Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

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.