The First Last Kiss (16 page)

‘Aha,’ she’d said, her green eyes glittering as she sipped from her bottle of Hooch whilst simultaneously staking out the room for prey. ‘Still thinking about Ryan Cooper, even though you’re surrounded by all this fresh meat?’

‘Uh, like yeah right,
no
!’ I’d said defensively.

‘So you’re not interested to know that he asked after you when I saw him down at Tots the other night.’

‘Did he?’ I’d replied, nearly dropping my cider.

‘Only to try and get closer to me though,
obviousl
y,’ Casey had laughed wickedly and winked. ‘I mean, what guy can resist the charms of Casey Georgiou!’

And these days, it’s true. Casey, in true 80s chick-flick makeover style
has
gone all gorgeous. Last summer, the weight fell off and her Greek genes finally kicked in. Here at uni, where (apart from Mia) we’re all washed-out white, weary and wearing black, she is like a ray of sunshine. If Mia and I are ‘hot’, she’s sizzling.

And according to her, I can’t get enough of Ryan Cooper – even though I’m kissing someone else. Clearly I need to up the action to
really
get him out of my head once and for all.

I grab Marcus by the hand. ‘C’mon,’ I murmur. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He doesn’t complain.

I wish I could say the earth had just moved for me in my halls bedroom but as I lie here, flat on my back being spooned by Mar
coos
, I think I’ve discovered the hard way that a posh arty type doesn’t necessarily make the best lover. It’s all been longing, heartfelt gazes and not enough action. Not nearly enough action, actually. I lift my wrist up and glance at my watch. God, did it last eight minutes? It didn’t feel as long as that. Oh no, hang on, the bit when he cried probably made it feel longer.

I look up at the upside-down image of John Lennon coiled around Yoko Ono pinned above my headboard, and then sideways at Marcus. His pale, skinny, shuddering body is wrapped around me and I watch as his breathing evens and slows and he falls asleep with his mouth open like a singing choirboy’s. I lie there, stiff as a board, wondering if I might have met the John to my Yoko and just not realized it. Maybe I should give him another chance? The passion might not be there yet but he ticks all the other things on my list. And he
has
had a hard time lately. His parents broke up while he was doing his A levels (which is why he only got Bs, he said)
and
they had to sell their French ski lodge to help pay for the divorce.

Oh
Puh
lease. Who am I kidding?

I look up again, not at Yoko and John but this time at my
Before Sunrise
poster. But instead of Ethan Hawke, all I can see is Ryan sodding Cooper. I think of our first – and last – kiss.

The Lost Kiss

‘A discarded kiss is a moment of love lost forever.’ (Molly Carter, today)

Imagine if you counted the kisses you’ve thrown away. You know, when you’ve presented your cheek instead of your lips, rolled over in bed after an argument, ran out the door without time for a goodbye. Annoyingly, when you’re not together any more
those
are the kisses you always remember. So many missed kisses – where do they go? I imagine them as a collection of crosses in the sand; a kiss graveyard full of buried treasure. Some stolen, some lost or overlooked, some carelessly thrown away, all waiting to be found.

FF>> 05/04/03>

I fling my bag down on my desk, take off my leather biker jacket and loosen the tasselled scarf I’ve wrapped around my neck before starting up my computer. The big, usually bustling office is eerily empty. Stripped of the fashionable people, music and gossip streaming through it, it suddenly occurs to me how grey, dingy and
office-y
it is.

I settle down at my desk and luxuriate in the silence. I don’t get much of it these days and I realize how much I miss it. Apart from my commute, I’m literally never on my own and standing in a packed train doesn’t really count as ‘me time’. So this is actually a treat for me. No one gets in to work before 9.30 a.m. at
Viva
so I know I’ve got the place to myself for at least an hour before my car comes. I’ve got an important celebrity cover shoot today – my biggest creative challenge since becoming picture editor nine months ago – at a studio in Kentish Town, and I wanted to come in to the office first to make sure I’m properly prepared. Suddenly I’m slammed by my younger self, berating me.

So bor-ing, Molly Carter! What happened to the girl who wasn’t going to conform? It’s like we’ve turned into MUM.

I haven’t! I haven’t turned into Mum. I look at my reflection in the mirror.

A scarf, Molly! I mean, seriously?

It’s a silk designer scarf! I reply in my head defensively. From a sample sale!

Designer schminer. Next you’ll be wearing it around your head.

I pull it off, feeling hot all of a sudden and I grab my Pret A Manger latte, taking a long sip while I’m waiting for my computer to start up, hoping the caffeine will work its rejuvenating powers on me quickly.

Coffee, Molly? We HATE coffee! It tastes rank, we’ve always said so!

I put it down and rub my eyes. It was so hard getting up at the crack of dawn this morning, leaving Ryan snoring contentedly in bed, but it’s an all too regular occurrence these days. I went to kiss him on the lips but he rolled over, grunted what I think was a goodbye, and sunk back under the duvet and into a deep slumber. He has this incredible ability to barely stir when I leave the house these days. Six months ago we’d manage breakfast, or at least a cup of tea in bed before I left and definitely a kiss (we swore we’d never say goodbye or goodnight without one). But his increased workload and my recent early starts have meant that this has fallen by the wayside. I miss them, I feel a bit lost without them. Without it I find that my morning cloud takes longer to lift and I don’t function as well. It’s weird to think that one person can be the sole arbitrator of your happiness. But he’s totally the umpire in our love match; the only person who can calm me down no matter how close to the baseline my mood has swung. He can make me feel like a champion when my confidence has taken a knock. He lifts me over the net whenever I’m feeling low. He—

Sport metaphors, Molly? We hate sport! We can’t hit a ball or catch one! We’ve never picked up a tennis racket in our life!

As I wait for my computer to start up, I resist the urge to phone him. He’ll be cycling to work now anyway. Sometimes I don’t think he appreciates how hard commuting is. He has it so easy in comparison. Mind you, I do get a nice home-cooked meal every night when I get home, so – as Casey keeps telling me – I don’t have much to complain about. He really is the perfect guy. Well, except for the snoring. And the relentless channel hopping. Last night I swear we watched four programmes simultaneously. Oh, and his socks, which he leaves everywhere.

I put thoughts of Ryan out of my mind and glance down at the call sheet resting on my desk, and take a deep breath to steady my nerves. This is going to be the most stressful day I’ve ever had at
Viva
. It’s my first big project since Christie promoted me to picture editor. We’re photographing eight new stars for a gatefold ‘Next Big Thing’ cover for our bumper August issue. The entertainment team have managed to secure the biggest new young names in music, film and TV and I’ve spent the last month liaising with their PRs to get them all in the same studio, on the same day and at the same time. Which, as anyone who has ever dealt with a celebrity will know, is no mean feat. To be honest, much as it all sounds glamorous, it’s the least favourite part of my job. I much prefer shooting real women who have achieved something or overcome some kind of odds. They’re the people who should be inspiring a generation of women, not a load of vacuous celebs. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt genuinely overawed by women we’ve photographed who have set up businesses, overcome health scares, helped others or started campaigns. The women who have done something worthwhile. And I like to think I’m good at making them feel comfortable in front of the camera. I love watching them relax, dropping their guards and their insecurities for me and the photographer. I can’t deny I wish it were me taking the pictures but, for now, I’m learning. On shoots I’m always soaking up what the photographer is doing as much as I am doing my own job. Sometimes it’s hard to be standing so close to my dream, but I know I’m lucky to be getting such practical experience. Anyway, because of this shoot I’ve come into work at the crack of dawn most days and have been staying late for weeks now, dealing with location changes, celebs dropping out, trying to get them back in, securing the best photographer, having meetings with Seb, the art director, and Christie about the concept. Fingers crossed the hard work will be worth it. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway, when my stress levels keep rising. I know Seb was particularly dubious about me being at the helm. He’s this really cool, experienced guy, but he’s also the silent, brooding type. I think he saw me as a glorified work experience and I’ve had to work really hard to gain his approval. But I think I’ve proved that what I lack in experience I make up for in creativity and dedication. And we’ve bonded over our joint hatred of the office music (we both love Jeff Buckley and Radiohead) and he’s been telling me about some recent exhibitions he’s been to see. I realize I might have misjudged Seb a bit. He’s not up his own arse and aloof, he’s just less . . . people-person-y than I’m used to.

I click on Outlook, just to check that there aren’t any last-minute emails from our cover stars pulling out. It’s quite hard to use a keyboard with your fingers crossed. I exhale as I realize that there is only one email. And it’s a welcome one.

Molly!!!!

How are you?!!!??? How’s Viva, how’s Ryan? And Casey? I miss you – but not enough to come back! Can you believe I’ve been here two years in September? Life is fab here in sunny Sydney, like one long holiday. I know how you love a list so I thought this might help you realize why you HAVE to come out here asap:

Reasons why Oz is better than boring old Blighty

The weather is hot (and so are the men)

The surf is big (and so are the men)

The beaches are beautiful (and so are the men)

The clubs are wild (and so are the men)

The culture is . . . Oh, sod the culture, Molly, the men are fucking AMAZING!

You can get a natural tan instead of the fake ones you Essex-types are so used to!

I laugh at this; Mia knows I have never touched fake tan in my life. I think of her list and then look at the lists currently resting on the desk in front of me and feel enormously depressed. One is my work list, the other a general to-do list. I read the second list and with pen in hand, I scrawl another one:

To-do list

Pick up dry cleaning

Call parents

Buy birthday present for Jackie (something pink?)

Call student loans company

Go to Tesco (milk, teabags, OJ, fish)

Red gas bill (tell off Ryan, he was meant to pay it)

Council tax

Renew tax on car

Renew monthly train ticket

Wash Ryan’s football kit

BOOK HOLIDAY – AUSTRALIA?

I stare at the last words I’ve written, hating the question mark that I’ve added at the end. I don’t know why our plans for going on a big trip together have been sidelined yet again. The other night Ryan mentioned going on holiday to his parents’ place in Portugal this year. Part of me is starting to think he doesn’t even want to go on a big trip any more.

I sigh and look at the list of things I’ve got to organize for the shoot today. To be honest, looking at it is equally depressing. Especially when I look back at Mia’s list. It doesn’t help that the teen me keeps rearing her head.

How did our life become so dull, Molly
?
We had such big plans!

It’s called growing up, I shoot back. Everyone’s life is like this. I sit back down and read the rest of Mia’s email, hoping it’ll make me feel better while I’m waiting for my cab, but deep down knowing that it won’t.

The magazine is doing brilliantly, Moll. I still love my job, even though I’ve been here two years, and the editor is amazing, too – and she’s pregnant! Which means I’m in line to be acting editor! Can you believe it! Me? An editor? And I’m only 24!!!

Why, why, WHY haven’t you booked your ticket yet? I want to take you RAGING (that means having fun in Oz. But you should already know this if you watch
Home and Away
.) COME TO AUSTRALIA (sorry, that’s the last time I’ll mention it! Promise!). Remember our Life Lists? Anyway, must go, I’ve got a feature to edit before 5 p.m. – then it’s time to hit the beach and the bars!

Love you, miss you (book your ticket NOW!!!)

Mia xxxx

I stare at the last paragraph for a while, picturing the Life Lists Mia and I wrote one drunken evening in our first year at uni:

Molly’s Life List

Travel around Australia – with Mia!!!!!

Live in New York

Be a photographer

Have a successful exhibition

Own my own place

Stay single until I’ve achieved all my ambitions

Mia’s Life List

Travel the world (Australia? With Molly!!!!)

Be a magazine editor by age of 30

Own my own place