The First Last Kiss (48 page)

I fold my arms – mainly to cover up the fact that it feels like my heart is pounding out of my chest.

‘Are you being serious, Cooper?’ I say, raising my eyebrow at him, just like Casey taught me.

‘I’m deadly serious,’ his beautiful mouth is set in a determined line. I look at him for a moment, then down at the ground, unable to take this in. I see his hand reach for mine and I acquiesce to his touch. I feel like a magnetic force is drawing us together. I’m beginning to think it has been for years.

‘I have been in love with you since the moment I first saw you, Molly Carter,’ Ryan says. ‘Now can we stop pretending that this isn’t meant to be?’

He steps towards me and despite the crowds, despite the fact that I am standing in front of my new workplace with my new colleagues, and despite the fact I don’t do PDAs, I throw myself uncontrollably into his arms, unable to resist him a moment longer. I gaze deeply into his eyes as our lips meet again and I see his unguarded expression, the love and vulnerability in place of the fake machismo. And just as that has vanished, so does my last thread of doubt about him. Ryan Cooper is my destiny. I know that more than I’ve known anything in my life. As our arms entwine around each other and we continue to kiss, I hear the sound of my colleagues cheering and I break away from him, embarrassed suddenly. But he pulls me back close to him and then we begin to laugh, our bodies shuddering together, foreheads touching bashfully as we realize that Jo has been taking pictures of us.

She shrugs, lifting up her camera. ‘Soz, it just felt like a classic Kodak moment!’

‘One more for luck?’ Ryan smiles as he leans in.

And for the first time in my life, I really do feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

The Long Distance Kiss

It was Blanche DuBois (well, Tennessee Williams actually) who said, ‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.’ I realize now that I don’t think I’ve ever really let myself depend on anyone other than Ryan. But I need to now. I need my friends and my family, but I also need this. You. All of you. I draw strength and support from the messages on this blog every single day. I’ve been overwhelmed by them all. And I want you to know, that no matter the distance these kind wishes and prayers have travelled over, they have all been accepted with heartfelt, untold thanks. They mean more than you could ever know.

FF>> 05/05/2007>

My work phone rings, an urgent, persistent drilling sound that disturbs any creative thought I have left in my brain. I can’t think straight at the best of times, let alone when I am interrupted every five minutes and am battling with Mika’s perpetually perky album,
Life in Cartoon Motion
, pumping out on the stereo in stark contrast to my own dark inner monologue.

How is Ryan? Should I call him? Has he taken his meds? What shall I make him for tea tonight? I’m in the middle of trying to quickly think of a tag line for next week’s issue, a part of my job I hate, so whilst this call could be seen as a welcome distraction it is also stopping me from doing practical stuff, like looking at rental properties for Ryan and me in Leigh-on-Sea.

Because I know it is nearly that time.

‘Yes?’ I snap, picking up the phone and answering in a non-approved
Viva
style and not caring in the slightest. I am immune to rules or criticism these days. It is really odd. I can’t seem to do any wrong, no matter how hard I try.

‘Moll-eeee,’ trills Jackie down the phone. ‘How’s my gorgeous daughter-in-law?’

I think of my brave, sweet, patient husband, and how much he adores his mum, and I try to channel some of his goodness and force myself not to just answer ‘Busy’ and put the phone down.

Be nice, be nice,
I chant in my head. And then:
This is as hard for her as it is for you, remember.

‘I’m good, I’m really good, thanks!’ I cheep in a weird, high-pitched Alvin Chipmunk voice that I always find myself adopting when I’m conversing with her these days. I can’t tell her what I’m really feeling; that I’m scared, petrified of every single day, of what it might bring for Ryan. That I am waiting for Death’s scythe to strike, watching for every sign, any new symptom. I wish I had the luxury of her denial, but she got served both our portions.

‘So Molly, darlin’, I’m calling because I’ve just read in the newspaper that apparently red wine can beat cancer! Can you believe it? That’s as good an incentive as any for Ry to enjoy a drink, isn’t it? Heee hee heee!’

‘Haaaa!’ I squeak automatically in response.

Jackie’s voice disturbs my thoughts – again. ‘I thought you should perhaps stop off and get some for Ryan on the way home, darlin’! It’s probably the most enjoyable medicine he’ll ever have! Dave says
he
knew it was the cure all along, that’s why he drinks it so much. Heee heeeeeee!’

So if the cancer doesn’t kill him, liver failure probably will.

Be nice, Molly.

Nor do I point out that the antioxidants in red wine are thought to prevent cancer, not beat it. Or remind her that Ryan hates red wine and always has. Or that he can’t actually drink too much with all his medication. I want to say all this but I don’t. I want her to have to deal with everything I am learning on a daily basis. I want Ryan to tell his mum to face up to the fact he’s dying. I want him to see that I need some help. I don’t want to pretend that everything’s alright. I want to go home. I want my mum and dad. Or Ryan’s. I want them to take responsibility, stop singing la la la with their hands over their ears.

Because la la la, I just can’t get cancer out of my head la la la.

Go away Kylie!

Is this the legacy you’re leaving me Ryan? A lifetime of shit pop music in my head?

‘Molly? Are you still there, darlin’?’

‘Yes Jackie, I’m still here.’

I don’t dismiss her because I know that she needs to do this, she needs to think that there’s still a chance. And I envy her that positivity, I do. But she hasn’t had to listen to Charlie talk about ‘the future’. She hasn’t been with Ryan when he’s tried to go to the shops to get a pint of milk and we’ve had to come back in an ambulance because he’s had a seizure. I am just Cooper enough to know that his mum deserves to cling on to whatever hope she can. I am just Cooper enough to listen and to do whatever I can to make this easier for her – even if it makes it harder for me. I’ve learned that much from being with Ryan and being part of his family.

Since his diagnosis I have, on behalf of Jackie, served Ryan endless amounts of:

1. Curry (Jackie: ‘It enhances the effectiveness of chemo, Molly darlin’! And
apparentl
y, it helps stimulate the death of cancer cells!’)

2. Garlic (‘It says here, Molly, that it enhances the immune function! That’s got to be good, right, darlin’?’)

3. Leafy greens (‘They’re an antioxidant, you know!’)

4. Sprouts (‘Ditto, darlin’!’)

5. And grains (‘It does something or other with the levels of glucose and insulin!’)

I’ve obeyed, mainly because part of me hopes that she’s right.

So for this reason I squeak, ‘Thanks Jackie, I’ll try that! Perhaps we’ll have curry, sprouts and a bottle of red tonight!’

‘Why don’t you come over for a Chinese, Molly, you and Ryan? We’ll have such fun, darlin’!’ Jackie squeals. ‘It’s always such FUN when all us Coopers get together . . . all the family . . . Come on, Molly darlin’! Why don’t the both of you hop on the train and come down!’

I want to say that Ryan isn’t capable of hopping anywhere. He can just about walk these days. Charlie is organizing a wheelchair for us, for the days when Ryan is too exhausted to walk – which are getting more frequent. But that doesn’t solve the issue with the stairs. I’ve asked him to talk to Ryan about it again, because he won’t listen to me. He seems to think he’ll feel better tomorrow. Whereas I dread tomorrow. His frailty is the thing that’s been hardest to get used to out of all of this. The hair loss was easy – although I didn’t anticipate him losing his eyelashes, eyebrows and his hair ‘down there’ too. He calls himself Gollum now. ‘So what does that make me?’ I laughed when he first said it. ‘A hobbit?’ Anyway, he started losing it a couple of weeks after starting the chemo, so little bald patches appeared in the mornings, a little layer of hair left on his pillow. Ryan asked me to shave his head Grade 1 all over. I decided to have some fun first so I grabbed my camera and started doing different crazy hairstyles, stripes all over his head, then a grid, then a Mohawk, then a ladder, taking a photo of each one for posterity – and for our enjoyment – until there wasn’t a strand of hair left.

‘It’s just like David Beckham, circa 2001,’ I’d pointed out after studying it for a second.

‘Here, let me just do this as a finishing touch . . . ’ I shaved a little diagonal line across one of his eyebrows and with a flourish held up a hand mirror in front of Ryan. He seemed really happy with it. Then he said thoughtfully:

‘Moll, how many hours do you think I have wasted of my life doing my hair?’

He fell silent for ages and I actually thought he was trying to count up the hours, in the same way that I’ve been trying to count up our kisses. I’ve even tried to work out a formula.

After furrowing his (shaved) brow for several minutes, he shook his head sadly. ‘I should’ve shaved it off years ago.’ A few days later the lesions started appearing.

‘Did you hear me, Molly?’ Jackie’s sharp voice permeates my thoughts. ‘I said, why don’t you come down!’

‘We’re coming at the weekend, remember, Jackie?’ I chirp brightly, ‘And guess what! I’m looking at rental properties right now, so maybe we’ll be moving back sooner than you think!’ I mistakenly think this will please her.

‘To
rent
,’ she sniffs. ‘Are you
trying
to offend me, Molly darlin’?’

‘What? No, I just—’

‘Why would you
rent
? Why don’t you and Ry come and stay here, in your old home? It’s his HOME.’

‘We would but Ryan doesn’t want . . . ’ I was going to say that Ryan doesn’t want to die in their home, but a) she doesn’t let me finish, and b) I realized halfway through that this is not a Jackie-friendly sentence.

Her voice raises several octaves. She is trying to sound all tinkly and bright. She just sounds scarily unbalanced. ‘If you are about to say that my son doesn’t want to come home,
darlin
’, then I will put the phone down on you. My son should be here. At home. With his famileee . . . ’

I am his family.

I hear her sobbing, it is the first time I’ve heard her cry. There is the muffled sound of the handset being passed and Dave comes on the line. I barely recognize his voice, it seems so long since I heard him speak.

‘Molly,’ it is a low rumble, like distant thunder down the phone-line. ‘I’m sorry, Jackie is a bit upset. Don’t be offended, she’s just . . . finding this hard. We all are . . . ’

‘I know, and I want us to come back to Leigh, Dave, I do, I need help but Ryan is determined . . . ’ I am crying now. ‘I need some help . . . ’ I put down the phone when I realize he already has. I look up but everyone is studiously working, heads down. Looking anywhere but at me.

Sometimes I think people worry that what I’m going through might be catching. That if they hear too much, or speak to me too much, then something terrible will befall their loved ones. And part of me wonders if they’re right.

‘Molly? Could you come into my office for a moment please’ Christie has popped her head out and is gesturing to me to come in.

‘Hi,’ I say, and Christie gestures to the chair opposite.

‘How’s Ryan?’ she asks. It is always the first question anyone ever asks me these days. I appreciate their concern but I’m never really sure how to answer.

‘Oh, you know,’ I smile at Christie and decide to give her my pre-prepared, jokey, upbeat version of the truth. ‘Still perpetually stubborn, incredibly vain and annoyingly football-obsessed, but pretty good, all things considered . . . the doctors say he is doing very well.’

Except for the nausea and the breathlessness and the headaches and the incontinence and the nightmares and the pain, I refrain from adding. I have learned the hard way that people don’t actually want the truth, just some marshmallow-covered version of it. Some (Jackie) don’t want even that.

‘Oh, that’s GOOD!’ Christie beams, like she has just heard, ‘He’s cured’. ‘Listen, Molly, I’ve brought you in here because I want to talk to you about your blog. There’s a post on there that has come to my attention . . . ’

My mind flits to the latest image of Ryan and me currently at the top of my blog page with the title ‘The PDA Kiss’, and then underneath is the photo of us kissing on the red carpet in front of Tom Cruise. Underneath I’d typed ‘Next stop . . . Oprah’s couch!’ I’d shown it to Ryan as well and he’d found it hilarious.

‘Well, that’s my fifteen minutes of fame ticked off the list,’ he’d joked. ‘What with this
and
Take That reforming, I can die a happy man now!’

I’m getting used to his jokes.

‘It’s actually the reaction to your blog that I wanted to talk to you about,’ Christie continues. ‘Not just to the most recent post, but to all of them. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed how many comments you’ve been getting since you started posting pictures of you and Ryan kissing?’

I shrug bashfully. I have noticed, and I have found them incredibly moving. There have been so many overwhelmingly kind and uplifting words written by people I’ve never met. Messages from people writing to share their own stories of cancer, advice from women – and men – who have been, or are, in my position, and from people telling me how much they enjoy seeing the photos I post and who feel moved by our love story.

Ryan knows what I’ve done but I don’t think he’s looked at the blog. His only concern is how he looks in the pictures.

‘Just don’t post any of me in dodgy outfits, Moll, I want to be remembered as a stylish man, not a fashion victim,’ he said last night.