your heart, and that you want to make up with him. I’m sure he’ll be on the next plane back here.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Tazzie said contritely. ‘He’s busy with his film. He asked about my plans to travel into the States, but then he immediately said he didn’t have time… to meet up, or… I dunno, he just said straight away how he was stuck in LA due to the film… Ade, you’re so wrong, really you are! Maybe he still has some sort of feelings for me, but he’ll never change, I just know it. And I don’t want to get my heart broken by him a second time; good God, I haven’t even recovered properly from the first time round!’

Adrian looked worried, sorrowful, and he patted Tazzie’s hand. He should give bloody Quentin Finch a piece of his mind, he should. Smack his bum like he was a stupid little boy. Privately, he composed at least three grumbling emails in his mind before he finally smiled at Tazzie and said: ‘Do you have your dress all sorted out, for the awards? Trust me, nothing better to take your mind off things than to worry about what to wear.’

‘Christ! A dress! I never even thought about that yet, I’ve been so preoccupied! Um… Ade, help! I don’t think I’ve got anything fancy enough for the APA, unless I go vintage… Where on earth can I get a proper evening gown on such short notice? It’s not like I’ve got the ideal measurements or anything, and, well, I’m just really shitty with these sort of things… You see, one more reason why Quent and I could never work; I just don’t fit into his glamorous world…’

‘Oh, silly, silly girl, haven’t you noticed that he really doesn’t care for all that? You’ll look absolutely smashing in a good dress and with a bit of make-up on your lovely face, but I’m sure one of the reasons Quent is so fond of you is exactly because you don’t care much about it… because with you, it’s all natural. But hang on a minute, I have an idea… How about I give Regina a ring?’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Reg? She’s my favourite costume designer.’ Adrian rattled off a list of blockbuster films, a few of which he himself had directed. ‘She did the costumes and in some cases a lot of styling and set dressing as well. She’s amazingly creative; I’m sure she’ll have a few good ideas.’

‘And she lives in London?’ Tazzie said, full of wonder.

‘Well, no, she lives in Cambridge, but that is not going to stop us, now is it. Come on, my dear, drink up your coffee, we have work to do!’

So Taryn did as she was told. For once in her life.

Chapter Six

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