The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  ‘Mia!’ I squeal as I begin walking down the stairs.

  ‘Helloi, darling,’ I’m used to her Aussie inflections now. ‘Can you believe today’s the big day?!’

  ‘I know!’ I exclaim. I sit on the bottom step, smiling at the sound of my best friend’s voice. ‘I’m amazed you remembered!’

  ‘Hey, I may be in an entirely different time zone but I do sometimes manage to recall major events in my best friend’s life, you know!’ she replies huffily.

  ‘My birthday?’ I tease.

  ‘OK, maybe not that,’ she concedes, ‘but if you’d let me finish, I was going to add – especially when the major events involve me. And re your birthday, Molly, we’re practically in our mid-thirties now and I thought we had an unspoken agreement to pretend that particularly depressing event doesn’t happen any more . . . ’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I laugh.

  ‘But this – this is more exciting than Christmas! It’s going to be so brilliant Molly! Me and you back together again. Like when we were at uni. Do you remember those disgusting cocktails we concocted? What did we call them again? You know the ones that inexplicably tasted of fish.’

  ‘Moll Flangers,’ I reply, and we both crack up laughing.

  ‘Just think, we can go out all the time!’

  ‘I can’t wait to see you,’ she says more quietly. ‘I’ve felt so bloody useless for so long.’

  ‘You’ve helped more than you know.’ Not for the first time I give thanks for my friends. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without them. I just wish Casey . . . I stop myself before I start getting emotional again. Pull yourself together, Molly, I tell myself. It’s not like you’ll be on your own . . .

  The Celebratory Kiss

  Think about how often we kiss to celebrate the new: new job, new baby, new house, a newly married couple. So many kisses to revel in, so many ‘new’ things. But shouldn’t every kiss be a celebration? Old or new, snatched or savoured. We should be throwing a party for every one.

  <

  I squint sleepily without opening my eyes, the custard-yellow sunlight is pouring through the curtains and spreading itself over our bed, covering us with its warmth.

  ‘Morning!’ murmurs Ryan. As ever, his naked body is curled around mine – even after nearly a year together we still sleep like we are locked in post-coital combat, with our limbs so inextricably tangled that I don’t know where his end and mine begin. I turn my head and we kiss; a long, lazy affair that turns quickly into something more. I roll over towards him and we find our natural positions without word or conscious direction. Ryan’s mouth tastes musty – a mixture of morning and lust – and I plunge into its warmth like a happy hippo in a muddy swamp, clinging onto his shoulders as we wallow in pleasure together. Afterwards, we emerge breathless and hot, throwing our sticky limbs across the entire bed as we pant, laughing with delight.

  Ryan turns his head to look at me. ‘Happy anniversary, babe,’ he grins, and I roll up onto one shoulder, running my finger around the moles on his chest and wriggling in closer to him.

  ‘But it’s not our anniversary yet, Ry.’

  ‘It’s a year to the day of our real first kiss,’ Ryan says, kissing my forehead and stroking my damp hair. ‘Ibiza, remember?’

  I look at the date display on the alarm clock and realize he’s right. I shouldn’t be surprised; Ryan has an uncanny ability to remember emotional events in great detail. He can recall our conversation in the café when we were teenagers in word-for-word detail, or what I was wearing when he saw me on the Bembridge. Ask him to remember to pick up some shopping, however, or to pay a gas bill, and he’s floored.

  ‘So how shall we celebrate?’ I say, stroking his chest and burying my face in his neck.

  ‘We just did, didn’t we?’ Ryan says, and I smack him playfully. ‘OK,’ he pulls himself up in bed, drawing me up with him. ‘How about I take you out for dinner tonight after you finish work. My treat. I’ll sort it out.’

  ‘I know just the place we could try—’ I say to Ryan, thinking about this new restaurant in London that I read about in Time Out but he interrupts me.

  ‘Leave it to me, Moll. I said I’d arrange it.’

  I stumble into the office and throw myself down at my desk.

  Jo grins at me. ‘What time do you call this, huh? Just because I’m leaving, it doesn’t mean you can take liberties, you know!’

  Jo is a really cool, straight-talking Australian. I look up to her; she’s travelled the world, is married to her childhood sweetheart and is about to become Creative Director of Shine, the biggest-selling women’s mag in Australia. I’m gutted she’s moving back to Oz. What is it about that country? I’ve always wanted to go and yet everyone I know seems to end up there instead.

  My computer starts up with a loud groan and I wave my hand at her dismissively and grin. ‘File your complaint from Down Under, Jo. You only have one day left of being my boss!’

  Jo laughs and taps at her watch. ‘Half a day, you mean.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ My face drops as I open an email, sent ten minutes ago from the boss:

  Molly, could you come to my office please? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. Christie

  ‘OH my GOD! Really?’ I gasp. ‘You want me to be the new picture editor. Are you sure?’

  Christie laughs and nods from behind her desk. I love Christie. Not only is she amazingly talented – she’s won loads of awards since she launched Viva two years ago – but she’s also really nice, which I’ve been told is pretty rare for an editor in this industry.

  ‘You’ve done an amazing job in the last year, and Jo herself has said that she couldn’t think of anyone better to fill her role. So what do you think?’

  I stare at her.

  What about being a photographer? Don’t get sucked into the corporate machine!

  ‘I-I thought you were interviewing loads of really experienced people?’

  We said we’d never work in an office, this was meant to be temporary!

  ‘We did,’ Christie smiles. ‘But none of the applicants were as good as you. You know the magazine inside out, you’ve been on cover shoots, Jo has said that you get on brilliantly with our crack team of photographers and have even made some new contacts of your own. You have a wonderful creative eye, great visual ideas and you are a great ambassador for the magazine.

  I can feel myself blushing. I had no idea Christie thought so highly of me. And I have to admit, a promotion – and the pay rise that comes with it – would be handy right now. It might mean Ryan and I could start saving for a place of our own. I love our little pad at Jackie and Dave’s, but it’s basically an extension of his bedroom. Jackie even brings us breakfast in bed sometimes as she’s got a key. I tune back into Christie.

  ‘Viva is a fledgling magazine and I want my team to be young and hungry and passionate. And that’s what we believe you are. So what do you say, can we officially announce your new position as picture editor to the rest of the team?’

  Say no! Say no! This isn’t what we want!

  ‘Yes!’ I exclaim.

  No! What happened to pursuing our creative dreams?

  A pay rise happened, that’s what.

  I’m waiting outside my office for Ryan to arrive. He said he’d meet me after work at the usual place at 7 p.m. but he’s late. I’ve deliberately saved my amazing news to tell him over dinner. I can’t wait to see his face.

  I look around the bustling streets of Covent Garden at the hundreds of people floating along the sun-dappled street, like brightly coloured balloons that have been let out in celebration of this beautiful summer evening. I love London at this time of year. It’s a constantly moving festival of colour that attacks the senses. I can totally understand why Dick Whittington thought the streets were paved with gold.

  I’m making a mental list of reasons why it makes sense to move here and am already up to number eight just as my phone rings.

  I smile as I an
swer. ‘OK, Cooper, where are you? You’d better not be standing me up on our anniversary?’

  ‘Hey, I’m here, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here too!’ I exclaim. I stand on my tiptoes and peer around, then put my hand up in the air. ‘Wait, I’m waving, can you see me? I’m stood outside the office. Have you just come out of the tube?’

  ‘Office? Tube? What are you talking about, Moll? I’m in Leigh! Don’t tell me you’re still at work!’

  ‘What? But I thought you were taking me out for dinner? You said to meet at the usual place.’

  ‘I meant The Crooked Billet, babe!’ Ryan laughs, and my flight of fancy is well and truly grounded.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That usual place.’

  ‘Don’t worry, babe, if you hurry you’ll still get here by 8.30. I’ll get us some cockles from the cockle sheds an’ I’ll have a glass of wine waiting for you at our usual table outside. Make sure you don’t miss the next train. Love you!’

  We’re sitting at our usual table, outside our usual pub, surrounded by the usual people, having our usual drinks and eating cockles from Osborne Bros from a small plate with a toothpick. The evening is warm, with the sea glistening in front of us and filled with the background noise of chat and laughter and music and clinking glasses of everyone enjoying the summer evening, apart from me.

  Ryan throws his arm around me but I sit stiffly, unable to thaw my cold front, despite the warmth of the summer evening and Ryan’s embrace.

  ‘No fancy London restaurant could beat the fresh fish from round here!’ Ryan says, with all the enthusiasm of a real foodie and a local lad. He glances sideways at me, but I am steadfastly looking away. ‘I thought we could drive to Rossi’s for ice cream after, just like we did on our first date, what do you reckon?’ He kisses me again on my bare shoulder and I can’t help but smile. That’s such a sweet idea, now I feel bad for being so shallow. I still haven’t told Ryan my news yet either as I’ve been too busy sulking. God, I can be such an idiot sometimes.

  ‘Cheers, babe,’ Ryan says, holding up his bottle of Becks. ‘To the happiest year of my life!’

  ‘So, Ry,’ I wipe my mouth with my napkin and smile, ‘I actually have some news!’ I pause dramatically. ‘You’re now looking at Viva’s new picture editor!’

  Ryan stops, his tooth pick lifted halfway to his mouth. ‘Bloody hell, that’s wicked! I’m so proud of you!’ He leans over and kisses me on the lips.

  He sits back in his chair and grins broadly at me. ‘I’m so glad they can see how special you are, too.’

  I swallow the urge to say that I wish he’d thought of somewhere more ‘special’ for our anniversary. And then it hits me, this is special. It’s Ryan’s special place. If he were Peter Pan he’d think of Leigh-on-Sea to make him fly, whereas I’ve always felt that it has clipped my wings. Right here, in the sun, by the sea, is where Ryan belongs. He comes bursting out of his bud when the sun is out. I look at him now, at how his skin has coloured into his usual tawny tan without him trying, and his already blond hair is now laced with threads of gold. His broad shoulders are relaxed, his body, unlike so many men’s, looks really good in summer clothes. Shorts enhance his strong, muscular legs, his chest looks broader under a T-shirt. His body was made to be looked at. Which that gaggle of girls over there is proving.

  Maybe I could learn to love it here as much as he does. I put my hand up at the passing bartender. ‘Another glass of house white, please, and a Becks.’

  And maybe sometimes it’s best to just stick with what you know.

  The Future’s Bright Kiss

  Ryan once told me kissing me for the first time felt exactly the same as doing a tandem skydive; it was as exhilarating as it was scary, risking his heart and throwing himself into the unknown with someone he barely knew. I understood that analogy exactly. Except for me, kissing Ryan felt like I was standing on a cliff-edge viewing platform; it wasn’t scary, just beautiful seeing the world spread out below me and I knew that I could have it all with Ryan – he made me feel like I could touch the sky – but I also knew he’d never, ever let me fall.

  FF>> 31/12/02 9.10 p.m.>

  A cheer erupts from our table in the corner of The Crooked Billet as Dave, Jackie and Nanny Door enter the warm, inviting pub. We’ve all been here for about an hour, chatting, enjoying the atmosphere and anticipation that New Year brings. Ryan is on top form as ever, telling the best jokes, buying bottles of champagne, making everyone feel like this is the only place to be in the world for New Year.

  ‘Hello, my darlin’s!’ Jackie exclaims and comes over to kiss Ryan, Carl, Lydia and me in turn – and then makes her way round the rest of the gang. She is looking as youthful as ever in a pair of leather trousers and over-the-knee boots. I keep expecting her to slap her thigh and say, ‘He’s behind you!’

  Casey, Alex, Gaz and Jake are all here too, and some of Ryan’s friends from school. Even my mum and dad are here. I have no idea what they’re going to make of Jackie and Dave in public (they’re even bigger and more gregarious than in private). The Coopers are now at the bar, buying champagne for everyone in the pub and clearly preparing to have a brilliant time. They’ve met before – a few times. Because Jackie has insisted on having them over for Sunday lunch (thankfully Ryan cooked) but we’ve never managed to get them out like this together before. Ryan has coaxed them along as he always does, with charm and enthusiasm and that grin. I know Mum tried her hardest to disapprove of me moving in with my boyfriend but she’s always had a soft spot for Ry. Most people do.

  I smile as I watch my dad, smoothing over his comb-over with his hand thoughtfully, whilst chatting to Dave. Mum is sitting stiffly beside Dad, sipping on a bitter lemon and occasionally picking bits of invisible fluff off her tweed skirt. I wish she’d just relax.

  Just at that moment I notice Jackie slide into the seat next to Mum and hand her a glass of champagne. Mum raises her hand in refusal before it flutters to the cameo brooch on her beige roll-neck jumper. Watching this strange meeting is as fascinating as watching a nature programme. In my head I am commentating like Richard Attenborough observing two creatures:

  ‘The exquisite, rare butterfly flits over to the hanging chrysalis, as if daring it to emerge, showing it the possibilities of what it could be . . . ’

  ‘Come on now, Patricia – can I call you Trish?’ I hear Jackie say coaxingly. ‘Come on Trish, it’s New Year’s Eve! I insist that you have a little glass of champoo and relax!’ She makes herself comfortable next to Mum and crosses her leather-clad legs. She looks amazing for her age. It’s hard to believe my mum and her were born in the same year. They may as well be from different decades. Or centuries.

  ‘Now, have I told you about this new thing I’m doing?’ Jackie continues chattily. I see my mum shake her head in bemusement; gazing at Jackie her hand floats up to touch her short grey hair, a subtle, subconscious recognition of the difference between her practical cut and Jackie’s high-maintenance, layered platinum bob. ‘It’s called an Ann Summers Party,’ Jackie continues with a broad smile that reaches her heavily kohled eyes. Her lip gloss shimmers on her generous lips and I’m sure, if my mum were to look closely enough, she’d see her reflection in the shine. My mum mutters something in response and Jackie laughs.

  ‘I know, Trish darlin’! It is a bit weird because I’m not called Ann at all, but apparently I can’t call it the Jackie Cooper party!’ She leans in and whispers, ‘But of course, everyone round here does. They know that no one throws a soiree like JC! You have to come next week, I won’t take no for an answer!’

  From personal experience I know this to be true. I feel like telling Mum to just say yes and get it over with. JC will always wear you down in the end.

  ‘They’re getting on like a house on fire, aren’t they! I knew they would,’ Ryan murmurs into my ear.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t all come crashing down in flames,’ I laugh, leaning back against him so his lips nuzzle my neck.

  ‘It won’t
,’ Ryan answers. ‘They’ve already got one brilliant thing in common . . . ’

  ‘What’s that?’ I say, looking over at the two diametrically opposed women on the other side of the table.

  ‘Us!’ Ryan grins and takes a long sip of champagne.

  I turn and smile at my boyfriend, the eternal optimist.

  I’m standing at the bar waiting to buy a round and taking photographs of the merry scene. I smile and chat with the friendly locals and feel half enveloped in the warm party atmosphere yet also a little bit removed, like a child’s half-unwrapped and discarded Christmas present. My head is doing a filmic rewind of the past year that I have been living here in Leigh and I am seeing nights like this played over and over again. I guess that’s what happens when you get everything you wished for.

  But we didn’t wish for this.

  I shake my head. She always pops up and tries to spoil things when I’m happy. Everything is still so wonderful with Ryan and I’m getting to do amazing things at work. Life is good.

  Life is predictable, you mean.

  Yes, predictable, but good.

  I smile at Dave as I pay for the drinks and glance back at the group of people who have become my life. I lift up my new camera again – Ryan bought it for me for Christmas – and I start taking photos of them all. Jackie is sitting on Dave’s knee, one arm flung round him, the other is round Gaz, who appears to be serenading her. Casey has the full attention of pretty much every man there. Only Ryan is looking away. And that’s because he’s looking directly into my lens. At me. He smiles and beckons me over but I pull the camera up and keep on snapping, wanting to capture this scene because it represents everything about my life right now. Comfortable, warm, inviting, easy . . .

  Predictable.

  I freeze, my finger hovering over the button, as it sinks in what those words actually mean.

  I drop my camera back around my neck and turn again to the bar, feeling my heart pound and constrict with panic, like I’m having some sort of seizure. Suddenly, the noise, the warmth, it is all too suffocating. What am I doing here? Back in the little hometown I swore I’d never return to. Making Sunday lunches for his family and mine. I swore I’d be different. But I’ve got sucked in too.