Fishing For A Dream [Book Three]

Chapter 26 - Fishing For A Dream

My body was awake before my brain. With my hand feeling over the sheets to find Harry, I stirred fully awake when I found only the warmth of where he had slept. I was momentarily confused about where I was; Italy or London? Opening one eye and squinting against the early morning sunshine as it poured in through the bedroom windows of the villa, I lifted my head up to look around the room.

Italy. I hadn't dreamt our reconciliation; the warmth on the sheets next to me was not from Stan but Harry.

Laying back down with a sleepy smile, and gravitating over to his side, I stretched out my arms and legs comfortably. It wasn't unusual to wake up and find Harry already gone. The more we got used to being in each other's beds, the less important it was becoming to wake up next to each other. And, for all his talk of loving sleep, he seemed pretty keen on getting up early to do yoga, meditate or go for a jog.

I, however, was on holiday! It was my first real holiday since starting the business, (California had not been a holiday, it had been a necessity, and I'd somehow left more stressed than when I'd arrived) and all I wanted was to lay in bed and do nothing. I didn't want to rush to get up, and I didn't want to get woken up by my alarm or the cat! For the first day or two, the most energy I wanted to exert was lifting wine or food to my face, sex, and maybe swimming (and by swimming, I mean lounging on a lilo with a book in hand).

Tummy rumbling, I finally gave in and got up. Heading downstairs, I strolled through the lounge and into the huge kitchen and noticed that the door to the patio was ajar. All was still in the house as I poured myself a glass of ice water from the fridge, but from outside, I could hear the occasional sound of guitar strings being plucked and strummed.

I hesitated before walking over to the kitchen door - not wanting to disturb or interrupt him if he was writing - but, lightly treading over to it, I spotted Harry. He was sitting at the small, wrought iron breakfast table, guitar on his lap and one leg stretched out onto the next seat over. On the table was a cup of coffee, his phone, a pen and an open notebook. The pages of the book would try to flutter over whenever there was a breeze, but his phone and biro kept them weighted down. Every so often, Harry would pause his fingers on the strings to scribble something down before going back to gazing out over the rolling Umbrian hills, watching as the mist rose up from the sun warming the earth, resuming the melody he was slowly piecing together.

I hadn't ever really seen him working before. I'd watched him light up entire arenas, working the stage, and I'd even briefly seen him in the studio when I was in L.A., but songwriting seemed like a whole different kind of work. Unless it was someone like Paul McCartney whose songs came to him in his dreams, the idea of being able to take a lyric or a melody that came from nowhere, and create a whole song with multiple layers and vocals around that seemed amazing to me - I am an admirer of the arts, and definitely not a creator. Witnessing Harry sitting and working on his music was truly lovely, and a moment to treasure and admire.