The First Last Kiss (30 page)

I smile and hold out my hand to her, wanting her to know that so does she. Tears spring into my eyes as I think about just how far both of us have come to get here, and how long it has taken for us to learn to be comfortable in our skins.

I glance back at the mirror and she comes and slips her hand into mine as we both stand in front of it. I turn to Casey and grasp both her hands and lift them out wide; she looks at her feet in embarrassment. It’s the first time I have seen her in the dress I chose for her and I feel a secret jolt of joy that I’ve done so well. I found it shortly after I came back from New York as a newly engaged woman. Before I knew if she would even be at the wedding, let alone be my maid of honour.

‘You look incredible, Case,’ I say through my tears. The bright burst of orange is perfect against her dark skin and tawny eyes. Her dark hair – natural once again – is swept up into a messy chignon, with tendrils coming down, and the coral cascade of chiffon that falls in a waterfall from spaghetti straps around the neck, to her thighs, makes her look demure yet beautiful in a way she always said she never could. Especially after what happened that night. I can picture her now, as I could when I bought it, walking barefoot across the sand, blazing a fiery trail like a Monarch butterfly. She still looks like my Casey. But a grown-up version of Casey.

I realize that I couldn’t have got married without her. It just wouldn’t have felt right. All my dreams, all my aspirations for the future are as linked to her as they are to Ryan. She’s been there through it all. And been through more than I’ll ever know. We’re both still gazing in the mirror at ourselves when Lyd steps forward. I know she’s sensed that we need a moment alone.

‘I’m off to put on my dress. Although I’m never going to pull off orange like you’ve done, Case!’ And she kisses us both and then slips out of the room.

We stand in hushed silence for a moment, just inspecting ourselves in the mirror. I feel like we’re seeing two reflections. In one we are our teenage selves, complete with Casey’s little hair clips and her pink plastic rucksack, me gazing through my badly cut and dyed fringe, stabbing my DM-clad toe into the ground sullenly. And then there’s the one of us now: all grown-up, happy, beautiful, holding hands – BFFs forever, just like we promised.

‘You’re getting
married,
’ Casey whispers, and I squeeze her hand.

‘I know, weird, huh?’

‘Not weird,’ she says, wiping away a tear. ‘It’s right. It was always meant to be you. I mean, come on, we both knew it was never gonna be me first.’

‘I reckon you’re just seeing how I
do
so you can better it!’ I nudge her and she nods.

‘There’ll be way more bling for a start,
way
more,’ she laughs.

‘Hey, I got bling!’ I say with a smile, turning around so Casey can see the back of my dress where there’s a wishbone-shaped strap of dazzling Swarovski from my shoulders down to the V of the dress on my lower back. Something I knew that Ryan – and his mum – would like. ‘You can take the girl outta Essex . . . ’ I giggle.

‘It’s perfect, Moll,’ Case says, tears streaming down her face. ‘You’re the most beautiful bride that has ever been.’

I lean across and pick up something from the dressing table. I smile and mime pulling my shoulders back and lifting my chin, and Casey mirrors my movements. Her eyes are glassy with tears as I gently pull a fallen piece of hair back from her face and pin it up with a beautiful orange butterfly clip so that it looks like it’s hovering in her hair.

‘Repeat after me,’ I say softly. ‘I am beautiful . . . ’

‘I am . . . ’ she trails off.

‘Beautiful,’ I prompt firmly.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispers.

‘And like this butterfly,’ I continue, ‘I am free.’ The words suddenly stick in my throat as a tear falls from her eyes as she repeats the first part of the sentence. ‘Free to love and
be
loved,’ I finish, stroking her hair as I let my hand drop to hers. She doesn’t say anything, she just looks down and I squeeze both her hands. ‘And you
will
be loved, Casey, I promise you will be. And not just by me and Ryan, either.’

She nods and then looks at me, as if for the first time.

‘Oh, Moll,’ she says, ‘you’re getting married!’ And we both burst into tears.

‘No!!!!’
cries Lydia, rushing into the room in her short, orange satin number. ‘You’ll ruin the make-up! Quick!’ And she starts dabbing at my eyes furiously as Casey and I wave our hands at our faces to try and stop the tears coming and, giggling, we run to the bathroom to make sure there are no streaks down our faces.

As we stand in front of the mirror, still laughing, the years fall away again and it is just me and Casey, two awkward teenagers who needed each other more than anyone else in the world.

‘Are you ready?’ Mia says, squeezing my hands as we prepare to step onto the beach and make the long walk towards the bay where Ryan is waiting with Carl. I look at the three girls, standing there in their beautiful dresses and I smile excitedly.

‘How about you, Mr Carter?’ Casey asks, and he splutters a little, unused to being asked or having the chance to answer without my mum there.

‘Ah, well, yes, I am, certainly, although, I wonder, is there a lavatory around here somewhere?’

‘Dad!’ I groan, slipping my hand through his arm. ‘You should’ve gone before.’

‘Ah well, yes, that is true, certainly. It must be the nerves. Or, ahh, the age . . . ’

‘Just take a deep breath, you’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘Shouldn’t I be the one giving you advice?’ he says. ‘In fact I did prepare something . . . ’ He fumbles around in his pocket, takes off his half-moon glasses, mops his brow and puts them back on. ‘I know you’re not, ahhh, a
traditional
girl but, ahh, this is an incumbent part of my father-of-the-bride role and so I do feel that I, um, ought to say a few words . . . ’ He is still fumbling in his pocket.

‘You don’t have to, Dad,’ I say gently.

‘Yes, but I
want
to. I want to give you some marriage advice. Although, I have, um, purloined this from someone who could put it far more eloquently than I.’

I look at my dad and feel a jolt of love, for my serious, introspective, socially averse father who has frustrated me for years, but who is more like me than I ever have been prepared to admit. And I’m willing him on now, hoping that he will find the right words, the words that will make sense of our relationship, his marriage, this moment. It is a lot to expect.

‘Darn it,’ Dad says, pulling various bits and bobs out of his pocket. ‘I’ve lost it. Oh, well, I think I can recall . . . yes . . . I can.’ He turns to me and his speckled eyes glisten. ‘I-I have taken the liberty of changing the personal pronoun from me to you.’ He clears his throat and begins to recite.

‘Let you but live your life from year to year,

With forward face and unreluctant soul;

Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;

Not mourning for the things that disappear

In the dim past, nor holding back in fear

From what the future veils; but with a whole

And happy heart, that pays its toll

To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down,

O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:

Still seeking what you sought when but a bo . . . ’

(He stumbles slightly.)

‘Ahh, I mean, when but a
girl,

New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,

Your heart will keep the courage of the quest,

And hope the road’s last turn will be the best.’

I kiss my father on the cheek, grip his hand, and clutching it tightly we begin to walk towards my husband, my future, murmuring my wise old dad’s refrain for marriage, for life, for happiness under our breath. ‘O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy . . . ’

We walk past my mum, who smiles at me. Then I pass a sobbing Jackie and a beaming Dave. There’s Freya and Lisa, Jo who has flown from Oz to be here, and even Christie, who has come with her husband. There are a handful of uni friends, and of course, Jake, Gaz, Alex and some of Ryan’s colleagues from Thorpe Hall and his Hackney school. But I barely register any of them because all I can see is Ryan. He looks as gorgeous as ever in his sea-blue suit and white shirt, bright orange flower in his lapel.

I get to Ry’s side and he looks down at me with a grin on his face. ‘You made it then,’ he murmurs.

‘Did you really think I wouldn’t?’ I ask, my heart soaring up to the sky.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’d be lying if I said no, but that’s only because I’ve been here since our very first kiss.’

‘Second,’ I remind him, curving my lips into a wry smile and glancing around at the shore where we kissed for the second – and the best time.

‘First,’ he grins. ‘I knew from the start. It just took you a bit longer to catch up,
Harry
. . . ’

I shake my head and slip my hand into his as we turn and face the minister.

‘I’m not Harry,’ I say. ‘There’s no more Harry. Just Molly. Molly Cooper. Now, shall we do this?’

Snap!

We kiss again, for another camera, another photo, another piece of video shot by a guest. So many photographs, so many moments captured: the sand, warm between my toes, dress billowing behind me, Ryan’s arms around mine, the sun beating down on our backs as it starts to sink behind us, a glass of champagne thrust into our hands. People come up to us to chat, congratulate, kiss, hug. Casey, Mia, Jackie, Carl, Lydia, my dad, our wonderful friends and family. Even my mum comes and takes us both by the hands. Then she turns to Ryan and smiles benevolently at him.

‘How funny it is to think that I’m your very own MILF now, Ryan dear!’ Mum says proudly and pats his hand.

He stares at her, and then me, unable to hide his horror. I can’t stop the impending snort of laughter I feel coming on. I drag him away from a bemused Mum, telling her I’ll explain later, and telling him that I’m saving him from my mum’s amorous advances. And then we run, hand in hand, me trying not to spill champagne over my dress, on our way to the hotel, where fairylights hang from the trees, a canopy of stars above us in the glow of the Ibizan sunset. An intimate dinner for forty, a relaxed tapas meal, our friends, our family, each other. It is everything I’ve ever wanted.

‘Do you feel different?’ I ask as we sit, later that night, on the beach, a bottle of champagne between us. It is 4 a.m. We have danced and kissed and laughed and kissed and danced and kissed some more. Some of our guests have gone to bed, others have gone on to a club. We went to bed – and then got up again – not wanting our day to end. We have decided to come here to watch the sunrise on the first day of our marriage. I am drunk and deliriously happy. Drunk on love.

I prod him. ‘Not listening already, huh? It didn’t take you long to settle into married life!’ I laugh. ‘I
said
, do you feel different?’

‘Yeah, it’s weird,’ Ryan says, tilting his head thoughtfully. I watch his lips moving slowly as he speaks, then he rubs his ankle. ‘It feels like I’ve got this massive weight, right here,’ and he clutches it and groans, miming as if it is an unbelievably heavy ball and chain.

‘Hey!’ I smack him on the arm and then clamber up on him, enjoying the feeling of the cool sand between my toes and the heat of him. ‘I’ll show you what a heavy weight feels like,’ I giggle, as I straddle his chest and pin down his arms.

‘Oh, please do, Mrs Cooper,’ he moans, ‘please, please do . . . ’ And then he pulls me over in the sand until he is on top of me.

He gazes down. ‘Molly Cooper,’ he says softly, smiling as he releases the unfamiliar coupling from his lips. ‘This feels different because it feels like . . . forever . . . ’ He pauses, waiting for my affirmation. ‘You know?’

‘I know,’ I smile as I stroke his forehead. ‘I know.’

1.10 p.m.

‘Hey, Miss? Miss? Where d’ya want this then?’

I glance up at the blotchy, overworked face of Bob, who is blithely coming down the stairs with what appears to be my dressing table on his back, whilst his younger apprentice is carrying a single box as if it is the heaviest thing in the world. I hear my mobile ringing in the kitchen and am tempted to go and answer it, but whoever it is will have to wait.

‘Are you OK, Bob?’ I say, rushing over to his aid, but he waves me away.

‘I’m fine, gal, used to lifting bigger than this. Just tell me where to put it, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, in the van. It’s going to storage.’

‘Don’t need a fancy dressing table any more, eh luv?’ he winks.

‘I’m a woman, I’ll always need a dressing table like that,’ I laugh. ‘I just can’t take it where I’m going!’

He staggers out of the front door and minutes later he’s back. ‘Well, luv, that’s the last of it from upstairs – what next?’

I glance at my watch and then at his red face and my stomach, which is growling with hunger. ‘Lunch!’ I answer, and his face brightens even more – but this time with relief.

‘That’s music to my ears, luv,’ he grins. ‘I’m gonna have a sit-down in the van and read the paper.’