The First Last Kiss (15 page)

‘Ha ha, I’ll have you know that church candles are
very
stylish,’ I say.

‘I’d prefer a glitter ball myself,’ Casey replies, ‘or, like, proper flashing disco lights! Yeah, that’s what I’d have if I ever get to move out of my mum’s shithole!’

‘Glass of wine?’ I offer, picking up the bottle.

‘Ooh, aren’t you the little homemaker!’ Casey chuckles, throwing down her fake Burberry bag and wandering around the place. ‘Have you got any vodka? It’s Friday night and I wanna go dancing later. Wine just sends me to sleep. It’s the drink of the middle-aged.’

‘Um, I’m not sure, maybe in the cupboard?’ I say, pointing at the corner kitchen unit. But I thought we were hanging out here this evening?’

‘We are for now, but the night is young. Just because you’ve settled down and are boring doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be! Surely you weren’t planning on us staying in all night, were you?’ She gazes at me incredulously with her heavily mascaraed eyes. She still hasn’t realized that she’s beautiful enough without it. That’s what happens when an ugly duckling turns into a swan. It has taken some time for her style to catch up. I wish I could let Freya, our fashion editor, loose on her and dress her in something less . . . tacky. Then I’d scrub off the fake tan that she doesn’t need on her gorgeous Greek–Italian skin and get rid of the cheap highlights in her hair.

‘Um, well I just thought we could have pizza, watch an old eighties movie, like we used to, you know,
The Breakfast Club
or
St Elmo’s Fire
or something, drink some wine and have a proper catch-up, like the old days!’

‘Bo
r-ing
,’ Casey yawns, sounding exactly like she did when we were fifteen. ‘No offence, babe, you may be wallowing in marital bliss but some of us have had a hard week at work and need to let off some steam. Mum’s given me a rare night off and I don’t want to waste it!’ She grabs a bottle of Smirnoff and pours a large measure into a highball glass before adding a token splash of orange juice. ‘Up yours,’ she says, raising it before necking half of it. ‘So how’s married life treating you?’

I blush. ‘Stop it, Case, we’re not married!’

‘As good as,’ she winks. She looks around. ‘I feel like I’m sitting in a replica Ikea display!’

I nod shyly, taking this as a compliment. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but I love it, Case! It couldn’t be more perfect. I love coming home to him, waking up with him; I love our little weekend routines. Last week I even attempted a Sunday roast,’ I say proudly. ‘I completely burnt it. But at least I tried!’

Casey splutters in her drink. ‘Fuck me, you’re freaking me out now.’ She grabs my face and looks into my eyes. ‘Where’s my best mate, the one who couldn’t cook, said she was never going to settle down and live with a man. What happened to you travelling the world, being Miss Independent? Next you’ll be telling me you actually
like
living in Leigh!’

She looks at me and I make a guilty expression. ‘Shut UP!’ she gasps.

‘Well, I can’t help it, I do!’ I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back on the sofa with a piece of pizza.

She shakes her head in disbelief.

‘I don’t know, maybe it’s just a novelty, but I really do like it. I don’t want it to be forever. When we can afford it, we’ll definitely upgrade to a place in London.’

‘Upgrading, eh?’ she says wistfully.

‘How are things with Toni anyway?’ I ask, suddenly aware of how different our home lives are. Poor Casey, I know how desperate she is to get her own place, get out from under her mum’s shadow.

Casey shrugs. ‘The same, she’s busy with all her men and leaving me to manage the caff – and the boys. Without me the little shits would never go to school.’ She looks up through her dark eyelashes and smiles. ‘I’ve got some news though. I’ve got a new job.’

‘You have? ‘Where? Doing what?’ I yelp excitedly.

‘It’s at Players, the brand-new club in Southend!’ she squeals back. Casey pours herself another large measure of vodka. ‘It’s going to be wicked! It’s opening next month and they want to make it this really cool, really exclusive place, you know like a West End club. They want a couple of girls to work on the door, doing the guest list and stuff. And one of them is gonna be me! They like the fact that I’ve lived here all my life, I’ve got service industry experience, I know the scene and lots of people. I can’t wait to start! Just think, Moll, my job is
actually
going to be clubbing! How cool is that?’

I raise my wine glass to toast her new job and take a sip. She’s so happy. I don’t want to spoil it by saying that I’m not sure working in a club environment is going to be the best place for her.

‘Now, how about you get changed and we go out and check out the competition? I can call it research!’

‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’ I say, gesturing at my ankle-length black dress and boots that I wore to work today.

‘Let’s be honest, what’s right with it? You’re twenty-two and you’re dressed like a nun!’

‘Freya, the fashion editor, says this is very fashionable right now, actually Case! Long is the new short, you know.’

Casey adopts a posh voice. ‘But “Frai
y
a the Fashion Edit
ah
” doesn’t live in Essex, does she? Come on,’ she pleads. ‘Get out those fantastic legs of yours, put on some heels and let’s go clubbing! Come on, it’ll be a laugh, just like the old days, you know, when you used to be
fun
. . . ’

The Bittersweet Kiss

Just like creative people always say you only remember criticism not praise, I’ve discovered that in times of distress it’s the bad things that stay with you longer than the good. Just like I could (will) never shake that bad first kiss between Ryan and I, now I can’t shake the bad memories. It’s so bloody frustrating. All I can think about are the arguments I started, the times I nagged him unnecessarily, or administered one of my stony silences when he’d done something to annoy me. They’re all there, etched on my brain. I’m like a self-harming teenager: I know I should stop, but I don’t want to. Each pain-inducing memory feels good, like I deserve all of this because really, I didn’t ever deserve him.

<

I squeal as The Verve’s ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ comes on in the student union bar and accidentally spill my Snakebite over my Converses.

‘I blurrey LOVE this song, girls!’ I slur, throwing my arms around Casey and Mia.

‘Thanks for coming down, Case and makin’ my nineteenth birthday so brilliant! It jus’ wouldn’t have been the shame without you!’ I lift up my camera and take a snap of the three of us above our heads as I know it’s always a more flattering shot. Especially when you’ve drunk as much as we have. Then I close my eyes, throw my hands in the air and begin to jump up and down. Although this proves to be hard as my trainers keep sticking to the beer-soaked floor and my drink keeps slopping over me. I open my eyes again. All around me students with long hair, wearing dark baggy clothes and with extra bags under their eyes, are dotted around. I fit in here. For the first time I belong. Only my friends seem to stick out. Casey in her black PVC miniskirt and baby-pink T-shirt and Mia, my new best mate who I met here on the very first night. She is wearing a white tailored shirt with black crease-fronted, boot-cut trousers and pointed red Karen Millen boots. We literally couldn’t look more different if we tried.

I wave at Mia and she lifts her white wine and shakes her blonde Posh Spice-inspired bob.

‘Chin chin!’ she laughs.

‘Hey, Mi,’ I shout, staggering forward a little.

‘I’m
hot
!’ she yells. In her posh voice it comes out ‘haught’.

‘WHAT?’ Casey shouts but we ignore her.

‘Yes, it is a soupçon too hot in here, isn’t it what!’ I shout back, hamming up her posh accent. She puts down her wine and comes over and we look at each other before shouting, ‘No,
I’M
hot!’ and then crack up laughing. Mia is holding her sides, practically on the floor with laughter.

Mia was the first person I met in the student union six weeks ago and I was instantly drawn to her. She stood reading
Vogue
at the bar, clutching a gin and tonic. I walked up to her, ordered myself a vodka and Coke and then turned to her. Before I could say a word she waved her hand across her face and said, ‘I’m hot.’

‘Yes, it is a bit hot in here, isn’t it?’ I’d politely replied, not knowing quite where to take the conversation, my social skills still being somewhat underdeveloped.

Then she beamed at me, a full-throttle, gleaming Mia mega-watt smile and said, ‘No,
I’m
hot,’ and then we both burst out laughing
,
the ice well and truly broken.

Six weeks on and it’s our signature saying – and is now accompanied by a waggly-armed chicken dance.

Casey looks at us both blankly and then shrugs before striding off. When we’ve finished embarrassing ourselves Mia goes to pick up her drink.

‘Hey, it’s gone!’ she says. And then she looks across the room and sees Casey has got her face attached to the guy Mia was flirting with earlier – and she’s holding Mia’s wine glass out like a trophy over his shoulder.

‘That girl is trouble, you know,’ Mia says darkly, and goes to the bar.

Mia’s not as ice-maidenlike as she can appear. She’s fun to be around but she is a force to be reckoned with, too. She’s an only child like me, and her parents are both successful lawyers, so she was brought up by a series of nannies. She only hears from her parents about once a month but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She’s got a long-term boyfriend at home but she lost interest in him soon after we got here.

‘I’m too
young
to be tied to one man – unless it’s in
bed
,’ she said to me on the Sunday morning at the end of Freshers’ week, when we were lying on mine watching Ruth snog Kurt Benson in
Hollyoaks
. ‘From now on I’m going to have my men how I have my alcohol . . . ’

‘Um, short and straight up?’ Mia likes hardcore liquor, no mixers for her. She’s always the one downing tequila shots at the bar – and still standing at the end of the night.

‘Nope. Try again.’ She smiles.

‘Er, on the rocks . . . and with a twist?’ I say again.

‘No, Molly,’ she’d added with a sassy smile, ‘super-strong and disposed of in seconds. In fact,’ she says, sitting up, ‘I think I’m going to phone him right now and tell him it’s over between us.’

‘Are you sure?’ I’d said, pulling my ancient The Smiths T-shirt over my crossed knees. ‘I mean you’ve been together three
years
, you lost your
virginity
to him.’

She’d looked at me with a wide-eyed, innocent gaze. ‘Oh yes,’ she’d said emphatically. ‘I always knew it wasn’t going to be forever.’ And she’d picked up her Nokia 6160 and curled her feet underneath her as she quickly struck her fatal blow to her first ever relationship.

I was shocked, but I related to her emotional detachment too. Not with any actual relationship experience – I hadn’t had a boyfriend yet – but I felt the same about the guy I’d lost my virginity to, aged sixteen. It was utterly premeditated on my part and utterly crap too.

The problem is,
I
haven’t quite got around to going there again either. I mean obviously I had
plenty
of opportunities during Freshers’ week, but after being so reckless that first time, I thought maybe this time, you know, I’d try saving it for someone who I actually like.

I spot him across the room staring at me as I’m trying to restrain Mia from pulling Casey by her hair off the guy she’s snogging. A tall, reed-thin, dark-haired Richard Ashcroft lookalike leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, his skinny arms hanging down almost to his knees. His eyes are blue, bright blue, and his lips, whilst thinner than I’d like, are really nicely defined. He waves at me, well, either that or he is clearing a viewing hole through his sheet of middle-parted greasy hair and then looks down, another big clump of his hair falling over his eyes again. Fuelled by alcohol and my newly found confidence of being a proper grown-up
19-year-old
university student, I nudge Mia and mouth, ‘Watch this,’ and then I stumble over towards him, swinging my hips whilst pulling up my charity-shop-bought, satin mini dress so that it reveals the holes in my tights, and pulling down my sleeves on my sloppy mohair jumper so that it falls off my shoulder.

We don’t talk for long. Only enough to exchange names (‘Marcus’ – but he pronounces it Mar
coos
), where we’re from (him: Buckinghamshire, me: London – I just couldn’t
bear to
say Essex), A-level results (me: three As – I know, so much for rebelling, huh?, him: three Bs), and our degree courses (me: Photography, him: Fine Art). Then he bends his neck down to get to my face level, which is hard, given our height difference, kind of like a pelican trying to get a fish, and he kisses me.

It’s a curious sensation. Curious because for those five minutes when I saw him, approached him and then talked to him, I really,
really
fancied him. He’s just my type, according to the list I’d drawn up before I came here:

Things I Want From a Boyfriend

•  Clever

•  Cool

•  Not from Essex (V. IMPORTANT)

•  Must have nice lips

•  Blue eyes

•  Not be emotionally retarded

•  Or culturally challenged

But his kiss is disappointing, not because it’s bad, but more because this image of Ryan Cooper pops into my head, and I feel like I’m being haunted by this memory of him kissing me in The Grand. And even though it was terrible and humiliating, I can’t help but wish that Marcus was him. Which is unbelievably annoying. Seriously, I haven’t thought about the guy for weeks. Well, days anyway. Apart from earlier when we were at the bar getting drinks and Casey mentioned that she’s seen him around town with his little boy band of merry men. Well, she mentioned it because I casually asked . . .