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