The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  ‘Heathrow please!’ I say brightly and as the cabbie pulls out onto Kingsland Road. I immediately clamber around in my hand luggage, pulling out my book, my flight details, hairbrush, iPod, mobile, until I finally pull my passport out. It is only then that I remember to look out the back window at my flat and I see the distant shadow of Ryan’s face with one hand raised and I wave furiously. But I don’t know if he can see me any more.

  I quickly text him. Only capital letters and hundreds of kisses will do.

  I LOVE YOU SO MUCH xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Eight hours later, after airport queues and immigration kerfuffle, I step out of JFK and into the longest taxi queue I’ve ever seen. I pull out my phone and ring Ryan. There is no response from our landline or his mobile. I move my fingers quickly over my BlackBerry:

  Arrived safely. Call me when you get this M x

  Once my message has sent I quickly use my thumb to scroll back through my old messages, smiling as I see one from Casey. I glimpse at it before continuing my search for the SoHo apartment the US division of Brooks Publishing have rented for me:

  Have fun!!!!!! And don’t worry about anything here!!!!! C xxxxxx

  It occurs to me that a few months ago this message would have filled me with a sense of dread. The old Casey was a loose cannon; if I hadn’t heard from her in a few days, I’d always have to phone her, like I was her mum, checking up on her. And even if I did hear from her, every message saying ‘don’t worry’ made me do the exact opposite. But Casey is a new woman, strong, in control, mature, enjoying her newfound career with a renewed purpose and confidence that I have never seen in her before. My friend has come through something bad and come out stronger and better than ever and that makes me so happy.

  I shuffle forward in the taxi queue and it occurs to me that 2006 might just have been the year that finally, everything came good for us all and 2007 will be even better. I resolve to thoroughly enjoy this experience in New York. Doing this blog has made me start looking at the world – and my world – in a new way, and I realize that I’m finally ready for the next adventure. Perhaps the biggest one of my life.

  Ryan and I have done everything I ever dreamt of: we moved to London (tick), bought a flat (tick), got married (tick), we’ve travelled to amazing places (tick), I’ve lived with my best friend (tick), I’ve flown all over the world for work (tick), and have even started taking photographs for a living (tick). For once, teenage Molly is quiet as a mouse.

  In fact, she has been quiet ever since Ryan and I got back together. Maybe it’s because Ryan is a different guy to the one I first went out with and I’m a different girl. Before we got married, we had a long talk about how to make the relationship work. Neither of us wanted to risk heartbreak for a second time so we had to be sure we were doing the right thing. I even wrote a list of questions for us both to answer, like a Mr-and-Mrs test. There were sections on marriage, children, travel, home and work – with questions to answer in each. Ryan knew me well enough to see why I wanted to do it. And it was no different to us going through my Life List all those years ago. It was just an updated version – one for both of us to be sure that our heads and hearts were in the same place – about everything.

  And it was a brilliant way for us to answer all our ‘Big Life Questions’. In the home section we had to say where we’d like to live in the long term. Ryan put Leigh and I put London, so we talked it through and Ryan said he was happy to live in London for the foreseeable future – and to make more effort to embrace the lifestyle (so no going back home every weekend). But he said he’d definitely want to move back there before our first child went to school. I didn’t even have to think about it before saying yes. That gave us at least five more years in London and by then I knew I’d be ready to move back.

  Ever since we got back together it feels like we’ve finally met in the middle, become a team shooting at the same goal instead of in opposite directions. And now, I realize that the next goal is a family. I’m twenty-eight years old, happily married, fulfilled by my career and I’m ready. My life has finally caught up with my age and I can’t wait to tell him that I’m there. I’m exactly where he is. I want to start trying for a baby.

  I look up and thank whoever is up there for giving me so much. I don’t think it’s possible for a girl to be any happier.

  The What-If Kiss

  There’s a brief moment before surrendering entirely to a kiss where you make that semi-conscious decision to just let go. But what if, one day, in that exact moment, you realize that you can’t let go? Instead, you’re desperately clinging on to it. That’s how I feel now. I’m clinging on to this kiss for dear life.

  FF>> 17/02/07>

  ‘What do you mean he’s been “weird” since you got back?’

  It is Saturday evening and I’m lying on my bed, talking to Mia on the phone. Ryan is out at one of his teacher friend’s birthdays.

  ‘I dunno, Mia. He’s snappy and doesn’t want to be at home, which isn’t like him at all.’ I slip the phone and hold it between my ear and shoulder as I upload new photos that I took last night, a close-up black-and-white shot of a father’s hand grasping his daughter’s. My 50 mm lens has picked up every line in his hand and the soft smoothness of hers. In the picture his hand is pulling forward, as if he’s leading in life, showing her the way. It’s part of my ‘Alternative Valentine’s’ blog, celebrating love other than that between a couple. I’ve taken pictures of girlfriends chatting over coffee in Covent Garden, their faces alight with laughter. One of my favourites is of two old women hobbling arm in arm along Southend Pier. I caught them just as one of them threw her head back in laughter.

  I focus back on my conversation with Mia. ‘It’s like he can’t bear to be alone with me.’

  ‘Or not alone with you . . . ’ Mia says pointedly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I stop going through the photos.

  ‘I mean Casey,’ she expostulates, obviously desperate to get on to this subject. ‘How long has she been staying with you now? Nine or ten months? I mean, it’s not exactly conducive to a new marriage, is it, having your best mate as a lodger? Especially someone as needy as her. Maybe he’s just fed up of—’

  ‘Me?’ I say mournfully.

  ‘No, you drongo, Casey!’

  I laugh, but it’s half-hearted. ‘Mia, you’re so Aussie, next time I see you I’m expecting you to have an eighties Kylie perm, Dame Edna specs and be wearing Steve Irwin khakis!’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’ she laughs. ‘Look, I’m just saying that I think it’s great that you’ve helped Casey get back on her feet, but I think it’s time you focused on you and your husband. You need some space, just the two of you. I honestly reckon that’s why he’s being weird.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say quietly, thinking about the last few times we’ve been together since I got back from New York. How he hasn’t been able to look me in the eye. How he’s been unusually quiet, made excuses to not spend time alone with me, even though I’ve been away for nearly a month. I was so excited about coming home and telling him that I was ready to start trying for a baby with him. But there hasn’t been a moment to do it. Let alone DO it. Mia’s right, Casey has been here every single evening, practically glued to my side. It actually feels like she missed me more than Ryan did.

  I start trying to count the number of times that Ryan and I have been alone since I got back two weeks ago and, apart from in bed, I find I can count them both on one finger. Casey was even here on Valentine’s night. I asked Ry if we could go out to dinner but he said he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, so we all went to the cinema. Even my welcome home wasn’t as I imagined. He wasn’t waiting at the airport, as I’d secretly hoped, and as I’d walked through Arrivals I felt nostalgic for the time he surprised me when I got back from Australia. It all feels so long ago. Fair enough, we’re an old married couple now so he doesn’t have to make as much effort. But still, we’ve not been married a year. Has all
the romance really gone already?

  ‘Hmm,’ Mia says. ‘Well, babe, it’s all a mystery to me I’m afraid. You know I like my men how I like my coffee . . . ’

  ‘Wait, don’t tell me!’ I say. ‘Gone first thing in the morning?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she replies. ‘You’re quick off the mark. New York was obviously good for you.’

  ‘Yeah, but bad for my marriage.’ There is a crash and I turn and wave at Casey who has sauntered into the kitchen in her PJs . . . my PJs. My favourite blue-and-white striped ones that Ryan says make me look like the little boy in The Snowman. I know Casey and I have always shared everything, but I draw the line at my favourite pyjamas. Is nothing sacred? She goes to the fridge, pulls out the orange juice and drinks it straight from the carton. Suddenly, everything feels like a massive liberty. Casey has been living here, rent-free, for months. She’s never offered to pay and I never asked before because of her work situation, and everything else, but now she’s got a job as a PR assistant (thanks to me) and she still she hasn’t offered any sort of contribution.

  Ryan has mentioned this to me before in the past, but I’ve always been incredibly defensive of her. Now, I just feel annoyed that she is standing in front of me, wearing my PJs (which she looks better than me in – like some model wearing men’s pyjamas) and she is brazenly drinking the juice – no, hang on, finishing the juice that Ryan and I paid for. I watch as she walks over to the bin and chucks it in. She misses but doesn’t bother to pick it up. Then she sits up on the counter and mouths, ‘Who is it?’ and points at the phone.

  ‘It’s Mia,’ I say out loud.

  ‘What?’ Mia replies at the end of the line.

  ‘Oh, Casey’s here,’ I say. ‘I was just telling her it’s you.’

  ‘Hey Mi-Mi!’ Casey calls, crossing her tanned legs and waving at the phone, as if Mia can see her. ‘What’s going on “Down Under”?’ she calls. ‘And I don’t mean your sex life!’

  Mia tuts in response. ‘Tell her Mia says, “Why are you still there?”’

  ‘I can’t say that,’ I reply.

  ‘Do it,’ she commands.

  ‘Mia says, why are you still here?’ I say to Casey, and she laughs – as thick-skinned as ever – then slides off the counter and grabs the phone.

  ‘Because Molly and Ry would be bored out of their brains without me! I’m like their very own marriage aid!’ She hands me back the phone and kisses me on the cheek, then sidles out of the kitchen.

  ‘Has she gone?’ Mia mutters.

  ‘Yep,’ I say, feeling the unrecognizable wave of annoyance subside. I know I vowed to always be there for her, but this is ridiculous. Mia’s right, I need to leverage my own life; focus on my husband who’s working too hard, and on our future. I don’t want to start trying for a baby, with her in the house. Having Casey here is like having a newborn baby. ‘I think it’s time I had a chat with Casey,’ I say out loud.

  ‘Whoooo,’ she whistles. ‘Good luck with that!’

  I walk back into the lounge where Casey is sprawled over the sofa. Her things are spread everywhere too, even more than Ryan’s are – and she knows how much that winds me up. Every single surface seems to have a bit of Casey on it. She looks up as I walk in and obviously catches a glimpse of my disgruntled expression. She sits up quickly, pulling the duvet with her to make a space for me on the sofa. My sofa. She pats it.

  ‘Here, babes, sit down and tell me all about it. I heard you saying to Mia that you and Ry are having problems. I mean, I’ve noticed things have been a bit weird with you guys for a little while but I haven’t wanted to say anything.’ She pulls her face into an innocent grimace. ‘It’s none of my business . . . but you know I’m here to listen. And I’ll probably understand better than anyone, especially Mia. I mean, she doesn’t know Ryan like I do, or know you like I do, come to think of it. I mean, we’ve been best friends since we were thirteen! We’re, like, soul sisters, aren’t we!’

  I look at Casey, sitting snuggled under the duvet, her dark hair pulled off her face with a hairband, my hairband, looking as needy and helpless as ever, and I feel a pang of guilt. She’s only just started getting back on her feet. How could I expect her to pay rent when she’s probably barely had one wage packet yet? And she lives like this because it’s how she was brought up. No one taught her any different. Her mum was too busy chasing men to mother her. I glance on the floor and spot a bunch of shopping bags – Topshop and Zara. I bristle – how can she buy this when she’s not paying us rent – but then I remember that she mentioned she needed new clothes for her new job. Although she’s been borrowing loads of mine. I remind myself to ask her to show them to me – and try to get her a couple of freebies from work, just like I’ve done with some of her beauty products. I know she’d do the same for me, if the situation was reversed.

  ‘So come on,’ she says, slipping her hand into mine, ‘tell me all about it.’

  And suddenly I do want to share it all with her. Just like we used to. I want her to look after me for a change, to remind me of why Ryan loves me and only me. Tell me that we’re the couple she looks up to, aspires to be part of. That we’re stronger than ever. She’s right, she does know us better than anyone.

  ‘I don’t know, Case,’ I sigh, leaning my head back against the sofa. ‘It’s just that Ryan seems to be really distant since I got back from New York. It’s like he’s a different bloke. Something is bothering him, something big, I know it. I just don’t know what.’

  ‘Ooh, do you think he’s had an affair or something?’ she says glibly, like we’re talking about someone we don’t know. I forget that Casey’s relationship barometer is permanently set to the lowest expectation level.

  ‘Um, no, no. Why? Is there something I should know?’ I laugh edgily. I’m joking, kind of. Well, I thought I was. But suddenly she’s planted a seed of doubt.

  Could he have cheated on me? I realize as I think it now that it’s always been a fear, lying dormant at the back of my brain. That one day he will do as I have done. An eye for an eye and all that.

  ‘God, NO!’ Casey exclaims with a laugh. I don’t join her. ‘Not Ry, he’d never do that to you . . . would he? I mean, I know you did in the past and some men might feel the need to, you know, get back at you because of their ego. But that’s never been Ryan. I mean, he totally doesn’t have an ego!’

  Suddenly, my teen voice is back, and louder than ever.

  Of COURSE he does, and his ego has told him that it’s time to make things even! Tit for tat, and all that . . .

  Shut up, I think, shut up, shut up! Stupid teenage insecurities always coming back to haunt me when I think I’m over them. Ry wouldn’t do that. He’s not just a typical lad. He’s more, so much more.

  I swallow, sickness and uncertainty suddenly suffocating me. I was away for nearly a month. That is a long time in any relationship, let alone in the first year of marriage. Were we so busy trying to repair past mistakes that we didn’t make sure there weren’t any more to come in the future?

  Casey is still talking and I tune back into her, hoping that she can dispel my fears.

  ‘ . . . but all that’s water under the bridge anyway,’ she says, ‘why would he do anything now? I mean if he was going to cheat I’m sure he would have done it ages ago. Although . . . ’ She bites her lip and her eyes darken.

  ‘Although . . . what? What, Casey?’ I say urgently. Suddenly it feels like Casey has all the answers to our relationship. She has seen more of us individually over the past few months than we have seen of each other. And she’s just spent a month with my husband when I was across the Atlantic. Maybe she picked up on some sign that I wasn’t here to see. Looks like I’m lucky to have her here after all.

  ‘Just . . . ’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh, it’s probably nothing. Yes, in fact I’m sure it is. Honestly, Molly, don’t listen to me, you know I never think before I speak. I honestly don’t think there’s anything to it at all . . . ’

  I don’t want to know but I
need to get it over with, like ripping a plaster off instead of teasing it gently. Come on, Casey, now isn’t the time to stop talking. Keep talking. Keep talking.

  ‘To what, Casey? To what?’ I say, gripping her fingers so tightly that her skin turns pale.

  Casey exhales and looks at me uncertainly. ‘It’s just, well, there was a night . . . not long after you left, I remember it because I was here all evening, just hanging out. It had been a really busy week and it was the very first episode of Benidorm – it was so funny because there was this bit where they were singing karaoke at Neptune’s and—’

  For once I have run out of patience with Casey’s incessant talking without saying anything. ‘I don’t care what was happening in some TV show, Casey, please, just get to the point and tell me what Ryan was doing.’

  ‘I dunno,’ she murmurs, not quite looking me in the eye. ‘I dunno because he didn’t come home. All night.’

  I put my hand up to my mouth. Tears threaten to spring into my eyes but I swallow, and tighten my jaw, focusing hard on keeping them in. I just nod and then I stand up and walk slowly to my bedroom.

  He. Didn’t. Come. Home.

  Suddenly I wish I’d left the plaster alone.

  I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when he comes in. He looks crumpled and I roll over onto my side, facing the door, and sigh to let him know I’m awake. I’m hoping he will speak but he doesn’t say anything, he just deposits his clothes on the floor and climbs into bed, curling into a ball, facing me, instead of our usual spoons position. I don’t snuggle over to him like I usually would. I can’t move. I’m paralysed with my knowledge. It’s as if this new information in my brain has shut down the part that controls movement.

  The silence lies heavily in the space between us, like an extra body in the bed (has there been an extra body in this bed?). Ryan is so unlike himself at the moment that he’s positively a stranger to me.

  He smells of alcohol, his new buzz cut has hardened his features again, sinking his eyes into black pits and turning his sexy laughter lines into streaks of stress. I want to stroke his hair, I want to stroke it so badly, but my brain can’t make my arm do it. All I can manage is lifting my hand and resting it on his head, as if I’m blessing him or forgiving him, like the priest used to do during confession.