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.

Twist Of Fate

…what’s meant to be will come to pass

A Quentin Finch story

by: Jackie

©2008

Chapter Fourteen

Quentin

He still dreamed of it. Almost every night. And then he’d wake up, in the dark, alone, and he’d reach out for her only to wake up for real when he’d realise that she wasn’t there with him.

That second night in Magic. Their lovemaking had been exactly that, magic. First it had been slow and controlled, for her alone, then hard, and wild, and passionate. And after that, when they had both recovered, it had been slow again, very, very slow, an endless tender cuddling and stroking and whispering of secret words which grew into a gentle merging of their bodies, which in turn grew into tension carefully building towards a release of such earth shattering intensity that he grew hard every time, just thinking about it. It had been beautiful. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or have a wank, remembering it. He just missed her enormously, especially when he woke up in the middle of the night or early in the morning.

Sometimes he couldn’t stand it any longer and he rang her even when it was the middle of the night, knowing he’d wake her up but his selfish need to hear her voice was stronger. She never complained. She was always happy to hear him, she missed him too, it was just a bloody nightmare that they couldn’t be together.

It took all of Quentin’s willpower to do his job properly during the day. To shake off the loneliness, the sadness of going without; to get back into character, climb into the rigging and swing like a monkey at the word action.

Well, just this one last day to get through and he’d see her again, albeit for a ridiculously short time. He was sure he would stare at her like a starving man staring at a five course dinner, but all he would be able to do was hold her hand and talk to her. Oh well, he’d think of something, he was sure. There had to be a dark corner somewhere in that fuckin’ airport where they could hide and have a pash and a grope.

At the thought of groping, his hand groped for his mobile under his pillow. He pushed a button and the screen lit up: 4:30 AM. He had about half an hour before he had to get up, shower, shave, and drag his sorry arse over to make-up. He sighed. Thought about it for a sec. Felt his heart beat, hard like a fist, the pain of missing her like a piercing shard in his chest. He thumbed through to her number and called her.

It rang. And rang, and rang until it stopped ringing. Quentin looked at his mobile with still-sleepy eyes; he just couldn’t believe she hadn’t picked up. It was a first. She always had her mobile on her, and it was always on. Fuck, he always had his mobile on him, and the only time he handed it to Alfie to guard it with his life was during scenes that would be really hard to do or really expensive to ruin. Any other scene, he’d bloody well pick up his phone if she rang him. It was simply too important to be able to talk to each other whenever what little time they had allowed for them to hear each other’s voices.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Quent muttered, and he redialled, sitting up and scratching his head. It rang itself out a second time, and now he was completely awake. What was wrong? He hopped out of bed, peered out the window at the first light of morning, paced his room and scratched some more, unselfconsciously, first his chest, then his balls, while he tried to think of a reason why Tazzie didn’t pick up the phone.

They had had a small disagreement the last time they talked; nothing serious, nothing that wouldn’t sort itself out, but still. It had been about her London flat. Quent had offered to arrange for a team of movers, decorators, the whole shebang, who could ready her new flat for her so that all she’d have to do is move in. She had refused; she’d said that she needed to do this herself, and she didn’t think that the past two weeks of them officially being back together merited him taking on such a big responsibility, and spending so much money, on her behalf.

He’d laughed because she’d been worrying about the money, and had thought it stupid and stubborn and sweet of her in equal parts. She’d been very serious though; she wanted for them to build up their relationship properly instead of running headlong into something that would end in disaster, and he’d ended up feeling like an insensitive blundering idiot for suggesting it in the first place.

It couldn’t be that, could it?

Then, yesterday evening, he’d come in relatively late because he’d organized a barbie for the cast and crew – he wanted to do something nice after the ‘mite incident, even if only Davies had figured out the true story – and he hadn’t rung her before he went to sleep. He’d given her a bell every night so far, spent some time talking to her before he went to sleep… sometimes it culminated in a bit of passionate phone sex if she happened to be in bed as well, but most times he just chatted with her about their respective days, drinking in the sound of her voice as he relaxed in his bed. Yesterday night though, he’d been very tired and just a teeny tiny bit pissed, and he’d been asleep before his head had hit the pillow.

Would she be upset with him because of that? Or what, what? He paced some more and a chilling thought formed in his mind. What if she thought he was pissed off at her because he hadn’t rung? Oh for fuck’s sake, what if he’d blown it already? He knew he was a disaster waiting to happen, even though he tried as hard as he could to change his ways for the better. Prove that he was capable of holding on to a woman like Tazzie. Intelligent, mysterious, magical crazy funny Tazzie, who didn’t fall for the glamour that came with his day job and who wasn’t impressed by the fact that he had a considerable amount of money to his name, but who instead wanted him. Quentin, the person behind all that. The person who just might turn out not to be the right calibre for a woman like Tazzie, if stripped of the useful decoys of cash and glitz.

She had made him feel insecure, and in all honesty inadequate, from day one. She didn’t do it on purpose; it was just that all his usual tricks didn’t seem to work with her. Instead she responded to something else. Something real, something deep inside him. She read him, better than anyone, better than he read himself, with her weird clairsentience witchcraft. And she was so sweet, and so full of love… All that, the depth, the love, but also the strangeness of it, the challenge of conquering his insecurity and holding his own with her, were the ingredients of his strong feelings for her. Life would never be boring with Tazzie, he was sure of it; it would always be a challenge and it would always be confronting. He liked that. He needed that, he thrived on that. But right now he simply wracked his brain trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, for her to refuse to answer his calls.

After a glance at the alarm – he’d spent twenty minutes pacing and brooding already – he decided to give it a rest for the moment. It might as well be something stupid that he just couldn’t think of right now. Yeah, that was it, he was probably worrying for nothing. You’d see, in an hour or so he’d give it another go and she’d be all Oh my God I’m so sorry, the battery was dead. With a frown, Quent stepped into the shower, while at the back of his mind it gnawed that Taz was way too well organized to let something stupid like that happen. He was the kind of thick drongo who’d accidentally break his phone by sitting on it and who’d forget to bring his adapter plug when he had to go to another country, but he simply couldn’t see that sort of thing happen to Taz.

He washed his hair and splashed about, trying to get yesterday’s mild alcoholic fugue out of his system. He should have laid off the grog, bloody fool that he’d been. It had been a nice evening and all, but no way worth it missing talking to Tazzie. Especially if it turned out that he’d upset her, or hurt her, or… fuck, what if she thought he’d been lying to her, about wanting to change, about wanting to be with her, marrying her? What if deep down she was still thinking he was a fickle bastard who’d happily galumph along to the next thing of interest, leaving her behind a second time?

He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing him in that light and he quickly turned off the shower, dried off sloppily and hopped, gloriously naked, back into the room to give his phone another try.

While it rang, he wiped at his dripping hair and he dug up something to wear for the day. It rang, and it rang some more, and after the seventh ring Quentin already knew that she wasn’t going to pick up this time either. No Oh my God I’m so sorry, no dead battery, no silly innocent reason for her not picking up. He dressed quickly and quietly, a frown curling his forehead.

Something was seriously wrong, and Quentin, his heart in his Blunnies, sighed and wiped a shaky hand across his face. He hovered between bottomless despair and blazing anger and he didn’t know how he was going to face the day when all he wanted to do was to yank the first driver out of the first car he encountered outside the hotel, and drive all the way to wherever she was. And ask her. Ask her what the fuck he’d done wrong now, for her to refuse to pick up when he rang her.

Taryn.

For some odd reason it was extremely hard to wake up, even though there was a continuous and annoying sound at the outer rim of her conscious mind, demanding her attention. Tazzie tried to turn over and bury her head under the pillow, but she found she couldn’t. She could only lay there on her back, and something… something was preventing her from rolling over to her side. Her arms… her arms were flung wide and as she slowly struggled up towards consciousness from that warm, dark, velvety, much too comfortable pit of sleep, she began to notice that her wrists seemed attached to the bed in some way.

She opened her eyes and blinked drowsily, having trouble focussing, but slowly her motel room came into view and she noticed, still oddly detached from her emotions, that it was a monumental mess. Her clothes were strewn everywhere. She slowly turned her head to the left and saw that her hand was taped to the bed frame with a large strip of matte black gaffer tape. Sluggishly, she gave it an experimental tug, but it wouldn’t budge. Her other hand was secured in the same manner, and as her heart rate picked up the instant the adrenaline kicked in, the sound at the edge of her consciousness rushed in as well.

‘Taryn! Are you in there? Taryn, open the door please!’ It was Sally, calling her name and pounding on the door.

Taz tried to answer, but at first she couldn’t really get any sound out whatsoever. On the third try though she managed a weak, ‘Sal? I’m in here…’

The knocking stopped.

‘Taryn, are you okay?’ Came from outside.

‘N-no,’ Tazzie squeaked, ‘Sal, I’m stuck… you’ll have to get a key from the…’

Sally finally had the bright idea to actually try the door, and to her surprise, and Tazzie’s immeasurable relief, it was open.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Sally gasped, taking in the state of the room. She rushed over to Tazzie and freed her hands with a couple of determined tears at the tape. ‘Are you hurt? What happened?’

‘I… I dunno…’ Tazzie slowly sat up. A wave of nausea hit her and she retched, but nothing came. ‘…feel like I had too much to drink… ew… couldn’t really wake up…’

‘It smells really weird in here,’ Sally said, sniffing the air and picking up some of Tazzie’s clothes off the floor. ‘Looks like you’ve been robbed… what did they take? Is your purse still there?’

‘Purse?’ Tazzie muttered, trying to disentangle herself from the bed covers. She felt monumentally foggy, couldn’t focus, just couldn’t get her head around what had happened, but when her feet hit the floor she suddenly got a second adrenaline rush. Quent! He hadn’t called her yesterday evening, which had surprised her and which had her mildly worried – would he really be so very upset over the fact that she had refused his enormously kind offer of taking care of her new flat and all? – but she had resolved to ring him first thing in the morning and tell him to go ahead if he really wanted to do that for her, he was so sweet and caring… She’d put her purse with her phone right beside the bed for that exact purpose.

It was gone.

‘Ohhh, fuck, they took it,’ she moaned, ‘Sal, they nicked it! My phone is in there…’ and as the reality of it sank in and she mentally ticked off the contents of her little leather bag, she felt like crying. ‘And my wallet with all my cards, and there was about three hundred dollars in there… and my ticket…’ Shit, she was supposed to fly home this afternoon! She was supposed to meet Quent at the airport! She let her head sink into her hands and tried to think of a way to contact him. Nothing came to her. What did come though was another realization: ‘Fuck! My passport! They’ve got my passport as well! Bloody hell, I can’t even get out of the country!’

‘Calm down,’ Sally said, sitting down next to her. ‘We’ll sort this out, we’ll think of something. I’ll go down to reception and have them call the police, and we’ll take it from there, okay? And there must be a British consulate or something somewhere in LA where you can get a new passport? Just don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of everything. What’s most important is that you are all right. Do we need to get you to a doctor, just to be sure? It looks to me like you’ve been drugged or something, in your sleep, then tied to the bed in case you’d wake up while they were still busy going through your stuff. We need to find out if anything else is missing… Think, hon, think hard.’

Tazzie thought. She thought as hard as she could, but frankly, most of her thoughts were about Quentin. He may be trying to ring her and she couldn’t pick up the phone… what would he be thinking? She may very well not be able to fly out this afternoon if they had to get her a new passport, and how on earth was she going to let him know what had happened to her? How was she going to tell him she couldn’t make it, meeting up with him at the airport?

But most of all she longed, with every fibre of her being longed for the comfort of his arms around her. If he’d be with her now, none of this would have even mattered to her. Phone? Fuck, she’d get a new one. Laptop? She’d just…

Laptop?

‘Fuuuuck, Sal….’ she moaned miserably, and now she did start to cry softly. ‘My laptop. Everything’s on there. All my emails, notes for the next book, names and addies from bookstore people I’ve met, pics… All my contact details for everyone…’ She hitched and started to cry for real, her breath coming in gasps. ‘I can’t… get in touch… with anyone… Quent… I can’t reach Quent… ’

‘Have you written down his number anywhere?’ Sally asked, stroking Tazzie’s arm.

Taz shook her head in desperation as her mind spun like crazy. Did she have any details for Jo, Sadie, Martin, anyone at Nana? Sam, in London? Rafiq, her old neighbour? No, no, no, all of that was safely lodged inside her phone and her laptop. All of that was gone. What was she going to do? How would she ever get back in touch with Quent? He would have to seek her out one way or the other, but he’d never have time for that. He’d be flying out to the Azores this afternoon, and she had no idea how she’d be able to reach him there. She couldn’t just ring every hotel there and ask for him, could she? They’d never put her through. And he didn’t have her new address in London yet; she’d just never gotten round to giving it to him in the last couple of weeks since they were back together. If she’d finally be done with her trek around the world and she’d have moved to her new flat, he’d never be able to find her!

Panic blossomed and choked her. She started to shiver, and another wave of piercing nausea spasmed through her.

‘I think we do need to get you to a doctor, Taryn,’ Sally said calmly. ‘I think they used some sort of stuff to drug you, and there’s no way of telling what it did to you, how bad it is for you. Come on – can you walk?’

Somehow, together, they managed get Taz over to the front desk, where they waited for the cops to arrive. After an hour of bewildering questions and a thorough investigation of her motel room they left again, telling her that what the crooks had used on her was in all probability chloroform. Tazzie had a splitting headache by now, but at least she wouldn’t have to go to the doctor. If she’d take it easy and drink a lot of water, all would be well.

All wasn’t well though. Half the morning had passed already and still they hadn’t moved. Tazzie realised all too well that her only chance to get in touch with Quentin now would be their meeting at the airport. But to fly out, she’d need her passport. Which was nicked. It was just unbelievable. Tazzie’s stomach clenched tight, and not only from post-chloroform nausea.

Sally had packed Tazzie’s clothes for her and was now on the phone, trying to find out what to do about the stolen identity document. From the tone of her voice it did not sound promising.

‘What on earth do you mean you don’t do that? You’re the UK diplomatic mission aren’t you?’

Silence.

‘Okay, so where do we have to go to get this temporary travel document?’

Silence again.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Sally rolled her eyes and she hit the receptionist’s desk with the flat of her palm. ‘We’re in California. There must be something closer by. Can’t we get on a domestic flight?’

More silence, and a dangerous frown creeping over Sally’s brow.

‘Right,’ she finally said, her voice clipped. ‘Can we apply by phone, or do we have to go there first?’ The answer seemed to be satisfactory – she scribbled down a phone number - although it apparently did not solve the problem. And there was a major problem; Tazzie could feel it hanging in the air, oppressive like a summer storm.

‘What did they say, Sal,’ she said, very softly, dreading to hear Sally’s reply.

Sally had a distinctly harried look. ‘You won’t believe this. First we need to call this number here, that’s the British head consulate office in Washington D.C., and we have to apply for your temporary travel document. And then… are ready for this? You need to go there to pick up your document in person. And the real killer is that as a foreigner, you are not allowed on any domestic flights without a valid travel document.’

‘Okay…’ Tazzie’s brain sluggishly caught on, ‘So how do I get to Washington if I can’t fly there…? No. Christ no, you can’t be serious. Do we have to drive to Washington D.C.? From here? That will be like, how much, two days solid driving?’

Sally nodded and quickly grabbed Tazzie’s hand as the tears welled up again.

‘Quent…’ Tazzie plaintively whispered, as if just saying his name could conjure him up out of thin air. She wiped at her eyes. ‘And how on earth am I going to get home in time to make the next flight out of London? I mean, my whole schedule is out the window now… I’m supposed to fly to Barcelona in three days time! Oh my God, oh my fucking God….’

Tazzie started to sob again desperately, clutching at Sally’s hand for support while Sally dialled the British consulate one-handed. A few minutes later, the application had gone through, but the passport officer on the other side informed Sally coolly that it took three days before an emergency travel document was ready for the applicant. Sally, now ready to tear someone’s head off, exploded in a spectacular fashion, and by sheer force of will she managed to talk down the processing time to two and a half days.

‘There,’ Sally said, beaming with satisfaction over her small victory, ‘we’ve got just enough time to drive to D.C.; the minute we get there, your passport will be ready. So here’s what we’ll do. I am going to call my assistant and tell her to get in touch with your publishing people in the UK. Hopefully they will be able to reschedule your flight so that you can leave for Spain straight after you’ve gotten your passport. And I’ll ask her to try and find out where Quentin will be staying on the Azores – she used to work for a film scout so she’ll probably know some people who know some people. And in the mean time, you and I are going to hit the road, honey.’

‘Thanks, Sal,’ Tazzie sniffled, ‘you’re wonderful, you know that?’

‘We-ell,’ Sally said modestly, ‘it’s no hardship. You’re the most stress free author I’ve worked with in years, and I’m actually having a really good time…’She smiled a little secretively, but Tazzie picked up on the mood.

‘Oh… That red-headed guy in Magic? What was his name again?

‘Dean? Yeah. Dino… He’s, um, well…’

‘The two of you had a good time, I take it,’ Tazzie smiled through her tears, happy for a topic of conversation that didn’t involve her current situation in any way. Soon as she’d think about it again, she’d start crying again. Oh, Quentin, what was she going to do? A couple more tears ran down her cheeks but she shook her head and asked Sally, ‘…did you hear from him afterwards, at all?’

‘Yeah… He called me, a couple of times even. He’s actually very nice, and fun… I’d like to see him again at some point, though I think it will be some time before I get to go back to Magic…’

Now it was Tazzie’s turn to grab Sally’s hand. ‘I hope you will though Sal, for what it’s worth…’

And with that, the both of them got into the car. Tazzie took the first turn driving, although she was still a bit teary, but it was easier that way for Sally to call her assistant back in New York and instruct her. She was to start calling to make sure all Tazzie’s stolen debit and credit cards got blocked, then arrange everything with Tazzie’s primary publisher to sort out flights from Washington D.C. into Europe, then get on the horn and find out where the film crew was supposed to be staying in the Azores. Oh, and call the UK consulate again, just to make sure the application had gone through properly.

Tazzie drove down the road deep in thought, trying desperately to think of anything, any possible way to get in touch with Quentin before it was to late. It seemed bloody well impossible. Just an hour from now he’d be in that VIP-room at LAX, waiting for her, and she wouldn’t show up, and every mile she drove only took her farther away from him. She felt it as an almost physical pain, clenching in her chest, and it made her gasp and swallow hard. Sally shot her a look from time to time while she yakked into her phone. Tazzie just steeled herself and tried to think, and think…

And suddenly she remembered. With a bit of luck there might be a couple of emails still on her webmail server, from the time her first book was out and she used the email addy from the book website. She was pretty sure there was still some stuff on there, and oh… she just needed a tiny bit of luck, just a teeny tiny bit of luck on this awful, awful day. This had to be the worst day of her life yet. There had been a couple of days before that had had a good solid nomination for the worst day ever award, but today… just when everything seemed to be on track with Quent; just as she was about to go home, and about to see him again, even if it was just for an hour or so; just as the both of them were beginning to realise the depth and inevitability of their feelings for one another...

Now all she needed to do was remember the login details for her webmail account. They were written down on a piece of paper that sat inside her wallet… her stolen wallet, for fuck’s sake… Taz had typed in the log and pass a million times in the past, and she was sure the sequence resided somewhere deep in her brain, now if only she could get at it… She pictured herself at her old computer at home, tried to picture her fingers as she typed, and suddenly she snapped at Sally, ‘quick, write this down, Tazarcher and QWy357a. Tazarcher is one word. Yeah. It’s my log and pass for my old webmail. I think there might be an email address for Quent’s Mum in there still… Christ, we need to find an internet café Sal, I simply have to get in touch with Jo as soon as possible… maybe she can help me, before it’s too late…’

They had an absurdly long journey ahead of them, and though technically speaking nothing of what had happened was her fault, Tazzie could feel nothing but dread at the amount of explaining she was sure she’d have to do at the end of it.

Chapter Fifteen