Lucy Knott - Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

The deep and smooth voice of Dean Martin croons through my mind, forcing me to relax. A smile curves up at the edges of my lips. The lyrics of his hit song ‘That’s Amore’ dance in my mind. The moon is certainly lighting up the sky tonight in all its pizza-pie elegance. It is full, a sparkling pearly white and casting its beautiful glow on the tourists that are lost in Venice’s romantic charm. The Christmas season is in full force and it’s evident everywhere I look. The streetlamps twinkle as glittering silver tinsel weaves its way around the otherwise dark poles. I can understand the magic and the romance this city is famous for.

I look to the moon and think of my parents and how this will be another Christmas without them. They moved to Colorado five years ago and with my workload and my husband’s busy schedule I’ve only been out to visit them the once. It’s unlike me and I don’t know how I’ve managed this long without them. But back in London I have my job, my best friend Madi and my husband – I know my parents understand.

I shake away my wandering thoughts and embrace the charm of Venice around me. I soak up the joyful feeling of love and Christmas as I snuggle into my husband’s side. It has been a while since we’ve done anything remotely romantic. With Scott being so busy at work and me being locked away in my office working on my next script for the past couple of months, we simply haven’t found the time. Not that I haven’t been trying. I’ve been shutting my laptop off early most nights for the past couple of weeks, throwing on my laciest pyjamas, waiting for Scott to come home. But it’s all been to no avail. Late nights on set and in the office meant he usually fell asleep on the couch, too exhausted to even make it upstairs by the time he came drifting into the house. I’d wake to find him either passed out, or worse yet, gone, back to the studio to start the routine all over again.

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.