Chapter Nine:

Quinn woke with a splitting headache and proceeded to drink a litre of water from a filtered bottle while she showered. She washed her hair, running her fingers through the shoulder-length mass like a comb. The water was hot and soothing, but a warning by the door reminded her that she shouldn’t drink it. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for her shaving kit and lathered up her legs. When she was out of the shower she sat quietly on the toilet seat with her towel wrapped around her. Over her shoulder she played with the tips of her wet hair in one hand, absently squeezing thick droplets of cold water onto her collarbone. Her other hand twirled the triangular block that she’d received at the opening – her fingers scuttling across its surface, feeling each side for the woodgrain and any imperfections.

After some time Stevie knocked on the door but Quinn didn’t hear her. Her thoughts rattled around in her head distractedly – she couldn’t believe that she had fainted on Robert Chaff. She felt like an idiot. He would never take her seriously after that. The scene kept playing over – the artist’s cool smile and extended hand and her body suddenly building with pressure as though it would pop, but before it could her knees failed her and her eyes seemingly rolled out of her head.

He had kind eyes when she came to.

They were soft and concerned, filled with the kind of sadness that her father had once possessed. She hugged herself thinking that she had enjoyed him looking at her – his blue eyes at once fragile and secretive.

The door opened and Stevie stared at her with concern. Quinn blinked slowly, clearing her thoughts, and apologised for not hearing her friend. It was nearly eleven-thirty and Stevie exclaimed that the day was already hot. She had been down to the bread shop across the road from the hotel and brought back some croissants and buns filled with red bean paste. Before Stevie lead her from the bathroom to the small table where she had set up their late breakfast, she pressed her hand against Quinn’s forehead with creased eyebrows.

The girls ate hungrily – the sweet bread was soft and buttery in their mouths. Stevie watched Quinn cautiously as though she wanted to ask her a question but wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Eventually, as Quinn scooped up the last piece of bun and held it to her lips, she raised her eyebrows and asked her friend what was going on.

For a moment Stevie looked bashful, unsure of herself – which was an expression Quinn couldn’t remember ever seeing before – after which she announced that Remy had asked her to lunch, but that she wasn’t sure if she should go because it would mean leaving Quinn to meet Robert Chaff alone.

“I just don’t want you to feel abandoned, is all! I mean, what if… I know you don’t think it will… But, what if you faint again and I’m not there?” The girl played with a loose strand of hair, leaning heavily on one elbow, her imploring eyes locked on Quinn.

“Then… Well, then Robert will have to look after me again!” She laughed because it sounded girlish and stupid, but a part of her liked the idea of the artist protecting her – watching over her again. “Last night I was just a bit… I don’t know – overwhelmed, I guess. I felt like I was right inside his head and then I went and told him he shouldn’t be drinking in his own show! When I realised it was him, I just felt so silly…” Quinn felt a tear creep out the corner of her eye. She wasn’t sure where it had come from. Quite suddenly she had traversed from a rational explanation into an emotional cul-de-sac.

Stevie reached across the table and took her hand. “Hey, it’s okay, Q… He’s an artist – emotions are what he’s all about, right?” She laughed. “You never know, you might be the subject of his next major work!”

“Except that I’ll never see it…” The words slipped from her mouth before she even knew what they were. She froze before slowly looking up at her friend, the one person in the world willing to travel with her and put up with all of her limitations. She saw Stevie’s face fall, the smile sliding away like water on wet paint. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… I know you’re just trying to cheer me up…”

“No,” Stevie squeezed her hand tightly and their eyes met, “you might be right. But that’s why it’s even more important to meet him at two and enjoy it. Make every second of that coffee count.” The corners of her lips curved slightly upwards. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Q, and I just want the world for you. I want this to be perfect… I’ll tell Remy that I’ll see him another time.”

“No!” It was Quinn’s turn to squeeze on Stevie’s fingers. “I’ve dragged you all the way over here and you’ve been stuck dealing with my shit the whole time. I’ll be fine. I’m just a little emotional right now. Once I’m dressed I’ll feel much more on top of it all. You should go! He’s a really nice guy and you’re the one who said you wanted to meet a nice Japanese boy! And I can always call you if anything goes wrong – which it won’t!”

For a moment it looked like Stevie was going to continue to fight her on the matter, but then she broke into a wide grin and stepped around the little table to give Quinn a hug. She whispered sternly in Quinn’s ear, detailing what she expected Quinn to do if she felt sick or if Robert Chaff was anything but the perfect gentleman.

“You excuse yourself. You get to the bathroom and you call me and then you get out of there – okay?”

“He’s not like that, Stevie,” Quinn laughed. “I don’t even know what we’ll talk about. Probably his art, I guess.”

“You promise me – if anything is weird, you leave. Okay?”

“Okay, okay! You too! Remy seems like a great guy but if he tries anything funny, like trying to smell your underwear or dress you up like a school-girl, you’ll bail, right?”

“I’d be gone before he even knew what happened!”

Stevie left at twelve-thirty to meet with Remy before they intended to have sushi in a park near Harajuku. It wasn’t far to walk and Stevie claimed that Remy was meeting her at the famous Shibuya intersection, across the road from Tsutaya. She had dressed simply in denim shorts and a blue singlet with her green Converse sneakers and she’d slung a thin green purse over her shoulder. Her hair had been straightened and she left it out because she thought it was prettier that way. Quinn kissed her good luck and ushered her friend out the door because she didn’t want her to be late.

Quinn slipped into a denim skirt and a rose coloured t-shirt with Tokyo printed on it in oversized black letters, two to a line with the final ‘O’ circling the other four. She then padded around the hotel room barefoot making fists with her toes. She couldn’t remember where she’d first heard of the clenching and unclenching of toes as a relaxation method, but she did it often and found that it was a great way to stretch her feet.

After a few minutes she decided to check her email. Stevie had left her tablet on the table and Quinn unlocked it with a patterned swipe. She tapped on the web-browser and the screen lit up with the text of an email her friend had sent that morning. She had no intention of invading Stevie’s privacy, but in the moment that the text resolved on the screen she glimpsed her own name. Her mouth slackened as she read the correspondence.

Hey. You don’t need to worry so much, I’m keeping an eye on her.

Quinn was, as I said, sick last night, but I think it was more nerves than anything else. There’s no need to worry. As I said, she came home and went straight to bed. This morning she seemed a little dazed but alright. As far as I can tell she hasn’t done a blood test for a few days so she must be feeling okay. That, or she doesn’t want to know. You know how she is – she doesn’t want to be treated like she’s unwell and I can’t blame her. I don’t know, I’ll ask her about it as subtly as I can when I get the chance.

I know, I worry about her too. Probably not like you do, but she is my best friend. If anything out of the ordinary happens I’ll let you know.

Stevie

The email was addressed to Quinn’s mother.

She felt betrayed but she wasn’t sure who by. Was Stevie betraying her by giving her mother more information about the trip than she was offering? Or was her mum betraying her by asking her best friend to essentially spy on her?

Quinn slumped onto the bed and put her cold hands over her eyes to try to clear her thoughts. In so many ways she didn’t really blame either of them. One of the reasons her mum had been so reluctant to let Quinn travel was because she was paying to have blood samples analysed in the hope that they might find a way to help her. It had been going on for years though, without any success.

She looked over at the palm-sized machine sitting innocently on the bench in the bathroom. Stevie was right – Quinn didn’t want to know. For more than seven years she had been the subject of samples and tests and research and nothing had come from it. Whatever she had, no one knew what it was or where it had come from. All they’d managed to work out was that it was gene-based and that unless she had kids, there was no way for her to pass it on – which was a good thing.

When she’d turned eighteen her mum had given her access to her dad’s findings, but they hadn’t given her much insight. He’d managed to work out that her body was breaking down on a cellular level. Everything appeared normal to the average person, but underneath the skin she was weaker, more susceptible to sickness. It wasn’t like HIV where a person could no longer produce white blood cells to fight off illness, she could still fight it off, but it was like the connections inside her that would normally adapt and mutate were unable to do so. Her father’s findings suggested that she was generating youthful cells in a way that no one else could, but rather than keeping her young and healthy they were actually making her steadily weaker. The best projections that he had been able to make had set her life expectancy somewhere in her early twenties.

Her mum had spent a fortune quietly keeping the research going in the hope that someone might find a way to reverse or fix whatever was going wrong. But after sampling her blood, everyone wanted access to Quinn directly and her mother wouldn’t allow it. Quinn didn’t want to be a lab-rat, but she didn’t want to die either. When she turned twenty she made a conscious decision to abandon the hope for a cure. Instead of pining after something that seemed impossible she wanted to make the most of the time she had left. She wanted to see things, to be wowed by the world. She wanted to draw, and paint, and write.

She wanted to live.

Quinn locked Stevie’s tablet without checking her mail. She was only expecting more from her mum demanding to be kept in the loop about all of her actions, but she didn’t feel like she really needed to do that anymore. Later she would tackle whether or not to talk with Stevie about the secret.

She looked up at the ceiling – the warm light of summer was making the room glow slightly. Quinn closed her eyes and tried to imagine what Robert Chaff was thinking when he took her hand the night before. Was it all just a mask of sympathy? Did he think she was pretty? Beneath her shirt she could feel her pulse quicken slightly at the idea. He was nearly twice her age but she liked the idea that he might admire her – that he might take an interest in her as a person, unique for being herself, not special because she was sick. She hated that everyone’s interest in her was framed by their knowledge that she was sick. Everything about her was measured against what she was fighting through and that meant that everything was insincere. She knew they didn’t mean it that way, but that was how it felt nonetheless.

Her mind wandered for a few minutes, and she let it – willingly abandoning control so that she might drift freely through the landscape of her thoughts. Reflections of sunlight made her legs warm. Outside, she caught hints of the bustle of Shibuya – people moving from one place to another with purpose, carrying coffee’s and shopping and children. She could almost picture the men and women out on the street looking stunning with their tailored clothing and jet black hair. There would be girls her age who were radiant with colour, their clothes sparkling upon the sharp angles of their bodies, with crazy highlights through whatever carefully frozen design they had weaved from their hair. Boys would be holding their hands or following them, enchanted by their mystery, tight jeans adorning slender muscular bodies, sharp hair-do’s, and smart piercing eyes. She could imagine some of the older men smoking by a newsstand, their eyes downcast as they read. Others going to lunch, or returning from it, would be dressed smartly, their shoes clicking on the pavement as they strode from one place to another – their steps driven, not a wasted movement in their walk. She could hear cars beeping, a scooter zipping between the sounds of horns. Next door to the hotel was a car park that stacked vehicles on top of one another, and the sound of its whirring machinery made a consistent background noise to the chaos beyond.

Shibuya was alive with people.

Tokyo was everything that she wanted to be.