Quentin

The lack of sleep was making itself known as the car neared his hotel. Quent rubbed his face, trying to stay focused, but all he could think of was what happened last night, and subsequently, this morning.

After that first quick, urgent root, they’d cuddled for a bit until they got in the mood again, and then he’d taken it much more slowly. Explored her body. Made her writhe and moan under him before entering her, and even then seeking to draw out the pleasure of it, postponing his release for as long as he could. He softly groaned into his hands as the memory of her skin against his, her whimpering in his ear flooded his mind and filled up his senses, and he felt his jeans tighten instantly.

No other woman could make him feel like that. No other woman in the whole bloody world.

And then he’d fallen asleep, and though it hadn’t been long enough and he felt totally knackered now, it had been deeper and more peaceful than any night in the past year. He needed her; he needed her next to him. He needed to know that she’d be there first thing he’d see when he’d open his eyes. Tazzie’s beautiful, sleeping face. He’d felt so happy when he did open his eyes this morning and she was there, turned towards him, breathing slowly and regularly... he’d watched her sleeping until she’d drifted to the surface, giving him a smile of such heart-stopping tenderness that he thought he was going to die of happiness right there and then.

They’d made love again, a dreamy, tender, languorous lovemaking that curved upwards into an intense and fiery pounding and tearing and gasping, culminating into an earth-shattering shared orgasm that had left him speechless for at least ten minutes.

It had left Tazzie in tears, silent tears that just didn’t seem to want to dry up. They rolled down her cheeks while he held her, while they sat outside on her little balcony to eat their breakfast, while they went into the shower together... He’d cuddled her and kissed her and whispered things into her ear, trying to make the tears stop, but nothing had done the trick. He’d said they should get married, soon as he’d be done with the wireworks gig. He’d take time off, a year, maybe two, and they could be together at Nana. Be happy, just like last year. She’d just replied, ‘Yes, Quent,’ and the tears had kept coming. He’d knelt before her in the shower and had buried his face into her silky curls until she shuddered and whimpered his name and collapsed into his waiting arms, but still the tears kept coming.

She apologized, said she didn’t understand why she was crying, told him everything was all right, she probably was just tired, but he knew that wasn’t true. He knew that she was crying because she felt like she’d made an enormous mistake, letting him back into her bed, and into her heart. He knew she thought she couldn’t trust him.

It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, leaving her that morning. She’d held onto the door for support, cheeks wet, and had said goodbye to him like she knew she’d never see him again. He had stood there, frozen to the spot, almost physically unable to move with how much he wanted to convince her that she was wrong, she could trust him, he’d learned the hard way and he’d show her exactly how much he’d changed... And he wanted to stay with her, spend the rest of the day with her, like couple; for fuck’s sake, like any normal couple. He loved her, he bloody loved her, and she was crying, oh fuck, fuck...

But he’d had to go. There was a breakdown meeting in LA, and he simply had to be there. He’d promised he’d be there, and they only gave him the time off to go to New York in the first place because he had promised, no, sworn he’d be back in time for that meeting.

And he was back in time. He had another hour to spare, and he should hit the shower, get into some clean kit, clear his mind and go to work. If only he could stop thinking about her... he moaned again, his hands still covering his eyes, and he counted in his head how many times he’d tried to phone her since he left this morning. Twice from the car on his way to the airport. Once more from the VIP lounge, while he waited for his plane, and once from the dunny right before he boarded.

She had had her mobile switched off and the phone in her room wasn’t responding, if the bloke at the front desk was anything to go by.

He couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to speak to him.

He’d tried another three times since he got off the plane, but no luck. His heart beat like he’d had a caffeine overdose and his whole skin felt too tight. Bloody hell, what was he to do? She didn’t want to talk to him at all.

He’d been on the horn to Adrian, explaining the whole situation, knowing that he’d still be in the hotel with her, but Ade said she’d already left with her publicist. She had to do interviews and all sorts of dreary promotion gigs. She’d looked a fright, Ade had said; all pale, with enormous eyes, and he’d been certain the evening had gone horribly wrong for her and Quent at some point. Taryn hadn’t said a word about it though.

Well, it hadn’t gone wrong at all, it had all gone exactly right. And as far as Quentin was concerned, they were back together. He’d do everything in his power to make it work this time, and he spent a considerable time trying to convince Ade of that fact. Not that his friend did not believe him; he just had to get it off his chest so he rambled on, and on...

Ade was having dinner with her that evening, and after a while he’d put an end to Quentin’s verbal tidal wave by promising he’d have a word with her then. He’d ring, and let Quent know how it had gone.

The car halted in front of the hotel, and Quentin’s PA for the film, a wiry kid called Alfie who apparently looked up to him immensely, sprinted out to open the door for him. Quentin couldn’t be bothered waiting for that, so he got out on his own. He didn’t want Alfie to fawn over him, he wanted to be alone. Think. Come up with a strategy. So he grabbed his bag and marched into the hotel, muttering over his shoulder to poor Alf, ‘pick me up in an hour’s time; I’ll come down on me own, wait for you in the lobby. Yeah?’

Before the kid could answer, he’d left him far behind and was in a lift on his way up. Still his heart beat like a freight train. What the fuck was he to do? He’d considered calling Kenny, asking him for a bit of oriental wisdom, but decided against it. He just needed to talk to her. Stay in touch with her. Tazzie. Soon as he had the chance, he’d go out and see her again, wherever she was, and he knew, in his bones, that the minute he got his arms around her, they’d be sorted. Whatever there was between them, it was just too strong to ignore.

Problem was: how was he going to stay in touch with her when she refused to speak to him on the phone?

He punched in his card and opened his door, and got a nasty surprise. Inside, it was an unholy mess.

What the fuck? He was in a bloody zillion star hotel, he was a bloody A-lister; the least they could do was keep his room inhabitable for him. Right? And besides, when he’d left it hadn’t been this messy, he was quite certain.

His clothes were strewn all over the floor. His script was in tatters, his laptop... his laptop was open on the floor, amongst a heap of rubble, and when he picked it up he saw that someone had written on the screen. With a lipstick. It said lying motherfucker.

Ohhhh, bloody hell, it had been Muriel. She’d been in here, after the hotel cleaning staff, right before he came back in. She’d watched his video diary entries. And then she had trashed the place for him. Well thank you, little fuck of a drama queen, that was just what he needed. He sighed deeply and dug in his pocket for his mobile.

‘Alfie? Sorry mate, but could you come up here, I need your help with something.’

 He sighed again, threw some clothes off the bed and sat down, only to bounce back up again when the seat of his jeans got soaked through. Bloody hell. The bed was drenched. On the floor sat an empty vase, curiously upright amidst all the debris. So that explained the soggy mattress. The flowers it had contained were strewn across the floor.

Quentin almost felt like crying himself. He was too fraught, too tired for this shit. He wanted one thing, just one fuckin’ thing.

Tazzie.

He checked his watch, flipped open his mobile, found a piece of wall that looked undamaged, leaned against it, slid down until his wet arse hit the floor, and dialed his Mum.

Taryn

It was hard, it was so hard to just keep going as if nothing had happened. The first day had been the hardest, because her eyes burned and all she’d wanted to do was dissolve into tears again. She couldn’t, though; she had to talk to radio people and television people and newspaper people until her head spun. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d ended her day eating out with Adrian, who had plied her with wine and fatherly advice until she had finally told him the whole story and was blubbering into her asparagus soup.

He’d berated her, told her she was being childish, told her that she should believe Quentin when he said he’d changed. And she was actually slowly beginning to consider doing just that, but then Adrian let slip that Quentin had called him, and she clammed up. She felt like they were conspiring against her, and if anything, it meant more proof that Quentin couldn’t be trusted. Ade had talked and talked, but she just refused to listen; she was too tired, too confused and too heartbroken.

The days after that all were a blur of talking to people, having lunch with more people and dinner with still others, none of whom made any impression on her whatsoever. They just drifted past and remained nameless faces uttering meaningless talk.

She kept her mobile switched off as much as possible, and she had pulled the plug on her hotel room phone. She just knew if she’d as much as hear Quentin’s voice in her ear, all low and gritty and sexy and wonderful, she’d start crying anew; she’d want to be near him so much, her heart would break all over again and again and again and she’d be utterly, utterly lost.

He had such power over her, it was frightening. She was beginning to feel very, very depressed as her two weeks in New York came to an end; she had nowhere to hide from the two-edged sword that were her feelings for him. She loved him, couldn’t live without him, but she was frightened to death of giving him her heart because she was absolutely certain he would break it again. On the other hand, she argued, he probably already had her heart, stolen it from her, or maybe he never returned it in the first place...

Quentin, Quentin, Quentin. It was worse, much worse than before their night together. She sometimes felt like she wanted to pull out her own hair by the handful, if she could only stop her mind whispering his name over and over again.

She climbed out of a taxi and made her way inside. She had promised to attend the sales conference at her New York publishing house, and speak to the reps about her new book. It would be crash-published in the States now that she’d won the APA. There would be a big lunch with alps of smoked salmon and tsunamis of champagne, if she was to believe her publicist, and she steeled herself and tried to concentrate on the job at hand. Forget about Quentin, if only for a moment.

She was well into her talk, doing pretty well by the look of it, when the meeting was interrupted by a young assistant who stuck her head in and announced there was an emergency phone call for Miss Archer; a call from Australia.

‘Jo!’ said Taz, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. ‘Did they say what it was, who did you speak to?’

The girl blushed and almost whispered, ‘a very nice lady… she said it was a matter of life and death…’

‘Was it Jo, did she say her name? Is she all right?’

‘I don’t know, Miss Archer… there’s a phone over here, if you’d like to…’

Taz looked at the people gathered with wild eyes. ‘Would you mind terribly if I… It’s a very dear friend from Oz… um… I’m really sorry…’

They all waved her off and said that of course she had to take it, no problem, just make sure she’d be back in time for lunch before all the bubbly was gone… And then she was out the door and at the phone so fast she didn’t even recollect her own feet moving.

‘Jo… Jo it’s Taz, are you all right?’

‘Yes, love I’m fine,’ she heard her friend’s voice, warm, maternal and genial, and all of a sudden she saw the big kitchen at Nana, she remembered the time she’d spent there, the way the golden sunlight had filtered in though the windows… She’d fallen in love with Quent there, and had lost her heart for ever and ever… it had been the hardest, but also the happiest time of her life, and she wished, oh how she wished that she could be back there with him now…

Something burned at the back of her throat. ‘What’s the big emergency, Jo… is Martin all right?’

‘Yes, he’s fine.’

‘Sadie?’

‘She’s fine as well. All the hands are still mad about her; she gets prettier by the week. She sends her love.’

‘What... what is it then… is anything the matter with… with…’She couldn’t say his name. What if he was hurt? Or worse? Her heart sped up. ‘Jo, is he all right? Tell me, please…’

‘Ah, so you do care, Tazzie. I told him that, you know, but he’s beginning to believe that you probably don’t love him any more.’

‘No, no I do, I mean, that’s not how it is at all, I’m just, I was so… he stayed the night, and then he left again, and he said we should get married, and then he left, and I was just so sure that I couldn’t trust him, and I just thought that if I... if I don’t talk to him, just say goodbye to him straight away and not talk to him any more, it would hurt less, you know? Oh bloody hell…’ And two big fat tears rolled down her cheek.

‘Shhh, it’s all right,’ Jo said into her ear, ‘I understand how hard it must be for you. But you know, Tazzie, it’s hard for him as well. We’ve been on the phone a lot, Quent and me, these last few days, and he’s explained to me how he’s been trying to learn from his past mistakes, and how he’s been trying to sort out his feelings and act upon them, properly and responsibly… and you know, he really loves you so very much…’

‘Oh, Jo…’ Tazzie sighed, and a few more tears appeared. The assistant poked her head around the door, took one look, retracted her head then came back with a box of tissues, which she placed beside Taz with gentle discretion.

‘And you, young lady,’ Jo continued, ‘are very hard to get a hold of! I’ve been trying every trick in the book for the last three days, but I kept missing you by a hair’s breath. I’ve called book shops, newspapers, restaurants… I’ve been all over New York, telephone-wise. But now, finally, I’ve got you. And I want you to listen, and listen carefully. Tazzie, it’s important that you talk to my son. Call him today, soon as you’re done, and talk to him; he’s dying inside and he’s desperate. He loves you. He wants the two of you to make a new start. And I want you for my daughter in law, you know, because I love you too and I think you’d make him a good partner in life. You’d balance him out. You’re sweet, and generous, and you know how to handle him.’

‘Well, apparently not,’ Tazzie sniffled.

‘Yes, you do. I know you do. Now promise me.’

Tazzie kept silent, trying to process all that Jo had said to her.

‘Promise me, love, I want to hear you say it.’

‘I promise, Jo,’ Tazzie whispered, and she sniffled into the phone.

‘There’s a good girl. Now stop being childish and switch your mobile back on, then go back to work. Do you want me to call Quent in advance, tell him that we spoke?’

‘No, I’ll do it… I promised, didn’t I?’

And with that, they ended the call. Taz promised Jo she’d get back to her once she and Quentin had spoken, and she also promised to keep her mobile on whatever would happen.

All the way through lunch – which incidentally did indeed consist of alps of salmon and tsunamis of champagne, of which Tazzie had very little since she didn’t like the stuff – she chatted amiably with the people at the publishing house, while underneath she thought long and hard about what she’d say to Quent.

After her talk with Jo, she suddenly felt very immature, very foolish, the way she’d reacted to him. Her grief, her dread, all that was imaginary. She’d filled in the blanks, written the scenario, and hadn’t left him any room to manoeuvre and show her that things could very well be different now. She was heartily ashamed of her behaviour, and very worried how much she might have hurt him. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had to learn a lesson in this whole situation, and she silently vowed to herself that she wouldn’t let anything like this ever happen again.

She could barely suppress a sigh of relief when the whole lunch thing was over and she could finally climb into a taxi to get back to her hotel. One more night there, and her road trip would take off.

She had a crazy itinerary ahead of her, and her publicist travelled with her for most of the way, so at least she would have some company. She had been looking forward to it, hoping it would take her mind off Quentin, but now she wasn’t so sure. If she rang him, and apologized, and he still wanted to be with her… how on earth were they going to meet while she was on the road, and he was in the middle of shooting a film? It would never work. Assuming he hadn’t given up on her to begin with.

She switched her mobile back on in the hotel lift, and got a barrage of missed calls. Most of them from Quent, and a couple from Jo. She got off on her floor and walked down the corridor to her room with her eyes glued to her phone, suddenly very, very eager to call him. Hear his voice. Tell him how sorry she was, and how wrong she had been.

She got into her room and the moment the door clicked closed, she pressed call.

It rang.

And rang, and rang.

She sank down onto the bed with a frustrated groan; of course he couldn’t answer it, he was shooting his film. He was probably right in the middle of an action scene or something...

‘Hello, this is Alfred on Quentin’s phone...’

‘H-hello?’ said Tazzie, jumping up again from pure surprise. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Alfred? Alfie? His PA? Who is calling? Quentin’s told me to guard his phone and answer it when he can’t pick it up; he’s waiting for a call so please state your business?’ Alfie obviously made a point of ending every sentence in a question mark.

‘Oh... I’m sorry, I just wanted to.... apologize, tell him how sorry I am, to have, to, um...’ Tazzie stammered. ‘Um, sorry to have blocked the line, I’ll just go now...’

‘Wait? I need to take down your name? He’s asked me to make note of everyone who’s called? And please tell me how you got a hold of his cell number? He doesn’t give it out to fans?’

‘Oh, I’m not a fan, um, he’s given it to me, his number I mean, and, um, I promised his Mum I’d call, um...’

‘Oookay... so should I put “friend of the family”?’ Alfie was writing now. ‘You an auntie or something? What name should I... Oh here comes the man himself! Looks like he got that scene down in just a couple of takes...’ he obviously talked away from the phone now, ‘boss, I’ve got someone on the line who says she’s a friend of the family...’

A muted, hurried ‘Lemme have that,’ and then Quentin’s voice, almost breathless, ‘Taz?’

‘Quent?’

They started talking at the same time.

‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay with y...’

‘I’m so sorry I had my phone switched o...’

They both stopped. Tazzie’s heart was beating hard and high up in her throat.

‘Alfie, giz some privacy will you?’ she heard Quentin growl, away from the phone, and then the sound of a trailer door slapping shut.

‘Well that’s him gone,’ Quent softly said in her ear. His voice sent shivers down her spine, and down the rest of her body as well. She heard him take a deep breath, and then he started rambling at her so fast, she almost lost track of what he was saying.

‘Crikey, can’t believe you’re actually ringing me, Tazzie-luv... I’d almost given up hope you know, fuck, Taz, I was yabbering to my Mum every day how I thought you didn’t love me any more and stuff, and you know what happened when I came back to LA after our night together? Christ, didn’t want to leave at all, hated leaving you there, you were so upset, and I just wanted to stay, you know? But anyway when I got back, Muriel fuckin’ Manning had messed up my room somethin’ awful, my kit was all over the place and she’d smeared her lippy all over me bloody laptop screen too... bed was drenched as well... Fuck I was so depressed, and you weren’t picking up... Bloody hell... Taz I must have tried to ring you a million times...’

‘I’m sorry, I’m really sorry Quent... I shouldn’t have done that...’

‘Bloody oath. There’s a true word if I ever heard one.... Taz, I thought I was gonna lose me fuckin’ mind...’

‘Oh Quent... I really am so sorry... I spoke to Jo earlier... She made me see sense and I feel so... immeasurably... stupid... Seems to me you’re not the only one who’s got issues here...’

‘Yeah...’ he said wistfully. ‘Well it means a lot to me that you come out and say it...  I was beginning to feel like the bad guy... you know, I’m sort of used to it now that they refer to me as the quintessential Hollywood bad boy, but that’s not really me. What’s between us, between you and me, you know, that’s different... that’s... real... you know what I’m sayin’?’

Tazzie smiled and said ‘Quent essential.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. ‘That too. You’re a nutter, Taz. Your mind works in mysterious ways.’

‘About as mysterious as yours, I think,’ smiled Taz. ‘Look.,. Quent, I’m just really sorry if I hurt you... I love you as much as ever but I’m just so... so...’ And there were the tears again that she had been trying to avoid. She felt like the world’s most sentimental cow.

‘Shh,’ he softly said, ‘ I know... I know I’ve got myself to blame for how you’re feeling... I’m just so happy you finally phoned... sweetheart...  so are we... are we on then?’

‘You want to? You want to give it another try...?’ Taz wiped her face on a towel, her heart singing.

‘Yeah... I dunno how we’re going do this but I just want to know for certain when I wake up every morning, that we’re... you know? That we’re together, even when we’re apart...’ His voice was so soft, so low, it was velvety and dark and sweet and sexy and Tazzie felt it tingle in all her sensitive spots.

‘Oh...’ she breathed, ‘ I... I want that too... I don’t know how we will manage either, I mean, I’m off on this tour tomorrow and it looks really crazy... I could email you my schedule if you wanted...’

‘Yeah... go on do that, Taz, at least I’ll know where you’ll be... I’ll look you up on Google Earth... I’m getting out of LA in a coupe of days as well; we’re going somewhere into the mountains or something... I’m still waiting to hear where exactly... I’ll let you know where we’ll be...’

‘I’ll look you up as well then,’ said Tazzie, who wanted nothing more than to crawl into the phone and crawl out again over on Quent’s end, and keep crawling until she was in his arms. How could she have been so stupid? Here she was, talking to this wonderful man, and it felt like everything was going to be all right after all.... unbelievable, really... now if only they could sort out when they could finally see each other...

‘Are you sure you’re not mad at me, Quent?’ she asked quietly.

‘Mad at you? No... fuck’s sake, no... Just happy to talk to you, finally, eh? And to know that we’re... you know? Boyfriend-girlfriend?’

‘Yeah,’ Tazzie smiled, finally sitting down on the edge of the bed again then letting herself fall backwards and sink gloriously into the luxury softness. ‘Boyfriend-girlfriend...’

Chapter Ten

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