Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

‘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.