The First Last Kiss (38 page)

A small, grinning, bright-eyed woman is beaming up at me.

‘Nanny Door!’ I exclaim joyously, and I throw my arms around her before helping her over the front step. ‘What are you doing here? I was coming over to see you later. I wanted to have a last cup of tea at your place, for old times’ sake.’

‘Well, I thought
you
could make a brew for a change, doll!’ Nanny smiles cheekily, slipping off her fur coat and matching hat. Her bright blue eyes are undiminished even though her body is shrinking and her hearing not quite as good as it used to be. ‘Besides, I had something I wanted to bring you.’

I frown at her. ‘Not another gift, Nanny, you’ve already given me something. I’m really looking forward to watching
Big Brother: The best bits
DVD on my laptop on the plane.’

‘Ooh yeah, you’ll have a right giggle at that,’ she says, shuffling into the kitchen. I follow her and pop the kettle on as she sits at the Formica table.

‘Oof, legs are bloody useless these days,’ she says, rubbing her calf muscles.

‘Well, if you will insist on wearing killer heels, Nanny,’ I smile, glancing at her pink court shoes. ‘Tamara Mellon has got nothing on you.’

‘Tamara’s Mellons?’

‘No, Nanny,’ I laugh. ‘Tamara Mellon. She’s like the brand ambassador for Jimmy Choo.’

‘Jimmy Who?’

‘Never mind!’ I busy myself making the tea.

‘Anyway, doll, as I was saying, I wanted to give you something. Lydia told me what you did earlier . . . ’

I swing around quickly, suddenly horrified that I may have upset or offended her. ‘Oh, Nanny Door, I hope you didn’t mind too much? You know how precious that ring is to me, but giving it to Lydia felt like, well it felt the right thing to do.’ I sit down next to her, putting the two cups of tea in front of us. I have lost count of how many I’ve drunk today.

She pats my hand, her eyes watering slightly. ‘Molly, I understand, ’course I do. But I also know how hard that must have been for you. That’s why I wanted to give this to you instead.’ She pulls out a blue velvet box and slides it over the table towards me.

‘What is it?’

‘Open it and find out,’ she smiles.

I open the box slowly. Inside is a silver St Christopher, slightly tarnished with age but otherwise in perfect condition. I look up at her quizzically, tears prickling my eyes already.

‘It was given to me by my grandmother when I was a very little girl,’ Nanny says. ‘St Christopher is the patron saint of travel . . . ’ She pauses and grips my hand. ‘I know you already have someone looking after you, well, two people actually . . . lucky girl.’ I smile and swipe away a tear. ‘But I wanted you to know that I’ll always be thinking of you, OK, swee’dheart?’ I nod, unable to speak. ‘Now,’ she continues, ‘I’m an old bird so I have to think about these things rationally. I may not see you again in my lifetime, Molly dear. But if you keep this close by you’ll know that I’ll always be looking down on you, too.’

I can’t speak so I throw my arms around her and sob. After everything that happened I struggled to maintain my relationship with most of his direct family. It was just too hard. Nanny Door was the one I couldn’t bear to let go of. Our relationship is even stronger now, five years later, than it was then and this goodbye is the one I’ve really been dreading.

We’re interrupted by Bob who pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘We need to do in here next, luv, then we’re all done, awight?’

Nanny Door pulls a raggedy tissue out of her bag and dabs my eyes and smiles at me reassuringly.

‘Yes, of course, guys!’ I say. ‘Don’t mind us!’

I look at Nanny Door, who is pulling herself to her feet. I stand up too and she slips her arm around me and squeezes me as we walk towards the front door. She pulls on her coat and looks up at me. ‘Now, no more tears. We’ve had more than enough of those for one lifetime.’ She smiles brightly and puts her hand on my cheek. ‘You deserve endless happiness, dear Molly.’ And with that, she shuffles out the door.

The After The Honeymoon Kiss

It was only after Ryan left that I realized how much of my life was inextricably linked to him. I’m not just talking about the pictures and possessions in our home, you know, the CD and DVD collections, but places too. Our local pub, The Crooked Billet and our favourite Thai restaurant on The Broadway all had signs that said ‘us’ when now it was only ‘me’. Then there was ‘our bench’ on The Green where we’d shared many a kiss, Rossi’s in Southend where we’d had our first date. Even Hadleigh Castle, the place that had soothed my troubled self as a teen, was no longer an option to comfort my broken heart. Then there were the friends we shared who no longer knew how to be a friend to just one of us. Our families. For a long time I clung to everything and everyone I possibly could – no matter how uncomfortable it made me or them. I’d cradle a glass of wine for hours at ‘our table’ in the pub ignoring the pitying glances thrown my way. When I wasn’t round their house I’d phone Ryan’s mum and wail about how much I still loved him, angrily thrashing out at her because he’d left me. I clung on to it all because I was so scared of what would be left if I let go. But gradually, with time, it became easier to pack away everything to do with Ryan in boxes marked ‘the past’. And in the end there were only two things I couldn’t let go of. Nanny Door and ‘our film’. I know one day I’ll have to say goodbye to them both. Just not yet. I’m not ready yet.

FF>> 11/10/06>

‘
Viva
magazine,’ I answer the phone robotically, zoning out as the PR on the other end of the line begins to talk. It’s fair to say that I haven’t been as . . .
focused
on my job since Ryan and I returned from our incredible honeymoon. I gaze at the photo that’s taken pride of place on my desk since we came back six months ago. It’s of Ryan and me lying on the Franz Josef glacier on New Zealand’s South Island. We’re wrapped up like Michelin men in our snow clothes, pink cheeks pressed against each other, our eyes glistening like the ancient ice formation we are lying on, having just explored the spectacular caves and pinnacles of the icefall terrain.

We expected that with all his climbing experience and general athletic tendencies, Ryan would show me up, but in fact he’d spent half the time on his arse. He was tired after all the skiing he’d done in Queenstown whilst I was lazing about in the spa, but it didn’t stop me ribbing him. ‘Is it possible to get a marriage refund?’ I’d laughed, after he’d slid over in front of me for the seventh time. ‘I thought I was marrying a young, fit, sporty man, not this uncoordinated shambles in front of me!’

‘It’s because I’m still hung-over after all that wine tasting you made me do the other day!’ Ryan had spluttered, using my legs to pull himself up again on his snow spikes. ‘I’m not used to it . . . ’

‘Excuses, excuses,’ I’d said as I’d gone to help him up, but he’d pulled me down instead and we’d lain there, with our arms round each other laughing while I took one of our favourite holdy-out pictures.

Our honeymoon was the perfect balance of us both. It had all the exhilaration that Ryan required; we’d scaled glaciers, flown in helicopters and kayaked across lakes. We’d been on adrenaline-bursting hikes and seen spectacular lakes and national parks surrounded by vistas almost too beautiful to contemplate. We did a skydive in Wanaka, something that had never been on my Life List but Ryan told me it was no scarier than falling in love, you just had to surrender your trust to someone else and to the elements. He was right. I’m so glad I did it. He makes me do things I never dreamed I would.

But we’d also snuggled up in cosy, snow lodges where I could indulge myself in the spa, gone on wine-tasting trips where Ryan discovered that, actually, he did like wine after all (but only white) and whale-watched and stargazed to our hearts’ content. We spent four blissful weeks travelling around the North and South Island together in a 4X4, sharing the driving and control of the iPod, his fingers tapping on the wheel as he played his current favourite pop tunes by Maroon 5 and Keane. Then I’d take the wheel, cruising through the beautiful landscape whilst listening to my favourite tunes; ‘Wrist-slitters’ Ryan calls them.

It had been wonderful, exhausting, but wonderful. Now it’s back to reality. Both of us are working hard and it’s taking its toll, especially on Ryan. For the last few months he’s got up late and dragged his feet on his way out the door in the mornings – he can’t even face going to the gym. He’s put on weight around his stomach. We jokingly call it his ‘marriage spread’.

‘It’s because you’re so happy,’ I tell him to cheer him up. ‘And I love it – there’s more for me to get my hands on!’

Last night he’d come in from school late and tired. He’d thrown his sports bag on the sofa and then himself, and hadn’t even smiled when I told him I’d made pasta. Not that I could blame him. My version of ‘made’ wasn’t the plate of fresh ravioli stuffed with split broad beans, mozzarella and hint of lemon that would have been lovingly prepared by Ryan. No, this was overcooked fusilli with a can of tuna and a jar of Dolmio. It was disgusting and even I’d chosen to focus on finishing my large glass of Sauvignon, rather than eat it. Ryan had left most of his too. He’d sighed and put his tray of uneaten food on the floor.

‘Hey, something wrong with the room service, Cooper?’ I’d said jokingly. ‘Or are you just trying to lose weight?’

He’d glanced at me and smiled, but it was like someone had dimmed his 40-watt.

‘Nah,’ he’d sighed. ‘Just another tough day at work.’

I’d rubbed his shoulders. ‘Hey, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself, Ry. You need to just switch off sometimes. I mean, most of these kids need better parents, not better football skills. There’s only so much you can do.’

He flinches slightly, as if my words
and
touch are painful. He really is tense.

‘You know I don’t just teach them football, I’m trying to prepare them for life, make them see that there’s more out there than they give themselves credit for. It’s because they have such shit backgrounds that I can’t switch off. I have to stop them from getting in trouble, inspire them to keep focused on their exams as much as their sport, but all the time I’m trying to balance fucking Ofsted reports and shitloads of paperwork that stop me from doing the bit about my job I really love.’ He exhales slowly and closes his eyes as I continue to massage him. ‘Then there’s the inter-schools football league. The Year Nines and Tens need to get a load of extra practices in if we have a chance of making it through to the finals. They’ve never even made it through preliminary rounds before so I’m determined for them to see how far they can go.’

‘Just be careful, Ry,’ I say, finishing up the massage. ‘I don’t want you making yourself ill.’

‘Hey, babe,’ Ryan smiled weakly and squeezed my hand. ‘I’m the fittest guy you know . . . ’ Then he’d picked up the remote control, flicking through the channels as quickly as ever as he heaved more coursework onto his lap. Even when he’s relaxed he’s still moving.

I touched him on the arm gently. ‘Ryan, please. I can see you’re knackered. Just stop, have a rest for a minute.’ I sat back next to him and stroked his hair. He’d flinched and then relaxed, a smile fanning briefly over his face.

‘Sorry, Moll, you’re right,’ and he’d put the papers on the floor and snuggled up for a cuddle, resting his head on my lap. Five minutes later he was snoring peacefully, leaving me to watch
Holby City
alone.

I sit up as an email pops up from Christie asking me to come into her office. I extricate myself from the conversation with the PR mid-pitch and stand up, realizing that I haven’t thought of any cover lines yet and Christie probably wants to brainstorm with me before the official meeting in an hour. It’s the bit I most dislike about my Associate Editor position. When I was Picture Director, I knew it was something I was really good at. Now it’s all budgets, staffing problems, advertising meetings. With this promotion I’ve taken another step further away from photography. I mentally flick through the April features and the fashion and beauty sections as I walk towards her office, trying to come up with original ideas. A Spring Fling for main fashion? Rubbish. What about beauty . . . let’s see, ‘Take the passé out of pastel’? Argh.

I walk dejectedly, trying to pick up my feet and my enthusiasm for my job.

‘Hi Molly,’ Christie smiles and puts down her pen as soon as I walk into her office. I love how she does this, always giving you her full attention no matter what other urgent things she has going on. ‘How are things? Are you happy with everything?’ she presses.

‘Errr . . . yes?’ I lie, not sure what else I’m meant to say. I may have talked about jacking it in to Ry, but I don’t actually want to be given the boot. I’m starting to panic now. Maybe I have misread the situation. My enthusiasm in my work has slipped recently, maybe she’s noticed.

‘Hmm.’ She taps her pen on her desk and picks up her Pret coffee. ‘I’ve just been getting the sense that your new role isn’t quite as good a fit as we’d hoped.’

‘Well . . . ’ I start fiddling with my fingers awkwardly, wondering how I can retrieve this. ‘I admit there are bits I find challenging and . . . ’

‘ . . . boring?’ Christie offers. She doesn’t look annoyed, just interested. I decide to be honest.

I pull a face like a teenager being asked a difficult question in maths class. ‘Not boring Christie, just not in my comfort zone.’

She nods. ‘I thought so. That’s why I’ve had an idea. She turns to face me. ‘I’d like you to do a blog, a photographic blog,’ she clarifies. ‘I know you love photography, Molly, and I’ve seen some of your shots. You’re stylish, creative and you know
Viva
’s readers better than most. I want people to want to look at your blog to find an interesting or thought-provoking or funny moment beautifully captured. There doesn’t have to be any words – perhaps just a caption.’ She is thinking on her feet now, waving her hands around like she does in meetings when ideas come to her. ‘Or perhaps some might need more? I’ll leave it up to you. But what do you think?’