The First Last Kiss (26 page)

An audible groan ripples down the table as we translate her words: more work, no more money.

‘It’s going to be an exciting and exhausting few months in the office.’ Christie beams perkily at us all. ‘But I don’t want to talk about the hard work ahead at our Christmas lunch. Today is about celebrating a brilliant team, an incredible magazine and an exciting future.’ She raises her glass. ‘
Viva
2005!’

As we all cheer and join in her toast, I can’t help but feel a wave of excitement. I feel like I’m at the heart of something big, full of potential and possibility. Right now, I love my job, my colleagues, my boss, this champagne, Christmas . . . I look in my bag and pull out my phone. It’s 6.30 p.m. and I have three texts from Ryan, all of them asking where I am and when I’ll be home as he’s cooking dinner.

Shit. I forgot to tell him that it was my work Christmas lunch today. I text him back deftly. ‘At work Christmas do. Not hungry so go ahead and eat without me. M xx’

I press send and pick up my champagne glass just as my phone begins to ring.

I squeeze out of the cowhide banquette, then dash up the stairs and out into the bitterly cold early evening. I answer it just in time. I’m panting as I say my greeting.

‘H-H-Hel—’

‘What took you so long?’

‘—lo,’ I finish, and am then stunned into silence by Ryan’s abrasive tone.

‘Well?’ Ryan prompts and I shake my head, trying to focus on our conversation.

‘I was down in the basement of the restaurant, I’ve come outside as it’s too noisy down th—’

Once again Ryan doesn’t let me finish. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock, Molly, I’ve already made dinner – why are you only just letting me know you’re not going to be back?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling instantly annoyed at myself for apologizing. I am reminded of living under the ridiculous curfews my mother set. ‘I forgot it was the office lunch today and I lost track of time . . . ’

A group of Christmas party revellers stagger past me on the street, four girls with their arms linked, wearing tiny dresses and big smiles. They look young, way younger than me – or maybe not? I look closer. No, they’re probably mid-twenties, too, they just seem younger. They haven’t got a care in the world. Nowhere else they have to be, no one expecting
them
home for dinner.

Shivering, I tuck myself out of the way, in front of the fire-exit. I realize I should have brought my coat outside. Not just to protect me from the cold night air, but the atmosphere of this conversation, too.

‘Well,’ Ryan grumbles, ‘are you coming home now?’

I look at my watch and am suddenly jolted by what I can see, not just the time of night, 7 p.m., but . . .

The
time
: the twenty-first century.

The
time
: my three-year relationship.

The
time
: my mid-twenties.

We’re meant to be having the time of our lives, Molly
. It’s my teenage self again.
Tell him we’re not coming home yet.

Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by the urge to laugh, to laugh hysterically. Must be the alcohol because this really isn’t funny.

I take a deep breath, and fuelled by the fizz of excitement at Christie’s news, the sparkle of fun that the possibility of a night out could bring, and – most of all – by that last glass of champagne – I say the word that I should say to Ryan far more often than I do.

‘No,’ I reply defiantly. ‘I’m not coming home yet, Ryan. I’m with my colleagues having fun at my work Christmas party. It’s only early, so I’m going to go out with them after this, something I don’t do very often—’

‘Ha!’ Ryan splutters.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I reply dangerously quietly, partly because I have spotted two of my colleagues who have come out for a sneaky cigarette.

Suddenly I have the urge to join them, even though I haven’t smoked since Ryan and I got together. I turn away, slink back into the darkness because I don’t want them to hear my discussion with Ryan, but also because I don’t do shouting. I’ve always been the quiet, brooding type, while Ryan likes to talk about things endlessly, usually with a smile on his face, which just winds me up even more.

Which is why, even as I ask him to explain exactly what his ‘Ha’ meant, I know that I am leading him into a dark corner. Ryan clearly doesn’t realize this. If he does he chooses to ignore it.

‘It
means
that you go out all the time. After-shoot drinks, press launches, “work meetings”, you’re hardly ever bloody here. And if you are around it’s when I’m back home.’

‘It’s not
my
fault you keep running “home” to Mum and Dad at weekends,’ I shoot back. ‘Most 27-year-old men have untied their mother’s apron strings by now and want to hang out with their girlfriend at the weekends, not their parents.’

Ryan laughs, but it is not a happy sound. ‘Fucking hell, Molly, I
do
want to hang out with you.
Je
-sus. I just want to hang out with you back home in Leigh, you know, like you promised . . . remember? It was meant to be the compromise.’

I defy my own rules and raise my voice. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Ryan,’ I hiss, ‘our
home
is in London, it has been for over a year now. And I
have
compromised. A lot.’

‘Is that really what you think, babe?’ he replies.

‘Don’t call me babe,’ I snap.

‘We made an agreement, remember,
Molly
?’ he emphasizes my name sarcastically. ‘I moved up to London for
your
career, not mine. Don’t you think I’d rather live back in my hometown, where all my friends and family are, where my life was? Working at a school where I don’t have to worry about there being possible stabbings every day? But I don’t because I know living here makes
you
happy. But you were meant to compromise by coming back to Leigh with me at weekends. But you haven’t, not for months. And then on an evening when we
can
spend time together, you tell me at the last minute that you’re out with your work friends! Jesus!’

He sounds like those cartoon voices on a phone or Woodstock from Peanuts. Wah wah wah wah. I understand that yes, at times I have let my side of the bargain down, but I’m not going to
admit
that, because his nagging tone is just making me more stubborn than ever. Besides, I can’t admit that the only reason I agreed to the London/Leigh split-life proposal that Ryan made when we bought our flat was that I didn’t really think Ryan would actually
want
to go home all the time. I thought London would spark his sense of adventure. That he’d meet new friends, like I have. I thought he’d meet guys like, you know, like Seb and Dom, or Matt and Nick who Casey and I met the other month. Guys who were interested in more than going to see their local football team play every week and hanging out with their schoolmates. I thought London would reignite Ryan’s love for travel, that he would see the rest of the world that was out there and it would inspire him to see more; more cities, more countries, more places. But it hasn’t. Ryan hasn’t changed, if anything London has made his aspirations smaller than ever. All he wants is his old job, his old home.

It suddenly dawns on me that Ryan was never going to change. Not really. Because I realize now that, forget Australia,
anywhere
would be too far from Leigh – including London. No, the only person who changed in this relationship was me. I changed for Ryan because I wanted to be with him so desperately. I thought that if I moved back to Leigh, I could want less, aspire to less. But I couldn’t. Now I
do
want to go out. I want to have
fun
, I want to embrace the city I live in and the opportunities it offers me. I want to move forward. I want that more than anything.

More than Ryan?
My teenage self asks softly.

The silence crackles down the phone between us. Now Ryan’s rant is over, I hear him crashing pots and pans around the kitchen like some demented apprentice of Marco Pierre White.

‘Shit!’ he expostulates suddenly.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask dully, distracted by what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking.

‘I just burnt my fucking hand draining the fucking clam linguine . . . ’ he mutters petulantly.

And I can’t help it, but I snort with laughter loudly. I try to disguise it but for once, I can’t. I can’t help but be struck by the ridiculousness of this argument. The ridiculousness of us both.

‘I can’t believe you think this is funny, Molly,’ Ryan says coolly.

‘And I can’t believe you don’t,’ I reply. And with that, I ring off. It is the first time I have ever put the phone down on him. I feel as rebellious as I did when I cut my plaits off and dyed my hair red all those years ago.

Feels good, doesn’t it?

Yes,
I think.
It does.

And as I descend the stairs and head back into the dimly lit basement restaurant, I’m swept up in the tidal wave of my party who are coming up the stairs.

‘Mollleeeee!’ they cry. ‘We’re going to Soho House! Are you coming?’

I catch Seb’s eye and he winks lazily and folds his striped Paul Smith scarf around his neck and pulls the ends through the loop. And as I nod I vow that from now on, I, Molly Carter, am going to do whatever I damn well please.

Three hours later, after more drinking, laughter, piss-taking and determined flirting with Seb, who has been a willing reciprocator of my attentions, I feel that not only do I deserve this fun, but I want, no, I
need
more.

Finally, you listen to me!

My 15-year-old self was right all along. Relationships clip your wings, tie you down, make you old before your time. Just like my parents. Why not live a little? I’m young, relatively attractive and I now realize that I’ve basically been living like a Stepford wife.

So do something about it! No one would blame you – you deserve this! You deserve some uncomplicated fun!

The alcohol I have consumed has succeeded in casting dark shadows over my relationship and yet it has bathed me in goddesslike light. Right now I feel like the sexiest, most beautiful girl in the world. And trust me, unless I’m with Ryan, that’s not a familiar feeling for me.

No saying his name, no thinking it, even! You’re a twenty-first-century woman who can do what she wants, when she wants and doesn’t have to answer to anyone but yourself! That’s feminism! That’s what the suffragettes fought for, remember?

Only when I am standing on Old Compton Street after coming out for some fresh air with Seb, do I take this thought process one step further. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t gone to sleep next to Ryan imagining this moment but never did I envisage I’d ever do anything. But now I can’t imagine holding back a second longer. Seb and I are talking, then he steps closer, leans in, and for a moment I know I have a choice, a split second of doing the right thing, or the fun thing.

I blink, smile, and then he cradles my head, pulls, and presses his lips that I have been thinking about for weeks against me and slips his tongue inside my mouth. And I respond with all the enthusiasm of a girl who hasn’t kissed a man’s lips other than her boyfriend’s for three years. I shut my eyes and my brain, and for a moment I become someone other than Molly Carter. For once I’m racy, sexy, spontaneous and rebellious, I’m Molly Ringwald in
The Breakfast Club
, I’m Demi Moore in
St Elmo’s Fire.
I press my body hungrily against Seb, wanting this kiss, this moment, to transport me to somewhere exciting, adventurous, somewhere different from the safe, stable life I have been trapped in for so long. I realize that kissing Seb like this is making me feel young for the first time in years.

FF>> 12/12/2004 3.12 a.m.>

It’s only once I have thrown myself drunkenly into a taxi alongside Seb, my limbs locked around his waist as he half carries me through his front door, only when I am half-naked and spread-eagled beneath him on his couch and the fug of alcohol and party-season adrenaline subsides, that I realize that unlike Ryan’s, Seb’s lips feel thin, ungenerous, not at all sexy. And the kiss now feels not fun and rebellious, but shameful, repulsive even.

I pull away, gagging slightly as I realize that Seb’s breath tastes bitter, of alcohol and stale cigar smoke. And then I’m hit with a wave of sorrow so great that I have to push Seb off me. Tell him to stop. That it’s a mistake.

‘I’m sorry, Seb, I don’t want this . . . I thought I did. I thought for a stupid, idiotic moment that I wanted something different and I do, but not like
this
. I don’t want to do this to my boyfriend. He doesn’t deserve it.’

Seb tries to pull me back to him but I push him away and I start crying, big racking, body-convulsing tears, and he is backing away. He’s looking at me like I’m mad, and I don’t blame him, because I sound mad, like a crazed woman who has no idea what she wants. Who has lost sight of anything that is of any importance to her. Which I have.

And then I stagger to my feet, put on my shoes, pull on my dress and my coat and I stumble through the front door of his flat, out into the street of a part of London I don’t know. Any care for my safety went the moment I betrayed my boyfriend.

‘Hey, Molly, let me call you a cab at least,’ Seb calls from the doorway. But just at that moment, like a divine intervention, a glowing amber light appears in the street. I throw my hand out and hop in, give the driver my address and then, as we pull away, I guiltily glance back for a second to see Seb shake his head and slam his front door shut. I lean my head back on the seat for a moment and close my eyes. But then the ZORB-like spinning begins and I open them again and start scrabbling around in my bag, looking for my phone. But I can’t find it. I think for one terrible, vomit-inducing moment that it’s lost, or I left it in the bar, that I’ll have to go back to Seb’s and I start sobbing.

‘Lost,’ I cry, and I know that I’m not talking about my phone any more.