Читать книгу Wishes Under a Starlit Sky - Lucy Knott - Страница 9

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.