by Ali Harris
‘Hey, shhh, babe, Moll, it’s OK! Whatever it is, it’s going to be OK,’ she says soothingly.
‘It won’t, Casey, it won’t.’ I sob, looking back at our front door as I descend the staircase.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she asks.
‘Can I come over?’ I beg, suddenly needing to get away from London, from the scene of the crime. I can’t go to work. Not today. I don’t care how it looks. I need to be with her, see the beach, breathe in the sea air, get some space to think and work out what I’m going to do and she’s the only person who can help me, the only person who knows Ryan and I well enough.
We’re walking along the mile-long stretch of Southend Pier, a journey we’ve taken a million times. Casey is clutching my arm, just like she used to when we were teenagers. Back then it made me feel strong, needed, but now I’m feeling comforted by her presence, like she can take me back to a time when Ryan and I were still happy.
I burst into tears when she picked me up from the train station a little after 8 a.m. She was still in her pyjamas but even these were typically Casey, cute little flannel shorts which she’d teamed with leg warmers, a big pink Gap hoodie that contrasted perfectly with her olive Greek–Italian skin and granite-black hair. We drove back to her place, she made me a cup of tea and I sat on her bright-pink sofa and cried as I told her everything. Then she threw on some warmer clothes and told me we were going for a walk to blow the cobwebs away.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking about this, babes, and I really don’t think it’s as bad as you think,’ Casey says after a rare moment of silence that was only induced by the wind literally taking our breath away.
‘You think?’ I look at her doubtfully. ‘Really? Do you think Ryan will forgive me?’ It is a moment of fleeting hopefulness that is swept away by Casey’s solemn expression and our bleak seaside-in-winter surroundings.
It’s a miserable grey day. The black clouds are rolling in ominously over the estuary, menacing spectres that appear to be coming for me, for my relationship. I have always thought of Ryan like the sun; summer is the season when he’s happiest as he can do everything he loves: sport, swimming, sailing, surfing. Summer is the beach; it’s eating cockles and sipping wine in the garden, it’s sailing out on the estuary or lying on a sun-soaked beach, just like where we had our first real kiss. In winter he seems to recede, diminish. Everything about him becomes paler, more withdrawn.
I ask Casey again. ‘Do you think he’ll forgive me?’
She takes my hand and looks at me with her sweeping lashes and enormous dark-brown eyes.
‘No, Molly,’ she says gently. ‘If you tell him what happened it will be over. But what I do think, and I know you don’t want to hear this, is maybe that isn’t such a bad thing, you know?’
My stomach wrings with anguish until I feel like I can barely stand up. The pain travels up my body to my chest, squeezing until I can’t breathe.
‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, babe,’ Casey says, ‘I know you love each other but you haven’t been happy for a long time. You went into that relationship so young – too young, and I know this is hard to hear because Ryan is the best guy there is. The BEST,’ she finishes emphatically.
I sob into her shoulder. My body is bent awkwardly to create space between us. I want her comfort but I don’t want the physical closeness it requires; it makes me feel like I haven’t got this under control. I’ve never needed her help like this before and I want to pretend I still don’t. Because the moment I let myself succumb to her sympathies, I’m accepting that I’ve majorly screwed up. Casey has seen Ryan and I from the start and hearing this from her has crushed any lingering hope I had that I could work this out. All I’ve thought about since it happened last night is Ryan. Him. Us. How happy we’d been and how much I’ve taken it all for granted.
Casey is still talking, but I’m not finding it as comforting as I’d hoped. If I’m honest, it feels weird being given relationship advice by her. It’s usually me who is helping her; picking up the pieces after someone’s dumped her, dealing with the infinite fallout of her infidelities (she’s been the cheater, the cheated, but most often the Other Woman).
‘You know, it’s funny,’ she says thoughtfully – which is always dangerous. Thinking before speaking or acting is a rarity for Casey. ‘When we were teenagers you and Ryan were so different, I never thought you’d actually end up together . . . ’
I gaze back at the ‘Pleasure Pier’ amusements. Casey and I spent many a happy weekend here as teenagers, playing the slots, eating candy floss and riding the attractions, but it feels depressingly bleak now.
Then she speaks again. ‘I know being with a guy like Ryan helped your confidence when we were younger but you’re not a kid any more, babe, maybe you two have just grown up. And apart,’ she adds with a sideways glance at me.
‘There was nothing wrong with my self-esteem!’ I exclaim shrilly. ‘I was an incredibly confident teenager!’
Casey tilts her head, somewhat patronizingly and folds her arms under her chest. She looks like a model, stood here on the windswept pier, her sleek black ponytail whipping around her face, fronds of hair sticking to her still-glossed lips. She is the best advert for Ugly Duckling to Swan I’ve ever seen. ‘C’mon, I know you acted all tough to protect me and to stop people thinking you cared, but you were totally desperate to be anyone other than yourself. Not that you had it as bad as me though.’ She giggles and nudges me. ‘Remember those glasses and braces? And my Greek facial-hair problem? Not to mention Mum’s obsession with feeding me moussaka every day! Thank GOD for Step Aerobics. And waxing! But you, Molly, you were trying so hard to be different but all you wanted was to have everything that came so easily to other girls: your own sense of style, friends, a boyfriend. You pretended that you hated everything those horrible Heathers from school stood for but I saw the way you looked at them. Even though they were such bitches to us, you wanted to be just like them really. We all did. And Ryan was the ultimate goal. I hate to say this but you changed to fit into his life, and that’s when things started going wrong. You and Ryan should have just been a fling, a summer romance – then you should’ve gone to London, lived on your own, become a photographer, travelled, done all the things you said you were going to do . . . ’
I turn away, not wanting to hear any more, but Casey turns me back to face her.
‘I’m only saying all this because I care about you, Molly!’ Her eyes are glittering, her grip on me pincer-tight. ‘You kissed that guy from work and took it further because you’re not happy. You want a way out of your relationship and, drunk or not, you went for it. I know you didn’t actually sleep with him, but be honest – you wanted to, didn’t you? And isn’t that almost the same? Don’t look at me like that, I’m just trying to stop you from kidding yourself any longer. Don’t waste any more years with the wrong person just because it feels safe. There’s someone out there who is perfect for you in the way that Ryan will never be . . . and someone for Ryan too. Why don’t you give yourself – and him – the chance to find out?’
I look away, far out to sea. I want to block out her words, stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘La la la’ like I used to do when my mum was trying to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. I try to pull away from Casey, but I can’t because she’s clinging so tightly onto my arms that she’s pinching me. But it’s her words that are hurting me the most because I know they’re true. I look up into the sky just as the rain that has been threatening to fall is released in a torrent by the angry black clouds.
‘I need to go home,’ I say, staggering back from her. ‘I have to talk to Ryan.’
‘Molly!’ she calls and looks at me with such desperate concern that I step back towards her and kiss her, a quick brush on her wind-whipped cheek, an acknowledgement that even though she hasn’t made me feel better, she has helped. But it’s a hollow kiss, because it is how I feel: empty inside. I know that I’ve got to tell Ryan what I’ve done
and I also know that telling him will spell the end of our relationship.
Can’t Kiss It Better
‘A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.’ That’s what Ingrid Bergman once said and it’s true. We kiss to say hello, to stave off silences, to show how much we’ve missed someone, to show we’re glad to be with them. We kiss to stop arguments or to interrupt a conversation we no longer want to have. We also use kisses when we want to pretend that everything is all right. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. But it turns out that some things just can’t be kissed better.
FF>> 12/12/04>
I open our front door and am immediately engulfed by the warmth and smell of sweet chestnut and Ryan’s cinnamon-infused mulled wine spreading through the flat. The familiar sounds of pots and pans being crashed around accompanied by Ryan crooning along with East 17 to ‘Stay Another Day’. I freeze by the door and have to stop myself from walking out again.
I walk into our lounge and then I see the lavishly decorated room with the gaudy Christmas tree and the ornaments that seem to have blame etched on their cheaply painted faces. Even the glittering baubles on our tree are doing their best to reflect my shame back at me.
‘Molly?’ Ryan calls from the kitchen. ‘Just a minute! I’ll be right out!’
I hold my breath and stand with my head bowed waiting for him to enter the room. I know he’ll instantly know what I’ve done. He’ll see it written all over my face.
But instead he walks in grinning cheerfully, wearing a hoodie I bought him last Christmas. He looks as happy as I’ve ever known him and when he envelops me in an enormous hug, I clasp on to him, never wanting him to let me go. But then I stiffen and shrink away, knowing that what I’m doing is selfish, that I’m deceiving him all over again, making him think that everything is all right when it’s not.
Ryan leans back and looks at me, his eyes crinkling with concern. He strokes my cheek. ‘Molly, about last night, the way I was on the phone . . . I’m so sorr—’
‘Don’t, Ryan,’ I interrupt, not wanting him to use the words on me that only he deserves. ‘Please, don’t.’ I begin to cry and slump down on the floor. ‘I don’t want to do this, Ry,’ I look up at him pleadingly. ‘You have to believe me. But . . . ’
Ryan slumps down too, staring at me in confusion. ‘What’s going on, Molly? It was just a silly argument, but I know I went too far, you had every right to go out with your colleagues after your Christmas lunch. I should have called you today, but I wanted to surprise you, make it up to you. I’ve cooked you a meal! We’re having butternut squash soup followed by roast chestnut and pancetta risotto with a salad of rocket, parmesan shavings and pine nuts, and to finish . . . Shit, please stop crying, Moll, you’re freaking me out. I know I’ve made promises that I haven’t kept and that’s why—’
‘Ry . . . ’
‘No, let me finish!’ he says slowly and deliberately.
I look up at him desperately, silently begging him to stop talking. He rubs his head wearily. ‘I know what a routine our life has turned into. I know I’ve been stressed and tired and I’ve taken it out on you. I know I’ve been selfish. I know that I’ve expected you to live the life that I wanted, not the one you dreamed of, and I’m determined to change that, so . . . ’ Ryan runs his fingers through his hair and gazes at me, like a child, bursting with a secret and desperate to share it. ‘I was going to wait until Christmas, but . . . ’ He runs out of the room and I open my mouth, I try to speak, to stop him. He’s back before I can form a word and he slides onto the floor next to me, like a Labrador, panting with eagerness, his face shining with love and hope and loyalty. He thrusts an envelope into my hands.
‘In here, Molly, is the answer to all our problems!’ he says. ‘It isn’t a winning lottery ticket, or a trip around the world, not even close, but it’s a promise that things are going to change. That our life is going to be different from now on. Well, go on, open it!’
I stare at the envelope blankly, the paper quivering in my grasp. Chicago’s ‘If You Leave Me Now’ is playing on the radio. I’d think it was a sign but Ryan’s got Heart FM on. Every song is a bloody love song. I look up, desperate for Ryan to see that he’s making this harder. If I open this envelope everything is going to be so much worse.
‘Ryan, I can’t—’ I begin handing the envelope back to him.
‘Please, Molly.’ He looks at me pleadingly, his eyes full of the knowledge that his life as he knows it is slipping from his grasp and if I just reach out to him, open the envelope, that he’ll be able to cling on to it for that bit longer. Make everything safe again.
He refuses to take it and the envelope drops to the floor.
‘Ryan, there’s something I have to say, something I have to tell you.’
Ryan rubs his hand through his hair in that way he does when he’s frustrated and anxious, and shakes his head. ‘No, look, you don’t understand! I’m going to open it for you!’ He bends down and then exhales impatiently as his fingers fumble at the envelope, trying to open it, tearing the paper and thrusting its contents at me as he stands up.
‘It’s two tickets for New York, flying out on New Year’s Eve! I want us to start the year in a place that I promised you we’d go.’ His hand is still stretched out. ‘I should have done this ages ago but I was so busy thinking about the future that I forgot to look at our life now. I got stuck, babe.’ He exhales in frustration. ‘These,’ he thrusts the tickets at me again, ‘these are my promise. You can hold me to that. You can hold me to anything, Molly. Molly?’
‘Hold me . . . ’ I repeat, sobbing as the tickets drop to the floor.
‘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 tea
rs.
‘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.’
