by Ali Harris
‘It’s really . . . um . . . ’ Carl begins and then trails off.
Dave picks up the lead. ‘It’s very . . . well, it’s really . . . ’ He is clearly trying – and failing – to find something positive to say.
I hear Jackie poking around the kitchen, then she enters the lounge in her pink tracksuit, her nose leading her round the room like a poodle looking at a particularly undesirable kennel.
‘It’s not fit to live in, darlin’s!’ she exclaims, not mincing her words. ‘There’s damp on the walls and dirt on the floor, the rooms are tiny and have you seen the bathroom? There’s no shower! I mean, my boy can’t live in these conditions! You have to come home now! I won’t be able to sleep knowing we’re leaving you here, don’t you agree, Patricia?’
Mum stiffens and looks at me as she pulls her scarf through her fingers.
‘I’m sure Molly and Ryan will make it very homely, Jackie,’ she replies tautly. Jackie shakes her head mournfully and plays with her heart locket, drawing attention to her oaky, tanned cleavage. ‘I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let us help you so you could afford something better?’ She looks at Dave despairingly for support.
‘Jacks . . . ’ Dave says warningly as he catches my infuriated expression. As does Ryan, so I quickly rearrange my face into a smile. I don’t want to upset him. But sometimes Jackie crosses the line from interested to interfering. Luckily Ryan steps in. It’s unusual but welcome support.
‘Because we want to do this on our own, Mum,’ Ryan says patiently, putting down his box and walking over to hold my hand. ‘You’ve helped us out so much – too much – over the past couple of years, letting us live in the annexe rent-free. This is the best we could afford and it’s not forever, we’re not planning on having kids here. Although . . . it may do for the conception!’
Ryan laughs and then clocks my bewildered expression. ‘Look, Mum, the problems are only cosmetic and we’ve got the money to get them fixed. Honestly, it isn’t as bad as you think . . . ’
‘It’ll look much better when all their stuff is in it, Jacks,’ Dave agrees, squeezing his wife’s shoulder affectionately.
‘If it fits,’ she sniffs, looking around the place disdainfully and fiddling again with her necklace. I’m not sure why I didn’t see it before but Jackie can be just as snobby as my own mother. And at least my mum doesn’t try to hide the fact. But Jackie presents herself as a woman of the people – as long as the people are new-money middle-class.
‘Well, we may have to downsize on our stuff a little, Jackie,’ I say, thinking of the hideous plastic flamingo light and resisting the urge to do an air punch. ‘But honestly, don’t you think it’s wonderful that we’ve managed to buy a really great one-bedroom, ground-floor flat with a garden on a good road in an up-and-coming area of London? Kirstie and Phil would be proud!’ I pause and look at her pleadingly. ‘We were kind of hoping Jackie and Dave would be, too?’ I can’t believe I’ve resorted to this. She loves being talked about in third person.
Dave laughs and flings his arms around us. ‘We are proud of you, we are. We’re just sad that you’re leaving us.’ He turns to Ryan and looks down at him with the same disarming smile that he’s passed on to his youngest son. ‘I think your mum was hoping you’d be living at home forever, Ry. Me too, if I’m honest, mate.’ I search Ryan’s face for signs of crumbling; as much as he’s tried to hide it I know he’s been dreading the moment when we finally leave the Cooper nest. But, to give him credit, he agreed to my demand to move to London. I flush when I recall the argument I started after I confronted him about not wanting to go to Australia. I told him I was bored, that Leigh and his parents were stifling me and that if we didn’t do something drastic soon I felt like I’d explode. It sounds so harsh now I think about it, I just felt so let down by him. I thought he wanted what I wanted. Left to his own devices he’d have lived at home forever, spent Friday night at the same pub with the same mates until his dying days, going to the footy every Saturday . . . I was saving him from himself. This life, the one I could see was right for us, suited us so much better.
‘I’m twenty-six, Dad.’ He puts his arms around me. ‘Me and Molly, well, we need to make our own way. He looks at me and smiles weakly. He looks tired but that’s just because we haven’t had a summer holiday this year what with all the looking for a new job for him, and a flat for us, buying it and then packing up all our stuff. Once I’d pointed out that he was right, going to Australia wasn’t the answer to our problems, but that moving to London was, he’d agreed. We’d decided that although he could commute easily enough from Hackney to Leigh, the best thing for us as a couple would be working and living in the same city. And with his experience at a school like Thorpe Hall, he could get a new teaching job easily enough. ‘I’ll really miss the kids,’ he’d said sadly, ‘and seeing the guys at the weekends, and Sunday lunch with you . . . ’ But then he’d grinned. ‘But in the long run I’ll get more time with you so it’ll all be worth it.’
‘We could come back at weekends!’ I’d said tentatively, wanting to offer him a compromise, something to make up for taking him away from the Mother Ship. He’d visibly brightened then, his face beaming in that irresistible way that had made a million hearts melt before mine. I’d hugged him tightly, thanking my lucky stars for such a wonderful, supportive boyfriend and trying to contain my excitement that we’d finally be moving to the big city.
‘We’ll get the best of both worlds! And buying a flat in London would be an investment in our future! It’s time we stopped relying on your parents for everything.’
He’d nodded his agreement and kissed me. ‘You’re right. I want you to be happy and if moving to London is what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do. It’s the perfect compromise!’
‘I love you, Ryan,’ I’d said, offering up my lips to him. And he’d lowered his and given me an earnest kiss.
He does the same now as my parents, Jackie, Dave and Carl exit our building, the Coopers’ conversation blaring like a flock of honking geese as they head for their white Mercedes that sticks out so conspicuously on the run-down, grey Hackney street.
‘Well, here we are, babe,’ Ryan says as he pulls back from me and looks mournfully out of the window as they drive off with a screech of tyres, a toot of the horn and the sound of the radio blasting out of the window.
I smile, close my eyes and greedily inhale the silence. I feel like I have been starved of it for years. I look around at the desolate lounge, a room that I can already see forming in my head with a dark feature wall, some big photographic prints, more daring colours than our annexe, more of me, more of us. I coil my body around Ryan and I lock my arms around his neck as he draws me up around my waist, a half-formed smile hovering as I kiss him longingly on the lips.
‘We’re going to be so happy here, Ry, I just know it,’ I say, pulling back and gazing into his eyes. I can see the doubt forming. I know Ryan. I know every blemish, freckle and mole. I can feel his emotions change with every word, blink, breath, kiss. I know he’s unsure. Not about me, but about living here. I know he’s worried about his new job in an academy school in East London. This is the biggest challenge that Ryan’s ever faced. But I know this move is going to be the making of him. And the making of us.
The Grown-Up Kiss
I heard this song on the radio recently by this American band called The Ataris. The song talks about how growing up is better than being a grown-up and it struck me that although my teenage self would probably vehemently debate that point, right at this present moment I concur completely. Being a grown-up sucks.
FF>> 11/11/03>
‘Hey, honey, I’m home,’ I say, as I slam the door behind me and peel off my biker jacket and scarf. I walk into the small galley kitchen where Ryan is busy cooking up a storm. I sniff. Mmm, Thai curry.
I’m trying not to think of the final Lord of the Rings film premiere and after-party I was invited to tonight. I said no because Thursday nights are our ‘date
nights’. Monday to Wednesday evenings Ryan has various sports clubs and football training sessions to run, or he has to oversee after-school detention. But Thursdays are sacred because on Fridays he goes back to Leigh to see his mates before playing football on a Saturday. It was one of the terms of agreement of our move. I was meant to go every week and occasionally I do go back with him (mainly to hang out with Casey), but frankly, the two of us have more fun here, so if she’s not working at Players she stays over here and comes out with me and my work mates. They think she’s hilarious. Everyone loves Casey.
‘Since when did you get so sociable?’ Ryan ribbed me last week when I told him I couldn’t go back to Leigh with him as I was going out with them.
‘Since I started following your rules,’ I replied. ‘Number one: family always comes first.’
‘Correct,’ Ryan had said with an approving smile.
‘Number two: fun should always take precedence over finances. You won’t care about your bank balance . . . ’
‘ . . . on your deathbed,’ Ryan had recited.
‘Number three: the pleasure that can be gained from the company of friends is priceless. Never turn down an opportunity to see them even if you don’t feel like it.’
He’d added a side note with a jokey chuckle: ‘As long as you remember that the person you have to hang out with the most is me!’
I’d smiled because I know he’s not actually joking. It’s funny because sometimes it feels like he wanted me to be more sociable and now I am he isn’t always sure how to deal with it. I felt I needed to remind him why it’s important, not just for me but for my career.
‘Number four: networking is the best way to get ahead in life.’
Ryan had nodded. ‘But not always the best way to get happy,’ he’d added with a serious tone to his voice. ‘See point one: family comes first.’
I’d wrinkled my brow in annoyance. I know he’d prefer me to go back with Leigh with him. But all my friends are here and Friday nights are a chance for me to prove I’m more than a boring old Charlotte – as in the prim-and-proper one from Sex and the City. My colleagues gave me this nickname after I turned down one after-work drink session too many. No matter how much I tell them I’m actually the anti-Charlotte, I just happened to meet someone who changed my mind, I couldn’t change theirs. Not without proving I can have fun and hold down a relationship. So that’s what I’m doing.
It’s hard though because I’m the only person in the office in a proper relationship. Seb’s a serial dater, Freya changes boyfriends more often than she changes outfits, even our editor Christie is single. And she’s in her mid-thirties. To them I am an exotic creature with an alien lifestyle.
And to be honest, at times it still feels pretty alien to me. Or at least, it is to the 15-year-old me who still can’t believe that this is actually my life. She pops up at work, usually when I’m in the middle of sorting out some budget or staff problem. And I feel the need to explain to her that the dreams you have as a teenager aren’t necessarily the ones you have as an adult.
Here she is again now, glaring at me contemptuously as I sit down at the breakfast bar and wait to be served my dinner.
What a cosy, safe and comfortable little life we’ve got. Why the hell didn’t you let us go to that premiere? It would have been brilliant! What kind of bourgeois freak would choose this over that?
Sometimes she pops up when I’m out with Ryan, pointing a camera at us and then holding it to one side as she eyes us up disbelievingly, like we’re the oddest couple she’s ever seen. She mouths ‘Him? Really?’ and then rolls her eyes, and then points out the women who are turning to stare at him as we walk by and I’m hit by a wave of paranoia again. I know that’s just her, the cynical teenage me who didn’t believe I was good enough for someone like Ryan Cooper. I don’t think like that now. I know that I’m what he wants. And he’s what I want.
Steam is whirling around the brightly painted room like clouds over a clear blue sky and I wave my arm around, trying to waft it – and her – away at the same time. She disappears, but not without a final curl of her lip at the domestic scene.
‘Mmm, that smells delish!’ I say brightly, wrapping my arms around Ryan and nuzzling my nose into his navy Duffer St George hoodie, drinking in the scent of him and trying to dispel the disloyalty that I feel when teenage Molly is in the room.
I peer over his shoulder and into the saucepan that’s sending out such deliciously spicy, fragrant scents.
‘I was feeling a bit under the weather, so I thought I’d knock up a batch of my special Thai broth,’ he says, taking a swig from a bottle of beer.
‘Yours or Jamie Oliver’s?’ I say with a sly grin. ‘And is it flu or man flu?’ I know from experience how crap Ryan is when he’s ill.
Ryan turns and prods me in the stomach, before kissing me on the forehead. ‘Oy, where’s the sympathy and the gratitude for me slaving over this pucker tucker, eh?!’
‘It IS Jamie’s recipe then!’ I laugh jubilantly.
‘Yeah, alright,’ he admits. ‘But I’ve added a little “Ryan Cooper” twist! Scallops, tofu and my own secret, creamy ingredient . . . ’
I raise my eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. ‘Just taste it, Moll!’ He scoops some up on the ladle and offers it to me with an expectant smile. I notice that the skin around his eyes crinkles like raffia paper. We’re getting older.
I open my mouth and sip, in what I hope is a sexy way. ‘Mmm,’ I moan, feeling the fragrant broth slip down my throat and through my body, warming me from inside out. Suddenly I feel this overwhelming wave of lust overtake me. It never ceases to amaze me that this can happen when you’ve been with someone for two years. I put the ladle back in the pot and reach up and grasp him around the neck.
‘Fancy satiating my appetite before dinner?’ I murmur, and I put my hand on his crotch suggestively and kiss him on the mouth.
He responds to my kiss, but as I press my body up against him, he pulls away.
‘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.