The First Last Kiss (19 page)

‘Come on, Moll, let’s eat,’ he says. ‘I don’t want my extra-special Thai noodle broth that I’ve slaved over to be ruined!’

‘Er, o-kay,
Mum
,’ I say facetiously, trying not to let it bother me that he’s choosing soup over sex. He turns and reaches for an open bottle of wine from our stainless-steel fridge for me. I grab a wine goblet from the oak shelves and a couple of our nice bowls and chopsticks from the drawer and I start setting them up at the breakfast bar.

‘Shall we eat in the lounge instead?’ he says. ‘We can sit on the floor on cushions around our coffee table and pretend we’re in a Japanese restaurant . . . ’

‘ . . . whilst eating Thai food?!’ I laugh. ‘Are you sure you should be a teacher, Ry?!’

‘You know what I mean,’ he snaps. He hates it when I criticize him. He may be super-fit, but he definitely needs thicker skin sometimes.

‘Hey, I was just kidding,’ I say with a laugh.

‘Well. Don’t.’

I hold my hands up, taken aback by his defensive tone. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry, really. I won’t ever do it again.’ He looks over and smiles apologetically.

‘Sorry, Molly, I’m just tired . . . this new job is really taking it out of me. The kids . . . well, let’s just say they’re not exactly an easy bunch. No, that’s not fair, most of them are . . . they’re just not what I’m used to. I shouldn’t take it out on you though.’ He comes over and kisses me on the lips gently and then starts serving our dinner.

I lean against the kitchen units and watch him move around the kitchen with the ease that he passes a ball around the football pitch. He is such a natural chef, confident and sure of every moment, and watching him now, I can’t help but remind myself again of how lucky I am to have him. To have
this
. We’ve only been here three months but this place feels more like home than the annexe ever did. Above the working Victorian fireplace in our lounge is my pebble print that I gave Ryan when we moved into the annexe, to remind him of his hometown. On the wall opposite, above our big sofa, I’ve blown up a photo I took of us on a windswept Southend beach – my hair has blown over my face and we are laughing hysterically. And there, next to the TV, is the flamingo light. I’ve tried to sneakily remove it on many occasions but it always seems to find its way back, like a boomerang.

Despite that pink eyesore, this flat is 100 per cent us, and that’s why I love it. And Ryan seems to have adapted his own style over the past few months too. About time too – he’s twenty-six and he’d been dressing – and living – the same since he was seventeen. Living here has made him more individual, more interesting, more
grownup
, which makes him sexier than ever, although I have to admit he is also more stressed. His new job is very different to Thorpe Hall and I know he’s feeling it.

I sit on the floor cushion he’s put down for me, face hovering over my steaming bowl of soup like a Bisto kid. ‘I’ve had a hell of a day . . . ’ I sigh.

‘Me too,’ he interrupts, gazing into his bowl and stirring the broth slowly and methodically. ‘I’m really worried about this student of mine . . . ’

I glance at the sofa where piles of books and papers are spread all over it – clearly he was mid marking before he took a break to cook dinner. Even though I no longer have to commute, he still gets home long before I do.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I ask tentatively, dreading the answer as I know I’m about to get an evening of passionate teacher talk – rather than passionate sex.

And as Ryan begins to tell me all about his day, and I take a long slurp of wine and listen to him, I realize this must be what parents feel like, as I hear him talking about his students as if they were his own kids.

At 10 p.m., tired, cranky and with our date night clearly a damp squib, we get into bed. I’m lying in my brand-new (unbuttoned), blue-and-white striped pyjamas, waiting for Ryan to return from the bathroom, hoping we can rectify the evening. I lift my head a little as Ryan enters the room wearing just his white Calvin Kleins, and I feel a shiver of lust. I smile at him and he turns around, pulls on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pulls out his papers, which I now notice he’d put on his bedside table. He throws a quick glance at me, and grins before he starts to sing ‘Walking in the Air’ in an Aled Jones falsetto as he begins his marking.

I look down at my pajamas – the object of his ridicule – and reach for my magazine, hitting him with it before I do up my buttons and, with a heavy sigh, start flicking through the pages without absorbing a thing. My body may be in bed, but my brain is half having sex and half out on the town at the big premiere after-party with my colleagues. Having fun. Like 24-year-olds tend to do. ‘Night, Ry,’ I lean over and we have a quick peck on the lips, like I’ve occasionally seen my parents do. Then he goes back to his marking.

I give us a C. For Could do better. More effort required.

11.18 a.m.

‘We’re starting on the spare room now!’

‘Thanks, Bob!’ I call up to him as I cling on to the magazine I’m holding. I sniff and wipe away a tear. Who knew a box of old magazines would make me weep? It’s an issue of
Viva
from December 2004. I reckon I’m mostly crying because of the gorgeous laughing cover model who is wearing a short, tight, sequinned dress and a party hat, and who is so far removed from me and my life that she may as well be my
daughter
. When did I get old? And why the hell didn’t I wear dresses like these when I had the body to? What’s even more galling is that I actually remember Freya forcing me to try on that exact sequinned dress in the fashion cupboard. I kept my Converse on and told her I felt ridiculous in it, although I remember being surprised at how good it actually looked. God, I wish I had photographic evidence of that. I wouldn’t get it over my knees these days.

I pop a Jammie Dodger into my mouth (I am determined to finish the packet as well as the packing), and keep flicking through. Has it really been eight years since I worked on this issue? I flick through the pages, marvelling at how I know exactly what news pages, feature or fashion spread comes next. It’s remarkable how much of your past stays with you, without you realizing. I can understand remembering big life events in detail, like weddings, or engagements, or birthday parties, or holidays, but this was a month of my working life, almost a decade ago. But all the memories of it are still there, as clear as day. The shoots, the work and the sheer effort that went into it all, the conversations we had when choosing the cover model, the music we listened to on the office stereo. How closely we worked as a team . . .

I throw the magazine down like it’s on fire, when I suddenly realize what Christmas this issue was from. I hurriedly pick up another issue. This is much better. October 2000. The very first issue I worked on after starting at
Viva
as an intern. I was straight out of uni, young, hungry and ready to take on the world.

The Never Ever Kiss

You know how magazines seem to think that when you’re in your twenties you should be constantly ticking things off a ‘Things to do before you’re 30’ list? Well, what if we had a ‘Things
not
to do before you’re 30’ list too?

Mine’s easy, it would read like this:

Do not stop kissing Ryan Cooper

Which is weird, because when I was twenty it would have read like this:

Do not kiss Ryan Cooper ever again

And, of course,

Do not ever put a boy before your best friend

<

‘Eeeeeee! Oh my God, oh my God, you’re back! I can’t believe you’re actually here! How was the train? What time did you get in? What have you been doing? Am I the first person you’ve seen? Where—’

‘Woah! Can I come in before I get the third degree?’ I laugh, stepping through Casey’s front door, as familiar as my own.

‘Well, at least you’re
getting
a degree, that’s more than me! What’s the gossip? Any boys I should know about or that I need to
get to know
? Are you still seeing Mar
coooos
or is there anyone else? I need to know all the sordid deets,
especially
the sordid deets! Don’t leave anything out! Apart from the boring lectures. I get enough of them working at the caff!’

I laugh, already feeling overwhelmed. Casey throws her arms around me and gives me a big squeeze. She grabs my suitcase and drags me indoors. ‘Oh, and you need to tell me when exactly you’re going to become a world-famous photographer like I’ve always known you would be. I need to check my diary so I can plan my trips around the world with you! God, Moll, we have sooo much to catch up on! I’ve missed you loads since I came to visit last. It was wicked fun, wasn’t it? Even though that Mia clearly doesn’t like me much, she’s just jealous though, ’coz we’re BFFs!’ I balk a little at the babyish phrase. ‘Do you ever see that boy I snogged, the one she liked?’ she giggles. ‘You know, worked behind the bar, cute, Irish. What was his name? Michael? Mickey? Mark? Whatever. He was studying something weird. Fine something . . . art. That’s right. Massive cock. That’s the one, ha ha. But never mind that, I want to hear all about you!’ She throws herself down on the stained couch, not without throwing off days-old dinner plates and boys’ clothes – and some men’s too. Toni’s clearly got some guy on the scene. Again.

I look around at Casey’s home that she still shares with her mum, her two brothers, who must be eleven and thirteen by now, the various rodents that they keep (pet rats, gerbils, hamsters – the place stinks of them). Not to mention the various rodents that their mum dates on a cyclical basis (the place stinks of them, too). They live in a small three-bedroom bungalow on the Belfairs estate, which they seem to explode out of. There’s stuff everywhere: games consoles, DVDs, CDs, books, clothes, games. My mum would freak out at the chaos and I have to admit I constantly restrain myself from organizing, tidying or doing the washing up. But that’s a constant battle of mine anyway. My mum spent the first twelve years of my life ingraining her orderly nature in me and I’ve spent the last eight years trying to undo it. I’m pretty sure by the time I hit twenty-five I’ll have managed it. It all started when I finally refused to wear my hair in those bloody plaits for one more day. I remember so vividly the moment I vowed to be my own person because it was the morning after I overheard my parents arguing. I was up late, swotting for some test I desperately wanted to do well at, when I overheard them talking in the lounge. They said that being together was a mistake ‘except for Molly’. They talked about splitting up and I vividly remember sitting on the stairs listening to my mum’s shrill, raised voice reverberate through from the room below, with my fingers crossed, actively willing the moment one of them would just put us all out of our misery and say, ‘Let’s get a divorce’. Not a normal reaction for a child of twelve, you think? But I saw divorce as an opportunity to be more like the other girls at school – and as an excuse to ramp up the teen angst. Divorce got you sympathy, attention and friends. Their divorce could define me, by making me less of an outcast. Yes, I’d be the product of a broken home but the way I saw it, it was pretty shoddily glued together. But then their voices went quiet and Mum said something like, ‘I think we should stay together, for Molly’s sake,’ adding, ‘after all, what would the vicar – and the board of school governors think?’ The next day it was like nothing had happened.

At that point I had a moment of searing clarity. I looked at my plaits, my terrible clothes, thought about my lack of friends, the relentless taunts by the Heathers, and my lack of freedom, and it suddenly occurred to me that if my parents’ life choices for themselves were so wrong, then the ones they were making for me were pretty shitty, too. They’d chosen to stay together because of their misguided desperation to be seen as the ‘perfect family’. So I’d have to live under the penance of their pious beliefs. I didn’t respect them any more and I wanted them to know it. I was going to be me from now on. After a change of image involving me shouting at my parents a lot, wearing a shorter skirt to school, as well as lots of make-up and some serious attitude, I spent a shaky few weeks trying to fit in with ‘the Heathers’ after they showed a fleeting interest in my makeover moment, but I soon realized that I was just their toy. Someone to prod and poke and tease and get to do their dirty tricks, like shoplifting stuff for them. I felt so stupid, so weak-willed. I hated that they’d sucked me into their idiotic clique. I just wanted a friend who I could just be ‘me’ with. Once I’d worked out who ‘me’ really was.

Enter Casey Georgiou.

She swept into school like a big breath of fresh air. Casey Not-so-Gorgeous, the Heathers immediately called her. But in my eyes she
was
because she was unselfconscious about her curves, and seemingly impervious to their cruel, stupid taunts. She seemed so happy, with her crazy plastic hair clips and bright-pink patent rucksack. The nasty jibes just seemed to bounce off her; she seemed so carefree and fun-loving and completely different to the vacuous dummies I’d had to put up with for so long and, more importantly, she was so different to my introverted, serious self. She fascinated me. I was desperate to get to know her but she was only in two of my classes – art and textiles – I was in top sets for the rest. She smiled at me often – but then, she smiled at everyone. For the first week I hovered around her, choosing a desk near but not next to her, not really willing to believe I was worthy of having a friend of my own, but feeling like she was the best option I’d ever had. I loved that she was always giggling and chatting in class and always came in with a big beam on her face. I was sure she’d be batting friends off like flies, unlike me. And then it happened. One afternoon I was walking past the playground, camera held up to my eyes as usual, trying to look busy rather than alone, when I heard a big ruckus from the playground. I glanced down to see the Heathers surrounding someone. Their arms were flying up and down, fists clenched. I could see their ugly scowls as they raised their hands for the next blow. I couldn’t see their victim, but suddenly I saw the discarded bag and recognized it immediately. I flew down the steps, camera banging against my chest as hard as my heart was. And then, with strength I didn’t know I possessed, I launched myself into the group. I’ll never forget how she looked when I got to her. Her long black hair was swirled out on the tarmac like an oil spillage, I couldn’t see her eyes as her hands were covering them but her lip was cut and bleeding, her shirt was ripped so her flesh and her bra were exposed to the entire school, she’d pulled her plump legs up to her tummy and she lay there, looking like a poor, discarded shrimp. I yelled, ‘MURDER!’ at the top of my voice (it was the first thing that came to mind), in order to clear a space around her. It worked, they all ran away and then I sank to my knees, pulled a clump of folded tissues out of my bag and a bottle of water. I dabbed her lip and whispered that everything was going to be all right, and slowly she’d pulled down her hands and heaved herself up into a sitting position, and blinked at me before her poor lips broke out into a painful smile.