The First Last Kiss (6 page)

‘Molly?’ He grasps me and I fall into him.

I want more than anything for Ryan to hold me and for me to tell him, yes, I’ll go to New York with him, yes our life will be different, our relationship will be better, that nothing has changed.

I want to tell him that now I’m faced with losing him, I can see how much I had all along. That it’s all I could ever want and I should’ve realized that a long time ago. I want to tell him what a selfish, materialistic, shallow person I’ve turned into, how he’s a better man than I deserve, how in three years he’s taught me to be so much better than I ever thought I could be. But still, it isn’t good enough. I’m not good enough. I want to tell him that I don’t need New York, or anything else. That doing what I did made me realize that I just want him forever. I want our cosy flat with the crazy Christmas decorations. I want his stuff strewn all over the place. I want to pick up his socks – even his horrible white ones – every day for the rest of my life. I want to be the perfect girlfriend, the girlfriend I’ve never been and that he deserves. I want to do all of that. Starting right now. I want to give him my list of reasons why our relationship isn’t perfect and then my list of why it’s worth fighting for. But instead, my conversation with Casey comes into my head and I tell him this:

‘I cheated on you Ryan, I cheated on you and I’m sorry.’ And then I cry and I kiss his face all over as I whisper the words that I hope will heal the hurt I’ve just inflicted. It was only a kiss, I didn’t do any more, I’m sorry . . . ’ At this he pushes me away and staggers blindly back into the Christmas tree and brings the whole thing crashing down so that the baubles, the tinsel, Rudolph, everything lies cracked and broken between us. I look around in shock and realize that only the flamingo is still standing. That fucking flamingo.

‘I’m going for a run,’ Ryan says. And then he’s gone, the door slams shut behind him before I’ve had time to blink.

I phone the person I want to speak to more than anyone – and when Casey doesn’t answer I call my mum. I know that she’ll make me feel worse than I already do, which, in a sick kind of way, is exactly what I want.

‘Hello, Carter reside— Is that you, Molly dear? Are you all right?’ she says as I immediately start sobbing.

‘No, no I’m not. Ryan and I are over.’ And I burst into a fresh set of tears.

‘What happened?’ she asks briskly. ‘Was it something he did?’

‘It’s not him. It was never him. Just another fuck-up of mine. To add to the many others . . . ’

‘Oh, Molly, what . . . ’

‘ . . . will people think?’ I bristle as I finish her much-used saying. ‘Funnily enough, Mum, right now I don’t really care.’

‘Molly, that’s not what I was going to . . . ’

But I hang up before she finishes.

What felt like hours later, Ryan came back and locked himself in our bedroom and I did what any British person would do in this situation: I made two cups of tea and I sat staring at the wall, waiting for him to emerge. It took two hours. And when he did he looked different, not like the Ryan I know, but the one I used to see from afar when I was a mixed-up teenager and he was the guy that everyone wanted to hang out with. Cool, relaxed, laid-back, totally unapproachable for a girl like me. He’d retreated. He’d changed out of the hoodie I bought him and I knew then that it was over. He sat down at the opposite end of the room – as far away from me as he could physically get – and threw questions at me like darts.

‘Who?’

‘When?’

‘Why?’

‘How?’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Did you have sex with him?’

‘Did you want to have sex with him?’

And crying, I answered him.

‘Just a guy from work.’

‘Last night.’

‘I don’t know, because I was drunk . . . no . . . because I was curious. I don’t know, Ry, I wish I did . . . maybe I just wanted to try something different . . . I was wrong. I don’t want anything different, I just want you.’

‘How? What do you mean? On the lips . . . oh, it just happened, I don’t know how. One minute we were talking, the next . . . ’

‘Yes. No! No, I didn’t enjoy it! As much as I thought I wanted it to happen, it felt wrong. How many times? Just once. Just. Once.’

‘No! No, I didn’t have sex with him – what do you take me for?’

I couldn’t answer the final question. Not truthfully anyway.

Then he’d flopped back, exhausted from the interrogation he’d just administered. His face was blank. It occurred to me that I once knew every pixel of this gorgeous face and now his expression was reduced to a faded polaroid. He didn’t look at me. Not once.

‘Ryan? Say something . . . please?’

I say it again now, to try and move this situation on. We’ve sat here for nearly two hours and we haven’t talked, not properly. I tried to go over to him, but he wouldn’t let me near him. For the first time it was him who couldn’t cope with the physical contact. I never realized how isolating it can make you feel. I come from a family that doesn’t ‘do’ hugging or general acts of demonstrativeness. I thought I was used to it. Apart from Casey, who for some reason was the exception to the rule, I’ve always bristled when girlfriends or colleagues try to link arms with me. And don’t get me started on the ‘media air kiss’. I find it hard to kiss the people I love, let alone people I barely know. When I met Ryan, it was difficult to get used to his family’s unrestrained affection. I’ve got better over the years, but it’s made me realize again the kind of girlfriend I am with my intimacy issues, my inability to naturally lavish affection like he does. But now I can see Ryan is ready to talk.

‘Look,’ he says, his eyes unfamiliarly steely. ‘I still don’t understand why you did what you did, Molly, but, well, you know, . . . maybe you’ve done us a favour. I suppose we haven’t been happy for a while.’ He drops his head, takes a deep breath and then looks up at me with a sad smile. ‘I guess we were just too young for all this.’ He sweeps his arm around our little flat, now our broken home.

‘Maybe you and I are just too different,’ I say slowly. ‘We’re not like your brother and Lydia. I mean, everyone saw them as a couple straight away. They got together at the same time and now they’re engaged and we’re . . . ’ I look up at him questioningly.

‘Carl said he knew they fitted instantly,’ he says, looking out the window. I glance out and notice it is snowing. The flakes are softly collecting on the windowpane, settling for just long enough on the glass before being swept away on the wind. Their frailty feels like an ominous sign. ‘I thought we did too.’ He looks up at me sadly. ‘But you need to explore the world, find whatever it is that makes you happy and I . . . ’ He stumbles, his breath catches in his throat. I get up and take his hand, feeling the need to say one last thing, to explain.

‘I wish we’d met five years later, Ry, I wish I . . . I wish I was different. I wish I’d been ready for this, for you. I’m scared that I’ll never have anything like this again, that I’ve thrown away the one big love of my life.’

And Ryan takes my head in his hands and he gently strokes my face, wiping away my tears as his are still falling.

‘I’ll always be here for you, Molly, always. I’ll love you forever, even if we’re not together.’

And then he pulls my face to his and our heads meet, like magnets pulled by a force stronger than we can resist. His forehead feels furnace-hot and I feel his breath warm my face, igniting my skin and forcing my lips to lift towards his, like a sunflower, and then he kisses me softly, but it’s different to the hundreds, the thousands that have gone before. Because it’s the kiss goodbye.

The Squandered Kiss

The sunlight claps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysse Shelley

How many kisses do we waste, brush away, throw away, and then, when they are no longer there, how many times do we wish that we could relive them all a hundredfold? That haunts me sometimes, when I am at my lowest, wondering what Ryan is thinking, what he’s doing. I remember when the thought of Ryan kissing someone else was the worst thing that could happen. Now I know that it’s not.

FF>> 31/12/04>

‘Come ON!’ Casey says, heaving me to my feet.

‘Noooo,’ I grasp at Casey’s Hello Kitty duvet desperately, like a baby for its blanky. Outside of work, it’s been my constant companion for the past two weeks. I’m sure my body is now imprinted on it like the Turin Shroud. They could reprint it as a design and market it ‘Hello Pity’.

‘I don’t care what you say, Moll, we’re going out tonight whether you like it or not! It’s New Year’s Eve! It’s been two weeks since you moved in here and when you’re not at work all you’ve done is mope around the place. You’re cramping my style. Look!’ She points up at the ceiling. ‘That glitter ball is reflecting your miserable face around the room and I can’t bear it a minute longer! It’s time we wave away the old year – and old men – and welcome in the new! Get your glad rags on, we’re going
now
!’

I feebly allow her to drag me into her bedroom, feeling like it’s the least I can do for what I’ve put her through these past couple of weeks. When Casey offered me her sofa to sleep on I jumped at the chance. I wanted to get away from London, from the girl that the city had turned me into. We’d agreed that Ryan would stay in our flat until we sold it because he has to get in to work earlier than me, and often has to stay late to run various after-school sports clubs, but I also knew he’d be spending every weekend at his parents. And I needed to feel near him, even if I couldn’t be
with
him.

So I packed my bags and moved in here with Casey, at her new girlie pad. Which was weird in itself. She’s always been the one languishing on
my
sofa. I didn’t know how we’d handle the new dynamic in our relationship.

And Casey was so excited, she seemed to conveniently forget that I probably wouldn’t be sparkling company. Or necessarily deal well with meeting her one-night stands at 7 a.m. in the queue for the bathroom. And worse, on New Year’s Eve too (a.k.a the single most depressing night for singles after Valentine’s Day). At least on Valentine’s Day you’re not forced to stay until the bitter end. But Casey is the happiest I’ve seen her in ages, so I suppose at least something good is coming out of it.

She seems to have used this as a chance to turn back time and is revelling in the delights of having her best friend back. But equally I think she’s been disappointed by my reaction to the break-up.

She’s expected me to be a sobbing stereotype, lying on her couch in my pyjamas inhaling confectionery, wailing about how I’ll never be loved again. But I haven’t done that. I won’t. I know I’ve got to get on with it, and I have. Well, except when I’m alone, under the Hello Kitty duvet on her pull-out sofa bed. That’s when the tears really come. But other than that, I’ve thrown myself into work. I even offered to go in between Christmas and New Year – mainly because I couldn’t bear spending any more time at home with my parents. Luckily I knew
he
wouldn’t be there. He who shall not be named. He’s not at Viva anymore, he’s been promoted to a new role at Brooks Publishers so he’s no longer in our office.

The truth is, I know I’m strong enough to work through this on my own but Casey craves the tears and the drama. I know it’s not easy to understand if you’re not like me, so I try and give her a bit of what she wants just to get some peace and quiet.

We leave Casey’s flat and people are walking past with party hats and blowers and stupid, wacky 2005 glasses. How dare they have fun when I’m feeling like this? I’m standing, shivering at the entrance of Players, the club Casey works at, as she chats to the doormen and waves at the people in the queue, all of whom seem to know her – some of the men pretty well, judging by the way she drapes herself over them in greeting. She confirms this by whispering their ‘scores’ to me when she comes back over. Casey has been a hit with men for way more years now than she was a misfit teen. I remember the exact moment when it all changed. When, aged seventeen, her boobs grew out, her body grew up and her hair grew down, all at the same time.

She can get a guy these days, she just hasn’t got the knack of keeping them. She pretends that this is fine but I know she’d give anything for someone to love her like Ryan loves – I mean love
d
– me.

I gulp as an image of him pops into my brain and I valiantly try to swallow the tears back. I can’t cry here. Not on New Year’s Eve. I’m here to have ‘fun’, to let my hair down, like Casey says, to do all the things that single girls are meant to do: dance, drink and flirt. All the things I thought I was missing out on when I was with Ryan and that I can’t bear to do now that I’m not. My mum was right. Molly Molly Quite Contrary, that’s me.

As tears sting the back of my eyes I wonder where he is now, probably down the pub with all his mates. I can see them as clearly as I can see Casey’s nipples through her slinky silk top. I did try and tell her to put a strapless bra on, but she wasn’t having any of it. And to be honest, she looks amazing. I realize I have no idea how to dress for clubbing anyway. Casey insisted on lending me some of her clothes. So now I look like something out of
Footballers Wives
in an orange, slashed-to-the-navel-dress with sparkly heels that are completely ridiculous, and totally not myself. But that’s probably the point.

I feel Casey prodding me. I ignore her, wanting to keep Ryan in my head. I’m pretty sure she’s just pointing out another guy she ‘knows’. Suddenly, I feel myself being pulled into the club, straight through the VIP entrance and into an area cordoned off with red rope. There are big, lush jewel-coloured sofas and crushed-velvet chaises longues. A smattering of beautiful people are already draped over them, their fake tans and white teeth glowing under the UV lights.