by Ali Harris
Ali Harris is a magazine journalist and has written for publications such as Red, ELLE, Stylist, Cosmopolitan and Company and was deputy features editor at Glamour before leaving to write books and have babies. She lives in Cambridge with her husband and their two children.
Also by the author
Miracle on Regent Street
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012
A CBS COMPANY
This paperback edition published in 2013 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
Copyright © Ali Harris, 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Ali Harris to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-85720-293-2
eBook 978-0-85720-294-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred.
Then, another thousand, and a second hundred.
Then, yet another thousand, and a hundred.
Then, when we have counted up many thousands,
Let us shake the abacus, so that no one may know the number,
And become jealous when they see
How many kisses we have shared.
Catullus 5
To anyone who has ever loved, lost and loved again
Contents
6.11 a.m. 5 January 2012
The Kiss To End All Kisses
<
7.47 a.m.
The Kiss And Tell
FF>> 29/05/07>
8.30 a.m.
The Remorseful Kiss
<
The Hollow Kiss
PLAY> 12/12/04 5.54 a.m.
Can’t Kiss It Better
FF>> 12/12/04>
The Squandered Kiss
FF>> 31/12/04>
9.11 a.m.
The Worst First Kiss
<
9.45 a.m.
The Never Let Me Go Kiss
FF>> 14/05/05>
Sealed With A Kiss
FF>> 10/09/2005>
10.01 a.m.
The Welcome Kiss
FF>> 26/09/01>
Just Can’t Be Away From You Kiss
FF>> 29/09/01>
The Kiss Over The Threshold
FF>> 19/01/02>
10.05 a.m.
The Domestic Bliss Kiss
FF>> 22/02/02>
The Bittersweet Kiss
<
The Lost Kiss
FF>> 05/04/03>
The Let’s Compromise Kiss
FF>> 15/09/03>
The Grown-Up Kiss
FF>> 11/11/03>
11.18 a.m.
The Never Ever Kiss
<
11.55 a.m.
The Girls Just Wanna Have Fun Kiss
FF>> 30/10/04>
The Kiss My Dignity Goodbye Kiss
<
The Judas Kiss
FF>> 11/12/2004 19.07 p.m.>
FF>> 12/12/2004 3.12 a.m.>
12.10 p.m.
The Single Kiss
FF>> 24/04/05>
12.51 p.m.
The ’Til Death Do Us Part Kiss
FF>> 22/04/06>
1.10 p.m.
The Snatched Kiss
<
The Missed You Kiss
FF>> 08/03/06 18.25 p.m.>
The Wish You Were Here Kiss
FF>> 15/04/06>
2.07 p.m.
The Celebratory Kiss
<
The Future’s Bright Kiss
FF>> 31/12/02 9.10 p.m.>
2.50 p.m.
The Real First Kiss . . .
<
3.09 p.m.
The After The Honeymoon Kiss
FF>> 11/10/06>
The Kiss And Run
FF>> 21/01/07 9.25 a.m.>
The What-If Kiss
FF>> 17/02/07>
3.17 p.m.
The Tell Me It’s Not True Kiss
FF>> 26/02/07>
The First Last Kiss
PLAY> 26/02/07
3.27 p.m.
The Constable Kiss
<
You Can Kiss This Goodbye Kiss
FF>> 27/02/07>
The PDA Kiss
FF>> 19/04/07>
The Uncontrollable Kiss
<
The Long Distance Kiss
FF>> 05/05/2007>
The Can’t Complain, Won’t Complain Kiss
FF>> 26/05/07>
The Ghost Of Kisses Past Kiss
FF>> 19/05/07>
The Surrendered Kiss
The I Think I Love You Kiss
<
The SOS Kiss
FF>> 20/06/07 11.48 a.m.>
The Real First Kiss . . . and The Last
The Keep On Moving Kiss
FF>> 27/06/07>
3.48 p.m.
The Take That Kiss
<
The Eternal Kiss
FF>> 14/07/07>
4.35 p.m.
6.11 a.m. 5 January 2012
There’s no sweeter way to be woken than with a kiss. Sadly this morning – the last I’ll spend in this house – I’m woken not by the soft graze of a lover’s lips against mine, but by the prickly claws of the fat, purring cat lying on my chest.
‘Morning Harry,’ I murmur, tickling him under his chin and pondering that this morning, there is no man with a six-pack between my sheets, just the two-pack of Jammie Dodgers I munched my way through last night. ‘It’s the big day today, fella,’ I say. Harry looks startled and licks his paws frantically. He has been anxious with all the comings and goings of the last few days.
‘Aww, don’t be silly, I’m not going anywhere without you and your sister.’ I kiss him on the nose and lift him off the mattress and swing my legs onto the floor full of boxes. Once again, I can’t help but think how quickly a life can be packed up. It makes everything feel so transitory. All this stuff we place so much importance on to make us feel at home, surrounding ourselves with comforting memory-triggers when really, most stuff is disposable. Actually, having a clear-out has been surprisingly cathartic.
I take a deep breath and try to work out what I should do first. It’s too cold to have a shower as the heating hasn’t come on yet. And besides, I’m gagging for a cuppa. I’ve some final bits of packing to do before the removal van arrives. Part of me is resentful that I’m doing this alone but I also know that today has to go like clockwork which, as any woman knows, means doing it myself. I balk a little and then smile as I realize just how much I sound like my mother. My teenage self would be horrified.
Outside, everything is shrouded in a sea of subterranean black. I shiver and throw my dressing gown on over my T-shirt and leggings, slip into m
y Ugg boots, blanching at the sight in the full-length mirror that’s propped up against a wall, waiting to be bubble-wrapped. What a mess. My eyes are puffy and swollen, my skin is grey and sallow with lack of sleep and to top it all my face has broken out in some sort of rash.
I pause in the doorway and then turn back and extract the DVD which I was watching last night from the TV in the corner of my bedroom. I slip it under my arm, grab the half-eaten packet of biscuits and go downstairs. I found the DVD yesterday afternoon on top of an open box marked ‘storage’ and couldn’t resist. I’ve seen it plenty of times before, but not for a long time. It was ‘our film’. And everyone knows that you shouldn’t open up old wounds at times like this.
I pace up and down the lounge clutching my mug of tea, trying not to look at the TV flickering in the lounge. It’s paused on the opening credits and I’m desperately fighting the urge to press play. I’ve got too much to do to be distracted.
I clearly remember moving into this house. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. It was meant to be a Forever House (damn you, Kirstie Allsopp, for giving me such high expectations), somewhere to plant roots. Tucked away on a cute little street, just off the bustling Broadway in Leigh-on-Sea with its eclectic little shops and cafés, it had gorgeous views of the sea from the balcony just off the master bedroom. But the house itself had been terribly neglected. It was the definition of ‘a project’; perfect for a young married couple – and one I was eager to take on. It had always been our dream to live somewhere like this and I loved every moment spent making it feel like home, painting the bedroom duck-egg blue and putting over the fireplace the canvas of a photo I took of pebbles on Leigh beach. Weeks went by ripping up carpets, sanding and varnishing the floorboards, exposing the original fireplaces, painting the walls bright, life-affirming colours while Take That blared loudly on the iPod to keep me company. And then, every day at dusk, no matter what the weather was like, I’d go for a walk with him, down to The Green that overlooked the sea and we’d sit on our bench and mull over the day we’d spent apart. We’d talk about the past and dream about the future. It was the happiest I felt every single day.
I walk over to the DVD player. Don’t go there again, Molly, my ‘sensible voice’ says. Just one more time won’t hurt. I clutch my cup of tea tightly as I press play. This is the very last time I’m going to watch it. Then I’ll hide it back behind all the other soppy romcoms that occupy the shelves of my lounge. Or at least used to. I look at the now bare room that’s devoid of all the personal touches – the vast array of photos, the abundance of scatter cushions and candles, the cat basket, the knick-knacks and memories that have made it home for so long – then I look back at the TV.
The sound is low but the rousing chords of the film’s opening song perforate the silence. I press the volume button and rest the remote on the arm of the sofa. I close my eyes as the goosebump-inducing lyrics of the soaring chorus swell out into the room. It always gives me an overwhelming urge to bawl like a baby. There was a time when I played this song continuously as I threw my heart and soul into making this house a home. If I wasn’t doing DIY, I was cooking delicious feasts in this kitchen like a proper wife, then eating it laid out in front of this film, with him jokingly chastising me for turning into such a softie.
I roll my eyes heavenward and swipe my hand across my face. This film always does this to me, even though I know every scene off by heart. I grab a tissue from the box that’s next to me and blow noisily into it. I glance back to the TV screen as the handsome young heart throb gazes longingly at the object of his affection. I pick up the remote control and press pause just as their lips clumsily meet for the first time. Then I reach for another biscuit and pop it like a pill, hoping it will soothe my urge to sob.
Stop being silly, Molly, I tell myself sternly. It’s only a film. You’re just emotional at the moment; moving is one of the most stressful things you can do. It’s right up there with divorce and having a baby.
The biscuit is suddenly sandpaper in my mouth and I have to force it past the lump in my throat, coughing with the exertion. I instantly imagine myself being found by a neighbour, slumped on the settee, eyeballs rolling towards the ceiling, one hand clasped around my throat with the other clutching the remaining half of the biscuit. Raspberry jam would be smothered tellingly around my gaping mouth, the bloody evidence of my demise.
‘Such a tragedy,’ my neighbours would say. ‘The poor girl died of a broken heart . . . -shaped biscuit.’
I reach back into the packet and stuff another biscuit into my mouth, reassured by the knowledge that it doesn’t matter if I get fat anyway. It’s not like I’m a teenager, or can have my heart shattered any more than it has been. When you’ve been through what I have, gambled everything on love – and lost – you’re never the same again. Not really.
I press play again and settle back to try and watch the rest of the film but all I can see in my mind’s eye is Ryan Cooper.
My first love – and the one I hoped would also be my last.
The Kiss To End All Kisses
There’s supposed to be ‘a moment’ that every girl dreams about her whole life. You know the one; some guy on bended knee offering you his heart. Well, I was never that kind of girl. But even if I had been, the moment turned out to be better than I could have ever imagined . . .
<
‘I can’t believe we’re actually here!’ I clap my hands together in excitement and press my face against the window as I take in the city I have been desperate to see for so long lit up like a circuit board in the darkness. I gasp as we leave the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway and crawl across the Brooklyn Bridge. Manhattan rises up before us in our yellow cab; the buildings are inconceivably tall and shiny, I feel like we’re looking at them in a hall of mirrors at the funfair. The breathtaking skyscrapers are silhouetted against the navy night sky, like bejewelled teeth in a yawning mouth. Ryan leans over and kisses me on the shoulder then slips his arm around me and I sigh contentedly.
‘It’s so cool, just like in the movies!’ Ryan says wondrously, to himself more than to me. I was worried that this holiday we’ve been planning since we got back together wouldn’t be his thing. He’s more of a sun, sea and sand kind of guy.
‘I’m so glad I’m seeing this city with you,’ I say quietly.
Ryan grins as he looks at me, his tanned, handsome face a picture of shock. ‘What’s this? Has my cynical girlfriend finally become a romantic? Has Harry finally become Sally?’
‘So what if I have, Cooper?’ I say, folding my arms defiantly, jumping as the cars around us begin to honk their horns and our taxi driver yells out the window. I snuggle back into his shoulder. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
He laughs. ‘You’ll see, Molly Carter!’ he whispers, threading his arm around me. ‘You’ll see . . . ’
I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at him. What he doesn’t know is that I’m also using the chance to study him. I’m drinking in his Balearic blue eyes and palm-frond lashes, the sand-dune slopes of his top lip surrounded by grainy golden stubble smattered over his jaw to match his blond, beachy hair. I’ve been doing a lot of this over the last six months. I’m still amazed that we got back together after all that happened. But Ryan and I made a promise to start afresh, to treat this as the beginning of a new relationship.
I pull him towards me for a kiss before turning back to look out the window. The bridge has carried us over the Hudson River and lowered us gently into the jaws of the city. For a moment I gaze around at the blur of shimmering buildings, the lights, the line of bright yellow cabs just like ours, and feel like I’m in a futuristic pop video stuck on fast forward. I hold my camera up to my eyes to see this incredible city the best way I know how – through my viewfinder – and that’s how I stay, with Ryan’s arm thrown over my shoulder as the taxi speeds us further into the glistening, twinkling metropolis.
‘Smile!’ I shout the following morning. Ryan is standing in fr
ont of the Staten Island Ferry sign in the glorious early morning sunlight, a cheesy grin on his face and his index fingers pointing down at his crotch where, over his jeans, he’s modelling a G-string that has the Statue of Liberty emblazoned on the front. We have made it our mission to ‘do’ as many famous sights as we can and have set each other the challenge to pick up the tackiest souvenir along the way. Knowing how competitive Ryan is, he’s bound to win. But I have determination and imagination on my side. The best photo wins a prize. Ryan has said if he wins I have to take him to see the New York Giants, and if I win he has to come on the Sex and the City tour with me. I reckon he’s got the best deal as, to be honest, he’ll probably enjoy that, too.
I burst out laughing as Ryan adds a foam Statue of Liberty hat to his ensemble, his arm raised in the air just like New York’s First Lady as a bunch of Japanese tourists walk by, recording everything they see. Without a flicker of embarrassment he poses for them as if he’s modelling designer clothes. If only his secondary school students could see him now. Cool Mr Cooper the PE teacher, not looking so cool now!
I pull the camera away from my face and sidle up to him as we amble onto the moored ferry. We quickly make our way out to the deck.
‘You know,’ I whisper, kissing him on the neck and glancing up at his ridiculous outfit, ‘I’ve never wanted you more, Ryan Cooper!’
He pulls me into his arms, pops a matching Statue of Liberty hat on my head and tilts me back, kissing me showily on the lips so that a big group of Japanese tourists gather to take more photos. I blush and hide my face (I’ve never been comfortable with PDAs) but Ryan lifts me back up again and waves at the tourists who bow to him and politely clap their hands.
Ryan pings his thong and grins down at me. ‘Do you admit defeat then?’ he asks. Then he pulls a matching foam torch out of his combat trousers and holds it aloft like Lady Liberty herself.
I fold my arms. ‘Ohhh, so that’s what was pressing up against me,’ I say. ‘For a moment I thought I was in luck . . . ’
‘Admit I’ve already won the challenge!’ he grins triumphantly, brandishing the phallic-looking torch.
‘Never!’ I reply. ‘Not if Carrie Bradshaw’s entire Manolo collection depended on it!’
