by Ali Harris
I click on Outlook, just to check that there aren’t any last-minute emails from our cover stars pulling out. It’s quite hard to use a keyboard with your fingers crossed. I exhale as I realize that there is only one email. And it’s a welcome one.
Molly!!!!
How are you?!!!??? How’s Viva, how’s Ryan? And Casey? I miss you – but not enough to come back! Can you believe I’ve been here two years in September? Life is fab here in sunny Sydney, like one long holiday. I know how you love a list so I thought this might help you realize why you HAVE to come out here asap:
Reasons why Oz is better than boring old Blighty
The weather is hot (and so are the men)
The surf is big (and so are the men)
The beaches are beautiful (and so are the men)
The clubs are wild (and so are the men)
The culture is . . . Oh, sod the culture, Molly, the men are fucking AMAZING!
You can get a natural tan instead of the fake ones you Essex-types are so used to!
I laugh at this; Mia knows I have never touched fake tan in my life. I think of her list and then look at the lists currently resting on the desk in front of me and feel enormously depressed. One is my work list, the other a general to-do list. I read the second list and with pen in hand, I scrawl another one:
To-do list
Pick up dry cleaning
Call parents
Buy birthday present for Jackie (something pink?)
Call student loans company
Go to Tesco (milk, teabags, OJ, fish)
Red gas bill (tell off Ryan, he was meant to pay it)
Council tax
Renew tax on car
Renew monthly train ticket
Wash Ryan’s football kit
BOOK HOLIDAY – AUSTRALIA?
I stare at the last words I’ve written, hating the question mark that I’ve added at the end. I don’t know why our plans for going on a big trip together have been sidelined yet again. The other night Ryan mentioned going on holiday to his parents’ place in Portugal this year. Part of me is starting to think he doesn’t even want to go on a big trip any more.
I sigh and look at the list of things I’ve got to organize for the shoot today. To be honest, looking at it is equally depressing. Especially when I look back at Mia’s list. It doesn’t help that the teen me keeps rearing her head.
How did our life become so dull, Molly? We had such big plans!
It’s called growing up, I shoot back. Everyone’s life is like this. I sit back down and read the rest of Mia’s email, hoping it’ll make me feel better while I’m waiting for my cab, but deep down knowing that it won’t.
The magazine is doing brilliantly, Moll. I still love my job, even though I’ve been here two years, and the editor is amazing, too – and she’s pregnant! Which means I’m in line to be acting editor! Can you believe it! Me? An editor? And I’m only 24!!!
Why, why, WHY haven’t you booked your ticket yet? I want to take you RAGING (that means having fun in Oz. But you should already know this if you watch Home and Away.) COME TO AUSTRALIA (sorry, that’s the last time I’ll mention it! Promise!). Remember our Life Lists? Anyway, must go, I’ve got a feature to edit before 5 p.m. – then it’s time to hit the beach and the bars!
Love you, miss you (book your ticket NOW!!!)
Mia xxxx
I stare at the last paragraph for a while, picturing the Life Lists Mia and I wrote one drunken evening in our first year at uni:
Molly’s Life List
Travel around Australia – with Mia!!!!!
Live in New York
Be a photographer
Have a successful exhibition
Own my own place
Stay single until I’ve achieved all my ambitions
Mia’s Life List
Travel the world (Australia? With Molly!!!!)
Be a magazine editor by age of 30
Own my own place
Stay single . . . forever!
See Molly? She’s ticking things off her Life List. She’s making the most of her twenties, what about you? Stuck in Leigh, in the place we swore we’d never go back to once we left for college. What happened?
Life happened, OK? Love happened. It’s not my fault that Ryan and I fell in love before the mid-twenties watershed. You’d think we’re actually offending people with our cohabiting happiness. So what if I’ve only slept with three men in my life? How many more notches on my bedpost do I need?
God, why am I thinking about this now? I shake my head and close down my email without replying and glance at my watch. Five minutes until my car is due. I quickly open up Google and type in ‘Flights to Australia’. I just want to look, to check the price, to see what the possibilities are.
My heart pounding with excitement, I start jotting down flight dates, times and prices. I’m going to talk about it to Ryan when I get in tonight. Or maybe I’ll just be spontaneous and book them now! I glance down as my work phone rings and I sigh.
‘The car’s here? OK thanks, I’ll be right down.’
I grab my bag and dash away from my desk, leaving my computer beaming like a beacon.
‘This is going to be one full-on day,’ grins Seb as I fight my way through the studio doors, laden down as I am with suitcases and bags. ‘I hope you’re ready for this, Rookie.’
‘Ready as you are, Veteran,’ I retort. ‘Are you going to help me with all this or what?’
‘Or what, I’m afraid Molly. I am far too important to be handling baggage.’ And he sinks back on the leather sofa, puts his Adidas-clad feet up on the glass coffee table and continues reading Esquire.
‘The amount of girls you’ve got on the go, Seb, I’d have thought you’re used to dealing with baggage,’ I say cheekily. I’ve learned that the best way to deal with Seb is with banter. It’s the only language he understands.
‘The only “baggage” I deal with is on the Louis Vuitton scale of luxury,’ he drawls, referring, I assume, to his taste in women rather than his taste in handbags.
‘Oh, I see,’ I say, heaving the suitcase into the changing room. ‘Overpriced and overexposed, you mean?’
He smiles slyly, his white teeth bared and grey eyes glinting like a fox who’s just spotted its prey. ‘I mean, over here . . . ’ And he stares at me.
I turn away, heart racing, cheeks traffic-light red. ‘Let’s get to work, shall we, Seb?’ I say. ‘There’s a lot to do today.’
He lounges back, arms stretched over the back of the sofa and a confident smile creeps over his face. ‘Too right, there is.’
‘How does it look, Moll?’ Seb calls over. I’m peering at the computer screen at James the photographer’s last set of shots as Seb and James adjust the lights before the next celeb arrives.
‘Great, but I think in the next shot we need to make it all look more urban.’ I think for a second. ‘What about shooting against that exposed brick wall instead of the white backdrop. Or even . . . ’ I start gabbling as the idea strikes me . . . ‘or even, you know, the balcony outside?’ I rush over to the fire escape and open it. ‘It’s got that great East London panorama, almost Meatpacking-esque. Kind of reminiscent of that Jean Shrimpton shoot David Bailey did for Vogue? What do you reckon?’
Seb turns slowly and looks at me, his eyes working his way up my body disconcertingly and settling on mine, ‘Moll, that’s a fucking STUPENDOUS idea! Beautiful and bright, huh?’ and I’m annoyed to feel a flicker of satisfaction, despite his sexist remark. He points lazily at me and grins. ‘I reckon you just graduated, Rookie.’
I pretend to throw a mortarboard in the air, thrilled at his praise. When I look back he is still staring at me. I watch as he and James start moving the camera equipment and the big lights. I love how he got my vision instantly. It’s nice being on the same creative wavelength as someone else, especially someone as experienced and talented as him. It validates me, makes me feel more confident and in control.
I reckon my 15-year-o
ld self would be proud. This is glamorous and exciting! Shooting famous celebrities for the number one women’s magazine!
Celebrities? she hisses back at me. Glamorous? Not exactly changing the world, are we?
But we could almost be in New York right now!
But we’re not, we’re in East London.
It looks like New York though!
And we’re not taking the photos.
But I’m practically directing the shoot – which is even better, right?
Wrong.
Ah, I give up. I never did like my 15-year-old self anyway. No wonder my mum and dad thought I was such a pain in the ass.
It’s 7 p.m. and Seb, James the photographer, Lauren the make-up artist, Freya and I are all flopped on the sofa, drinking Prosecco and celebrating the end of a brilliantly successful day.
‘We did it!’ Freya exclaims, leaning her head on Lauren’s shoulder in exhaustion. ‘We only went and did it. Eight celebrities in one day. Surely that’s a record?’
‘I’m not sure Vanity Fair would agree,’ I laugh, taking a long, satisfying slurp of Prosecco and closing my eyes so I can properly enjoy the sensation of the alcohol hitting my bloodstream. God, I need this drink. I realize I’ve been utterly strung out for weeks. I feel a sudden urge to call Ryan. I want him to share in my success. I slip away from the group and call Ryan from the corridor.
Our home phone rings a few times before going to answerphone and I know immediately where he is. So I call his parents.
‘Awight?’ says a gruff voice that sounds just like Ryan.
‘Hey, Carl!’ I say brightly. ‘It’s Molly. Is your brother there?’
‘Ryly!’ Carl says cheerfully. He gave us this new nickname when he decided one night at the pub that Ryan and I are Leigh-on-Sea’s very own version of Bennifer.
‘Please, you know I only answer to “Molly from the Block”,’ I say with a smirk. I love the banter I have with Carl. He feels like the brother I never had.
Carl guffaws. ‘Ha, ha, classic! Ryan’s here, I’m thrashing him at Subbuteo.’
‘That’s the only place you’ll ever beat him at football,’ I laugh. Carl had to accept a long time ago that Ryan’s sporting prowess way outdoes his. Luckily his ego can take it.
‘That hurt, Molly, that hurt real bad. Here’s your worse half now. See ya!’
The studio door opens and I slide out of the way, as Seb appears holding my glass of Prosecco.
‘Hiya, babe, how are you doing?’ Ryan says as he comes on the line.
I mouth my thanks to Seb as he hands the glass to me and he hovers there for a moment next to me. I try to deafen the sound of my heart beating in my chest. Probably just the post-shoot adrenalin.
Yeah right, Molly, or maybe you just fancy the pants off him.
I take a swig out of my glass and rest the stem against my knees, steadfastly looking at it, and not Seb. I mustn’t look at Seb.
Seb and Molly sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—
I mentally tell my teen self to shut up.
‘I’m good . . . the shoot went well!’ I blurt out rather loudly and overenthusiastically. Seb grazes my ankle with his foot and I look up and he grins and gives me a thumbs up as he leans against the door, doing nothing to hide the fact he’s listening to my private conversation. God, his arrogance is sexy.
‘Oh, was that to-DAY!’ I can tell by his voice that Ryan has taken a shot at goal mid-sentence. Clearly his stupid table football game is more important than my career.
‘Yes, Ry, it was today,’ I say, rolling my eyes at Seb.
‘Boyfriend?’ he mouths and I nod. He mimes having a ball and chain around him and I laugh and lean over and smack him. As I pull my hand back I notice it is shaking slightly.
‘Molly?’ Ryan says. I realize he’s asked me a question. ‘I said how did it go then? Was it worth all the hard work?’
‘I think it’s going to be our best cover ever!’ I reply, stifling a giggle as Seb mimes shooting a hoop and then clasps his hands together above his head in a winner’s pose.
‘That’s great!’ Ryan says. He’s still playing Subbuteo. ‘So are you on the train now then?’
‘No, we’ve just finished. We’re all having a drink here then I’m going to come home.’
‘Aww, babe, I really wanted to hang out with you tonight. I’ve barely seen you these past few weeks.’
‘I know, Ryan, I’m sorry,’ thinking that we see each other way more than most couples I know. I cross my legs in front of me, absent-mindedly tapping the toes of my soft, buttery-brown suede boots against each other to scuff them a little. I look up at Seb and roll my eyes and he raises his eyebrow, pulls a face and slips back into the studio, pulling his fake ball and chain behind him. I rest my head back against the wall but turned towards the studio, where I can see everyone having a laugh. Seb has his arms crossed and is nodding his head to The White Stripes. I love that band. I glance at my watch.
‘Listen, Ry, I er, I’ve got to go, there’s still some packing up to do.’ There isn’t but I want to go enjoy myself. ‘And er, it’ll probably take a while so don’t worry about dinner for me . . . ’ Suddenly I feel like staying out and getting pissed. In a way I haven’t done for months.
Because you’re so fucking boring . . . Oh sorry, I mean ‘responsible’ these days.
It’s called being in love.
It’s called being under the thumb.
Who asked you anyway?
‘OK,’ he sighs. ‘God, I miss you, babe. It sucks that we’ve both been working so hard lately.’
‘I know, Ry,’ I say, suddenly seeing an opportunity. ‘Maybe we should book a holiday?’
‘What?’ Ryan says, and I hear him cheer as he scores a goal and Carl shouts brotherly abuse at him in the background.
‘I said maybe we need a holiday!’
‘We’re going to Mum and Dad’s place in Portugal with them and Carl and Lyd, remember? We could ask Casey, too, if you like. It’ll be such a laugh!’
‘Well, I was thinking about somewhere else actually . . . ’ I say tentatively. ‘On our own.’
‘Ibiza again then?’ he offers cheerfully. ‘Or the Canaries?’ His voice jerks with the exertion of each shot he’s playing. ‘The islands, not the football team obviously, haha!’
‘But we talked about going to Australia this year, remember? On New Year’s Eve? We said we’d definitely do it!’
‘No, Molleeey,’ he says, his voice wavering as he presumably takes another shot at the goal. ‘We said we could do it but you’ve just been promoted. How do you think your editor will feel if you ask for six weeks off?’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ I reply tetchily. ‘No holiday at all?’
He laughs flippantly, which suddenly fills me with annoyance. ‘Calm down, babe! Like I said, we’ll just go with my parents this year.’
I can barely contain the anger I feel at Ryan.
Seb’s face appears at the window and he gestures at another freshly opened bottle of bubbly. ‘Let’s not talk about this now,’ I retreat to stop myself saying something I’ll regret. ‘I’ll see you later, OK?’
I stare at my phone for a moment after I ring off, and then drain my glass and walk back into the studio. Seb pours me another and smiles at me as I down half of it.
‘Fancy staying out for a bit then?’ he raises a thick, dark eyebrow and stares at me challengingly.
I think of Ryan at his parents’ house, playing Subbuteo like an overgrown teenager. ‘Yeah, I do actually, Seb,’ I say, as I take another greedy gulp. ‘I really do.’
Several hours later, I open our front door woozily and creep in, putting my keys down on the sideboard next to a particularly garish bunch of gerberas. The lights are all off downstairs – all except one. The flamingo. I unplug it and put it in the kitchen bin. Suddenly I feel like a rebellious teenager again and it’s kind of fun. But just as I turn around and head for the stairs I freeze, imagining Jackie’s tragi-comic face when she n
otices it’s gone. I walk back slowly, pull the flamingo out and put it back next to the TV. I stare at it accusingly before walking quietly upstairs to bed.
The Let’s Compromise Kiss
When I was younger I didn’t like the word ‘compromise’. It was a word my parents used a lot and as far as I could tell it just meant accepting second best, not being brave enough to go for what you really want.
Now, I’ve learned that compromise is what binds people together. Compromise is sharing and conciliatory, it is loving and kind and unselfish. It opens its arms to another person and takes a step halfway between what it wants and someone else’s wishes and dreams.
FF>> 15/09/03>
‘Here we are then, our new home!’ I gesture wildly around our new one-bedroom flat that we actually OWN and then look out the window. ‘Hello Hackney!’
I turn around and grin broadly at Ryan, who, along with his dad and brother, is heaving the last of our boxes through our (OUR!) front door. Jackie has disappeared. No doubt she’s nosing around the place. I try not to get wound up, but fail. This is our place and I want Ryan and me to have the chance to do it our way this time. Mum and Dad are here, too, as ever, visibly uncomfortable. Mum is clutching her handbag in front of her and fiddling with her silk neckscarf as she looks around and tries her best not to look disapproving. I am so thankful for that, it kind of makes me want to hug her, but I don’t. Dad is smiling blankly and I know although he’s here in body, in his head he’s somewhere else entirely. Probably at whatever exhibition is on at Tate Britain. I watch Ryan’s family look around, wide smiles scrawled clumsily over their faces like a child’s attempt to emulate happiness with a crayon, whereas I’m the kid at Disneyland for the first time, bursting with excitement and happiness. This is what I wanted.