The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  But we’d also snuggled up in cosy, snow lodges where I could indulge myself in the spa, gone on wine-tasting trips where Ryan discovered that, actually, he did like wine after all (but only white) and whale-watched and stargazed to our hearts’ content. We spent four blissful weeks travelling around the North and South Island together in a 4X4, sharing the driving and control of the iPod, his fingers tapping on the wheel as he played his current favourite pop tunes by Maroon 5 and Keane. Then I’d take the wheel, cruising through the beautiful landscape whilst listening to my favourite tunes; ‘Wrist-slitters’ Ryan calls them.

  It had been wonderful, exhausting, but wonderful. Now it’s back to reality. Both of us are working hard and it’s taking its toll, especially on Ryan. For the last few months he’s got up late and dragged his feet on his way out the door in the mornings – he can’t even face going to the gym. He’s put on weight around his stomach. We jokingly call it his ‘marriage spread’.

  ‘It’s because you’re so happy,’ I tell him to cheer him up. ‘And I love it – there’s more for me to get my hands on!’

  Last night he’d come in from school late and tired. He’d thrown his sports bag on the sofa and then himself, and hadn’t even smiled when I told him I’d made pasta. Not that I could blame him. My version of ‘made’ wasn’t the plate of fresh ravioli stuffed with split broad beans, mozzarella and hint of lemon that would have been lovingly prepared by Ryan. No, this was overcooked fusilli with a can of tuna and a jar of Dolmio. It was disgusting and even I’d chosen to focus on finishing my large glass of Sauvignon, rather than eat it. Ryan had left most of his too. He’d sighed and put his tray of uneaten food on the floor.

  ‘Hey, something wrong with the room service, Cooper?’ I’d said jokingly. ‘Or are you just trying to lose weight?’

  He’d glanced at me and smiled, but it was like someone had dimmed his 40-watt.

  ‘Nah,’ he’d sighed. ‘Just another tough day at work.’

  I’d rubbed his shoulders. ‘Hey, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself, Ry. You need to just switch off sometimes. I mean, most of these kids need better parents, not better football skills. There’s only so much you can do.’

  He flinches slightly, as if my words and touch are painful. He really is tense.

  ‘You know I don’t just teach them football, I’m trying to prepare them for life, make them see that there’s more out there than they give themselves credit for. It’s because they have such shit backgrounds that I can’t switch off. I have to stop them from getting in trouble, inspire them to keep focused on their exams as much as their sport, but all the time I’m trying to balance fucking Ofsted reports and shitloads of paperwork that stop me from doing the bit about my job I really love.’ He exhales slowly and closes his eyes as I continue to massage him. ‘Then there’s the inter-schools football league. The Year Nines and Tens need to get a load of extra practices in if we have a chance of making it through to the finals. They’ve never even made it through preliminary rounds before so I’m determined for them to see how far they can go.’

  ‘Just be careful, Ry,’ I say, finishing up the massage. ‘I don’t want you making yourself ill.’

  ‘Hey, babe,’ Ryan smiled weakly and squeezed my hand. ‘I’m the fittest guy you know . . . ’ Then he’d picked up the remote control, flicking through the channels as quickly as ever as he heaved more coursework onto his lap. Even when he’s relaxed he’s still moving.

  I touched him on the arm gently. ‘Ryan, please. I can see you’re knackered. Just stop, have a rest for a minute.’ I sat back next to him and stroked his hair. He’d flinched and then relaxed, a smile fanning briefly over his face.

  ‘Sorry, Moll, you’re right,’ and he’d put the papers on the floor and snuggled up for a cuddle, resting his head on my lap. Five minutes later he was snoring peacefully, leaving me to watch Holby City alone.

  I sit up as an email pops up from Christie asking me to come into her office. I extricate myself from the conversation with the PR mid-pitch and stand up, realizing that I haven’t thought of any cover lines yet and Christie probably wants to brainstorm with me before the official meeting in an hour. It’s the bit I most dislike about my Associate Editor position. When I was Picture Director, I knew it was something I was really good at. Now it’s all budgets, staffing problems, advertising meetings. With this promotion I’ve taken another step further away from photography. I mentally flick through the April features and the fashion and beauty sections as I walk towards her office, trying to come up with original ideas. A Spring Fling for main fashion? Rubbish. What about beauty . . . let’s see, ‘Take the passé out of pastel’? Argh.

  I walk dejectedly, trying to pick up my feet and my enthusiasm for my job.

  ‘Hi Molly,’ Christie smiles and puts down her pen as soon as I walk into her office. I love how she does this, always giving you her full attention no matter what other urgent things she has going on. ‘How are things? Are you happy with everything?’ she presses.

  ‘Errr . . . yes?’ I lie, not sure what else I’m meant to say. I may have talked about jacking it in to Ry, but I don’t actually want to be given the boot. I’m starting to panic now. Maybe I have misread the situation. My enthusiasm in my work has slipped recently, maybe she’s noticed.

  ‘Hmm.’ She taps her pen on her desk and picks up her Pret coffee. ‘I’ve just been getting the sense that your new role isn’t quite as good a fit as we’d hoped.’

  ‘Well . . . ’ I start fiddling with my fingers awkwardly, wondering how I can retrieve this. ‘I admit there are bits I find challenging and . . . ’

  ‘ . . . boring?’ Christie offers. She doesn’t look annoyed, just interested. I decide to be honest.

  I pull a face like a teenager being asked a difficult question in maths class. ‘Not boring Christie, just not in my comfort zone.’

  She nods. ‘I thought so. That’s why I’ve had an idea. She turns to face me. ‘I’d like you to do a blog, a photographic blog,’ she clarifies. ‘I know you love photography, Molly, and I’ve seen some of your shots. You’re stylish, creative and you know Viva’s readers better than most. I want people to want to look at your blog to find an interesting or thought-provoking or funny moment beautifully captured. There doesn’t have to be any words – perhaps just a caption.’ She is thinking on her feet now, waving her hands around like she does in meetings when ideas come to her. ‘Or perhaps some might need more? I’ll leave it up to you. But what do you think?’

  I smile, feeling butterflies at the prospect of being paid to take interesting photos every day that hundreds – or even thousands – of people might see online.

  I’m now exploding with excitement. ‘Oh my God, Christie, that would be amazing! And I’ve already got lots of ideas that would transfer really well to something like this.’ I dash out of her office and over to my desk, where my camera is languishing in the drawer.

  I burst back into Christie’s office and flick through the images digitally, showing her all the little moments I capture every single day. My focus is on people, it always has been, either alone or with friends, family, lovers, children. I love seeing the nuances of relationships framed in my camera, peeling back the façades and seeing the truth of the emotion through the viewfinder.

  I walk out of the office into the dark evening, feeling a new thrill as my camera bangs against my chest, overawed by the possibilities of what I might be able to capture on my journey home. I rustle inside my handbag for my mobile and see that there is a missed call and two text messages from Ryan; one telling me he’ll be late again, the other telling me that the boiler is broken. Not even this dispels my good mood. I text him back quickly when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Casey – hi!’ I say in surprise, barely recognizing her in her chic work get-up. She looks more beautiful than ever these days. Her black hair has grown past her shoulders, is free of highlights and bad extensions and has the glossy shine of a hair ad. Her skin is pure Gr
eek Glow, no tanning products – Casey says she can’t afford them now she’s an intern and besides, she prefers her new natural look. The fake nails and cheap, attention-seeking clothes have gone too, and in their place she’s wearing a sleek, burgundy wrap dress and stacked court shoes with minimal gold jewellery. The only flaw in her appearance is the scar under her eye. But even that looks tragically beautiful, like a single teardrop falling from her lashes and a constant reminder to me of her vulnerability. I gawp at her for a moment before giving her a hug. ‘You look amazing, Case. How’s work?’

  ‘Good – so good, Molly!’ she says, her eyes shining brighter than I have seen them for months. She’s getting her life back on track. She has barely been home to Essex, let alone the club, since the attack happened. She said to us that it felt like the town had turned on her that night as much as those girls did, and that London is the only place she wants to be now. So we sat down one night, shortly after we got back from honeymoon and brainstormed ideas of what she could do. I made a list of all her strengths – you can solve everything with a list – and then we went online and she did a career personality test. There were several options that fitted her personality type – but the one that stood out the most was Public Relations.

  I’d slammed my hand on our coffee table and made the scented candle flicker and the wine jump in my glass. ‘That’s PERFECT, Case, I have loads of contacts in the PR world; I know I can get you in somewhere!’

  ‘You think?’ Casey had said, her old smile coming back and lighting up her face. ‘For real? That would be awesome, Molly!’ And then she’d thrown her arms around both Ryan and I and squeezed us till we could barely breathe.

  Weirdly, she hadn’t seemed quite as enthusiastic after I’d listed all the companies I wanted her to email and gave her the task of doing her CV. In the end I’d composed the email for her. And managed to fudge her CV so that her extensive skill-set that I’d listed hid her lack of experience.

  A week later she’d been offered a two-month placement at a well-known fashion and lifestyle PR firm called Myriad Communications.

  ‘I’m seriously loving it, I mean I really honestly think that this could be a job that I could actually do, no not a job – a career. An actual career, Molly! And I think I could do it really well! I mean, if they actually give me a job that is, which they might not, but oh my God, could you imagine if they did? It would be totes amazing.’

  ‘Brilliant, Case, I’m so happy for you,’ I say linking her arm as we walk down Long Acre.

  ‘Well, it’s thanks to you, Moll,’ she says, ‘it was your idea and your contacts that got me the work experience at Myriad. Honestly, what would I do without you?’ she jokes. ‘First you let me stay at your flat, then you set me up with a new career.’ She’d smiled. ‘The only thing left to do on the list is find me a husband.’

  ‘I’ll lend you mine, if you like,’ I laugh.

  Casey gasps dramatically, her chic dark nails covering her carefully glossed lips. ‘Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, just not bothered to call the plumber when our boiler broke this morning! Usual wifely moans.’ I smile to show her that I’m joking really. ‘If he’d just write a list like I keep telling him to, you know?’

  ‘Nope,’ Casey replies cheerfully. ‘I’ve never had a boyfriend last longer than a couple of months, remember? I can barely get them to have breakfast with me, let alone cook my dinner and look at my plumbing – no pun intended. To be honest, I think you should count yourself lucky, Moll. Most girls would do anything to have a husband like Ryan – including me.’

  ‘You’re right. Now, let me just try and find an emergency plumber so we don’t freeze in the flat tonight . . . ’

  I quickly phone one, agree to the hideous call-out charge and hourly rate, and then send a quick text to Ryan:

  Boiler all sorted x.

  Team work. That’s what it’s all about.

  I link Casey’s arm again companionably and we head for home.

  The Kiss And Run

  If I could choose where to kiss Ryan now I would make us run back, back to where he wanted to be instead of where I was forever reaching for. We would run back, not stopping for breath until we got there. To the place that always made him happy. The place we should have stayed. And when I kissed him I’d never have stopped. Maybe then none of this would have happened.

  FF>> 21/01/07 9.25 a.m.>

  ‘Awww, Moll, do you really have to go?’ Ryan tugs at my sleeve and my heartstrings as he leans in the doorframe of our lounge, wearing nothing but a pair of Diesel jeans and clutching a glass of fresh goji berry juice (his latest health fad). He watches me check my Things I Need for the Airport List, empty my hand luggage to make sure I have them all, and then check my separate Work Trip List, rifling through my suitcases to ensure everything is there. I check my handbag for my passport for the seventy-seventh time and glance up to see his lips protruding in a petulant pout, his new spiky hair making him look leaner, more chiselled and tougher than usual. God, I wish we had time for a last little goodbye. Three weeks is a long time without him. Perhaps it is the strain of work over the past few months showing in his face, or maybe it’s because he’s hurtling towards his thirtieth birthday, but Ryan no longer has that softness around his cheeks and general air of everlasting youth. His eyes have dark trenches which makes him look more rugged. And even hotter than ever. Maybe I could call the airline and tell them to hold the plane on the runway while I indulge in some pre-flight entertainment.

  They do say that men age better than women, but as I glance in our hallway mirror I’m not too disappointed with how I’ve shaped up either. I know I look pretty good in my ‘airport outfit’ of skinny indigo jeans, vintage black cowboy boots, a slim-fitting, white T-shirt, big Louis Vuitton scarf (a press perk) and these cool 1980s Ray-Ban Wayfarers I picked up in Camden. I’ve perfected my make-up: pink blush, clear lip gloss and minimal mascara. My hair has found its best style after I had it cut into a sharp bob with a fringe when we got back from honeymoon. I was done with being ‘long-haired bride’. I lift my handbag up on my shoulder and pull my camera over my neck so it rests on my scarf. It has pretty much permanently lived around my neck since I started the blog on the relaunched Vivamag.co.uk. I still can’t believe what a success it’s been. I’ve even been featured as a ‘blogger about town’ in one of the weekend supplements. It’s been completely bizarre, but wonderful. It has meant Ryan and I have got to do some amazing things together as well as apart, with press trips thrown at me by PRs who want me to take cool, interesting pictures and then credit their hotels or resorts. We’ve stayed in a luxury Bedouin tent in Marrakesh as part of my ‘Market Life’ series. The pictures I took of the amazingly colourful markets that we spent a happy weekend meandering around worked brilliantly juxtaposed alongside the London shots. Like the one I took of foodies selling at Borough Market and the characters selling blooms at the bustling, vibrant Columbia Road flower market. We’ve stayed in gorgeous boutique hotels in Venice, San Francisco and Prague because I had an idea to do a series of photos capturing couples kissing on famous bridges. One of my favourites was a blog called ‘High on Love’ which featured a series of rooftop scenes which gave me a chance to shoot London in all its glory, from lots of amazing viewpoints. Ryan and I got to take a private pod in the London Eye which was incredible. I set up the camera on my tripod and took a portrait of us, with our backs to the camera, looking down at the sparkling, moonlit London skyline. It was utterly magical.

  I feel like the luckiest girl in the world now that Ryan and I are living the life I always wanted us to. Of course, we can’t do everything in tandem. And I’m about to jet off to New York for three weeks too, as the editor of Viva New York has invited me to do a series of blogs based over there, featuring as a photo spread in their April issue. Christie thought it would be great exposure for the blog and guarantee us even more unique visitors – which so far seems to translate into more readers for the magazine. Thing
s couldn’t be going better. Obviously it’s not ideal having to leave Ryan for three weeks but he can’t be away from school for that length of time.

  ‘I just don’t understand why you have to go for so long,’ he says, rubbing his hand over his chest.

  I sigh and put my bag down and twine one arm around his waist, putting the other on his chest, just over his moles. He tucks his head into my neck and I kiss his hair. It tastes of the great outdoors, and pomade.

  ‘I promise it will fly by,’ I say softly now, as much to myself as to him.

  ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ he looks at me pleadingly. ‘She’ll do my head in.’

  Casey is currently spread-eagled on the sofa, eating toast and watching a recorded episode of Heroes – a show both she and Ryan love – in our lounge, which has become her makeshift bedroom.

  ‘You’ll be so busy with mock exams that you’ll barely miss me.’

  Ryan smiles and his eyes flicker over to the TV.

  ‘Hey, over here, Cooper!’ I say, and pull his chin back so his blue eyes meet mine. He looks tired. I kiss him long and hard on the lips, flicking my tongue in gently for good measure. He pulls away as we hear the beep of my account car outside.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Ry,’ I say, stepping closer because I don’t want to leave him. He kisses me again, but this time I pull away. ‘Be good!’ I say and I blow him a kiss, pick up my bags and run out of the door. ‘I’ll ring you from JFK!’ I call over my shoulder as I slam the door behind me, run across to the car with my camera beating against my chest like a second heartbeat.