The Last Kiss: A Standalone Romance Novel (The Notting Hill Sisterhood Book 1)

by Anna Bloom

  She sighs but I still don’t meet her eyes.

  “Okay. It was just a suggestion.”

  I nod. Throat tight.

  “I’m changing the subject now; you can calm down.” I lift my face and give her my best death ray stare and she clutches her chest, falling sideways onto the oversized couch. “You got me.”

  I have to laugh. Bitch.

  “So. What happens now?” She sits back up and readjusts her hair.

  “Now the transplant team will call me. I’ll have to go and see them to… I don’t know, talk to them about shopping for a new heart…” My joke falls flat. “Is it weird, hoping someone else will die so I can live?”

  Liv lowers her glass, face scored with something I don’t want to see. “No. I’d go on a murdering spree if I thought it would help.”

  “Oh my god! And you won’t let me cut off Darren’s dick, how’s that fair?”

  “Can I come to it with you?”

  I rustle up a small smile. “Liv. You need to focus on you. Please.”

  “You’re asking for something ridiculous.” She pauses. “Have you thought about work?”

  “No. I can’t afford not to work. And I don’t want to stop. Why would I?”

  “Jules, twelve months…” She drops her face into her hand.

  “The only thing I ask is that you promise to have Barney. That’s all I want to talk about, discuss.”

  She looks in alarm at her cream carpet and I snort a laugh.

  “Okay. I’ll do it because it’s your dying wish, but I can’t guarantee I won’t shave the bastard.”

  “Don’t you dare. His fur is his pride.”

  We grin at one another. A voice shouting in the back of my head to make all these smiles count for something. Anything really.

  “So. Next question.”

  I groan. “What now?”

  “How did you turn up here this morning in an outfit I’m pretty sure you wore to work yesterday morning?”

  Oooh. I could do with being swallowed by the massive armchair I’m sitting in. I mean, all this cushioning you’d think it could happen.

  “Nothing. You know. I just… needed some processing time. Ya know?”

  Liv bites on her lower lip, face scrunching. I’m about to dial 999 because I think she’s having a stroke when she bursts out a laugh. She clutches her middle, bending over, heaving in breaths, rubbing at tears squeezing through the corners of her eyes.

  “Does processing mean being naked and bumping uglies?”

  “What! No!” My burning face is going to speak the truth. “What makes you say that?”

  She motions for me to get up and join her by the mirror. We face one another in the reflection, one blonde, one brunette, shadows of one another in our features.

  “You should have buttoned the shirt.” She motions to where the shoulder strap of my bra is exposed by the fall of the shirt’s neckline. Beneath the simple elastic is a purple, mouth shaped bruise.

  My mouth drops into a wide ‘O’ shape as I push my hand against it, my body flushing with warmth.

  Even though I’d do anything to keep that mark on my skin.

  Another thing to tick off the list. Love bite. Twenty-nine and never had one before.

  “I need a piece of paper. It’s time to write a bucket list.”

  Then we both start to cry all over again.

  7

  French Red

  It’s a sad state of life when every day starts with the winking of a cat’s anus in your face.

  “Barney, ugh.” I push him off and pull the duvet over my head. In a weekend that lasted approximately five billion years, the cat alarm is not wanted right now.

  The duvet does nothing. Barney looks at it as a morning workout. He’s stretching on his Lycra and pinging his headband.

  I screw my eyes shut waiting for his next move. A paw slips under the edge of the purple cotton. The cat is Houdini, apart from he gets himself into tight spaces rather than out. Tap tap. The paw says—give me breakfast, bitch.

  “I’m no bitch.” I stretch a toe out from the other end of the duvet, hoping to lure him away from my face.

  Not a chance. He splurges down, weight on front paws, claws out, just an inch shy of my nipples. The air presses out of my lungs at the heft he has.

  You could say it’s all fur. It’s not. It’s all fat covered in fur.

  Shoving down the duvet, I scowl at him. Barney doesn’t understand sulking. He thinks it means headbutt and purr.

  Headbutt and purr.

  Headbutt and purr.

  Being a cat must be so easy.

  “It’s five, Barns.”

  More purring. Another headbutt. “Ow! You just made me bite myself.”

  He stands up, circles, winking his ass again, and then resettles closer to my face so he can rest a paw on my cheek.

  “We’ve really got to try this diet food. You’re crushing my chest.”

  More purring.

  Huffing, I stare at the ceiling and stretch my toes, pinching the muscles in my calves. My eyes ache when I blink, my head pounding. I could blame the bottle of French red I went to the off-licence to buy, but I think the headache has been caused by other things, like dying.

  I don’t know what happens today. Today is day one in the no man’s land called The End.

  I’m headbutted again and I reach a hand into the chilled air of the bedroom before swiftly tucking myself back under.

  French red.

  Okay. I went for an Argentinian Malbec… planned to push the boat to seven quid. I figured dying deserved the splurge, but then I’d stood in front of all the reds and found myself drawn to the fancy French labels. Funny that French labels are class. No bright colours, no lizards or kangaroos. Subtle colours, classy fonts.

  I’ve been trying very hard not to think about one-night-no names with the man mountain.

  Thinking, not succeeding.

  Because my thighs ache. I keep stretching my legs at the gentle pull of my muscles. My brain is on a porno reel where I think about him lifting my calf and taking off my M&S knickers.

  One night. No names.

  Someone tell my body that.

  There’s this little warm flurry in deep places.

  He was a bit like a French wine label: classy, unassuming, and smooth as you like as he slipped up and down. In and out.

  Barney just wants breakfast. Unconcerned with my part memory, part fantasy, part absolute reluctance to get out of bed and face a Monday on what could be one of my last Mondays, he decides subtle purring and head butting isn’t getting him the things he needs—Whiskers—so he pads my face in an act of love, springing his claws at the last moment like a cruel lover intent on revenge.

  I throw back the covers knocking him into a spiralling tangle. “Goddamn, motherfucker.”

  And I’m cussing the cat.

  Zombie swinging to the kitchen, I pick up his tin and shake some of the contents into his bowl as he weaves between my legs, our lovers spat momentarily forgotten as he pounces on a kibble that’s bounced off the bowl and skidded across the floor.

  “Fatty,” I tell him, putting back his tin on top of the microwave and then flicking on the kettle.

  While it boils, I pull on the cord for the blinds, peer outside and then swiftly lower it again.

  I have a wardrobe issue.

  At some senseless part of the night during Friday’s activities I swore to never wear my thick tights again.

  With fair reasoning.

  I pull on the cord again assessing the pregnant sky with a critical glance. It’s going to have to be what Liv calls ‘Work pants’.

  Liv can wear work pants because her legs are ten foot long.

  I wear suit pants, or smart tailoring, and I look like a prison guard. Or a woman who drives a security van, the type that has ‘This vehicle is armoured and alarmed’ printed on every side.

  Grabbing a mug out of the cupboardit’s surface so cool against my touch I think I need to search
for icicles in the flatmy heart races, rushes almost, skipping a beat, pounding hard for two, before racing for another three.

  My head whirls.

  Gasping, I catch my breath, a tiny puff of air wheezing into my lungs. My fingertips tingle, limbs heavy as I stumble towards the small lounge area and head for the sofa, Barney weaving between my ankles. “Not now, Barn.”

  I can’t hear my own voice, maybe I didn’t even speak.

  Falling onto the cushions of the sofa, I roll onto my back and focus on the ceiling, waiting for the breathlessness and the racing train in my chest to depart.

  My skin slicks with sweat, head light.

  Pouff. I groan as Barney assumes position. “Feline, I’m s- struggling to b- breathe here.”

  He answers with a purr and limply, I lift my wrist and scratch his ears.

  Headbutt.

  My eyes sting and I swipe at them with the back of my hand and wrist. An episode. When my chest is easier, I roll over, knocking Barney onto the floor and grabbing at my diary on the table. I mean, am I even supposed to be keeping these records now? Dr Francis didn’t actually say. Kind of seems pointless, but nonetheless I dutifully flip to the first week of the year and add in: breathless, racing, dizzy.

  Flipping it closed, I study the new diary. A present from Liv at Christmas, I’m guessing she didn’t know it would be my last.

  I really need to research more. I’m being an idiot by pretending this isn’t going to happen.

  Ignorance though… it really is bliss.

  So they say.

  Flipping the navy cover with its watercolour peacock back open, I scan through the first couple of pages.

  What was she thinking? Affirmations for success… yearly focus target…

  Yes: I don’t want to die, and: Live beyond twelve months.

  Chuckling, I write my answers on the dotted lines.

  Health goals: Reach thirty.

  Career aspirations: Not to get made redundant before I die (maybe hand notice in – not sure – need to research).

  Happy with my responses, I flick through the rest. December. November. October. Will I even see those months? Should I rip them out now?

  I should have asked Dr Francis more questions on Friday. Maybe I could ring him. He did say he’d be in contact this week. I could call and say, ‘Hey, it’s only Monday, and I’ve already had a turn’.

  Barney’s high-pitched pip of air from his butt pulls my attention. “You repulse me,” I tell him, but he just licks the end of his tail, face turned away from me. He’s had all he needs today. Well, until six-thirty this evening when we begin it all over again.

  Flipping through the pages again, I settle back on the self-help twaddle at the start.

  This Year’s Goals

  Tapping my teeth with my biro, I consider the prospect. Liv would be horrified if she knew all this stuff was in this diary after the news we’d just got.

  We.

  Funny her and I were always my we, yet I probably haven’t been hers for a long time. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. The way I want it to be. Right now, she’s no longer getting ready for work as a hyper efficient personal assistant. She’s busy changing nappies and wrestling the terrorist to pre-school. Doing all the things that she chose in her life, no matter how much Dickweed Darren let her down.

  I grind my teeth and consider that prison sentence again. Would they put a dying woman in prison? I’m willing to take the gamble that they wouldn’t. That man no longer deserves a penis. Maybe if he was a eunuch, he’d have more time to contemplate what a total asshat he is.

  Now… Mr Mysterious Frenchman. He should definitely keep his penis. He knew exactly what to do with that.

  I need to stop thinking about it. It’s not a one-night stand if you obsess about it after.

  On a whim I write on the top line of the Yearly Goals section: Have sex with a Frenchman. Tapping away at my teeth I consider this and then write: Have a one-night stand, beneath it.

  Then I put a line through both.

  Oooh. The love bite. That goes on the list too followed by another concise line cutting through the words.

  Love bite.

  There you go. I’ve only been dying one day, and I’ve ticked three things off.

  Swiftly I add:

  Go to Wales, Scotland, and Ireland (Don’t worry too much about Ireland).

  Get kissed at the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  (Damn, there he is back in my head again. Mr Dazzling Dick.)

  Go in a Hot Air Balloon.

  Have a McDonalds for three meals in one day.

  Drink a bottle of the most expensive champagne.

  Swim with Dolphins (okay this one is cliché and I can probably let it go, but now I can’t cross it out because it will look like I’ve done it. NOTE TO SELF – DON’T WORRY ABOUT THIS ONE.

  And that’s it. That’s all I have.

  Throwing the diary on the floor, I roll over on the sofa and pull the throw resting along the back over me. Barney opens an eye. He loves the blanket a little too much.

  Reaching for my phone I fire off a text.

  Me: Sorry, Rebecca, not feeling good. Going to take the day off sick.

  The dancing dots beneath my message flicker to life.

  Rebecca: Okay, darling. See you tomorrow?

  I can’t even face a response, so I send a thumbs up and then drop my phone to the floor.

  Then I pull the duvet back up over my head and wait.

  What I’m waiting for I don’t want to contemplate.

  “Don’t you make me kick down this door!”

  I sit up, trying to work out where the fuck I am.

  Ah. Lounge.

  Hammering lands against the front door.

  “I mean it, Jules. I’ve battled the whole way down here with a buggy. Do you know what the Tube is like with a buggy? Hell, I tell you.” The letterbox jangles. “Hell,” Liv shouts through.

  Trying to focus, I can’t believe I’ve fallen asleep after only being awake for the sum total of half an hour. I stand up on unsteady legs and stagger for the front door.

  “Use your key,” I shout back.

  “I tried; you’ve got the damn chain on.”

  She’s right, I do. And who can blame me.

  “Liv,” I sigh and open the door. “What are you doing here?”

  She’s swinging Lenny in a car seat that unclips from the buggy base, and unwittingly bashes him into the door frame. “I called the office to see if you wanted lunch and they said you weren’t there. That you’re sick.” She assesses me with a laser beam top-to-toe body sweep. “What’s wrong? Have you taken your medication?

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Ah, shit. Medication…

  “I did. About a hundred times. Seriously, Jules, you can’t be playing Dodge the Call anymore. Not now.” She pushes into the flat, plonking the car seat in the middle of the room like a roundabout. I can see her flicking her sweeping gaze over the plain walls, piles of books, old newspaper prints and… last Thursday’s pizza. I block her view of that before she launches into a spiel about mould spores.

  “What? So now I’m officially dying, and no longer possibly dying, I have to answer every call that comes to my phone?”

  She bites on her lower lip and my shoulders slump.

  “Sorry. I was just tired, and…”

  “You couldn’t face it.” She focuses on my face and not the dismal clutter bomb explosion of my small and perfectly messy home.

  I nod.

  “Does Rebecca know?”

  “No! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.” My fingers tingle again, my breath coming a little faster.

  Liv glances at Lenny on the floor. He’s asleep, blue dummy dangling from his puckered lips. “What do we always do?”

  I breathe in, stretching my chest cavity, focusing on the air coming in and the air flowing out. “We take one step at a time.”

  Liv smiles and shakes her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Exa
ctly. And how many steps is it to your kettle? I wasn’t joking about the Tube, it was hell. Now make me a brew and then get ready. We might as well go for lunch now I’ve found you.”

  “Lunch where?” I turn, brightening at the prospect. Maybe today could be my three McDonalds in a row day.

  “We’ll go to Charlie’s of course.”

  I groan and slope towards the kitchen. Fuckety fuck fuck. More wheatgrass and some hay smoked tofu for my sins.

  I should have drunk more of that French red. Much more.

  8

  Notting Hill Health Foods

  “What is it?” I stare at the shot glass, peering at the murky liquid. It looks like pond water, I’m not going to lie.

  Charlie perches her hip on the edge of our table. “It’s turmeric and spirulina.”

  “Oh, well that doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “Just all the healthy stuff.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. The same one I’ve been seeing for two years now and then she leans over to squeeze my shoulder. “We are all here for you, Jules.”

  “Thanks.” But what I mean is, thanks that’s lovely, but I kinda need you to be here for Liv more.

  “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.” She edges her way off the table and goes back to behind the bar where she starts assaulting the coffee machine, clanging on levers and muttering darkly under her breath. In her standard white t-shirt, black apron and black trousers she’s wearing the only outfit I’ve seen her in for the last two years since she sunk all her inheritance money into a health food restaurant in Notting Hill.

  “She okay?” I nod my head in her direction and Liv shoots me the universal eyeroll and tight-lipped shut the fuck up and I’ll tell you later.

  I glance back over at Charlie. “You guys have been friends such a long time now, it’s crazy.”

  Liv shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without them all, or you. The last year would have been truly awful if you hadn’t all pulled me through.”

  Her face falls, her eyes watering a little, glistening under the retro lights swinging from the ceiling of Charlie’s restaurant.

  I give her a small smile and then sip back some of my health shot. “Oh, holy crap, that’s awful.” I mumble around the liquid pooling in my mouth.