The First Last Kiss (27 page)

I’m still crying and scrabbling through my bag and then, dizzy with relief, I find my phone and I fumble through the address book, my fingers stiff with cold, my heart frozen with regret. And I call the only person who can help me. The only person who will understand, who will listen without judging – my best friend in the world, Casey.

12.10 p.m.

I put the pasta maker in the box marked ‘Charity shop’ and glance around the kitchen. I’m still not a natural cook, probably never will be, but with the help of Ryan and some friends (Jamie, Delia, Nigella, Gordon) I’ve become passable. I won’t ever win
Masterchef
but I can potter around in here, making nice hearty casseroles and fresh pasta dishes to my heart’s content. Given that it has never been finished, it’s become the real heart of this home. For a while I didn’t have any photos up in here. They were all packed away under the stairs, partly because of the ongoing redecorating (a line of paint testers are still splodged on the wall but were never decided on), and partly because I didn’t need to look at them every day any more. But then they gradually crept back until a vast array lined the walls in an impressive framed montage. But this new wall of memories had one major difference: it was from the past eighteen months only. It was my way of looking to the future. A couple of the photographs still remain and I lift them down now and slip them out of their frames. I left them till last as I want to carry them in my purse, for safekeeping.

I glance at the one in my hand now: three women at a wedding, having the time of their lives. One is beaming particularly brightly, looking like a Greek goddess in a white gown. I think of Casey and wonder what she’s doing now. I wish she was here. But no point thinking like that now, I made a decision to do this on my own.

I pop the picture in my purse, and pick up the other grainy, black-and-white shot. I look at it carefully, trying to make out the image of the person in it, and then put it in my purse, too.

I sit down at the 1950s Formica kitchen table that’s full of my paperwork. I’ve spent so many moments in this room, looking through my photographs on my laptop, carefully selecting my favourites from editorial shoots or just for my own portfolio. I glance at the credit card bills lying on the top of the plastic folder. Meals out, drinks, nights in, hotels around the country, trips to art galleries, trips abroad; it is the credit card bill of a woman determined to make the most of her life while she still can. I think of how much I’ve packed into such a short space of time.

The landline starts ringing again and I hurriedly put the bill back and put the lid on the box. Why do I still act like I’m tidying my bedroom and my mum’s going to pop up at any moment and say, ‘How are you getting on?’ and find me faffing about. I’m nearly thirty-three, for God’s sake!

‘Hello?’ I answer.

‘Molly.’ Just the sound of his deep, reassuring drawl makes me instinctively touch my necklace, twirling it around my finger like the act might bring me closer to him. ‘I just wanted to call to see how you’re getting on? I feel so bad for leaving you, but you know how it is . . . ’

I sure do. I know there’ll always be someone who needs him more than I do. But I’m OK with it.

‘I’m fine! Really! Not much more to do now,’ I say brightly.

‘Listen, babe, I know how hard this must be for you.’

‘It’s fine,’ I laugh. ‘I’m used to it.’ I realize how that sounds. ‘Honestly,’ I add gently, ‘don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl.’ I pause. ‘How are things at the hospital?’

‘What time will the removal men be there?’ I notice how expertly he changes the subject back again.

‘They’re already here, they’re just finishing upstairs,’ I reply. ‘Like I said, it’s all under control.’ I want to tell him not to worry, that this is something I need to do on my own anyway. But I can’t bring myself to say it.

‘Thanks for ringing,’ I say instead.

‘Molly?’ he says softly.

‘Yep?’ I say hopefully.

‘See you later. I love you, OK?’

The Single Kiss

‘Molly Molly Quite Contrary’, that’s what my mum used to call me. I’d decide I wanted something and then as soon as I got it, instantly change my mind. Ballet lessons, aged five, turned to horse-riding lessons aged five years and two months, which turned to swimming and then back to ballet again. Then there were the pets. I wanted a rabbit, then a cat, then a dog (I got none of them as by then my parents were used to my flighty ways). My only constants were my camera and Casey. The only things I have ever stuck to.

And then there was Ryan. My perfect man, the love of my life. I wanted him, got him, then got a bit bored and threw it all away. I had to go all the way to the other side of the world to work out all I’d ever really wanted was waiting for me back home.

FF>> 24/04/05>

Our screams reverberate around Sydney airport, apparently even drowning out the Arrivals tannoy. People tut at us and strain their ears as Mia and I jump into each other’s arms and whirl each other around in a circle. I’m crying, Mia is not. She’s always been emotionally tough – even more so than me. It’s the posh girl in her. She once told me she’s only cried once since she was a child. And that’s when she went to boarding school at eleven. Since then, not a single tear. It was one of the many things I related to immediately; she didn’t need people, more importantly, she didn’t need me. But she wanted me as her friend anyway.

I’ve experienced an emotional switch since Ryan and I broke up and I saw him kissing that girl in the club. I can’t seem to
stop
crying these days. The slightest thing can set me off, an advert on the TV, a mushy romcom because it reminds me of Ryan, who’d merrily mop his eyes during our movie-marathon Saturdays. Now
I
sob every time I see people in love, whether it’s in the street, on TV, in a film, in a music video, and I cried when Brad and Jen announced their separation. I cry when I walk past a happy family sitting in a restaurant, I cry at happy-ever-afters and tragic endings. I cry at cute dogs and I cry at crying babies. Sometimes I wonder if he has experienced this emotional transplant too. Perhaps he has become a hard, cynical man who doesn’t believe in happily ever after and in finding the one, because they’ll only go and cheat on you, like I did with him. This thought tears me into two; one side of me can’t bear the idea that I might have done that to him, but the other secretly hopes this is the case. At least that means he won’t have fallen in love again easily. As much as I’ve been trying to get on with life for the past few months, my biggest fear has been hearing that Ryan is seeing someone else. After seeing
that kiss
, I know it’s only a matter of time.

‘Molly Carter, are you CRYING?’ Mia says in astonishment. I can’t believe how different she looks – still beautifully polished, but so much more laid-back and happy.

‘No, yes, no, shit, it’s just been a long flight. I’m overtired,’ I say, swiping my hand across my eyes in embarrassment and pulling down my sunglasses over them. I do a little involuntary hiccup and stifle a sob as I look around the airport and see all the
Love, Actually
moments as all the happy travellers embrace their friends and loved ones, and I snort unattractively as the tears flow again. This does not go down well with Mia.

‘You’ve been hanging around Casey too long. Looks like you got here just in time.’ She picks up my suitcase and frogmarches me over to the exit. She’s never seen this Molly before, who cries at the drop of a hat and who had to move in with Casey in Southend of all places because she couldn’t be on her own. I was meant to stay in our flat, but in the end Ryan agreed to because I just couldn’t bear the thought of being there without him. But being in Southend, so close to our hometown, a place that IS Ryan, is unbearably hard, too. I know he’s there every weekend. And being a small town there have been various rumours, you know, girls he’s dated, girls who want to date him, but nothing serious, so far. But I hear everything. It is torturous but I don’t want it to stop. At least while I am hearing about him, he is part of my life. To hear nothing would also be unbearable. I can’t win. I even wrote a list on my laptop to work out what I should do and everything pointed to here.

My Pull-Myself-Together Plan

1. Do something drastic (Cut hair? Lose weight? Gain weight? Change jobs? Change countries? Think Life List e.g. New York/Oz)

2. Surround self with good friends who won’t let me feel sorry for myself (Casey? Girls from work? Mia)

3. Get as far away from Ryan as possible (Oz?) Preferably get some sun (Oz)

I’d paused before writing the final entry and then I’d typed it in caps and underlined it.

4.
BUY TICKET TO OZ

‘Hey,’ Mia says, shaking me brusquely. ‘Come on now, Molly! Pull yourself together!’ She sounds like my mum. It is weirdly comforting. ‘You’re in Australia now,
no one
cries here. There’s no need to because the sun is always shining. For the next three weeks you’re going to have fun! No moping! No worrying about work, you’re going to meet men in Manly, drink beer on Bondi Beach, and if I have anything to do with it – have sex in Sydney . . . ’

I must be wearing a horrified expression more plainly on my face than I realize because Mia puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no, that sounds really weird, doesn’t it? Obviously I don’t mean I’ll be
involved
, just that I’ll be encouraging you . . . not while you’re doing it or anything, like a sex cheerleader, oh no . . . ugh.’ I can’t help but laugh and Mia smiles. ‘That’s better, that’s what I want to see! Laughter! Happiness! You’re on holiday in Australia! At last! You can tick it off your Life list! Woohooo!’

I mirror her whoop, albeit less enthusiastically. We step outside the terminal into the blazing sunshine, despite this being, according to Mia, ‘average’ weather for winter.

‘Look,’ she gestures, the passion for her adopted home country apparent in her eyes – as is her pride and excitement in showing it to me. ‘You’re in Australia now, land of the free! And you
are
free, Molly, free and single! You
wait
till you see the men over here. They are seriously ripped . . . ’

‘Yeah, well,’ I say a little primly. ‘I’m not sure I’m here for that. I just want to hang out with you and—’

Mia interrupts me with a disapproving squeal. ‘Arggh, stop being so bloody
British
, Molly! You’re single, to be honest, I think a good fu-u-uc—’ she clocks my expression and changes the direction of her sentence to something less graphic, ‘fu-u-un is just what you need!’

She takes a sideways appraising glance at my appearance and makes it obvious that I fall short of her standards. I know I look a mess, especially after twenty-four hours on a plane.

And then there’s Mia. Her years living here have transformed her from an uptight, perfectly turned-out Brit to the epitome of glossy, laid-back Aussie glamour in her trademark white jeans and bright, surf-brand halterneck top – but this time she’s in Havaianas flip-flops instead of heels. Her hair is still long, perfectly blow-dried and caramel-blonde. Her nails are manicured to perfection, both on her hands and feet, but her face is relaxed and shining and she exudes absolute confidence, radiance, relaxation and happiness. Clearly life Down Under suits her.

In the same way that life as an unfaithful, single, emotional mess doesn’t suit me.

Mia grasps my arms and stares into my eyes, one expressive eyebrow raised in a combination of compassion and frustration.

‘You, Molly Carter, have to let yourself go.’

I nod. Harsh, but fair.

‘I know you’ve had a tough few months, but it’s time for you to pick yourself up and start again. I want this trip to bring back the old Molly, the Molly who embraces life and opportunities.’

She squeezes my hands tightly, and gets that determined expression in her eyes that I saw at uni, as she gives me a pep talk.

‘I’m going to make it my mission to send you back to the UK stronger, happier and more sure of yourself than you’ve ever been,’ she says determinedly. Then her face softens for a moment as she takes my hand. ‘I can’t bear to see you like this, Molly . . . it’s just not
you
.’

My bottom lip wobbles and I smile and brush my hand over my long, bedraggled hair which I’ve pulled back off my face with little plaits. I should take a picture for Mum, she’d love it.

‘That’s the problem, Mia,’ I say sadly, ‘I just don’t know who I am without him.’

Mia purses her lips and grips me tightly.

‘You are a strong, talented, passionate, beautiful, independent woman Molly.

You have so much going for you, so much to offer. You have the world at your feet, a whole host of possibilities. You have no ties – do you know how amazing that is? To be twenty-five and to be able to do anything you want! Stop wallowing in the past and focus on the future. Because there
is
a future without Ryan, I promise there is.’ Mia squeezes my hand, lifts the handle of my suitcase and leads me out into the burning sunshine that warms my skin, if not my spirit.

Two weeks later and I feel like I’ve been fully inaugurated into the Australia fan club. Mia’s loved showing me her life and I’ve loved seeing it. From her gorgeous flat in Manly, a cosmopolitan little suburb across the water from the bustling city, to the incredible sea view from her bedroom window, her friendly local bar that serves the best cocktails, to the lovely local deli she gets her breakfast smoothie from every morning. Then there’s the incredible, idyllic beach that is minutes from her front door and the scenic, sun-kissed boat trip she takes to work every morning.

‘It beats the tube, doesn’t it?’ she’d grinned as I sat, with my hair billowing around me, gazing across at the breathtaking Sydney Harbour Bridge, and over the water, the Opera House with its distinctive white sails making it appear to be bobbing over the Disney-blue water. And then the panoramic view of the city’s shimmering buildings stretched up in front of us like a mirage. It’s a sight I’ve dreamed of seeing for so long. And the relaxed, contented smiles on the commuters’ faces show that it’s something they’re grateful to see every single day.