The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  Casey looks around, clearly confused. ‘Um, where’s here?’ she asks doubtfully.

  ‘Here is . . . the edge of the world!’ I say obliquely, but dramatically throw my arms out wide, fuelled by a wave of excitement. ‘Come on,’ I say, grasping her hand.

  ‘Molly, what the hell are you talking about?’ Casey grumbles as she follows me inside. ‘I thought we were going shopping, or drinking.’

  ‘We are going drinking,’ I reply, ‘around the world!’ I gesture up at the sign and smile brightly at her, suddenly doubting my decision. ‘Welcome to . . . Vinopolis!’ I say the last bit weakly.

  Wine tasting? Is this really being wild and crazy and spontaneous?

  I continue regardless, desperate to prove my idea is a good one as I’m beginning to have doubts myself. ‘You come here, buy a ticket and travel around the world tasting wine!’ I explain. Casey doesn’t answer. ‘I-I just thought it’d be a fun and informative way to spend the afternoon! I’ve always wanted to come here but Ry doesn’t like wine, so . . .’

  ‘You brought me knowing that I do?’ Casey laughs good-naturedly. ‘Not that I care where it’s from,’ she adds, ‘I’ll drink whatever booze you put in front of me!’

  ‘Well, prepare to be educated, Case,’ I smile. ‘You never know, you may leave this place a proper connoisseur.’

  She looks at me, a blank expression on her beautiful face. ‘babes, have you seen the way I drink wine?’ And I laugh as she mimes glugging it down her neck.

  We’re in France, trying a selection of Burgundys, going against the well-known wine-tasting advice to spit out what we taste.

  ‘Mmm,’ Casey says, rolling a large gulp of wine around her mouth in a supposedly professional and refined manner. She swallows and looks up, as if searching for the perfect analogy. ‘It tastes like . . . I’m getting a little hint of . . . a definite soupçon of, yes hang on, yep, I’ve got it . . . GRAPE!’

  We’re practically rolling around Spain when I feel somebody tap me on my shoulder.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here, Rookie!’

  I frown at Casey, who raises an eyebrow at me, and I turn around quickly. Seb is standing with two of his mates, grinning widely at Casey and me. They are all wearing almost identikit matching ensembles of indigo jeans, designer trainers and V-neck monogrammed jumpers. With their messy media hair and stubble they look like triplets.

  ‘Hi Seb,’ I smile, actually feeling pleased to see someone I know. At least Casey will see that I have got a social life, too. ‘What are you guys doing here?’

  ‘Ahh, you know, just taking in some culture. We like to do something a bit different at the weekends, so we have this Saturday lunch club,’ Seb explains. ‘We each choose something different to do every week, something none of us have ever done before. This was my choice. I love a bit of wine tasting, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve never done it before, actually,’ I reply, in equal parts embarrassed by my admission and impressed by this group of guys’ inspiring approach to weekend living. You wouldn’t get Ryan and his mates doing the same.

  Casey clears her throat next to me and I glance at her, suddenly her tan is too fake, her dress too short, her boots too high for a Saturday afternoon. I feel embarrassed.

  ‘This is my . . . b-b- old friend, Casey,’ I say. The word ‘best’ stuck in my throat at the very first consonant. Casey doesn’t notice and raises an eyebrow and a hand in Seb’s direction and gives him a long, sexy smile.

  ‘Please to meetcha,’ she purrs. ‘And who are your mates?’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Seb says, waving his hands. ‘Molly, Casey, meet Nick and Matt.’

  ‘Hey,’ they chorus coolly, and give us easy smiles.

  ‘So have you been to many countries yet then?’ Seb asks, folding his arms.

  ‘Only Ibiza,’ Casey replies before I can stop her. ‘And I’m half-Italian and half-Greek, although I’m not telling you which bits,’ she winks. ‘Have you guys been there yet? Italy or Greece, I mean, not my bits . . . ’ I glance at her in horror but they’re all laughing at her joke so I join in.

  ‘Aaaaghhh!’ I squeal. I am sitting on the back of an Italian Vespa, zipping through the streets of Rome with my hands around Seb’s waist. I’m, if not drunk, then very, very, merry. We have been in Italy for ages. In fact, we only left it once, to go to South Africa and Portugal and then decided we liked it so much we wanted to come back to drink more Chianti and have another go on the scooter.

  ‘It’s just like Roman Holiday!’ Seb calls over his shoulder.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You, know, Roman Holiday? Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn . . . you must have seen it?’

  ‘Nope,’ I call back. ‘I’ve always wanted to though.’

  This is true. It was on my list of Films to Watch before I met Ryan, but then we started dating and despite getting him to watch some films I like, he point-blank refuses to watch any that were in black-and-white.

  Seb swivels round on the scooter so we are facing each other. I shift back on the seat and gulp, suddenly aware of our close proximity. I look around for Casey, but then remember she said she was going to take the guys to Greece.

  ‘Hey!’ I exclaim as I point at the video screen that is still showing us zipping round the cobbled roads of Rome, despite the fact that Seb the driver is facing me. ‘Dangerous driving!’

  ‘Sod that,’ he grins, folding his arms and staring at me intently. ‘I want to know how a mag girl, a picture editor of a magazine no less, has never seen Roman Holiday? It’s a style classic! A beautifully shot piece of cinematic photography!’

  I shrug, feeling incredibly self-conscious all of a sudden. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply, looking down. ‘I guess that one just passed me by.’

  ‘You’ve been to Rome, though right?’ Seb asks curiously.

  I shake my head, feeling more foolish and culturally inept than ever, not wanting to go into the detail of my childhood spent trawling the UK’s seaside towns, going from one bleak B&B to another. Or my holidays with Ryan’s family in Portugal. Suddenly it all seems so parochial. Seb’s stubbly jaw drops open, his greeny-grey eyes barely containing their disbelief. ‘You love photography, though, right?’ he asks. I nod. ‘Then you absobloodylutely have to go to Rome to photograph St Peter’s Square, the Sistine Chapel, the sights and sounds of the city, the flamboyant Italians drinking espressos in the marketplace, the lovers kissing in front of the Trevi Fountain . . . ’

  I stare at Seb who is talking with such passion about this beautiful city and I am overwhelmed by this feeling of longing. Not for Seb, I’m longing to see more of the world, more of life.

  Seb clearly notices that I have gone quiet. The glass I’m holding that contained a delicious Montepulciano is empty and he takes it, dismounts the scooter and puts it on the table in the middle of the room. Then he grabs my hand, lifts me off the Vespa and carries me into the next room.

  ‘Come on, Rookie,’ he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘I’m going to show you the rest of the world!’

  Seb leads me into California and grabs me a glass of Zinfandel. ‘You’ve no idea what you’ve been missing,’ he says. He raises his glass to mine and downs it, shaking his head and laughing, exuding an air of danger and excitement.

  And with a jolt and a pang of regret I realize that Seb’s got it wrong, the problem is that I know exactly what I’ve been missing. And now I’ve seen it, I’m not sure I can go back to the ignorant bliss I’ve been living in.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Casey whispers across at me, from where we’re sitting in Century, the private bar on Shaftesbury Avenue that Seb is a member of. We’re sitting in a corner, with Nick and Matt, having one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask innocently, smiling woozily at Seb as he brings over a bottle of champagne and then returns to the bar.

  We glance across at Nick and Matt opposite us. Seb is chatting to another friend at the bar.

  ‘We’re going up to t
he roof garden for a min, boys!’ Casey chirps. ‘Don’t miss us too much!’ She grabs my hand and marches me into the lift and upstairs where she sits me down and stares at me. ‘Seriously, babes, what’s going on? You seem really . . . different. Is everything OK with you?’

  ‘Mmmhmm.’ I nod unconvincingly and look away.

  ‘What I mean by that is everything OK with you and Ryan?’ She taps me on the shoulder and as I turn to look at her I know that she can see, just from looking at me, all the frustration and the doubt I’m suddenly feeling about my relationship.

  ‘Blimey,’ Casey says, shaking her head. ‘I thought you two were unshakable. The perfect couple.’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect, Case . . . ’ I say sadly.

  ‘Do you still want to be with him?’

  And I find I can’t answer her. All I can think is, what happened to that young couple head over heels in love? We got stuck, that’s what. Stuck in jobs, stuck with commitments and responsibilities, stuck with a mortgage in our mid-twenties when we should have been having fun. And now I can’t help but think that if I’m still on the Monopoly board then perhaps it’s time I played my Get Out of Jail Free card.

  The Kiss My Dignity Goodbye Kiss

  Why is it that we’re meant to know what we want to be and the type of person we want to be with, before we’ve even worked out exactly who we are? I turned my back on so many opportunities, experiences and life routes. I spent most of my life trying to look like I knew what I was doing, act ‘mature’, be the grown-up. I wish I’d spent more time being free, seeking adventure, doing things wrong instead of trying to control everything so much. I wish I hadn’t tried to live my life by ticking things off a to-do list and just focused on to-day instead. Maybe then I would have been more ready for the grown-up stuff when it came along so much sooner than I expected. I know you’re not meant to have regrets, but that’s mine.

  <

  ‘I can’t believe we’re here! Ibizaaaaaa!’ Casey exclaims, saying that particular word exactly as she says ‘Tequilaaaa’ and in the same fake Mexican accent. She abandons her suitcase by the door and launches herself on one of the twin beds in the sparsely decorated hotel room. She rolls over and locks her hands behind her head, her dark hair fanning out over the white sheet, belly-button ring glinting against her already tanned skin. In her bikini top and white denim hipster skirt Casey looks like she got dressed to go clubbing, not get on a plane. Mia is channelling her inner Liz Hurley, wearing expensive, white boot-cut jeans, cork wedges and a sheer, floral chiffon top with a white camisole underneath. I’m looking the most laid-back of the lot of us in my cut-off denim shorts and footless tights (I’m not about to get my pasty legs out), a Topshop vest and my favourite bright-green polka-dot sunglasses.

  ‘This is going to be an am-azing holiday girls!’ Casey squeals. ‘Sunbathing by day, clubbing by night, meeting guys, drinking cocktails, no college work to worry about for you, no waitressing at the restaurant for me, just fun fun fun! Oooh, I can’t wait to go to Eden! I’ve heard so much about it and then there’s the foam parties and El Divino.’

  ‘Yeah well, I think Molly and me are more Café del Mar/Pacha kind of girls, rather than Ibiza Uncovered, you know,’ Mia says, somewhat coolly.

  Casey pulls a face at her and then smiles at me. ‘Come on, Moll!’ Casey scrambles up and drags my other suitcase over to the bed next to hers. ‘Are you going to start unpacking or what? It’s time to par-tay!!’

  I laugh, buoyed by her excitement, and allow her to drag me over to the other bed.

  Mia hovers by the door eyeing up the small, uncomfortable-looking sofa by the wall next to the balcony.

  ‘Oh, so sorry Mia,’ says Casey, following her gaze but not sounding sorry at all. ‘We’ve hogged the best beds, haven’t we? We can always swap halfway through the week.’

  Mia smiles stiffly, like she knows this will never actually happen, and then walks in and sets about unpacking her suitcase neatly into the wardrobe. As well as being classy, clever and composed, Mia is also a neat freak. She literally couldn’t be more different to Casey. The atmosphere is strained and I can’t help but wonder if this has been a terrible idea of mine. I’d hoped that a girlie holiday would bring my two best friends together. Mia and I have just graduated, for God’s sake – this is supposed to be fun. And it definitely won’t be if I have to spend the next week playing piggy in the middle. I know Casey was a bit put out when I suggested that Mia came along, but I thought I’d convinced her that three young, single girls together could have lots more fun than two.

  I reckon we can all teach each other a thing or two about being single, as we come at it from different angles. Mia’s single completely out of choice, I’m single due to my high expectations and Casey doesn’t have a problem getting the guys; it’s keeping them that’s the problem. This holiday isn’t just about celebrating mine and Mia’s graduation, it’s about celebrating our freedom. No. Men. Required.

  A sudden soft, island breeze lifts the thin gauzy curtains that are pulled across our balcony and parts them a little. I have a sudden urge to see the sea and gaze at the beauty of the island. I bound over to the window and open the curtains. And as I do, we all stare in horror at our view.

  It isn’t a sparkling turquoise sea, or a flaming Ibizan sunset. It’s a . . .

  ‘COCK!’ squeals Casey.

  ‘COCK!’ gasps Mia.

  ‘COCK!’ I shout, pointing at the apartment-building wall opposite our window, which has an unmistakably large, four-foot-high penis scrawled over it – complete with spiky pubic hairs. We all collapse on the floor, cackling hysterically.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Mia says when we’ve finally calmed down. ‘Let’s get drunk.’ She links both of our arms and we squeeze out of our hotel door and I feel a glow of warmth, not just from the stifling humidity of the evening, but from the thought that this holiday might just work after all.

  The music is thumping in the small, sweaty bar that is one of many small, sweaty bars that line the main drag or the ‘West End’ of San Antonio. We’re standing around a table, a large pitcher of Sex on the Beach is in front of us, which has prompted a pathetic amount of chat-up lines from blokes of varying ages and degrees of attractiveness. Obviously, I told them where to go which was received with loud boos and jeers – from Casey and Mia. It seems the one thing they agree on is that they’d like some of what we saw out of our hotel window. So much for a week of girlie bonding.

  ‘Come on, Molly,’ Casey begs as I bat another group of guys away. ‘You can’t expect us to not talk to any men at all. Think of all those holiday romances we could be having! There are some proper cuties here. Look at him over there!’

  She smiles and bites her straw seductively as the sleazy old bar owner winks at Casey and beckons her over. I grab her arm as she makes to go, a natural reflex of mine. I’ve had too many nights out where Casey has made a beeline for the oldest/sleaziest man in the room. And just because we’re older now, doesn’t mean I’m about to stop protecting her.

  ‘No, Casey! Seriously, you have no idea where he’s been. And he’s way too old for you.’

  ‘He can’t be more than thirty-five. And think how much of the world, of life he’s seen . . . ’ She sighs and wiggles her fingers at him in a Marilyn Monroe-esque flirty wave.

  ‘I am,’ I say, pulling a face – and her hand back down. ‘And that’s what grosses me out.’ I turn to Mia who is looking over at him like there’s a bad smell under her nose. ‘Back me up here Mia, you agree with me, right?’

  She shrugs dispassionately. ‘Depends. I mean, if she’s just looking for a fuck—’

  ‘Mia!’ I exclaim.

  ‘What? They’re two consenting adults, after all.’ She plays with her straw absent-mindedly. ‘She’s just drawn to him because her dad walked out. It’s called father fixation or abandonment angst or something. Maybe a good seeing to from Signor Sleazebag over there will make her get over her issues. You never know, it could sav
e her a fortune in therapy in her thirties.’ She pauses and downs most of her drink and pours herself another from the pitcher. ‘But if she’s under any sort of ridiculous illusion that he’ll fall in love with her and they’ll end up happily ever after, well, then she’s even more stupid than she loo—’

  I elbow Mia but it’s too late. Casey glares at her and looks sulkily away. There is nothing she hates more than being told she’s stupid.

  ‘I think it’s time for a toast!’ I say brightly. ‘To my BFFs!’ I start singing mine and Casey’s song to placate her. ‘We’ve only got each other now and we’ll always be a-round . . . ’ I was hoping this would lift the mood but Casey just glowers at me, and then at Mia who is looking at me like I’m a freak. I stop singing mid-sentence and just clink their glasses. ‘Here’s to having a great girlie holiday. And remember . . . ’

  ‘We’re hot?’ Mia says, waggling her arms and legs as Casey rolls her eyes.

  ‘Of course, that, but I was going to say, no letting any guys come between us, OK?’

  Casey nods. But only when I prod her. Mia does too, but then immediately thrusts her glass at me as a young guy starts thrusting against her. I turn and put our drinks on the table and when I look back she’s snogging his face off. Great. I turn to Casey but she’s disappeared. I look around as a cheer erupts from the middle of the dance floor and I suddenly spot her, doing the limbo in the middle of it, much to the delight of all the guys who have surrounded her. I sigh, pour myself another drink from the pitcher, and down it in one.

  ‘Ughh,’ I groan. The three of us are lying on the beach, in the heat of the midday sun, trying to burn the alcohol from our bodies and the memories of our drunken night from our minds. It’s not working.

  I lift my sunglasses and turn on my side. ‘Please tell me I didn’t actually snog that really ugly 18-year-old who was hovering around me all night.’

  Mia moves from her graceful sun-worshipping position on her towel, arms placed carefully by her side, hands palm-up, legs parted and turned out like they’re in second position, bikini straps tucked underneath her.