The First Last Kiss (28 page)

‘It sure does,’ I’d replied. And I meant it. This city is everything I dreamed it would be. Breathtakingly beautiful, cosmopolitan and friendly, it has embraced me like an old friend, made me feel like I’m a part of it, even though I am a mere acquaintance – and turned me into a happier person than I was when I arrived. I’ve gone jogging on the beach every morning, I’ve taken scuba diving lessons whilst Mia was at work, I’ve bought fresh local produce from the farmers’ market and cooked in a way that I never thought I could, maybe because Ryan was always too busy doing it. I’ve spent hours in the city on my own, taking hundreds of photographs which I’ve sent to Christie and the girls at work. I’ve been to art and photography exhibitions on my own and Mia’s taken me to her favourite restaurants for lunch and to the cornucopia of cool bars she frequents. She even took a few days off so we could go on a boat trip round the Whitsundays. I’ve felt lighter than I have for months.

I love how free I feel over here. I don’t have a family to feel guilty about, Casey isn’t nagging me to go out, there are no work friends I have to make the effort with (or avoid, in Seb’s case). It’s the first time I’ve felt happy for years. And I remember why I liked it so much. It’s also the first place I’ve felt under no pressure to make other people happy.

Here, you are unencumbered by pressure. If someone asks you what you’ve been up to and your answer is ‘hanging out at the beach’ or ‘having a couple of schooners’, it’s OK. It’s alright to while away the afternoon in a bar, or at a market. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t seen the latest exhibition or visited your parents for three months. Here, there is no doctrine that says you should work for ten hours a day, every day. I haven’t written a to-do list since I got here. The no. 1 Aussie Life Rule seems to be if the weather is good then of
course
you should go surfing and hang everything else.

It’s a blissfully relaxing way to live and I can see why Mia loves it so much.

And having the time to take photos has made me realize how much I missed it. I know it’s the next thing I have to focus on in my Life List. After getting over Ryan.

And having distance from my family has made me miss them, too, I even phone my mum and dad as soon as I wake up to tell them so – which must be a first.

Mum’s making Dad’s favourite dinner of shepherd’s pie. ‘I only do it to get him out of that office of his,’ she says brusquely. ‘He’d spend all day there if he could, in his little world, surrounded by his comforts, his books and his art. But that’s OK,’ she adds benevolently, ‘if it makes him happy.’ It suddenly hits me that Leigh-on-Sea is Ryan’s Constable picture, the place he feels happiest and most inspired. I blink back a tear. At least my mum had let my dad keep his Constable painting. I took Ryan away from his and made him feel guilty whenever he tried to go back.

‘Mum, I just want to ask you something.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Are you happy with your lot? You know, with Dad, with me?’ I blurt out quickly.

‘Of course, I am.’ She laughs.

It’s not the answer I expect. I know I need to get more, to chip away at Mum’s façade, the one she puts on for everyone.

‘I mean, has your life been enough for you?’ I ask quietly, already knowing the answer. ‘Because it’s never felt like it has to me.’

I hear her draw breath, actually winded by my words. ‘Really? Well, I-I didn’t, I don’t mean to . . . ’

‘I’m asking you to be honest with me, Mum. Stop putting on an act. I can see through it. I always have.’

She immediately puts on her teacher voice. ‘Molly Carter, stop being ridiculous!’

‘Mum, I overheard you and Dad saying you’d stay together for my sake. I
heard
you,’ I say quietly. ‘I was about eleven or twelve . . . I was sitting on the stairs and you and Dad were arguing. Well, you were shouting at him, telling him you should split up, he was just taking it, like he always does . . . ’

‘Oh, that!’ Mum says. ‘That was just over some nonsense or another. We had a cuddle in bed that night and I apologized. Your dad knew I didn’t mean it and it was forgotten by the next morning.’

I stare at the receiver in my hand and shake my head. ‘But . . . but I thought . . . I thought . . . ’

‘Molly, your dad and I were never going to split up, not even in our worst moments and yes, there’ve been a few. Our struggle to conceive another child for one.’

I’m genuinely shocked and then saddened by this admission. I’d always presumed they didn’t want any more after me. How could I have been so self-absorbed?

‘Your dad and I fit. In our own awkward way, we fit. We’re not massively demonstrative like Jackie and Dave, or probably the most exciting parents in the world. I know I was rather strict and your father was too laid-back and yes, that caused tension. I was stressed with work and I took it out on your father when he didn’t appreciate that my job, my position, was equal to his. And that I was
also
having to do all the things that mums do: cook tea, make you eat it, take you to ballet and music classes, or horse-riding lessons, or whatever hobby had taken your fancy that particular month. I had to buy your clothes, sew name tags, wash your school uniform, makes costumes for school plays. He just had to work . . . and dream. And sometimes the dreaming bit was really frustrating for me. It’s why we agreed he’d go and do it in his office, where I couldn’t see him just sitting there, doing nothing, whilst I was so busy doing so much. But, as he pointed out to me, it was my choice to be that busy. I could have taken on less, been easier on myself . . . and on you. I know how much I’ve expected of everyone. And I know that made life hard. I just wanted the best for you.’

‘And do you think you got the best for yourself?’ I ask quietly. ‘You didn’t end up in your dream job, or with a rich man, or with your dream house. Or even your dream family.’ I add, thinking of the child they failed to conceive.

‘No,’ Mum admits. ‘But I ended up with the one thing that everyone wants above everything else . . . ’ She coughs. I know talking like this is hard for her.

‘What’s that, Mum?’

‘Love, Molly dear.’

I cover my mouth to subdue my sobs as she continues to speak.

‘Loving someone means having the confidence to know that you won’t be happy all the time, that they
can’t
make you happy all the time. It’s a totally unrealistic expectation. And sometimes, in a marriage or a long-term relationship . . . ’ she pauses, and I know she’s directing this part of the conversation at me, ‘well, you need to learn that. When your father’s fed up, off he goes to his office, or he drives up to London and goes to some exhibition. And when he comes back, he gives me a kiss and everything is OK. He knows I have a temper. It’s one of my downfalls. But he knows I don’t mean what I say half the time.’

I don’t say anything because suddenly so much makes sense.

‘No matter how frustrated I sometimes feel, I’ve always been very sure that I didn’t want anything else. And your father has always known that. I’m sorry I didn’t convey that to you.’

‘But how did you know that you didn’t want anything else?’ I ask, suddenly desperate to know that secret.

Mum is quiet for a moment. ‘Because Molly, your father has always made me far more happy than unhappy. I’m not a maths teacher dear, but I think that’s the best possible equation you can hope to get. Not very romantic, I know, but it’s the truth.’ She sniffs and I wonder if she’s crying too. ‘And anyone would be lucky to have had a percentage of the happiness I’ve had.’

I’m crying. I’m 10,000 miles away and suddenly all I want is a hug from her.

‘You miss him a lot, don’t you? Ryan, I mean,’ Mum says tentatively, each of her words like little baby steps towards me. We are not used to talking in this way with each other.

I snort, and wipe my nose. ‘What do I do?’ I sob.

‘You tell him, Molly, my dear. You just tell him.’

And so that morning, I put down the phone and I open up Mia’s laptop, and for the first time since I wore plaits and that stupid sailor dress, I do what my mum tells me to. I agonize over every word, every comma and phrase. I delete two paragraphs and start again. I try explaining why I did what I did. I try apologizing first, and then last. And then I ditch the entire document. Because I can’t put into words what I feel. And then it comes to me. I frantically search Mia’s desktop for the old photos we were looking over the other night and which, being the crazily organized freak she is, she has scanned and put into yearly and monthly files on her computer. Pictures from uni and from nights out, and her leaving party when she came to Australia. And then I open the folder marked July 2001 and I look through the pictures of that life-changing holiday to Ibiza, and I find the series of photos that she took of Ryan and I, on the beach, playing volleyball, his arms wrapped around me, both of us gazing at each other like we were castaway on some private island. Young, carefree and completely, unashamedly happy. I open an email, type in Ryan’s address then just write ‘Love’ in the subject heading and attach the pictures. I don’t write anything else. I just sign my name and put one, single kiss underneath. And then with one click, I send it.

12.51 p.m.

I open the cupboard under the stairs and curse as the mop and bucket fall on me.

‘Ouch!’ I yelp, rubbing my nose. I prop the mop against the door and peer inside at all the stuff I’d put in there five years ago and forgotten all about. Packing up this place has sometimes felt a bit like a Russian roulette version of a treasure hunt, with cherished and painful memories hidden all over the place. It’s actually going to be a relief when they’re finally gone.

I scrape my hair back into a stubby ponytail. I pull out a box and sit back on my haunches as I peer in at all the hundreds of ticket stubs, receipts, programmes, flyers and cards. I pick up one. It’s from Rossi’s and I smile: the date is 6th August 2001. Our very first date. Next I find the tickets to the Take That comeback gig at Wembley Arena in 2006. That was such a brilliant night. I’d never seen Ryan so happy. There are also handfuls of cinema ticket stubs. I pull out a ticket and feel my eyes prickle as I realize it’s for the last film we went to see together:
Knocked Up
. It was hilarious and sad and poignant and ironic all at once. I remember clutching Ryan’s hand, crying, but not knowing if it was with laughter or sadness. I put the stub back and shut the box. I don’t go through any more. I don’t need to. Instead I pull it out and write ‘Storage’ on it. Then I drag it into the hallway. It is pretty heavy and I have never been the strongest or fittest of people even in my youth, never mind now. So I heave and tug, gasping with exertion and feeling my precious necklace banging against me with every pull I make, like a prodding finger reminding me of its presence in my life. I clutch it and smile.

The ’Til Death Do Us Part Kiss

For a girl who never thought she believed in marriage, once I came around to the idea I wondered what the hell had held me back for so long. All this time I’d been afraid of the permanence of the institution, the finality, the absolution.

One person for the rest of your life.

Now I know that this isn’t always possible.

FF>> 22/04/06>

I’m woken by the dawn urgently prodding my eyelids and forcing them open, jolting me into immediate action as my body instinctively responds to what my mind hasn’t been able to forget all night. I’m getting married today. I sit up and clasp my hands to my chest and try to contain my squeal of excitement. I’m getting married today!

I glance down at my sleeping partner and am tempted to wake her, but Casey is lying so serenely beside me and looks so peaceful with one arm gracefully flung over her head, that I know I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I lean over to my bedside table and grab the pad which I left there last night.

My Wedding Day (MY WEDDING DAY!) List

Take photos of the sunrise

Have mani–pedi

Get married!

Have breakfast with Mum, Dad, etc.

Get married!

Put thank-you presents in Mum and Dad’s hotel room,

Lydia’s, Jackie’s etc.

Get married!

Give Ryan’s present to Carl

Get married!

Get make-up done

Get married!

Pick wild flowers for bouquet and for bridesmaids’ corsages and headbands

Get married!

Remember to take bridesmaids’ presents down to reception

Text Carl to check he has rings

PUT ON DRESS

Get married!!!

Get married!!!

Get married!!!

I glance at my watch. It’s not yet 6 a.m. but I slip out of bed and go over to the window. The silvery tip of the sun is bashfully peeking up behind the sea, casting everything else in silhouette, as if the rest of nature is bowing to its power. I desperately want to capture its big entrance properly in a photograph so that this day will always be mine, to have and to hold, forever.

I quickly whip off my pyjama shorts, leaving on my lace vest top I slept in, and I pull on the cropped, white Audrey Hepburn-style jeans I was wearing last night for the meal I had with my bridesmaids and my parents. I tie the scarf that I’ve pulled through the waistband and put my hair up, slip on my Converse (some things never change) grab my camera and creep out of the room. Casey stirs and turns over in bed; I hold my breath but she doesn’t open her eyes and I silently shut the door behind me and run down the corridor, long ponytail flying behind me, desperate to catch the moment before it goes.

As I step out of the hotel and onto the beach and lift my camera to my eyes, I find that with every flash my head is a Rolodex of memories flicking furiously through the years that have led Ryan and I back to this place where we had our first
real
kiss. Some I can find immediately, others are filed miscellaneously and require a more methodical search through my memory. Others I’ve purposely mislaid or put in dusty old boxes at the back of my mind because I don’t want any bad ones spoiling this perfect day. I’ve always been good at putting things into lists and boxes, never more so than now.