by Ali Harris
‘Now imagine that I am right beside you . . . ’
I stop humming. ‘But you’re not, you’re behind me . . . ’
‘ . . . all the time,’ he continues determinedly. ‘Beside you all the time. From now on. Always.’
I open my mouth and close it again. ‘That sounds nice,’ I say quietly, trying to block out the voice in my head that’s saying, Is he about to do what you think he’s going to do? Oh my God! He is! He is!
It’s then that I realize the song I’ve been humming along to is John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’. It is playing somewhere nearby. And not on an iPod, it sounds like a . . . like a . . . string quartet. I open my eyes but I don’t turn around. A small crowd of people have gathered and are all looking at me, smiling. Some of them have cameras. I blink and swallow. I want to turn around, I desperately want to, but something tells me to wait for Ryan’s next instruction.
‘Now,’ Ryan says softly, ‘imagine that I am behind you, telling you, Molly Carter, that I love you, that I always have and always will, and that right here, right in the heart of Central Park, I want to ask you if you’ll accept my heart, look after it forever and let me take care of yours. You can turn around now . . . ’
I put my hand over my mouth as the tears stream down my face, for once my camera is forgotten as I spin around to see the smiling faces of the string quartet, but still no Ryan.
‘I’m down here,’ he laughs, and he’s there, on bended knee, his arm stretched out and one hand cupping a velvet box, the other hand hovering over the closed lid.
‘No!’ I gasp.
He laughs. ‘I’ll be honest, that’s not quite the reaction I was after—’
‘No! I mean! No, look at me – I look ridiculous! How could you do this!’ I kneel down and pummel him in the chest, openly sobbing now.
‘I think you look gorgeous,’ Ryan laughs, pinging the Statue of Liberty G-string.
‘This is not how I planned to look at such a big moment!’ I wail.
‘You can’t control everything, Molly,’ Ryan smiles, ‘sometimes you have to just roll with it . . . ’
I look at him and there is a look of quiet determination that I recognize from when he is battling a wave, shooting a goal or when he’s gripping on to the sail of a boat and guiding it back to shore.
‘Molly Carter,’ he says, slowly, ‘will you marry me?’ He opens the box and there is a beautiful ring, a cluster of small diamonds on a gold band glittering like a constellation of stars.
‘Yes! Yes!’ interrupting him as I laugh through my tears. I swipe away my tears quickly and sink to my knees and I grasp Ryan’s face and he cups mine and we kiss and there is laughter and tears and it feels familiar but different. So, so different.
Because this is the kiss to end all kisses. It’s the kiss that I didn’t even know I was waiting for. I close my eyes again and press record in my head, to internally capture the moment that Ryan Cooper puts an engagement ring on my finger. And it is the best present in the world.
7.47 a.m.
The letterbox clatters and, dragging myself away from the DVD, I wander out into the hallway with the lovely original Victorian tiles and corniced ceilings, still keeping one eye on the TV. The removal men should be here soon to finish packing up the rest of the stuff. I seem to have acquired two lives’ worth of it: before and after, and they didn’t manage to get it all done yesterday. I smile as I think about my purposefully minimal bedroom at uni, bare of any personalization apart from my Annie Leibovitz print of John Lennon and Yoko Ono that was pinned over my bed and the film poster of Before Sunrise above my desk. God, I was so serious back then. My duvet was white, my wardrobe full of black clothes. Funny how people change, I think as I look around my messy abode. The thought of keeping anything tidy now brings me out in a sweat. Mind you, most things bring me out in a sweat, these days.
I bend down slowly to the Union Jack ‘Welcome’ doormat and make a mental note to remember to pack it. I pick up the pile of envelopes, flicking through them quickly, muttering as I do so: ‘Bill, bill, notice of bill paid, bill . . . doctor’s appointment and . . . ’ I pull out the card that has my name and my address written on the envelope in a small, neat print:
Molly Cooper
7 Avenue Road
Leigh-on-Sea
SS19 4BL
I furrow my brow as I study it. It’s my old married name. None of my family or friends use it any more, so who . . . ?
I rip open the envelope and pull out a New Home card. I open it up and begin to read;
Dear Molly,
How are you? I hope you don’t mind me writing like this but I was in contact recently with a mutual acquaintance and they mentioned you were moving away. I didn’t want you to leave without having a chance to send you my best wishes for a happy future. I hope you remembered my advice; to choose happiness and never live with regret. I think of you often and hope you are all well.
Fondest wishes,
Charlie
I feel my heart contract. The name conjures up feelings and memories I’m trying to ignore today. I glance at the card again. I know it’s a nice gesture but find I this contact strange after so long – and after everything that happened. It brings back memories, both good and bad.
The Kiss And Tell
It’s funny how someone can come into your life unexpectedly and instantly make you feel like you can say anything to them, anything at all. Things you wouldn’t dream of telling your nearest and dearest. And suddenly they become an intrinsic part of your life without you really knowing anything about them. That’s what happened with Charlie. I bared my soul in a way I’d never done with anyone.
FF>> 29/05/07>
It feels strange pouring out my heart to another man in a bar like this. I feel like I must have ‘Traitorous Wench’ emblazoned on my forehead and everyone must know this handsome, attentive man isn’t my boyfriend. And we’ve come to our local pub, for Christ sakes. What was I thinking? I’ll never be able to look the barman in the eye again.
‘So come on, what’s going on?’ Charlie says, leaning in towards me and resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze is so tender that it’s all the encouragement I need to launch into a melancholy monologue.
‘Sorry,’ I say, apologizing for the billionth time. ‘It’s just sometimes I feel like I can’t take it any more. I look at him and I don’t know who he is, I don’t know what he’s thinking, or feeling. We’re not communicating properly, you know? We’re existing alongside each other, pretending everything’s OK when it isn’t. It really isn’t. I know what the right thing to do is, but I don’t want to be the one who says it first.’ I shake my head, feeling awful for laying all this on him. ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do this . . . ’ I glance up nervously at the busy bar, full of young, Hackney hipsters. I feel old, withered, past it and I’m not even thirty. I glance back at Charlie, not only is he gorgeous, he is so interested and interesting. So caring and kind. Kind of too good to be true, really. If only there were more like him in the world. I blink at him.
‘Hey, you know you can tell me anything,’ Charlie says, putting his drink down and touching my hand gently. I love how his eyes never leave mine when I’m talking. I feel like no one has looked at me like this for a long time.
‘I’m just waiting for him to make the first move,’ I say. He studies me closely and then looks down before he speaks. I don’t like it when he looks away. Nothing good is ever said when people look away from you.
‘Listen, Molly, I know how hard this is for you, I do. But I have to ask this, how much more do you think you can take?’
He looks at me searchingly as he waits for my answer, and now I find I can’t look him in the eye. I look up at the ceiling, blinking furiously to stop the tears. Then I look back at him, pleadingly. I don’t want to answer, I just want him to hug me, hold me.
He must hear my thoughts. He reaches out and takes my hand. I can’t help noticing how soft his hands are, not a callous on them. I
look down. And he has nice nails. I love nice nails on a man. It shows he takes care of himself.
‘Molly,’ he says gently, ‘I know you don’t want to make any decision yet. If you’re not ready to go, this can wait. This isn’t about me, or what I think. It’s about you. If you can’t face doing what we’ve talked about, have you thought about taking a smaller step, you know, moving to your parents or something?’ I nod and he squeezes my hand and I catch my breath. ‘I know it feels disloyal, but we knew it would come to this . . . eventually.’ He stands up and lets go of my hand and I suddenly feel bereft. Then he smiles gently and I have this urge to touch him. I want to feel his strength seep into my body.
‘I’m always here for you, OK?’
‘I know, Charlie.’ I look at him thankfully and wonder how I’d ever cope without him. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help myself and I lean forward and kiss him.
8.30 a.m.
The wine bottles fall into the bin with a clunk and I wince; why is it that the act of pouring wine into a glass is so deliciously satisfying and melodic but the act of getting rid of it smacks of shame and discordancy? Even though I was wise enough to resist its charms at the farewell drinks last night, watching everyone else succumb definitely made me want it more. Like a man you know is bad for you – and I’ve sure been there before. An image of him appears in my mind suddenly, exactly as he looked the night of our work Christmas party at Soho House. That wolfish, self-satisfied smirk that said ‘I will have you’, his intense hooded eyes, the sexy shadow of stubble. I thought I’d disposed of him years ago – why now? I clutch the top of the black bag and the wine bottles clatter noisily into a new position. This moving business is messing with my head. I’ll be glad when it’s all over. I hastily tie up the bag and take it out to the back door.
Just then Sally stalks past, tail in the air – the stuck-up so-and-so. She’s welcomed excitedly by Harry, who winds around my legs and purrs at her. She’s looking rather bedraggled. Neither of them is happy about the move but they’re dealing with it in very different ways. Sally is the errant teen, showing her displeasure by staying out all night whereas Harry’s clingy, homely nature has been amplified by the upheaval. But they are united in their bewilderment of the change. I’ve tried telling them to trust me when I say that we’re going somewhere that will be better for all of us, but I’m not sure they believe me. I understand that it’s hard for them, but I keep telling them that the end of one thing can mean the beginning of something new. I just hope I’m right.
The Remorseful Kiss
Is there such a thing as a life without any regrets? I’ve never believed so. We spend our lives aiming for happiness and fulfilment in work, in love and with our friends and family, and yet often our energy is spent lamenting bad boyfriends, wrong career turns, fallouts with friends and opportunities missed. Or is that just me? I admit I’m naturally a glass-half-empty kind of girl, but I know regrets are a burden to happiness and I’m trying to let go of them because I’ve learned that it’s all about choice. You can choose to turn regrets into lessons that change your future. Believe me when I say I’m really trying to do this. But the truth is, I’m failing. Because all I can think right now is: maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is my penance.
<
‘Casey?’ I wail after listening to Casey’s voicemail message. I’m staggering through the streets of Soho, one of many late-night revellers who have partaken of too much ‘Christmas spirit’.
‘Please answer,’ I moan, hiccupping with tears. ‘I know you’re probably at work but I need to talk to you. I really, really need to talk to you. I’ve done something terrible. Something . . . unforgivable.’ I start sobbing again and press the call-end button.
I gaze up at the Christmas lights. A saucy Santa in a Soho shop window taunts me and in the distance the chorus of ‘Santa Claus Is Coming To Town’ is being sung loudly by some drunken carousers.
If Santa’s making a list right now, he’s going to know that I’ve been naughty.
I stumble down the cobbled streets; I can’t see straight, let alone walk, and all I can think about is the last four Christmases I’ve spent with Ryan. He’s like a child when it comes to this season, an overexcited puppy who laps up every tradition: the mince pies he starts eating on November 1st, the Christmas cake, mulled wine and other seasonal bounties he dutifully makes weeks in advance, the rich, spicy smells coming from our kitchen as I do nothing more than watch EastEnders. Then there are the decorations that, in true Cooper style, are garish rather than glamorous.
Each year, without fail, I come home to find that he’s secretly decorated our flat. Just the other day I came home to find tinsel draped over our picture frames, a blow-up Father Christmas in the corner of our lounge and fake snow sprayed all over the windows. Even the flamingo lamp, which I have been unable to dispose of since his mum gave it to us when we moved in together, had joined in the act and was wearing a Santa hat at a jaunty angle.
‘Ahh, c’mon, Molly,’ Ryan had cajoled, wrapping his arms around me. ‘Christmas isn’t meant to be fashionable, it’s meant to be fun!’ And I relented, as I always do because whilst I’d never believed it possible, he and his family have finally made Christmas enjoyable.
Things I love about Cooper Christmases
• Being at Jackie and Dave’s and being thoroughly spoiled
• Watching soppy Christmas movies with Ry
• The open-door (and open-bottle) policy for the entire holiday
• Lying snuggled in his teenage bed when Ry gets up early to go for his morning run along the beach
• Christmas Eve shopping and sale shopping on Boxing Day with the Cooper clan (Nanny Door is a sight to behold in Next, her elbows are sharper than Joan Rivers’ tongue)
• My parents coming for Christmas dinner at Jackie and Dave’s house and being forced to join in the karaoke and party games. (Nanny Door is the only person who could follow Jackie and Dave’s versions of ‘Islands in the Stream’ and their encore ‘Save your Love’ by Renée and Renato with her astonishingly brilliant rendition of Jay-Z’s ‘I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one’ – Nanny Door’s version is ‘I got 99 problems and me hips ain’t one’
• Missing the Queen’s speech
But now, this year, it’s all going to be ruined. I swipe away the hot tears that are burning a path down my face. I feel like I’ll never be able to look in a mirror again without seeing what I’ve just done to Ryan reflected in my eyes.
How the hell am I meant to face him now?
The Hollow Kiss
Can you ever truly promise to be there for someone forever? I did and I couldn’t keep my word and now, years later, the same has happened to me. Is this reneged-on promise down to karma? I think it’s more about learning that in life it begins and ends with you. I mean, yes we all need love and seek support from others, but we need to find it from within first. We’re all stronger than we give ourselves credit for. We can cope with more than we think. Survive the worst and, somehow, still find a way to smile.
PLAY> 12/12/04 5.54 a.m.
I can’t handle being in the flat any more. I tiptoe around the bedroom, trying not to disturb Ryan. He is still sleeping blissfully, just as he was when I crept in last night. He has rolled onto his side, one strong, muscular arm is stretched over to my side of the bed as if reaching for me in his sleep. His hair is spread over the pillow, overnight his stubble has turned from grainy sand to strands of straw. I want to stand here all day watching him but I can’t. I need to get out before he wakes. I can’t face him, not yet. I need to work out what I’m going to say, what I’m going to do. I know if he wakes now, I’ll want to pretend that everything’s OK, I’ll want to slip back under the covers, kiss away my disloyalty, make love to him, get lost in the comfort of him, of us, of the only good thing I’ve ever known.
I quickly scribble a note for Ryan so he knows that I’ve been home and – more importantly – that he knows that I’m coming back.
Ry, I couldn’t sleep so I’ve left for work early. I’ll be home later.
I love you.
I raise the biro from the envelope I’ve been scribbling on. Then I lower it again to add:
I’m sorry.
Molly x
I pick up my bag and I look back at our homely flat. It’s like looking at a scrapbook of my life. There’s the Hadleigh Castle print that my dad bought and framed for me to remind me of home when I first went to uni. I’ve placed it on the desk in the corner of our lounge and the print of John Lennon and Yoko hangs above it. The Philippe Starck Louis Ghost chair we got as a present to each other when we bought this place sits under the desk. Over the fireplace is the canvas print of the pebbles that I photographed when Ry and I first moved in together at Jackie and Dave’s three years ago. The sofa is the white Ikea one Jackie and Dave put in the annexe for us. It’s not so white any more so it has a dark-blue throw over it. I turn back to the door and smile sadly. On the back of it is an empty gold picture frame we solemnly put up the night the last episode of Friends aired. It was just a short few months ago but it feels like years ago now. None of it feels like it belongs to me any more. I open the door and on my exit, I trip over the Union Jack doormat (another of Jackie’s touches) and stumble into the communal hallway, the door slamming shut, without any encouragement from me. It’s as if it’s spitting me out onto the street with disgust.
My phone rings in my bag and I glance into it, dreading that Ryan’s woken up, seen my note and wants me to come back. I look at the screen before answering, the relief desperately evident in my voice.
‘Molly?’ says a friendly but concerned voice.
‘Oh, Casey . . . ’ I reply as a fresh flood of tears pour down my face.
