Wishes Under a Starlit Sky
Wishes Under a Starlit Sky
Lucy Knott
When life doesn’t go to plan, you can write yourself a new story… From the outside, Harper Hayes looks like she is winning at life. She has an amazing job as a script writer, a wonderful house, an awesome best friend and an incredible husband. Yes, life seems to be pretty, dare she say it? Perfect? But life is about to throw more than one spanner in the works of Harper’s picture perfect existence and at the busiest time of the year too. As Christmas approaches, Harper will have some soul searching to do to decide if there really is such thing as the happily-ever-after she writes about. For fans of Josie Silver, Karen Swan and Sarah Morgan, Lucy Knott weaves a festive story that will move you to laughter and tears. Readers love Lucy Knott! ‘A wonderful holiday read’ ‘Tugs at the heart strings’ ‘Full of romance, joy and heartbreak’ ‘I laughed, I cried, and thoroughly enjoyed this book!’
About the Author (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
LUCY KNOTT is a former professional wrestler with a passion for storytelling. Now, instead of telling her stories in the ring, she’s putting pen to paper, fulfilling another lifelong dream in becoming an Author. Inspired by her Italian Grandparents, when she is not writing you will most likely find her cooking, baking and devouring Italian food, in addition to learning Italian and daydreaming of trips to Italy. ALONG WITH her twin sister, Kelly, Lucy runs TheBlossomTwins.com (http://www.TheBlossomTwins.com), where she enthusiastically shares her love for books, baking and Italy, with daily posts, reviews and recipes. You can find Lucy on Twitter @TheBlossomTwins (http://www.Twitter.com/TheBlossomTwins) or @LucyCKnott (http://www.Twitter.com/LucyCKnott)
Readers Love Lucy Knott (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
‘A wonderful holiday read’
‘Tugs at the heart strings’
‘Full of romance, joy and heartbreak’
‘I laughed, I cried, and thoroughly enjoyed this book!’
Also by Lucy Knott (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
How to Bake a New Beginning
The Ingredients for Happiness
Wishes Under a Starlit Sky
LUCY KNOTT
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Lucy Knott 2019
Lucy Knott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008336189
Version: 2019-10-07
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue721c38e-06b7-5205-8d1c-73176eded96d)
About the Author
Readers Love Lucy Knott
Also by Lucy Knott
Title Page (#ufcc6752d-3f73-5bb4-b184-ee1539806201)
Copyright (#udd61468d-8cb2-5938-95a6-bcb3740ffb71)
Dedication (#u943a196c-5e92-5448-b834-1827783d46cf)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
For those who believe in fairy tales and the power of love; in all it’s beautiful forms.
Prologue (#ulink_c89db979-3807-5706-b901-d7142200ecbe)
The deep and smooth voice of Dean Martin croons through my mind, forcing me to relax. A smile curves up at the edges of my lips. The lyrics of his hit song ‘That’s Amore’ dance in my mind. The moon is certainly lighting up the sky tonight in all its pizza-pie elegance. It is full, a sparkling pearly white and casting its beautiful glow on the tourists that are lost in Venice’s romantic charm. The Christmas season is in full force and it’s evident everywhere I look. The streetlamps twinkle as glittering silver tinsel weaves its way around the otherwise dark poles. I can understand the magic and the romance this city is famous for.
I look to the moon and think of my parents and how this will be another Christmas without them. They moved to Colorado five years ago and with my workload and my husband’s busy schedule I’ve only been out to visit them the once. It’s unlike me and I don’t know how I’ve managed this long without them. But back in London I have my job, my best friend Madi and my husband – I know my parents understand.
I shake away my wandering thoughts and embrace the charm of Venice around me. I soak up the joyful feeling of love and Christmas as I snuggle into my husband’s side. It has been a while since we’ve done anything remotely romantic. With Scott being so busy at work and me being locked away in my office working on my next script for the past couple of months, we simply haven’t found the time. Not that I haven’t been trying. I’ve been shutting my laptop off early most nights for the past couple of weeks, throwing on my laciest pyjamas, waiting for Scott to come home. But it’s all been to no avail. Late nights on set and in the office meant he usually fell asleep on the couch, too exhausted to even make it upstairs by the time he came drifting into the house. I’d wake to find him either passed out, or worse yet, gone, back to the studio to start the routine all over again.
So, this … this is nice. I cuddle up closer to Scott’s warm side, and sneak my hand around his waist, under his suit jacket. Feeling his toned torso beneath the thin white cotton of his shirt still sends desire flooding through me, even after six years of marriage. He turns to me, a broad smile on his handsome face. Maybe my efforts haven’t been going unnoticed after all. Maybe the lacy pyjamas caught his attention, and this is just what he needed, a break from the movie sets and back to reality to refocus, to remember that I am still very much here.
The moon makes his blue eyes glisten, taking me back to our wedding night and staring into them as we danced our first dance. That whole day was magic; that and nearly every day for the past six years too. My smile widens as the lyrics dance in my mind – the world is certainly shining tonight and I may have had a little wine. He kisses my lips softly. My hands fly straight to his sandy blonde hair, gently tugging at its shagginess. I am drunk on love and suddenly feel like a teenager again. At thirty years of age, that is a welcome feeling.
The gondola pulls up to the short pier where another loved-up couple are gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, eagerly awaiting their turn on the love boat. By this point I am too wrapped up in Scott to pay attention to the gorgeous night-time scenes that Venice has to offer. We stumble down the cobbled streets, grabbing at each other, only pausing when kissing and walking becomes too difficult a task. We make it back to our hotel before the whole of Venice gets to see Scott in all his naked glory. I am getting impatient, which is not like me; his suit jacket and tie have already come off. I’m not opposed to public displays of affection – in fact, I adore seeing people in love – but I am usually more subtle in my approach. I don’t know what has taken over me; the need to be wanted by Scott, maybe?
The concierge smiles and hands us the keys before I need to embarrass myself with attempting to ask for them in my terrible Italian. No doubt the man witnesses more impassioned men and women on the daily than he knows what to do with. The hopeless romantic in me thinks what a beautiful thing to observe each day at work. Then it remembers that really, I get to do the same, even if the scenes are mostly made up in my head and then played out by actors – it still counts as real love, doesn’t it? Maybe the concierge should start writing down what he sees and turn it into a script too.
My mind is brought back to the present when Scott throws me on to the stunning four-poster princess-like bed and kisses me fervently. I do my best to keep up. It’s not that hard. I have loved this man since I was twenty-three years old. Heat courses through me, my hips arch forward with wanting and I savour the touch of his lips all over my skin, as I melt into the quilt. My cream shift dress floats up over my thighs as I kick my ballet flats off my feet onto the floor. I try to ignore the occasional painful tug of my hair as Scott kneels on it – it’s my fault, it’s too long, he would say – and instead I focus on the desire in my veins.
I guess not all my romantic ideas are made up in my head. My latest Pegasus Entertainment rewrite may have been inspired just a little by the man currently covering my stomach with kisses. Come to think of it, so was the one before that and the one before that. I should really thank my husband for being such a brilliant muse for a romance writer, I think to myself, then get distracted as he lowers the weight of his body on top of mine. I think I can wait and tell him later.
*
We arrive back from Venice and I feel as though I’m walking on a fluffy, bouncy cloud. Scott and I have been together for eight years, married for six, but I smile with the magic that is still there in my heart after so long. I take our suitcases up to our bedroom. It’s six in the evening and I’m ready for a hot shower; to get rid of the icky plane feeling I get whenever I travel. I feel Scott and I deserve an evening of red wine, maybe even a cheeky takeaway, curled up by the Christmas tree in front of the TV before the mad rush of the fortnight before Christmas descends on us.
I leave Scott to whatever is keeping him busy downstairs and turn on the shower; he might join me when he hears the running water. My body is still tingling with the feel of him from our passionate weekend. Do Italians add something to their water? I giggle as the water soaks my hair and drips off my eyelashes. I feel a sudden surge of emotion and a burst of sentimentality strikes me as my mind plays snippets of our magical trip to Italy. It had felt beautiful to have some time away; everything had felt right.
In the pit of my stomach I feel a tingle of excitement that this will be the year we take the leap and start trying for kids. Scott and I have talked about it and this weekend gave me a glimpse into the future; how perfect our lives have been thus far and how incredible the next step in our journey together will be.
Scott must be thinking what I’m thinking and ordering that takeaway, I muse to myself when he doesn’t come up to the bathroom. I stop dawdling in the shower, keen to get downstairs and join him on the couch. I hastily towel dry, throw on my Christmas pyjamas – it’s December after all – wrap my hair in a towel and head downstairs.
I’m walking into the living room when I see Scott in my peripheral vision sitting at the dining room table. He is smiling at his phone, the smile that after all these years still gives me butterflies. But when he sees me, I notice his cheeks flush and a forlorn gaze appears in his eyes. I wander over to him, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him tight. I can sense his brain has already switched back into work mode and he’s worrying about emails and the crazy schedule that December brings with it as he feels cool and tense to the touch, making my gut wriggle uncomfortably for some reason.
‘How about I order us a takeaway and we make a start on the Christmas movies, so we can actually fit them all in this year?’ I say, kissing his cheek, hoping to relax the knots in his neck and keep work thoughts at bay for at least a few more hours. Scott is rigid, and I feel a discomfort in the pit of my stomach that I can’t place. Usually he can’t keep his hands off me at this proximity. I understand it has been a tiring travel day, but something doesn’t sit right.
‘I think we should take a break,’ Scott says. I sigh and a titter escapes my lips – all this tension over Christmas movies.
‘OK, how about we watch a movie of your choosing tonight and then start up on the Christmas movies Christmas Eve Eve? We still have so many to get through and it’s really not Christmas without a few romantic fairy tales,’ I suggest, tucking my hair behind my ear, the wet strands having started to stick to my cheeks. I make to step into the hall when Scott repeats himself causing me to back-pedal.
‘Not the bloody Christmas movies, Harper, though yes, a break from all that crap would be good.’ His voice sounds hard. I’m confused as to what has suddenly made him so moody. I’ve never heard him call my favourite kind of movie crap before. We often watch them and gush over our own real-life fairy tale.
‘Oh OK, I’m sorry,’ I stutter through a nervous laugh. ‘Would you like me to cook something, honey? If you want a break from the takeaways, I can see what we’ve got in, whip something up?’ I step out of the hall and back into the dining room now, eager to get Scott out of the chilly space and his ‘just got back from vacation funk’, and into the warmth of the living room and under the pile of blankets awaiting us on the couch. He’s not making any effort to move on his own and remains still in the chair.
‘You make it sound like those are my only two options. I want a break,’ he says, his tone dull and deadpan.
My brain is going over his words before I speak. I feel as though every time I open my mouth, I say something wrong. ‘Options,’ I repeat slowly. ‘Erm, no we can cook together, we can go out, we don’t have to watch movies.’ I tug on the hem of my pyjama top, not knowing what to do or say next.
‘I want a break from us,’ Scott says with a heavy sigh.
It’s the tiny word at the end of his sentence that takes me completely by surprise and causes a sharp stabbing pain in my throat. I take a step back and try to digest the words Scott has just said, my brain muddled with talk of takeaways and movies.
‘What do you mean “a break”?’ I ask quietly, tripping up over each word. My brain is rattling in my head with all kinds of uncertainty and fear. Is Scott joking? Is this some kind of prank? What have I missed? Scott isn’t moving, just sitting in the same position he has been in during this entire conversation, but he’s looking at me and I hate that I don’t recognize the look in his eyes.
‘A break, like we take some time apart, give each other some space,’ he says. His features are relaxed, and I hate that he looks more relieved than pained. I feel like a child flying over the handlebars of my bike, landing in a heap on the ground with a sudden whack. I can’t find my breath.
‘Why?’ is all I can manage. I’m hunched over a little with my hand on my stomach. I’ve paced a few steps, so I can look at Scott. He flicks his hands up at my question, almost like a shrug, like he doesn’t have an answer. But you don’t suggest something as big as taking a break from your marriage without having an answer, surely?
‘We want different things; I don’t think it’s working.’ He runs a hand through his blonde hair. There’s a buzzing sound in my brain, a rattle, a hum, making it difficult for me to understand what is going on. When was it not working? It was working fine the last time I checked.
‘I want you.’ The words slip out before I can catch them. Doesn’t he know how much I love him? How can he be saying we want different things? Where has this come from? Never have we discussed wanting different things. What does he even mean by wanting different things? We got married because we wanted each other. We gazed out in the same direction with similar goals and dreams in mind.
‘I want you too, but I think we need this break. Have some time to figure out if this is what we really want,’ Scott says. I feel like my mind is playing a trick on me. If he wants me then what is there to figure out? He’s talking to me with the same look he gives the Chinese menu when deciding what he wants; I want fried rice, but I want won ton soup too. But this is our marriage, it isn’t flavour of the week.
‘If you want me, Scott, then what is the problem? What is it that you need to take a break from?’ I ask. My brows are drawn and my lips are trembling at the weight of the questions. This is a conversation I never thought I would be having and it’s all happening too quickly for my body to know how to react.
‘You want kids. What happens if I don’t want kids?’ he says. He is flipping his phone around in his hands. He’s agitated, I can tell. He’s looking out of the window now and my instinct is telling me that he’s ready for this conversation to be over. Scott isn’t a huge talker and we’ve never had an argument that warranted a discussion lasting more than five minutes, mostly because it would just be me talking and Scott would get fed up. I would have to reduce myself to a few words, get them in quickly before Scott kissed me, then it would be make-up sex and we’d be good.
‘Do you not want kids, Scott?’ I ask, perplexed by his question. I’d never given thought to him not wanting kids because not once had he mentioned anything of the sort. Not once, not even one little hint had been given to me that would make me think my husband did not want kids someday. He joined in with conversations about what it would be like when we had our own children in the future. Heck, he had started conversations about when we would have them, what names he liked, what books he would read and games he would play with them.
I’m holding on to the back of a dining room chair to keep me upright. I want to sit down but there is a strange adrenaline keeping me standing. I want to fix this. Scott stays quiet, leaving my question lingering, like he doesn’t have an answer. My dad is a fixer, a manly man with a molten core. I can be emotional, but I know I can fix this; I can be strong.
‘Scott, if you’re worried about kids, we can talk about it. If you don’t want kids right this second, it’s OK. We can talk about having them when we’re both ready. If you never want them, then I’m not sure what to tell you, but you’re right: maybe you need to take some time to figure out whether it’s a never or just not right now situation,’ I say. My words come out surprisingly calm, in contrast to the fast and shooting pains I keep getting in my chest. But Scott does this to me. I want to please him, I know that much. I can compromise. I just need to assure him that I am here for him, whatever he is going through, I’ll stand by his side.
I look at my husband, at the man I love, and I know we can get through anything. I will be here for him, he will be here for me, it’s what we do, what we’ve always done.
Scott stands up, still looking out of the window and not at me. I keep my grip on the dining chair, afraid that if I let go, I might fall.
‘Why don’t we go and relax for the evening and watch some TV, or if you’d like we can make a pros and cons list for babies. We can even look over the baby name list we wrote, and you can cross off any you don’t like,’ I say, my lips quirking up into a small smile, trying to lighten the mood and think of a solution to the dilemma we’re facing. I don’t necessarily think it warrants a break in our marriage. I think something like this needs to be figured out together; having kids is a huge deal. I understand Scott is scared. I had been talking about it a lot more recently, but to say he doesn’t want them is a huge statement to make after six years of marriage. What has changed his mind? I’m struggling to stem my panic but am doing my best not to get hysterical and scare him even more.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve scared you with all the baby talk recently. I see you with your nieces and nephews and I guess I can’t help getting carried away. You’re really great with them, you know. And you always come up with the cutest baby names. But if you want me to lay off on the baby talk, I will do,’ I add, with a more confident smile. I release my hand from its death grip on the chair, wanting to go over to Scott and soothe him with a hug, but he isn’t looking at me and I want to give him the space he needs. My heart rate feels like it’s steadying. I can pocket the baby talk for a little while, if it’s what Scott wants. Besides Christmas is just around the corner, we both have work to do and I can distract myself with Christmas cheer and our office Christmas party.
‘I’m going to go and stay with Matt tonight, OK? It’ll be OK; I’ll figure it out,’ Scott says as he turns towards me. My heart rate picks up once more, faster than the speed of light. I gulp hard, reaching out for the chair before my knees buckle.
‘I don’t understand,’ I mumble, genuinely baffled by his response. I don’t want him to go. Don’t we need to talk about this together? A marriage is two people, having a baby requires two people; don’t I need to know what he’s thinking, where I stand in all this? The room feels cold and I can feel a drop of water from my wet hair trickle down my back, making me shiver.
‘Scott, do you not want to talk about this together? You don’t have to stay with Matt. If you don’t want to talk about babies anymore tonight, that’s fine too. Anything you want to do, that’s fine. I promise I can let it go, but you can still stay here.’ My voice sounds needy. I’m confused. I’m not supposed to be needy – society would scoff at me right now – but this is my husband. We have slept by each other’s side for the past eight years. My body trembles with fear. I don’t want him to go.
Scott walks past me towards the hall, stopping to give me a kiss on the forehead before he reaches the door. ‘No, it’s OK, babe. I’ll figure it out. I just need some time and we’ll be OK. I think this will be good for us and I’ve told Matt I’m coming now,’ Scott says, his voice somehow lighter. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
And he’s gone. The door closes behind him and I immediately drop into the chair. The tears that I have been holding in since I heard Scott utter the words ‘break from us’, come spilling out in heaves, splattering on to the red robin placemat my mum made for me a few Christmases ago, from a picture she took in her backyard in Colorado. The robin looks magical perched on the snowy branch of a pine tree. In the eight years Scott and I have been together he has never made me feel uncertain, unsure and unwanted, and right now I feel all those things.
Where was his fight? Why were we not having a discussion like a married couple should when a problem arises? How could he just walk out so easily? I have so many questions that remain unanswered, all while my mind is trying to comprehend how our romantic trip to Venice led to Scott wanting a break and not even being able to sleep in the same house as me. My blood runs cold at the thought; I feel disgusting.
Out in the hallway I can see the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree reflecting in the mirror. I can hear the slight murmur of the TV, which Scott must have switched on, announcing tonight’s Christmas movie on the Pegasus channel; reminding me of the fairy tales I helped write and how Christmas was one of the most romantic times of the year.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_738cd80b-3dbb-59b8-98be-e67948ecc742)
It looks like a Christmas bomb exploded in the hotel and I love it. Madi has gone to get us another drink and I’m stood by the eight-foot Christmas tree that is covered in so much tinsel and fake snow, I’m surprised it’s still standing. Everywhere I look there are trees and baubles and stars dangling from the chandeliers. It’s what Christmas grotto dreams are made of. I try and focus on all my favourite things and keep my mind from wandering to the shambles my current home life is in. Scott came home the other night after three days and it was like nothing had changed between us. The banter was lovely, the sex was passionate and hot until the minute it stopped, and I turned to ice when Scott insisted the break was working and it was what we needed. I haven’t heard from him in two days.
I’m swaying gently to the music – Michael Bublé’s ‘Let It Snow’, of course. It’s not really Christmas without Michael Bublé, is it? I soak up the words, trying to drown out my thoughts. The hotel is packed with people. I merrily smile and wave and chat to my co-workers. Suddenly I stop swaying and stand motionless in between the hustle and bustle. Through a gap in the clearing I can make out the back of his head. He is sitting at the bar chatting casually to a bunch of men in suits, colleagues I recognize from work events I had attended with him in the past. With Scott being in production, he attended events that didn’t always include writers like me, but mainly the directors and producers and all the behind-the-scenes staff from the movie sets.
That’s when it happens. I watch as a tall blonde approaches him. His face lights up, greeting the blonde with a smile. He places a hand on her hip and a delicate kiss on her lips. My stomach hits the floor with a vengeance making me wobble in my boots. I put my hand out to steady myself against the wall, feeling like a goldfish out of water. I can’t breathe. The air is not reaching my lungs.
I can’t let him see me like this, so weak, so pathetic. I try not to stare as I try to walk away, my legs not quite remembering how to do so as they shake with each step. Yet I can’t seem to pry my eyes away from the scene. She’s wearing a long gold sequined dress, half her luscious blonde hair pulled back with a few strands dangling around her beautiful face and her arms are resting on his shoulders, as she throws her head back and laughs at something he says.
I have to avert my eyes, but they won’t budge. All I can do is stare as I stagger for air, a space to breathe. Maybe if I stare long enough it will go away. Maybe the longer I stare the more used to it my brain will become. What’s that thing they say about spiders? The more you look at them and face them, the less scared you will become? Shoot, if it didn’t work for me with spiders, I sure as hell don’t think it is going to work now, because it seems the more I look, the more pain I feel.
I find a quiet corner, hidden by a gorgeous purple and silver Christmas tree, but I can still see him. I can still see her. My heart feels like it is about to burst through my rib cage, and I can’t calm my short gasping breaths. I feel stupid. For a moment I think I might be sick. What am I doing? I need to get out of here. Just then Madi finds me and panic fills her pretty blue eyes when she sees me. In that moment I see them out of the corner of my eye. They kiss, full-on kiss, and I am eternally grateful that my best friend chose now to find me. I feel like I’m about to pass out from the uncomfortable pain I feel in my heart.
I torture myself taking one last look at them before Madi grabs my wrist and pulls me out of there; away from the Christmas party that I look forward to every year.
*
I jolt as a piercing pain stabs my chest and I shoot upright. I’m in bed. My pillow is soaked, and my body drenched in sweat. I pat myself down, pinching myself, telling myself it was all a nightmare, when I turn to see Madi lying in my bed next to me.
‘Madi, what’s going on?’ I shout, the fear in my voice making tears fall fast and heavy down my face.
Madi stirs and blinks a few times, wiping her eyes before registering that I am awake and shouting at her. Her eyes suddenly dart open and she becomes alert, pulling me in for a hug.
‘It’s OK, sweetheart, it’s OK,’ she says softly, trying to soothe me. I don’t find any words, just more tears.
‘When is this going to stop, Madi?’ I whimper. It’s a week and a half until Christmas and it’s not the first time I have had this nightmare, which isn’t just a nightmare but my brain dredging up the events that took place last Christmas. My mind has re-enacted this scene over and over for the past twelve months, but since the countdown for the twenty-fifth of December began on the first of December, it has become the gift that keeps on giving every single night – hence Madi’s presence. I feel drained and completely spent, lying on my bed having exerted no physical energy whatsoever. I try to rake my hand through my locks, but I’m sat on most of my hair which makes it difficult. Instead, I wipe at my tired eyes, causing the delicate skin around them to sting as I do so.
Madi retrieves a brush from the bedside table and slowly and tenderly starts brushing my hair. ‘Harper, I’m your best friend and you know how much I love you. I value your feelings and respect every emotion you have gone through and you know I’d never rush you, but baby, enough is enough now. You can’t do this to yourself any longer. I can’t allow it.’ She pushes my arm gently so she can tug my hair from under me and brush out the knots. I glance around my bedroom, Scott’s and my bedroom, spot the overturned pictures and the occasional item of Scott’s, and I feel ashamed. Not much has changed, and Scott hasn’t lived here for a year.
‘You’ve barely left the house, you’ve been neglecting your parents, your work is suffering, Harp. If your recent lines hadn’t been such bloody brilliant pieces of writing and transformed those horror scripts, Lara would probably have fired you by now – but you’re a romance writer, Harp. We’re romance writers and I miss bouncing ideas back and forth. Come on, you need to get out of this house and file for divorce so you can move on with your life,’ Madi says boldly. She’s right. I know she is and I’m not mad at her honesty. I’ve never appreciated it more.
‘Why don’t you go and have a hot shower and I’ll make us some breakfast,’ Madi says, holding my face and looking me in the eyes. Her own are filled with tears and concern. I nod, but when she leaves the room the softness and safety of my blanket has me sinking back under the covers. My eyes are heavy and I no longer have the will to keep them open.
*
I take a breath in, torn and terrified. My finger hovers above the enter key on the laptop that is open on the desk in front of me. This isn’t me. I don’t do things like this. I don’t snoop on my husband or invade his personal space. I’ve never had any reason to before, but that all changed last night after seeing him at the Christmas party. He’s given me reason.
‘Are you sure?’ Madi whispers from behind me. My office is cold, reflecting how I feel inside. My hands tremble. No, I’m not sure, I’m not sure at all, but that doesn’t change what I feel I have to do.
‘Madi, it’s been a little over a week since Scott walked away so casually out of my life, with nothing but a vague explanation and a promise that he would be back, that we would be OK, that he just needed some space. He chooses to speak to me when it suits him, popped in for sex when he fancied, all while not caring how much that affects me mentally. He texts me like I’m some old friend. Yet he cannot seem to find the time to give me answers as to what all this is about. He has watched me cry, he has listened to me fight for him all while shrugging his shoulders in response. And to top it all off, he doesn’t think twice about kissing another woman at the Christmas party.’ I pause. I don’t quite know who I am talking about now. It all feels so absurd.
‘Christmas Day is only a few days away, I need answers, Madi. I need to know if he’s coming home for good. I need to know who she is. And if he doesn’t think I’m worthy of any, I must find them myself,’ I say softly. I am already spent and I haven’t even logged in yet. I don’t think I have ever been more nervous in my life.
‘OK,’ Madi says gently, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘Please know I love you and that I am here for you.’ Then she goes and sits on the black leather couch, her fingers twisting around her hoop earrings anxiously.
Before I can chicken out and allow my brain to manifest more evil thoughts, I press enter on my husband’s email account. At least I will know for sure what’s been going on and I won’t have to torture myself with guessing.
Nothing jumps out at me straight away, no woman’s name I don’t recognize. Then I see it. An email to his friend Matt, with the subject line: What am I going to do?
I gulp and, with a shaky hand, click on the email and watch the conversation fill the page. Words and sentences begin slapping me in the face, hard. ‘We talk every night and every morning.’ ‘We’re practically girlfriend and boyfriend.’ ‘Harper is stressing about kids.’ ‘No kids.’ ‘I get jealous when other guys go near her.’ ‘I love her.’ And that last sentence just about does me in. I fly out of my chair, sick rising in my throat. It takes all I have not to throw my laptop across the room and smash it to pieces. I can’t look anymore. I feel like there is a monster inside of me; it terrifies me. I can’t control it. I don’t want this anger inside me and I’m mad at myself for allowing it in. But all my mother’s words of wisdom, her soothing mantras, are not speaking to me right now.
My soul mate, my world, it all sounds so childlike now – my person … there can be no such thing. I almost laugh despite the hot tears burning my cheeks. My husband is in love with someone else and has been for months and I had no idea. I can’t make out from the messages how long he has been seeing her, how long he has been sleeping with her, but it was long before he brought up taking a break. The email dated back months before Venice.
Our marriage is over for him, and he forgot to tell me. Instead. he’s led me to believe he’s just having some breathing room, getting out of the house for a bit, staying with the boys a while before we got serious about kids, all like it was no big deal, like he’ll be back. He even texted only a few days ago that I was being silly when I asked him if he wanted a divorce, like it wasn’t that serious. He laughed it off like I was the mad one, like everything he was doing was normal. He didn’t want a divorce, he wasn’t seeing other people, we would be OK, he loved me; all just lies he was spinning.
*
My head is throbbing, I am dripping with cold sweat and someone is rubbing my forehead. There’s a distinct smell of crispy bacon in the air. I force my eyes open, but it takes a few attempts before I can blink anything into a clear view.
Madi places the breakfast tray on the floor and scoots up next to me on the bed.
‘Harp, we’re not spending this Christmas here, OK? We’re going home,’ she says, assertively moving tendrils of hair out of my face. I am aware of the state I am in, what I must look like shrivelled up under the covers again. I have lost all sense of who I am. All I know is that I am a mess and very much on my way to repeating the events of last Christmas – cocooned in my bed, shutting out the world while Madi tries with all her might to spread some Christmas cheer with gifts and mince pies, with mild success. The whole world knows Scott had an affair. It’s been twelve whole months. It’s done, it’s in the past. I need to move on.
‘But this is home,’ I mutter, wrapping my arm around her waist for comfort.
‘Yes, it is, but I mean home, home; to your mum and dad’s house. It might not be in London, but wherever your mum and dad are, that’s home. We’re going to Colorado.’
Chapter 2 (#ulink_9f1b15da-2e56-5bc5-900a-13e50fd5b7e3)
Madi’s living room smells like cinnamon and pine. Candles flicker from every surface. With the help of Madi’s famous hot chocolate and bacon butty combo, I’m starting to get into the Christmas spirit. It’s been a few days since the nightmares have haunted my brain and for that I’m grateful. I’m not sure whether to thank the amount of Baileys Madi sneaks into my hot chocolate or the back-to-back episodes of Chuck that she’s been playing late into the evening every night before bed this past week. It’s difficult to have nightmares when my mind is otherwise preoccupied by when Chuck and Sarah will get together and if I could one day write a script anywhere near as incredible as this show. Still, Chuck and Sarah’s love is not enough to get me in the mood for the work Christmas party this year; instead, Madi and I have booked our flights for Colorado. We leave in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
I haven’t been to visit my parents in Breckenridge in two years. If I’m honest I didn’t take the news of my parents moving away very well at all. Spending time with them has always been one of my favourite things, so I was mad at them for moving and I don’t think I have fully let go of my grudge. Though Scott got on well with his family he was much more independent and encouraged me to be the same. His family live in Greece and he had adjusted to that just fine. I felt I had to be a grown-up and be more like him. But I miss my parents every single day; I just never admitted that to Scott.
Madi on the other hand could see right through me. Trying to keep up the bravado this past year has been difficult to say the least. My parents had talked about coming over to London to be with me, but I pushed them away, telling them I was fine. In my darkest moments I didn’t feel I deserved the sympathy. Madi was right the other night. Scott having an affair has taken over my life for a year – I can’t go on like this. I need to get my life back on track. I look at the clock on the wall and realize I should hurry. I feel a pang of longing and a nervous anticipation that I will get to see Mum and Dad soon, but I must nip back to my house to pack first.
As I walk past the twinkling lights that wrap around Madi’s stairs, I feel a small thrill of excitement thinking about my parents’ house. If you thought Madi and I loved Christmas, well, my mum is a force unto herself. You can’t move an inch in her house without tripping over a nutcracker. I can’t imagine what their house in Colorado will look like with the backdrop of snowy mountain tops and log cabins. A big grin takes over my features and I welcome the burst of joy I feel in the pit of my stomach.
Back at my house I’m going through my wardrobe grabbing every knit and woolly jumper I own to throw in my suitcase. I’m doing my best to stop my eyes from lingering too long on Scott’s belongings. The only time I have heard from him this past year is when he has texted wanting to pick up some clothes or items. I would then make sure I was at Madi’s so I wouldn’t have to speak to him while he collected his things. There’s still a fair bit here though and I have no idea what to do with it all.
That day I found the emails, I’d called him up on the phone, my whole body tense, straining to keep up with the speed my heart was racing. Scott had told me that his relationship was none of my business, that I was being too emotional and that it wasn’t all his fault. There was no apology, remorse or answers. When I had cried and pushed for more, he’d angrily, and with an irritated inflection in his tone, told me that he had been seeing his apparent girlfriend since February, before hanging up. He had been having an affair for eleven months and I hadn’t even realized. What could I possibly say to him?
Twelve months on and I still feel raw. The house does nothing to curb my state of emptiness; it simply exaggerates it. Even averting my eyes from the framed photos of us as a happy couple doesn’t stop me from feeling the pain. Being in the house without Scott, I can feel it – that loss, that numbness in my bones. I shiver, pleading with the voice in my head to let me get on with packing without torturing me with what the house once was. I don’t want to think about the lazy Sunday mornings we spent curled up in that bed, me watching ‘This Is Us’, Scott playing games on his phone next to me, in no rush to be anywhere, content in each other’s company. He’d been the only person I wanted to be snuggled up under the blankets with.
I hastily grab my glittery red Christmas jumper and stuff it in my suitcase. My eyes are getting a little cloudy. I’m blinking frantically to stop the inevitable, as I snap shut my suitcase and march out of the bedroom. Between the noise in my head and my banging the suitcase against every rail on my way down the stairs I don’t hear the voices that are outside the front door until it’s too late to hide.
All I see are feet – two pairs of feet – as they step into the house. I really, really, don’t want to look up.
‘Harper, I just came to grab a few things.’ I hear his voice, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. He usually texts first. He can’t just turn up like this, unexpected.
‘And you thought it would be a good idea to bring her with you, to see our home, our happy home, the one you and she destroyed?’ I want to scream those words to him, but my mouth is dry, and nothing leaves my lips. Has she been in our house before? The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.
I can feel his eyes burning into the top of my head. It sends a chill down my spine and it feels so alien. I have known this man for nine years, but in this moment, he feels like a complete stranger, like I’ve never met him before in my life.
‘You brought her here?’ I finally mumble, hating that my words come out so small. I look up. She is standing in the hallway looking around at our belongings. I don’t know her, I can’t say she is a bad person, but I don’t see empathy in her eyes. Her features are harsh, her lips pressed into a slight pout. She looks at me with a face that reads she is bored of the predicament she has found herself in and if I would just get out of the way that would be grand.
I hold on to the banister with my suitcase-free hand to avoid humiliating myself should my knees give way and I go crashing down the stairs. I grip the banister tighter – not going to let that happen, I feel stupid enough as it is. Scott looks well and their relationship is clearly flourishing; I can’t show him how far I have fallen.
Scott sighs and turns to hand her the keys to our front door. ‘Look, I’m not doing this now, Harper. It’s not about her. She’s none of your business. I just want to get my stuff. Speaking of which, we need to sell the house. Please don’t play innocent in all this; it has both our names on it. I’m paying for a house I’m not living in.’
Any trepidation I had before about going to Colorado and being so far away from Scott if he needed anything, if he needed to talk, is gone. I pause as I place my hand on the doorknob. I’m not sure why; maybe I feel for a brief moment that he is going to call my name, to apologize for the hurt that he has caused me, to maybe tell me that this is just a quarter-life crisis but we can work through it – just something that would make me feel like the eight years of my life spent loving him have not been a total waste of time, or worse still that in all that time he never truly loved me. I twist the knob. He doesn’t call my name, he doesn’t stop me, but before I close the door behind me, I look back at the man I once loved and take a huge breath in. ‘I would like a divorce,’ I say with all the confidence I can muster, then step into the freezing London afternoon, closing the door behind me as though I’m closing a book at the end of a chapter.
With the ice in the air, the tears are falling down my face, stinging my skin as the frosty nip meets them. Then the tears truly come pouring out. The fight in me has gone, yet my body does not feel deflated or weak. There’s adrenaline coursing through my veins, something that I haven’t felt in a long time. It takes me a minute to register that the tears that are falling are not the same tears as before. I gasp, touching the water on my face. They are happy tears.
The exhausting, draining fight for Scott that I have been clinging on to has been replaced by a new fight. With those five little words ‘I would like a divorce’, I feel the weight that has been dragging me down over the last twelve months has lifted. I’m not fighting for Scott anymore. I’m fighting for me.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_fc8f126f-d66c-5bc4-b4fe-9b8f3b598470)
‘Switch it off,’ Madi says in a stern voice. I’m trying as quick as I can to read the email from Lara, my boss, while Madi is breathing down my neck and mumbling about how mobile phones and Wi-Fi connections can affect take-off.
‘You were telling me the other day about how I’ve let my work suffer. This is work. I need to read this,’ I say, shifting in my seat anxiously as I glance at an air stewardess looking my way. I make out the words ‘original script’, ‘deadline’, ‘sorry to do this to you before the holidays’ and ‘last shot for the romance department’ before I hear a polite clearing of the throat from a shadow looming over me. I look up and smile innocently. It’s not like we’ve moved on to the runway yet. I’m not exactly one for breaking rules; I will turn it off.
‘It’s Christmas, babe, didn’t you get all your work done before the break?’ Madi asks, offering me a chocolate button as the plane rumbles to life.
I squint, looking past Madi and out of the tiny aeroplane window, thinking over my to-do list. Though I can’t promise any of it was my best work due to my silly funk, I got all my edits and rewrites sent back in time for the Christmas break. I’m sure of it. Madi pops another chocolate button into her mouth as the plane starts moving towards the runway and I try not to panic over how badly I have let my life fall apart. I am normally more organized than this and remember work I have and have not done.
I absent-mindedly draw another button out of the bag, watching as Gatwick airport recedes into the background. I chew on the delicious chocolate morsel, preparing to keep my ears from popping painfully when it hits me.
I avert my eyes back to the top of the email, as my stomach begins to dance with nerves of excitement as the words start to make sense. I focus on reading in complete sentences, so I don’t get muddled up or mistaken.
‘Harper, I’m sticking out my neck here and putting your script forward. Out of all the submissions I received there are elements of yours I want to explore and keep going back to. You can’t let me down with this one, Harper. I need your best work. I need it submitted no later than Christmas Eve before it gets looked over by the Pegasus production team. Best, Lara.’
There is a small cough to the left of me and when I look up, I receive another pointed glare from the air stewardess. Nodding my understanding, I switch my phone off and stow it away in my backpack under my chair, a flush of red in my cheeks when I hear Madi’s teasing tut as I do so.
‘My script, Mads. It’s my original script.’ I gasp, ignoring her mock scolding. ‘Remember when, gosh it was ages ago now, when they had open submissions for original scripts and Lara let me enter one of mine?’ Madi sits up straighter in her aeroplane seat, munching on the chocolate buttons as though they are popcorn, her perfectly winged eyeliner making her beautiful blue eyes wide, but they are further accentuated by the excitement behind them as I speak.
‘She’s chosen my script to be sent for production, but she needs it edited and tweaked no later than Christmas Eve.’ I gulp, my words fading as I reach the end of my announcement. I lean back in my seat. I can’t remember the last time I looked at that script. It will take me weeks to connect with the characters, go over the plot and the actions and oh gosh, all that smushy romance stuff; how on earth am I supposed to edit it in six days and stomach all that fluff? Editing other people’s scripts over the past year has been hard enough; actually editing my own romantic thoughts, well, I’m not sure I’ve got it in me, especially at this time of year.
‘This is amazing, Harp. I’m so proud of you. She obviously believes it’s going to be picked up for production and sees its potential if she’s asking you for a finer cut. You’ve got this,’ Madi notes, stuffing a chocolate button between my pursed lips. I let the chocolate melt on my tongue as I try and steady my breathing. My confidence upped and left me right around the time that Scott did and just like my husband, it hadn’t returned. Twelve months of doubting myself as a wife, a lover, a friend and – worse still – a writer, has sabotaged one of the things I adore more than anything: my job.
I love smushy fluff. I was born to write smushy fluff. Love is my thing. So what if last Christmas my husband ran away with another women and left me without looking back? It doesn’t matter that I’m currently on the cusp of a divorce and have spent the last year in a gloomy dark hole writing scenes that better fit a horror movie. My job is on the line and therefore I can totally remember what love feels like and write the best, mushiest, gushiest, romance movie the world has ever seen, or something like that, can’t I?
Fighting the aeroplane’s pull to have me sitting up straight in my chair as it lifts into the air, soaring at a steep angle, I lean forward against the force and ruffle through my backpack. It’s rare I go anywhere without my backpack and my collection of notebooks and scrap pieces of paper. Without a shadow of doubt, I know my original script will be tucked into the back of one of my folders or pads. I like to print everything I’m working on so I can edit it away from my computer screen. Picking up a pen can bring on a whole new perspective and often sends waves of inspiration through me. I’m praying in this case it will do just that.
My fingers graze over a thick stack of paper bound together with a paperclip. I pull it from my bag as the plane levels out.
‘Got it,’ I whisper, pulling down the tray table and getting myself situated. Madi is watching me with a smile tugging at her plump red lips.
‘What?’ I say softly, a smile curving up on my own.
‘She’s still in there,’ answers Madi, scrunching up the chocolate button packet. How many of those had I had? Returning my attention to my pencil case, I beam at Madi’s words. She’s right. I have dreamt of this day since I was a little girl: the chance to write scripts and have them made into real-life movies. Working for Pegasus is certainly the right place to live out my dream and I have been a part of so many wonderful projects, but this is the first time in five years that my own original script is being considered for a starring role. There’s a flutter of the old me stirring inside me, a burst of childlike glee showing through the smile that has replaced my initial fear. I can do this. I can’t screw this up.
*
I am wrapped up in my olive-green and grey wool cardigan, with thermals underneath my black leggings, long cream fluffy socks peeking over the top of my brown Ugg like boots, two layers of cotton vests and an oversized jumper, and I’m still not prepared for the frosty nip that slices through my bones the minute we leave the airport.
I’m not the only one taken off guard by the deep freeze of Breckenridge, Colorado in the middle of winter. Madi – in her long red pencil skirt with thermal tights and giant brown teddy coat – is shivering; I can practically hear her teeth chattering. Although the temperature is below freezing, I am sweating through my wool and my stomach feels like it’s full of hyperactive jumping beans, as I search the line of cars pulled up in arrivals for my parents’ faces. I can’t wait to see them.
I force my frozen eyelids to blink in an attempt to see through the icy wind, when I see my mum frantically waving her arms like she is performing the YMCA, five cars away. She’s wearing a smile that could give the Northern Lights a run for their money and it’s like the pain of the last twelve months slowly dissolves. I can’t help the tug of comfort that pulls at my heartstrings at the sight of her. I remind myself that it will not fare me well to cry if I ever want to open my eyes again, but oh how I’ve missed her.
Madi notices my mum too and is rushing over before I can pick up my suitcase. Her skirt swishes past me and I watch her embrace both my parents. My shoulders release some of the tension they have been carrying over the past few weeks as I watch the scene play out.
I’m being careful not to slip on any black ice as I navigate the snowy path to greet Mum and Dad, who I haven’t seen in two years. The minute I am at arm’s length my mother is grabbing me and kissing my cheeks.
‘My darling, look at you,’ she exclaims with her hands around my face, looking over my features, and then she is kissing me some more. My dad is hanging back. I manage to glance his way and he offers me a lazy wink and shrugs his shoulders. This is typical of my dad, never rushing my mum, standing back and admiring her while she does her thing. In my brain there is a catalogue of adoring looks that my dad has sent my mum’s way throughout my life, some when my mum was returning his gaze and others where he would simply pause for a moment just to drink her in. It’s no wonder I became a romantic screenplay writer.
My mum finally releases me and starts fussing over getting Madi in the car. Madi is smiling, her teeth still chattering away. I don’t even mind the cold and I love snow, but today it is a complete shock to the system. I’d take a little London drizzle over my lips turning blue any day.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and standing on my tiptoes to do so. He is far more accustomed to the Colorado weather having lived here for the past six years. He and my mum decided they wanted to get away from the fast-paced London lifestyle; they wanted somewhere more peaceful, where they could get back to their roots and enjoy the outdoors. I was never indoors as a kid. We were often out in the wilderness or enjoying the parks as a family and I loved every minute of it. Sometime during University it became less of a priority.
My dad’s greying hair is longer these days. He is sporting a five o’clock shadow and the softest red and black flannel parka I have ever felt. He instantly warms me with his hug. ‘Hi, kid, it’s good to see you,’ he says, and I can’t tell if it’s the cold that’s causing his eyes to water or he has real tears in his eyes. Whatever it is, I hug him tighter, feeling that pent-up stress in my shoulders relax once more. I don’t have time to open up and tell him I’ve missed him as Madi is pulling at my jacket and tugging me into the car.
‘Hot chocolate and a cosy fireplace are calling my name,’ she says from inside the car.
I sigh and pull away from my dad’s bear hug. ‘I love you, Dad,’ I manage and hope that in those four words he knows that I have missed him and thought about him every day in my two-year absence.
‘I love you too, kiddo. Now come on, let’s get you home.’ He kisses my forehead and makes his way around the car to the driver’s seat as I dive into the back seat next to Madi. I shiver as the warmth of the car hits me.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed my parents, how much their presence comforts me. Or more honestly, I did realize it but have been pushing my needs and wants to the wayside, worried that needing parents was not what adults did. Scott has been coping without his; I wanted to be able to handle it too. But with all the madness of the past year, the anxiety over trying to be an adult is the least of my worries. My eyelids grow heavy as an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion washes over me, mixed with the feeling of being completely content and safe in the company of those in the car. I place my head back against the headrest and stare out the window as the car begins to move.
The last time I was here, sometime late February two years ago, Scott had been with me, watching movies by the fireplace and enjoying candlelit dinners under the stars like something right out of a rom-com. It had, in fact, ended up in one of my rom-coms. The snowy setting, the cuddling to keep each other warm – it had all been perfect.
I can hear his laughter in my head, thinking back to that day when I was jumping up and down on the spot pleading for his help to unzip my snowsuit, so I could use the bathroom. I had been sledding all morning with my parents and by the time we got down the slopes and back to our cabin I was desperate. He had found it hilarious, my face a panic-stricken picture, but he said I looked cute in my frazzled state, teasing me for what had felt like forever before he kissed me softly on the lips and helped me get out of my suit. When I got back from the bathroom feeling relieved and a lot less moody, he had made us hot chocolate and got the fire going in our room.
What am I doing veering down memory lane? I scold myself as I wipe the sniffles from my nose with my woolly sleeve. That person is gone now. I’m here with Madi and my parents and I want to enjoy every minute of this Christmas to make up for the last one; the one that he left in tatters. I’ve been a mere shell of myself for twelve whole months.
Outside of the car the pine trees whizz by in a blur. The sky is a beautiful clear piercing blue and I am momentarily mesmerized by its calmness. I can’t miss this. I won’t let life simply pass me by or have Scott take up any more of my brain.
I feel Madi grab my hand and squeeze it tight. We always spend Christmas together. Even after Scott and I got married, Madi was always a fixture on Christmas Day along with the mince pies with brandy sauce and the pantomime on the telly. I haven’t had a Christmas without Madi since we were ten. It suited her parents for us to have her; it saved them the hassle of an excitable child harping on about Santa Claus.
Madi’s parents attempted the parent thing but I don’t believe they quite got what they were after. If they could have flicked through a child catalogue, they would have gone for something simple: quiet, elegant, girly, a yes-girl who did whatever they asked and never ever put a foot out of line and never had her neat tied-up-with-a-bow hair out of place. What they got was a bold, adventurous, colourful, cheeky and curious child they had no clue what to do with.
‘It’s so good to be here,’ Madi pipes up. ‘Harper and I have more than enough time on our hands to enjoy all the Christmas festivities, after Harper finishes her script that is,’ she adds, giving me an encouraging glare. ‘We haven’t missed the Santa race, have we?’ Madi asks about my mum’s favourite holiday tradition: the Breckenridge Race of the Santas. You would think my mum has lived in Breckenridge all her life with how much she dotes on the place. She and my dad fit in seemingly as soon as they moved here, and I’ve never seen them happier. The whole town comes together to raise money for a charity each year and it is quite the spectacle to witness thousands of Santas running, jogging and walking down the main street of Breckenridge. Mum was quick to lend a helping hand and runs her own tea and cookie station for the Santas as they pass. She gets a thrill out of it and starts baking cookies in the middle of November to prepare.
‘Oh, honey, I’m afraid you missed it. You’ll have to come a little earlier next year if you want to be a part of it. Let me know and I can register you for the race or you can help me at the station,’ my mum says chirpily, already getting ahead of herself and planning next year. My stomach does a triple backflip at the thought of next year, next Christmas. What will I be doing then?
There is a gentle snow flurry falling outside now and in between the giant pine trees are little cabins that look like gingerbread houses. Honest to goodness, my eyes dart around in search of Hansel and Gretel. The multi-coloured lights that twinkle from the rooftops look like jelly tots. The dustings of snow settled on the window ledges could be icing sugar and the blow-up Santas and gingerbread men look like, well, Santa and gingerbread men, but they could almost be edible, made from cookie dough as they sparkle in the distance. I like where my mum and dad live. I had enjoyed my previous visit and understood why they wanted to move to a town that was home to less than five thousand people and had all the outdoor activities that two hippies would ever need, but this was something else.
I feel like I’m in another world as we pull up to my mum and dad’s log cabin that they call home. I almost don’t recognize it, it is covered in so many Christmas lights. There’s even a giant Santa outside wearing sunglasses and a tie-dyed T-shirt. I’m pretty sure my dad had something to do with that one.
The place could be a backdrop for a holiday movie and my mind is starting to whirl with ideas that make my newly appointed task of editing my own original script seem less daunting – which I need considering my inspiration on the plane lasted all of two pages before I resorted to watching comedy movies with Madi. The mush got too much and the only person my brain thought to derive inspiration from was Scott. Needless to say, he didn’t scream joy to the world or happily ever after. I’m hoping my mum and dad’s place will. Madi jumps out of the car behind me as I am staring open-mouthed at my parents’ Christmas grotto. She hugs me from behind.
‘I can see it now,’ she says. ‘Next Christmas on the Pegasus channel, prepare for a Very Hippie Holiday.’ Madi chuckles. She’s gesturing with her arms as though the words are in front of her. ‘I love it.,’ she adds.
‘Me too,’ I say a little breathlessly. And I really do. I admit that I’ve been terrified to spend Christmas with my parents. Normally, their off-the-beaten-path natures and positive energy is contagious and leaves me feeling beyond blessed to call them my parents, but with everything I have been going through with Scott and work, I hadn’t quite felt up to entering the land of the free spirit and ‘love is all you need’. However, standing here in front of my parents’ house, that love – their love – is suddenly making me feel a whole lot stronger and more myself than I have felt in a long time.
‘Come on, honeybee, let’s get you something warm,’ my mum shouts from the wraparound deck. Suddenly, the nerves I felt about next Christmas and looking into the future at the Christmases after that don’t seem so prominent or scary. In fact, the idea that I have no idea of what the future holds tickles me with excitement over the possibilities. I smile up at Mum and nod at the Santa Claus that’s flashing up a peace sign as I walk towards the house. I need to find some of that peace within myself and trust what the universe is offering me. I think I’ve come to just the right place.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_70d2cf2f-2753-50e5-b66f-94a586a0bb6c)
I can hear the low hum of The Grateful Dead playing through the house as I stretch out my legs in my bed, enjoying the soft caress of the blue velvety blanket between my toes. I feel like I’ve gone back in time to when I was sixteen years old, to when it was the norm to wake up to the voices of Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan. I smile at the memories of relaxing with my dad on a Sunday, listening to his music and learning about the bands he grew up with. I miss the days where arguing with him over which Grateful Dead song was their hidden gem was my only care in the world. Ahh the voice of Jerry Garcia could soothe anyone’s soul.
Except I’m not in my teenage bedroom. I’m in a large room with wooden beams and flower garlands draped around a stunning log fireplace. There are potted tall green plants either side of the double king-size bed and black and white photographs of mountains and trees hung up on the log walls. It’s gorgeous. Through the sheer navy and gold star print curtains I can see that it is snowing and my heart flutters back to my sixteen-year-old self once more. Why Scott had insisted we stay in a hotel when we visited my parents escapes me; this room is a dream.
Maybe I could go back in time for the day, before I became an adult, before I met Scott, to when it was just me, my parents and Madi. The Grateful Dead was already playing. I could search out my dad and finish where we left off fifteen years ago in our Grateful Dead debate and spend the rest of the day frolicking in the snow. I am just about to make good on my plan when Madi bursts into my room carrying a tray of something that smells incredible, and my laptop bag. My stomach simultaneously growls in excitement and drops with dread.
‘Right, this should be enough French toast and coffee to keep you fuelled and strong. You will not leave this bedroom until that manuscript is polished and sent and then the festivities can get underway,’ Madi announces, placing the tray and my laptop bag on my bed.
I slowly start to sit up and tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears. I feel like the princess from The Princess and the Pea in this giant bed. I want to protest but Madi moves closer. I am now sitting upright, and I see the giant stack of French toast with what can only be my mum’s diary-free whipped cream, fresh berries and agave syrup. I don’t want to say anything that will jeopardize Madi putting it in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile as Madi sets the tray on the bed in front of me, trying to make sure nothing spills.
‘I know you have a lot going on, but once this script is sent, we can see what Breckenridge has to offer in terms of festive fun and make our own traditions,’ Madi says, moving away from the tray, satisfied that it isn’t going to topple over and spill its contents. I begin to pour myself a cup of coffee from the cafetière when Madi kisses me on the head. ‘Harper Hayes, work your magic and get it done,’ she adds, dropping another kiss on my forehead and turning to leave. Though I’m not technically divorced yet, Madi has recently reverted to calling me by my maiden name and it makes me feel a little more like I’m taking charge and in control.
I take a sip of coffee and smile as the smooth flavour hits my taste buds. Guilt washes over me when I take in Madi’s excitement for being here and her desire to take in as much holiday fun as we can. She didn’t exactly have a Holly Jolly Holiday last year, what with being cooped up with me and trying to mend the pieces of my broken heart. She’d never hold that against me, but I can’t put her through the same thing this year. ‘Thank you, Mads, and thank you for being here,’ I manage. Madi stops walking and turns to face me.
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,’ she says before sauntering out the door in her pink and white polka dot dress that she has layered with a long-sleeved grey top. Talking about going back in time, Madi wouldn’t be out of place in the Fifties. She embodies the word pin-up. She is sexy mixed with elegance and modesty and absolute perfection in my eyes.
We draw quite the eye whenever we venture out of our writing caves and brave the real world, together. Madi in her bright colours, bleach blonde hair, kitten heels and tattoos occasionally on show and me with my Rapunzel locks and a hippie dress sense that I never grew out of. I had flowers in my eyes as a kid and wanted to wear everything my mum wore. The long skirts, wool cardigans and lace everything. I adore lace. Just like when I was a kid, everything is either oversized or cropped and the more lace the better.
I prop up some pillows behind me and polish off two slices of French toast dripping with agave syrup, before I switch on my laptop.
I can do this, I say to myself. I can polish up and edit this script. The characters are in love; I know what it’s like to be in love. I sigh and take another huge bite of French toast, making sure to cover it in whipped cream.
Jerry Garcia croons through my dad’s old stereo. The lyrics from ‘Sugar Magnolia’ reach my eardrums. I smile. That would also be the name of my mum and dad’s shop. They sell organic and natural, homemade, well, everything really, straight from their workshop. Soaps, candles, teas and baked goods; all beautiful and delicious. I can’t wait to test out their new products while I’m here. That was my most favourite job growing up.
I close my eyes, savouring the sweet flavours lingering on my tongue. I push any negative thoughts away and allow the happy memories to take over my brain, trying to envision Jerry Garcia singing the soulful melody to his love. Despite my not quite feeling the love myself, the music does make me feel more in tune with my creative self. I start typing.
It can’t be more than an hour later and I’m lying on the side of the bed, my hair dangling over the edge and I’m swishing it side to side, a part of me hoping that my mum dusted the floor before my arrival. I have been hit with a sudden surge of writer’s block.
My leading man is in a room with his ex. They are just talking when the ex makes her move, planting a kiss on his lips just as his fiancée walks in. I need the leading lady to believe it’s not what it seems, but I’m stuck. Why should she trust her fiancé?
I sit up, the blood rushing to my head not helping matters. Come on, back to work. I try to rally myself. Viewers want to be whisked away in this beautiful fairy tale. Who says fairy tales aren’t true? You must open your heart to love. Love is everywhere, and my job is to fill everyone’s heart with love. I choke on the sweet taste of syrup that is lingering on my tongue. I didn’t fill Scott’s heart with love. Now that is someone else’s job.
I push the laptop away at the unpleasant thought and climb out of the bed, tiptoeing to save my feet from the chilly wooden floorboards. I pick up a few logs from the wicker basket at the side of the fireplace and place them in the grate. With the matches I find on the mantel, I light the fire and sit cross-legged on the deep purple rug in front of it.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I don’t want to think about Scott and his girlfriend. I want the nightmares of seeing them kiss to go away. But why can’t my brain let go of him? I really need to finish this script. Lara has shown interest in my first original screenplay and has given me one more chance to prove myself as a romance writer; I can’t mess this up.
I take a deep breath in and watch as each log in the fireplace ignites. I get lost in the rising flames and fiddle with the fluff of the purple rug. Affairs aren’t exactly unheard of. It’s just that I never in a million years saw Scott as someone who could do that. I would have done anything to make him happy, to work on the problem, if he would have just let me in on it.
I brush my thumb over the tiny heart tattoo on my left wrist. I had gotten it shortly after Scott and I got back from our honeymoon, seven years ago now. I had been in a state of newlywed bliss and on the spur of the moment, while I was with Madi when she was getting the rose on her shoulder, I decided to get one to symbolize my love for Scott and to remind myself that when things got tough to never forget the love we had for each other. Now he has simply moved on with his life. I know I must do this too, but I can’t seem to find the switch inside me to flick it to ‘stop thinking about Scott’.
I return to my spot on the bed and nibble on a now cold, but still delicious, slice of French toast and pour myself a lukewarm coffee and get back to the task at hand.
*
By 7 p.m., I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my screenplay is not going to be finished today. I make my way into the living room where I am greeted with a glow from the orange and yellow flames that sway in the fireplace, the light glaring from the TV and the multi-coloured lights that flicker from the tree in a corner of the room.
My mum’s tree has always been beautiful, but out here against the rustic décor, the wooden ceiling beams and stone fireplace the lights, the flower ornaments and homemade wooden Santas and sleighs are something else.
Madi is curled up under a turquoise throw on one side of the L-shaped couch and my parents are snuggled up together on the other side. I make myself known and sit down near Madi, so I can pinch some of her blanket.
‘What are we watching?’ I ask, as my mum gets up and walks into the open kitchen that’s part of the spacious living room area. Madi looks over at me.
‘Oh, just a Pegasus Christmas classic that had a bunch of input from an incredible writer I know,’ Madi answers, giving me a wink and pulling her long legs towards her so that I can get more of the blanket.
‘It’s one of yours then?’ I say, genuinely smiling and returning Madi a wink of my own.
‘So, did you get it finished?’ Madi asks, sitting up straighter. My dad looks over.
I stretch my arms above my head, loosening the knots in my neck, as my brain stumbles over the word ‘no.’ With all eyes on me a wave of panic swoops in, catching me off guard. Reluctant to disappoint Madi and wanting to get the festive fun underway, I have no control over the words that spill from my mouth next.
‘Yes, I did, I sent it all off too.’ Inside, I’m cringing. I’ve just lied to Madi, but I can’t bring myself to be the reason she doesn’t get to celebrate Christmas for the second year in a row.
‘Atta girl,’ Madi says, offering me a high five. I grin and clap my hand against hers. Madi’s eyes linger on mine a touch longer than needed and I quickly turn my attention to the TV, not wanting her to see the truth in my eyes.
‘That’s fantastic, sweetheart,’ Mum says, coming up behind us with her own concoction of mulled wine. It’s a blend of herbal teas, no alcohol needed, and I haven’t had it since my parents moved out here. The cinnamon hits my nostrils and I immediately sink back into the soft couch, momentarily allowing my worries to melt away with each warm sip. But with the Pegasus Entertainment adverts buzzing in the background, my moment of bliss is short-lived. Not only do I have to put my past aside to write the best screenplay of my career, I now have to figure out how to do it in three days without my best friend knowing.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_14903b9e-a445-5011-adbb-8d04e9ea9e6d)
The next day I make my way down to the kitchen with the hope that Madi might have decided to treat herself to a lie-in, so that I can grab some coffee and sneak in an hour or two of editing before she wakes. But the minute I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by my one and only, who informs me that my parents are out and that the day is ours for the taking. She’s wearing her signature turquoise headscarf and her blonde hair is pinned up in a bun, with mint Converse and a white tee under a thin strap denim playsuit. She looks perky and bright making me yearn for a dose of what I would really prefer right now: a day with my favourite person. All thoughts of writing dissipate.
In comparison to Madi, I haven’t parted with my oversized olive cardigan since we got off the plane, my hair is a tangled and knotted mess, and the black leggings I’m sporting could do with a wash. I have yet to put any make-up on my face. I stare at Madi’s bold pink lips and envy them a touch. I catch her looking me up and down and I can see her brain ticking. My ensemble represents my frazzled state. I can’t actually remember the last time I felt one hundred per cent myself, but looking at Madi I feel motivated to channel my usual vigour when it comes to choosing outfits every day.
I look up from my comforting mug of liquid gold in time to see Madi curiously give me a once-over, and then she smiles. I smile back, an idea coming to my mind.
‘Mads, will you do my make-up today?’ I ask, feeling a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. I love it when Madi does my make-up. If she wasn’t so brilliant at writing screenplays and if I didn’t love working with her so much, I’d suggest she become a make-up artist. Madi responds by shooting up off her chair, grabbing her mug of coffee and hooking my elbow.
‘Absolutely, Harp. It would be my pleasure. Then I thought we could go to the Handmade Holiday Market. Everywhere is within walking distance around here and Jerry was telling me whichever way we walk we will find something to do or see,’ she says, marching in the direction of my room, taking me with her.
The spark in my belly is now a full-on flame; warmth takes over my body. The Handmade Holiday Market sounds perfectly idyllic and wonderful. Madi knows me so well. Plus, looking through the glass double doors and the large windows that surround my parents’ house, I can’t hide the patter of excitement that awakens in my stomach when I see the high mounds of snow and forest that they look out on to. I can see why my parents love it here. The trees are magnificent, towering over the house with their thick trunks and spindly branches with deep green thistles and a coating of icing-sugar snow. You could get lost pointing out every intricate detail that made each one so unique despite their shared name. In fact, I am getting lost in them and momentarily forget that Madi is waiting for my response.
‘That sounds lovely, Mads; maybe I can pick up something for Mum and Dad,’ I say. It’s been ages since I got my parents anything truly thoughtful and the guilt hits my gut as I remember yet another gift card that I sent them in the post last year. Living so far away, it became the most practical option. It wasn’t like it was entirely thoughtless. I love gift cards and think they’re the perfect gift for people to treat themselves to something they ordinarily might not allow themselves to. I often used to get so busy at this time of year, what with Scott’s family living long-distance too and him having a brother and sister and nieces and nephews to accommodate, gift cards were the easiest options all round, even though I hate to admit it.
‘Ooh and we can find a cute brunch spot while we’re out too. I wonder if the markets are like back home.’ Madi cocks an eyebrow at me. We love finding local family-run cafés whenever we visit a new place. Even back in London we like to make it a fortnightly affair to visit a place we haven’t eaten at before and go for a coffee or have a change of scenery while we’re writing. And at Christmas, Nutella crepes from London’s Winter Wonderland are a must. The guilt is stacking up this morning as I think of all the things I have neglected and brushed to the wayside over the past year.
‘Brunch out sounds perfect,’ I say as we enter my room. I rummage through my suitcase and pull out knits, leggings and floaty dresses while Madi sees to collecting my make-up. In the bathroom I throw some water on my face and with one look at my hair, decide that I’ll let Madi see to it; she’s been brushing my hair since we were three and always manages to detangle it without causing me too much pain. I go to hang up my dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door when I hear the sound of Elton John’s ‘I’m Still Standing’.
For a moment I don’t know what to do. I haven’t listened to break-up songs, because it feels like I don’t deserve them. My fear over not being stronger since Scott left and the fact that I’ve allowed my situation to get me down, made me feel like a fraud. And forget about the sad ones – knowing I wasn’t the only one in Scott’s life, that I wasn’t enough? Well, those sad songs rendered me crushed and humiliated.
I pause at the bathroom door at the sound of Elton’s voice, mixed with the softer melodies of Madi’s voice, and catch her wielding a hairbrush, twirling around the room singing along. Without warning, laughter bursts out of me as I watch her swinging hips. The beat of the song reverberates off the walls. She spots me and throws me the can of hairspray. The chorus kicks in at the same time as my adrenaline takes over. Memories of dancing with my parents when I was a kid at all the festivals come flooding back, loosening my limbs. Gripping on to my make-believe microphone I join in Madi’s impromptu karaoke and let Elton’s words revive my spirit.
*
My dad was right. We’ve walked a stone’s throw from the house and are currently contemplating which direction to take. One way looks to be nothing but forest, the most glorious trees that made visions of Snow White dance in my brain; the animals that we might come across, the trees that told stories in their bark. To the left stands gingerbread house after gingerbread house. If we go that way, I feel we will be gone for days exploring every minute detail of each garland and decoration that adorned each house. The path straight ahead bears no immediate destination, just a road that gleams with slippery snow and ice. In the distance, through the misty fog, there is a faint outline of mountains.
The cold air hits my face and I wave my arms out to the sides of my puffer coat. I feel like I am the leading lady in one of my holiday rom-coms, the world in front of me for the taking. A choice awaits me. For a moment I feel a shot of adrenaline course through me. There is beauty everywhere I look, and I want to run in all the directions, but I don’t quite feel courageous enough and fear takes over the adrenaline abruptly. I look over to Madi, whose blue eyes are gazing somewhere far away. We tend to share the same dazed look when stories and plots are zipping through our minds. She’s grinning broadly with her hands on her hips. I try to dispel my fear to appreciate this moment with her and take it all in.
‘Which way?’ I shout. My lips are buried behind my woolly purple scarf.
‘I have no idea,’ Madi shouts back, then she takes my hand and laughs. ‘How about we take the path that looks to lead to the unknown? It seems like the more adventurous and dangerous option.’ She wiggles her eyebrows at me, then hooks her arm through mine as we begin to walk up the treacherous path straight ahead.
‘You forgot to add terrifying?’ I say, raising my eyebrows at her, catching the double meaning behind her choice of words: the unknown path and the adventure. I know that, good or bad, what lies before me is going to be an adventure. I grew up with parents who believed the universe had plans for us and that we just had to trust it. I just hadn’t accounted for those plans to include divorce and my heart feeling like it was in a million pieces.
Quite frankly, I am petrified of what is lurking in the unknown. But the less I think about that now, the better. I put one foot in front of the other and focus on the golden sun reflecting off the snow, causing rainbows to dance in the trodden-down snow that has turned to ice. If I don’t quite trust the universe yet, one thing I know is that I trust Madi. I follow her lead and we walk in a calm and comfortable silence for what I feel is coming up to a mile.
I’m taking in as much of the surroundings as I can, but my head is down much of the time as I shield my face from the frosty breeze and do my best not to fall.
When I do look up, I feel as though I have walked through a portal that has transported us to The North Pole. Then I remember how my mother described Main Street at this time of year. It is like London’s Winter Wonderland but the decorations, the atmosphere and the aromatic smells are multiplied by a thousand. The old-town-USA-style shops resemble nothing short of Santa’s grotto. Each one bears unique tinsel, ornaments and magical window displays. The streetlamps are wearing candy cane stripes and the further we walk into the square, the more stalls we see selling everything from homemade fudge and chocolates, to homemade soaps and jewellery. Off to one side they have a Santa station and right before my eyes …
‘Are those real reindeer?’ Madi gasps. Her mouth opens wide.
‘I’m going to say yes,’ I reply, unable to take my eyes off Santa’s pack animals. They are beautiful; their fur is shining as they make soft grunting sounds as the children put their palms out to feed them.
‘This place is amazing,’ Madi gushes as we begin to move again. I can sense Madi is walking towards the smell of whatever is floating up in the air that is making me drool. I can smell fried potatoes and tomatoes and hear sizzling coming from a giant pan. Then cinnamon hits me in a wave of sweet pleasure. I will be happy if the only decision I must make today is savoury or sweet or, more realistically, which to eat first.
The stalls are catching my gaze, but my stomach is following Madi, letting my brain know that food will be sourced and eaten first and then it can divulge in its creative need.
We find a stall that is serving pancakes and I can see Madi’s eyes bulge as she stops before it, her eyes wandering over the menu. I know full well that she wants to order everything. I surprise myself having already made my decision that I want the pancakes with fried peaches. They smell heavenly. I watch Madi and then turn my attention to the man behind the counter. I give him a small smile to apologize for the hold-up, but he seems happy to study Madi and give her all the time she needs. He has a kind face when he nods at me to acknowledge my smile. His hair is blonde, his eyes are hazel, and his features are warm. He returns to preparing food.
Madi’s thorough read of the menu is something I’m used to so patience isn’t a problem as I am enjoying observing the scenes around me. I am fascinated by people-watching and have been from a young age. My parents always had the most interesting people round to our house when I was growing up from doctors, to gardeners, to struggling artists and teachers. I loved watching them interact with one another. My parents welcome everyone. It’s not surprising really that I started writing stories and scripts in my head, imagining the exotic lives that these people led. But it was the love and passion that burned in the eyes of my parents and all those who visited that captivated me most, be it the love they had for each other or the love they had for their work and the world around them. It’s no wonder I became a fan of Pegasus Entertainment.
The man finishes serving a lady in front of us and then leans casually against the wooden wall frame. He catches me watching him and gives me a confident nod. Madi looks over at me and follows my line of vision to the man and chuckles.
‘I am so so sorry,’ she says, waving her hands around. ‘Sorry for holding you up, everything just sounds so good. Right, I know what I’m having,’ she says, standing tall and pushing her shoulders back. Her cheeks are flushed red from our cold walk and her red lips are glistening with the morning dew. She looks beautiful. I step forward and wrap my arms around her shoulders. I love Madi and I love her confidence.
‘No need for apologies, what can I get you …?’ The man sticks out his hand and raises his eyebrows, searching for our names. His cheeks are flushed pink and my heart tugs a little at his kindness.
‘I’m Madi and this is Harper,’ Madi says, reaching out to shake his hand.
‘I’m Colt, it’s nice to meet you both.’
‘It’s nice to meet you too Colt,’ Madi says. His eyes linger on the both of us for a few minutes and I wonder what’s going through his head. Our accents give away that we are tourists, but maybe he knows my parents? My mum and I sometimes get mistaken for sisters. The thought makes me smile.
Madi reaches up to grab my hands that are dangling from around her shoulders.
‘Please can we get pancakes and peaches for me and, Mads, what are you having?’
Madi orders her peach-stuffed waffles and Colt gets to work informing us that we can take a seat and he will bring out his creations once they are ready. Madi and I fall in step to find a table. I release my arms from around her neck but tuck an arm into hers as we walk.
We take a seat at a wooden table with little log benches; a heat lamp is standing tall to the side of us and I must admit that between Madi’s and my impromptu dance party earlier this morning, the Colorado air, Colt’s kindness and the smell of cinnamon peaches toasting, my fragile heart feels full. Currently my biggest concern is if Madi will let me try some of her waffles.
‘Colt is sweet,’ Madi expresses, rubbing her hands together. ‘Everything on the menu looks so good, we might have to come back later,’ she adds, excitement in her tone.
‘This place is magical,’ I say, looking around. I breathe in a lungful of the crisp air just as Colt appears and places two plates of incredible-looking – and smelling – dishes in front of us.
I thank him through a smile and give Madi a wide-eyed grin. It’s hard not to smile genuinely when you’re looking at a plate of bright orange peaches that are covered in sweet cinnamon syrup, alongside a stack of golden-brown pancakes drizzled in dark chocolate and a heavy helping of vanilla whipped cream. I think I love Colt.
The flavours hit my taste buds and I relax into each bite as it warms my body. My shoulders uncurl from around my neck where they were trying to keep the icy bite at bay, and I have to admit it’s monumentality difficult to be unhappy with a mouthful of all the combinations that make up my pancake dish.
There’s a long silence while Madi and I consume half of the contents on our plates, then without saying a word we each pick up our plate and hand it to the other, swapping dishes and digging in once more. We barely stop for breath. Not to be outdone by the pancakes, the waffles are out-of-this-world delicious.
Without warning on my last bite of waffle, my chewing starts to slow, my hands begin to tremble, and my eyes have gone misty.
I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness to be here in this setting with my best friend, but the love is suddenly mixing with a cocktail of unwelcome feelings inside of me. I don’t deserve this happiness. I don’t deserve this delicious food. I don’t deserve for Colt to smile at me – he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know the person I am.
‘Am I a nice person?’ The question comes out of my mouth before I have time to stop it. I can’t quite figure out the inner workings of my brain. One minute it’s happy, the next I feel like my soul is suffocating. When will the intensity of emotions that came with learning of Scott’s affair and him walking away in such an unpleasant fashion leave me alone?
I didn’t have the slightest clue that I wasn’t satisfying him. Images of me wrapping my arms around him when he came home after work, smothering him with kisses and giddily talking about our future together are playing in black and white. How could I have been so selfish? What kind of wife was I?
I swallow down my waffle. My salty tears mix with the sweet syrup on my lips. My whole body has stiffened except for my hands that are trembling.
I must look like a right sight to the shoppers milling about the square.
Madi puts down her knife and fork and leans over to me, grapping my wrists. I’m chewing and sobbing simultaneously.
‘Oh, no, no no, sweetheart,’ Madi says, dabbing at my face with a napkin. ‘Sweetheart, you have been my best friend since we were three. You know I tell you how it is. Harper, you are the nicest person. Do you drive me mad sometimes? Yes. Does your ability to talk for hours on end about a script you’re working on sometimes make me crazy? Hell yes. Do I like pulling hairballs out of my drain every time you stay over? Heck no. Do I enjoy when you get hangry or when you are stubborn and won’t let me choose the movie on a Friday night? Not really. But all those things do not make you a bad person. Scott choosing to lie to you and cheat and disrespect your marriage does not make you a bad person. We all have things to work on, either together in a relationship or on our own. We can always better ourselves and our relationships; no one is perfect, including you, Harp. But that doesn’t mean what he did was anything short of selfish, cowardly and cruel. This is on him, Harper, not you.’
Madi is leaning over the table, propped up on her elbows, looking me straight in the eyes and catching my tears with her tissue.
‘Why does it hurt so bad, Mads?’ I stutter. Madi brushes the hair from my eyes and wipes some more tears away.
‘Because you loved him with all you had, and you shared a part of you with him that no one else got to see. Besides yours truly being your number-one best friend forever, he was your best friend. It’s OK to miss him. It’s natural to miss him. But don’t ever let his actions make you feel guilty. What goes on in a marriage is discussed within a marriage by the two people in it. He should have respected you enough to communicate with you, to give you the chance to figure it out together and to look after each other the way you always have, and he didn’t. I don’t care if you made him listen to that Beach Boys song you love and he hates, on repeat every day, he should have talked to you about it and that’s on him.’
I take a shuddery breath, grateful for the heat lamp that is keeping me warm despite my insides feeling frozen. I feel a mixture of pathetic and thankful, wondering what on earth I would do without Madi. She has been on this crazy roller-coaster ride with for the past year and has yet to try and jump off. I appreciate her for allowing me to voice my pain, as the minute I get my thoughts out in the open I feel freed.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, picking up a tissue and seeing to my own probably very smudged make-up face, and dabbing the tears away. Allowing Madi to sit back on the bench, being propped up on her elbows couldn’t have been the comfiest.
Just then Colt comes over and puts what looks to be a milkshake with two straws in front of us. He smiles, his warm and awkward smile. ‘It’s a Rocky Mountain hot chocolate. It makes all your troubles go away. I say that, but I can’t guarantee it as you two are my guinea pigs – it’s a new concoction. I was feeling inspired.’ He glances sweetly at us both.
Colt nods and walks away after we thank him, and I notice Madi’s lips already on her straw. As I see the creamy chocolate slowly shrinking further down the glass thanks to Madi devouring its contents, I quickly take a sip. I don’t want to miss out. Not only does it look incredible, but it tastes it too.
With one sip I am transported to toasted marshmallow and creamy chocolate heaven. It’s like a campfire in my mouth, in a good way. We devour the shake, which I’m certain had medicinal properties – maybe it’s the cacao they use – before we walk past the hut to inform Colt that he must add his inspired concoction to the menu. Then we thank him for a scrumptious brunch before we go on our merry way for a mooch around the stalls.
I have enough sugar in my system giving me a high that I hope will keep me afloat for the rest of the day.
The Handmade market is everything I thought it would be and more. The stall owners are friendly and eager to talk to us about their crafts. I feel inspired to pick up my pen and write about it all. I manage to pick up something special for my mum and dad and my heart is warm with the anticipation of being able to give them their Christmas present in person this year.
I don’t think about Scott for the entire afternoon as I take in every stall. Colt’s milkshake worked wonders. Unfortunately, it worked too well as by the time we venture back to the house, my good intentions of turning on my laptop and looking over my edits have disappeared faster than our plate of pancakes and waffles, and I feel like I could fall asleep standing up the minute I lay eyes on my bed.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_840a3762-a92e-50d3-a00a-0c4c385fc317)
It’s five in the morning and two days before Christmas Eve and I can’t contain my curiosity about the forest any longer. I put on my brown snow boots, throw my hair in a loose braid and scarf, and tell my laptop that I will be back in no more than an hour to see to finally finishing off my script. Then I wrap myself up in my wool cardigan and olive-green puffer jacket with my well-worn leggings and sneak out of the sleeping house.
The fresh-fallen snow crunches as I step onto the deck; the air is cool but pleasant. I can hear an owl hooting in between the trees. I take that as my guide and follow his calls. The moon and the stars are enough to light my way and, somehow, I don’t feel scared being out here alone. My parents’ house lies in darkness. I believe the Christmas lights are on a timer to conserve energy. I walk past the hippie Santa and towards the towering pines. As I walk closer, the grandeur of the trees hits me and I’m immediately enchanted.
I trace my hands over the bark. Shavings of snow have settled in the ridges and cracks giving it a frosty tint. If I look closely enough, I can see the fuzzy outline of each snowflake that is hugging the trunk. I peel my eyes away from the first pine and follow a straight path past the other, not wanting to weave in and out of the trees too much in case I get lost. I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. Scott wasn’t much of an outdoors man. The one time we ventured out here to visit my parents, he’d opt to stay indoors or visit the local bars and restaurants over getting up close and personal with nature.
As a kid I was always outside. Even in London, my parents walked everywhere, and I can count on one hand the weekends that weren’t spent at a park. Family holidays were spent hiking in Cornwall, visiting farms in the Cotswolds, or backpacking around Yosemite in California. It wasn’t until I got with Scott and moved into the middle of London away from my parents that I stopped paying attention to the great outdoors. And when my writing took over and I started working for Pegasus Entertainment I fell easily into a routine with Madi; curling up behind my desk, wrapping myself up in blankets on the couch, tapping away at my laptop. When we did acknowledge the outside world, it was for a walk straight to a coffee shop, parking our butts inside and commenting on the rustic, outdoorsy feel of the indoors; the irony wasn’t lost on me.
Up ahead I find a clearing where a couple of trees have been cut down making short stumps perfect for sitting on. I sit down and pull out the notebook that I had stuffed in my coat pocket. I look up from my spot on the stump and where the trees have been cut back leads to an opening in the canopy where the sky peeks through. It takes my breath away. The stars are golden and twinkling against the lightening sky, there’s a slight touch of pink mixing with the wispy grey and blue as the sun is beginning to rise and I can hear the faint twit-twooing of the owl I saw swooping in to the trees in the earlier darkness.
This would be the most idyllic spot for a romantic picnic and star gazing with your one and only. I shudder. I don’t want to ruin the moment thinking about Scott or romance, so I take a chilly breath in and watch the sad thoughts go by, replacing them with the sound of the owl and the rustling of the pines in the wind.
I put my pen to the paper and don’t pause to concern myself with conscious thinking. I write, and I write some more. I dare to write my deepest wishes, the scenes I can envision playing out in the beauty of this spot and the magic that nature can hold. It occurs to me that while, yes, a romantic night for two under these stars would be quite something, it’s incredibly special and beautiful by myself too. As I take in my surroundings once more, I don’t feel so alone.
The sky is much lighter when I next look up. Gone is the inky grey and black, replaced by a fabulous orange and pink, and I have but a few pages left in my notebook. My body, though now I notice it feels cold, is not tense. My shoulders are at ease, my eyebrows relaxed and my feet like feathers on the ground, delicately resting on the pure white snow.
Writing gives me that release and I remind myself how lucky I am to love my job and to be working for a company that I adore so much. I smile as I fold my notebook gently to push it back inside my pocket; I need to get back and finish this script. I stand from the stump and do a little star jump to encourage the blood back to my feet when I hear crunching to the right of me. In my calm state, I don’t worry, I simply hold still not wanting to scare whatever animal it might be with my crazy jumping, if I am trespassing in its home.
Two giant snow boots come into view attached to my dad who steps into the clearing, holding two Christmas mugs. I can smell rich black coffee and a vanilla tea. Dad hands me the mug full of burning-hot coffee and I take it gratefully, with a smile.
‘I thought you might have turned into an icicle by now,’ he says with a playful smirk. Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he takes a sip of his tea, his bluey-green eyes assertive and on me.
‘How did you know I was out here?’ I ask, holding his gaze and knowing full well that my dad would always know where to find me. I was twelve the first, and only, time I ran away. My parents and I have always had a special bond and I never truly went through any awkward phase where I hated them. To me, my dad was the coolest person in the world. He took me to concerts, let me listen to music that other parents wouldn’t let their kids listen to and I never felt trapped or like my parents wanted me to be, dress or act a certain way – not like Madi’s did. As long as I was kind, did well in school and acted with love, there wasn’t a problem.
So, it had been a bit of a shock when I left a note one Friday night telling them that they were the worst parents in the world and that I had run away. Because I had never done this before, they didn’t have a record to go off, a pattern to follow. I could have been anywhere. But an hour into my having run away my dad found me in the most hidden-away part of Hyde Park.
If I remember correctly, I’d actually forgotten why I was mad by the time he had turned up. My dad always looked so cool in his ripped black jeans and vintage tees and faux leather jacket, that I greeted him with a wide smile. He had looked at me and said, ‘Nice choice, I used to come here a lot too.’ And that was pretty much the end of my grumpy years. I think a kid had got to me at school that day, picked on me for having dirty hippie parents and a dad who made soap for a living. I believed the kid and I let him get to me. I didn’t care to be laughed at. But when my dad walked into the alley looking like a dadlier, but still incredibly cool version of Jim Morrison, the memory of the kid’s opinion had vanished in a matter of seconds. My parents had taught me better than that – if it wasn’t constructive or kind then I didn’t need to listen to other people’s opinions.
‘Remember that day when you were twelve and ran away? Well, I still got it,’ my dad replies. He’s right, he hasn’t lost an essence of his cool since that day and I smile into my coffee that he is thinking about the same thing I am.
‘This place is beautiful, Dad, but even more so this time of year. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to visit for the holidays.’ I look around taking in the rising sun hitting the bark of the trees, making the snow sparkle. Dad looks around too, with a fond smile on his face, then his eyes come to rest on my face once more.
‘Are you going to talk to me, kid, or would you like your space?’ my dad asks, always so considerate of my needs.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since my dad and I had an honest to goodness heart-to-heart and that pains me a little. Since my last visit, I’ve made time for quick phone calls and the odd Skype call, but I haven’t really made them a priority. Standing in front of my dad now, I don’t know how I’ve got through the last two years without his guidance and wisdom. Maybe that’s why I’m in this predicament I find myself in now with Scott and my lack of enthusiasm for work or anything in life.
I look into my dad’s blue-hazel eyes, which match my own, and the sparkle that is reserved for me is still there. Mum tells me he has had that since the day I was born, and it has never faded. I can’t lie to him. With my dad, the wall I have built over the past year comes crashing down. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I’m not a guarded person, I’m more an open book. I wear my heart on my sleeve. The closed-off and reserved person I am becoming is starting to scare me. Under the covers of my bed, hiding from the world, is not where I want to spend the rest of my life.
‘I’m struggling, Dad.’ The words come out surprisingly calm. My dad’s face wrinkles, but his olive complexion, grey stubble and kind eyes make me feel safe and free from judgement. He puts an arm through mine and starts walking between the trees. My toes are grateful for the movement. The thoughts inside my head have been distracting me from how cold I have been getting. I take another sip of coffee and with the blood now pumping through my veins, my body is warming up again.
We’re walking in silence and I’m getting lost in the sherbet-pink-coloured clouds that are disappearing into the baby blue sky that is peeking through the canopy of oak.
‘I’m here to listen,’ is all my dad says and it’s all I need. I pull my attention away from the falling snowflakes, from watching them glide through the air and nestle on the blanket of snow below and I take a cool breath in. It’s the first time I’m going to speak out loud to someone other than Madi about what’s happened between Scott and I, and even though it’s my dad an unexpected terror washes over me. It’s unpleasant and not warranted. This is my dad, I tell myself, but the terror remains stubbornly in place.
Suddenly I’m scared that my dad might scold me for doing something wrong, or that he will give me a disappointed look for being a bad wife and not being strong enough to get over this whole ordeal. I feel like a failure; my shoulders droop as we walk. I want to run away, to throw my mug across the snowy path. The battle between conflicting thoughts in my brain is immense. A strange mix of emotions is stirring in the cauldron that has become my stomach, a dash of guilt, a drop of humiliation, a sprinkle of worthlessness and a splash of am I a terrible person if I open my mouth and speak badly of Scott? It’s all there and it’s all uncomfortable. Scott’s words were ‘It’s your fault.’ Would my dad think it was my fault too?
My dad squeezes my arm that is linked through his, as though to let me know it’s OK and with this small act of love, the floodgates open. I turn to him, heaving heavy sobs. My shoulders are moving up and down, my back is hunched over and my face buried in my dad’s thick, soft jacket. My knees are shaking, doing their best to hold me up while small cries escape my lips in intervals, between breathless gasps.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=48669382) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Lucy Knott
When life doesn’t go to plan, you can write yourself a new story… From the outside, Harper Hayes looks like she is winning at life. She has an amazing job as a script writer, a wonderful house, an awesome best friend and an incredible husband. Yes, life seems to be pretty, dare she say it? Perfect? But life is about to throw more than one spanner in the works of Harper’s picture perfect existence and at the busiest time of the year too. As Christmas approaches, Harper will have some soul searching to do to decide if there really is such thing as the happily-ever-after she writes about. For fans of Josie Silver, Karen Swan and Sarah Morgan, Lucy Knott weaves a festive story that will move you to laughter and tears. Readers love Lucy Knott! ‘A wonderful holiday read’ ‘Tugs at the heart strings’ ‘Full of romance, joy and heartbreak’ ‘I laughed, I cried, and thoroughly enjoyed this book!’
About the Author (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
LUCY KNOTT is a former professional wrestler with a passion for storytelling. Now, instead of telling her stories in the ring, she’s putting pen to paper, fulfilling another lifelong dream in becoming an Author. Inspired by her Italian Grandparents, when she is not writing you will most likely find her cooking, baking and devouring Italian food, in addition to learning Italian and daydreaming of trips to Italy. ALONG WITH her twin sister, Kelly, Lucy runs TheBlossomTwins.com (http://www.TheBlossomTwins.com), where she enthusiastically shares her love for books, baking and Italy, with daily posts, reviews and recipes. You can find Lucy on Twitter @TheBlossomTwins (http://www.Twitter.com/TheBlossomTwins) or @LucyCKnott (http://www.Twitter.com/LucyCKnott)
Readers Love Lucy Knott (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
‘A wonderful holiday read’
‘Tugs at the heart strings’
‘Full of romance, joy and heartbreak’
‘I laughed, I cried, and thoroughly enjoyed this book!’
Also by Lucy Knott (#u3390bb89-bcac-594e-a035-3c7c4ea5e542)
How to Bake a New Beginning
The Ingredients for Happiness
Wishes Under a Starlit Sky
LUCY KNOTT
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Lucy Knott 2019
Lucy Knott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008336189
Version: 2019-10-07
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue721c38e-06b7-5205-8d1c-73176eded96d)
About the Author
Readers Love Lucy Knott
Also by Lucy Knott
Title Page (#ufcc6752d-3f73-5bb4-b184-ee1539806201)
Copyright (#udd61468d-8cb2-5938-95a6-bcb3740ffb71)
Dedication (#u943a196c-5e92-5448-b834-1827783d46cf)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
For those who believe in fairy tales and the power of love; in all it’s beautiful forms.
Prologue (#ulink_c89db979-3807-5706-b901-d7142200ecbe)
The deep and smooth voice of Dean Martin croons through my mind, forcing me to relax. A smile curves up at the edges of my lips. The lyrics of his hit song ‘That’s Amore’ dance in my mind. The moon is certainly lighting up the sky tonight in all its pizza-pie elegance. It is full, a sparkling pearly white and casting its beautiful glow on the tourists that are lost in Venice’s romantic charm. The Christmas season is in full force and it’s evident everywhere I look. The streetlamps twinkle as glittering silver tinsel weaves its way around the otherwise dark poles. I can understand the magic and the romance this city is famous for.
I look to the moon and think of my parents and how this will be another Christmas without them. They moved to Colorado five years ago and with my workload and my husband’s busy schedule I’ve only been out to visit them the once. It’s unlike me and I don’t know how I’ve managed this long without them. But back in London I have my job, my best friend Madi and my husband – I know my parents understand.
I shake away my wandering thoughts and embrace the charm of Venice around me. I soak up the joyful feeling of love and Christmas as I snuggle into my husband’s side. It has been a while since we’ve done anything remotely romantic. With Scott being so busy at work and me being locked away in my office working on my next script for the past couple of months, we simply haven’t found the time. Not that I haven’t been trying. I’ve been shutting my laptop off early most nights for the past couple of weeks, throwing on my laciest pyjamas, waiting for Scott to come home. But it’s all been to no avail. Late nights on set and in the office meant he usually fell asleep on the couch, too exhausted to even make it upstairs by the time he came drifting into the house. I’d wake to find him either passed out, or worse yet, gone, back to the studio to start the routine all over again.
So, this … this is nice. I cuddle up closer to Scott’s warm side, and sneak my hand around his waist, under his suit jacket. Feeling his toned torso beneath the thin white cotton of his shirt still sends desire flooding through me, even after six years of marriage. He turns to me, a broad smile on his handsome face. Maybe my efforts haven’t been going unnoticed after all. Maybe the lacy pyjamas caught his attention, and this is just what he needed, a break from the movie sets and back to reality to refocus, to remember that I am still very much here.
The moon makes his blue eyes glisten, taking me back to our wedding night and staring into them as we danced our first dance. That whole day was magic; that and nearly every day for the past six years too. My smile widens as the lyrics dance in my mind – the world is certainly shining tonight and I may have had a little wine. He kisses my lips softly. My hands fly straight to his sandy blonde hair, gently tugging at its shagginess. I am drunk on love and suddenly feel like a teenager again. At thirty years of age, that is a welcome feeling.
The gondola pulls up to the short pier where another loved-up couple are gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, eagerly awaiting their turn on the love boat. By this point I am too wrapped up in Scott to pay attention to the gorgeous night-time scenes that Venice has to offer. We stumble down the cobbled streets, grabbing at each other, only pausing when kissing and walking becomes too difficult a task. We make it back to our hotel before the whole of Venice gets to see Scott in all his naked glory. I am getting impatient, which is not like me; his suit jacket and tie have already come off. I’m not opposed to public displays of affection – in fact, I adore seeing people in love – but I am usually more subtle in my approach. I don’t know what has taken over me; the need to be wanted by Scott, maybe?
The concierge smiles and hands us the keys before I need to embarrass myself with attempting to ask for them in my terrible Italian. No doubt the man witnesses more impassioned men and women on the daily than he knows what to do with. The hopeless romantic in me thinks what a beautiful thing to observe each day at work. Then it remembers that really, I get to do the same, even if the scenes are mostly made up in my head and then played out by actors – it still counts as real love, doesn’t it? Maybe the concierge should start writing down what he sees and turn it into a script too.
My mind is brought back to the present when Scott throws me on to the stunning four-poster princess-like bed and kisses me fervently. I do my best to keep up. It’s not that hard. I have loved this man since I was twenty-three years old. Heat courses through me, my hips arch forward with wanting and I savour the touch of his lips all over my skin, as I melt into the quilt. My cream shift dress floats up over my thighs as I kick my ballet flats off my feet onto the floor. I try to ignore the occasional painful tug of my hair as Scott kneels on it – it’s my fault, it’s too long, he would say – and instead I focus on the desire in my veins.
I guess not all my romantic ideas are made up in my head. My latest Pegasus Entertainment rewrite may have been inspired just a little by the man currently covering my stomach with kisses. Come to think of it, so was the one before that and the one before that. I should really thank my husband for being such a brilliant muse for a romance writer, I think to myself, then get distracted as he lowers the weight of his body on top of mine. I think I can wait and tell him later.
*
We arrive back from Venice and I feel as though I’m walking on a fluffy, bouncy cloud. Scott and I have been together for eight years, married for six, but I smile with the magic that is still there in my heart after so long. I take our suitcases up to our bedroom. It’s six in the evening and I’m ready for a hot shower; to get rid of the icky plane feeling I get whenever I travel. I feel Scott and I deserve an evening of red wine, maybe even a cheeky takeaway, curled up by the Christmas tree in front of the TV before the mad rush of the fortnight before Christmas descends on us.
I leave Scott to whatever is keeping him busy downstairs and turn on the shower; he might join me when he hears the running water. My body is still tingling with the feel of him from our passionate weekend. Do Italians add something to their water? I giggle as the water soaks my hair and drips off my eyelashes. I feel a sudden surge of emotion and a burst of sentimentality strikes me as my mind plays snippets of our magical trip to Italy. It had felt beautiful to have some time away; everything had felt right.
In the pit of my stomach I feel a tingle of excitement that this will be the year we take the leap and start trying for kids. Scott and I have talked about it and this weekend gave me a glimpse into the future; how perfect our lives have been thus far and how incredible the next step in our journey together will be.
Scott must be thinking what I’m thinking and ordering that takeaway, I muse to myself when he doesn’t come up to the bathroom. I stop dawdling in the shower, keen to get downstairs and join him on the couch. I hastily towel dry, throw on my Christmas pyjamas – it’s December after all – wrap my hair in a towel and head downstairs.
I’m walking into the living room when I see Scott in my peripheral vision sitting at the dining room table. He is smiling at his phone, the smile that after all these years still gives me butterflies. But when he sees me, I notice his cheeks flush and a forlorn gaze appears in his eyes. I wander over to him, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing him tight. I can sense his brain has already switched back into work mode and he’s worrying about emails and the crazy schedule that December brings with it as he feels cool and tense to the touch, making my gut wriggle uncomfortably for some reason.
‘How about I order us a takeaway and we make a start on the Christmas movies, so we can actually fit them all in this year?’ I say, kissing his cheek, hoping to relax the knots in his neck and keep work thoughts at bay for at least a few more hours. Scott is rigid, and I feel a discomfort in the pit of my stomach that I can’t place. Usually he can’t keep his hands off me at this proximity. I understand it has been a tiring travel day, but something doesn’t sit right.
‘I think we should take a break,’ Scott says. I sigh and a titter escapes my lips – all this tension over Christmas movies.
‘OK, how about we watch a movie of your choosing tonight and then start up on the Christmas movies Christmas Eve Eve? We still have so many to get through and it’s really not Christmas without a few romantic fairy tales,’ I suggest, tucking my hair behind my ear, the wet strands having started to stick to my cheeks. I make to step into the hall when Scott repeats himself causing me to back-pedal.
‘Not the bloody Christmas movies, Harper, though yes, a break from all that crap would be good.’ His voice sounds hard. I’m confused as to what has suddenly made him so moody. I’ve never heard him call my favourite kind of movie crap before. We often watch them and gush over our own real-life fairy tale.
‘Oh OK, I’m sorry,’ I stutter through a nervous laugh. ‘Would you like me to cook something, honey? If you want a break from the takeaways, I can see what we’ve got in, whip something up?’ I step out of the hall and back into the dining room now, eager to get Scott out of the chilly space and his ‘just got back from vacation funk’, and into the warmth of the living room and under the pile of blankets awaiting us on the couch. He’s not making any effort to move on his own and remains still in the chair.
‘You make it sound like those are my only two options. I want a break,’ he says, his tone dull and deadpan.
My brain is going over his words before I speak. I feel as though every time I open my mouth, I say something wrong. ‘Options,’ I repeat slowly. ‘Erm, no we can cook together, we can go out, we don’t have to watch movies.’ I tug on the hem of my pyjama top, not knowing what to do or say next.
‘I want a break from us,’ Scott says with a heavy sigh.
It’s the tiny word at the end of his sentence that takes me completely by surprise and causes a sharp stabbing pain in my throat. I take a step back and try to digest the words Scott has just said, my brain muddled with talk of takeaways and movies.
‘What do you mean “a break”?’ I ask quietly, tripping up over each word. My brain is rattling in my head with all kinds of uncertainty and fear. Is Scott joking? Is this some kind of prank? What have I missed? Scott isn’t moving, just sitting in the same position he has been in during this entire conversation, but he’s looking at me and I hate that I don’t recognize the look in his eyes.
‘A break, like we take some time apart, give each other some space,’ he says. His features are relaxed, and I hate that he looks more relieved than pained. I feel like a child flying over the handlebars of my bike, landing in a heap on the ground with a sudden whack. I can’t find my breath.
‘Why?’ is all I can manage. I’m hunched over a little with my hand on my stomach. I’ve paced a few steps, so I can look at Scott. He flicks his hands up at my question, almost like a shrug, like he doesn’t have an answer. But you don’t suggest something as big as taking a break from your marriage without having an answer, surely?
‘We want different things; I don’t think it’s working.’ He runs a hand through his blonde hair. There’s a buzzing sound in my brain, a rattle, a hum, making it difficult for me to understand what is going on. When was it not working? It was working fine the last time I checked.
‘I want you.’ The words slip out before I can catch them. Doesn’t he know how much I love him? How can he be saying we want different things? Where has this come from? Never have we discussed wanting different things. What does he even mean by wanting different things? We got married because we wanted each other. We gazed out in the same direction with similar goals and dreams in mind.
‘I want you too, but I think we need this break. Have some time to figure out if this is what we really want,’ Scott says. I feel like my mind is playing a trick on me. If he wants me then what is there to figure out? He’s talking to me with the same look he gives the Chinese menu when deciding what he wants; I want fried rice, but I want won ton soup too. But this is our marriage, it isn’t flavour of the week.
‘If you want me, Scott, then what is the problem? What is it that you need to take a break from?’ I ask. My brows are drawn and my lips are trembling at the weight of the questions. This is a conversation I never thought I would be having and it’s all happening too quickly for my body to know how to react.
‘You want kids. What happens if I don’t want kids?’ he says. He is flipping his phone around in his hands. He’s agitated, I can tell. He’s looking out of the window now and my instinct is telling me that he’s ready for this conversation to be over. Scott isn’t a huge talker and we’ve never had an argument that warranted a discussion lasting more than five minutes, mostly because it would just be me talking and Scott would get fed up. I would have to reduce myself to a few words, get them in quickly before Scott kissed me, then it would be make-up sex and we’d be good.
‘Do you not want kids, Scott?’ I ask, perplexed by his question. I’d never given thought to him not wanting kids because not once had he mentioned anything of the sort. Not once, not even one little hint had been given to me that would make me think my husband did not want kids someday. He joined in with conversations about what it would be like when we had our own children in the future. Heck, he had started conversations about when we would have them, what names he liked, what books he would read and games he would play with them.
I’m holding on to the back of a dining room chair to keep me upright. I want to sit down but there is a strange adrenaline keeping me standing. I want to fix this. Scott stays quiet, leaving my question lingering, like he doesn’t have an answer. My dad is a fixer, a manly man with a molten core. I can be emotional, but I know I can fix this; I can be strong.
‘Scott, if you’re worried about kids, we can talk about it. If you don’t want kids right this second, it’s OK. We can talk about having them when we’re both ready. If you never want them, then I’m not sure what to tell you, but you’re right: maybe you need to take some time to figure out whether it’s a never or just not right now situation,’ I say. My words come out surprisingly calm, in contrast to the fast and shooting pains I keep getting in my chest. But Scott does this to me. I want to please him, I know that much. I can compromise. I just need to assure him that I am here for him, whatever he is going through, I’ll stand by his side.
I look at my husband, at the man I love, and I know we can get through anything. I will be here for him, he will be here for me, it’s what we do, what we’ve always done.
Scott stands up, still looking out of the window and not at me. I keep my grip on the dining chair, afraid that if I let go, I might fall.
‘Why don’t we go and relax for the evening and watch some TV, or if you’d like we can make a pros and cons list for babies. We can even look over the baby name list we wrote, and you can cross off any you don’t like,’ I say, my lips quirking up into a small smile, trying to lighten the mood and think of a solution to the dilemma we’re facing. I don’t necessarily think it warrants a break in our marriage. I think something like this needs to be figured out together; having kids is a huge deal. I understand Scott is scared. I had been talking about it a lot more recently, but to say he doesn’t want them is a huge statement to make after six years of marriage. What has changed his mind? I’m struggling to stem my panic but am doing my best not to get hysterical and scare him even more.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve scared you with all the baby talk recently. I see you with your nieces and nephews and I guess I can’t help getting carried away. You’re really great with them, you know. And you always come up with the cutest baby names. But if you want me to lay off on the baby talk, I will do,’ I add, with a more confident smile. I release my hand from its death grip on the chair, wanting to go over to Scott and soothe him with a hug, but he isn’t looking at me and I want to give him the space he needs. My heart rate feels like it’s steadying. I can pocket the baby talk for a little while, if it’s what Scott wants. Besides Christmas is just around the corner, we both have work to do and I can distract myself with Christmas cheer and our office Christmas party.
‘I’m going to go and stay with Matt tonight, OK? It’ll be OK; I’ll figure it out,’ Scott says as he turns towards me. My heart rate picks up once more, faster than the speed of light. I gulp hard, reaching out for the chair before my knees buckle.
‘I don’t understand,’ I mumble, genuinely baffled by his response. I don’t want him to go. Don’t we need to talk about this together? A marriage is two people, having a baby requires two people; don’t I need to know what he’s thinking, where I stand in all this? The room feels cold and I can feel a drop of water from my wet hair trickle down my back, making me shiver.
‘Scott, do you not want to talk about this together? You don’t have to stay with Matt. If you don’t want to talk about babies anymore tonight, that’s fine too. Anything you want to do, that’s fine. I promise I can let it go, but you can still stay here.’ My voice sounds needy. I’m confused. I’m not supposed to be needy – society would scoff at me right now – but this is my husband. We have slept by each other’s side for the past eight years. My body trembles with fear. I don’t want him to go.
Scott walks past me towards the hall, stopping to give me a kiss on the forehead before he reaches the door. ‘No, it’s OK, babe. I’ll figure it out. I just need some time and we’ll be OK. I think this will be good for us and I’ve told Matt I’m coming now,’ Scott says, his voice somehow lighter. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
And he’s gone. The door closes behind him and I immediately drop into the chair. The tears that I have been holding in since I heard Scott utter the words ‘break from us’, come spilling out in heaves, splattering on to the red robin placemat my mum made for me a few Christmases ago, from a picture she took in her backyard in Colorado. The robin looks magical perched on the snowy branch of a pine tree. In the eight years Scott and I have been together he has never made me feel uncertain, unsure and unwanted, and right now I feel all those things.
Where was his fight? Why were we not having a discussion like a married couple should when a problem arises? How could he just walk out so easily? I have so many questions that remain unanswered, all while my mind is trying to comprehend how our romantic trip to Venice led to Scott wanting a break and not even being able to sleep in the same house as me. My blood runs cold at the thought; I feel disgusting.
Out in the hallway I can see the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree reflecting in the mirror. I can hear the slight murmur of the TV, which Scott must have switched on, announcing tonight’s Christmas movie on the Pegasus channel; reminding me of the fairy tales I helped write and how Christmas was one of the most romantic times of the year.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_738cd80b-3dbb-59b8-98be-e67948ecc742)
It looks like a Christmas bomb exploded in the hotel and I love it. Madi has gone to get us another drink and I’m stood by the eight-foot Christmas tree that is covered in so much tinsel and fake snow, I’m surprised it’s still standing. Everywhere I look there are trees and baubles and stars dangling from the chandeliers. It’s what Christmas grotto dreams are made of. I try and focus on all my favourite things and keep my mind from wandering to the shambles my current home life is in. Scott came home the other night after three days and it was like nothing had changed between us. The banter was lovely, the sex was passionate and hot until the minute it stopped, and I turned to ice when Scott insisted the break was working and it was what we needed. I haven’t heard from him in two days.
I’m swaying gently to the music – Michael Bublé’s ‘Let It Snow’, of course. It’s not really Christmas without Michael Bublé, is it? I soak up the words, trying to drown out my thoughts. The hotel is packed with people. I merrily smile and wave and chat to my co-workers. Suddenly I stop swaying and stand motionless in between the hustle and bustle. Through a gap in the clearing I can make out the back of his head. He is sitting at the bar chatting casually to a bunch of men in suits, colleagues I recognize from work events I had attended with him in the past. With Scott being in production, he attended events that didn’t always include writers like me, but mainly the directors and producers and all the behind-the-scenes staff from the movie sets.
That’s when it happens. I watch as a tall blonde approaches him. His face lights up, greeting the blonde with a smile. He places a hand on her hip and a delicate kiss on her lips. My stomach hits the floor with a vengeance making me wobble in my boots. I put my hand out to steady myself against the wall, feeling like a goldfish out of water. I can’t breathe. The air is not reaching my lungs.
I can’t let him see me like this, so weak, so pathetic. I try not to stare as I try to walk away, my legs not quite remembering how to do so as they shake with each step. Yet I can’t seem to pry my eyes away from the scene. She’s wearing a long gold sequined dress, half her luscious blonde hair pulled back with a few strands dangling around her beautiful face and her arms are resting on his shoulders, as she throws her head back and laughs at something he says.
I have to avert my eyes, but they won’t budge. All I can do is stare as I stagger for air, a space to breathe. Maybe if I stare long enough it will go away. Maybe the longer I stare the more used to it my brain will become. What’s that thing they say about spiders? The more you look at them and face them, the less scared you will become? Shoot, if it didn’t work for me with spiders, I sure as hell don’t think it is going to work now, because it seems the more I look, the more pain I feel.
I find a quiet corner, hidden by a gorgeous purple and silver Christmas tree, but I can still see him. I can still see her. My heart feels like it is about to burst through my rib cage, and I can’t calm my short gasping breaths. I feel stupid. For a moment I think I might be sick. What am I doing? I need to get out of here. Just then Madi finds me and panic fills her pretty blue eyes when she sees me. In that moment I see them out of the corner of my eye. They kiss, full-on kiss, and I am eternally grateful that my best friend chose now to find me. I feel like I’m about to pass out from the uncomfortable pain I feel in my heart.
I torture myself taking one last look at them before Madi grabs my wrist and pulls me out of there; away from the Christmas party that I look forward to every year.
*
I jolt as a piercing pain stabs my chest and I shoot upright. I’m in bed. My pillow is soaked, and my body drenched in sweat. I pat myself down, pinching myself, telling myself it was all a nightmare, when I turn to see Madi lying in my bed next to me.
‘Madi, what’s going on?’ I shout, the fear in my voice making tears fall fast and heavy down my face.
Madi stirs and blinks a few times, wiping her eyes before registering that I am awake and shouting at her. Her eyes suddenly dart open and she becomes alert, pulling me in for a hug.
‘It’s OK, sweetheart, it’s OK,’ she says softly, trying to soothe me. I don’t find any words, just more tears.
‘When is this going to stop, Madi?’ I whimper. It’s a week and a half until Christmas and it’s not the first time I have had this nightmare, which isn’t just a nightmare but my brain dredging up the events that took place last Christmas. My mind has re-enacted this scene over and over for the past twelve months, but since the countdown for the twenty-fifth of December began on the first of December, it has become the gift that keeps on giving every single night – hence Madi’s presence. I feel drained and completely spent, lying on my bed having exerted no physical energy whatsoever. I try to rake my hand through my locks, but I’m sat on most of my hair which makes it difficult. Instead, I wipe at my tired eyes, causing the delicate skin around them to sting as I do so.
Madi retrieves a brush from the bedside table and slowly and tenderly starts brushing my hair. ‘Harper, I’m your best friend and you know how much I love you. I value your feelings and respect every emotion you have gone through and you know I’d never rush you, but baby, enough is enough now. You can’t do this to yourself any longer. I can’t allow it.’ She pushes my arm gently so she can tug my hair from under me and brush out the knots. I glance around my bedroom, Scott’s and my bedroom, spot the overturned pictures and the occasional item of Scott’s, and I feel ashamed. Not much has changed, and Scott hasn’t lived here for a year.
‘You’ve barely left the house, you’ve been neglecting your parents, your work is suffering, Harp. If your recent lines hadn’t been such bloody brilliant pieces of writing and transformed those horror scripts, Lara would probably have fired you by now – but you’re a romance writer, Harp. We’re romance writers and I miss bouncing ideas back and forth. Come on, you need to get out of this house and file for divorce so you can move on with your life,’ Madi says boldly. She’s right. I know she is and I’m not mad at her honesty. I’ve never appreciated it more.
‘Why don’t you go and have a hot shower and I’ll make us some breakfast,’ Madi says, holding my face and looking me in the eyes. Her own are filled with tears and concern. I nod, but when she leaves the room the softness and safety of my blanket has me sinking back under the covers. My eyes are heavy and I no longer have the will to keep them open.
*
I take a breath in, torn and terrified. My finger hovers above the enter key on the laptop that is open on the desk in front of me. This isn’t me. I don’t do things like this. I don’t snoop on my husband or invade his personal space. I’ve never had any reason to before, but that all changed last night after seeing him at the Christmas party. He’s given me reason.
‘Are you sure?’ Madi whispers from behind me. My office is cold, reflecting how I feel inside. My hands tremble. No, I’m not sure, I’m not sure at all, but that doesn’t change what I feel I have to do.
‘Madi, it’s been a little over a week since Scott walked away so casually out of my life, with nothing but a vague explanation and a promise that he would be back, that we would be OK, that he just needed some space. He chooses to speak to me when it suits him, popped in for sex when he fancied, all while not caring how much that affects me mentally. He texts me like I’m some old friend. Yet he cannot seem to find the time to give me answers as to what all this is about. He has watched me cry, he has listened to me fight for him all while shrugging his shoulders in response. And to top it all off, he doesn’t think twice about kissing another woman at the Christmas party.’ I pause. I don’t quite know who I am talking about now. It all feels so absurd.
‘Christmas Day is only a few days away, I need answers, Madi. I need to know if he’s coming home for good. I need to know who she is. And if he doesn’t think I’m worthy of any, I must find them myself,’ I say softly. I am already spent and I haven’t even logged in yet. I don’t think I have ever been more nervous in my life.
‘OK,’ Madi says gently, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘Please know I love you and that I am here for you.’ Then she goes and sits on the black leather couch, her fingers twisting around her hoop earrings anxiously.
Before I can chicken out and allow my brain to manifest more evil thoughts, I press enter on my husband’s email account. At least I will know for sure what’s been going on and I won’t have to torture myself with guessing.
Nothing jumps out at me straight away, no woman’s name I don’t recognize. Then I see it. An email to his friend Matt, with the subject line: What am I going to do?
I gulp and, with a shaky hand, click on the email and watch the conversation fill the page. Words and sentences begin slapping me in the face, hard. ‘We talk every night and every morning.’ ‘We’re practically girlfriend and boyfriend.’ ‘Harper is stressing about kids.’ ‘No kids.’ ‘I get jealous when other guys go near her.’ ‘I love her.’ And that last sentence just about does me in. I fly out of my chair, sick rising in my throat. It takes all I have not to throw my laptop across the room and smash it to pieces. I can’t look anymore. I feel like there is a monster inside of me; it terrifies me. I can’t control it. I don’t want this anger inside me and I’m mad at myself for allowing it in. But all my mother’s words of wisdom, her soothing mantras, are not speaking to me right now.
My soul mate, my world, it all sounds so childlike now – my person … there can be no such thing. I almost laugh despite the hot tears burning my cheeks. My husband is in love with someone else and has been for months and I had no idea. I can’t make out from the messages how long he has been seeing her, how long he has been sleeping with her, but it was long before he brought up taking a break. The email dated back months before Venice.
Our marriage is over for him, and he forgot to tell me. Instead. he’s led me to believe he’s just having some breathing room, getting out of the house for a bit, staying with the boys a while before we got serious about kids, all like it was no big deal, like he’ll be back. He even texted only a few days ago that I was being silly when I asked him if he wanted a divorce, like it wasn’t that serious. He laughed it off like I was the mad one, like everything he was doing was normal. He didn’t want a divorce, he wasn’t seeing other people, we would be OK, he loved me; all just lies he was spinning.
*
My head is throbbing, I am dripping with cold sweat and someone is rubbing my forehead. There’s a distinct smell of crispy bacon in the air. I force my eyes open, but it takes a few attempts before I can blink anything into a clear view.
Madi places the breakfast tray on the floor and scoots up next to me on the bed.
‘Harp, we’re not spending this Christmas here, OK? We’re going home,’ she says, assertively moving tendrils of hair out of my face. I am aware of the state I am in, what I must look like shrivelled up under the covers again. I have lost all sense of who I am. All I know is that I am a mess and very much on my way to repeating the events of last Christmas – cocooned in my bed, shutting out the world while Madi tries with all her might to spread some Christmas cheer with gifts and mince pies, with mild success. The whole world knows Scott had an affair. It’s been twelve whole months. It’s done, it’s in the past. I need to move on.
‘But this is home,’ I mutter, wrapping my arm around her waist for comfort.
‘Yes, it is, but I mean home, home; to your mum and dad’s house. It might not be in London, but wherever your mum and dad are, that’s home. We’re going to Colorado.’
Chapter 2 (#ulink_9f1b15da-2e56-5bc5-900a-13e50fd5b7e3)
Madi’s living room smells like cinnamon and pine. Candles flicker from every surface. With the help of Madi’s famous hot chocolate and bacon butty combo, I’m starting to get into the Christmas spirit. It’s been a few days since the nightmares have haunted my brain and for that I’m grateful. I’m not sure whether to thank the amount of Baileys Madi sneaks into my hot chocolate or the back-to-back episodes of Chuck that she’s been playing late into the evening every night before bed this past week. It’s difficult to have nightmares when my mind is otherwise preoccupied by when Chuck and Sarah will get together and if I could one day write a script anywhere near as incredible as this show. Still, Chuck and Sarah’s love is not enough to get me in the mood for the work Christmas party this year; instead, Madi and I have booked our flights for Colorado. We leave in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
I haven’t been to visit my parents in Breckenridge in two years. If I’m honest I didn’t take the news of my parents moving away very well at all. Spending time with them has always been one of my favourite things, so I was mad at them for moving and I don’t think I have fully let go of my grudge. Though Scott got on well with his family he was much more independent and encouraged me to be the same. His family live in Greece and he had adjusted to that just fine. I felt I had to be a grown-up and be more like him. But I miss my parents every single day; I just never admitted that to Scott.
Madi on the other hand could see right through me. Trying to keep up the bravado this past year has been difficult to say the least. My parents had talked about coming over to London to be with me, but I pushed them away, telling them I was fine. In my darkest moments I didn’t feel I deserved the sympathy. Madi was right the other night. Scott having an affair has taken over my life for a year – I can’t go on like this. I need to get my life back on track. I look at the clock on the wall and realize I should hurry. I feel a pang of longing and a nervous anticipation that I will get to see Mum and Dad soon, but I must nip back to my house to pack first.
As I walk past the twinkling lights that wrap around Madi’s stairs, I feel a small thrill of excitement thinking about my parents’ house. If you thought Madi and I loved Christmas, well, my mum is a force unto herself. You can’t move an inch in her house without tripping over a nutcracker. I can’t imagine what their house in Colorado will look like with the backdrop of snowy mountain tops and log cabins. A big grin takes over my features and I welcome the burst of joy I feel in the pit of my stomach.
Back at my house I’m going through my wardrobe grabbing every knit and woolly jumper I own to throw in my suitcase. I’m doing my best to stop my eyes from lingering too long on Scott’s belongings. The only time I have heard from him this past year is when he has texted wanting to pick up some clothes or items. I would then make sure I was at Madi’s so I wouldn’t have to speak to him while he collected his things. There’s still a fair bit here though and I have no idea what to do with it all.
That day I found the emails, I’d called him up on the phone, my whole body tense, straining to keep up with the speed my heart was racing. Scott had told me that his relationship was none of my business, that I was being too emotional and that it wasn’t all his fault. There was no apology, remorse or answers. When I had cried and pushed for more, he’d angrily, and with an irritated inflection in his tone, told me that he had been seeing his apparent girlfriend since February, before hanging up. He had been having an affair for eleven months and I hadn’t even realized. What could I possibly say to him?
Twelve months on and I still feel raw. The house does nothing to curb my state of emptiness; it simply exaggerates it. Even averting my eyes from the framed photos of us as a happy couple doesn’t stop me from feeling the pain. Being in the house without Scott, I can feel it – that loss, that numbness in my bones. I shiver, pleading with the voice in my head to let me get on with packing without torturing me with what the house once was. I don’t want to think about the lazy Sunday mornings we spent curled up in that bed, me watching ‘This Is Us’, Scott playing games on his phone next to me, in no rush to be anywhere, content in each other’s company. He’d been the only person I wanted to be snuggled up under the blankets with.
I hastily grab my glittery red Christmas jumper and stuff it in my suitcase. My eyes are getting a little cloudy. I’m blinking frantically to stop the inevitable, as I snap shut my suitcase and march out of the bedroom. Between the noise in my head and my banging the suitcase against every rail on my way down the stairs I don’t hear the voices that are outside the front door until it’s too late to hide.
All I see are feet – two pairs of feet – as they step into the house. I really, really, don’t want to look up.
‘Harper, I just came to grab a few things.’ I hear his voice, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. He usually texts first. He can’t just turn up like this, unexpected.
‘And you thought it would be a good idea to bring her with you, to see our home, our happy home, the one you and she destroyed?’ I want to scream those words to him, but my mouth is dry, and nothing leaves my lips. Has she been in our house before? The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.
I can feel his eyes burning into the top of my head. It sends a chill down my spine and it feels so alien. I have known this man for nine years, but in this moment, he feels like a complete stranger, like I’ve never met him before in my life.
‘You brought her here?’ I finally mumble, hating that my words come out so small. I look up. She is standing in the hallway looking around at our belongings. I don’t know her, I can’t say she is a bad person, but I don’t see empathy in her eyes. Her features are harsh, her lips pressed into a slight pout. She looks at me with a face that reads she is bored of the predicament she has found herself in and if I would just get out of the way that would be grand.
I hold on to the banister with my suitcase-free hand to avoid humiliating myself should my knees give way and I go crashing down the stairs. I grip the banister tighter – not going to let that happen, I feel stupid enough as it is. Scott looks well and their relationship is clearly flourishing; I can’t show him how far I have fallen.
Scott sighs and turns to hand her the keys to our front door. ‘Look, I’m not doing this now, Harper. It’s not about her. She’s none of your business. I just want to get my stuff. Speaking of which, we need to sell the house. Please don’t play innocent in all this; it has both our names on it. I’m paying for a house I’m not living in.’
Any trepidation I had before about going to Colorado and being so far away from Scott if he needed anything, if he needed to talk, is gone. I pause as I place my hand on the doorknob. I’m not sure why; maybe I feel for a brief moment that he is going to call my name, to apologize for the hurt that he has caused me, to maybe tell me that this is just a quarter-life crisis but we can work through it – just something that would make me feel like the eight years of my life spent loving him have not been a total waste of time, or worse still that in all that time he never truly loved me. I twist the knob. He doesn’t call my name, he doesn’t stop me, but before I close the door behind me, I look back at the man I once loved and take a huge breath in. ‘I would like a divorce,’ I say with all the confidence I can muster, then step into the freezing London afternoon, closing the door behind me as though I’m closing a book at the end of a chapter.
With the ice in the air, the tears are falling down my face, stinging my skin as the frosty nip meets them. Then the tears truly come pouring out. The fight in me has gone, yet my body does not feel deflated or weak. There’s adrenaline coursing through my veins, something that I haven’t felt in a long time. It takes me a minute to register that the tears that are falling are not the same tears as before. I gasp, touching the water on my face. They are happy tears.
The exhausting, draining fight for Scott that I have been clinging on to has been replaced by a new fight. With those five little words ‘I would like a divorce’, I feel the weight that has been dragging me down over the last twelve months has lifted. I’m not fighting for Scott anymore. I’m fighting for me.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_fc8f126f-d66c-5bc4-b4fe-9b8f3b598470)
‘Switch it off,’ Madi says in a stern voice. I’m trying as quick as I can to read the email from Lara, my boss, while Madi is breathing down my neck and mumbling about how mobile phones and Wi-Fi connections can affect take-off.
‘You were telling me the other day about how I’ve let my work suffer. This is work. I need to read this,’ I say, shifting in my seat anxiously as I glance at an air stewardess looking my way. I make out the words ‘original script’, ‘deadline’, ‘sorry to do this to you before the holidays’ and ‘last shot for the romance department’ before I hear a polite clearing of the throat from a shadow looming over me. I look up and smile innocently. It’s not like we’ve moved on to the runway yet. I’m not exactly one for breaking rules; I will turn it off.
‘It’s Christmas, babe, didn’t you get all your work done before the break?’ Madi asks, offering me a chocolate button as the plane rumbles to life.
I squint, looking past Madi and out of the tiny aeroplane window, thinking over my to-do list. Though I can’t promise any of it was my best work due to my silly funk, I got all my edits and rewrites sent back in time for the Christmas break. I’m sure of it. Madi pops another chocolate button into her mouth as the plane starts moving towards the runway and I try not to panic over how badly I have let my life fall apart. I am normally more organized than this and remember work I have and have not done.
I absent-mindedly draw another button out of the bag, watching as Gatwick airport recedes into the background. I chew on the delicious chocolate morsel, preparing to keep my ears from popping painfully when it hits me.
I avert my eyes back to the top of the email, as my stomach begins to dance with nerves of excitement as the words start to make sense. I focus on reading in complete sentences, so I don’t get muddled up or mistaken.
‘Harper, I’m sticking out my neck here and putting your script forward. Out of all the submissions I received there are elements of yours I want to explore and keep going back to. You can’t let me down with this one, Harper. I need your best work. I need it submitted no later than Christmas Eve before it gets looked over by the Pegasus production team. Best, Lara.’
There is a small cough to the left of me and when I look up, I receive another pointed glare from the air stewardess. Nodding my understanding, I switch my phone off and stow it away in my backpack under my chair, a flush of red in my cheeks when I hear Madi’s teasing tut as I do so.
‘My script, Mads. It’s my original script.’ I gasp, ignoring her mock scolding. ‘Remember when, gosh it was ages ago now, when they had open submissions for original scripts and Lara let me enter one of mine?’ Madi sits up straighter in her aeroplane seat, munching on the chocolate buttons as though they are popcorn, her perfectly winged eyeliner making her beautiful blue eyes wide, but they are further accentuated by the excitement behind them as I speak.
‘She’s chosen my script to be sent for production, but she needs it edited and tweaked no later than Christmas Eve.’ I gulp, my words fading as I reach the end of my announcement. I lean back in my seat. I can’t remember the last time I looked at that script. It will take me weeks to connect with the characters, go over the plot and the actions and oh gosh, all that smushy romance stuff; how on earth am I supposed to edit it in six days and stomach all that fluff? Editing other people’s scripts over the past year has been hard enough; actually editing my own romantic thoughts, well, I’m not sure I’ve got it in me, especially at this time of year.
‘This is amazing, Harp. I’m so proud of you. She obviously believes it’s going to be picked up for production and sees its potential if she’s asking you for a finer cut. You’ve got this,’ Madi notes, stuffing a chocolate button between my pursed lips. I let the chocolate melt on my tongue as I try and steady my breathing. My confidence upped and left me right around the time that Scott did and just like my husband, it hadn’t returned. Twelve months of doubting myself as a wife, a lover, a friend and – worse still – a writer, has sabotaged one of the things I adore more than anything: my job.
I love smushy fluff. I was born to write smushy fluff. Love is my thing. So what if last Christmas my husband ran away with another women and left me without looking back? It doesn’t matter that I’m currently on the cusp of a divorce and have spent the last year in a gloomy dark hole writing scenes that better fit a horror movie. My job is on the line and therefore I can totally remember what love feels like and write the best, mushiest, gushiest, romance movie the world has ever seen, or something like that, can’t I?
Fighting the aeroplane’s pull to have me sitting up straight in my chair as it lifts into the air, soaring at a steep angle, I lean forward against the force and ruffle through my backpack. It’s rare I go anywhere without my backpack and my collection of notebooks and scrap pieces of paper. Without a shadow of doubt, I know my original script will be tucked into the back of one of my folders or pads. I like to print everything I’m working on so I can edit it away from my computer screen. Picking up a pen can bring on a whole new perspective and often sends waves of inspiration through me. I’m praying in this case it will do just that.
My fingers graze over a thick stack of paper bound together with a paperclip. I pull it from my bag as the plane levels out.
‘Got it,’ I whisper, pulling down the tray table and getting myself situated. Madi is watching me with a smile tugging at her plump red lips.
‘What?’ I say softly, a smile curving up on my own.
‘She’s still in there,’ answers Madi, scrunching up the chocolate button packet. How many of those had I had? Returning my attention to my pencil case, I beam at Madi’s words. She’s right. I have dreamt of this day since I was a little girl: the chance to write scripts and have them made into real-life movies. Working for Pegasus is certainly the right place to live out my dream and I have been a part of so many wonderful projects, but this is the first time in five years that my own original script is being considered for a starring role. There’s a flutter of the old me stirring inside me, a burst of childlike glee showing through the smile that has replaced my initial fear. I can do this. I can’t screw this up.
*
I am wrapped up in my olive-green and grey wool cardigan, with thermals underneath my black leggings, long cream fluffy socks peeking over the top of my brown Ugg like boots, two layers of cotton vests and an oversized jumper, and I’m still not prepared for the frosty nip that slices through my bones the minute we leave the airport.
I’m not the only one taken off guard by the deep freeze of Breckenridge, Colorado in the middle of winter. Madi – in her long red pencil skirt with thermal tights and giant brown teddy coat – is shivering; I can practically hear her teeth chattering. Although the temperature is below freezing, I am sweating through my wool and my stomach feels like it’s full of hyperactive jumping beans, as I search the line of cars pulled up in arrivals for my parents’ faces. I can’t wait to see them.
I force my frozen eyelids to blink in an attempt to see through the icy wind, when I see my mum frantically waving her arms like she is performing the YMCA, five cars away. She’s wearing a smile that could give the Northern Lights a run for their money and it’s like the pain of the last twelve months slowly dissolves. I can’t help the tug of comfort that pulls at my heartstrings at the sight of her. I remind myself that it will not fare me well to cry if I ever want to open my eyes again, but oh how I’ve missed her.
Madi notices my mum too and is rushing over before I can pick up my suitcase. Her skirt swishes past me and I watch her embrace both my parents. My shoulders release some of the tension they have been carrying over the past few weeks as I watch the scene play out.
I’m being careful not to slip on any black ice as I navigate the snowy path to greet Mum and Dad, who I haven’t seen in two years. The minute I am at arm’s length my mother is grabbing me and kissing my cheeks.
‘My darling, look at you,’ she exclaims with her hands around my face, looking over my features, and then she is kissing me some more. My dad is hanging back. I manage to glance his way and he offers me a lazy wink and shrugs his shoulders. This is typical of my dad, never rushing my mum, standing back and admiring her while she does her thing. In my brain there is a catalogue of adoring looks that my dad has sent my mum’s way throughout my life, some when my mum was returning his gaze and others where he would simply pause for a moment just to drink her in. It’s no wonder I became a romantic screenplay writer.
My mum finally releases me and starts fussing over getting Madi in the car. Madi is smiling, her teeth still chattering away. I don’t even mind the cold and I love snow, but today it is a complete shock to the system. I’d take a little London drizzle over my lips turning blue any day.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and standing on my tiptoes to do so. He is far more accustomed to the Colorado weather having lived here for the past six years. He and my mum decided they wanted to get away from the fast-paced London lifestyle; they wanted somewhere more peaceful, where they could get back to their roots and enjoy the outdoors. I was never indoors as a kid. We were often out in the wilderness or enjoying the parks as a family and I loved every minute of it. Sometime during University it became less of a priority.
My dad’s greying hair is longer these days. He is sporting a five o’clock shadow and the softest red and black flannel parka I have ever felt. He instantly warms me with his hug. ‘Hi, kid, it’s good to see you,’ he says, and I can’t tell if it’s the cold that’s causing his eyes to water or he has real tears in his eyes. Whatever it is, I hug him tighter, feeling that pent-up stress in my shoulders relax once more. I don’t have time to open up and tell him I’ve missed him as Madi is pulling at my jacket and tugging me into the car.
‘Hot chocolate and a cosy fireplace are calling my name,’ she says from inside the car.
I sigh and pull away from my dad’s bear hug. ‘I love you, Dad,’ I manage and hope that in those four words he knows that I have missed him and thought about him every day in my two-year absence.
‘I love you too, kiddo. Now come on, let’s get you home.’ He kisses my forehead and makes his way around the car to the driver’s seat as I dive into the back seat next to Madi. I shiver as the warmth of the car hits me.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed my parents, how much their presence comforts me. Or more honestly, I did realize it but have been pushing my needs and wants to the wayside, worried that needing parents was not what adults did. Scott has been coping without his; I wanted to be able to handle it too. But with all the madness of the past year, the anxiety over trying to be an adult is the least of my worries. My eyelids grow heavy as an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion washes over me, mixed with the feeling of being completely content and safe in the company of those in the car. I place my head back against the headrest and stare out the window as the car begins to move.
The last time I was here, sometime late February two years ago, Scott had been with me, watching movies by the fireplace and enjoying candlelit dinners under the stars like something right out of a rom-com. It had, in fact, ended up in one of my rom-coms. The snowy setting, the cuddling to keep each other warm – it had all been perfect.
I can hear his laughter in my head, thinking back to that day when I was jumping up and down on the spot pleading for his help to unzip my snowsuit, so I could use the bathroom. I had been sledding all morning with my parents and by the time we got down the slopes and back to our cabin I was desperate. He had found it hilarious, my face a panic-stricken picture, but he said I looked cute in my frazzled state, teasing me for what had felt like forever before he kissed me softly on the lips and helped me get out of my suit. When I got back from the bathroom feeling relieved and a lot less moody, he had made us hot chocolate and got the fire going in our room.
What am I doing veering down memory lane? I scold myself as I wipe the sniffles from my nose with my woolly sleeve. That person is gone now. I’m here with Madi and my parents and I want to enjoy every minute of this Christmas to make up for the last one; the one that he left in tatters. I’ve been a mere shell of myself for twelve whole months.
Outside of the car the pine trees whizz by in a blur. The sky is a beautiful clear piercing blue and I am momentarily mesmerized by its calmness. I can’t miss this. I won’t let life simply pass me by or have Scott take up any more of my brain.
I feel Madi grab my hand and squeeze it tight. We always spend Christmas together. Even after Scott and I got married, Madi was always a fixture on Christmas Day along with the mince pies with brandy sauce and the pantomime on the telly. I haven’t had a Christmas without Madi since we were ten. It suited her parents for us to have her; it saved them the hassle of an excitable child harping on about Santa Claus.
Madi’s parents attempted the parent thing but I don’t believe they quite got what they were after. If they could have flicked through a child catalogue, they would have gone for something simple: quiet, elegant, girly, a yes-girl who did whatever they asked and never ever put a foot out of line and never had her neat tied-up-with-a-bow hair out of place. What they got was a bold, adventurous, colourful, cheeky and curious child they had no clue what to do with.
‘It’s so good to be here,’ Madi pipes up. ‘Harper and I have more than enough time on our hands to enjoy all the Christmas festivities, after Harper finishes her script that is,’ she adds, giving me an encouraging glare. ‘We haven’t missed the Santa race, have we?’ Madi asks about my mum’s favourite holiday tradition: the Breckenridge Race of the Santas. You would think my mum has lived in Breckenridge all her life with how much she dotes on the place. She and my dad fit in seemingly as soon as they moved here, and I’ve never seen them happier. The whole town comes together to raise money for a charity each year and it is quite the spectacle to witness thousands of Santas running, jogging and walking down the main street of Breckenridge. Mum was quick to lend a helping hand and runs her own tea and cookie station for the Santas as they pass. She gets a thrill out of it and starts baking cookies in the middle of November to prepare.
‘Oh, honey, I’m afraid you missed it. You’ll have to come a little earlier next year if you want to be a part of it. Let me know and I can register you for the race or you can help me at the station,’ my mum says chirpily, already getting ahead of herself and planning next year. My stomach does a triple backflip at the thought of next year, next Christmas. What will I be doing then?
There is a gentle snow flurry falling outside now and in between the giant pine trees are little cabins that look like gingerbread houses. Honest to goodness, my eyes dart around in search of Hansel and Gretel. The multi-coloured lights that twinkle from the rooftops look like jelly tots. The dustings of snow settled on the window ledges could be icing sugar and the blow-up Santas and gingerbread men look like, well, Santa and gingerbread men, but they could almost be edible, made from cookie dough as they sparkle in the distance. I like where my mum and dad live. I had enjoyed my previous visit and understood why they wanted to move to a town that was home to less than five thousand people and had all the outdoor activities that two hippies would ever need, but this was something else.
I feel like I’m in another world as we pull up to my mum and dad’s log cabin that they call home. I almost don’t recognize it, it is covered in so many Christmas lights. There’s even a giant Santa outside wearing sunglasses and a tie-dyed T-shirt. I’m pretty sure my dad had something to do with that one.
The place could be a backdrop for a holiday movie and my mind is starting to whirl with ideas that make my newly appointed task of editing my own original script seem less daunting – which I need considering my inspiration on the plane lasted all of two pages before I resorted to watching comedy movies with Madi. The mush got too much and the only person my brain thought to derive inspiration from was Scott. Needless to say, he didn’t scream joy to the world or happily ever after. I’m hoping my mum and dad’s place will. Madi jumps out of the car behind me as I am staring open-mouthed at my parents’ Christmas grotto. She hugs me from behind.
‘I can see it now,’ she says. ‘Next Christmas on the Pegasus channel, prepare for a Very Hippie Holiday.’ Madi chuckles. She’s gesturing with her arms as though the words are in front of her. ‘I love it.,’ she adds.
‘Me too,’ I say a little breathlessly. And I really do. I admit that I’ve been terrified to spend Christmas with my parents. Normally, their off-the-beaten-path natures and positive energy is contagious and leaves me feeling beyond blessed to call them my parents, but with everything I have been going through with Scott and work, I hadn’t quite felt up to entering the land of the free spirit and ‘love is all you need’. However, standing here in front of my parents’ house, that love – their love – is suddenly making me feel a whole lot stronger and more myself than I have felt in a long time.
‘Come on, honeybee, let’s get you something warm,’ my mum shouts from the wraparound deck. Suddenly, the nerves I felt about next Christmas and looking into the future at the Christmases after that don’t seem so prominent or scary. In fact, the idea that I have no idea of what the future holds tickles me with excitement over the possibilities. I smile up at Mum and nod at the Santa Claus that’s flashing up a peace sign as I walk towards the house. I need to find some of that peace within myself and trust what the universe is offering me. I think I’ve come to just the right place.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_70d2cf2f-2753-50e5-b66f-94a586a0bb6c)
I can hear the low hum of The Grateful Dead playing through the house as I stretch out my legs in my bed, enjoying the soft caress of the blue velvety blanket between my toes. I feel like I’ve gone back in time to when I was sixteen years old, to when it was the norm to wake up to the voices of Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan. I smile at the memories of relaxing with my dad on a Sunday, listening to his music and learning about the bands he grew up with. I miss the days where arguing with him over which Grateful Dead song was their hidden gem was my only care in the world. Ahh the voice of Jerry Garcia could soothe anyone’s soul.
Except I’m not in my teenage bedroom. I’m in a large room with wooden beams and flower garlands draped around a stunning log fireplace. There are potted tall green plants either side of the double king-size bed and black and white photographs of mountains and trees hung up on the log walls. It’s gorgeous. Through the sheer navy and gold star print curtains I can see that it is snowing and my heart flutters back to my sixteen-year-old self once more. Why Scott had insisted we stay in a hotel when we visited my parents escapes me; this room is a dream.
Maybe I could go back in time for the day, before I became an adult, before I met Scott, to when it was just me, my parents and Madi. The Grateful Dead was already playing. I could search out my dad and finish where we left off fifteen years ago in our Grateful Dead debate and spend the rest of the day frolicking in the snow. I am just about to make good on my plan when Madi bursts into my room carrying a tray of something that smells incredible, and my laptop bag. My stomach simultaneously growls in excitement and drops with dread.
‘Right, this should be enough French toast and coffee to keep you fuelled and strong. You will not leave this bedroom until that manuscript is polished and sent and then the festivities can get underway,’ Madi announces, placing the tray and my laptop bag on my bed.
I slowly start to sit up and tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears. I feel like the princess from The Princess and the Pea in this giant bed. I want to protest but Madi moves closer. I am now sitting upright, and I see the giant stack of French toast with what can only be my mum’s diary-free whipped cream, fresh berries and agave syrup. I don’t want to say anything that will jeopardize Madi putting it in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile as Madi sets the tray on the bed in front of me, trying to make sure nothing spills.
‘I know you have a lot going on, but once this script is sent, we can see what Breckenridge has to offer in terms of festive fun and make our own traditions,’ Madi says, moving away from the tray, satisfied that it isn’t going to topple over and spill its contents. I begin to pour myself a cup of coffee from the cafetière when Madi kisses me on the head. ‘Harper Hayes, work your magic and get it done,’ she adds, dropping another kiss on my forehead and turning to leave. Though I’m not technically divorced yet, Madi has recently reverted to calling me by my maiden name and it makes me feel a little more like I’m taking charge and in control.
I take a sip of coffee and smile as the smooth flavour hits my taste buds. Guilt washes over me when I take in Madi’s excitement for being here and her desire to take in as much holiday fun as we can. She didn’t exactly have a Holly Jolly Holiday last year, what with being cooped up with me and trying to mend the pieces of my broken heart. She’d never hold that against me, but I can’t put her through the same thing this year. ‘Thank you, Mads, and thank you for being here,’ I manage. Madi stops walking and turns to face me.
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,’ she says before sauntering out the door in her pink and white polka dot dress that she has layered with a long-sleeved grey top. Talking about going back in time, Madi wouldn’t be out of place in the Fifties. She embodies the word pin-up. She is sexy mixed with elegance and modesty and absolute perfection in my eyes.
We draw quite the eye whenever we venture out of our writing caves and brave the real world, together. Madi in her bright colours, bleach blonde hair, kitten heels and tattoos occasionally on show and me with my Rapunzel locks and a hippie dress sense that I never grew out of. I had flowers in my eyes as a kid and wanted to wear everything my mum wore. The long skirts, wool cardigans and lace everything. I adore lace. Just like when I was a kid, everything is either oversized or cropped and the more lace the better.
I prop up some pillows behind me and polish off two slices of French toast dripping with agave syrup, before I switch on my laptop.
I can do this, I say to myself. I can polish up and edit this script. The characters are in love; I know what it’s like to be in love. I sigh and take another huge bite of French toast, making sure to cover it in whipped cream.
Jerry Garcia croons through my dad’s old stereo. The lyrics from ‘Sugar Magnolia’ reach my eardrums. I smile. That would also be the name of my mum and dad’s shop. They sell organic and natural, homemade, well, everything really, straight from their workshop. Soaps, candles, teas and baked goods; all beautiful and delicious. I can’t wait to test out their new products while I’m here. That was my most favourite job growing up.
I close my eyes, savouring the sweet flavours lingering on my tongue. I push any negative thoughts away and allow the happy memories to take over my brain, trying to envision Jerry Garcia singing the soulful melody to his love. Despite my not quite feeling the love myself, the music does make me feel more in tune with my creative self. I start typing.
It can’t be more than an hour later and I’m lying on the side of the bed, my hair dangling over the edge and I’m swishing it side to side, a part of me hoping that my mum dusted the floor before my arrival. I have been hit with a sudden surge of writer’s block.
My leading man is in a room with his ex. They are just talking when the ex makes her move, planting a kiss on his lips just as his fiancée walks in. I need the leading lady to believe it’s not what it seems, but I’m stuck. Why should she trust her fiancé?
I sit up, the blood rushing to my head not helping matters. Come on, back to work. I try to rally myself. Viewers want to be whisked away in this beautiful fairy tale. Who says fairy tales aren’t true? You must open your heart to love. Love is everywhere, and my job is to fill everyone’s heart with love. I choke on the sweet taste of syrup that is lingering on my tongue. I didn’t fill Scott’s heart with love. Now that is someone else’s job.
I push the laptop away at the unpleasant thought and climb out of the bed, tiptoeing to save my feet from the chilly wooden floorboards. I pick up a few logs from the wicker basket at the side of the fireplace and place them in the grate. With the matches I find on the mantel, I light the fire and sit cross-legged on the deep purple rug in front of it.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I don’t want to think about Scott and his girlfriend. I want the nightmares of seeing them kiss to go away. But why can’t my brain let go of him? I really need to finish this script. Lara has shown interest in my first original screenplay and has given me one more chance to prove myself as a romance writer; I can’t mess this up.
I take a deep breath in and watch as each log in the fireplace ignites. I get lost in the rising flames and fiddle with the fluff of the purple rug. Affairs aren’t exactly unheard of. It’s just that I never in a million years saw Scott as someone who could do that. I would have done anything to make him happy, to work on the problem, if he would have just let me in on it.
I brush my thumb over the tiny heart tattoo on my left wrist. I had gotten it shortly after Scott and I got back from our honeymoon, seven years ago now. I had been in a state of newlywed bliss and on the spur of the moment, while I was with Madi when she was getting the rose on her shoulder, I decided to get one to symbolize my love for Scott and to remind myself that when things got tough to never forget the love we had for each other. Now he has simply moved on with his life. I know I must do this too, but I can’t seem to find the switch inside me to flick it to ‘stop thinking about Scott’.
I return to my spot on the bed and nibble on a now cold, but still delicious, slice of French toast and pour myself a lukewarm coffee and get back to the task at hand.
*
By 7 p.m., I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my screenplay is not going to be finished today. I make my way into the living room where I am greeted with a glow from the orange and yellow flames that sway in the fireplace, the light glaring from the TV and the multi-coloured lights that flicker from the tree in a corner of the room.
My mum’s tree has always been beautiful, but out here against the rustic décor, the wooden ceiling beams and stone fireplace the lights, the flower ornaments and homemade wooden Santas and sleighs are something else.
Madi is curled up under a turquoise throw on one side of the L-shaped couch and my parents are snuggled up together on the other side. I make myself known and sit down near Madi, so I can pinch some of her blanket.
‘What are we watching?’ I ask, as my mum gets up and walks into the open kitchen that’s part of the spacious living room area. Madi looks over at me.
‘Oh, just a Pegasus Christmas classic that had a bunch of input from an incredible writer I know,’ Madi answers, giving me a wink and pulling her long legs towards her so that I can get more of the blanket.
‘It’s one of yours then?’ I say, genuinely smiling and returning Madi a wink of my own.
‘So, did you get it finished?’ Madi asks, sitting up straighter. My dad looks over.
I stretch my arms above my head, loosening the knots in my neck, as my brain stumbles over the word ‘no.’ With all eyes on me a wave of panic swoops in, catching me off guard. Reluctant to disappoint Madi and wanting to get the festive fun underway, I have no control over the words that spill from my mouth next.
‘Yes, I did, I sent it all off too.’ Inside, I’m cringing. I’ve just lied to Madi, but I can’t bring myself to be the reason she doesn’t get to celebrate Christmas for the second year in a row.
‘Atta girl,’ Madi says, offering me a high five. I grin and clap my hand against hers. Madi’s eyes linger on mine a touch longer than needed and I quickly turn my attention to the TV, not wanting her to see the truth in my eyes.
‘That’s fantastic, sweetheart,’ Mum says, coming up behind us with her own concoction of mulled wine. It’s a blend of herbal teas, no alcohol needed, and I haven’t had it since my parents moved out here. The cinnamon hits my nostrils and I immediately sink back into the soft couch, momentarily allowing my worries to melt away with each warm sip. But with the Pegasus Entertainment adverts buzzing in the background, my moment of bliss is short-lived. Not only do I have to put my past aside to write the best screenplay of my career, I now have to figure out how to do it in three days without my best friend knowing.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_14903b9e-a445-5011-adbb-8d04e9ea9e6d)
The next day I make my way down to the kitchen with the hope that Madi might have decided to treat herself to a lie-in, so that I can grab some coffee and sneak in an hour or two of editing before she wakes. But the minute I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by my one and only, who informs me that my parents are out and that the day is ours for the taking. She’s wearing her signature turquoise headscarf and her blonde hair is pinned up in a bun, with mint Converse and a white tee under a thin strap denim playsuit. She looks perky and bright making me yearn for a dose of what I would really prefer right now: a day with my favourite person. All thoughts of writing dissipate.
In comparison to Madi, I haven’t parted with my oversized olive cardigan since we got off the plane, my hair is a tangled and knotted mess, and the black leggings I’m sporting could do with a wash. I have yet to put any make-up on my face. I stare at Madi’s bold pink lips and envy them a touch. I catch her looking me up and down and I can see her brain ticking. My ensemble represents my frazzled state. I can’t actually remember the last time I felt one hundred per cent myself, but looking at Madi I feel motivated to channel my usual vigour when it comes to choosing outfits every day.
I look up from my comforting mug of liquid gold in time to see Madi curiously give me a once-over, and then she smiles. I smile back, an idea coming to my mind.
‘Mads, will you do my make-up today?’ I ask, feeling a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. I love it when Madi does my make-up. If she wasn’t so brilliant at writing screenplays and if I didn’t love working with her so much, I’d suggest she become a make-up artist. Madi responds by shooting up off her chair, grabbing her mug of coffee and hooking my elbow.
‘Absolutely, Harp. It would be my pleasure. Then I thought we could go to the Handmade Holiday Market. Everywhere is within walking distance around here and Jerry was telling me whichever way we walk we will find something to do or see,’ she says, marching in the direction of my room, taking me with her.
The spark in my belly is now a full-on flame; warmth takes over my body. The Handmade Holiday Market sounds perfectly idyllic and wonderful. Madi knows me so well. Plus, looking through the glass double doors and the large windows that surround my parents’ house, I can’t hide the patter of excitement that awakens in my stomach when I see the high mounds of snow and forest that they look out on to. I can see why my parents love it here. The trees are magnificent, towering over the house with their thick trunks and spindly branches with deep green thistles and a coating of icing-sugar snow. You could get lost pointing out every intricate detail that made each one so unique despite their shared name. In fact, I am getting lost in them and momentarily forget that Madi is waiting for my response.
‘That sounds lovely, Mads; maybe I can pick up something for Mum and Dad,’ I say. It’s been ages since I got my parents anything truly thoughtful and the guilt hits my gut as I remember yet another gift card that I sent them in the post last year. Living so far away, it became the most practical option. It wasn’t like it was entirely thoughtless. I love gift cards and think they’re the perfect gift for people to treat themselves to something they ordinarily might not allow themselves to. I often used to get so busy at this time of year, what with Scott’s family living long-distance too and him having a brother and sister and nieces and nephews to accommodate, gift cards were the easiest options all round, even though I hate to admit it.
‘Ooh and we can find a cute brunch spot while we’re out too. I wonder if the markets are like back home.’ Madi cocks an eyebrow at me. We love finding local family-run cafés whenever we visit a new place. Even back in London we like to make it a fortnightly affair to visit a place we haven’t eaten at before and go for a coffee or have a change of scenery while we’re writing. And at Christmas, Nutella crepes from London’s Winter Wonderland are a must. The guilt is stacking up this morning as I think of all the things I have neglected and brushed to the wayside over the past year.
‘Brunch out sounds perfect,’ I say as we enter my room. I rummage through my suitcase and pull out knits, leggings and floaty dresses while Madi sees to collecting my make-up. In the bathroom I throw some water on my face and with one look at my hair, decide that I’ll let Madi see to it; she’s been brushing my hair since we were three and always manages to detangle it without causing me too much pain. I go to hang up my dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door when I hear the sound of Elton John’s ‘I’m Still Standing’.
For a moment I don’t know what to do. I haven’t listened to break-up songs, because it feels like I don’t deserve them. My fear over not being stronger since Scott left and the fact that I’ve allowed my situation to get me down, made me feel like a fraud. And forget about the sad ones – knowing I wasn’t the only one in Scott’s life, that I wasn’t enough? Well, those sad songs rendered me crushed and humiliated.
I pause at the bathroom door at the sound of Elton’s voice, mixed with the softer melodies of Madi’s voice, and catch her wielding a hairbrush, twirling around the room singing along. Without warning, laughter bursts out of me as I watch her swinging hips. The beat of the song reverberates off the walls. She spots me and throws me the can of hairspray. The chorus kicks in at the same time as my adrenaline takes over. Memories of dancing with my parents when I was a kid at all the festivals come flooding back, loosening my limbs. Gripping on to my make-believe microphone I join in Madi’s impromptu karaoke and let Elton’s words revive my spirit.
*
My dad was right. We’ve walked a stone’s throw from the house and are currently contemplating which direction to take. One way looks to be nothing but forest, the most glorious trees that made visions of Snow White dance in my brain; the animals that we might come across, the trees that told stories in their bark. To the left stands gingerbread house after gingerbread house. If we go that way, I feel we will be gone for days exploring every minute detail of each garland and decoration that adorned each house. The path straight ahead bears no immediate destination, just a road that gleams with slippery snow and ice. In the distance, through the misty fog, there is a faint outline of mountains.
The cold air hits my face and I wave my arms out to the sides of my puffer coat. I feel like I am the leading lady in one of my holiday rom-coms, the world in front of me for the taking. A choice awaits me. For a moment I feel a shot of adrenaline course through me. There is beauty everywhere I look, and I want to run in all the directions, but I don’t quite feel courageous enough and fear takes over the adrenaline abruptly. I look over to Madi, whose blue eyes are gazing somewhere far away. We tend to share the same dazed look when stories and plots are zipping through our minds. She’s grinning broadly with her hands on her hips. I try to dispel my fear to appreciate this moment with her and take it all in.
‘Which way?’ I shout. My lips are buried behind my woolly purple scarf.
‘I have no idea,’ Madi shouts back, then she takes my hand and laughs. ‘How about we take the path that looks to lead to the unknown? It seems like the more adventurous and dangerous option.’ She wiggles her eyebrows at me, then hooks her arm through mine as we begin to walk up the treacherous path straight ahead.
‘You forgot to add terrifying?’ I say, raising my eyebrows at her, catching the double meaning behind her choice of words: the unknown path and the adventure. I know that, good or bad, what lies before me is going to be an adventure. I grew up with parents who believed the universe had plans for us and that we just had to trust it. I just hadn’t accounted for those plans to include divorce and my heart feeling like it was in a million pieces.
Quite frankly, I am petrified of what is lurking in the unknown. But the less I think about that now, the better. I put one foot in front of the other and focus on the golden sun reflecting off the snow, causing rainbows to dance in the trodden-down snow that has turned to ice. If I don’t quite trust the universe yet, one thing I know is that I trust Madi. I follow her lead and we walk in a calm and comfortable silence for what I feel is coming up to a mile.
I’m taking in as much of the surroundings as I can, but my head is down much of the time as I shield my face from the frosty breeze and do my best not to fall.
When I do look up, I feel as though I have walked through a portal that has transported us to The North Pole. Then I remember how my mother described Main Street at this time of year. It is like London’s Winter Wonderland but the decorations, the atmosphere and the aromatic smells are multiplied by a thousand. The old-town-USA-style shops resemble nothing short of Santa’s grotto. Each one bears unique tinsel, ornaments and magical window displays. The streetlamps are wearing candy cane stripes and the further we walk into the square, the more stalls we see selling everything from homemade fudge and chocolates, to homemade soaps and jewellery. Off to one side they have a Santa station and right before my eyes …
‘Are those real reindeer?’ Madi gasps. Her mouth opens wide.
‘I’m going to say yes,’ I reply, unable to take my eyes off Santa’s pack animals. They are beautiful; their fur is shining as they make soft grunting sounds as the children put their palms out to feed them.
‘This place is amazing,’ Madi gushes as we begin to move again. I can sense Madi is walking towards the smell of whatever is floating up in the air that is making me drool. I can smell fried potatoes and tomatoes and hear sizzling coming from a giant pan. Then cinnamon hits me in a wave of sweet pleasure. I will be happy if the only decision I must make today is savoury or sweet or, more realistically, which to eat first.
The stalls are catching my gaze, but my stomach is following Madi, letting my brain know that food will be sourced and eaten first and then it can divulge in its creative need.
We find a stall that is serving pancakes and I can see Madi’s eyes bulge as she stops before it, her eyes wandering over the menu. I know full well that she wants to order everything. I surprise myself having already made my decision that I want the pancakes with fried peaches. They smell heavenly. I watch Madi and then turn my attention to the man behind the counter. I give him a small smile to apologize for the hold-up, but he seems happy to study Madi and give her all the time she needs. He has a kind face when he nods at me to acknowledge my smile. His hair is blonde, his eyes are hazel, and his features are warm. He returns to preparing food.
Madi’s thorough read of the menu is something I’m used to so patience isn’t a problem as I am enjoying observing the scenes around me. I am fascinated by people-watching and have been from a young age. My parents always had the most interesting people round to our house when I was growing up from doctors, to gardeners, to struggling artists and teachers. I loved watching them interact with one another. My parents welcome everyone. It’s not surprising really that I started writing stories and scripts in my head, imagining the exotic lives that these people led. But it was the love and passion that burned in the eyes of my parents and all those who visited that captivated me most, be it the love they had for each other or the love they had for their work and the world around them. It’s no wonder I became a fan of Pegasus Entertainment.
The man finishes serving a lady in front of us and then leans casually against the wooden wall frame. He catches me watching him and gives me a confident nod. Madi looks over at me and follows my line of vision to the man and chuckles.
‘I am so so sorry,’ she says, waving her hands around. ‘Sorry for holding you up, everything just sounds so good. Right, I know what I’m having,’ she says, standing tall and pushing her shoulders back. Her cheeks are flushed red from our cold walk and her red lips are glistening with the morning dew. She looks beautiful. I step forward and wrap my arms around her shoulders. I love Madi and I love her confidence.
‘No need for apologies, what can I get you …?’ The man sticks out his hand and raises his eyebrows, searching for our names. His cheeks are flushed pink and my heart tugs a little at his kindness.
‘I’m Madi and this is Harper,’ Madi says, reaching out to shake his hand.
‘I’m Colt, it’s nice to meet you both.’
‘It’s nice to meet you too Colt,’ Madi says. His eyes linger on the both of us for a few minutes and I wonder what’s going through his head. Our accents give away that we are tourists, but maybe he knows my parents? My mum and I sometimes get mistaken for sisters. The thought makes me smile.
Madi reaches up to grab my hands that are dangling from around her shoulders.
‘Please can we get pancakes and peaches for me and, Mads, what are you having?’
Madi orders her peach-stuffed waffles and Colt gets to work informing us that we can take a seat and he will bring out his creations once they are ready. Madi and I fall in step to find a table. I release my arms from around her neck but tuck an arm into hers as we walk.
We take a seat at a wooden table with little log benches; a heat lamp is standing tall to the side of us and I must admit that between Madi’s and my impromptu dance party earlier this morning, the Colorado air, Colt’s kindness and the smell of cinnamon peaches toasting, my fragile heart feels full. Currently my biggest concern is if Madi will let me try some of her waffles.
‘Colt is sweet,’ Madi expresses, rubbing her hands together. ‘Everything on the menu looks so good, we might have to come back later,’ she adds, excitement in her tone.
‘This place is magical,’ I say, looking around. I breathe in a lungful of the crisp air just as Colt appears and places two plates of incredible-looking – and smelling – dishes in front of us.
I thank him through a smile and give Madi a wide-eyed grin. It’s hard not to smile genuinely when you’re looking at a plate of bright orange peaches that are covered in sweet cinnamon syrup, alongside a stack of golden-brown pancakes drizzled in dark chocolate and a heavy helping of vanilla whipped cream. I think I love Colt.
The flavours hit my taste buds and I relax into each bite as it warms my body. My shoulders uncurl from around my neck where they were trying to keep the icy bite at bay, and I have to admit it’s monumentality difficult to be unhappy with a mouthful of all the combinations that make up my pancake dish.
There’s a long silence while Madi and I consume half of the contents on our plates, then without saying a word we each pick up our plate and hand it to the other, swapping dishes and digging in once more. We barely stop for breath. Not to be outdone by the pancakes, the waffles are out-of-this-world delicious.
Without warning on my last bite of waffle, my chewing starts to slow, my hands begin to tremble, and my eyes have gone misty.
I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness to be here in this setting with my best friend, but the love is suddenly mixing with a cocktail of unwelcome feelings inside of me. I don’t deserve this happiness. I don’t deserve this delicious food. I don’t deserve for Colt to smile at me – he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know the person I am.
‘Am I a nice person?’ The question comes out of my mouth before I have time to stop it. I can’t quite figure out the inner workings of my brain. One minute it’s happy, the next I feel like my soul is suffocating. When will the intensity of emotions that came with learning of Scott’s affair and him walking away in such an unpleasant fashion leave me alone?
I didn’t have the slightest clue that I wasn’t satisfying him. Images of me wrapping my arms around him when he came home after work, smothering him with kisses and giddily talking about our future together are playing in black and white. How could I have been so selfish? What kind of wife was I?
I swallow down my waffle. My salty tears mix with the sweet syrup on my lips. My whole body has stiffened except for my hands that are trembling.
I must look like a right sight to the shoppers milling about the square.
Madi puts down her knife and fork and leans over to me, grapping my wrists. I’m chewing and sobbing simultaneously.
‘Oh, no, no no, sweetheart,’ Madi says, dabbing at my face with a napkin. ‘Sweetheart, you have been my best friend since we were three. You know I tell you how it is. Harper, you are the nicest person. Do you drive me mad sometimes? Yes. Does your ability to talk for hours on end about a script you’re working on sometimes make me crazy? Hell yes. Do I like pulling hairballs out of my drain every time you stay over? Heck no. Do I enjoy when you get hangry or when you are stubborn and won’t let me choose the movie on a Friday night? Not really. But all those things do not make you a bad person. Scott choosing to lie to you and cheat and disrespect your marriage does not make you a bad person. We all have things to work on, either together in a relationship or on our own. We can always better ourselves and our relationships; no one is perfect, including you, Harp. But that doesn’t mean what he did was anything short of selfish, cowardly and cruel. This is on him, Harper, not you.’
Madi is leaning over the table, propped up on her elbows, looking me straight in the eyes and catching my tears with her tissue.
‘Why does it hurt so bad, Mads?’ I stutter. Madi brushes the hair from my eyes and wipes some more tears away.
‘Because you loved him with all you had, and you shared a part of you with him that no one else got to see. Besides yours truly being your number-one best friend forever, he was your best friend. It’s OK to miss him. It’s natural to miss him. But don’t ever let his actions make you feel guilty. What goes on in a marriage is discussed within a marriage by the two people in it. He should have respected you enough to communicate with you, to give you the chance to figure it out together and to look after each other the way you always have, and he didn’t. I don’t care if you made him listen to that Beach Boys song you love and he hates, on repeat every day, he should have talked to you about it and that’s on him.’
I take a shuddery breath, grateful for the heat lamp that is keeping me warm despite my insides feeling frozen. I feel a mixture of pathetic and thankful, wondering what on earth I would do without Madi. She has been on this crazy roller-coaster ride with for the past year and has yet to try and jump off. I appreciate her for allowing me to voice my pain, as the minute I get my thoughts out in the open I feel freed.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, picking up a tissue and seeing to my own probably very smudged make-up face, and dabbing the tears away. Allowing Madi to sit back on the bench, being propped up on her elbows couldn’t have been the comfiest.
Just then Colt comes over and puts what looks to be a milkshake with two straws in front of us. He smiles, his warm and awkward smile. ‘It’s a Rocky Mountain hot chocolate. It makes all your troubles go away. I say that, but I can’t guarantee it as you two are my guinea pigs – it’s a new concoction. I was feeling inspired.’ He glances sweetly at us both.
Colt nods and walks away after we thank him, and I notice Madi’s lips already on her straw. As I see the creamy chocolate slowly shrinking further down the glass thanks to Madi devouring its contents, I quickly take a sip. I don’t want to miss out. Not only does it look incredible, but it tastes it too.
With one sip I am transported to toasted marshmallow and creamy chocolate heaven. It’s like a campfire in my mouth, in a good way. We devour the shake, which I’m certain had medicinal properties – maybe it’s the cacao they use – before we walk past the hut to inform Colt that he must add his inspired concoction to the menu. Then we thank him for a scrumptious brunch before we go on our merry way for a mooch around the stalls.
I have enough sugar in my system giving me a high that I hope will keep me afloat for the rest of the day.
The Handmade market is everything I thought it would be and more. The stall owners are friendly and eager to talk to us about their crafts. I feel inspired to pick up my pen and write about it all. I manage to pick up something special for my mum and dad and my heart is warm with the anticipation of being able to give them their Christmas present in person this year.
I don’t think about Scott for the entire afternoon as I take in every stall. Colt’s milkshake worked wonders. Unfortunately, it worked too well as by the time we venture back to the house, my good intentions of turning on my laptop and looking over my edits have disappeared faster than our plate of pancakes and waffles, and I feel like I could fall asleep standing up the minute I lay eyes on my bed.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_840a3762-a92e-50d3-a00a-0c4c385fc317)
It’s five in the morning and two days before Christmas Eve and I can’t contain my curiosity about the forest any longer. I put on my brown snow boots, throw my hair in a loose braid and scarf, and tell my laptop that I will be back in no more than an hour to see to finally finishing off my script. Then I wrap myself up in my wool cardigan and olive-green puffer jacket with my well-worn leggings and sneak out of the sleeping house.
The fresh-fallen snow crunches as I step onto the deck; the air is cool but pleasant. I can hear an owl hooting in between the trees. I take that as my guide and follow his calls. The moon and the stars are enough to light my way and, somehow, I don’t feel scared being out here alone. My parents’ house lies in darkness. I believe the Christmas lights are on a timer to conserve energy. I walk past the hippie Santa and towards the towering pines. As I walk closer, the grandeur of the trees hits me and I’m immediately enchanted.
I trace my hands over the bark. Shavings of snow have settled in the ridges and cracks giving it a frosty tint. If I look closely enough, I can see the fuzzy outline of each snowflake that is hugging the trunk. I peel my eyes away from the first pine and follow a straight path past the other, not wanting to weave in and out of the trees too much in case I get lost. I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. Scott wasn’t much of an outdoors man. The one time we ventured out here to visit my parents, he’d opt to stay indoors or visit the local bars and restaurants over getting up close and personal with nature.
As a kid I was always outside. Even in London, my parents walked everywhere, and I can count on one hand the weekends that weren’t spent at a park. Family holidays were spent hiking in Cornwall, visiting farms in the Cotswolds, or backpacking around Yosemite in California. It wasn’t until I got with Scott and moved into the middle of London away from my parents that I stopped paying attention to the great outdoors. And when my writing took over and I started working for Pegasus Entertainment I fell easily into a routine with Madi; curling up behind my desk, wrapping myself up in blankets on the couch, tapping away at my laptop. When we did acknowledge the outside world, it was for a walk straight to a coffee shop, parking our butts inside and commenting on the rustic, outdoorsy feel of the indoors; the irony wasn’t lost on me.
Up ahead I find a clearing where a couple of trees have been cut down making short stumps perfect for sitting on. I sit down and pull out the notebook that I had stuffed in my coat pocket. I look up from my spot on the stump and where the trees have been cut back leads to an opening in the canopy where the sky peeks through. It takes my breath away. The stars are golden and twinkling against the lightening sky, there’s a slight touch of pink mixing with the wispy grey and blue as the sun is beginning to rise and I can hear the faint twit-twooing of the owl I saw swooping in to the trees in the earlier darkness.
This would be the most idyllic spot for a romantic picnic and star gazing with your one and only. I shudder. I don’t want to ruin the moment thinking about Scott or romance, so I take a chilly breath in and watch the sad thoughts go by, replacing them with the sound of the owl and the rustling of the pines in the wind.
I put my pen to the paper and don’t pause to concern myself with conscious thinking. I write, and I write some more. I dare to write my deepest wishes, the scenes I can envision playing out in the beauty of this spot and the magic that nature can hold. It occurs to me that while, yes, a romantic night for two under these stars would be quite something, it’s incredibly special and beautiful by myself too. As I take in my surroundings once more, I don’t feel so alone.
The sky is much lighter when I next look up. Gone is the inky grey and black, replaced by a fabulous orange and pink, and I have but a few pages left in my notebook. My body, though now I notice it feels cold, is not tense. My shoulders are at ease, my eyebrows relaxed and my feet like feathers on the ground, delicately resting on the pure white snow.
Writing gives me that release and I remind myself how lucky I am to love my job and to be working for a company that I adore so much. I smile as I fold my notebook gently to push it back inside my pocket; I need to get back and finish this script. I stand from the stump and do a little star jump to encourage the blood back to my feet when I hear crunching to the right of me. In my calm state, I don’t worry, I simply hold still not wanting to scare whatever animal it might be with my crazy jumping, if I am trespassing in its home.
Two giant snow boots come into view attached to my dad who steps into the clearing, holding two Christmas mugs. I can smell rich black coffee and a vanilla tea. Dad hands me the mug full of burning-hot coffee and I take it gratefully, with a smile.
‘I thought you might have turned into an icicle by now,’ he says with a playful smirk. Wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he takes a sip of his tea, his bluey-green eyes assertive and on me.
‘How did you know I was out here?’ I ask, holding his gaze and knowing full well that my dad would always know where to find me. I was twelve the first, and only, time I ran away. My parents and I have always had a special bond and I never truly went through any awkward phase where I hated them. To me, my dad was the coolest person in the world. He took me to concerts, let me listen to music that other parents wouldn’t let their kids listen to and I never felt trapped or like my parents wanted me to be, dress or act a certain way – not like Madi’s did. As long as I was kind, did well in school and acted with love, there wasn’t a problem.
So, it had been a bit of a shock when I left a note one Friday night telling them that they were the worst parents in the world and that I had run away. Because I had never done this before, they didn’t have a record to go off, a pattern to follow. I could have been anywhere. But an hour into my having run away my dad found me in the most hidden-away part of Hyde Park.
If I remember correctly, I’d actually forgotten why I was mad by the time he had turned up. My dad always looked so cool in his ripped black jeans and vintage tees and faux leather jacket, that I greeted him with a wide smile. He had looked at me and said, ‘Nice choice, I used to come here a lot too.’ And that was pretty much the end of my grumpy years. I think a kid had got to me at school that day, picked on me for having dirty hippie parents and a dad who made soap for a living. I believed the kid and I let him get to me. I didn’t care to be laughed at. But when my dad walked into the alley looking like a dadlier, but still incredibly cool version of Jim Morrison, the memory of the kid’s opinion had vanished in a matter of seconds. My parents had taught me better than that – if it wasn’t constructive or kind then I didn’t need to listen to other people’s opinions.
‘Remember that day when you were twelve and ran away? Well, I still got it,’ my dad replies. He’s right, he hasn’t lost an essence of his cool since that day and I smile into my coffee that he is thinking about the same thing I am.
‘This place is beautiful, Dad, but even more so this time of year. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to visit for the holidays.’ I look around taking in the rising sun hitting the bark of the trees, making the snow sparkle. Dad looks around too, with a fond smile on his face, then his eyes come to rest on my face once more.
‘Are you going to talk to me, kid, or would you like your space?’ my dad asks, always so considerate of my needs.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since my dad and I had an honest to goodness heart-to-heart and that pains me a little. Since my last visit, I’ve made time for quick phone calls and the odd Skype call, but I haven’t really made them a priority. Standing in front of my dad now, I don’t know how I’ve got through the last two years without his guidance and wisdom. Maybe that’s why I’m in this predicament I find myself in now with Scott and my lack of enthusiasm for work or anything in life.
I look into my dad’s blue-hazel eyes, which match my own, and the sparkle that is reserved for me is still there. Mum tells me he has had that since the day I was born, and it has never faded. I can’t lie to him. With my dad, the wall I have built over the past year comes crashing down. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I’m not a guarded person, I’m more an open book. I wear my heart on my sleeve. The closed-off and reserved person I am becoming is starting to scare me. Under the covers of my bed, hiding from the world, is not where I want to spend the rest of my life.
‘I’m struggling, Dad.’ The words come out surprisingly calm. My dad’s face wrinkles, but his olive complexion, grey stubble and kind eyes make me feel safe and free from judgement. He puts an arm through mine and starts walking between the trees. My toes are grateful for the movement. The thoughts inside my head have been distracting me from how cold I have been getting. I take another sip of coffee and with the blood now pumping through my veins, my body is warming up again.
We’re walking in silence and I’m getting lost in the sherbet-pink-coloured clouds that are disappearing into the baby blue sky that is peeking through the canopy of oak.
‘I’m here to listen,’ is all my dad says and it’s all I need. I pull my attention away from the falling snowflakes, from watching them glide through the air and nestle on the blanket of snow below and I take a cool breath in. It’s the first time I’m going to speak out loud to someone other than Madi about what’s happened between Scott and I, and even though it’s my dad an unexpected terror washes over me. It’s unpleasant and not warranted. This is my dad, I tell myself, but the terror remains stubbornly in place.
Suddenly I’m scared that my dad might scold me for doing something wrong, or that he will give me a disappointed look for being a bad wife and not being strong enough to get over this whole ordeal. I feel like a failure; my shoulders droop as we walk. I want to run away, to throw my mug across the snowy path. The battle between conflicting thoughts in my brain is immense. A strange mix of emotions is stirring in the cauldron that has become my stomach, a dash of guilt, a drop of humiliation, a sprinkle of worthlessness and a splash of am I a terrible person if I open my mouth and speak badly of Scott? It’s all there and it’s all uncomfortable. Scott’s words were ‘It’s your fault.’ Would my dad think it was my fault too?
My dad squeezes my arm that is linked through his, as though to let me know it’s OK and with this small act of love, the floodgates open. I turn to him, heaving heavy sobs. My shoulders are moving up and down, my back is hunched over and my face buried in my dad’s thick, soft jacket. My knees are shaking, doing their best to hold me up while small cries escape my lips in intervals, between breathless gasps.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=48669382) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Lucy Knott
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: When life doesn’t go to plan, you can write yourself a new story… From the outside, Harper Hayes looks like she is winning at life. She has an amazing job as a script writer, a wonderful house, an awesome best friend and an incredible husband. Yes, life seems to be pretty, dare she say it? Perfect? But life is about to throw more than one spanner in the works of Harper’s picture perfect existence and at the busiest time of the year too. As Christmas approaches, Harper will have some soul searching to do to decide if there really is such thing as the happily-ever-after she writes about. For fans of Josie Silver, Karen Swan and Sarah Morgan, Lucy Knott weaves a festive story that will move you to laughter and tears. Readers love Lucy Knott! ‘A wonderful holiday read’ ‘Tugs at the heart strings’ ‘Full of romance, joy and heartbreak’ ‘I laughed, I cried, and thoroughly enjoyed this book!’