Wishes Under a Starlit Sky. Lucy Knott

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ