The First Last Kiss (11 page)

‘Not yet,’ Lydia whispers, and I blush.

‘Bou-KAAAAAY TIIIIIIIME!’ Jackie screeches across the dance floor at the end of the song and I watch as the female guests streak past me, an orange lightening flash of fake tan, all yapping excitedly like a pack of Chihuahuas. Lydia gets up on the stage in front of the band clutching her pink floral bouquet complete with pompoms, and Ryan nudges me with his elbow.

‘Aren’t you going over?’ he whispers.

‘Nope, I reckon I’m safer back here,’ I say, folding my arms for good luck.

‘Are you READY?!’ Lydia screeches and holds up her bouquet of fuschia roses as if it’s the Olympic torch. ‘ONE, TWO, THREE-EEEE!’

I watch as the bouquet soars in slow motion, over all the girls’ heads, their faces shine with hope, then turn to frustration, and then disappointment as it flies over and beyond their reach. And then I feel Ryan push past me and I watch in astonishment as he leaps athletically into the air to catch it. Then Ryan lands and turns around, brandishing the bouquet and grinning broadly at me. He runs over and slam dunks it into my arms before doing a lap of the room, like he’s just won the FA Cup. Then he appears in front of me again, throws his arms around me and kisses me as the room erupts into cheers.

I cover my face in embarrassment and he pulls my hands away from my face so he can kiss me. Lydia waves at me from the stage delightedly and Carl gives a thumbs up. I spot Jackie and Dave in another corner jumping up and down and clapping. I feel my skin prickle and my face turn the same colour as my dress.

Ryan laughs. ‘Sorry, babe, I just couldn’t resist . . . ’

‘Couldn’t resist showing off!’ I chastise, but I smile and I slip my hand into his.

He winks. ‘I just know how bad you are at sport. You’d never have caught that! Most girls would be thanking me.’

‘Ah,’ I interrupt, ‘but you forget, Cooper. I’m not like
most
girls . . . ’

He grins and cups my chin, pulling me in for a kiss. ‘I know, Molly Carter. That’s what I love about you.’

10.01 a.m.

I wander into my empty bedroom, wrapped in a towel. I take a moment to look around. It may not look like much now with the mattress on the floor and everything in boxes, but of all the rooms in the house this is the one I’ll miss the most. It’s been my haven over the past few years. Ryan and I used to joke when we first got together that if it weren’t for work, we’d just stay in bed forever. I’m not sure he expected me to ever carry through my threat. After he went, I lay here for days on end, weeks even. When I’d pulled myself together and could leave the house, I’d still spend my evenings here, going through old photo albums. Because I’d painted the bedroom the same duck-egg blue as our old kitchen, I could almost pretend we were still living in our flat – before everything went wrong.

I redecorated a couple of years ago. I wanted to start afresh, find Molly
Carter
again, so I painted the room a rich mulberry colour. It felt cosy, womblike. It said ‘single’ not ‘sad’. The now-bare balcony windows were framed by thick, lustrous gold curtains; over the bed was the same print of John and Yoko I’ve had since uni. Stacked around the edge of the room were piles of photography and art books, and my dressing table next to the balcony doors. That’s still there complete with a couple of framed photos I haven’t wrapped up yet. One is of my mum and dad on their wedding day. I go and pick it up. I gaze critically at the picture. I used to hate how serious they look but now I appreciate how hard marriage is, how much a couple has to face together in a lifetime. And how solid you have to be to stay together through all those ups and downs. I am in awe of them. Not just for staying together but because of how strong they’ve been for me.

I rip off some bubble wrap from the roll that’s lying on the floor and look at the picture one more time before wrapping it, noticing how my dad gazes into the camera lens with his wistful smile that I know is his version of heart-burstingly happy. I pop the picture in a box marked ‘Ship’ and glance outside.

The January morning has lifted its blanket of darkness and the vast sky is now stonewash blue with a filter of bright, white sunlight peeking through. It is going to be a beautiful day. I smile and open the doors, stepping out to where my wrought-iron table was placed until it was packed up along with the two chairs. I have sat there for uncountable hours in all weather, the changing seasons reflecting my changing state of mind. The winter rain mixed with my tears, the spring breeze blew away my misery, the summer sun healing my broken heart.

I hop back in and head over to the fitted wardrobes. I open a door and gaze at the contents on one side as I rifle through.

My jeans are thrown haphazardly in a way that would make a Gap sales assistant faint. My favourite grey skinnies are packed away so I root around for my other fail-safe denim option: dungarees. I know, I know, the item of clothing style forgot, but they’re so
comfy
. And as my mum would say, ‘You’re moving house, my dear, not going on a fashion parade’. Funny how eventually you really do start turning into your mum. And most surprisingly, how you don’t actually mind.

I pull them on and look in the mirror that is leaning against the wall. I barely recognize myself. OK, so I
thought
the dungarees were comfy but cute in an ironic 1980s Demi-Moore-in-
Ghost
kind of a way, but I now realize I look more like Meryl Streep in
Mamma Mia
. I giggle at the thought and I unselfconsciously replicate a few Abba moves in front of the mirror, singing the chorus of the title song under my breath. I’m interrupted by the doorbell just as I get to the broken-hearted bit.

The Welcome Kiss

I’d never really understood that phrase ‘bosom of the family’ until I met Ryan’s. Probably because my family’s ‘bosom’ always felt meagre in comparison to most; the love was small, contained, more of a Kate Moss double-A cup than the Baywatch bust I longed for. Their love didn’t seem to cushion or protect me, or spill out showily. When I was young I wondered if I’d ever know the kind of ostentatious shows of affection that ‘normal’ families seem to have. And having rested my head in the Coopers’ ample cleavage, I felt like I’d got it at last. I was home. Since then I’ve realized that my family’s love was always there. It still lay a heartbeat away. I just didn’t get close enough to hear it.

FF>> 26/09/01>

I’m standing nervously on Ryan’s parents’ doorstep in the salubrious street in Marine Parade, a.k.a the rich part of Leigh-on-Sea. The house is an impressive double-fronted, Edwardian detached property with a huge stone driveway and two big stone lions guarding the front door. There’s even a fountain in front of the house. No wonder he still lives at home. He’s probably got his own
wing
. This is not at all what I expected. Suddenly I am petrified. My finger is hovering over the bell as I summon up the courage to press it, silently cursing my boyfriend of a week. I mean, what was he thinking asking me here already? And what was
I
thinking saying yes?

I press the doorbell and take a deep breath. I feel completely inappropriately dressed. I refused to ditch my Converse when Freya the fashion editor tried to get me to wear some heels. However, I did concede to ditching my parka for this grey funnel-neck coat. I muss up my fringe so it covers my eyes a little, throw my shoulders back, adjust my bra and wipe my hands on my jeans. On the advice of Lisa, the beauty editor and my desk buddy from work, who is determined to get me out of my make-up rut, I’ve slightly femmed up my overall look by ditching the heavy kohl and I’m all pink-glossed lips and blushed cheeks. When I left my flat I thought I almost looked pretty but now I realize I just look stupid. I wish I’d just been me, but more than that I wish I’d said no to Ryan when he asked me to come.

I hear someone walking towards the door. This is
madness
. I’m about to turn and walk back down the front path when the door swings open and a vision of glamour with bleached blonde hair wearing a Juicy Couture tracksuit opens the door. She looks more LA than Leigh-on-Sea.

‘Molly? Hiya! I’m Jackie, Ryan’s mum. I’m so glad to
finally
meet you, darlin’!’ She throws her arms out and envelops me in a hug.

Finally? I’ve only been seeing your son for a week!

Molly?’ she repeats, pulling back with a dazzling white but warm smile. ‘Come in, darlin!’ Don’t be standing there on the doorstep, you make the place look messy!’

She laughs as she ushers me in, the gold of her watch face and Tiffany heart-locket necklace glowing like the sun.

I look around the hallway, desperately hoping Ryan will appear when Jackie spontaneously envelops me in another highly perfumed hug. Isn’t this how boa constrictors kill their prey? Just when I think I might pass out, she pulls away but holds on to me tightly at arm’s-length and studies me appraisingly. I slide my eyes to the left and right to see if I can see any sign of Ryan in my peripheral vision. Just then she lets me go and I resist the urge to rub my arms.

‘Now, darlin’,’ she smiles as she heads towards the giant staircase, ‘you have to excuse me still being in me slopsies!’ She gestures at her pink tracksuit. ‘I’ve just been throwing some lunch together and now I’m going to put some make-up on . . . ’

She looks like this without make-up?

‘ . . . get dressed and come back downstairs.’ And she disappears up the stairs, calling, ‘Make yourself at home, darlin’!’

I gaze around me. Where the hell is Ryan – well, apart from emblazoned all over the walls? Everywhere I look there are huge portraits of the family. There are several of Ryan’s mum and dad with their arms wrapped round each other, in one they look like they’re actually French kissing. Then there’s Carl and Ryan photographed through the years. In the hallway are gigantic blown-up studio prints of each of them as babies, naked and sitting on a shag-pile like something from an Athena poster. There’s a cute one of Ryan as a toddler on the beach in his wetsuit standing next to Carl. They’re there on the beach again as teenagers, both running up the sand, wind whipping their hair after a sailing session. There’s a montage of Ryan grinning mischievously in his football kit, clutching various trophies. In one of the pictures Carl’s arm is thrown proudly and protectively over his little brother’s shoulder. There’s photographs of the whole family all tanned and smiling on holiday, and another studio portrait but this time of all four of them wearing white shirts and blue jeans where they clearly couldn’t sit still long enough for the photographer to take a classic picture of them, so instead they are mid-hysterical laugh, like someone has told a joke.
Or they’ve taken a look at their matching outfits
, my (rude) teenage self points out.

I stand awkwardly staring at them all and practically faint with relief when Ryan finally appears.

‘Molly! I didn’t realize you were already here. ‘MUM!’ he bellows. ‘You should have told me Molly was here!’

Jackie peers round the bannisters at the top of the grand spiral stairs, now wrapped in a towel and brandishing various make-up brushes. I quickly avert my eyes.

‘Sorry Ry-Ry, I thought you knew. Besides, Molly’s a big girl, I told her to make herself at home. She’s one of the family now, right, darlin’? Ooh, introduce her to Nanny Door, will you?’ and she disappears again.

I looked sideways at Ryan
. ‘Ry-Ry?’
I mouth.

‘Ignore her,’ he grins good-naturedly
.
‘She’s just trying to embarrass me.’

An hour later and Ryan has shown me around. He told me on the tour that Dave and Jackie bought it twenty years ago and put a big extension and conservatory on so it now boasts five bedrooms, a beautiful kitchen-diner with an enormous island unit and shiny granite surfaces, as well as a cavernous lounge, dining room, cinema/games room and a gym. If my mum saw it she would literally vomit with a mixture of jealousy that she doesn’t live in such luxury and immense snobbery about their interior-design style. It’s all glass coffee tables with fresh flower displays, huge modern appliances, an enormous state-of-the-art cinema and sound systems, a gigantic hot tub in the garden, vast black leather sofas and bold, oversized statement chairs. It’s garish and not at all to my taste, but strangely, it works.

We walk back into the lounge and Ryan introduces me to Nanny Door, a spritely septuagenarian who’s been widowed for ten years with ocean-blue eyes and a smile just like Ryan’s. She lives down the road from Ryan’s parents, is fiercely independent but comes over for lunch every weekend.

‘Hello lovey, my name’s Doreen,’ she says, putting down the newspaper and heaving herself out of a pink throne. ‘But you can call me Nanny Door. Everyone does. Bleedin’ ridiculous thing,’ she grumbles at the chair as she stands up. ‘Who does Jackie think she is, Posh bleedin’ Spice?’

‘Nanny Door!’ Ryan admonishes with a laugh and I can’t help but join him.

‘I heard that, Mum!’ shouts Jackie from another room and Nanny Door cackles mischievously.

‘Anyway, pleased to meet you, Molly.’ I have to say, you ain’t what I expected. I thought you’d look like that Helen from
Big Brother
. Oooh, she did make me laugh. Did you watch it, doll?’ She affects a Welsh accent and widens her eyes. “I love blinkin’ I do!” Ah ha ha!’ she cackles. ‘Ohh, it were
classic
, weren’t it?’ She chuckles again and then shuffles closer and studies me with her piercing gaze. ‘You’re prettier than her though, dear. All Ryan’s other girls have been blonde before, ain’t they, Ryan dear? And a bit lacking in the old woo-hoo . . . ’ she taps her head ‘ . . . brain department. But you look like you’ve got your fair share of marbles!’ And she smiles up adoringly at her grandson who towers over her. Ryan throws his arm around her shoulders, kisses her on the head and leads her into the dining room where lunch is being served.

Jackie is wearing what looks like a black lurex minidress, with a gold snake-style belt around her impressively trim-for-her-age waist. Dave’s come home from a job and changed into a pale-pink Ralph Lauren jumper and jeans, and Carl crashes in with his new hairdresser girlfriend, Lydia. He’s absolutely besotted by her, and rightly so. She’s got this incredible presence, not just due to her incredible figure. My teenage self definitely wouldn’t approve – if I’d met her in school I’d have probably labelled her as just another ‘Heather’ but I’m surprised to find myself instantly drawn to her. We sit down in the light-flooded dining room and Jackie brings in a real ready-made spread. And when I say ready-made, I mean it’s literally silver-foiled Waitrose ready meals all the way. It’s kind of a relief.