The First Last Kiss (45 page)

I swing the bag over my shoulder and then I open the bedroom door and walk out. I’m barely hearing anything any more, even though Casey is still talking. Why is she still talking?

‘I followed you, you know, on that last night, I saw you kiss. I would have done anything to switch places with you then, and I’d do anything to switch places with you now.’

I turn and look at her, one hand on the front door handle, the other is clasped around the the bag. I look at my best friend who suddenly doesn’t know anything about me any more. She’s a million miles away from me, even though she is right here in the same room.

‘No, you wouldn’t, Casey, you really, really wouldn’t.’ I open the door. ‘I’ve got to go now and I’m afraid you can’t be here when we get back.’

‘What are you saying, Molly?’ she half-yells, half-cries. ‘Are you saying that’s it? Fifteen years of friendship over just because of one stupid mistake? I said sorry! I said I’M SORRY!’

I close the door.

The PDA Kiss

Think of the most romantic PDAs in film history and you’ll probably think of these classic kisses: The ‘Golly, Moses’ kiss between Katharine Hepburn and James Stewart in
A Philadelphia Story
; Ingrid and Humphrey’s ‘Kiss me as if it were the last time’ in
Casablanca
; the infamous ‘water’s edge’ kiss between Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in
From Here to Eternity
; Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh’s epic kiss in front of a flame-orange sky in
Gone With the Wind
; the kiss in the rain between Audrey and George in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s;
and not forgetting Ally MacGraw’s ‘I care’ kiss with Ryan O’Neal in L
ove Story.
All beautiful, touching, romantic, heartfelt, passionate – and not a tongue in sight.

They sure knew how to kiss back then, didn’t they?

In my job, I’ve been sent thousands of pap shots from picture agencies, always containing a batch of pictures of celebs tongue-thrashing in a club, or at a PA. I’ve witnessed pictures of Paris Hilton with lips (and legs) locked around various men (and women), Pink and Carey sucking face, Britney doing whatever with whoever. No wonder it put me off PDAs for so long.

But recent events have lead me to realize that I want to celebrate love in all its glory. PDAs don’t have to be vulgar and uncomfortable viewing. Because at their best these intimate declarations of affection are beautiful; a snapshot of someone else’s love that makes the world feel brighter and better somehow. That’s how I feel about them, anyway.

I hope you feel the same.

FF>> 19/04/07>

Things to do!!!

1.
Get tickets to a cup final match? (UEFA CUP querter finals in Glasgow - done!!!!!)

2. VIP tickets to a Take That reunion gig (spoken to their PR. Said is definite possibility. Plus backstage pass!!!)

3. See the national surfing championships (Newquay? Or abroad maybe????!! Talk to Susie, the travel & lifestyle ed)

4. Get bespoke suit made? Savile Row? He’s always wanted one – could wear it to his 30th party??

5. Meet David Beckham?!?! (Talk to DB’s football academy about the work Ryan has done with the kids in Hackney?)

6. Something with Jamie Oliver? (Or just go to dinner at Fifteen maybe?!)

7. Create bespoke ice-cream flavour?!!

8. Go to a film premiere – a romantic comedy maybe?? (Ask Cara)

9. Go back to New Yor—

The tube jolts to a stop and my pen scrawls across the page in a big, thick angry line. I tut and try to finish writing my list.
Go back to New York.

All around me people have been pressed against each other like the climax of some sort of fully clothed bacchanalian orgy, and now they jostle to get off and I watch as the carriage refills and I go back to studying my to-do list. The most important to-do list I’ve ever written.

It’s his Bucket List, you see . . . no, it’s his
Fuck it
List.

Fuck it, Cancer! You’re not taking him until this list is complete! And maybe by then you’ll have forgotten him and won’t take him at all.

I waggle my pen quickly between my teeth. I need more things on here.

More things, more things, more things.

More things means more time.

Fill the page, Molly
. What about go to a Grand Prix? Or drive at Silverstone? Ryan would LOVE to do that! I scribble it down in excitement. What else, what else? What else can my husband do before he dies?

I look up with a sudden overwhelming urge to tell everyone around me that my husband is dying. He’s Dying. It’s cancer. Skin cancer. He’s twenty-nine.

It would be a Chinese whisper that spreads through the carriage like the disease has spread. That way perhaps it would infect everyone else’s life, not just mine. No, not infect, that isn’t very nice. I mean
af
fect. I want it to affect everybody. Move them, mark them, shake them like the tube is shaking on the rails right now.

I want their lives to be shaking on the rails like mine is.

And Ryan’s,
obviously
Ryan’s. I know this isn’t all about me, but sometimes, it feels like it is. Is it wrong of me to say that? I mean, in some ways, and yes, I know this sounds awful but I can’t help it, in some ways I’m jealous of him. Ryan’s pain is going to come to an end. Mine isn’t. Mine won’t.

The two people standing in front of me part momentarily and I see a man in a suit opposite, absent-mindedly turning the pages of his newspaper. Suddenly I hate him. I hate that he is OK and my husband isn’t. I hate that he can casually read a newspaper when I can only concentrate on this list. I haven’t read a book, or newspaper, or magazine article in weeks. I can’t. Not even the ones in our magazine. I pretend to, but I can’t take anything in. It’s like my brain is overflowing with information. Since Ryan was diagnosed I feel like I have to remember
everything
. Not just about him, us, the day-to-day of life, but the entire six years of our relationship.

I’m busy trying to commit to memory every moment as it happens, every single glance, word, joke, tear, kiss – as well as all the ones that have been before. I’m saving them in a folder marked ‘After’ in the desktop of my brain. And then there are all the things I have to do on a daily basis, for me, for him, for work, but mostly for him. Thank God, I’ve always been good at writing lists. I need them more than ever now.

Not that Ryan seems to be very happy with them. He shakes his head when I pull out another piece of paper filled with my neat writing and pin it up around the flat.

‘Is this what my life is going to be reduced to?’ he’d said angrily, ripping the list of medication I’d pinned up just a few days after his diagnosis. ‘A series of fucking lists? Why don’t the doctors make some lists of how to actually
make
me better rather than just trying to make me
feel
better. These ain’t going to stop me dying, are they? Well? Are they?’

We’d both been warned by the doctors and support nurses to expect this reaction but still, it was hard, seeing him so unlike himself, oscillating between fury one minute and utter depression the next. It didn’t last long though, a week maximum, and then he seemed to gradually get back to himself. It was almost like he’d needed to get it out of his system, like some big emotional purging. He still doesn’t like the lists though. But I need them. Sometimes it feels like they’re the only things helping me hold it all together. There’s a list of his medication, the anti-sickness drugs for after his chemo that he has at our local hospital. (Ryan refused his parents’ offer for private care and an instant move back to Leigh. He said he wanted to stay at home in London with me.) There’s also various painkillers and aperients for his constipation. There’s another list of all his appointments; his chemo treatment plan (there was no question about him wanting to try it. He told the doctor he was going for the miracle. He was going to be the statistic that beat the odds. I hated seeing the doctor’s blank expression.). Then there’s Ry’s school timetable (he’s determined to keep working as much as possible, for as long as possible) so I know exactly where he is at any moment, just in case, and a list of emergency numbers for me to call if I need help; his GP, Crossroads – the carer support organization that Charlie advised me to contact as I don’t have any family really close. Charlie is our Macmillan nurse and he’s been so wonderful, such a great support. I honestly don’t know what we would have done without him. And thank God I can talk to him. No one else seems able to deal with me these days, apart from my parents. But Charlie is the perfect confidante. He listens and advises and organizes and supports. He acts as a go-between with Ryan and I, he makes us laugh and relax. He makes Ryan feel like a young man, not a cancer-stricken young man. He talks to him about football and bands, the news, teaching, life. But I know Ryan also asks him things that he won’t ever discuss with me. Like how much time is left. And me? I talk to Charlie to find out just how the hell I’m meant to deal with Ryan’s illness – as well as being my husband’s carer. It’s a role I haven’t trained or prepared for. I don’t know what I’m doing, or if what I’m doing is right. And I don’t know what’s going to come next. That’s what scares me the most, actually. What Comes Next. Charlie is helping me prepare me for that. That day in the not too distant future when I’ll have to sign a Do Not Resuscitate form. He gives me eventualities, options, tells me things to consider. He is compassionate but he tells it how it is, too. Something that not many people I know want to do any more.

Take the list of people to call to tell them that Ryan has cancer. Ryan doesn’t want to do it and I did ask Jackie but she refused to do it as well.

‘Why worry them about nothing?’ she’d trilled cheerfully, music pounding down the telephone line from behind her. She said she was doing Davina McCall’s workout DVD. ‘Just trying to keep fit, Molly babes!’ as if she can get fit for the both of them. I understand; this is her list. ‘We’ll just invite them to the party when he’s got the all clear!’

Then there’s my daily to-do lists for home, all the normal domestic stuff: paying bills, food shopping, jobs to do around the flat. There’s a list of numbers for odd-job men who can help me when Ryan can’t. There’s also a list of local estate agents as I need to start getting valuations for the flat. We haven’t really spoken much about the next stage because Ryan is determined to stay in our flat for as long as possible. It’s been so hard for me knowing that just isn’t possible. I was so desperate that I asked Charlie out for a drink to talk about everything. I just felt the need to pour out my troubles like I would with a friend. It’s painful that Ryan won’t talk about the future. It makes me so scared feeling like I’m going to be dealing with all this on my own, right till the end. And then I feel horribly selfish. I mean, of course I’m going to look after my husband, I wouldn’t have it any other way, but Ryan isn’t thinking of how much worse it’s going to get. So I took Charlie to our local bar and talked about Ryan’s stubbornness to plan for the future. He listened like he always does and gave me some great advice. At which point I, embarrassingly and very publically, kissed him on the cheek. People probably thought we were on a date or something, but I just wanted to say thanks for being such a great support. It didn’t bother Charlie, he handled this scared, grateful woman with his normal, easy charm. Neither Ryan nor I would know what to do without him. Anyway, on his next visit Charlie did try to gently point out to Ry that living in a second-floor flat might prove ‘difficult’ in the near future and laid out some options, but Ryan didn’t want to hear them.

I know that a move back to Leigh is not far away. Ideally, I’d like us to try and move there before it’s too late . . . Somewhere where he can see the sea and be near his friends and family. I wish we could go now. I wish I could give up work and dedicate
my
life to the rest of his. But he won’t consider it yet. He says he wants life to go on as normal and he wants life to be as normal as possible for me. But he doesn’t seem to realize how hard it is. My life has stopped already. I might be going through the motions of normality, but really, my life is on permanent pause as I try to prepare myself for the next few months of caring for my dying husband.

I can’t concentrate on anything else, I can’t go out and have fun, get drunk, lose myself in my work, listen to a song without bawling my eyes out. I can’t sit on a train without hating everyone else for not having Ryan’s cancer. I can’t stop hating myself for not noticing that mole sooner.

And I also can’t stop thinking about all the things I’ve done wrong over the course of our relationship.

That is the longest list and the most depressing of all, and the one that’s constantly in my head. The list of my fuck-ups. It’s the list that berates me for running away from Ryan that night in The Grand, and on the
Bembridge
. It chastises me for doubting our relationship. It mentally beats me up for every moan and gripe I’ve ever had with him. For not stopping him going on all those bloody sunbeds. For letting him slather himself with baby oil on holiday instead of factor-30. It shouts at me for every argument we had, every kiss of apology that I stubbornly turned away from and every graze of his lips that I took for granted.

And then of course, there’s that other kiss. The one that broke us up. That’s the one festering away in my memory, infecting all the others. And I hate it. I hate it because it debilitates me. It causes me to sob in the night when I think of Ryan dying and him ever doubting for a millisecond how much I’ve always loved him. Then I hate myself for crying and I have to take myself off to our lounge so he doesn’t hear me, but I know he does because the next morning he always tells me that it’s OK, that everything is OK, and that he is so lucky to have me. That he’s always felt lucky to have me.