by Ali Harris
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 Marcoooos 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 w
ho ‘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.
‘You saved my life!’ she’d gasped, and enveloped me in a hug.
But as I helped her up, holding up my fists to anyone who dared come close, I felt she’d saved mine.
From that moment on we were inseparable. We waited for each other after class, spent every breaktime together, I even purposely dropped grades in a couple of subjects so we could be in the same set. I’d been planning on doing it anyway, just to piss Mum off – now I had an even better reason. I helped her with schoolwork, she helped me to relax and be myself. For the first time, someone liked me for me. It was a revelation.
‘Molly!’ Casey squeals now as she gestures to the small space next to her on the couch. ‘You look wicked!’
I glance down at my fitted black T-shirt and long denim skirt that I’m wearing with – yep, you’ve guessed it – Converse. My style is still basically the same, mostly black, mostly long, but these days I like to show off a little bit of my shape, too.
‘Ooh, I love your hair! It’s grown! You’re almost back to your natural brunette! If you had it feathered, and highlighted, you could totally have a Rachel cut!’ I pull a face. This was not a look I’d be aiming for. ‘Although you’d need my Greek nose.’ She sticks her face up against mine and turns us to face the mirror in the hallway and I can’t help laughing. ‘See! Told you!’ she exclaims. ‘Oooh, we can watch loads of Friends over the holidays. It’s my favourite programme EVER.’ She pauses, but only to draw breath. ‘I’m desperate to see There’s Something About Mary! I love Cameron Diaz, I wish I were just like her, don’t you? She actually makes me wanna get my hair cut short! And maybe dye it blonde?’ She shakes her long, dark mane.
‘You look gorgeous as you are, Case!’ I smile.
‘Ahhh, you just always expect to see me with old braces, bad hair and Greek–Italian puppy fat! Hey!’ she snaps her fingers. ‘I’m the Monica to your Rachel!’
‘You were never fat, Case,’ I point out. ‘Just . . . curvaceous.’
‘Well, thank God for step aerobics! And straight teeth! I passed one of the Heathers in the street the other day – Nikki, do you remember? She’s up the duff! Again! Who’s Not-so-Gorgeous now, huh? Ha ha!’
‘I haven’t heard that name for a long time,’ I say, mentally rewinding the months since I left Leigh to go to uni in London.
‘God, I’ve missed you so MUCH!’ Casey leans over and squeezes me tightly. Her hair is pulled back with lots of little brightly coloured bulldog hair clips and they’re digging into my cheek. I pull away.
‘We only saw each other a few weeks ago!’
Casey pouts. ‘Yeah well, that’s way too long. We used to see each other every day!’
I squeeze her to let her know I’ve missed her, too. She knows I’m not one for ostentatious emotion.
‘Molly!’ exclaims Casey’s mum as she walks in from the kitchen and stands with her hip jutting out, chewing gum.
‘Hi, Toni,’ I smile politely. I know Casey finds her embarrassing because she’s not like other mums.
‘Make Moll a cup of tea please, Mum!’ Casey demands as I throw myself down on her sofa.
‘Make it yerself sweetheart, I’m going aht. I gotta hot date.’
‘Another one?’ Casey mutters sullenly.
‘Don’t be sore just ’coz your mum gets more action than you! I can’t help it if men find me irresistible. I’m off to an Ann Summers party at that posh house on the Marine Estate. Whatsername. Jackie Cooper.’ My chest constricts at that name. ‘Ooh, her husband is well fit, I’d give him one!’
‘UGH,’ Casey says as her mum slams the door behind her. ‘Seriously Moll, be thankful that your parents are the way they are. Can you imagine having a mum like mine who talks about shagging all the time? It’s so embarrassing!’
‘So how long are you back for?’ she then asks excitedly, throwing her legs over mine and stretching out languidly.
She smiles at me hopefully and I dread giving her my reply. ‘Just a few days to be honest, Case . . . ’
‘Oh, you’re not off to stay with Marcoos are you?’ Casey says, curling her lip. She never did take to him.
I shake my head. ‘Nope. I broke it off. Eight months was as long as I could stand with him! I reckon that’s the first and last long-term relationship for me.’
‘So you’re single?’ Casey squeals. I nod. ‘And ready to mingle?’
‘I guess so.’
‘YAY! We are going to have so much fun! So, hang on, why aren’t you staying here longer if you’re not with him any more?’
‘I’ve got a work placement at a magazine in London for six weeks starting next week, so I’m going to stay at my uni digs for the summer.’
‘A magazine?’
‘It makes sense for me to get some experience on a picture desk. It’ll give me loads of photography contacts, too.’
‘Ooh, I know!’ she says, sitting up on her knees and clapping her hands together excitedly. ‘I could come and work at the magazine, too! I could be, you know, one of those people who shop for a living! Or even better, their party correspondent.’ She adopts an American accent and holds the TV remote up to her mouth as if it is a microphone. ‘This is Casey Georgiou reporting from the Oscars where I’m currently snogging Brad Pitt.’ She clutches a cushion to her lips and kisses it passionately and I laugh. ‘Speaking of Brad Pitt,’ she says, putting the cushion back in its place, ‘I know another guy who all the girls fancy who’s looking forward to snogging – I mean seeing – you . . . ’
‘Wh
o?’ I rack my brains trying to think of anyone in Leigh who could possibly want to see me. Being away from home has made me realize the size of the chip I had on my shoulder. It was more of a potato wedge.
‘A certain local football star who drives a nice car and is a total hottie . . . ’
‘Oh. HIM. Is he still living round here?’ I sniff.
‘Wow, Molly, you can still hold a grudge better than anyone else I know!’ Casey raises her perfectly pencilled eyebrow. When did she get so good at applying make-up, I wonder?
‘I haven’t thought about him in ages actually,’ I say defensively. ‘I had a boyfriend, remember? I look at my fingernails so she can’t see I’m lying. ‘Besides, I’ve got a right to hold a grudge – he totally humiliated me.’
‘He only kissed you, Molly.’
‘Badly.’
‘That’s not a crime is it? If it was, every teenage boy should be locked up!’
‘OK, I’ll rephrase that. He kissed me badly as a dare, in front of everyone!’
‘Yeah well,’ she continues flapping her hand dismissively, ‘clearly you haven’t thought about him AT ALL since.’
I make a face at her. ‘I haven’t. Apart from to recall the deep-rooted humiliation that’s printed to my core like a stick of Southend rock. Other than that, I can barely remember his name.’
‘Whoooee,’ Casey whistles. ‘He got you baaaad. Well, I happen to know he’s up for grabs, and a bit down on his luck . . . ’
‘Oh?’ I say, suddenly intrigued.