The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  ‘Oh, please do, Mrs Cooper,’ he moans, ‘please, please do . . . ’ And then he pulls me over in the sand until he is on top of me.

  He gazes down. ‘Molly Cooper,’ he says softly, smiling as he releases the unfamiliar coupling from his lips. ‘This feels different because it feels like . . . forever . . . ’ He pauses, waiting for my affirmation. ‘You know?’

  ‘I know,’ I smile as I stroke his forehead. ‘I know.’

  1.10 p.m.

  ‘Hey, Miss? Miss? Where d’ya want this then?’

  I glance up at the blotchy, overworked face of Bob, who is blithely coming down the stairs with what appears to be my dressing table on his back, whilst his younger apprentice is carrying a single box as if it is the heaviest thing in the world. I hear my mobile ringing in the kitchen and am tempted to go and answer it, but whoever it is will have to wait.

  ‘Are you OK, Bob?’ I say, rushing over to his aid, but he waves me away.

  ‘I’m fine, gal, used to lifting bigger than this. Just tell me where to put it, eh?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry, in the van. It’s going to storage.’

  ‘Don’t need a fancy dressing table any more, eh luv?’ he winks.

  ‘I’m a woman, I’ll always need a dressing table like that,’ I laugh. ‘I just can’t take it where I’m going!’

  He staggers out of the front door and minutes later he’s back. ‘Well, luv, that’s the last of it from upstairs – what next?’

  I glance at my watch and then at his red face and my stomach, which is growling with hunger. ‘Lunch!’ I answer, and his face brightens even more – but this time with relief.

  ‘That’s music to my ears, luv,’ he grins. ‘I’m gonna have a sit-down in the van and read the paper.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay in here if you like, I’ll rustle up a sandwich . . . ’

  ‘Nah, don’t you worry, my lunch box is in the van. The wife packed it for me, gawd bless her. But if I don’t come back in, you know she’s put arsenic in me BLT! Ha ha— Oof!’

  I open the door to let him out, just as someone is about to knock on it. I squeal as I kiss my sister-in-law, and then usher Bob out into the driveway. I squeeze her, then bend down and grab my nephew. ‘Beau-Beau!’ I wrestle him into a reluctant hug. At seven and a half and with all the nonchalance and coolness of a kid twice his age, he considers himself way too big for a special Auntie Molly hug. Luckily my 5-year-old niece, Gemma, isn’t as discerning. She’s thrown herself at my legs squealing with delight. I close my eyes and kiss her blonde hair, trying to soak up the moment so I can remember it in the future.

  Beau appraises me with his sharp blue eyes, so like his Nanny Jackie’s and his uncle’s, and then makes his summary of me, like Simon Cowell after a particularly dire X Factor audition.

  ‘You look sad,’ he says honestly.

  ‘Beau!’ Lydia scolds. ‘You can’t say that!’

  ‘It’s OK, Lyd,’ I say with a laugh as I crouch down to his level. ‘Well, Beau,’ I reply with equal sincerity and just a hint of a smile, ‘you’re absolutely right. It’s because I’m going to miss you all very much. But I’m excited too because I know that I’ll be very happy in my new home.’

  ‘Just like Uncle Ryan is?’ Beau says, without blinking.

  I glance up at Lydia and she looks away. I nod and usher him in. ‘Now Beau, do you fancy an apple juice and a Jammie Dodger? If I’ve got any left,’ I add guiltily as I glance into the lounge and spot the empty packet of biscuits I’ve already worked my way through this morning.

  ‘We’re not staying long,’ Lydia says, throwing off her leather jacket and hanging it over one of the two chrome-and-red 1950s diner stools that stand in front of my little island kitchen unit. They’re being given to the local charity shop. ‘I was just walking down The Broadway and thought I’d swing by here as I just couldn’t face last night being the last time we saw you. And Beau begged to see you again. Believe it or not,’ she adds.

  We giggle as we glance into the lounge. He couldn’t look less bothered to see me. In the five minutes we have been speaking he has unplugged the DVD, located the Playstation that I bought especially for his visits and has found the already sealed-up box that contains all the games. And . . . oh yep, he’s opened it.

  ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you, Beau-Beau!’ Lyd calls sarcastically, and then shakes her head apologetically at me.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lyd, I already knew that he only loves me for my gadgets,’ I say, just as Beau comes running into the kitchen shouting, ‘Auntie Molly! Can you make me a smoothie in your special whizzy blendy thing? Oooh, and what about making ice cream just like we did last time? That would be so cool. Ha! Cool, get it?’

  ‘I rest my case,’ I laugh, lifting the just-boiled kettle and pouring hot water into the only two spare mugs that aren’t yet packed. I realize that one says ‘Keep Calm & Carry On’ and the other says ‘The Only Way Is Essex’; I was given them as a leaving gift from Lydia.

  ‘Beau!’ Lydia scolds. ‘I told you Auntie Molly is very busy today packing up her house. We’ve just popped by to see if there’s anything we can do, not unpack her stuff again!’ She turns to me as I hand her a cup of tea. ‘Gem, go in there and play with your brother, OK?’ Gemma totters off obediently, her blonde ponytail bouncing perkily. ‘Is there anything I can do, babes?’ Lydia asks.

  ‘No,’ I shake my head, and then glance at my watch.

  ‘You don’t look stressed,’ Lydia points out as I sit on a kitchen chair and put my legs up on another. ‘How are you feeling though, really?’

  ‘Oh you know . . . sad, weird, numb.’

  I’ve become pretty adept at describing my emotions. Now I see every feeling I have as a snapshot that I can flick through instantly, each one replaced quickly by the next one in the pack. I’ve learned the hard way that emotions can be as disposable as the old plastic Kodak cameras we used to take our holiday pictures with. Happiness is as transient as sadness.

  ‘Well that’s perfectly understandable!’ chirps Lydia in her characteristically bright way. ‘But I know it’ll all be alright!’

  ‘So do I,’ I say with a slight defensiveness that I didn’t know I felt. It passes as quickly as it arrives. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Lyd, I’m ready for this but still . . . ’

  ‘I know, Moll,’ Lydia says unusually quietly, leaning over the table and stroking my hand.

  ‘I’m just worried I’m going to feel really alone, you know?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Lydia gasps, laughing with the authority of someone who knows better. ‘Lonely is the last thing you’re going to be. Trust me. I know it’s scary going somewhere new, but you know people there already and you’re going to make new friends so quickly. It’s what always happens. We’re the ones that are going to be lonely without you.’ She looks down at her hands and a tear drops from her eye onto them. She runs a finger under her eyes and rolls them heavenward. ‘I’m so sorry, I swore I wouldn’t do this. I just feel like I’m losing you, too . . . ’

  ‘Don’t, Lyd. You’re not.’ I stand up and walk over to the dresser in the corner and open the drawer. ‘Besides, I’ve got just the thing to help us stay in touch.’ I pull out my old Canon digital SLR. ‘I want you to have this.’

  ‘Oh Moll, I can’t—’

  ‘Yes, you can, I’ve got a new one. I want you to take photos of you, Carl and the kids, silly photos, things you’re doing every day and I want you to upload them here once a week. I go over and grab my laptop. I tap in a few words and in an instant, a Tumblr document appears with the words ‘Lydia’s Blog’ at the top. I quickly take a picture of her, plug the USB cord from the camera into the laptop and upload the picture. She’s pulling a face and her mascara has run.

  ‘That’s hideous!’ she snorts.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m the only one who is going to see it and read it. You can just post pictures if you want, or if you need to talk, about anything, you write and I promise I’ll write back as soon as I can, OK?
It’ll be like I’m still just down the road.’ I squeeze her hand and Lyd gives a watery smile, before pulling out her make-up compact and reapplying.

  ‘Ooh, I nearly forgot. Here’s mine!’ I open up a matching blog page, turn the camera around, pull a face and quickly upload the picture. ‘I’ll post pictures of all the things I’m doing. It’ll be brilliant!’

  ‘Well, I guess you’re the expert.’ Lydia’s lip wobbles and then the tears come again. ‘It won’t be the same, Molly, but well, it’s better than nothing. It’s a lovely idea, thank you, Moll.’ And she kisses me on the cheek and we sit holding hands for a moment.

  ‘There’s something else I want to give you, Lyd, something I want you to cherish. I’ve wanted you to have it for a long time. I take my hand away and then put it back on the table and open it up, so my palm is facing up. In it lies a glittering antique diamond ring.

  ‘Oh Molly, your engagement ring, no!’ Lydia cries and shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t, I just couldn’t!’

  ‘Listen to me, Lyd,’ I say firmly, pressing it into her hand. ‘It’s what I want. This ring is a Cooper heirloom so it’s not mine to keep.’

  ‘But Ryan, he gave it to you . . . ’

  ‘Which makes it mine to give away. Just because things didn’t work out as I’d hoped . . . well, I don’t want to take it from here, from Nanny Door, and from Jackie. Can you imagine if I lost it in transit? They’d kill me! The ring is a part of this town as Ryan is.’ I pause. ‘Perhaps Beau will want to have it one day, when he falls in love. He’s going to be a little heartbreaker too, I reckon . . . ’

  Lydia nods, and that’s when our tears really come.

  ‘I can’t believe this is it,’ Lydia says as she stands on the doorstep.

  I grasp her closely to me, mostly so Beau doesn’t see us crying but he’s too busy playing Angry Birds on Lydia’s iPhone anyway.

  ‘It isn’t goodbye. Remember our blogs and you all have to come and see me!’

  She sniffs, her eyes shining brightly. ‘Too right.’ She kisses me quickly on the cheek, stares at me for a moment and then smiles as she puts her arm round her son’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on Beau, Gemma, it’s time to go! Say goodbye to Auntie Molly now please.’

  Beau looks up and smiles with that irrepressibly cheeky Cooper smile, and throws himself into my arms. I close my eyes, remembering all the hugs that have gone before, as a baby, a toddler and a little boy. When his delighted shouts of ‘CUDDLES!’ instead of ‘bundle!’ would be the only warning that would precede him launching himself on my bed when I stayed over at Lydia and Carl’s.

  They turn away and I hear Lydia ask for her phone.

  ‘Awww, Mum, I thought I could keep it to play on until we get home!’ he whines.

  ‘I never said that, you cheeky sod!’ she exclaims as she totters down the path in her stacked patent heels, taking the noise, chatter, life, but not my cherished memories, away with them.

  The Snatched Kiss

  Do kisses fade like polaroids if you don’t pay attention to them? I have kissed and been kissed so many times and yet unsatisfyingly few are imprinted on my memory. Only two or three from my childhood remain but I know there must have been many more. But I cherish the handful I remember like they are precious jewels. There’s the proud kiss my mum and dad simultaneously gave me on each cheek after I’d taken my first Holy Communion. I remember standing in my white dress and veil, toes scrunched nervously in my little satin ballet pumps as their lips pressed to each of my beaming cheeks. It felt like their kisses had dried and would be forever imprinted there, like the flowers I used to press between the pages of books.

  And if I close my eyes I can conjure up the smattering of gentle, soothing kisses on my fevered cheek and brow my mum gave me when I had chickenpox. They felt like angels’ wings healing my poor, spotted skin. And I can vividly recall the giant smacker I gave her on her lips (they tasted faintly of Bakewell tart) when I came running out to her after my very first day of infant school. It took her by surprise so much that it sent her toppling backwards. I’d never seen my mum spread-eagled in an ungainly fashion anywhere – and I was horrified. But to my surprise she laughed it off, got up and then kissed me on my head. My mum’s surprised me a lot these days. Every time I think of her, I experience a Ready Brek warmth to my body.

  Then there are the passionate, romantic kisses of my life – most of which have been with Ryan. One particularly hard evening I lay in bed counting how many kisses I had shared with Ryan over our years together (yeah yeah, I know I’m sad – so shoot me – as I used to say when I was a teenager!) and the number came into the thousands. But if I add up how many of those I can instantly recall? Of course I remember the important ones: when we first met, moved in together, got engaged, got married . . . but the day-to-day kisses? The ones where we told each other without any words or fancy surroundings or ostentatious ceremony just how much we loved each other? Just as with the endless facts and figures I learned in school and that have since flooded out of my brain, only a few remain. The only conclusion I can come to is that I just wasn’t concentrating hard enough.

  <

  ‘Can you just look at this before you go?’ I call as Ryan whirls through the flat, swooping up his books, football boots and his bike helmet as he goes. He stuffs half a slice of toast in his mouth and dives towards me, delivering a kiss to my cheek as he pulls at his diary that I realize I am sitting on. I tilt so he can get it and then wave my list in front of his nose, desperate for him to look at it. This is not just any old to-do list I’m trying to show him. It’s The Master Wedding List, or, as Ryan calls it, The List of All Lists. I made it when I started to feel like I was drowning in wedding admin. This master list divvies up the lists of jobs between myself, Ry, Carl and Jackie, and covers everything. If only I could get Ryan to look at it.

  ‘Pleeease, Ry. We’re getting married in less than eight weeks and there’s still so much to do!’

  Ryan pulls an apologetic face as he throws the last of his toast in his mouth.

  ‘I can’t,’ he talks as he chews and then washes it down with a gulp of orange juice. ‘I’m already late. I need to go to the gym before my staff meeting. Hey, I thought you were going to come?’

  ‘I know, but I’ve been twice this week already and I just want to spend an hour before work doing some wedding admin. Eight weeks isn’t long to get everything sorted you know, Ry!’

  ‘It’s too long for me!’ Ryan says, dropping a quick, crumby kiss with top notes of peanut butter on my lips. ‘I wish we were getting married tomorrow. Anyway, I thought this was meant to be a small, laid-back wedding!’

  ‘It IS!’ I reply, but must give a look of unbridled Bridezilla-ness that he laughs.

  He brushes the crumbs from his stubble and glances at his watch. ‘Sorry, I’ve really got to go. Oh, and I’m gonna be late tonight, too. I’m doing some extra football coaching.’

  ‘Really?’ I put down the list and sit back on the sofa. ‘Those kids are so lucky to have you, Ry.’

  I stand up and kiss him gently on the lips and then nuzzle his neck. ‘I just want you to look after yourself, OK? You’re not invincible, even if you think you are.’

  Sometimes, like now, standing in front of me in his Adidas tracksuit, I still see that 17-year-old I had a crush on all those years ago. But then I blink and I realize how much he’s changed. He looks really tired at the moment, kind of gaunt and just older somehow. It’s been a stressful few months at work and planning the wedding has been an added pressure. But I’ve tried to help by doing the wedding planning with Jackie. We are a great team. (I write the lists, she does all the things on them.) Still, it’s tough doing it in such a short space of time – especially with one bridesmaid being in Australia and the other one going AWOL.

  I think of Casey’s estrangement and am hit by a wave of sadness. It happened shortly after I phoned her from New York to tell her the news of our engagement. I’d expected squ
eals of excitement, tears, laughter, that moment of friendship that will bond you forever when your childhood friend sees you being handed your happy-ever-after. For this reason, I’d phoned her first, before my parents, before Mia, before anyone.

  ‘Case?’ I had said excitedly when she answered on the third ring and I’d waved at Ryan to turn down the TV in our hotel room. We’d just come back from Central Park and he was perched on the end of the bed, engrossed in some basketball game. I’d ducked into the tiny, windowless bathroom, holding the phone to my ear and gazing at my left hand, stroking my beautiful antique ring. It had been Nanny Door’s engagement ring. She gave this to Ryan when we got back together and Ryan decided to propose with it. After I’d accepted, he’d offered to buy me a different ring.

  I’d looked into Ryan’s bright blue eyes, so like his nan’s, and I’d shaken my head as I’d told him that I didn’t want a new ring, I wanted this one. It was special to Ryan and to his entire family and for that reason it was better than any ring we could ever buy. ‘This ring will be a constant reminder of how lucky I am to be Mrs Cooper,’ I’d said, and he’d kissed me again and again.

  I’d squealed as Casey had greeted me on the phone. ‘Case, I’ve got something wonderful to tell you!’

  ‘You’ve bought the Ugg boots I asked for and they were even cheaper than I expected?’ she says.

  ‘Nooo, something way better.’

  She gasps. ‘You’ve bought me a pair of Manolos – Molly, you shouldn’t have!’

  ‘No, silly!’ I laugh. ‘Ryan just proposed!’

  Silence.

  I’d waited and waited and waited for the squeals to come, the cries of joy, the laughter. It’s the scene from a million movies I’ve seen a hundred times over. I told myself Casey was just in shock. Understandably, after all, it wasn’t that long ago I’d been crying myself to sleep on her couch. Her happiness would come, once she got over it.

  But it didn’t. All that came was the long beep of an ended call.