The First Last Kiss (56 page)

He nods at Carl who presses play and an image of the famous sculpture
The Kiss
and the words ‘What’s in a kiss?’ appears on the screen underneath.

Then the strains of Take That’s ‘Greatest Day’ comes out of the speakers as a photo of Ryan and me with our first kiss at The Grand fills the screen. The next shot is of Gustav Klimt’s painting, then
Lady and the Tramp
’s doggie lips meeting over a bowl of spaghetti, which cuts to the photo of Ryan and me from a night out at Ugo’s on The Broadway, jokingly recreating the pose from the film.

I laugh through my tears as I marvel at how Ryan has put on film a complete, beautiful, big-screen version of what I began with my blog but couldn’t finish. He has included every single photo I collected and mixed our kisses in with other more famous ones, so in one frame we appear alongside Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
, and in the next we are in split-screen, kissing on the red carpet alongside a picture of Tom Cruise kissing Katie Holmes.

As the video plays out this beautiful, lovingly crafted, clever, funny, embodiment of our entire relationship, Ryan lifts up his lips to me and we kiss, softly, sweetly, and it feels like transferring a piece of each of our souls to the other. He moves his lips away from me and nods at the screen and I look up to see the last shot, a freeze-frame of Ryan Cooper, my Ry, on a beach, on our honeymoon staring straight at my camera and blowing me a kiss.

I can hear the sobs behind us, quiet, controlled tears of our friends and family who have been in mourning for the past five months and who know that this party is Ryan’s way of saying goodbye.

‘This is for you,’ Ryan murmurs to me, and I turn my back on the crowd as I look at him, at my beautiful husband, the love of my life, and then the rest of the room, the people, the town, our past, it all melts away. I sink into his lap, the arms of his wheelchair supporting my weight as I lie across him, so that it is like he is carrying me over the threshold. I wish he could carry me over the threshold to wherever he is going. I am crying, my arms weave around his neck, clinging to him, clinging on to him for dear life. Our dear life.

‘I know you collected them all for me, Moll, and I love you more than ever for it, but you know, I already had every kiss. Every single one. Up here.’ He taps his head. ‘I saved them all.’ He pulls me down towards him. ‘And I need you to know that I wouldn’t change a moment of what we’ve shared. Every up, every down, they’ve made us who we are.’ He takes the disk out of the DVD player and hands it to me, but I can’t move my hands from his neck so he places it in my lap.

‘Watch it when I’m gone, not just to remember me, but so you always remember how unexpected, how magical, how life-changing love is. Do you promise you’ll do that?’ He stares at me and I nod. He brushes his thumb under my eyes, taking my tears with it and then drags it over my lips. I kiss it and close my eyes. ‘And when love finds you again,’ he says, ‘which I know it will, I don’t want you to watch this any more, OK? I want you to be ready to start a whole new collection of kisses.’ I tuck my head in the crook of his neck and fresh tears trickle down it like a waterfall.

Out of nowhere, I am aware that Carl has come and he has pushed us into the middle of the dance floor and is slowly pushing us in a circle so it feels like we’re waltzing. I lift my head and look deep into my husband’s, my Ryan’s, deep-sea eyes, drowning in this moment with him. ‘I’ve been happier than I could ever have imagined because you loved me, Molly,’ he smiles.

And right there, in front of our friends, our family and the entire town, we have our final and best PDA. I know it’s a kiss that no one – especially me – will ever forget.

4.35 p.m.

I drive out of Leigh-on-Sea fully expecting to cry. When I moved back here after Ryan died, five years ago I needed to be where the essence of Ryan still was, to be near his family, his friends, his, no,
our
beloved hometown. The little neglected house I bought was just like the one we’d dreamed of bringing up a family in, and so I put the same love and care into nurturing it as I would have done our children, spending the first few months tenderly bringing it back to life in a way I couldn’t do with my husband. The cats were my only company – but I was so glad of them. Ryan had bought them as a gift for me when he went into the hospice.

‘Do you want me to turn into crazy Cat Lady?’ I’d joked when the little balls of fluff had tumbled out of the box and onto my lap.

‘No, Moll,’ he’d smiled, taking my hand. I’d stroked his fingers, trying not to disturb any of the tubes. ‘Harry and Sally are gonna make sure that you never forget that love can be found in the most unexpected places.’

Right, as always.

Ryan may never have lived in the little house I’ve just left behind, but for the first couple of years it felt as much his as mine. I couldn’t pack away his stuff (not even the bloody flamingo) so I lined my new nest in the same way he would have done, with lots and lots of memories. I needed them next to me simply because he couldn’t be.

And when I walked out of my front door I still felt him around me in the familiarity of being in the place where we’d grown up and fallen in love. I liked the fact that practically everyone I passed knew Ryan or at least knew of him. They’d smile at me, or sometimes stop and talk, and for that moment I felt like he was still here, that by being here I was keeping him alive for a little bit longer. In many ways, this little town kept
me
alive, too.

During the first year I’d leave the house at dusk every day – no matter the weather – and walk down to his favourite bench that was on the sea-view path, tucked just below The Green where he’d had his 30th birthday party a week before he died. I’d watch the violet clouds drift by, along with the boats, and I’d listen to the caw – or as Ryan had once pointed out – the ‘cor’ of the seagulls as they flew overhead (‘They’re Essex Seagulls!’ he’d said). That was our time to talk. I’d tell Ryan all about my day, what I’d been doing to the house, the floors I’d stripped, polished and varnished, the colours I’d chosen for the walls, the 1950s kitchen table I’d found at an auction. I’d tell him about the conversations I’d had with Nanny Door, how his mum was coping, and I’d ask him advice on how I could cope with her better. I’d tell him about the grief support group I was going to, and about Casey’s latest escapades. I’d talk about Beau and Gemma, and how Carl was doing, I’d tell him about The Shrimpers’ latest footie results, where they were in the league and who they were playing next. I’d tell him I missed him, and that even though I still didn’t think I could live without him, I was doing my best.

But even though that was the place I talked to him the most, the truth was Ryan wasn’t there, he was all around me. I found comfort in the fact that his footprints were indelibly marked on the pebble beach and on The Broadway, on every street corner in fact. He was there in the schoolchildren’s faces that passed me on their way home and who would never forget cool Mr Cooper. It comforts me to know that Ryan’s legacy lives on in all those he taught both here and in Hackney. Who knows what they might achieve in their lives because of him? The pubs had his fingerprints moulded on their pint glasses. His footballing prowess was clearly marked on the local pitch. The sea breeze had his spirit. And, of course, his parents’ house has his ashes. It was what he wanted and I understood. He said he didn’t want me to feel tied to a place just because he was there. He wanted me to be free to travel the world if I wanted to. But he knew his parents would live in their house forever.

But it was hard living here too. It felt like everyone had unachievable expectations of me. Widows are meant to be old, to wear black, to be poised when it counts and to sob at expected moments, like at the funeral. But the one thing I remember about Ryan’s funeral is that I didn’t cry. Not one little bit. I just gazed at the casket, blaming Ryan for my lack of crying action.

‘
Hey, Cooper
,’ I said in my head.
‘Look no tears. Just like you made me promise – now everyone is looking at me like I’m some unfeeling bitch. You happy now?
’

‘
Ah, but Molly, you’re
my
unfeeling bitch
,’ I’d heard him say, which made me laugh. Which was also inappropriate behaviour at a funeral apparently.

I cried every day,
other
than the day of his funeral, for that entire first year. And I watched his film every day, too. Often more than once. And the same during the second year. On each of those 730 days I would be struck with a memory that made me weep with the pain of losing Ryan. And not just on the ‘difficult’ days, you know, birthdays, anniversaries, Sundays. Every single day and at any given time. In the toilet, on the train, in my bed, in the supermarket, into my cereal bowl, in a bar . . . there was no warning of when it would happen. It just did.

But the day we cremated him? I promised him that I would wear the brightest colour I could (my old yellow sundress I wore the night he kissed me in Ibiza – not just because it was his favourite, but because it’s the Shrimpers’ colour) and a smile. I wore bold red lipstick because I knew Ryan would like it (even if my mother didn’t). And also because it meant I wouldn’t have to kiss any distant relatives. (Or close ones, to be honest.) I could just wave my face in their general direction, without making actual contact. Because I didn’t want to kiss anyone. His lips were the last that mine had touched; if I closed my eyes I could still feel his mouth on mine on that last day as he finally slipped away, and I wanted it to stay that way forever.

So on that bright September day in 2007, I stood in my citrus bright sundress, with my shoulders back and my head high, and I smiled. I smiled as I stared at the stained-glass window that was directly above his casket, imagining how I would photograph the way that the protracted sunlight shone through it, the colours glittering like jewels as they danced across the box where his body lay. I smiled through my eulogy and when his brother and the boys carried in Ryan’s coffin to Take That’s ‘Rule the World’ – just as Ryan had requested. I didn’t even let my chin wobble. I just gripped my hands together and I smiled. I was like some sort of smiling machine. Then I smiled as I met all the hundreds of mourners. I smiled though my face ached and my heart hurt. And then I smiled some more. I said hello to everyone but all the time I was saying goodbye.

So yes, I said the hardest goodbye five years ago. But today, today is about saying hello.

I arrive at Southend Hospital at 4.45 p.m., just as I’d promised. And he’s there waiting just as he’d promised, looking more like George Clooney than ever. I pull up in front of the reception and his serious, shadowed, night-shift face evaporates into a smile.

I smile back as I open the passenger door and he leans in, his arm resting on the door.

‘G’day, Sheila,’ he drawls, exaggerating his native Australian accent for effect.

‘Taxi to Stansted for Doctor Prince?’ I say in a broad Essex accent and pretend to chew on some gum as he slides in and kisses me.

‘How are you doing?’ he says gently, stroking my cheek. ‘You haven’t been doing too much, have you?’ Chris gazes at me in concern and his hands weave their way from my waist to my front and he bends down suddenly so his face hovers over my bulging six-month bump. I smile as I rub my hands over it, marvelling at the glorious convex shape, the hard little mounds that hint at little feet, or elbows, or knees, the constant nudges – and the new weight – that never lets me forget just what I’m carrying.

‘What’s that you say, Minnie?’ he says. We call her that, because Chris thinks she’ll be a mini-me. He puts his ear to my tummy, listening and nodding intently. ‘I should be looking after your mum? Oh, don’t worry, I plan to do just that. For the rest of her life.’ I think of the St Christopher Nanny Door gave me and that is tucked away safely in my handbag and I smile. Chris kisses my tummy and then the wedding ring that hangs on a chain around my neck because it will no longer fit on my swollen, pregnant fingers, and then my lips.

And I smile because I know he will look after me, but I also know that even though we’re flying to Sydney today to start our new life together, he accepted that emergency shift when they called him up last night because he’s a surgeon first and my husband second, and I’m completely cool with that.

I glance at Chris as I weave through the hospital car park, towards the exit. Lovely, calm, patient, strong, intense Chris, the ‘prince’ who came into my life three years after I lost Ryan, who cemented everything I’d learned from being with (and then losing) Ryan, and who made me realize that there is love after death. People often ask me if they think it was a psychological decision to marry a doctor after losing Ryan. I mean, he saves lives for a living and doctors aren’t supposed to ever get ill themselves, are they? But to this I simply tell them that the only psychological decision I made the day I met him was to go out and get drunk in a bar. I wasn’t looking for love, I think it came looking for me. Either that, or it was sent . . .

It was eighteen months ago and I’d just found out that my collection of photographs called ‘The Eternal Kiss’ had been offered exhibition space at Gallery@Oxo. These were the photos I’d taken of young couples who had contacted me through my blog and who were living with a cancer diagnosis – and who wanted to make every kiss count. The messages had flooded in after I’d posted my final message and photo of Ryan and I, and I’d asked Christie if my blog could be continued by readers who were dealing with or had lost a partner to cancer. She had understood completely when I also said I wouldn’t be returning to work after Ryan died. I couldn’t face it. And besides, I had quickly decided that I was going to do what I’d promised Ryan.

I was going
to be
: happy, fulfilled and optimistic. I couldn’t imagine falling in love again and I couldn’t imagine going back to work either, so I started by picking up my camera and taking photographs again. It was on the first anniversary of Ryan’s death that I had the idea. I wanted to thank Macmillan Cancer Support and the Haven Hospice in Leigh-on-Sea for everything they’d done. I started taking portraits for anyone who contacted me, either through the blog, or through the hospice. I didn’t do it for money, or for my career, I did it because I wanted to give them a little of what Ryan had given me: a kiss that would last forever.