Читать книгу Wishes Under a Starlit Sky - Lucy Knott - Страница 12

‘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.