by Lucy Knott
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.
Chapter 4
I can hear the low hum of The Grateful Dead playing through the house as I stretch out my legs in my bed, enjoying the soft caress of the blue velvety blanket between my toes. I feel like I’ve gone back in time to when I was sixteen years old, to when it was the norm to wake up to the voices of Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan. I smile at the memories of relaxing with my dad on a Sunday, listening to his music and learning about the bands he grew up with. I miss the days where arguing with him over which Grateful Dead song was their hidden gem was my only care in the world. Ahh the voice of Jerry Garcia could soothe anyone’s soul.
Except I’m not in my teenage bedroom. I’m in a large room with wooden beams and flower garlands draped around a stunning log fireplace. There are potted tall green plants either side of the double king-size bed and black and white photographs of mountains and trees hung up on the log walls. It’s gorgeous. Through the sheer navy and gold star print curtains I can see that it is snowing and my heart flutters back to my sixteen-year-old self once more. Why Scott had insisted we stay in a hotel when we visited my parents escapes me; this room is a dream.
Maybe I could go back in time for the day, before I became an adult, before I met Scott, to when it was just me, my parents and Madi. The Grateful Dead was already playing. I could search out my dad and finish where we left off fifteen years ago in our Grateful Dead debate and spend the rest of the day frolicking in the snow. I am just about to make good on my plan when Madi bursts into my room carrying a tray of something that smells incredible, and my laptop bag. My stomach simultaneously growls in excitement and drops with dread.
‘Right, this should be enough French toast and coffee to keep you fuelled and strong. You will not leave this bedroom until that manuscript is polished and sent and then the festivities can get underway,’ Madi announces, placing the tray and my laptop bag on my bed.
I slowly start to sit up and tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears. I feel like the princess from The Princess and the Pea in this giant bed. I want to protest but Madi moves closer. I am now sitting upright, and I see the giant stack of French toast with what can only be my mum’s diary-free whipped cream, fresh berries and agave syrup. I don’t want to say anything that will jeopardize Madi putting it in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile as Madi sets the tray on the bed in front of me, trying to make sure nothing spills.
‘I know you have a lot going on, but once this script is sent, we can see what Breckenridge has to offer in terms of festive fun and make our own traditions,’ Madi says, moving away from the tray, satisfied that it isn’t going to topple over and spill its contents. I begin to pour myself a cup of coffee from the cafetière when Madi kisses me on the head. ‘Harper Hayes, work your magic and get it done,’ she adds, dropping another kiss on my forehead and turning to leave. Though I’m not technically divorced yet, Madi has recently reverted to calling me by my maiden name and it makes me feel a little more like I’m taking charge and in control.
I take a sip of coffee and smile as the smooth flavour hits my taste buds. Guilt washes over me when I take in Madi’s excitement for being here and her desire to take in as much holiday fun as we can. She didn’t exactly have a Holly Jolly Holiday last year, what with being cooped up with me and trying to mend the pieces of my broken heart. She’d never hold that against me, but I can’t put her through the same thing this year. ‘Thank you, Mads, and thank you for being here,’ I manage. Madi stops walking and turns to face me.
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,’ she says before sauntering out the door in her pink and white polka dot dress that she has layered with a long-sleeved grey top. Talking about going back in time, Madi wouldn’t be out of place in the Fifties. She embodies the word pin-up. She is sexy mixed with elegance and modesty and absolute perfection in my eyes.
We draw quite the eye whenever we venture out of our writing caves and brave the real world, together. Madi in her bright colours, bleach blonde hair, kitten heels and tattoos occasionally on show and me with my Rapunzel locks and a hippie dress sense that I never grew out of. I had flowers in my eyes as a kid and wanted to wear everything my mum wore. The long skirts, wool cardigans and lace everything. I adore lace. Just like when I was a kid, everything is either oversized or cropped and the more lace the better.
I prop up some pillows behind me and polish off two slices of French toast dripping with agave syrup, before I switch on my laptop.
I can do this, I say to myself. I can polish up and edit this script. The characters are in love; I know what it’s like to be in love. I sigh and take another huge bite of French toast, making sure to cover it in whipped cream.
Jerry Garcia croons through my dad’s old stereo. The lyrics from ‘Sugar Magnolia’ reach my eardrums. I smile. That would also be the name of my mum and dad’s shop. They sell organic and natural, homemade, well, everything really, straight from their workshop. Soaps, candles, teas and baked goods; all beautiful and delicious. I can’t wait to test out their new products while I’m here. That was my most favourite job growing up.
I close my eyes, savouring the sweet flavours lingering on my tongue. I push any negative thoughts away and allow the happy memories to take over my brain, trying to envision Jerry Garcia singing the soulful melody to his love. Despite my not quite feeling the love myself, the music does make me feel more in tune with my creative self. I start typing.
It can’t be more than an hour later and I’m lying on the side of the bed, my hair dangling over the edge and I’m swishing it side to side, a part of me hoping that my mum dusted the floor before my arrival. I have been hit with a sudden surge of writer’s block.
My leading man is in a room with his ex. They are just talking when the ex makes her move, planting a kiss on his lips just as his fiancée walks in. I need the leading lady to believe it’s not what it seems, but I’m stuck. Why should she trust her fiancé?
I sit up, the blood rushing to my head not helping matters. Come on, back to work. I try to rally myself. Viewers want to be whisked away in this beautiful fairy tale. Who says fairy tales aren’t true? You must open your heart to love. Love is everywhere, and my job is to fill everyone’s heart with love. I choke on the sweet taste of syrup that is lingering on my tongue. I didn’t fill Scott’s heart with love. Now that is someone else’s job.
I push the laptop away at the unpleasant thought and climb out of the bed, tiptoeing to save my feet from the chilly wooden floorboards. I pick up a few logs from the wicker basket at the side of the fireplace and place them in the grate. With the matches I find on the mantel, I light the fire and sit cross-legged on the deep purple rug in front of it.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I don’t want to think about Scott and his girlfriend. I want the nightmares of seeing them kiss to go away. But why can’t my brain let go of him? I really need to finish this script. Lara has shown interest in my first original screenplay and has given me one more chance to prove myself as a romance writer; I can’t mess this up.
I take a deep breath in and watch as each log in the fireplace ignites. I get lost in the rising flames and fiddle with the fluff of the purple rug. Affairs aren’t exactly unheard of. It’s just that I never in a million years saw Scott as someone who could do that. I would have done anything to make him happy, to work on the problem, if he would have just let me in on it.
I brush my thumb over the tiny heart tattoo on my left wrist. I had gotten it shortly after Scott and I got back from our honeymoon, seven years ago now. I had been in a state of newlywed bliss and on the spur of the moment, while I was with Madi when she was getting the rose on her shoulder, I decided to get one to symbolize my love for Scott and to remind myself that when things got tough to never forget the love we had for each other. Now he has simply moved on with his life. I know I must do this too, but I can’t seem to find the switch inside me to flick it to ‘stop thinking about Scott’.
I return to my spot on the bed and nibble on a now cold, but still delicious, slice of French toast and pour myself a lukewarm coffee and get back to the task at hand.
*
By 7 p.m., I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my screenplay is not going to be finished today. I make my way into the living room where I am greeted with a glow from the orange and yellow flames that sway in the fireplace, the light glaring from the TV and the multi-coloured lights that flicker from the tree in a corner of the room.
My mum’s tree has always been beautiful, but out here against the rustic décor, the wooden ceiling beams and stone fireplace the lights, the flower ornaments and homemade wooden Santas and sleighs are something else.
Madi is curled up under a turquoise throw on one side of the L-shaped couch and my parents are snuggled up together on the other side. I make myself known and sit down near Madi, so I can pinch some of her blanket.
‘What are we watching?’ I ask, as my mum gets up and walks into the open kitchen that’s part of the spacious living room area. Madi looks over at me.
‘Oh, just a Pegasus Christmas classic that had a bunch of input from an incredible writer I know,’ Madi answers, giving me a wink and pulling her long legs towards her so that I can get more of the blanket.
‘It’s one of yours then?’ I say, genuinely smiling and returning Madi a wink of my own.
‘So, did you get it finished?’ Madi asks, sitting up straighter. My dad looks over.
I stretch my arms above my head, loosening the knots in my neck, as my brain stumbles over the word ‘no.’ With all eyes on me a wave of panic swoops in, catching me off guard. Reluctant to disappoint Madi and wanting to get the festive fun underway, I have no control over the words that spill from my mouth next.
‘Yes, I did, I sent it all off too.’ Inside, I’m cringing. I’ve just lied to Madi, but I can’t bring myself to be the reason she doesn’t get to celebrate Christmas for the second year in a row.
‘Atta girl,’ Madi says, offering me a high five. I grin and clap my hand against hers. Madi’s eyes linger on mine a touch longer than needed and I quickly turn my attention to the TV, not wanting her to see the truth in my eyes.
‘That’s fantastic, sweetheart,’ Mum says, coming up behind us with her own concoction of mulled wine. It’s a blend of herbal teas, no alcohol needed, and I haven’t had it since my parents moved out here. The cinnamon hits my nostrils and I immediately
sink back into the soft couch, momentarily allowing my worries to melt away with each warm sip. But with the Pegasus Entertainment adverts buzzing in the background, my moment of bliss is short-lived. Not only do I have to put my past aside to write the best screenplay of my career, I now have to figure out how to do it in three days without my best friend knowing.
Chapter 5
The next day I make my way down to the kitchen with the hope that Madi might have decided to treat herself to a lie-in, so that I can grab some coffee and sneak in an hour or two of editing before she wakes. But the minute I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by my one and only, who informs me that my parents are out and that the day is ours for the taking. She’s wearing her signature turquoise headscarf and her blonde hair is pinned up in a bun, with mint Converse and a white tee under a thin strap denim playsuit. She looks perky and bright making me yearn for a dose of what I would really prefer right now: a day with my favourite person. All thoughts of writing dissipate.
In comparison to Madi, I haven’t parted with my oversized olive cardigan since we got off the plane, my hair is a tangled and knotted mess, and the black leggings I’m sporting could do with a wash. I have yet to put any make-up on my face. I stare at Madi’s bold pink lips and envy them a touch. I catch her looking me up and down and I can see her brain ticking. My ensemble represents my frazzled state. I can’t actually remember the last time I felt one hundred per cent myself, but looking at Madi I feel motivated to channel my usual vigour when it comes to choosing outfits every day.
I look up from my comforting mug of liquid gold in time to see Madi curiously give me a once-over, and then she smiles. I smile back, an idea coming to my mind.
‘Mads, will you do my make-up today?’ I ask, feeling a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. I love it when Madi does my make-up. If she wasn’t so brilliant at writing screenplays and if I didn’t love working with her so much, I’d suggest she become a make-up artist. Madi responds by shooting up off her chair, grabbing her mug of coffee and hooking my elbow.
