The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ I gasp. And it is. It is clearly the highest-quality silk, it is cut beautifully and the initials are sewn on with what looks like Swarovski crystals.

  ‘Turn it over! Turn it over!’ squeals Jackie. I see my mother purse her lips, but something tells me it is because she is trying to disguise a smile, not disapproval. I twist my hands so I can see the back and ‘Mrs Cooper’ is sewn on in crystals too. I burst out laughing as I look back up and see that they have all turned round and are standing in a line with their backs facing me. Each of the things they’re wearing – even Mum’s pale-pink cardi – has been customized with different words. Jackie is standing at the far left of the line. Her silk dressing gown is just like mine, except it is cerise pink and says MILF on the back.

  I put my hand over my mouth as I splutter out a laugh.

  ‘What does that acronym stand for?’ asks my mum innocently, leaning round so she can see from her far end of the line.

  ‘What’s an acronym?’ asks Lydia, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘It means the short version,’ I explain to Lydia as my mum mutters something about ‘the youth of today’ and ‘education going to pot’.

  ‘Um, well Trish, what it stands for is . . . “Mother-In-Law . . . Forever”?’ Jackie says, trying to keep a straight face as I continue to laugh.

  Nanny Door is next. She winks at me over her shoulder as I read out the inscription on the back of her velour tracksuit top.

  ‘Nanny Door-in-Law!’ I laugh. ‘Brilliant!’

  ‘I thought of it meself,’ she says proudly. ‘It rhymes an’ everything!’

  ‘Mine says “BFF”,’ Casey says. And I smile at her.

  ‘Mine says “BridesLaid”,’ Mia says, and my mum tuts audibly. ‘Because I want everyone to know that I am single and available.’

  Lydia uses both her index fingers to point at the back of her hoodie. Hers says ‘Super SIL’.

  Finally, my mum’s cardi says MOB on the back. ‘This acronym,’ she says pointedly, ‘stands for “Mother of the Bride”.’

  I laugh and pull mine over my shoulders and go and join them, pushing into the middle of the line and throwing my arms around them. Jackie and my mum throw their free arms around each other and we huddle together to create a circle, and I feel myself beginning to well up as we have a big group hug.

  ‘Thank you, everyone. I love it.’

  ‘I’m glad you do, darlin’,’ Jackie pipes up. ‘It was either that or that diamanté-studded vibrator, wasn’t it, Nanny Door?’ And we all fall about laughing.

  Even my mum.

  I’m sitting in front of my mirror as Lydia applies the last of my make-up.

  Me, Mum, Dad and the bridesmaids had a lovely breakfast out on the hotel terrace and everyone has dispersed to their rooms to get ready. I’ve sent Mum off to deliver my present to Ryan – a watch engraved with our initials and a kiss – and Lydia is just putting the finishing touches to my make-up. Casey is getting ready in the bathroom. I’m going to slip my dress on any minute. The wedding is in just under an hour and the butterflies are flooding my stomach. I’ve had a text from Ryan this morning that was simply a screenful of kisses.

  ‘There!’ Lyd says as she puts the finishing touches to my face, a little shimmer on my cheeks and under my eyebrows and on the bow of my lips. ‘The perfect beach bride!’ I glance in the mirror and gasp. My tired, stressed face has been transformed with her magic touch so that my skin is golden and dewy, my once-heavy eyes are wide as saucers and the sea-green of my irises is complimented by the sandy sweep of shimmering eye shadow she’s applied to my lids. My eyelashes look inexplicably long and dark, separated a little with minimal mascara so that they look like they’re wet from the sea. My hair flows in loose, flowing waves from a centre parting, down to just past my chest, and the front section is pulled off my face by two little plaits (a detail I added especially for my mum) tied at the back of my head and then decorated with the flowers from my bouquet. It has been a long journey from my awkward, red-haired, black-clothed teen self to this. I twist my head and throw my hair over my shoulders so I can see it cascade down my back. Then I stand up and look at Lydia.

  ‘Are you ready to put it on, babes?’ she says with a smile. I nod and look over at my dress that is hanging from the wardrobe door. I walk over slowly, reverentially, and carefully take it down and lay it on the bed. Then I slip off my dressing gown and call out to Casey. She’s been in the bathroom for ages.

  ‘I’m putting it on now, Case!’ I call excitedly.

  ‘Be right there!’ she yells back. Then I hear the toilet flush but she doesn’t emerge.

  ‘Will you help me?’ I ask Lyd, desperate to have this beautiful gown on, unable to wait a moment longer.

  ‘Of course. Shouldn’t we have photos of this though? Shall I get the photographer in here?’

  I shake my head at Lyd. I decided before the big day that I don’t want ‘before’ pictures. I want the day to begin when I step out in my dress, ready to marry Ryan.

  Lydia holds out the white gown carefully, ready for me to step into. I glance at the bathroom again, but still no Casey. I hope she’s alright. I slip off my dressing gown. I don’t want today to be too much for her. Not after everything she’s been through recently.

  ‘Now, step right here,’ Lyd says.

  I shiver as the light gossamer material of the ivory Grecian-style dress slides up over my body, and I close my eyes as Lyd secures it at the back.

  ‘Oh, Molly,’ she sighs and steps back. My hands are shaking uncontrollably and I take three big deep breaths before I open my eyes and look in the mirror. The dress is everything I dreamed it would be. Romantic, relaxed but beautifully bridal too. The Grecian style makes me feel like a goddess, I love how the gathered, rolled shoulder straps and floaty, feminine skirt allows me to get away with the plunging V-neck line. There are also two swathes of silk floating out from both of my shoulders instead of a train, and on my back, there’s a little bit of extra special detail, a little nod to my roots.

  I hear the bathroom door open and I turn around.

  ‘Molly,’ Casey says, cupping her hands over her mouth. ‘You look beautiful!’

  I smile and hold out my hand to her, wanting her to know that so does she. Tears spring into my eyes as I think about just how far both of us have come to get here, and how long it has taken for us to learn to be comfortable in our skins.

  I glance back at the mirror and she comes and slips her hand into mine as we both stand in front of it. I turn to Casey and grasp both her hands and lift them out wide; she looks at her feet in embarrassment. It’s the first time I have seen her in the dress I chose for her and I feel a secret jolt of joy that I’ve done so well. I found it shortly after I came back from New York as a newly engaged woman. Before I knew if she would even be at the wedding, let alone be my maid of honour.

  ‘You look incredible, Case,’ I say through my tears. The bright burst of orange is perfect against her dark skin and tawny eyes. Her dark hair – natural once again – is swept up into a messy chignon, with tendrils coming down, and the coral cascade of chiffon that falls in a waterfall from spaghetti straps around the neck, to her thighs, makes her look demure yet beautiful in a way she always said she never could. Especially after what happened that night. I can picture her now, as I could when I bought it, walking barefoot across the sand, blazing a fiery trail like a Monarch butterfly. She still looks like my Casey. But a grown-up version of Casey.

  I realize that I couldn’t have got married without her. It just wouldn’t have felt right. All my dreams, all my aspirations for the future are as linked to her as they are to Ryan. She’s been there through it all. And been through more than I’ll ever know. We’re both still gazing in the mirror at ourselves when Lyd steps forward. I know she’s sensed that we need a moment alone.

  ‘I’m off to put on my dress. Although I’m never going to pull off orange like you’ve done, Case!’ And she kisses us both and then slips
out of the room.

  We stand in hushed silence for a moment, just inspecting ourselves in the mirror. I feel like we’re seeing two reflections. In one we are our teenage selves, complete with Casey’s little hair clips and her pink plastic rucksack, me gazing through my badly cut and dyed fringe, stabbing my DM-clad toe into the ground sullenly. And then there’s the one of us now: all grown-up, happy, beautiful, holding hands – BFFs forever, just like we promised.

  ‘You’re getting married,’ Casey whispers, and I squeeze her hand.

  ‘I know, weird, huh?’

  ‘Not weird,’ she says, wiping away a tear. ‘It’s right. It was always meant to be you. I mean, come on, we both knew it was never gonna be me first.’

  ‘I reckon you’re just seeing how I do so you can better it!’ I nudge her and she nods.

  ‘There’ll be way more bling for a start, way more,’ she laughs.

  ‘Hey, I got bling!’ I say with a smile, turning around so Casey can see the back of my dress where there’s a wishbone-shaped strap of dazzling Swarovski from my shoulders down to the V of the dress on my lower back. Something I knew that Ryan – and his mum – would like. ‘You can take the girl outta Essex . . . ’ I giggle.

  ‘It’s perfect, Moll,’ Case says, tears streaming down her face. ‘You’re the most beautiful bride that has ever been.’

  I lean across and pick up something from the dressing table. I smile and mime pulling my shoulders back and lifting my chin, and Casey mirrors my movements. Her eyes are glassy with tears as I gently pull a fallen piece of hair back from her face and pin it up with a beautiful orange butterfly clip so that it looks like it’s hovering in her hair.

  ‘Repeat after me,’ I say softly. ‘I am beautiful . . . ’

  ‘I am . . . ’ she trails off.

  ‘Beautiful,’ I prompt firmly.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she whispers.

  ‘And like this butterfly,’ I continue, ‘I am free.’ The words suddenly stick in my throat as a tear falls from her eyes as she repeats the first part of the sentence. ‘Free to love and be loved,’ I finish, stroking her hair as I let my hand drop to hers. She doesn’t say anything, she just looks down and I squeeze both her hands. ‘And you will be loved, Casey, I promise you will be. And not just by me and Ryan, either.’

  She nods and then looks at me, as if for the first time.

  ‘Oh, Moll,’ she says, ‘you’re getting married!’ And we both burst into tears.

  ‘No!!!!’ cries Lydia, rushing into the room in her short, orange satin number. ‘You’ll ruin the make-up! Quick!’ And she starts dabbing at my eyes furiously as Casey and I wave our hands at our faces to try and stop the tears coming and, giggling, we run to the bathroom to make sure there are no streaks down our faces.

  As we stand in front of the mirror, still laughing, the years fall away again and it is just me and Casey, two awkward teenagers who needed each other more than anyone else in the world.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Mia says, squeezing my hands as we prepare to step onto the beach and make the long walk towards the bay where Ryan is waiting with Carl. I look at the three girls, standing there in their beautiful dresses and I smile excitedly.

  ‘How about you, Mr Carter?’ Casey asks, and he splutters a little, unused to being asked or having the chance to answer without my mum there.

  ‘Ah, well, yes, I am, certainly, although, I wonder, is there a lavatory around here somewhere?’

  ‘Dad!’ I groan, slipping my hand through his arm. ‘You should’ve gone before.’

  ‘Ah well, yes, that is true, certainly. It must be the nerves. Or, ahh, the age . . . ’

  ‘Just take a deep breath, you’ll be fine,’ I say.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be the one giving you advice?’ he says. ‘In fact I did prepare something . . . ’ He fumbles around in his pocket, takes off his half-moon glasses, mops his brow and puts them back on. ‘I know you’re not, ahhh, a traditional girl but, ahh, this is an incumbent part of my father-of-the-bride role and so I do feel that I, um, ought to say a few words . . . ’ He is still fumbling in his pocket.

  ‘You don’t have to, Dad,’ I say gently.

  ‘Yes, but I want to. I want to give you some marriage advice. Although, I have, um, purloined this from someone who could put it far more eloquently than I.’

  I look at my dad and feel a jolt of love, for my serious, introspective, socially averse father who has frustrated me for years, but who is more like me than I ever have been prepared to admit. And I’m willing him on now, hoping that he will find the right words, the words that will make sense of our relationship, his marriage, this moment. It is a lot to expect.

  ‘Darn it,’ Dad says, pulling various bits and bobs out of his pocket. ‘I’ve lost it. Oh, well, I think I can recall . . . yes . . . I can.’ He turns to me and his speckled eyes glisten. ‘I-I have taken the liberty of changing the personal pronoun from me to you.’ He clears his throat and begins to recite.

  ‘Let you but live your life from year to year,

  With forward face and unreluctant soul;

  Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;

  Not mourning for the things that disappear

  In the dim past, nor holding back in fear

  From what the future veils; but with a whole

  And happy heart, that pays its toll

  To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

  So let the way wind up the hill or down,

  O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:

  Still seeking what you sought when but a bo . . . ’

  (He stumbles slightly.)

  ‘Ahh, I mean, when but a girl,

  New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,

  Your heart will keep the courage of the quest,

  And hope the road’s last turn will be the best.’

  I kiss my father on the cheek, grip his hand, and clutching it tightly we begin to walk towards my husband, my future, murmuring my wise old dad’s refrain for marriage, for life, for happiness under our breath. ‘O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy . . . ’

  We walk past my mum, who smiles at me. Then I pass a sobbing Jackie and a beaming Dave. There’s Freya and Lisa, Jo who has flown from Oz to be here, and even Christie, who has come with her husband. There are a handful of uni friends, and of course, Jake, Gaz, Alex and some of Ryan’s colleagues from Thorpe Hall and his Hackney school. But I barely register any of them because all I can see is Ryan. He looks as gorgeous as ever in his sea-blue suit and white shirt, bright orange flower in his lapel.

  I get to Ry’s side and he looks down at me with a grin on his face. ‘You made it then,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t?’ I ask, my heart soaring up to the sky.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’d be lying if I said no, but that’s only because I’ve been here since our very first kiss.’

  ‘Second,’ I remind him, curving my lips into a wry smile and glancing around at the shore where we kissed for the second – and the best time.

  ‘First,’ he grins. ‘I knew from the start. It just took you a bit longer to catch up, Harry . . . ’

  I shake my head and slip my hand into his as we turn and face the minister.

  ‘I’m not Harry,’ I say. ‘There’s no more Harry. Just Molly. Molly Cooper. Now, shall we do this?’

  Snap!

  We kiss again, for another camera, another photo, another piece of video shot by a guest. So many photographs, so many moments captured: the sand, warm between my toes, dress billowing behind me, Ryan’s arms around mine, the sun beating down on our backs as it starts to sink behind us, a glass of champagne thrust into our hands. People come up to us to chat, congratulate, kiss, hug. Casey, Mia, Jackie, Carl, Lydia, my dad, our wonderful friends and family. Even my mum comes and takes us both by the hands. Then she turns to Ryan and smiles benevolently at him.

  ‘How funny it is to think that I’m your very own MILF now, Ryan dear!’ Mum
says proudly and pats his hand.

  He stares at her, and then me, unable to hide his horror. I can’t stop the impending snort of laughter I feel coming on. I drag him away from a bemused Mum, telling her I’ll explain later, and telling him that I’m saving him from my mum’s amorous advances. And then we run, hand in hand, me trying not to spill champagne over my dress, on our way to the hotel, where fairylights hang from the trees, a canopy of stars above us in the glow of the Ibizan sunset. An intimate dinner for forty, a relaxed tapas meal, our friends, our family, each other. It is everything I’ve ever wanted.

  ‘Do you feel different?’ I ask as we sit, later that night, on the beach, a bottle of champagne between us. It is 4 a.m. We have danced and kissed and laughed and kissed and danced and kissed some more. Some of our guests have gone to bed, others have gone on to a club. We went to bed – and then got up again – not wanting our day to end. We have decided to come here to watch the sunrise on the first day of our marriage. I am drunk and deliriously happy. Drunk on love.

  I prod him. ‘Not listening already, huh? It didn’t take you long to settle into married life!’ I laugh. ‘I said, do you feel different?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s weird,’ Ryan says, tilting his head thoughtfully. I watch his lips moving slowly as he speaks, then he rubs his ankle. ‘It feels like I’ve got this massive weight, right here,’ and he clutches it and groans, miming as if it is an unbelievably heavy ball and chain.

  ‘Hey!’ I smack him on the arm and then clamber up on him, enjoying the feeling of the cool sand between my toes and the heat of him. ‘I’ll show you what a heavy weight feels like,’ I giggle, as I straddle his chest and pin down his arms.